Since when have I become quiet the wise tenor of emotions?
Since when? A good question to bonder upon for hours, hours which I did not have; for in a couple of minutes I have to be ready.
Still in plain shorts, the checkered kind and nothing else despite the 20 below degree weather, I moved half giggling off the hard wooden floor.
I heard from somewhere that the type of underwear you wear explains the basics of your personality, especially for men. Mine is a gray checkered one, now what does that mean?
And there it is again, I am supposed to be excited for a very trivial matter and instead I am thinking about silly underwear pun. I turn quickly before reaching the door to check the clock lying crocked atop the pile of my clothes; it is ten minute till six in the morning.
“Routines routines routines!” I did all the morning routines but of course for this special day they are no ordinary ones. They all held a special meaning and held a certain feel to them. For instance, when I brushed my teeth, my gums bled, I usually try to spit it out so fast so not to taste the vulgar fluid. But today I tasted it, and it wasn’t that bad.
“Not bad at all”, I said to my reflection in the mirror grinning wide with satisfaction. I headed out after dressing in the utter most care, although nothing to conjure. It was not twenty below more like a hundred below zero, or at least that is what my poor nose told me. I went back inside and put on my thick one of a kind red overcoat atop of my regular one, suffocating myself with billions of collars and a thick woolen gray scarf.
I walked the streets my head leveled but not seeing any passing walker in particular. Everyone seemed the same to me, I am the only one who stood out, the only one with a purpose.
I almost ran down the narrow ancient street, turning three corners and then coming to a halt near an old train station. A woman and a small little girl waited there in the drenching dry weather. I didn’t pay attention to the women, just the little girl who kept on inspecting my figure with focused eyes, although her left eye was half open parley showing her gray pupil.
Seven maybe eight I guessed, not old enough to be infatuated with men, but what is it with that piercing watch? I smiled meekly at her, but still her gaze didn’t change. Her face was streaked with dirt, unkempt short hair, and she probably spent a couple of nights without any food. I started to paint all sort of portraits for her life story.
A refugee child, I guessed, probably a recent one too from the camp near the road that smells of olive. I do that sometimes; I characterize and group random individuals into fictions. I have to admit, people who lived in 1948 had juicer fictions; but I think I could rival that. Just a couple of days ago, my neigbohor got his house of 23 years demolished to make way for the infamous wall construction.
Before I could muster the girl’s compelling story, a horrid sound broke the trance as the train came to a halt. I motioned to the woman to go in first, “ladies first”, I mused; then waited for the little girl to follow but she did not.
“Go ahead” I said.
She shook her head and stood there. An impatient small man with a circumference the size of Milano arrived in a hurry behind me almost knocking me over; I moved to the side and let him enter. I gave the little girl another imploring look but still she stood there. “Suit yourself” I whispered half to myself, I have no time for strange little kids with ulterior motives.
I moved inside the not so warm train to my disappointment. The little girl followed behind. I kept going until the end of the compartment, sat on the cheap rigid leather like seat, and then I leaned my head backward closing my eyes. I did not open my eyes even for that peculiar someone who sat beside me leaving all those billion and one empty chairs.
I must have dozed off, for when I came to; the train has long passed my stop. I cursed under my breath and adjusted myself on the seat. A small little hand brushed past my fingers. I looked aside, and there she was, sleeping next to me, that peculiar person who ignored the billion seats and sat beside mine. Her face was small; her closed eyes seemed tired and strained. I scanned the compartment for the woman who was with her; she was nowhere to be found. I turned back to the girl and shook her in an ungentle manner. She woke up with a start but regained her composure quickly.
“Your mother is gone, why didn’t you sit with her?”
“She is not my mother”, she rubbed her eyes as she spoke very delicately as to emphasize the fact.
I am sure I had this dismayed funny look on my face, for she smiled at me and quickly and added, “I just don’t like riding the train by myself, and that woman wasn’t nice to me”.
I leaned back at the seat, already not liking the situation. “Girls your age shouldn’t be alone by themselves either”.
She stood quickly in front of me, stretching her plain jacket holding it from each side away from her. “Can you give me yours, I am freezing and this thing is useless”.
I was taking a back a bit, then looking at my ridiculous two coat set up, I felt ashamed for some reason. I took off my scarf first and gave it to her, she looked disappointed but then her face quickly lit as I took my upper coat off and gave her the smaller one underneath it. She stood there, in front of me, adjusting on the oversized coat. She was struggling with the zipper when the train suddenly moved knocking her forward. I caught her with both arms as she stumbled into me. Indeed she was very cold, her nose brushed my face and her warm breath gave me an eerie intimate feeling. She was thinner than I expected for my thumps and forth fingers encompassed her wrists so easily that I felt them slip away. Something very hard in her inner pocket pierced me nearly to the flesh, it felt like an oval like object with two sharp anterior.
“Sit down!” I whirled her to the side seat.
“Sorry” she said and sat dignified for a few minutes then turned back to me and said, “How much are they?”
“What, the overcoat and the scarf?” I mused.
“Yes”.
I considered her for a while; her face although disfigured by her defected eye, was very beautiful. I wondered what is wrong with her, although I had a pretty good idea what. Finally I said, “How old are you?”
“I am thirteen” she said rising ten fingers and quickly adding another three. Way off, I thought, she couldn’t have looked past nine years old.
“Thirteen years old, and you want to pay me for my coat? How will you do that?”
She leaned over quickly and gave me a kiss on my cheek. I wouldn’t say I was shocked, for I will admit I expected that move.
Any twenty four year old man would have taken this invitation in a heartbeat, especially in those devastating times, but I had no desire. There was something very different about this girl, something very pure, a purity that I cannot and would not taint.
“Where are you going?” I asked ignoring her imploring look for my acceptance.
“Somewhere very important” she said, her voice leveled and defined.
“Me too” I answered and with that, I leaned back, closed my eyes and waited for the train’s round trip back to my missed stop.
I was drifting in and out the whole thirty minutes or so for the time it took to reach my stop again. My closed eyelids drew mosaic contours of everything fantastic. And I thought, I just thought, what if life was this smooth and fantastic; frankly I think I would be a little bored.
When I finally reached my stop, I opened my eyes and got a glimpse of what is seemed like the girl’s shadow. I asked the train’s attendant if he “saw where the little girl with the oversized coat went?” he told me he saw her headed toward the western wall.
And here I was, fantasizing about my very important “somewhere” and already someone beat me into it.
I plodded heavily toward the west, when I reached the wall; I saw silhouettes of smokes playing the cold breeze. People gathered around the “oh so familiar” scene of smoke and fire.
My “important somewhere” was ruined, I pouted and turned back to head for my empty square of a room. An old man caught me by the arm.
“Here, this is yours right?” he said, a short man of about eighty or so. He handed me my gray scarf and jacket. I asked him how he knew they were mine, tears already gathering around my unblinking eyes.
“A little girl a while ago told me to give them to a handsome man with the huge red overcoat, they are yours, yes?”
“Yes, they are mine”.
Apparently her “important” place was not cold at all.
Copyright 2008