~1~
2018
Brooke

Skipping down the hall on one foot, I shove on a black Chanel flat with a gold buckle and wince. The shoes are at least a size too small, but the sale had been impossible to pass up at sixty percent off. It was a point of bitterness for me—that I'd gotten so caught up in the frenzy of the 'once a year' sales event that I'd purchased something that didn't fit. That was easy to do downtown though, lose yourself among all the people and the craziness.

People are so rude in the city. Everyone is always rushing about, faces lowered, eyes staring at cell phone screens. They are all but oblivious to the world—except for when they want something.

Like the correct size of a petite, darling pair of flats that would go with nearly all of my office clothes, I muse wistfully, thinking back to the woman with comically long, bright red nails who had pushed right in front of me and snatched the last pair of Chanel eights. She'd been beyond rude, right down to the self-satisfied smile she'd worn as she'd checked out.
Of course, I'd made the choice to buy the sevens. That was on me.

Glancing out the hallway window, wiggling my toes a moment to ease them into the uncomfortable pinch they'd suffer the entire day, I smile at the chubby chickadee seated on a thin branch. It was preening itself, enjoying the morning air immensely. I couldn't get these little glimpses of nature living downtown. It makes me glad that I chose to move beyond the city limits, out to the relative country, even if it meant my commute was an hour long and I was often on the verge of tardiness. And, apart from trees and birds and fresh air, the people here were polite.

Nearly to the kitchen now, I look at my knock-off wristwatch. It was a gift from my mother, so I cherish it despite the faux diamonds and weak clasp. My brain wants to drift off into random thoughts, but I forcibly focus back on the clock, the numbers and long hand ticking by too quickly. The time registers in my coffee-deprived brain.

"Shit, shit, shit!" Staring forlornly at the boxes of cereal atop the stainless steel fridge, I resign myself to an empty stomach and race back to my room for my lightweight jacket and briefcase. I've got only minutes before the 7:30 bus arrives at the stop.

The weather outside my small home is crisp and lovely. The leaves on the trees are beginning to change, becoming a rich gold-yellow, not unlike the skin of a golden delicious apple. I flip up the collar of my checkered jacket against the light breeze that blows strands of my dark blonde hair from the untidy bun I've secured at the nape of my neck. I move quickly against the nearly-comfortable chill. I always find the half mile walk to the bus stop relaxing. It steeled me so that I could once again stomach the chaotic downtown.

I'd tried to live in the thick of all the craziness. After taking the job and moving, the company had set me up in one of their sky high rentals at the heart of all the buzz. But I couldn't handle it—the noise, the 24-hour activity, being packed in like sardines one on top of the other.

When I walked around feeling the hum of all the people and cars permeating my skin and resonating within my bones, it was like I could not escape it, like I was being absorbed into the fold. One time I'd nearly been run over because I was so busy reading an email on my phone; it was then that I knew I needed to make a change. I wasn't cut out for the city, but I was good at my job and the money was awesome. So the move was worth it.

At least that's what I told myself so I wouldn't go racing home to mom and the comfortable, uneventful life I'd left there.

But I missed home almost to the point of sickness when I was part of the city's body.

As I approach the bus stop, I'm greeted by the old man who lives in the park nearby, Charlie. I wave at him absentmindedly, looking for the other woman who is also usually waiting on the 7:30 bus into the city, but she's not here today. I think this is the first time in four months that she has not stood beside me waiting. She is civil, but also stoic, so we rarely talk about anything at all—except small, insignificant things like the weather report and neighborhood watch. I wonder if I have missed the bus, because she is not here. Maybe I've read my watch wrong and today is the day I will get fired. But, no. My inexpensive watch says it is exactly time.

And the bus never arrives early. Ever.

So, I wonder where she is. Is she sick? I find I miss the woman's presence more than I should. Because I like routine. I like normality. I like humanity. The city was abundant with routine and normality. But not so much with humanity.

"Good morning, Charlie." I turn away from the blue bus sign and smile widely at the wrinkled man who is still sitting on the bench looking at me. His eyes sparkle at my words, a deep-rooted joy that is always there to light my curiosity.

I wonder how he can stay so happy, homeless and jobless and, from what I can tell, without a family. I also feel a little bit guilty for not fully recognizing his initial greeting. The halfhearted wave was a poor show, and he's always so kind to me.

"Brooke." He also breaks into a toothy-grin, highlighting the black space where his right canine should be. "Don't suppose you brought an old man something to nibble on?"

"Do I ever forget you?" In truth, I have forgotten about Charlie's breakfast today. But luckily, I always keep a snack or two in my briefcase for when I can't get away from work to grab lunch. "Do you want honey or peanut butter?" I waggle the two granola bars in front of me. "I'm afraid I only have a small water bottle today. Didn't have time to make coffee."

Charlie was one of the first people to welcome me when I moved here. I guess it's strange, to think that the first neighbor I truly got to know in my town was the homeless man who lived in the park, but it's the truth. He'd introduced himself, helped me drag my luggage inside and then waved goodbye. It wasn't until two days later, strolling around the park that I put it all together. At first I had been anxious that I had let him into my home, but the more I got to know him, the more I realized that he really was just a kind soul, and there was nothing to fear from him.

Charlie reaches into the large cargo pocket on his left pants leg. He extracts a chipped mug, handling it with care. It has elephants on it and is one of my favorites. I'd gotten it on a family trip to the Henry Doorly Zoo in Omaha. I'd forgotten that I'd given it to him last month when I'd run out of disposable café cups. He seems so proud of it and I am glad that I gave it to him.

"Water's just fine." He holds out the beaten-up mug, but I wave him away and pull out my water bottle. "You take it all. There's a fountain at work."

If it's possible, Charlie's smile grows larger as he reaches for the small offering. It's almost Cheshire-cat comical in its width. It makes lightning bolts of both happiness and sadness jet through my heart. "Most people just ignore me around here. I know I've said it before, but—"

"You don't ever have to say thank you, Charlie. You're my friend. Please remember that my door is always open. You don't have to sleep out here. I've got a spare room."

"I've been out here so long..." Charlie's lips fall, the smile vanishing. It sends a pang through my stomach. "Don't know if I could sleep in a bed; sleep without the stars over my head."

"The offer will always stand, Charlie. It's going to get cold soon. I wasn't here last year, but I'm here now. You can help me get an actual fire going. I've never been very good at that stuff." I shrug. 'Never been very good' is an overestimation of my abilities. I couldn't start a fire to save my life. My parents had to pull me out of the Girl Scouts because I was so inept.

"I'm an expert fire-maker." The grin is back. It warms my heart. Charlie is an expert at everything. Or so he claims.

"Then please, come over this evening and show me how to make a proper fire. I'll pay you in baked chicken, cauliflower mash, and beer." Saying the words, I make a mental note to stop at the grocery store and get some rocky road ice cream. It's his favorite.

"It's a date." Charlie hesitates after the word date, but it isn't for the reason some might think. The man was at least old enough to be my father, if not my grandfather. "I really don't drink though. Bad habit. Ruins things." He's made comments similar to this before and there's an unexpected faraway look in his eyes, but it is gone in a blink. I've never asked Charlie how he ended up homeless. I've always thought that behind this declaration that he doesn't drink hides the reason.

The bus arrives then—several minutes late, which irritates me because I could have risked a single bowl of cereal and not missed my ride—squealing to a halt several yards from the actual stop. "See you tonight, Charlie."

The older man runs a hand through his greasy, long gray hair and grunts noncommittally. His lips are curved slightly downward and he doesn't wave goodbye when I board the bus. . As he leans back against the bench seat and closes his eyes, I feel that he is still half-caught in some past memory. One full of regret I'd suspect.

I know he will not come tonight. There will be no fire or meal for two. He will disappear again only to reappear tomorrow morning for more small talk and smiles. That's his way.

Mounting the last step, I slide my pass along the reader and nod at the driver. He's usually in an unpleasant mood and today is no exception. He glances at me dismissively, his mouth set in a hard line. Good morning to you too. I mentally greet. Nice to see you're just as unpleasant today as you were yesterday. Taking my seat, I put the driver and his sour face out of my mind. Charlie is not so easy to forget. I wish he'd let me help him more.

The ride into the city is serene. For the first twenty minutes, I am the sole passenger and I pretend I am on some great journey to a destination that will be life-altering. Soon though, my solitude is pierced by the screeching of the brakes at the second stop of the route. With each subsequent stop, familiar faces board. I've given them each life stories and I mentally wave to them and say 'hello' as they take their seats. In a way, I've made these strangers into friends and family, even if the relationships only exist within my head. If someone else was privy to the inner workings of my mind, I'm sure they'd think it was quite pitiable.

But, thankfully, this world has no mind readers and my private thoughts remain for me only.

Shortly before the turn-off onto the city's main drag, my cell phone vibrates in my briefcase. It'll be mom. She's the only one that calls me this early. She'll be having her morning tea and reading the local paper—that the delivery boy inevitably tossed into the bushes instead of onto the porch. I don't answer though, not this morning. I am already half an hour later than I should be. The client meeting is set to begin promptly at 9 a.m. and Clayton prefers us all to be there to prepare well before. I should have taken an earlier bus today to be safe. Not my normal. I grumble internally. It's already eight freaking thirty.

Trying not to have a panic attack, I stare out the filthy window glass of the slow-moving bus and I spy a small boy in a bright blue jacket. He's taking his mother's hand. They are waiting for their own bus to arrive. Something about the two standing there, holding hands and talking to one another as if they are the only two human beings on the planet, makes me feel more a square peg to a round hole in this endless city than I ever have.

Now wanting to ignore the outside world as much as the berating that awaits me at work, I look down at my feet, at the fashionable shoes and the barely-there hose, I know even the right clothes will not be my ticket to belonging here in the city. At work among the women with better-taste, better upbringings, and better prospects, I will always be that kid from a one-light town in Omaha.

I'm just a country girl in a city world where materialism reigns. I sort of sing the words in my head, a little diddy to accent my pathetic existence. Like one of those theme songs that play when a hero takes center stage. Except, of course, I'm no hero.

Stepping off the bus, the last one to do so because I fear getting run over by the other excitable riders, I take a deep breath in and tilt my head to look up at the massive building that houses the large company that is slowly eating smaller ventures. I'm a part of the corporate engine. Six years of college and an internship to basically become a personal gopher to Clayton Mills.

This is making it though. I'm miserable because I'm making it. And mom's so proud. I can't let her down. And I've only given it half a year. This is just a stepping stone, I tell myself as I walk into the revolving door, almost getting slammed in the backside because it's moving faster than I expect. And today is going to be a good day. Clayton won't make a pass at me. I'll be asked to do more than grab latté's and run copies. Today will be a good day. And the money is good. Really good.

Money makes the world go 'round.

Despite my inner pep talk, I can't help but turn around and look at the passage I've just entered through. It is going around and around like a carousel out of control. It is an unstoppable singularity framed by two normal doors that rarely open.

It makes me wonder about my life. It makes me want to exit through one of the immobile passages that frame it and start anew. But I do not. I do what I am supposed to do instead and continue my path to a job that I find wholly unfulfilling. Yet, I continue to watch the revolving entrance—which is showing no signs of slowing—as the elevator doors slide closed.
At the end of the world, I feel that it will still be spinning. Spinning and spinning and alone. With no patrons to utilize it.