The Intersection

The intersection is alive with a cacophony of whistles, horns, and yelling; the sounds of early morning traffic.  Two policemen stand opposite each other, flags in hands and whistles at the ready, blowing and yelling at drivers and walkers alike.  They are well practiced and move in sync; the traffic continues to rotate around the round point without incident, though at a snail’s pace.  Pedestrians weave in and out of the traffic, brushing up against the slow rolling cars as they carry on towards some important place in order to do some important thing.  They do not recognize the cars in front of them; they see them merely as hopable obstacles, speed-bumps on the way to getting things done.

The circling drivers clench their steering wheels tightly and keep their right foot centered between the gas and brake pedals.  Each has his head on a swivel, ever ready to take advantage of an opening in the steady flow of automobiles surrounding him.  The weaving walkers do not bother the drivers; after all, they are not people, only objects not to be hit, like the cars and curbs.  A few of the more vocal drivers lean out of their windows, shaking fists and yelling at the others who are driving too slow or too fast or at those who change lanes too often or not often enough.  “Why can’t they all drive like normal people,” they each say to themselves.  Really they mean, “Why can’t they all drive like me?”

A giant, vine covered palm tree stands erect at the very center of all this commotion.  Leaning slightly, it allows its supple branches and leaves to dance to the music of the wind high above the circling cars and trucks.  Birds fly overhead, but none bother to rest on the dancing branches.  They prefer instead to play in the wind, circling and diving then climbing and rising only to allow themselves to fall yet again, all the while maintaining the grace of a gazelle performing ballet.  At its base, the tree is surrounded by a carpet of green and pink, the results of careful gardening and flowers in full bloom.  It is an island of calm amidst a sea of chaos.

A large mosque looms in the background and invites the passing drivers to stop and pray.  Few heed its call.  One side of its towering minaret is lit up brightly by the newly risen sun, displaying for all its intricate carvings as well as its chipped and cracked façade.  The rest of the mosque is hidden in shadows, its green and white exterior made even cooler by the added shade of a row of small palm trees guarding its perimeter.  Just outside, beggars sit in ragged sheets and robes, asking for pocket change from the passing stream of people and blessing the parents of any who help, though most of the walkers are too busy to be bothered; indeed, most are concentrating too hard to even notice.

The large mosque is made less large by the even larger apartment building across the street.  This building is obviously newer than the mosque, but is already showing signs of wear.  Its white exterior is in need of repair and the black iron railings on the balconies could use painting.  The building is well lived in: clothes of every sort hang from hooks and ropes, soaking up the sunshine until they are a scratchy, crispy dry; potted plants sit on tables and chairs, hang from ceilings, and wrap around posts and table legs; and one particular elderly couple sits many stories up, enjoying the breeze and looking down on the intersection, wondering if the world below will ever slow down enough to enjoy the gift that is this day. 

Meanwhile, the drivers continue to circle.  They do not look up to the couple sitting above, only straight ahead, towards the next intersection.

The Bus Ride

‘Ring ring.’  The telephone’s siren has broken the peaceful silence yet again.  The people closest groan audibly as the young woman in the far back right seat answers loudly.  The conversation begins with a series of questions until finally the matter of who is who is settled and the ‘hello’s and ‘how are you’s begin.  She cradles the phone between her shoulder and ear as she picks the old, red paint off of her fingernails.  She shifts in her seat and switches between ears.  She laughs loudly at some unheard comment, tossing her head back and dropping the phone with a thud.  She hastily retrieves it, switches positions, and continues the conversation and nail picking.

A moment later the ‘hello’s and ‘how are you’s have ended.  She begins now to retell, for the twentieth time that day, the story of her vacation, the details of which the passengers around her now know as though they were their own.  She tells about the beach, the nightclubs, and the restaurants; the hotel with the cute bellboy and rude receptionist; the taxi driver who almost hit the bus in the middle of the intersection; etc, etc, ad infinitum. 

 Finally, the vacation story is over and the most wrenching part of the conversation has begun.  “So..?” she says.  “So..?”  “So..?”  That simple, seemingly benign word grates on the ears of her fellow passengers like nails on a chalkboard.  “So..?”  A bit of silence, a bit of talking, and then another “So..?”  More silence, more talking.  “So..?”  “So..?”  “So, if you have nothing to say, then hang up the fucking phone!” the other passengers scream inside their heads.  They exchange glances with each other, rolling their eyes and shooting themselves in the head with their fingers while the girl blabbers on, “So..?”  “So..?”

It’s one o’clock in the morning.  The bus is in its seventh hour and the young lady has been on the phone for at least five of those seven.  Every time she hangs up, the bus breathes a heavy sigh of relief, thanking God that the banality of her conversation is over.  And then, with every ‘ring ring’, stomachs drop and eyes close.  The people here are only too aware what it means and are only able to speculate as to how long, and how trite, this new conversation will be.

“Ok.  Ok, I will.  Ok, thanks.”  Ears perk up.  Could this be it?  Is this the end of the torture?  Necks crane as eager listeners try to catch the slightest hint that the suffering is over.  “Goodbye,” she says, and with that, smiles spread over the tired faces of the other passengers like melted butter in a skillet.  They sink deeper into their chairs, listening to the final ‘goodbye’s and ‘farewell’s and preparing for a long awaited rest in the silence of the night.  “What? Oh, haha!”  The girl’s shrill laugh cuts through the air, causing her fellow rider’s heads to jolt forward.  They stare wide eyed at the headrest in front of them, hoping to hear another series of ‘okay’s or ‘goodbye’s, anything signaling the end of the torment.

“So..?”

The Breakfast

            Before you even reach the doors, the smell emanating from within takes you back to every morning you ever woke up at your grandmother’s house.  You can almost see the hot, black coffee dripping slowly into a see-through pot on the countertop; the sweet, gooey frosting dripping down the side of a mountain of freshly baked cinnamon rolls; the mound of fresh fruit sitting ripe and ready in a bowl on the table; and the thick patties of seasoned sausage sizzling happily on a lit stove.  Only the din of clinking plates and forks and the scraping of pans brings you back to the present moment.

            Many moons have come and gone since you last had a proper breakfast.  The days of waking up expectantly, hoping that the most important meal of the day would be something different, something substantial, have long since passed.  You know now what to expect; you no longer wake up hopeful.  Weeks upon weeks of bread, butter, and olive oil have slowly crushed your appetite and your spirits until even you yourself have begun to believe that a handful of flour and some churned milk are proper breakfast fare.  But as you approach the large, swinging doors ahead of you, the aroma of foods you have almost forgotten tickles your nose and those wicked and wily thoughts are dashed like stale pastries on the rocky shores of appropriate breakfast cuisine.  Neurons fire and taste buds tingle as memories of what used to be march victoriously back into your consciousness, declaring with trumpets blaring all that is right with the world.

            Into the dining room now; it is as large and as sacred as a cathedral, and on this Sunday morning, you are about to be saved by a sermon unlike any other.  The aroma is stronger here, and your eyes are free to roam and match the wondrous smells with the gleaming, metallic serving pans from which they spring.  Rows upon rows of tasty treats are laid out before you; foods you haven’t tasted, smelt, or even seen in what feels like half a lifetime.  You stop just inside the entrance, closing your eyes, extending your arms out to the side, and tossing your head back, allowing the sanctity of this blessed moment to engulf you; to swirl around you and seep into your skin pores; to wash over you like a tsunami wave until you are caught up in the current and dare not fight against it.

The moment passes and you break free from your trance to join the chaos of the crowd.  You fall in line with the madmen, the jokesters, the clowns; this unenlightened mob who know not the importance of this event.  They pile their plates high with your dreams, shove mouthfuls of your desires down their throats, and throw your fantasies into the garbage without thinking.  You yearn to show them the error of their ways, to impart upon them the understanding that this is something to be appreciated; to be looked forward to and reflected upon.  You pity their simplicity.  But how can you blame them?  You were once like them. 

You recollect yourself and move on; slowly examining all that is available.  You pass pan after pan of deliciousness, each with its own smiling server, who, given the slightest nod, would present to you the entire eight liter pan of food and not even think twice about it.  Eventually though, you have seen enough.  You grab a large ceramic plate and you begin your search for the one thing that you have anticipated above all else; the one thing you have seen in your thoughts and in your dreams, both in the day and the night; the one thing that is lacking from every meal of every day; the reason breakfast was invented: bacon.