I arrive back to the Atlanta airport very late at night, exhausted after weather-delays out of Philly, all after a full day of work. Weighed down by my carry-on bags, I fumble through one bag to find my wallet to pay for the train home. An elderly African-American MARTA representative comes up and asks me if I need help with the machine. As a three-decade user of public transit, I thank him and say, "No, I'm just trying to get my wallet out…”
It might never have happened if I hadn’t lost my shoe. Not that that in itself was unusual; footrested feet and dressy shoes are soon to be parted, but I was out zooming around in my wheelchair through the city to prove that, as a collegiate feature writer I was more than my limitations, almost like a head full of ideas in a jar with an appendage so I might type…
I knew the exact number of blocks from my five story walk-up to the office, but I never took the exact same path. If I managed to avoid the snooze button, I’d stop at a whichever coffee shop’s sign caught my eye….I was impartial to puns, so it took me a while to cash in a loyalty stamp card.
But now…
With my husband sleeping in during our annual Christmas week vacation, I find myself alone at the Time Square Starbucks at 7am. It is packed. I’m third in a line of dozens of people and a reggaeton song starts playing. As a long-time base-a-holic, my body starts dancing and bopping without me realizing it. I notice the woman in front of me…
I can’t get her face out of my head.
There was a screech and then a loud thud as if someone dropped a bag of flour from a third-floor window. I found myself on my knees on the black asphalt in the middle of Santa Monica and Poinsettia, bent over her body. Her bald head was shiny with sweat as I held her hand and leaned in to see if she was okay…
"God, it's fucking hot." The thought cycles through my head on repeat as I trudge down a sidewalk-less street that was definitely not designed for pedestrians. Sweat streams down every crevice on my body, and I reach down to peel my elephant print backpacker pants off my thighs for the umpteenth time. Locals on mopeds and bikes stare at me with open curiosity. Foreigners don't often stray miles from the tourist center of George Town, Penang, and they're probably wondering if they should call the police.
But I'm determined to make it to my destination…
I remember that he smiled as the train doors opened, one of those nuanced gestures that we have now forgotten because they exist only between strangers. This one said "you first." We ended up sitting next to each other in a row of three, and I was reading, and he asked what had led me to read this book—what in the title "The Sirens of Titan" had captured me. It was quite a title, he said.
I had forgotten how to speak…
On the weekend after a business trip, I am roaming around Ho Chi Minh City taking photos of cracks and curbs, as I do. I’m in a part of town with no tourists, crouched down on my knees taking a photo of two street poles shooting vertically out of the ground. Despite disappearing from the world into the lens of the camera, I sense a security guard meandering over. This happens all the time, no matter the country. Some security guard gets uptight about his turf…
The lights go down.
I’m here for a popular film, but my late notice and the intimidating horror title have me friendless for the evening. I’m comfortable alone, but the theater’s getting crowded and I realize - the only empty seat is the one next to mine.
I’m about to lift the armrest when I see him: a blur in my peripheral scooting down the aisle…
I have only flashes of memory from my trip home from Buenos Aires—passing in and out of delirium under a bank of seats in the Miami airport…thinking I am still in Miami after arriving at La Guardia…burning up as I board a bus to Providence…
Walking home from Los Feliz’s cute vintage movie theater by myself, I approach my Cheers-TV-show-like coffee shop and notice a homeless man up ahead pushing a cart. A common sight in my neighborhood, despite its Mayberry feel. He is hunched over and laboring to push his scantily-packed cart, using it as a walker of sorts…
Every night it is the same navy blue capri pants and purple-ish flowery shirt, the same concerned eyeing of the building's flowers. Every night it is the same pacing up and down the driveway, which I assume is standard for elderly widows trying fight off loneliness…
On my birthday, I was happy and a bit sad. I rode home on the Gold Line, getting off at Allen Station, with a fast strut…