The Insides
“My stomach hurts,” said the kid in a disney land t-shirt. The father approaches the boy with a grimace, eyes curling downwards and emphasizing his already apparent wrinkles. His mustache bristles up and I could have sworn his face went form pink to more pink.
The father, or at least I think he is, grabs the boy by his forearm. ”Okay, then lets go get some food!” He exclaims. He storms off, walking - or more appropriately - hobbling towards the fast food chain across the sidewalk like a gorilla dodging land mines and dragging a burlap sack filled with stones or whatever gorillas would want to carry. The smallish boy is running along side the locomotive pink man, probably concerned about his arm that could have probably be ripped off its socket if he were to go a shade slower than his already quickened pace. I watched them both hurry until they finally got to the front doors and inside.
Fast forward and a woman is sitting on a bus stop rubbing the sides of her head with her index fingers. Her head is tilted down, her eyes are closed and the wrinkles on her brow were not unlike the pink man’s. Her elbows are wrinkling the magazine sitting on her lap. There is a person sitting to the right of the woman on the other side of the bench. He is staring across the street towards a park or maybe the tree with a plastic bag swaying on one of the branches. I was close enough to hear the woman muttering to herself, but not so much as to understand her accent. She kept rubbing slowly the whole time, the man next to her paying no notice since he was apparently more interested in either the children playing soccer or the same bag. A bus blocks my view from the two and when it departs, the people are gone.
Walking towards the back of a strip mall, I hear a man arguing over the phone loudly. I walk by stealing one glance at him, a black man with an american football jersey wearing a baseball cap backwards. There wasn’t much to see or assume so I did not mind him, instead electing to sit in the shade on the milk crate that’s always there for me and my cigarette breaks. I cant see the man but his voice is definitely loud enough to hear. His voice doesn’t sound very happy to me, but I’m not paying attention to what he was saying as I am more interested in trying to make my spit reach the rat trap across from me. “WELL MAYBE IF YOU WEREN’T SO SENSITIVE, I COULD TALK TO MY FUCKING WIFE FOR ONCE,” I overhear him scream before his voice disappears.
A man is standing on front of a little portable table at the entrance of the grocery store. On the table is a bible and a few papers. A sign is taped onto it that I didn’t read but I assume that it’s something about teenagers, women and drug abuse, because that’s what the man is asking donations for. He is bald with a camouflage mustache — I don’t see it unless he stands still for longer than a couple of seconds. Between customers entering or exiting the store, he sings opera. Surprisingly, his voice is perfect for a ferry ride in Venice. As I walk past him, we exchange glances and he gives me a half smile with a nod. When I leave a few hours later, he is still there singing his song.
A boy sitting on a bench under a tree next to a vending machine near the store has headphones on and he is wearing a face that can’t be described. Upon inspection it doesn’t look like he’s looking at anything in particular, but I feel like there’s something in his line of sight which is stealing all of his focus. Every few seconds, I see him shift his glare towards a passer-by, a bird or behind him. Every few seconds, he crosses his legs gentleman style, propping his head up with his hand while his elbow rests on his right knee. The boy is dressed in a dark collared shirt, khaki pants and a worn down pair of dress shoes with creases on where the joints of the toes bend backwards. It didn’t take long until the boy’s glare found mine and until then, he stayed sitting. He finally gets up and walks away and around the corner ahead.
I am sitting on the same bench, propping my head up the same way, staring in the same initial direction as the boy was when I first saw him. In front of me I see a man opening his trunk and putting his groceries away one by one. In front of him is an old woman crossing the street, pushing a shopping cart with a toddler sitting inside, popsicle juice all over his clothes and dripping down his face. I watch the old woman hand the small boy a napkin during her pass to the other side of the street and I’m sure the couple in the car slowly approaching are looking too. In the sky, two birds are flying alongside each other in the same paths, turning the same way at the same time. In near-perfect synchronization, they are dancing in the air as a crow, not too far away, is perched on a street lamp blotted white maybe with his own shit. To the left of me are a group of store workers, three of them, all smoking their cigarettes, and all talking loudly enough for me to hear about the “bullshit we have to go through inside.” They leave one by one. First the man with a brooklyn accent nearly jumps up off his seat get up. He flicks his cigarette violently on the floor showering glowing ash all over his shoes but he didn’t notice since he wasn’t looking. Next it was a teenage boy wearing a cap with the store’s logo. He stands a bit slower than the New Yorker as he is taking a sip of his energy drink, fastening his apron and taking a few last drags from his cigarette. His face looks tired, eyes droopy with a smug looking grin on his face. The last person leaves at the same time as the him, but she is gone before he finishes his smoke. The parking lot is moving. People are entering and exiting. Mothers, Fathers, families, grandparents and kids on skateboards are traveling by.
