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Outside the Park
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Outside the Park |
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openthoughts Member
since 2006-01-16
Posts 94Where the child can be free |
Outside the Park I awoke in almost complete darkness with no concept of time, space, or self. Time to go back to sleep. Time. What time is it? I rolled over. “Six-thirty a.m.,” the red numbers of the clock glowed cruelly. I needed to be at work by six forty-five. My shift started in fifteen minutes. That realization should have jolted me awake, breaking me free of the foggy universe in between sleep and waking fully. Yet I could not bring myself to care. Instead, I buried my face back into the warmth and comfort of my pillow. How could I have slept so late? Having nothing else to do the day prior, I had allowed myself to drift to sleep in the mid-afternoon. In the early hours, I struggled with the basic calculation. Fourteen hours. How was that not enough? And why didn’t I wake up to my alarm? This conversation with myself was just stalling, I knew. Get up, get up, GET UP. I climbed out of bed onto unsteady feet. Though the voice in my head was urgent, I could no more than shuffle into the bathroom. I splashed some water on my face. It woke me up slightly but did nothing to motivate me. With a toothbrush in my mouth, I hopped around the room, trying to pull on a pair of pants. Showering and shaving would have to wait until after work. Just before leaving, I went through a mental checklist. Cellphone? Check. Apartment keys? Check. Wallet? Check. I looked at myself in the mirror. My reflection frowned disapprovingly back. Straightening my tie, I forced a smile to my face. Mask? Check. Outside my apartment door, I checked to see if anyone was looking as I stole the newspaper my neighbor had sitting outside his door. My usual train departed at six o’clock. Never having been this late before, I was not sure when the next train would come. I didn’t want to have to waste time buying a paper if it was pulling in when I arrived. A half hour can be a painfully long time to be left alone with one’s thoughts. I was twenty minutes early for the next train. Any chance of making it to work on time was, at this point, gone. Refusing to become frustrated by something that was no longer in my control, I sat down to read the paper. “Neurologists Discover Brain Differences in ADHD Patients” was the first headline I read. Something felt wrong: I was missing something. I closed the paper. In my hurry, I had forgotten to take my medication. I quickly decided that was probably for the best though. I was on a thirty-six milligram dosage of Concerta, up from the twenty-seven I had gotten used to, and had been feeling depressed of late. This would be the break I had meant to take anyway. I just hadn’t planned on that break being a work day. But the medication wasn’t what was nagging at me. Figuring it would come to me with time, I returned to reading my paper. Or rather I intended to return to my paper. I didn’t make it past the date. “Friday, August 14, 2009.” I only worked four days a week. Friday wasn’t one of them. Everyone has their own method when they feel their mask slipping. Some take deep breaths or close their eyes. I buried my face in my hands and slid them towards my ears before redirecting them through my hair and down to the back of my neck—the motion I always use to readjust it—before rising to begin the walk back to my apartment. I returned the paper outside my neighbor’s door before passing through mine. The red light of the answering machine was blinking: in my rush, I had not noticed it on my way out. I pressed the play button and waited until the recorded voice broke through the initial static. “Hi there, it’s your mother. Dad and I wanted to see what you were up to tonight. Maybe you would like to join us for dinner.” Her voice stopped but the static of the message continued. It was all so light-hearted; I knew there had to be more. “Anyway, just thought we’d try to catch you. You’re always so busy and we haven’t seen you in a while. Call us back when you get this. I love you, sweetie.” Then the mechanical voice of the answering machine took over, giving me a time and date. It was after I had fallen asleep yesterday, so I had an excuse for why I hadn’t responded. It was true—I hadn’t seen my parents in a month, despite my apartment being only minutes from their house. I just couldn’t bring myself to see them, especially my mom. She knew me too well and would see through my mask like it wasn’t even there. And I had no desire to answer the question, “what’s wrong?” It was only seven-fifteen and I could not bring myself to return to sleep. There were bills at the foot of my bed that required paying that I couldn’t, even though I wanted to. The books on my shelf had all been read and I had no television. I got undressed and tried doing some exercises but they did little but start my blood flowing. I wanted to stay on my feet—to stay active—so I decided to talk a walk. I redressed as I did my mental checklist in front of the mirror. Smile, I thought. The sun was bright in the sky now. Some scattered late members of the employed class were heading out from the bagel shops and delis, brushing crumbs from extended stomachs. A jogger with her ears between headphones ran towards me. I smiled and tried to make eye contact with her, hoping she would smile back, showing how she appreciated the chance intersection of our paths at that particular moment and we could allow ourselves to share a moment of existence. Her eyes, however, remained lowered. I entertained the possibility of stepping in front of her, forcing her to acknowledge me, but decided against it after she had passed me. Childish laughter drew me out of my private world. I was at a park where, even at this early hour, young mothers and fathers were present with their children. I stopped for a moment, leaning on the fence. A group of boys, perhaps six or seven years old, were playing a game I didn’t recognize. One boy threw a ball up in the air and shouted a number. Then all the other boys either tried to catch the ball or tried to avoid it. Elsewhere, younger children played on a nearby play set, the kind I could remember playing on when I was a child myself. Movement in the corner of my eye caught my attention. The ball from the group of boys had escaped them and rolled to the fence close to where I was standing: the shouting boy followed to retrieve it. He noticed me watching him and I smiled to convince him my motivations were not malicious. My smile was returned before he ran back to his friends. They resumed their game, though not long afterwards a woman, assumedly one of the boys’ mothers, came over and said something that was inaudible to me. The boys seemed to understand and I managed to overhear the words “and he smelled bad,” before they relocated their game. There is a kind of sadness that you smile at. It is from standing so close to happiness that you feel as if you were to reach out your hand, you could touch it, grab it, take some of it for yourself. And yet all the while you know that you could never be a part of it: the happiness that you see but can only experience vicariously, and that makes the joy painful. After a while at the fence, I heard two pairs of footsteps approaching behind me but made no attempt to see who it was. “Sir, could you come with us please?” A young girl with red hair tied back in a ponytail had fallen from the monkey bars. It was a short drop but she still cried like the pain bordered unendurable. At five, unendurable pain is a two foot drop. Still, I felt the desire to rush to her, to console her and tell her that life would continue long after the pain had subsided. “Sir, please come with us.” It was a request only in phrasing. The mother had picked up her daughter and carried her away, her eyes remaining on me all the while. The young girl had stopped crying, comforted by the security of her mother’s arms. My eyes began to moisten but I made no attempt to hide my face. It was all the shame I could bear, revealing so much weakness in public. I would confront it with dignity though. I was not ready to leave. “Sir—,” I felt a hand clasp firmly around my bicep so I turned, slowly; before I could be forced. Tears had formed tracks down my face, I was sure, but my determination to maintain dignity forced me to wear them as my true face and not the mask I had grown accustomed to; the mask I put on every morning with my tie. The officer loosened his grip slightly, leaning back in surprise. The second officer too looked caught off his guard. For a moment the officers and I locked eyes. They stared at me, their surprise becoming confusion: my unresponsiveness must have caused them to expect that I would put up a fight, scream, run. Instead, I stared back. Just one more minute. Just one more second. Then the first officer tightened his grip again. He resumed his air of confidence and authority, though his face had become softer, more compassionate, and even sympathetic. I nodded before closing my eyes, breathing deeply, and swallowing the stone that had become lodged in the back of my throat. My hands moved from face, to my ears, then through my hair in one continuous motion. Opening my eyes again, I stepped between the two officers and walked away, forcing all my focus forward rather than on the two men I knew were now following close behind me. I donned a new mask for a new, invisible audience. Now, it was a mask of drying tears because I dared not smile. For those minutes, standing at the fence, outside the park, I had been a child again. [This message has been edited by openthoughts (04-13-2010 11:30 PM).] |
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JamesMichael Member Empyrean
since 1999-11-16
Posts 33336Kapolei, Hawaii, USA |
Enjoyed...after reading this I thought of the title "At the Zoo", a Simon and Garfunkle song...perhaps a good title for a future piece...James |
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