Falling for a Memory

Saturday, September 28, 2019 cont.

On days I beat my alarm clock and manage enough consciousness to slip on a pair of yoga pants and worn out sneakers, I'll bother to walk a few laps around the spit of land outside my complex that supposedly qualifies as a park. It contains a single playground tower, with a slide, monkey bars, and a couple swings. Around the pen of rubber mulch are a few graffitied benches for bored parents, a bit of grass, and a couple trees. That was my impression of a city park.

I grew up with far grander expanses of grass outside of the city and even, once upon a time, wooden playsets that towered over sand pits. But, having no need to look further than my complex's doorstep for minimal recreational activity, I never ventured out to discover what few true parks Whitmere had.

The bus dropped me off at a corner of Chapel Park that lacked the sports fields and eager young athletes I had hoped to find. So I chose a direction and simply marched down the sidewalk, figuring my destination could not be too far from where I began. However, with each passing step, I found an endless line of trees and quiet murmurs of passersby. I pushed farther and farther, hoping that just past the next thick trunk I'd spot a flying ball or hear the screams of enthusiastic parents. But all I found was just another open expanse of green.

One stretch of grass housed a large marble fountain and an old wooden carousel, which spun lazily beneath the afternoon sun. Families picnicked upon a nearby hillside and along every stretch of sidewalk dogs tugged at their leashes, dragging their owners around the complicated webbing of pathways. Some distance away, upon another slope, I saw a gazebo where a band was setting up their equipment and a group of children trotted along with a nature guide that pointed out various birds in the trees. Wherever I turned, a new wonder lay before me. But not one of them was a lacrosse game.

"Where the heck are the fields?" I grumbled in exasperation. "How big is this place?"

"Nothing like Knox Hill, but I mean Knox has the zoo in it so it's not really a fair match."

The voice came from somewhere behind me. It was a little deeper than yours and had a bit of a sarcastic mock to it. Not that his words were sarcastic, but my long exposure to Michelle made it easy for me to notice the sardonic tones that are used far too regularly and have thus tainted even the most innocent of conversations.

Uncertain what I'd find, I turned to discover a stocky man with broad shoulders, a scruffy chin, and short cropped auburn hair. Something about him looked oddly familiar, but I couldn't figure out where I might have known him. I spent most of my day with overpaid lawyers and none of them would ever be caught dead dressed like him. He wore a fading purple sweatshirt that was decorated with paint smears and several tears. In one hand, his thick fingers, calloused and rough, clutched a thin red binder; in the other, he pulled out a phone, which he glanced down at with a grimace.

"You said you needed to go to the fields, right?" he asked, before thrusting the phone back into his track pants pocket and stepping forward down the sidewalk.

"Yeah, but that was more of a personal question. Not really a cry for help," I muttered. He brushed past me on his way, and a strong smell of lacquer and sawdust followed in his wake.

"Sounded like a cry for help," he laughed. He turned to face me, but continued to walk backwards, nearly toppling over a small boy as he rushed after some buzzing insect. "I'm heading that way, so once you're done consulting with yourself about what to do, feel free to follow me." He gave a slight wave and turned back down the path, keeping his steps long and quick. I did one last look around, spotting several branching sidewalks before stumbling forward to meet my guide.

"That was quick," he said. "You should just lose those flip-flops, you're at the park, go all natural."

"You're kidding," I choked out, trying to catch my breath as I fought to keep up with his strides.