A Cold, Wet, Dark Street

Cold, wet, and dark, well, except for the security light above my head. As I pulled my collar up around my neck, I realized I should have brought a heavier jacket.

Thunder rumbled somewhere in the dark, rattling the door behind me, and the rain increased. A sudden gust pushed the drops horizontal, slapping me in the face, and I swiped at it with the back of my hand. 

The street beyond the wide sidewalk was void of traffic and I watched debris rush along the gutter, carried on swift currents, toward the drain somewhere in the dark. The waiting vortex would suck it down, into a cold spiral to a subterranean pool and from there to wherever useless things go. I suppose the ocean eventually. Someplace exotic? A fish's belly? A subduction zone, crushed and roiled into a mix of molten rock?

Thunder exploded with a blinding flash that blew out the sensor on the light and cast me in to utter darkness. The rain became a deluge. I stepped back toward the doorway, trying to shelter against the building. The light struggled back to life after a few moments. Once restored, the glaring light made it nearly impossible to see beyond its circle. I felt trapped by it, like some bug in a glass.

Yeah, that's what it felt like. Someone had dropped me in a glass and put a light over it. Where it was warm and dry and light reigned. They were probably sitting in a chair with a cup of coffee, feet on the desk, watching me in my damp, dark test tube.

I sighed. Too much imagination.

We measure our life by our success, and if we do not perceive any, we deem ourselves a failure. But perception can be flawed. Only we won't realize that until, well, until we're standing in a cold rain on a dark street, drowning.

I'd sort of considered myself a failure at many things, but not the things that mattered. A job well done, a happy family. They were marks of success, right? I didn't have any plaques. Just a lot of photos that showed smiling success. But photos are an imperfect view of success. They're what you see at the moment. And sometimes the smiles aren't real.

The wedding photos, filled with lots of laughing, smiling people, were a prime example. Everyone there had a secret pain. A failure. Or would have before the day was out, before the week was out, before the month... you get it.

Why is disappointment a requirement to everything? Do we really expect so much of ourselves that even a slight bump of it totally derails us? Or is it we expect so much from our successes, more than they can deliver? And when they don't, we blame ourselves.

A streak of lightening flashed across the sky, turning the street an inky black moments later. I closed my eyes. It felt safer than that dark street. I blew out a deep sigh and opened them. The light over my head flashed and came back on. I wonder why closing my eyes felt safer.

I sighed. Too much imagination.

Stepping away from the wall, I stuck my collapsed umbrella out and popped up the canopy and raised the cover of bright cherry blossoms over my head, cutting off the downpour. The street seemed to lighten as the umbrella dimmed the glare from the security light. I turned and started my walk back to the real world at the end of the street. I could see the lights, cars dashing back and forth, people crossing the end of the street, not turning down this long dark one. The sounds of horns were faint but grew louder as I approached the intersection.

Didn't seem to matter much now if I was a success or failure. I was the only one who knew the truth. Others might surmise but smiles hide many things. If you looked happy, people believed you were. If you looked successful, people believed you were. You had to walk down cold, wet, dark streets to know for sure. Most people never make that trip. They don't want to know. I was a rebel, I suppose. My laughter echoed against the buildings, a laughing audience mocking me. Well, them's the breaks.

I stepped from the dark alley, onto the brightly lit sidewalk of the boulevard, the lights reflecting around me from the rain like a pageant catwalk, as if someone wanted to make me feel special. Maybe I was. I smiled.


**  Published on my Life on the Ledge blog in error. So, I'm just sharing here, too!

One Day in the Park

 On July 12, 2015, I posted a short story that I didn't finish.  Tonight, I wrote the ending. I am sharing it here in its entirety for those who wanted an ending. I wasn't sure where it was going and tonight I let it go where they wanted it. I like it, although readers may not. I hope you at least enjoy the finished product, even if you disagree with the ending.

Every day she came and sat on the bench beneath the oak tree at the edge of the playground, ate her lunch, and watched the children play. No one sat with her. No one intruded. It was as if she had this wall around her that kept everyone out. She never spoke to anyone or sat anywhere else. The only days she didn't show up were when it rained or the temperatures were too cold to allow children to play outside.

It was June, and the weather was usually nice this time of year. She must have come early today. When she finished her lunch, she sat back, crossed her ankles, folded her hands in her lap and with a small smile, she watched the half-dozen children clamber over monkey bars, swings, and spin on the merry-go-round. They screamed and yelled and giggled, but she just kept smiling.

I'd watched her for several years now, and I knew no more about her today than I had when I'd first seen her one hot August day. She never seemed to notice me. I don't remember what drew my attention, but after a few weeks of seeing her, I found myself about her. Weeks grew into months and months into years. I still hadn't figured her out.

A friend of mine asked me once, after I'd told them about her, why I didn't just walk over and talk to her. I couldn't explain it to them. I just said I couldn't do that. I wasn't embarrassed, well maybe I was a little, but that wasn't it. There was something about her, something... that felt fragile or... oh, I don't know. That wall I sensed, maybe it was more like a bubble, a glass bubble, that would shatter in a million pieces if I approached it or touched it. So, as she watched the children with a smile, I watched her with a frown.

Today was a rotten day. Most days, like the lady on the bench, I was just here to enjoy my lunch. Today, it lay unopened on the seat next to me. It didn't matter if I ate it or not. I'd lost my job and there was no rush to get back to work. So, I just sat there and stewed and fumed over the injustice of the universe. I'd worked so hard to get that job. It had taken me ten years to reach upper management and in less than two I was canned. I still didn't know why they fired me.

Oh, they had all the right phrases to hand me. They said it was the economy. They said I was talented, and they hated to lose me. They said they'd give me a great reference, but they zeroed my job and I had to go.

I sighed and watched the children going down the slide. They laughed out loud and cheered their friends and slapped them on the back for their success at conquering the mountain. Today they had no worries. Today they could enjoy the freedom to spend the day in laughter with friends. Someone would feed them, shelter them, and kiss them goodnight. They'd enjoy worry-free security.

Something else was different today. The lady on the bench was absent. I was early, so perhaps I'd just beat her here. That rarely happened on days like today. I looked around the park. There were lots of mothers seated on benches or on blankets on the ground. A few brought lounge chairs and were reading with their children nearby. She was nowhere to be seen.

I got up and walked around for a few minutes, never losing sight of her bench. She should be here by now. I ran my hands through my already disastrous hair. I rubbed them on my skirt and crossed my arms. I walked back to my bench and sat down on the edge, clutching it on each side of me so tightly that my fingers hurt.

I relaxed them. I was overreacting. I was way early. She'd show up any minute, walking sedately to her bench where she'd sit down carefully. She'd open her bag and take out her sandwich and eat it while watching the children. She'd sip her water.... I got up and walked a dozen yards and came back.

Where was she? She had to show up today. I stared at the toes of my shoes. Why was this even an issue? What did I care if some strange woman came to the park? 

Tossing my hair back with one hand and smoothing my skirt with the other, I returned to my seat and stared at the empty bench beneath the oak tree. Something was wrong. I knew it, but what could I do about it? I didn't know her name, where she lived, where she worked. I had made it a point not to know those things. At any point, in the last half-dozen years, I could have  walked over, sat down, and introduced myself. I could have taken one moment to ask her who she was, where she worked, and why she came to the park every day and watched the children. 

The squeals and laughter pulled my gaze from the vacant bench to the playground. The children. The children drew her. Perhaps she didn't have any of her own and had always wanted them. She came to enjoy the thing she wanted most but didn't have. Perhaps she wanted to just enjoy her lunch in a quieter place, where things moved slower and beauty surrounded her. 

“Or maybe she couldn't afford a restaurant and this was the only place she could sit down to eat without being called to her desk to do something for someone.” I sighed. “Is this what gall taste like?”

I shook my head and gathered up my trash. The waste bin was next to her bench. I dropped my trash in it and stared at the spot she should be in and sighed again. 

I couldn’t express why it bothered me so much that she wasn’t there. She was always there. Just like my job. What was I going to do? I had a small savings account that would tie me over for a few months, but not more than that. 

I looked around the park again. She wasn’t coming. Another sigh slipped out, and I headed for home. If I planned on keeping a home, I had to look for a job.

The next two weeks seemed to slip past me without my realizing. On Tuesday, I left my last interview feeling good. They liked me. I think. I hoped. 

The new job was only three blocks from my old job and two blocks closer to my apartment. On nice days, I’d save on transportation cost. Charlie’s Deli was just around the corner, and I often stopped in to buy a sandwich and a drink. The park was across the street. I felt as if the stars were aligning. 

A smiled tugged at my lips as I sat down on my favorite seat, slightly later today than usual. The crowd of kids with their accessory mothers had thinned. I glanced at the bench where my friend usually sat. It was empty. The stars slipped a bit. I probably missed her already. 

My friend. Really? I hadn’t even bothered to speak to the woman to wish her a good morning. What right did I have to call her friend? The smiled faded, and I chewed my sandwich, which seemed to have turned to clay. I should have made friends with her. I’d lost my job the day she didn’t show up. 

If she’d just come. It felt important that she show up today. I narrowed my eyes and stared, focusing my thoughts on the seat, my sandwich forgotten, imagining her there, eating her lunch and smiling at the children. 

She didn’t come. A feeling of disaster trailed me home. 

Friday was a beautiful day with sunlight pouring in my windows and a clean blue sky stretching to the horizon. They called me early and asked if I would start the job on Monday. I agreed. Then, I packed a lunch, grabbed a book, and my handbag and headed for the park early. I would use my last vacation day reading and enjoying the beautiful weather. Maybe she’d be there today. 

She wasn’t. The empty bench almost mocked me. I’d hurried all this way for nothing. I sat down on my bench and for the first time I cried. I don’t know why. One minute I could see the bench and the next it disappeared in a blur. I covered my face, clenched my teeth, and ducked my head to hide my tear-streaked face. I don’t know how long I sat like that. 

Several people walked by, but no one said a word. No one stopped and asked, “Miss, are you all right? Can I help you? Do you need help?”

My breath caught in my throat, and I swiped my face with my hands. I sniffled and grabbed napkins from my lunch bag. The tear wouldn’t stop, but at least I had the sobs under control. More people strolled by, gave me concerned frowns, and moved on. No one stopped. 

Eventually, I dried up. How can anyone pass someone by in obvious distress and not offer assistance? And why in the world would I care? Did I really want strangers poking their noses in my business?

The tears filled my eyes again, and I looked at the shredded napkins in my lap. They’d do me no good now. The truth was, I did want someone poking their nose in my business. Sometimes you needed someone to whom you could spill your grief and guts. 

I looked bleary-eyed beneath the tree. Someone had sat down on her bench and was eating lunch. I didn’t recognize them. Anger welled up as easily as the tears. They had no right. That was her bench. She’d want to sit there when she came back. She loved that bench. 

I jumped up and flung the napkins top the ground and stomped along the path until I stood in front of the woman seated on the bench. She looked up at me and smiled. I stared, open-mouthed, tears mixed with anger on my face. 

“It’s you.” What a stupid thing to say. 

She stared up at me, slightly confused and slightly frightened. “I . . . beg your pardon?”

I laughed and swiped my face clean. “You’re back.”

“Oh!” She laughed a lovely lady like laugh that my mother used to use. “Well, yes, I am.”

“I was so worried about you. I waited every day, and you didn’t come. I didn’t know your name or where you lived. I was afraid something had happened to you.” The last was a muffled sob, and I felt my face burn. She’d think I was a lunatic.

“Oh, my!” She stood up and caught my arm. “My dear, you’ve been crying. I hope that isn’t on my account?”

Swiping again, I shook my head. “No. Well, yes, I mean, no, not really.” I cried. “I don’t know! I always enjoyed seeing you there every day, enjoying your day. And then I lost my job, and you were gone and….” I groaned out loud. “OH GOD! You will think I’m crazy!”

“I tell you what, why don’t we sit down and you can tell me all about it. I’ll get your lunch things and we’ll have lunch together. Will that be all right?”

I looked at her and she was smiling a lovely gentle smile and her eyes sparkled, kind, lovely cornflower blue eyes. I nodded.

In a few moments she returned and handed me my purse, lunch bag, and bottle of water. She took the seat next to me and said, “My name is Martha, by the way. What’s yours?”

I looked at her extended hand. “I’m Sally.” I shook her hand. “You changed your hairstyle.” 

She laughed. “I did! I got so bored with the old one. I didn't like the gray, either. Besides, this is much easier to manage.” Her eyes widened. “Oh, that’s why you didn’t recognize me.” She laughed again.

“Yes. I was ready to kick you off the bench.”

“How lovely!” Casting a sidelong look at me, she qualified her comment in a serious tone. “And of course, totally inappropriate.”

I nodded. 

“Now,” she gathered her sandwich in  her hand and continued, “from the beginning, Sally. Tell me everything. It sounds like an adventure. And I love an adventure.” 

Her grin was that of a 12-year-old. I grinned in return. 

“Me, too.” I said. “I lost my job.”