Six Words (a short story)

Six Words

It’s shortly after two o’clock. I’m standing on the corner of Erie and Madison, waiting nervously, hoping that this is the right day, that my trip will not be in vain. Four lanes of traffic speed past me. A jogger - practically the unofficial mascot of the neighbourhood – runs by, toward the busy, upscale shopping and restaurant district not far behind me. It’s not the first time I’ve pondered how surreal this part of the city is. Behind me, one of the wealthiest, trendiest neighbourhoods in the entire city; in front of me, one of the poorest schools in the state. I feel a warm May breeze brush against my legs, and brush a lock of hair out of my eye.

I’m here early – I hope. I don’t remember what time he normally left school, but it was usually some time between two and three. We don’t have an appointment. I can be quite sure he’s not expecting me. But I’ve come a long way to see him, and I’ll contact him somehow in the short time I have. I don’t know how he’ll react, or how I would react if it were to happen to me. I just hope he’ll listen.

1994. In just a few minutes, I have travelled back over ten years into the past, six years before I even came into being. I don’t know how or why I, of all people, was granted this opportunity, but the terms were clear enough. You have twenty-four hours. If you don’t do in those twenty-four hours what you set out to do, you won’t have another chance. Words I remember as if from a dream.

It’s funny how the mundane details of life never go away, no matter how bizarre the situation. What, I found myself wondering, does one wear to a rendezvous with one’s past? Apparently, dressy casual was the way to go. And so I stand now, in a knee-length corduroy skirt and a white short-sleeved blouse, my hair hanging freely about my face, wondering how I’d feel if I came face to face with the woman I would be in a decade.

I think back. What would be going on in his life in 1994? He’s just turned fifteen, and has only a few weeks before school lets out for the summer. He’s beginning the long withdrawal, trying so hard to be who he knows he’s supposed to be that he loses all contact with who he is. Intellectual and wiseass are the two bits of him that remain visible. The two things he knew he could express without fear.

It rends my heart to think of it. Knowing him, knowing the pain he only dimly perceived, all I want to do is take him into my arms and hold him, reassure him. But would it help? Would he even be able to take comfort in an embrace? He didn’t trust. Why should I be any different?

It’s 2:45 now. I note with a cringe that the coffee I’d totally forgotten about is now ice cold, like the coffee he always nicked from the teachers’ lounge. He hardly slept, came to school when it was still dark, and drank his coffee cold. A studied, stony stoicism that he was just beginning to cultivate, with tips from cop shows and bad movies.

Another breeze caresses me, bringing with it the sweet scent of the bakery just down the street. The first students begin plodding, sauntering, and running out the doors. Groups form, walkmans are turned on, special Metro busses begin arriving.

Any minute now.

I try to prepare myself, running my right hand through my hair, and adjusting my glasses. A deep breath as I focus my gaze on the central exits.

It’s him.

I see him walk through the exit door, his stiff, militaristic gait unmistakable. He doesn’t stop to talk to anyone. He’s just trying to get home, where he feels halfway safe. As he approaches, I note with some surprise the absence of eyeglasses, and remember that those would not come for another year or so. He’s wearing his customary jeans and drab flannel shirt, his hair hanging over the side of his face. I can hardly even remember a time when my hair didn’t touch my shoulders.

This is it. It’s really happening.

What am I going to say to him? What does he need to hear that he can only hear from me? Will he even stick around to hear me out? I know him well enough to know that he won’t be thrilled to be approached by some woman he’s never met before.

And what do I need to say to him? What do I need to say to this boy? Or will just introducing myself be enough to reassure him that life will not always be an endless cycle of hiding and repressing, of expressing a little of what lies inside in order to prevent the floodgates opening? Will that break through his resignation and allow him a little happiness in this time of his life? How does a conversation like this even start? Hi, you don’t know me, but, in about ten years, you’ll be me?

He’s about halfway from the school to the crosswalk now. I’m more certain than ever that it’s him. My heart is racing. Seeing him, coming this close to a past I’ve all but forgotten, brings a solitary tear to my eye. If I’m to say anything to him, I’ll have to come up with it quickly.

He marches across the street, past a small throng of kids sauntering by at an exaggeratedly leisurely pace, toward me. The impulse to run up and embrace him is now stronger than ever. I know I can’t do that, not right now, so I take a deep breath.

I suddenly realise what will attract his attention without fail. The one thing that might make him engage me. We are quite different, he and I. At this point, he is thoroughly immersing himself in numbness, filtering out all but the slightest residue of feeling from his consciousness. For him, his heart is a mass of neuromuscular tissue situated in the upper mediastinum, responsible for the regulation of circulatory activity. I have long since abandoned this stubborn literalism. My heart is what speaks when I open my mouth. But this one thing we have in common, our curiosity. I know what he’ll go for.

And so, as he passes, I call to him: Sag mal, wie komm ich eigentlich zum Graeter’s? He turns toward me, and I see that familiar glint in his eye. I close the distance between us, and rest a hand softly on his upper arm, smiling slightly. I search his eyes, and see what might be a sort of recognition there, and say the first thing that comes to mind:

Just know – this won’t last forever.