by k.l.g.
"And, with the Opening of the Box,
Pandora released all the Sins of the world -- anoung them,
Violence, Perversion, Lust, Oblivion, and Apathy.
...Hope alone remained at the bottom of the box, the lid having been
shut down before she could escape."
- Pandora's Box
My conscience always begins to eat at me after the first four minutes of my familiar journey. I feel guilty sometimes. I can even feel helpless or desperate. It�s funny how all these feelings seem to disappear as the seventh minute is reached, and all I can think about is how dirty my shoes will get after walking in the snow.
The fog is thick. I can�t see ten feet in front of me. Also blurring my vision is the cigarette smoke that has already tainted my lungs and escapes my mouth. A coppery blend of nicotine and tar saturates my mouth. As I flick the filter away, watching as sparks ignite against the luminous rocky pavement, I wonder when the hell I�d started smoking.
My steps are lethargic, but not so much�I can�t stand it when people are so goddam lazy they can�t pick up their feet to walk. The snow compresses under my feet with loud crunches that are diminished by my screaming headphones.
My CD player is carefully concealed in my jacket pocket�I can never tell who I can trust or what new terrors enter this neighborhood. The volume of John Lennon�s voice is piercing, but I don�t really care.
Even in my pockets, my hands are cold. I take them out of their leather sanctuary to rub them together vigorously. I wonder why the hell I have a leather jacket when I claim to be a
vegetarian.
* * *
I can see Roman waiting for me, a figure lost in the dense fog. He has worn the same thing for the past three years, and as I approach further, my usual image of Roman is confirmed. He stands with his weight resting on one booted foot. His straw colored hair peeks out from under his baseball cap. Brown trousers with worn knees hardly shield his legs from the cold. He wears the red sweater I gave him for his fifteenth birthday.
�Pandora,� he greets, tapping his two fingers that balance a Camel Light between them against the frayed brim of his baseball cap. I can hardly hear his voice over the Beatles.
�Hi,� I say, gritting my teeth. My last name oozes with femininity, and I confirm my maleness by spitting casually on the ground. The cigarette�s flavor still lingers a bit on my tongue.
�Let�s go.�
I follow him no more than five steps to his battered, depressing, �83 Volvo station wagon. Its once brilliant blue is now a dull grey, and the backseat windows are permenantly shut tight. I silently curse the inventor of leather interior�freezing in the cold and scorching in the heat.
I realize that Roman�s been talking to me, and I take my headphones off with a sheepish look. He scowls and rolls his intense green eyes as he starts the car.
�You didn�t hear a word of what I just said, did you, Pandora?�
After I provide a shrug, he rolls his eyes again. With a cock-eyed grin, he simultaneously cranks down the window and grapples the steering wheel, and we�re on our way.
�So, what I was saying, was that me an� Clarnx were at Carmike � we just saw some
teenage trash with all these unknown actors that have sex with the director on a regular basis to get parts��
�Such is the way of Hollywood,� I interject.
�Anyway,� he continues. �We walk out of the place and there�s these two guys just standin� around, actin� all cool with a broad under each arm and smokin�
Newports��
�The tragedy,� I add.
�So, Clarnx and I go up to them and we get it in our heads to teach these kids that drugs are bad�educate them, y�see.�
�You. Teach kids. Drugs are bad.� I raise an eyebrow.
�Exactly.�
We pull into the subway station; Roman doesn�t pay for gas, but will pay for a trip on the subway. We drop yesterday�s Metro cards in the trash and stand in line for today�s.
�So,� he goes on, digging in his pockets for money. �I go up to these guys, pull them aside, ask them if they wanna buy an ounce. They get that goofy-ass look on their face like it�s goddam Christmas or somethin�, and Clarnx pulls an ounce outta his coat.�
�This is teaching kids that drugs are bad?� I give the teller my money and receive a yellow, flimsy card in return.
�Just listen, man.� He gets more and more agitated and excited as he continues his story. Grabbing the card from the teller�s hand, he quickens his step as we hear an announcement that my subway leaves in two minutes. �So, they give us some greasy bills, and we pocket �em. And right before they leave, Clarnx grabs one of �em by the collar, and smashes his fist into the guy�s face. The guy�s neck completely snaps back.� Roman animates the conversation by throwing his own fists against the air. �Now that�s some goddam education.�
I smile slightly. As we wait for the subway in silence, I begin to feel dirty�and a little scared. I know if I show that fear, I�m a dead man.
The subway arrives with a tired scream. I nod good-bye to Roman; I�m not sure what car he�s taking today.
* * *
On the subway, I begin to nod off. It's early.
I snap out of it with a quick slap to my shoulder. Familiarity sets in as I come face to face with Josh�s sly blue eyes, and I smile. Josh is wearing about three coats; he had never gotten used to New York winters.
�This is our stop,� he says.
I nod and slide through the people of New York like soap in a hand, only with more resistance and less downy scent. I follow Josh out of the subway station and out to 42nd Street, and we walk in silence for about thirty minutes.
We stand in our usual spot. Central Park could be nice-looking, but the dirty footprints make it appear less stunning than it could be. Around eight o�clock I begin to walk in the footprints left by other passerbyers. Josh does the same, only the footprints he chooses to follow today go in circles. The footprints I choose lead me in a specific direction. We look at each other and roll our eyes.
�Goddam tourists,� Josh mumbles, stepping into virgin snow as he jerks his head, motioning behind me. �There�s your ball and chain.�
I quickly glance at my watch; it�s a quarter to nine, and she�s just on time. My eyes dart to the radiant form that walks briskly across Central Park West. Today, she�s wearing her glasses, those huge goddam Buddy Holly glasses which look ridiculous, but she has long hair, and the hair thing balances out the glasses. The one thing I cannot stand is a girl with short hair with barrettes she doesn�t even need. A goddam townie. This girl isn�t a townie. I�ve never seen her hair down before�it�s always in the usual bun�but I want more and more to see her hair set free, like flames of orange licking at the air. She looks down every once in awhile to push the glasses further up the bridge of her nose, and I want to be discreet, but all I can do is stare at her stupidly. Jesus Christ, I feel like a voyeur.
I watch her walk across the park, and I�m sad to see her go. The sadness quickly morphs into irritation as I hear Josh�s faint chuckles from behind me.
�I don�t know what�s with you and that girl,� he says. Lighting a new cigarette, he allows the smoke to stream from his nose and weave intricate patterns in the air before floating softly into invisibility. He trudges towards our usual bench and wipes away the snow that had piled up overnight. He sits, but not until after he pulls one of his three coats down over his ass so it doesn�t get wet.
I shrug.
Josh inhales the New York City air, which is probably about as healthy as the cigarette that rests in his hand. �Just tell me why, dude.�
�Why what?� I join him on the bench; my jacket almost reaches the backs of my knees, and I sit directly on the snow-covered picnic bench.
�Why you act like that girl�s somethin� special.�
I furrow my brow. �Why do you ask?�
He shrugs, inhaling smoke nonchalantly. �I never have.�
I sit rigid and stare straight ahead of me, not really looking at anything. I hesitate before speaking, my voice soft, but rising in a crescendo as I continue. �When I was, like twelve, me and my mom and my dad went out to a Perkins. Maybe I was eleven, I don�t really remember. But I was sitting there looking out the window, and I saw this girl with a flower-print dress walk out, red hair, looked about my age. She was with her mother. I just thought, �Wow, there she goes.�� I continue to look straight ahead, realizing that I�m avoiding eye contact with Josh altogether. �I still think about it. That she�s the girl of my dreams. What if she and I were meant to meet at a Perkins when we were twelve and then if we didn�t�oh well. Just like that.� I pause, trying to decide whether or not the silence is comforting or condescending. �I think about it a lot. And that girl over there, the one that walks by everyday at eight-forty five in the morning; she reminds me of her. I think, �maybe that�s the Perkins girl.�� I scratch the side of my face nervously, and look quickly to the side to see what Josh�s reaction is.
Josh shrugs, like I just told him about making a sandwich. �They aren�t worth your time.Chicks. Unless, you know how to do it right.� He throws his cigarette away, and it makes a hissing noise as it hits the snow. He leans forward. �You find a girl, right? You see her across from your booth at a diner, per se. You tell your waiter you want to order the girl a soda or a lemonade, or if you�re feeling ritzy, a milkshake. This is where the show begins.� Josh becomes melodramatic, acting out his words like a Broadway hit. �As soon as whatever beverage you decide you can pay for arrives, you look down, sort of embarrassed, and glance up all shy. Guaranteed ten to one she�ll put her hand over her chest�hopefully a nice one�and mouth, �aw.� Success. And when she leaves the place, you follow her out. You stammer like she wants you to, because let�s face it, when ugly guys get nervous, girls think it�s pathetic, but if good looking guys get nervous, girls think it�s great and cute and whatever else. You get her number, her cell number, her goddam pager number. And when you�re in her room and she sits you down on the bed and hands you a goddam notebook with �poetry� written on it and asks you to read it, you�d better read it, even if you feel like you�re gonna puke. But you tell her it�s �great,� it�s �insightful,� it�s �amazing,� that she has a �beautiful personality,� and, the clincher, that her �eyes are gorgeous.� That gets her out of her clothes and kissing you. Telling her you�re falling in love with her gets her out of her panties and into the sheets. Believe me, it works.�
He sits back and sighs, like he�s just unleashed all the knowledge he�s ever possessed. It�s exhausting to him and almost depressing to me. I wonder how long it takes for him to brush off his heart.
I shrug and realize that I sometimes don�t have much to say to Josh. I like that. The best friends are the ones who you can spend a good amount of time with and not say anything and still feel like you had a good time. Besides, all I can really think about is the orange-haired girl and just how lovely she looks when she pushes those goddam Buddy Holly glasses up the bridge of her nose.
We sit in the comforting silence for another quarter of an hour before I decide it�s just too goddam cold. I nod good-bye to Josh and walk away. I don�t really know what Josh does when I leave. Maybe he�ll find a girl and tell her she�s like no one he�s ever met. He�ll probably find a girl and tell her that he�s falling in love with her.
* * *
Dad most likely isn�t home. Even if he is, he doesn�t really care if or when I show up at his place. I decide to go anyway.
I move down an alleyway and across the street to enter the door to the neon lit lobby of my Dad�s apartment building.
My dad�s apartment, 2F, greets me sadly. It takes me three tries to open the lock with my frozen fingers. Dad doesn�t turn on the heat; it wastes money.
I walk inside and the smell of second-hand smoke permeates the room. Marlboro Red. Dad�s house looks like a goddam dumpster, naturally. Kicking away clothes, souvenirs, garbage bags, and garbage out of bags, I struggle to make it to the living room. The ridiculous blue striped recliner Dad got for a dollar fifty at a garage sale holds his live carcass. The dark circles under his eyes and his pale skin are almost standard nowadays. I can never tell if he is healthy or sick, tired or awake.
�Dad,� I say.
He looks silently out the window above the city.
I move to the table and chair next to him, moving more garbage off the seat so that I could sit down. I start some math homework; Algebra III is the last period of the day, and maybe I could make it. I wait for �x� to reveal itself, and when it doesn�t, I work at it until it�s done. I realize that I�m not really doing the work to further my education in any way, but more or less to feel like I�m doing something productive. I realize that I only start to feel this way when I�m at my father�s house.
�Pandora,� Dad says suddenly, causing me to look up from my work. His voice is like a low growl, a soft susurration that seemes to resonate within the small, cluttered apartment. I ache for him to call me Jack.
�Yeah?�
�Take the trash down with you when you leave, will you?�
�Sure, Dad.�
Oh, and Dad, I�m in a play right now at school. And I got my first �A� in math. And Mom�s doin� okay, and so is Olivia; she�s gotten real big since you last saw her, probably. She walked her first step the other day. And I got accepted to Purchase College, y�know, the one up in Westchester that I really wanted to get into. It�s supposed to be real nice, quiet, sort of out in the middle of nowhere, outside of White Plains. But I think I�ll like it.
I look at Dad again; he�s still looking out the window. I wonder when his eyes became blank.
I leave Dad�s house, and dump the trash out on the road, the landlady offering me a wink as I leave. I remember how Dad used to make it his job to protect me. I wonder when he stopped caring, and when I started feeling vulnerable.
I feel like I�m going to be sick.
* * *
It�s warming up, and but the air still seems thin and crisp, almost like I could break it. A pink glaze spreads across the sky, even though it�s nearly twelve-thirty. I figure it�s time to go. All around me, people are rushing to get somewhere, leaving new footprints that I�ll probably trace tomorrow.
I cross Central Park where I give my change to whatever homeless person looks the most
pathetic. I walk to 42nd street, and plan to catch the one o�clock downtown 1/9 back to P.S. 82. I fumble in my pockets for my Metro Card, feeling blindly for the cheap piece of plastic that will send me on my way with a green light and a �beep.� I�m looking down when I run smack into another passenger.
�Sorry,� I mumble, and I look up.
It�s the Perkins girl.
She looks irritated at first, but somewhat satisfied with my unintelligible apology. She pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose. God, I love that.
�No problem,� she says. Her voice is like nothing I�ve ever heard. Something between a whisper and a plea. She turns to leave.
She�s going to leave again.
Suddenly, I run up to her from behind and put my hand on her shoulder. She whirls around again, her hair a beautiful fire.
�Oh, you again,� she says. Her voice has a tone I can�t decipher, and I realize that I don�t have anything to say.
�I�� I try to figure out something genius to say, when all I can think of saying is how much I�ve been wanting to talk to her and run my hands through her hair and find out if she used to wear a flower-print dress and if her family went to Perkins one Sunday evening in November six years ago.
�You know, I�m perfectly alright,� she says. She spins around playfully. �Nothing�s broken.�
I sort of laugh. I hate my laugh. �I know. I just�I guess��
She laughs. I love her laugh. �Are you okay? You�re not going to file for injury, are you?�
I shake my head stupidly. She probably knows that I think she�s a goddess. Unlike other girls I�ve ever shown an interest in, she�s not taking advantage of it.
�Do you need help with the route?� she offers.
I shake my head again. I probably look like a goddam idiot. �No. I�ve lived in New York all my life.� Words. I�m starting to find words. Too bad they�re lousy ones.
She gets a puzzled look on her face and all I want is for her to wrinkle her brow a little more, and maybe her Buddy Holly glasses will fall down her nose again, and she�ll have to pushthem back up the bridge of her nose. �Well, I don�t know what else I can tell you��
�What�s your name?� I ask suddenly. What the hell am I thinking?
�Who wants to know?� she counters.
�Just�well, me.� I wipe my palm against my jeans and offer her my hand. �I�m Pandora. Jack Pandora, but everybody calls me��
�Pandora,� she repeats, taking my hand. My name rolls off her tongue like a song, and her hand is soft and tender. �How do you do. I�m Hope.�
�Hope.� Her name is Hope. I like it. It�s one syllable. A simple syllable. It�s a name, a question, and a promise all at the same time. �Hope,� I repeat. �I�I see you in Central Park everyday. I think you�re beautiful.�
To my surprise, she laughs that exquisite laugh she possesses. �Oh, really?� She straightens her clothes and, to my pleasure, lets her hair loose, and it cascades over her shoulders in orange waves. She puts it back up in the common bun, but I now have the satisfaction of saying that I once saw radiance.
�Yes.� I don�t know what else I could say. I already feel like a goddam moron, and a stalker, and if I were to say anything else, I would probably just be digging myself into a deeper hole.
Hope pulls her bag further over her shoulder. She�s still smiling. �Well, Jack Pandora, I�ll see you in Central Park some other day.�
I will.
�Give a wave, if you see me.�
I will.
�Alright,� I say. �Will you wave back?�
She shrugs and smiles. �Maybe.� She walks away, looking back once, but not for too long, and I realize that it�s one-ten in the afternoon, and I�ll have to wait for the one-thirty.
I think about the Perkins girl. Hope. She never gave me her last name�I suppose it isn�t needed. I think all I need is just �Hope.�
The one-thirty arrives shortly, and I�m thinking about the way Hope pushes those goddam Buddy Holly glasses up the bridge of her nose.
I�m sitting on the 1/9 next to two pretty girls, and I�m thinking about the way Hope�s hair falls over her shoulders.
I step off the subway and onto the platform, and I�m thinking about how Hope laughs like the ocean.
I walk back to school. It�s nearly two-thirty, and school would be ending soon. I�ll go to school tomorrow, and think about Hope. I�ll wonder if she�ll wave to me next time I see her in Central Park. I�ll wonder if she�ll maybe, possibly say �hello.�
My shoes are dirty from walking in the snow�but that�s alright, because I had met the Perkins girl.