Everyone was still at work, frittering over the same silly shades of grey, stretching photos beyond recognition, staring at computer screens. They were drinking the new types of brew my advisor had set on the table. Perhaps it was no accident that he had brought them in at a quarter to five, as a sly inducement that would keep his salaried workers a little past the hour. I did not partake- how could I? The world outside the doors of that building was calling me, beseeching me, "Come." I didn't bother to gather my things, I took what was necessary and left. I walked home and fetched my car. I went to the public library and got a library card. I checked out a book-- "The Uglies" by Scott Westerfeld. I heard about it on one of the nutanger's blogs. It takes place in a different sort of world, but its lessons resound poignantly in this one.

I drove to the park, you know, the one just off Cushing Street, where Roger Williams, founder of Rhode Island, looks in majestic statue format across his city of Providence. Words carved into the frame for the statue say, "HERE REPOSES DUST FROM THE GRAVE OF ROGER WILLIAMS". A strange inscription. It reminds me of some poem or something that I read where this fellow makes a woman out of dirt and then falls in love with her and marries her. Unfortunately she dries out and crumbles away. He holds a funeral for her with guests and a priest and everything, but when the priest gets to the "ashes to ashes, dust to dust" part, someone in the crowd can't help but snicker. This makes the man very angry. I don't really remember what happens after that.

I sat against a tree and read half my book. In the glowing late afternoon, the city looked like one of those pretend cities like they have in children's picture books, where the suburbs don't exist... there's just the countryside and one black two-lane road that goes over several hills until it reaches the City, where all of the buildings bow out a bit at the top as if the city can't all fit on the plot of land it was given. The only thing that makes this city real are its little imperfections- the eastern tower of the Westin that isn't quite finished yet, a thin and awkward crane bending over it, frozen until the start of another work day.

There is a boy in a red shirt who is lying in the grass.

I look over periodically and twice he is looking back. I am always impressed by solitary people who bring nothing to do, and then sit in a public place. It takes a certain strength of being to sit alone and be completely idle in a busy world where everyone is expected to have tasks and associations. It is a well known fact, for example, that a solitary person sitting in a public place, should he have no paper to read, must be constantly consulting his watch, even if he isn’t waiting for anyone at all. It is a courtesy for the people walking by him, so that they do not have to wonder what he is doing and why he is alone.
A group of hippies is smoking marijuana from a hookah in the corner of the park, the sticky smell of it begins to cover up the dreamy scent of lavender coming from a trellis down the street. I thought about the boy in the red shirt. Surely I should talk to him? Here we are, two solitary citizens of Earth, drawn to the park by the promise of sunset… what more need we have in common to know that we are of the same ilk? I rise from my seat, not even knowing what my body will decide to do. I walk to the fence and look out over the city.

“Hey!” comes a voice. “What’s up? Who are you with?”
It is the voice of another boy, speaking to the boy in the red shirt.
“Oh, uh, nobody,” he responds a bit uncertainly. There is an awkward moment, as the boy in the red shirt has just been made to indirectly admit that something of the Poetic lies hidden within him.
“I’ve wanted to come down here,” he explains, “but I couldn’t find anyone to come with me.” The way he says it implies that he probably didn’t look very hard.

The other boy invites the boy in the red shirt to come and “hang” with him and his friends, and the boy in the red shirt has no choice but to acquiesce. He is swallowed into a group and there is again just one person in the park who is alone with the sunset.

You know how they say to "stop and smell the roses"? Well, however you want to do it.. we all need time to take a break, relax and enjoy nature. Beauty-us (my made up word) pictures.
» kkama67 on 2007-05-09 10:07:11

I did that once. Or, more rightly, thought I would. Except someone he knew bumped into him. Seems everytime I finally get ready to do something slightly intresting - it can't be.
» Helena on 2007-05-10 05:10:19

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