blog.03 (go back »)

Appearances can be deceiving. The often cliche term is applied in many situations, but in most, it still remains true, especially for him. The man, seemingly lonely, leaning up against the wall as the rain begins to pour and struggling to light the damp cigarette in his mouth. The wick catches and he takes a solemn drag as the cigarette is nestled between his index and middle fingers. His fingernails, dirty from a hard day's work and his lack of concern for his own cleanliness, because clearly, he has a bigger weight on his shoulders. He never shifts his body, or so much as breathes out of the norm as he continues to lean on the wall, as if he were holding it up. One drag, and a slight pause, two drags, and then a slight flick of the cigarette butt to ash onto the concrete, which is now wet and glistening with sky's water. No hat, and wearing nothing more than a khaki colored jacket and blue jeans, the rain falls harder and harder and he doesn't even acknowledge the fact that his clothes will soon be soaked. And with somber movement, he looks down to the ground and tears begin to well up in his eyes, the loneliness has hit him like a bottle in a bar fight. Struggling to maintain his composure while he leans up against the wall, in a coming rainstorm, on an empty city street, he reflects on the events which occurred just several minutes before.

The man without a face, without a name, without an identity is lost in his newly arrived transition in life. He's stuck in a position of fickle indecisiveness and a surfaced depression. He has no answer to his problems, no solution, no remedy for his pain, so he continues to wallow in his own pathetic sadness, chain smoking and reminiscing. "Where did it all go wrong?" he thinks. The better question he needs to ask himself is, "Why am I so emotionally weak and dependent on someone that cared nothing of me?" Perhaps his reflection shouldn't be focused on why it happened, but what he can do to improve his life. Nonetheless, he lights up another cigarette, with slow movement, in the exact same fashion as before and allows the tears to roll down his dry cheeks and fall to the ground with the pouring rain. As he continues to look down he is startled by the distant approach footsteps. "Heels," he thought to himself, and felt a bit ashamed by his public display of self-pity and loathing. But instead of trying to gather himself, he continues to drive his chin into his chest, and take his slow and concentrated drags of his cigarette.

As the footsteps get louder, he becomes nervous, almost paranoid and fought back balling hysterically. The weight of his own sadness began to grow heavier and heavier and his immediate solution was cocaine. Knowing where to get the poison, and believing that it could be his temporary fix to his temporary problem, he went into a trance of sorts, thinking about his bank account. Inevitably, it added onto his woes since money was an issue. The demanding sound of footsteps, louder than ever, and the aggressive splash of water startled him and he looked up to find beauty in a blue peacoat.

"Are--, are you ok?" Her green eyes were radiant, even in the darkness of twilight and complimented her silky brown hair and olive skin. Even in his rut, he couldn't help but make some sort of conversation. Nervously, forcing enthusiasm, he replied,

"I'll be fine, just a tough night."
"Tell me about it."
"I'd rather not."
"It was an expression, stranger. I was agreeing."
"Oh," he paused, embarrassed, "sorry."
"Don't sweat it. So, um, do you have a name, or do I just call you stranger?"
"Eric."
"Marcela."
"Igualmente."
"I don't speak Spanish, Eric, I'm Persian. Nice try, though."

Eric's embarrassment continued and his cheeks grew hot. His attempt to show that he's cultured in a predominantly Hispanic city backfired tremendously. But her mere presence alleviated some of the pain from earlier that evening.

"Look, I'm just passing through, but I'm not sure where St. Mary's Street is? Could you help me out?" Excitedly, this was his chance to find what was missing in his life, or what he thought got taken from him. Eric's response showed more enthusiasm than the small talk he made before.

"Yea, actually, I'm headed home, just trying to get some fresh air. I live a few blocks down, in the loft apartments by Rosario's."
"Oh, thats actually the only landmark I'm familiar with. I just moved here about a week ago, and I'm still a little cautious in this neighborhood."
"I understand, but there's nothing to worry about 'round here."
"Are you going to walk me home, or are we going to stand here in the rain, talking about the lack of crime in the neighborhood?"
"Let's go," he was warm, in a new world, even, and eagerly shifted his weight and took his back off the wall.