The Longest Walk In The Park
By: Payden George
Tags: Self, Imagery, Love, Isolation, Short Story

The tall trees above creaked with an eerie suspension, almost as if there was a deepening tension that was rattling their bones. The branches shuddered back and forth, their leafless bodies revealing the lines and cracks that had not been there in the summer time. Croaks and groans preceded the snapping and falling of twigs from high up in the trees. A gust of wind would come along once every five minutes or so, causing the trees to respond with a deep shiver. Occasionally, a squirrel would scamper across the park and scale the side of one of these barren trees. The practice seemed to be more out of pure boredom rather than necessity. Staring above me, I suddenly realized that the park had felt nothing like this a few months ago. There was no glaring emptiness of this kind. Maybe it was all a mirage: my remembrance of days absorbed by the deepest, lushest, most vibrant shades of green; which were only able to be mellowed out by the dark orange hue of the setting sun poking through the holes in the leaves. The track before me was a muddied grey color, it too had taken on a darker shade since my feet had last walked its twisting path. Water from the previous night’s storm had collected along the sides of the track. The little, jagged pebbles that collectively formed the gravel path now swirled as the breeze stewed them around in circles. It was safe to say, today was not a day to visit the park.

For some reason I felt inclined to wear sunglasses. They were my first, and only, real pair of black shades. They made me look like Jack Nicholson. Or Eddie Murphy. Or Tom cruise. There was a gravity to them as they draped over the front of my shirt collar. I finally felt as though I could walk on to the set of a Kohl’s Department photo shoot and strangle the attention out of everyone in attendance. I could eat a triple scoop of vanilla while the sweat from my nose dripped on to the sprinkles at the top of the cone and still look cool. These shades were that damn good. The smudge on the corner of the left lens bothered me immensely. It was a mix between a half eaten slice of pita bread from the Syrian store and a crescent moon that happened to be in its third trimester. Nevertheless, I liked the sense of reassurance the specs afforded me. It was then that I felt a drop of rain flick on to my shoulder and looked up. Surely, the overcast that was now blotting out the sun would ensure that my cool façade would soon be washed away with the coming rain. My attempt at being coy for once was failing. This feeling of self loathing was only further compounded with the sudden realization that I had put my shirt on inside-out. The burgundy and red stripes served to confirm any outsiders suspicion that I was indeed Steve from the ‘Blues Clues’. And you could tell with just one look, that I had not gotten my letter in the mail that day. Few people walked past as I sat on the bench at the front of the park. They were mostly retirees, all looking to get their steps in for the day. A burly Saint Bernard dragged its owner for what seemed like half a mile down the track. Its tongue poked in-and-out with an almost stabbing like gesture, slobber cascaded down the side of his chin with enough intensity to make any onlooker brace themselves for the incoming tidal wave set to crash into them. By the time he reached me the owner was left far behind, sliding around in the dirt like a child learning to ice skate for the first time. I felt a sneeze coming on. The dog just sat before me. He had no intention of leaning in for a pet, nor did I have any inclination of giving him one. So there we sat, the odd couple, engaged in what seemed to feel like a minutes long stare down. Eventually, the owner grabbed the leash and walked away with whatever amount of respectability they had left wagging in between their legs.

By now the tension had become too great to bear. I began my usual trek down the sunken gravel path. The start of each new journey required my observance of a few basic rituals. I would always grab my ragged headphones from my pocket and feverishly begin to untangle them. All the while I would be required to curse myself for my shortsightedness, and to then subsequently make a pact with the sun that I would never allow for this type of thing to happen again. This all usually took around 5 minutes. With my headphones in I could finally escape the howling of the wind. With a chuckle, I put Fats Domino’s greatest hits on shuffle. The tracks always cheered me up and allowed my to relive my childhood. They reminded me of grandmas nightgown swaying back and forth to the beat after dinner. Each time he struck the keys she became more and more enraptured, her legs swept away with the memories of a far away Florida date night, many moons ago. Ash would sputter out of her left hand, the flame of a cigarette calling out for attention as the old woman neglected it. The veins on her feet would tap dance along with her movements: the thick, crimson, spiderwebs never failed to become revitalized by any remembrance of her youth. The golden frame of her glasses was all one was able to make out through the cloud of smoke, and her emerald eyes, my eyes, were able to pierce into the best part of your soul. But that was over now.

By the end of my walk I had become resigned to my fate. With a sigh I reached in my pocket and grabbed my keys. The thick, yellow-highlighted lanyard had a recognizable weight to it, one that never failed to soothe its owner. Then at the front of the path I saw you. It really was you. A vision. Just as I had imagined it. The clouds had long since disappeared from overhead, and a steady stream of sunlight caressed the top of your fair head. There was no smile, no hint of acceptance or recognition, just the same comfortable brown eyes and the small stature to match. Unsure of what to do I sat there. Frozen in time. My heart left pounding in my throat while my brain was left far behind me somewhere along the path.

“Hi,” you whispered.