Second Chances

The rain is showering down upon my vulnerable head like meteors in late August on the West Coast. My hood is made of cotton, and serves no required purpose of keeping me dry. If I decided to use it, it would be drenched in a matter of seconds regardless. Putting it on is a waste.

The oil pools in the puddles collect on parts of the sidewalk, and as droplets interrupt the gatherings the curious rainbows shiver with excitement like they were about to embark on a wonderful adventure through the sewer. The asphalt smells hot, and exhausted from the usual constant traffic that the rain and absence of sunlight drove away.

Its later afternoon, the clock read 5:48 just before I left the apartment but it’s been more than an hour since. I should be heading home soon to become a part of society again and conform to the rules and guidelines everyone must follow. I’m not ready to leave yet, though. Sitting on the curb right here and right now feels right. I feel like I need to be here taking a deep breath and reflecting.

Reflecting on what? The fact that I’m unemployed as of yesterday? That I have unpaid bills from last month and I’m two months behind on both my rent and my car payment? What happened to me?

I give in and put my hood on. The rain immediately begins to wet it in a rhythmic beating. I put my head in my hands. A drop of water that had been accumulating in my drenched scalp now cascades down my forehead and I wipe it away like a drop of sweat. I feel like I amount to little and I’m lost. I don’t even know who I am.

I lift my hands from my face and look down the sidewalk that belongs to the curb I am currently perched on. In between the large slabs of concrete a few trees stand up on the ends near the road. Garbage litters the gutters, covering them like a blanket of snow.

About ten feet away a small body disappears into a nearby bush, too quickly for me to see but enough to attract my attention. I watch intently as a small corner of an ear appears and then a head attached to that ear.

Soon enough a small puppy of an unknown breed reveals itself. Its fur looks dirty and in need of maintenance. Dark brown splotches of hair randomly scatter its body, looking like it got into trouble with brown paint. The rest of its body is white with small black spots in between the bigger ones.

I pat my leg and coo. Unsure at first it backs away, but after a moment passes it slowly eases its body in my direction. After a little coaxing I have it at my side and I’m petting its head. For such a dirty little thing it is softer than a blanket of fleece.

“What are you doing here little guy? Where’s your home?” It looks up at me with those stereotypical, gleaming puppy eyes and I feel my heart melt a tad. “Where do you belong? Nowhere?”  I know it can’t answer, but having a nonjudgmental being just here makes me feel like someone is listening. “Yeah me too. I don’t even know where I should be.” I scratch it behind one brown ear and it sits down comfortably next to me, sure now that I’m not here to harm it. The pitiful thing is soaked and I can’t help but feel bad for it.

“Everybody loves puppies, how come no one seems to love you? It’s not as if you’re not cute, because you clearly are!” It looks out into the empty street then returns its melancholy gaze back to me. “Every living thing deserves to belong somewhere. You look like you need more help than I do; you’re coming home with me.”

I scoop the shivering, dirty puppy into my arms and unzip my jacket. I hold it against my dry stomach then I stand up, zip my sweatshirt just below its neck, and take my first steps back home and into the real world filled with chaos.

“Just because I might not get a second chance doesn't mean that you shouldn't have one.”

Alternate Reality

A folded up paper sits quietly next to me. I open it. It reads: 

"Think of the word alternate. What does it mean? What is its dictionary meaning? Now think of the word reality. Our own realities are events in our lives that we acknowledge. Reality is our personal perception of the world around us. Every single reality is different for each individual person. Now what is alternate reality?"

I neatly fold the piece of lined paper back into its original creases. What a concept. I think to myself.

The bus stop I’m waiting at takes me to work every morning. I walk two blocks here in rain, sleet, or snow. Today it is sunny, not a cloud in the sky. The station sits right near the corner of Pilot Street and Ramsey Boulevard. Ever since I got my current job I’ve been using this particular bench to spend part of my mornings. Colorful graffiti greets me to my right. It’s an extinct language, speaking in tongues but expressing its emotion and meaning through color. Below me are scattered cigarette filters and discarded pieces of gum in all hues. A filthy trashcan sits to my left, obviously unutilized. At a bus-stop in a busy bustling city this is the norm. A sad cracked flower box with wilted flowers is perched on top of the garbage can. It looks under watered and neglected. I look down the racing concrete strips that stretch far into the distance to see if the bus might be on time for a change. My watch reads 7:03 am; not a chance.

In a city like this what is an alternate reality? Green? Clean air? No pavement?

An elderly, friendly looking gentleman that arrives out of nowhere sits down next to me. His white moustache is curled up at the ends and mimics the corners of his mouth.

“Great weather today…” He looks to me and mumbles.

“Yes it is. A shame I don’t have the day off.”

“Mmm,” he paused. “Yes, that is a shame.”

I fold and refold the note, and then I open it and clumsily fumble with the corners. I read it again, then I return it to its original state and shove it quickly back into my pocket. On its way in, the paper crumples and makes an uncomfortable noise. He looks over and I avert my eyes. I can feel his gaze on me. I look up and our eyes meet. His wrinkled face screams comfort; his soft brown eyes sparkle with knowing and an intense sense of wisdom. His smile still a part of his personality he says, “What have you got there? You look a little thoughtful.”

“It’s just a note I discovered when I first sat down…” I trail off and sheepishly look away, almost ashamed to share.

“Not to be nosey, but I’m a little curious…” His gaze flashes at me.

I reach into my pocket and pull it out, his hand extends. There are creases on his hand telling me that he hasn’t worked an easy day in his life. He unfolds it gently and begins to read. After a moment he finishes and hands it back. I quickly crumple it back into my pocket, almost as if it were a secret note for my viewing only.

“Interesting,” his furry brows are knitted showing deep contemplation.

“What are your thoughts?” My personal confusion of the letter might be solved if I involve another mind. I ignore my inner voice telling me to keep quiet.

“It’s interesting,” he repeats. “Alternate reality for me would be a cubicle.” His features loosen and he looks to me for feedback.

“I think of green… Mountains… Birds… Flowers…” His face wipes blank and I wonder if I have said the wrong thing.

“Why?” He states with no adjustment in his voice.

“Well we essentially live in a concrete jungle here.” I look down to my shoes and the concrete for some sort of approval. I look back up and he’s looking down the street at the approaching bus. I continue.

“What do you think about the environmental crisis?”

The bus pulls up and we both stand to our feet. I follow him to the folding portal into the crammed public transportation vehicle. He begins to enter the bus and stops on the second stair. He turns around to face me. His face is crumpled with thought and abruptly and quite loudly he says, “I don’t!”

He turns around and disappears in the crowd of people standing closely together like a heavily populated forest.