TheBanyanTree: Story - What If

[Jim Miller]

Fall hangs heavy over the city. Like a decaying drape, it diffuses the light
and leaves a grey pallor. I sit on a concrete bench at the edge of a
multi-million dollar rock garden the city proudly proclaims - the ultimate
urban park. I nurse my Grande coffee and watch the office drones enter and
leave the Starbucks across the street. With ordered predictability, each of
us settles into a mindless rut.
 
The monolith in front of me rises above adjacent buildings like a middle
finger lifted to the world. Fitting. I hate my job. I hate this bench. I
like the coffee. I close my eyes and focus before joining the herd at the
crosswalk.
 
I hesitate, remove my tie, throw it in the trash and walk away. My phone
signals a text. The boss: Need Gartex prelim by 10. "Maybe if you gave it to
me before 4:30 yesterday. I don't work after 5 for you. Not now, not ever."
I mumbled and switched the phone off. 
 
I should go back. Instead I enter the Double Tree lobby. I see her and I'm
suddenly in a vacuum, not wanting to breathe. She's tall and slender, with
sharp features, brilliant eyes, and brunette hair cascading over soft
shoulders; perfection. I'm in love; experiencing a audden involuntary
response. I'm bold; direct. "I'd like to learn about you. Will you join me
in a cup of coffee?" "Maybe," she says. I lightly touch her elbow giuding
her toward the cafe. "You can think about it as we walk," I say. She
stiffens. "No .. I don't think so," "That alright. I'm pleasured just
looking at you." I say with a broad smile. I linger on her green eyes, turn
and leave.
 
The taxi drops me at the entry to High Bridge Park; named for the railroad
trestle passing overhead. The abandoned park is now home to vagrants,
druggies and horny teens. I find a sleeping bag moving like a gunny sack
full of rats. Never too early for a morning hump. I clear my throat, and a
head pops out. "Sorry to bother you." I say. "Do you have a joint that
you'll sell me?" They do and I get high. I've never smoked marijuana before.

 
I wander the city, eat lunch from a hot dog cart, and feed the ducks in
Cannon pond. I want to shoot a gun.
 
The range is a faceless concrete building, grey like the sky. I tell the
girl behind the counter. "I feel like Dirty Harry. What I can shoot?" "Have
you shot a large caliber hand gun before?" she asks. "Yes," I lied. She sets
me up, and reminds that a .44 magnum kicks. I massacre a silhouette.
 
As I sit waiting for the bus home, I drift. I'm startled awake by a passing
skateboarder. The drones are still streaming in and out of Starbucks. In
desperation I join the crosswalk crowd.
 
Maybe tomorrow . . . . . .