Umbrella

His mood matched the weather, cloudy and dark and cold. His eyes were fixed on the sidewalk as he sulked, wanting no interaction with another human. He wore a black jacket to fend off the wind and carried an umbrella in his hand.

He pushed open the door of the coffee shop and stepped inside. The bell above the door jingled and the horrible banjo music of Mumford and Sons sounded in his ears.

How he hated this place. It was always filled with young people imitating individuals. The guys wore undersized pants and undersized cardigans. The girls wore oversized shirts and oversized glasses. Damn hipsters.

He could only stand them long enough to buy his coffee. It was stout, and it was hot, and it was his daily routine at 5:28 p.m. He finally got to the front of the line and ordered.

The worker recognized him from his daily visit, but he didn’t know his name. He knew his order, though, and he knew that today he would be more unhappy than usual.

“I’m sorry, but we’re out of the house coffee. Our supply truck is caught in the storm. Can I get you something else, bro?”

Bro. He hated that, too. Every damn hipster in this place called him bro. They would smile. He would scowl.

“That’s impossible. This is a coffee shop. You must have coffee.”

“I’m sorry, bro. We’re out today.”

He grit his teeth and tried to come up with a fitting insult. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, a voice came from behind him.

“Try the chai latte. They’re great. I get one every day.”

He turned to see where the voice came from and saw a girl seated at a table near the line. She had brown hair and brown eyes and an innocent smile.

He looked back to the kid behind the register and without thinking, smirked and said, “Chai latte, please.”

Stunned that he ordered something new, stunned that he said please, and stunned most of all that he smiled, the worker jumped to action and fixed the drink. She laughed at her table. It was a nice laugh, not filled with squeaks or snorts, but simply joy. He turned back to her.

“What’s so funny?”

“I see you every day and never once have they been so eager to serve you.”

He had never noticed her.

“Usually, they cuss you as soon as you leave for being cheap and awful,” she said.

The worker blushed with embarrassment.

“And do you think I’m cheap and awful?” he asked the girl.

“I find you quite weird and interesting,” she replied.

The worker handed him his chai latte and he sat down at the girl’s table.

“How can you say that?” he asked. “You’ve never spoken to me before.”

“Oh, believe me. I’ve tried. You detest everyone and everything so much, though, you’ve never noticed.”

Now, it was his turn to blush with embarrassment. How he had always missed such a beautiful girl was a mystery.

She continued to talk and he listened intently. She asked him questions and he responded. He told her his name and she did the same. He didn’t even notice the other people in the shop or the awful music being piped through the speakers. He was only fixated on her.

She wore a white shirt and brightly colored pants with a brightly colored pea coat. None of them were oversized. She was funny. When she smiled, she beamed. Her charm was irresistible. 

His usual gloominess was gone. The scowl was replaced with a grin and he let himself laugh. It had been so long since he’d felt like this, young and hopeful and happy.

The worker finally came over and told them the shop was closing. He hadn’t noticed the time slipping away. He smiled at the worker and for the first time, left a tip on the table.

As they got to the door, the sky finally opened and let loose a tremendous rain.

“Oh, no!” she exclaimed. “I walked today. I’m going to be soaked!”

He just grinned again and flashed his umbrella. “Let me walk you home.”

When they stepped through the door, he popped the umbrella open above them and she put her arm around his waist walking closely at his side. They dodged puddles as the drops continued to fall. She was giving the directions, but he knew this must be the long way home.

Finally, they arrived at an apartment building and she said it was hers. He didn’t want the walk to end. Somehow, it wasn’t long enough. By the sound of her voice, she wasn’t ready either, and she didn’t let him go.

He looked into her face again and she looked back.

“How did you get that bruise?” he asked, nodding towards the mark on her forehead.

She smiled and shook her head. “My night stand.”

He threw his head back and laughed.

“Hey! It really hurts!” she said as she jokingly slapped his chest.

He pulled her closer and stared into her eyes. Her heart beat faster and his breaths were shortened. He dropped the umbrella as he kissed her and the rain soaked their skin.

--

© Blaine Boyd

Strangers in the Night

The night was cold when two strangers crossed paths in the park. Their warm breath fogged in the frigid air. They were both bundled with scarves and gloves and hats. Their coats were closed to the top button.

The park was a natural reprieve amid the bustling city. Skyscrapers loomed above the treetops with yellow light emerging from the windows. The smog and the city’s glow cast out the stars that should have shone brilliantly in the sky.

He walked from the east and she from the west. He shuffled his feet and kicked rocks on the gravel path while she marched ahead. They met underneath a lamppost just as the bulb flickered brightly. They nearly rubbed shoulders, almost collided on the path, but continued on. As they passed, the bulb burned out with a pop of sparks.

If the man had looked up from his feet and if the woman had slowed for only a split second, they would have seen the reflection of two lost souls stumbling in the darkness. He would have seen the tears running down her cheeks and she would have seen the worry in his eyes. He would have noticed her disheveled scarf and she his trembling hands. Their gazes may have met and he may have asked her name.

They might have gone to the diner at the corner of the park where they would have had no trouble finding an empty booth at such a late hour. The waitress would have needed to put on a fresh pot of coffee and they would order a slice of pie. The diner would only have apple and that would suffice. He would comfort her and ask her why the tears poured from her eyes. Maybe she caught her boyfriend in bed with another woman, or maybe she had left her keys on the crosstown bus, or maybe the week of stress had finally boiled over into overcoming emotion. His voice would be soothing and his presence would be calming. He might even reach across the table to lend her his scarlet red handkerchief. It would be then that she would again notice the shake in his hands. She’d ask him what the trouble was and he would reply that his mother was very sick, or that his brother had been lost in the Middle East, or that a job interview in the morning made it impossible to sleep. She would understand and console his troubled mind. As they would rise to leave, he might ask her out again, and she might say yes.

The date would come and the two would go to an art museum. They might walk around the gallery for a while pretending to examine the paintings when really they were stealing sideways glances of each other. She might like his hair, dark and swept to the side. He could like her lips, full and glistening. They would sit down to view an abstract work. She would stare at the painting and he would finally give up the charade and look only at her. Her long hair might be braided and hang to one side. She would turn her head when she felt his gaze. Her eyes, blue and bright, would find his, brown and beckoning. Maybe he would lean forward and so would she until finally their lips would touch and they would feel a spark.

They could have continued to date through the winter months and into the spring. Surely it would not always have been perfect. She might not like his cluttered apartment and he might get upset when she hassled him to clean. He could not like her cat that always lay on his jacket and she would hate the way he talked to her four-legged companion. But through it all, he would be smitten with her charm and she would be captivated by his stories.

One day in the summer, when the grass would be green and weather would be hot, he might take her back to the park on a picnic. He would bring a basket full of breads and fruits and cheeses and wines and she would bring a blanket her grandmother made from old denim jeans. They would sit and enjoy their food and drink. They could watch the families with children on the swings and young men throwing Frisbees to their dogs. And then she might notice that they were near the same lamppost where they had met and she would turn to tell him and he would have a black box open with a diamond ring. Of course she would say yes through the tears of excitement.

The two might find a loft apartment in the city and live for a few years in quiet coupledom until one day when he would come home from work to find her giddy with excitement. She could be pregnant and he would be happy. Maybe they would go to the doctor and discover they would have twins, one boy and one girl. They could name them Andrew and Emily and the family would need a bigger house. They might move to the suburbs where the kids would grow up and go to school. Andrew could become a schoolteacher and Emily could become a surgeon. The children would start families of their own and move to distant corners of the country.

Then the man and the woman would be together again with no one else in the home. They’d have no need to stay in their quiet community, so they might retire and travel the world. They could visit far away lands and experience new cultures and eat new foods and love one another into their life’s twilight.

None of this would happen, though. He kept his head down and she kept crying to herself. He kept shuffling and she kept marching. They did not even notice the flash of the bulb and continued down the path in darkness.

I watched it all unfold from a bench beneath a tree in the park. “What a shame,” I said aloud. “They would have been lovely together.”

--

© Blaine Boyd

Dream Immensely

I was once told a story of a man, a man with tremendous dreams, plans to change the world and goals to set milestones. He cut the anchor holding him in place and aimed his sights for the highest pinnacle. Further and further he pushed, examining every trail and overcoming every obstacle, proving the naysayers wrong and pursuing what others found unattainable. He grappled and quarreled until the moment came when his unaccompanied journey met its end, and he retraced his steps back into the herd. He bound himself with commitments to a decent wife, a meaningful job, a safe community, and two children. The man’s life was good, and he was content.

I was told this story at a time when my own dreams, plans and goals were called into question. Could I ever really attain the level of success of which I dreamed? Were my plans of traveling to distant lands and embarking on perilous adventures simply folly? Did my goals hold any real substance or value?

I was told to settle.

The storyteller knew the man personally. He had tried so hard to break free of the chains of normalcy, but was simply thrust back into a common place. Why should the storyteller, why should I, even think of something more than average when that was the best we could ever accomplish?

I felt immediate sorrow for the storyteller.

How meaningless it must feel not to dream, to lose sense of reality for a few fleeting moments and not think of yourself on the cobblestone streets of a European village, or standing behind a podium in front of thousands who are waiting for your voice to ring out through the speakers, to lay awake at night with your head resting on the pillow and not imagine your name in lights.

The storyteller had missed the point entirely.

The man was not a failure, because he had not attained the level for which he strived, quite the contrary, the man deserved all due credit. He had aimed for greatness, and realizing after all of his persistent trying that he had reached his breaking point, he fell happily into contentment. He was only happy now, because of the dreams he pursued.

For it is not the man who finishes short that is considered the failure, but the man who does not try.

So, I say dream uncommonly. Set goals that seem incredible. Do not hinder your imagination, but surrender, if only for a moment, to the thoughts of all you might achieve. Do not set your sights simply for content, for if you fall short, you are left in mediocrity and sorrow, wondering what might have been.

You and I only get one chance at this life. Don’t let the opportunity pass you by. We owe it to ourselves to strive for the improbable.

Dream immensely.

My Race

On Thursday, I walked from class to work.

This was short walk, maybe one hundred yards from the classroom, down steps, across a sidewalk, up steps and along a flat path that was lined with trees blowing in the wind.

I have made this walk many times, twice a week for the last three months to be exact, and every time I travel this path, a certain serenity fills my senses.

Students rush by, completely self-absorbed with headphones in their ears and eyes toward the ground. I keep my head up and my eyes on the horizon, taking in my surroundings.

This walk is the connection between my life as a student and my life as a worker.

It is eerily reminiscent of life, in general.

College is the gap between adolescents and adulthood, play and work, learning and experience.

As I walk, my pace slows. Why rush when my destination will most assuredly be the same no matter when I arrive? My peers clamor for their results, sprinting towards a finish line that will not move. They do not notice the slight breeze brushing against their face or the dried leaves that are just beginning to fall and rustle at their feet. They do not allow themselves to indulge in the sun’s glowing warmth, even though blustery, bitter days are not far away. No, they keep their heads down and rush for the end.

I take a look back and notice the terrain I have covered, coasting downhill easily and then bottoming out so that I must work my way back to the top and to even ground. It is these transitions that create the people we have all become. If everything were simple and easy, this world would be dull. It is how a person reacts to challenges, the valleys of despair and the mountains of triumph, that cultivate their character.

For a simple, one hundred yard walk, it always becomes a journey of thoughts and emotions. Should we hurry to finish a race where the only contestant is the person in the mirror, or should we slow down and enjoy every moment? Should we rush to adulthood where dreams are replaced with monotony, or should we patiently examine every goal and possibility?

For me, the choice is a simple one. I will continue to walk at my slow and steady pace. I will marvel at the changes of the seasons, relish every starry night, and stand in awe of all the wonder in this world.

When the day comes that I will make my final transition and my race is over, I will look back and know that I did not miss my few magical moments. I will keep my head up and my eyes on the horizon.

B.B.