Walkabout

Photo by MICHAEL CHIARA on Unsplash

You go on a walkabout four times each day. Does walking in the city count? Why do you always have to do four? You’ve done this since you were ten. You learned that sitting in one place for too long did not serve you well. Your face gets hot, your palms become damp. As you wipe them on whatever you are wearing that day, you start to bite your bottom lip in that spot where the tiny scar is, because one time you stayed too long and bit too hard. Voices around you sound like crickets. Crackling. Shaking. Repeating. So, you move.

You board the Metro North train in New Haven. You scan the car and look for a place to eavesdrop. Where shall you sit first? You know you will get antsy. You hope what you hear will be interesting enough to keep you in your seat.

The teenage boy and girl—you guess 15 and 17 years old—take the seat behind you. Eavesdropping is easier this way. You never know how not to look directly at them while listening to their conversation. She has hot pink hair cropped in a sharp bob. It looks like one of the wigs your sister-in-law used to wear. Yes, wigs. Several multicolored wigs. Sandy from Grease—at the end, of course. Cher—long, straight, sleek, and black from the 70s. Cyndi Lauper’s multi-colored girls just wanna have fun. She was always ready for a costume party or a girls night with too many tequila shots and an old school disco playlist. You remember the Halloween party years ago. “Choose a wig,” Emma said. As you reached for the hot pink bob, your brother said, “Not that one,’” and a knowing glance passed between them. You thought to yourself, she wears that when they have sex. It figures. He does not want to see his sister in the wig that his wife wears while role playing whatever it is that they role play. You didn’t need to ask why. And now you can’t get the picture out of your head. Emma as Natalie Portman in the movie Closer stripping in her hot pink wig for your younger brother. You smile to yourself in the train car, then cringe, then refocus.

The boy follows closely behind. You wonder, are they brother and sister? Boyfriend and girlfriend? You hope they will not plug in and ride in silence. He walks past you wearing classic wayfarer sunglasses, windblown hair— “flow” as your son used to call it in middle school when he grew his hair so it would peek ever so slightly out of the back of his lacrosse helmet. The boy’s left arm is in a splint. You remember a family vacation to the west coast after your brother’s shoulder surgery. You laugh remembering how he needed help tying his shoes and cutting his steak, because his dominant hand was temporarily out of commission. You wonder if the boy is left-handed. You wonder if his sister or girlfriend helps him. You wonder if she uses it as a weapon like you did with your brother. “You’re an asshole. Tie your own fucking shoes.” You close your eyes to shoo away the memory.

The train exhales and moves away from the platform.

“What’s with Mom’s hair?” he asks her. They are not plugging in!

“It’s blonde,” she says.

“Yeah, but, like, why do women do that?”

She says, “Do what? Change their hair color?” He laughs.

“That’s different,” he says.

You can’t see her. If you could, you imagine her index finger pointing to her hot pink hair with a duh you know nothing look that only an older sister can give her clueless brother.

She says, “I don’t know. I am still traumatized from seeing her with bangs two years ago.”

You hear him exhale like the train. “She found, like, one gray hair, and now she’s a blonde. It’s like she’s not my mom anymore.”

Wait until she gets old, you want to turn and say. Her mind will become a sieve through which all new memories will rinse down the drain. She will be left with questions and confusion and more questions repeated over and over. Her dementia will be so bad that she is prescribed antipsychotic medication. The nurses at the home will tire of being blamed for stealing when your mother misplaces her belongings. She will be helpless. A bewildered island. You and your sister will long for the day when she was unrecognizable because of her hair color.

This is when eavesdropping is difficult for you. You always want to jump in and connect. You want to tell them your story. Your life coach tells you this is a value of yours. Connection with others. Why do you even have a life coach? You think to yourself. To keep you sane? That’s a side perk. Originally, it was to coach you out of credit card debt. Now, you don’t know how to end the relationship. When you did work on values, connection turned out to be one of yours. But maybe, she did not mean intruding into private conversations while eavesdropping on a train. Maybe, she meant that your default is to make a connection with other people. Maybe, she did not mean telling these youngsters that you did the same thing once. Maybe, she did not mean to turn and let them know that gray blends in better with blonde, but eventually you realize that you were meant to be a brunette, and you switch back. Maybe, she meant that you prefer jobs and opportunities that foster connection with other people. Maybe, she meant that it feeds your soul. What does that even mean? Maybe, she definitely didn’t mean sharing the hot pink bob connection.

Your knee begins bobbing up and down. You are biting your lower lip. It is time to walkabout. So, you move.

Photo by Sofya Kholodkova on Unsplash

You fumble with the door that leads to the next car. You can never open these. Why are they designed this way? Safety? Entertainment for the train employees? The train conductor opens the door for you. His hands are tanned and leathery. They remind you of your Pop Pop’s hands, and you smile—at the conductor as you say thank you, but also as you remember Pop Pop’s one finger missing the tip. “Factory accident” was all he said as an explanation when you asked as a child. The train conductor smiles back. His teeth are yellow. You think back to when you smoked a pack a day, and your favorite time to light up was on a car ride. You still love that first drag of a cigarette. You hope he quits soon. You think of Pop Pop, again, and you smell his pipes.

You sit. This time behind two women. They are probably in their mid forties. One is eating blueberries, Your stomach gurgles. You skipped breakfast. You always skip breakfast, so it’s not really skipping something if you never actually do it.

“He is getting circumcised tomorrow.”

“What? Why?” Blueberries asks.

“I don’t know. He wouldn’t say.”

“Did you ask him?” Blueberries, again.

“Yes. I. Asked.” You can feel her roll her eyes. The look that says duh, of course I asked. Who would not ask a grown man why he was getting circumcised? She softens as she sighs and says, “I’ve never seen an uncircumcised penis.”

Blueberries says, “I have. Once. Italy 1999. I forget his name.”

You laugh. It surprises you. It bewilders them, you imagine. You are expecting to feel the itch to move, but it doesn’t come. You want to hear more. You dig through your bag and find the flattened protein bar that has been in there for way too long. You put your feet up on the seats in front of you. You rip open the wrapper and take a bite.

---

Thanks for being here and reading my work. I cherish every person who swings by my stack.

When you click on the heart, it’s a quick way to say: Hi! This resonated with me. This made me laugh, think, wonder. It was in my inbox, and now I can delete the email. Whatever!

Every time you share my writing, it communicates to me that there are others you know who might connect with it like you did.

Your comments convey that you and I—and others here in this shared space—can have a conversation about this subject. I respond to each of you, because your life experience is powerful, and you belong here. XO