afternoon

As he stepped outside and shut the door, he squinted his eyes. Adjusting to sudden changes was never one of his strengths. His was a studied, cautious personality. With so many things to consider, he often marveled at the go-getters, who seemed blind to so much. Did they not realize the consequences of their actions? Did they not know that with every word and with every breath, the world would be altered?

While his thoughts spun wildly out of control, his walk was familiar. About four blocks stood between him and his lunch. There were many sites to see along the way. A small, yet scenic college campus, an 84-year-old house, a crack in the sidewalk, and sometimes, even another person, walking a dog or parking a car.

Automobiles seemed like such curious objects to him. While their primary purpose was transportation, their various secondary purposes seemed far from secondary. As he walked by each parked car along the way, he often glanced in through the windows and wondered about the owners. Whether a car was clean, dusty, tidy, or unkempt could mean a variety of different things. Who knows? Perhaps the owner of that dusty red Prelude was named Stephanie. With all of the fast food debris strewn around the passenger seat, he imagined that she was in her early twenties. Maybe her father had purchased the car for her on her sixteenth birthday, and since it was no longer the latest model, she had grown bored with it. After all, it probably did not attract the eyes of all the boys like it used to; and, due to the recent jerk she had dated, she did not care much about boys anyway. He pictured Stephanie as a brunette, with stylish platform shoes and a tattoo on her lower back, or maybe just above her left breast. Surely her parents did not approve of her tattoo, or her navel ring for that matter. Perhaps this was why the complexion of her car had been neglected. Or, then again, perhaps her parents were divorced when she was young, and her life had always felt disorganized and filled with chaos, both emotional and otherwise. So many hints, so many worlds, he thought.

There were not many mini-vans in his neighborhood, which meant few children could be found. For the most part, he thought this was unfortunate. Children always seemed to have a wonderful way of injecting life into living. Whenever he remembered such things, he would adjust his behavior accordingly. Every once in a while, he would kick a small pebble on the ground until he reached an intersection, or he would walk along the edge of the curb, as though it were a balance beam. The good thing about his neighborhood was its personality, its history. Because of its in-town location, it had been protected from suburbia and the ugliness of the corresponding generic strip malls. Whenever he remembered this, he tended to smile and look up at the trees.

He often ate lunch around 2 or 2:30 in the afternoon. This way, he could avoid the hectic atmosphere of the traditional noontime lunch hour. One of his favorite lunch spots was the local Pizzeria. The food was tasty and inexpensive, and the servers, like the neighborhood, exuded a unique character. The owner was very selective with his kindness. His gruff voice was matched only by his loyal, protective eyes. He often spoke Italian, which seemed to perplex and confuse the usually young, demanding customers. He had two primary assistants behind the counter. One was a younger, sincere, and outgoing gentleman who obviously enjoyed his work. And, the other was a single, hard working mother. A survivor and an optimist, she often spoke of her son and her dogs. To her, the local customers were people, with hopes and dreams and problems, like her own. To be in her presence was to feel human.

He usually carried a book with him, a companion for his meal. Being a philosopher by nature, a copy of “Walden” and two slices of pepperoni pizza were perfect for filling his mind and stomach. Occasionally between chapters he would quietly listen to the voices around him. Men often spoke of work, women, and sports, while women tended to exchange stories about friends, relationships, food, and clothes. Although each conversation varied in length and pitch, few varied in content.

He was slow and methodical with his meal. Making sure not to accidentally spill any food on his clothes or on his book, he often cut his slices of pizza with a small plastic knife and fork. Occasionally, another customer would try to catch a peak at the title of his book, and sometimes, young women would walk swiftly by his table in an attempt to pull his eyes away from his reading and chewing. On this particular day, out of the corner of his eye, he happened to notice a pair of trendy platform shoes shuffling toward the table behind him. He couldn’t help but laugh to himself, as he remembered the story he had imagined earlier about Stephanie and the messy red sports car.

Sometimes, he thought, these coincidences might mean something, but other times, he figured, it was just the rambling of his active imagination. In any case, upon finishing his meal, he decided to push his thoughts and empty paper plate aside. While he could hear some faint whispering and giggling coming from the table behind him, he still closed his book, walked to the door, and pulled it open. As the sun glistened off of the metal door frame, he squinted his eyes. Adjusting to sudden changes was never one of his strengths.