Walk in the Park
There were scarier apologies on the list. The approach was easier for him—calmer nerves compared to the others. Although with those, the gratification came when the interaction was done. Here with this one, he could only offer words, hoping the right person was listening.
The park hadn’t changed much since their introduction. It had been raining then. Today the flowers were in bloom, a gentle breeze sliding through, calming that green grass during the scorch of midsummer.
His memory painted the sky with gray clouds, the rain, and the cold. That school day long ago was spent in distracted anticipation of what would happen in the hours after the bell. They had discovered their mutual interest, though they couldn’t appear more different in style of dress. The bus had delivered them to the playground of Downtown. A constant mist of rain, near-immediate dampness of their clothes. Cold to the bone with the occasional shiver, jolting out from the abdominals and ricocheting up through the torso. They subdued the clattering of their teeth, finding momentary relief inside the convenience store. The clerk studied the rounded mirror as they ventured up and down the miniature aisles. The exchange was terse, almost rude. This served to justify their rebellion against the yuppies, splintering that adolescent sense of justice.
They filled their pockets with snacks and ditched the plastic bag, sharing the soda on their way to the park. This wasn’t to quench thirst, but was for the later function of the aluminum can. Unfamiliar, and venturing through the park for the first time, his new friend led the way. They climbed the hill and meandered off the path, poking holes in the can after depressing one side of it. His friend pulled a sandwich baggie from an inner jacket pocket, putting the contents rendered onto that portion of the can. The Bic lighter was ignited.
And the rest was history. But it was this history that brought him back to the park. This reconnection with the past the list inflicted on him was penance for the pain he’d inflicted on the world.
Aluminum cans evolved to glass pipes, pipes to rolled bills, rolled bills to needles. Contents rendered evolved from green bud to blue pill, blue pill to white powder, white powder to tan. Things changed, as they do. Even the park changed, though only a little. It’s the one thing that hadn’t much evolved. Never betraying them, never hurting them. Only watching them hurt themselves.
Many memories existed between the first and the last, but it’s those that concern us here. The last shared memory was years before the gentle breeze slid through to calm the green grass. The weather wasn’t terribly different, but he was. Rather than level-headed and apologetic, he was intoxicated with liquor and maniacal with rage. The pent-up nature of this drug addict’s frustration required occasional release, and his tormented psychology soothed with occasional violence. The old friend who once led him through the park at their friendship’s inception now begging his relent. The smack of knuckles against the side of the head, the thud of sneakers embracing the ribcage. All while the birds sang not far, the sun shined still bright, and the park watched this rabid abuse between two of its children.
Finally, they came together again in this setting most sacred. Now the one was flesh, the other a mere representation. He’d been replaced by a memorial bench—granite, cold and lifeless. A stark exemplification of he who was once his friend. There was comfort in his absolute welcome, but punishment in the one-sidedness of their conversation.
His friend couldn’t be anywhere anymore other than here, or perhaps somewhere else, a place with meaning, with peace, and even love. These things they knew they’d know eventually—back then, in the days when they first entered the park together.
There would always be time… but then time was no longer. They didn’t know it had the potential to stop so short.
He sat on the bench, whispering aloud, failing to imagine his old friend listening with sympathy and forgiveness. He hoped he could hear him when here, somehow. This holy ground of their friendship and their anguish. This place where they, once boyish and still innocent, meandered together off the path.
He wept softly, like a man does by a grave. His twenty-two-year-old face revealed little emotion. Only the reddish streaks striping down either side as he whispered regret. The breeze blew again, raising bumps on his arms, sending such a chill down his spine. He leaned forward and placed his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands together. He sighed, resting his forehead on his knuckles.