roadside

A floor above an emptied city, I gingerly treaded away, step by step, the gastronomic sins of the day along with other forlorn gymbunnies. Hop for hop, sweatdrop by sweatdrop, chasing the proverbial carrot of health and well-being, we were whiling away the hours in yet another nameless weeknight.

We, the assembled gymbunnies, happily paid for this trip which included an unexpectedly absorbing diorama of everyday life. This welcome distraction mostly consisted of nameless cars and people walking across a park, a hotel, ye ol' 6750 and a certain roadside curb where our fateful story conveniently plays out.

There, in the settling 8pm gloom, a man walked toward the curb and stood there, a tad too stolidly. His stance was sharp and posture, perfect but the frequent glances at the cellphone he held spoke familiar volumes. Clad in sleeves and slacks, there was about him a kind of after-office grimness, a matter-of-factness that frowns at inefficiency and excess. He was waiting for somebody and was apparently not enjoying it.

I watched as people strolled, cars passed and minutes ticked by. But I couldn't help coming back to this guy, the bare concrete spot he brazenly chose, and the struggle he endured. He stood there alone, far removed and yet so plainly in sight, available for any and all prying eyes to elaborate and criticize. He was brave, this nameless curbside stranger, or stubbornly apathetic.

And still I continued my pace as he, contrarily, continued his lack thereof. That I think, was when I started to sympathize. We were unified in purpose: a common enmity of the unfaltering cadence of seconds. Fervently, we endured the minutes waiting for the one thing to complete us. He fought for love and I, for wellness. We were joined in our own pursuits of happiness.

We had a lot of fight in us too, I thought. But alas, it was too late. We were father time's captives, imprisoned in the ponderous eternity of minutes.

Being a gymbunny though, however ocularly fun, had other responsibilities besides staring at everyone else. So, I stepped off and hopped off in search of other carrots. But before I did, I closed my eyes(and wrinkled my bunny-ears?) and wished my comrade luck and happiness.

I'd always believed that the most potent of wishes are those that are meant for someone else. A selfless blessing I wish everyone I meet, silently of course.

As luck would have it, I stepped out of the gym in time to see curbside-stranger's tale conclude. Right behind me was his object of thought, desire and, obviously, utter dismay. Number 2 approached. chided and kidded away at him in the secret language of lovers. He stood there, back-to-friend, hailing a taxi cab with gritted teeth. The camp-fire glow of his eyes betrayed him though. His love deftly proven, he stood there in the street, hand out-stretched, triumphant.

I smiled behind them and wished them both luck, but I knew they hardly needed it. He hardly needed it, that roadside champion. He could have waited for hours and days and weeks, it wouldn't have mattered. I knew, 'cause I would have done the same thing.