I ride the elevator to the floor her lecture hall is on. In the excitement of bribing my way into this prestigious university, I forgot the most important factor of all …
I have no idea what Lily looks like.
It’s been about twelve years since we’ve seen each other, which might as well be a lifetime. Once you leave home, the years seem to roll by twice as fast. Being cut out of someone’s life is an odd purgatory, where time feels like it rolls by faster and slower at the same time. It’s faster because life doesn’t stop; college graduation, marriage … and soon after children enter the picture, taking all of the time that was supposed to be the most carefree of your life, and the people that came with it fade away. But in my situation, where my sister told me she never wanted to see me again, it always felt like it happened yesterday. No amount of time had lessened the sting of her words and, honestly, it feels a little selfish assuming I can pop back into her life on a whim.
I open the door to the auditorium and find myself greeted by a full house of around a hundred students. Their heads all turn in my direction in unison, freezing me in a state of shock. I’m trying to scan their faces as quickly as I can to find Lily, but it’s fruitless. The professor stops his lecture to ask if I need help, but I’m too busy looking for a sign.
“Excuse me, can I help you?” he repeats himself.
Then it happens. At the far end of the auditorium someone is packing their belongings and leaving in a hurry. I follow them outside the building, unsure that it’s her but with nothing else to lose.
“Lily,” I say.
The echo carries louder in the empty hallway and she stops, turning slowly as if I have a gun pointed at her. Her hair is shorter than I remember, with half of her hair shaved and what’s left of it colored purple. We’re about ten feet from each other. Her expression is blank, giving no indication either way of how she feels about my sudden appearance.
“What are you doing here Miles?” she finally asks.
Not the best opening response to my presence, but I’ll take it. She’s tapping her fingers on the pins of her messenger bag, waiting for a response. I recognize the bag as the one Muse sold on the Resistance tour. I have the same one, or should I say had because Sara puked in it during a bout of morning sickness.
“Is there a place we can talk?” I respond.
She shakes her head, “We have nothing to talk about.”
“Can you at least hear me out?”
She checks her phone and sighs deeply, “Look, you can’t just show up here and expect a warm welcome from me.”
“I wasn’t expecting anything.”
“Really? You flew to New York City, and somehow got past security at one of the most prestigious universities to interrupt my class because you didn’t expect anything? How’d you get past security anyway?”
“I told him I was proposing to you … also gave him a hundred dollars.”
She smiles at this, because it’s the type of thing she would try too. “You should get your money back.”
“C’mon Lily—”
“You turned your back on me—how ever you wanna spin that in your head, is on you—but that’s the truth. When I need you, and believe me I’m working hard to avoid that day, I’ll come find you.”
She turns and heads for the end of the hallway. I follow at a distance, hoping she changes her mind.
“Lily, I need you,” I tell her.
She stops at the door, glancing back at me, “I guess we’re even now,” she says, heading out and leaving me alone in the hallway.
Four
Yeah … It Gets Complicated
There is something beautiful about the big city, especially ones that are the scale of New York. They call it the city of dreams, and one glance at the skyline helps me understand why. Being engulfed by skyscrapers really makes you feel like the world is yours for the conquering, that life’s possibilities are unlimited. The contradiction comes when you look at the city as you trek through it. As great as it is looking up, looking down brings a hard, cold reality of life that I can relate to in my current state.
Sidewalks are littered with homeless people, each holding a sign more depressing than the previous one. Occasionally, you’ll see a sign clever enough to make you give away your money. Pedestrians pass by with no acknowledgment to their presence. Manhattan looks to be in a constant state of construction, with signs directing people on unconventional routes through the city streets. Red lights function as a suggestion, rather than a rule, as people assume no oncoming cars is a sign to the cross to the street.
What strikes me is that everyone seems to know their role in society. The rich walk in lock step with the poor through the streets, each understanding where they’re allowed to go. There aren’t any signs telling people they’re not welcome—like you see in old photos from the civil rights era—and it’s not exactly implied either. But, sure enough, when the businessman enters the building, the homeless man that was matching him stride for stride stops at the door and sets up shop outside. I assume it’s his way of preserving his dignity by not having to be escorted out, to not be told that his worth as a human being is tied to a dollar amount.
Just north of Lily’s school I find a section of the city that’s not as bustling. A small coffee shop sits between a wine shop and a bookstore. I consider waiting for the wine store to open, and wonder what pinot would pair well with my failure. But it’s too early to start drinking and, taking my disastrous meeting with Lily out of the equation, the morning breeze makes me feel like it’s shaping up to be a great day.
The kind of day that makes you forget about the problems of life.
This moment of silent reflection is rudely interrupted as I slip on what appears to be dog shit. A mad cackle catches my attention and I turn to see a homeless man doubled over while holding his coffee.
“You really outta watch where you're going,” he reminds me before reaching into his bag and pulling out some napkins for me.
“Thanks. Can I buy you a cup of coffee? You look like you could use some more,” I nod toward his empty cup.
“Sure, just tell them it’s for John, and they'll handle the rest.”
The coffee shop itself is bigger than it looks from the outside. Once you get into the place, the combination of fresh pastries and exotic coffee blends from South America make you feel at home. It’s noisy and full of chatter from yuppies ordering complicated drinks before they head off to whatever faceless corporation they whore themselves for. In the back, there’s a small stage with a sign advertising an upcoming open mic. The line inches along slowly as every guy in the place took their shot, flirting with the barista behind the counter. And after seeing her myself, I couldn't really blame them.
There are certain times in a man’s life that are unexplainable. Being enthralled by someone before a word has been spoken is one of them. Her brownish, blonde hair whipped around her furiously as she moved gracefully from one espresso machine to another. I’d be willing to stand here and order coffee for the rest of her shift. When she lifts her head, I notice a scar on her lower cheek, just above her chin. It’s the kind of scar that leads to people avoiding you. To me, it’s fascinating. There’s a story there. I have scars of my own, just less visible. I’m able to keep staring because the old lady ahead of me is taking her sweet time. , Olga, the barista calls her, seems to be a regular as she jokes with all the workers, asking about their personal lives and the goings on in their respective neighborhoods.