Crosswalks: A Short Story

If it were up to me, pedestrian traffic lights wouldn't exist. No one in Chicago uses them any more. They are a landmark of convention, a last resort for decrepit grandparents and toothless babies. I sat on a bench observing seventeen middle-aged white collar workers nonchalantly jaywalk the avenue at a brisk gait. Their demeanor betrayed the event as routine- a monotonous checklist immune to the blaring traffic. Even my sumptuous pastry, a cinnamon raisin bagel with light strawberry cream cheese, escaped their notice. No matter if the signal directed people to walk or stop, they were only concerned with operating on schedules; the rest of the world be damned before they paused at an intersection. Today, the red hand extended: unheeded. Tomorrow, the white man walking: unheeded.

When nearing a busy intersection, the cautious nature of the Chicago's average motorist betrayed their awareness of the pedestrian's indifference. The crossing obstacle hardly fazed the drivers- no longer was the act illegal in their minds. As soon as the hindrance cleared the road, the motorists would casually speed up and continue life. I found the cautious traffic funny and started erupting with laughter, the ludicrous nature of this generic crosswalk tickling my soft spot. The stares I received from some passing men in trim, neat suits only added to my mirth. I could hear the mental meandering in their rational brains, “What's that crazy scum ball doing in this part of town? It’s bad enough the hobo does nothing all day but leaching off decent, hardworking people like me is something else. I work everyday and make an honest living, but this lazy no-account can find nothing better to do than lounge on benches as if he owned the world. Probably off to buy himself cheap booze after annoying decent people for spare change. And at this hour!”

The assuming exterior of these model citizens disgusted me. I saw through their facade, but their delusional counterparts bought the mirage as quickly as they bought Beamers for their spoiled daughters. Yesterday, they told their steadfast cheating wives they would get a promotion with better hours, so today they could come home early and participate in quaint suburbia chaos; and tomorrow, household utopia would elude. However, a new job would bring longer hours, a bigger conference room, and a younger secretary. A morally grounded society it was said. The only grounded thing in this bog was their egos.

I knew their lives centered around moving further up on the social and financial ladder. An endless search to find the unachievable top waited for them, and by the time they stumbled upon the truth of their futility- unlikely as it was- gray hairs and failing organs would prevent evolution, livelihood lost in a paper-push wandering for the pinnacle of corporate achievement. An obviously pointless venture, but it was said if you believe, it can happen- lies, all lies proliferated to continue the sad cycle. I knew this story from experience, but I had gotten lucky- well, sorta.

It wasn't what most people would call luck. Growing up, I remember an empty home, a constant television, and a continual message: it was better on the other side and hard work would get you there. Coming from crammed apartment complexes and weedy city parks, I grabbed onto this promise. College and grad school were a blur of coffee and dimly lit libraries, my degrees the only proof I had attended because concrete memories of the seven years were nowhere to be found. The next couple of years were devoted to obtaining a six-figure-straight-outta-school job, paying back the government for my education, picking out a future soccer mom to buy pearls for, and building a family homestead in the classy 'burbs. Arriving at this stage in life, I had money, a wife, a daughter, a son, a house, cars, and boats, much like the slick bastards strutting the street next to me, but my American Dream started to unravel when I was attending a weekend conference. I got a call informing me my son had flipped his jeep; he died on the way to the hospital. Two weeks after the funeral, my daughter overdosed on antidepressants. My wife left me six months later. She said she couldn't live in our children's empty home. When I proposed we move, she informed me of her affair. But the individual losses had little affect on me.

Normalcy returned. With my car in the shop, unscheduled time on a city bus induced reflection. My past immunity to emotional trauma planted the first weed in my mall-parking-lot heart. How could my son and daughter die teenage deaths, my wife leave, and my life continue unfazed? The question penetrated my asphalt exterior. I never mourned for my lost family- you can't mourn for people you don't know: I had never heard of the bands my son had posters of in his room; I didn't understand why my daughter wanted a French poem read at her funeral; and I never understood why my wife woke me up in the middle of the night to listen to the rain patter on the roof. Sure, I wept at funerals, burnt wedding photographs, and sold my house, but two months later no discernible difference emerged in my weekly rhythms.

I hummed from harbor to haven, unaffected by hullabaloo and hell like a part of the public transportation system in Chicago flowing diverse people through the circulatory system of the city. New breath coming with each successive destination reached, and after sucking all the oxygen out of the room, blood cell citizens sweeping back across the vessels of the city looking for replenishment. The employees of the transit system were a peculiar bunch bearing witness to the average patron's time-choked emphysema. I wondered if they pitied us.

Ever since that bus ride, the luck kept pouring down. I lost my job and then practically everything in the divorce. Luck can happen fast. That's why you eat the delicacies in life. Savor them, remember them, embrace them. My bagels were a reminder of this. The sweet, smooth, bread produced a pleasant sensation as I felt the fat roll off the tongue. Someone said that man doesn't live on bread alone, and they were right: people need to feast on each other drawing sustenance from nutrient-rich interaction. People need to feel the fat roll off the tongue.
I felt the call of nature, pushed myself up off the bench, and glanced at the traffic signal. I decided not to acknowledge its warning and stepped into the street. During the cross, I remembered my pack of bagels halfway across the road. Turning back, I saw the blur of a city bus hurtling towards me. My last thought seemed out of place, “I know the bus driver.”

I had always known him.

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I haven't done a ton of editing... I might expound on it later but I had to fit it in a word limit for a class.