12/24/10

"Thirty Two"
By My Future Self (Contributor Anonymous)

Dedicated to Zach Gough


She would be thirty-two today.

I sit down on a cool oak bench, looking up towards the playground. A few small children are screaming and yelling as they scale the small plastic apparatus (probably pumped out of an industrial factory in China). My mouth curls into a bitter smile as I roll my shoulders under the weight of my large down coat. I haven’t used this coat in years, but I appreciate the warmth from it as fall was approaching and the air was crisp at this time of day.

I don’t know why I came to the park today. I simply wandered over here from the recording studio after a session. I have to go back at seven o’clock to finish it off, anyway. The show I’m recording is a wacky cartoon for kids; it’s all about a small little fish that gets into trouble all the time. I feel the same way, as if trouble is attracted to me. I shuffle my feet under the bench as my toes began to feel the chill. It is definitely fall.

Looking up as I adjust my scraggy brown scarf, I see that the parents had coaxed their kids off the monkey bars and are leading them home. There is a small boy with them, and his wily screams fade away as his mother patiently pulls him along. I grin, I don’t have any children or even a wife, I’m just a thirty-something voice actor for cartoons. “The new Robin Williams!” they called me. Some even said, “Talent that compares to that of Jim Carrey’s!” I remember the pride swelling up inside me when I read my reviews, but at the same time I had experienced a crawling itch in the back of my head.

She had said those things. I zip up my jacket to my collar.

“Johnny!” calls a voice from my right. Curious, I turn and see a family of four. A blond man with a dark blue coat and jeans carries a young, similar looking boy on his shoulders. Beside them is a woman, her brown hair is short and bobbed. She’s wearing a red coat. There is a stroller, one you’d see at Sears. The woman gives the boy a daring look, and he sheepishly turns away and grasps the man’s hair. He’s probably the father. But at this day in age, who knows if he is?

As they approach, I redirect my gaze to a large maple collaged in oranges and reds. I wait anxiously as the family comes closer, hoping they’ll pass. Unfortunately, the father sprints down to the playground with the boy. Giggles of delight trail behind them. More noise. Great. The woman sits down on the opposite end of the bench. I notice her gather up a bundle of blankets from the stroller. Peering downwards, I notice a small girl peeking out at me. The baby begins to stare at me, and I cough awkwardly, my eyes darting away.

“Good evening,” the woman invites, turning to me with a soft smile, “it’s getting a lot colder, and a lot sooner than last year too!”

“I suppose, “ I agree, “but they are always going on about climate change anyway.” She chuckles and smiles, gently wrapping the blankets around the child. “Is that your daughter?” I dare.

“Yes, it is. Her name is Laura, short for Lauren. She’s about eight months old,” she sighs back to me, smiling back down at the sleeping girl.

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” Suddenly, a squeal of delight causes us to glance towards the playground, where the little boy taunts his father from the top of the slide.

“That’s my husband over there, and our son,” she laughs, “they cause me a heck of a lot of trouble.”

I smile and turn back to her, “Well, what would they be if they didn’t?” She nods fondly. I grin at her, but something in her face gave me an ache in the chest.

“I guess trouble is better than nothing,” she jokes as she presses the child close to her chest, wrapping her arms around it in a protective and loving manner. We continue to watch the man and the boy play a game of cat and mouse, the boy holding his hands high in the air as he dashes in circles around the fireman pole.

“What are their names?” I ask casually, leaning back against the bench and hearing it creak back at me.

“My husband’s name is Jacob, and our son is Johnathan. We usually just call him Johnny, though,” she answers, “And yours?”

“Edward. Call me Ed,” I extend my hand to her, but the little girl in her arms starts to cry, and her attention rushes to the girl. I watch her begin to hush and comfort the baby. Embarrassed, I slip my hand back into my pocket. A few minutes pass as she rocks the bundle. After another five minutes, the girl hiccups and then abruptly falls back asleep. The woman’s face relaxes and a relieved sigh escapes her lips and forms a small, faint cloud in the cold air. I blush. She is beautiful.

“Sorry about that,” she apologizes, and places the bundle into the stroller, pushing it back and forth gently. I nod at her, my eyes cast down as I try to hide my embarrassment. Then a sudden pang of pain again hits me again, “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” I cough, my cheeks flushing even more red, “I think I’m coming down with something.” Some more wild screams erupt from the playground and cause the woman to look away. Nervously, I adjust my coat and tighten my scarf. Why am I so tense? And Jesus, it is pretty damn cold for September. But after a few moments, curiosity gets the better of me and I look out of the corner of my eye at the woman. Her eyes squint in content, causing her eyelashes to brush against each other. She looks a lot like her.

I close my eyes and exhale a large, transparent cloud into the sharp air. Why is she plaguing my mind so frequently? At least 12 years have passed since then and I’ve gotten over it. Sure, I was upset for a bit after she rejected me, but I dusted it off. Maybe it’s this time of year. Being in the entertainment industry, fall is the downer season. Summer is always a fling with some girl: someone who drools over your work and then finds out that you are much less glamorous than your recordings. I’m funny and I’m a comedian, but to them I’m all a joke and no “serious commitment”. They always say that. “Serious commitment” and “I really loved you!” It’s never just about walking out the door. And they act as if the whole world has fallen apart for Christ’s sake. They think they know me by just listening to my recordings. Where’s the sense in that? Did they expect a replay of some chick flick they saw me in? I’m barely able to make ends meet some months; I’m no big-shot celebrity!

A cold gust of wind shatters my train of thought as it passes right through my down jacket.

The woman clutches her arms and laughs, “Now that was cold!” I look over at her, and she bursts with laughter. It echoes down the path and rings in my ears. Maybe I am thinking from a “cold” perspective.

“You’re right,” I reply shyly, smiling to myself, “maybe it was.”

“Maybe? I felt that in my bones!” Now it’s my turn to laugh. At first, she stares at me with a puzzled expression, but soon she joins in. We laugh and laugh. I know she doesn’t understand why, but she does anyway.

Looking up, the sun was reaches the edge of the skyscrapers towering over the small little blotches of trees. I look towards the studio I’m working at. It is gray, dull and stubborn on the horizon. It appears to be too old against the other new, flashy skyscrapers that are built with glass on stilts of iron. It’s a ticking clock, only a few more months until some rich real estate agent buys out the building and knocks it down to build another showy ‘scraper for all those corner office men who had way too much money to spare.

Glancing over, my eyes once again glance irresistibly toward the woman. Her eyes are such a deep brown; they compel me to lean towards her, but I resist. Her husband is lucky. Moreover, her demeanour is fascinating. She’s like a school teacher, gentle and understanding yet you know she’s in charge. She’s so much like her. Like Catherine.

I can’t help it, and for the first time in years, I let Catherine’s memory seep into me. Why can’t I move on? I have a career, I have had lots of other women and I have my fame. I’m fairly stable financially, except those months I spend a little too much at the bar, and I’m doing what I love. But still, sometimes Cathy casually brushes her fingers over my mind. I can’t help but chase her. Her memory taunts me and comforts me. It lulls me to sleep and it wakes me up; it drowns me in depression and lifts me back out. Twelve long years, and I haven’t seen her since. I clutch my coat.

“Cathy!” My head whips around. Did I just hear that? It isn’t possible, is it? How could she be here? She moved to Chicago after I asked her to be my girlfriend. She told me she’d never come back, so it just isn’t possible. I sigh; it has to be my mind playing tricks on me.

“Cathy!” calls the blond man from the playground, holding the small little toddler in his arms, rushes over to the woman. I see the tears lying across the small boy’s cheeks as he clutches his knee to his chest. I follow them with my eyes, not knowing what to think, as they approach the woman. She calmly fishes a bandage out of the stroller and administers it to the little boy’s knee.

Is this her?

It isn’t possible. Cathy left twelve years ago. I remember it so clearly. We had been the best of friends throughout high school; and I was oblivious to the fact I was helplessly in love with her the entire time. Then in the year after grad, we had a fight and she didn’t want to see me again. I got mad, and I did some bad things, and she didn’t talk to me for months. Finally, I heard she was going to move to Chicago. I packed my bags, met her at the airport and told her how much I loved her, begging her to let me move with her. I promised I would work two jobs to pay the rent for her so she could study, and I swore I’d treat her better than any other guy she could possibly imagine. She was silent. She looked up at me with eyes that split my heart in two. They explained everything. Barely hearing what she said to me, all I can remember is “moving with boyfriend”, “it was a long time ago”, “I’m sorry” and “he loves me”. Yet the whole time I just gazed into her eyes and felt my body fracture and crack, tumbling to pieces. She turned. She walked into the gates. I stood there for five hours waiting to see if she would come back, but she was gone.

Catherine.

“Johnny, what did you do to get so scratched up?”

The boy, softly sobbing, bumbles, “I was just running and then I fell!”

Tutting, the woman leans over, “What will I do with a monkey like you?” The little boy stops sobbing, and a small smile begins to grow and light up his face.

Lifting the boy to his shoulders, the husband adds, “Cathy, we should head home. The roast is probably almost done.”

“Alright, let me just fasten Laura.” Tenderly fastening her daughter, the woman softly pulls herself upright and smiles at me. I didn’t know if my heart would break or if it would soar.

“It was nice talking to you,” she notes friendly.

I gaze up at her, not knowing what to say, until it just blurts out of my mouth, “Is it your birthday today?” She blinks at me.

“No, it was yesterday.”

I take one last look at her face, and then I look at her family.

“Well then, goodbye,” she nods.

“Goodbye,” I reply, nodding back to her. They leave.

I watch them walk down the path; halfway, her husband wraps his arm around her waist. I follow them with my gaze until they disappear between the magnificent yellows, oranges, reds and browns of the trees. And after a moment, I lean over the ground and close my eyes gently. I sink into the sound of the rustling leaves.

“Goodbye.”


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