By: Mike S. "What do you miss the most?"
It was a game that we've played from the first day we've met. She's allowed to ask me anything and I have to answer honestly. It always started with broad, innocent questions, but then came back to the real world. We've been apart for a few weeks now, with the circumstances blurring with time. Regardless, I knew what she wanted to hear, and in all honesty, I could have told her that I did miss her and it would have been true. However, that somehow didn't feel right.
It was the first time that we've gotten together since our break up. The group of people that accompanied us was to act as a buffer for any awkwardness, but it didn't work too well. The entire time, we fought to avoid each other’s gaze, and responded with brief quips. Afterward, I found myself on her porch steps, sitting in the rain.
The storm had just ended, and we enjoyed the drops brushing against our faces. The nearby street was treated with a clear coat of water, reflecting the glowing of the resident streetlights. The puddles on the sidewalk mirrored the moon and hypnotized me as I stared at the bright orb. I felt a nudge, which reminded me of the question at hand.
"Milton, I miss seeing him on my way home." Not the answer she was looking for, but it was honest none-the-less.
Milton was a bum, to say the least. A middle aged black man, that sat on the corner of an underpass. Each night I would drive home from her house, I would see him relentlessly begging for scraps. Just like everyone else, I often rolled up my window and stared at the red light ahead. The times he did catch my gaze, I would shake my head and pretend like I had nothing to offer. This lasted for the first six months of my relationship with her, and then my heart grew soft.
I was always afraid of being taken advantage of, so I hardened myself against it. I looked critically at anyone that approached me, and especially anyone asking for money. I don't know what it was exactly that made me change my views, but I didn't notice it until it was too late. At first, squeezing dollar bills through cracks in my window made me feel as though I've finally done something good in life. More so, it allowed me to break away from the suburban stereo type that has plagued me since I moved out of the ghettos.
When we moved into the suburbs, I found myself in an upper middle class community, with baggy jeans and greasy hair. Until then, I lived in a small cockroach filled apartment, sharing a room with a sister, of similar age. The oldest one got her own quarters, and my parents rested on a fold out couch in the living room. The stores around the area were filling with Blacks, Arabs and White immigrants. My family was amongst the latter, but regardless of where I went, I never felt as though I was out of place. Life was admittedly simple, without the concerns of any form of hierarchy, and the general structure of the community allowed everyone to appreciate what they had. That isn’t to say that everyone was happy, but at least everyone respected the idea of survival before comfort.
In the suburbs, suddenly the grass was green and the crude metal fences that segregated each tiny plot of land were gone. Barking dogs no longer alerted the houses of car thieves and garage buglers. The new door remained unlocked throughout the night, and I was assured that my bicycle would remain where I left it. There was something lacking, however, and that was a sense of variety and acceptance. In the suburbs, I was another white student in a white neighborhood, the corner store was an extra half mile away, and it wasn't run by a grumpy Arab who stood behind the counter smoking a cigar. I tried to hold on to my character that emerged from the city, but as time progressed, I gave up my baggy pants, put on a collared shirt and kept my hair simple.
There was no fighting it anymore. My life wasn't difficult, and there was no reason for me to pretend that it was. I tried my hardest to stay in contact with those from my past, but perhaps to them the khakis made me different. Finding myself among a group of friends that all had to work in High School, I hoped that my family's lack of wealth would not be a barrier, and it wasn't. The problem instead was that I didn't see the need for fancy cars, and refused to believe that money would keep me out of college. While they battled to establish an order amongst themselves, I willingly lowered myself below them, as to not offend anyone.
It wasn't until I met "her" that I found someone who could understand me. She was a strong and independent woman that knew the meaning of having to work hard. Nothing was handed to her and she took pride in that, but yet was not above admitting when the situation was beyond her control. There was something familiar in that, and while my parents let me get away without having a job while in High School, my spendings were simple and limited to my basis needs.
Her neighborhood seemed even more familiar to me. The houses stared into each other’s windows, and night dwellers would sing drunken songs in their back yard. Trash and glass littered the near by parking lots, and no longer did my ten year old car seem outdated. Exhaust and burnt oil scented the air, and the busy mile road sang out in a choir of engines and horns. This place was alive, and I loved every minute of it. At night the roads rested under the glow of yellow street lamps, and accompanied by electronic melodies pulsing out of my car stereo. This all made returning into the dark suburbs unappealing.
The highway was my release. To prepare myself for returning into the mundane life surrounded by arrogance, the highway let me be reckless. As the speedometer would push its limits, blood would rush through out my body. The loud music would force the pedal further down until the vehicle would cut the throttle at a hundred and six miles per hour. By the end of the drive home, I was spent and ready to allow myself to dream.
However, before I could reach the highway I had to turn under the mile road, which passed over top of the highway business drive. Two sets of lights divided the north and south bound roads, and the overpass created a shelter for those lacking. Red lights provided a perfect opportunity for the homeless to shoot pathetic looks at unsuspecting motorists. It seemed like the prefect con, and I refused to fall for it. Unfortunately, just like any strong emotion, pity sneaks up without a warning. Each time I stopped for traffic, I found myself more and more daring. Eventually, my window was down, and I emptied dollars from my wallet to the same hand each night.
Once this barrier was shattered, I became intrigued. More than anything, I wanted to learn all there was about this man. Bills were later stashed in my visor, in anticipation of our run-ins. The next time I drove by, I extended my hand and shook his firmly. His fingers were callused from his hardships, and he seemed as surprised by the gesture as I was. Looking into his eyes, I realized that I was no better then he was, and in fact I felt dwarfed by his strength. I wanted to give up my khakis and buttoned shirt and return to my life of baggy jeans and greasy hair.
"Milton", he said to me, the night I was bold enough to inquire his name. Backed up traffic rang impatiently as I stood still through the green light and lingered longer at the red. While he walked away to impress himself upon those behind me, I stared at him through my dirt stained side view mirror; awed by his ability to smile and laugh at his circumstances. It made me realize that I was no longer giving him money out of pity, but rather in return for the cheerful disposition which he shared with me to brighten my nightly commute.
I found myself bringing him up in daily conversations, in an attempt to figure out why I was drawn to this alternate style friendship. Many often told me that I was fooling myself into think this was anything more than me giving money to a man who refused to do anything with his life. Following each conversation, I would reconsider my involvement. Disappointment often overwhelmed me, as I concluded that they were probably right. Regardless of my intentions to suppress further contact, Milton would always greet me from a distance with a familiar wave, and renounced my doubts.
"So what is it that you're going to miss about ... Milton?" Her words were suggestive, as though she knew I missed her. Tapping on the step she was sitting on, I was signaled to join her. Using my lap as a pillow, she stretched herself along the stairs and stared at the sky. Out of sheer reaction and routine, I wrapped my arm around her torso and ran my free hand through her long soft hair. It was familiar and comforting in some sense. Her big blue eyes met mine, reminding me of the hanging thought.
I had no answer for her, and we sat on the wet wooden steps until the wind begin to make our bodies quiver. I walked up the steps opened the door and held the it with my foot. Her warm hands wrapped themselves around my neck as she made promises to stay in touch. Disappearing into her modest home, she left me to ready myself for the drive back into the suburbs.
The walk too my car was paced, as I indulged in the final moments of the calm night. My keys jingled in my hand while I pulled out my wallet in hopes if finding a spare dollar to stuff into my visor, however all that resided in there were a few receipts and an ATM slip, telling me I had three dollars and twenty seven cents left in my account. Stale air rushed out of the sedan as the door swung open. Rolling down the window with one hand, I shoved the keys into the ignition with the other. The engine revved, and shortly electronic music whispered through the speakers. Once in drive, the wheels splashed through deep pot holes, and squealed against the wet ground as the volume darted upward. Speeding up, until I was just over the limit, I welcomed the cool air in my face. The streets were empty, much like my mind. The day left me exhausted, and I was glad to be left to my own devise.
I could see the mile road rise above the service road in front of me, as I stood at a light. Hoping that Milton was relieved of his post for the night, I regretted my decision of spending the rest of my dollars on chilly fries at a local eatery. As I began to move, however, a distinct figure stood at the distance. Milton threw on a big grin and greeted me warmly.
"I have nothing. Today, I'm as poor as you." I smirked apologetically, as he laughed along with me. Without hesitation, he reached into his pocket and extended a slightly worn dollar bill in my direction.
"You’ve always taken care of me, now it’s my turn." His words took my breath away, and I quickly declined the offer. The gesture left me speech less as I witnessed a man, who had no certainty of food, offer money out of his own pocket to a kid from the suburbs, on his way to a warm bed.
"Well if there's anything I can do for you. Just ask. Anything... anything at all." He glanced around quickly, as a bolt of lightning tore through the sky. "How about some rain? I have plenty of that.
My smile stretched from ear to ear as I reached out to shake Milton's hand. Spotting a box of mints resting in my center console, he asked if he could trouble me for one. "I’m sure I could use one, it’s been a long day." We laughed once again as he popped the mint between his dark lips, and I pretended not to see the light turn green. There was no one in sight, and for once I had the opportunity to really bond..
"So how have you been?" I started slowly, not wanting to commit quite yet to an in depth discussion about the politics of Cuba. Definitely tired, his graying beard betrayed his otherwise youthful appearance. His jacket gave off the distinct odor of cigarette smoke, which for a moment forced me to imagine talking to my own father.
"I'm living." His eyes were now fixed on me, and it was clear that he was not use to being asked personal questions. My body flushed with a feeling of safety, and swiftly I threw the vehicle into park. "Any day I'm out here is a good day. Have to live in the moment, since you never know what tomorrow will bring. Look at this." Milton proceeded to open his mouth, displayed an interrupted array of stained teeth.
"See this? My own brother shot me, point blank. My own brother, man." he took a few steps back, followed by a deep breath. "Do you believe in Jesus? Let me tell you, the Lord is looking out after me. All those people that stop, people like you, that's all His doing. That is all the good in the world. If it wasn't for people like you, I wouldn't be here today, man."
A local patrol car caught our attention, as I lingered for another light. To avoid a run in with the officers, who seemed to be curious enough as it was, I decided to continue on my way. Completing my turn, I turned the music up louder than before. Steadily accelerating, I passed highway traffic before ever reaching the onramp. The lines on the road blurred solid, as my thoughts focused on the question; What would I miss about Milton? Perhaps I would yearn for the novelty of being able to call a homeless guy by his name. Maybe it was the laughs I pocketed from every encounter. In the end, it didn't really matter why, but I already felt a sense of sadness, as I realized that our nightly gatherings would slowly come to end.
I never made it home that night. Instead, I found myself back on the same wet porch steps on which I recently rested. She opened the door, and without a spoken word I stretched myself across her couch. With my head in her lap, mindless commercials flashed across the television screen, hypnotizing me as I enveloped myself in the familiar. It was now her turn to brush her hands through my short cut hair. My eyes fought sleep as my entire body gave in to the comfort and warmth of her presence.
"Why are you here?" Her voice was soft and faded into a whisper.
"I just wanted to be with you."
They have tried to taint my memories of you, but they have failed. Stories of alcohol and abuse spewed as poison, out of their lips. Was it false? Of course not. A life of fidelity, sobriety and patience was not for you, but you remain flawless in my eyes. I find myself in your shoes now, sitting alone, in my cramped room. My whiskey stained breath pausing only to ingest more. Soothing spirits, livening my night, raising my hopes that my newly intoxicated state will fetch exciting experiences. It does not, and I reach for my empty flask.
