I Walk Across

fiction by Phil Kochik, contributor

Sitting in my office:

This day has got to end sometime soon. Dealing with people—dealing with these people—all week has put me in such a horrendous mood. And, today, to cap off another fine week, some fool has assigned me to a meaningless project that I never asked to join. Can I leave now, I wonder? It is Friday, can we leave early? No, the answer is always no. Got to keep up the appearance of working hard, even if there is nothing worthwhile to do. Those damn appearances—they never go away; they hound me like I was Brad Pitt naked.

Finally at 4:59 P.M, I save all of my supposed work; close all applications; shut down the computer; and rise from my desk just as it turns 5:01. I put on my jacket, shake off the stiffness in my legs, and head for the stairs. I merge into the mass of humanity that has gelled onto Pike St. I have become quite hardened to this routine so now I nonchalantly do it with my head down and hands in my pockets.

Fifth and Pike:

I’m standing on the corner, looking ahead through the bare trees at the unmistakable design of the convention center curving high above the street. If they only extended that brash outcropping all the way down to where I am now, I would not be getting wet. If they only covered all the streets like that, Seattle would not be known as the city of rain, but the city of shelter.

A silver BMW catches my eye, and my head turns right to follow it down 5th. I lose it quickly amongst the trees dotted with white Christmas lights. The white lights are bright, but comforting.

I once again align my head with the direction of my feet and, for the thousandth time, take in the white storefront of the Banana Republic building looming before me.

But what do buildings and streets matter to a man trying to get home from work? Trying to get home to the weekend? That’s when I realize that the light is still red. Is the light taking longer to change today than yesterday? The crowd is stacked six or seven deep behind me, and the other side of the street is just as bad. By chance, I notice that the man standing directly across the street from me could have been my mirror image. His black jacket and gray pants easily match mine at that distance—and he too has his head held low and his hands firmly entrenched in his pockets.

And then that man walks into the street.

I react to his movement and step down into the street in front of me. I quickly pull back when I realize that the light has not changed. But my counterpart across the street did not stop. He did not look up. His hands remained unseen. He looked like a willing sacrifice giving himself up at the end of a hectic day. That blue Chevrolet should have seen the black-jacketed man against the backdrop of white. I saw him, or rather I saw the interruption of white that came with him. Then the light changed, and not one of us standing across from the Banana Republic moved.

The weekend:

What a horrible day, but at least it is Saturday. At least I’m still alive. I cannot believe what happened yesterday.

I’m laying here in bed, and it has to be at least 9am—but I don’t know for sure. I put away my clocks because I couldn’t tolerate them watching me as I tried fruitlessly to fall asleep.

All that matters little now. This weekend should be relaxing enough to get my feet back under me—to get ready for the week ahead.

Monday Morning:

How depressing! There is nothing to look forward to this week except Saturday because on Friday I have a meeting with the boss. I say “meeting” but it is more precisely a “presentation.” A presentation that I am not ready to giv

Friday: 5:30 A.M.

I had to plug in the alarm clock last night so I could be sure that I would wake up on time. I was smart enough to turn it face down, though; I did not want to be haunted by neon-green time the night before my big presentation. But my attempt failed: I hardly slept.

Transportation:

Without a hitch, I climb up to 9th Ave. from the convention center bus station, pass by the Paramount, and head over to Pike Street—my usual path to work. It is 7am. My presentation is scheduled for 9:30. One last practice run, 20 ounces of Mountain Dew, and a Snickers bar should get me ready enough. I worked hard this week to prepare for the boss. Hopefully I won’t choke. I cross the next two intersections and then head into Century Square. I am at work.

Friday: 9:25 A.M.

Well the mirror in the bathroom seemed to enjoy my presentation; now if old fatty can just take as kindly to my pitch, everything will be okay.

Friday: 10:05 A.M.

“Hayes, that was some presentation. I don’t know what to say. You’ve convinced me that this here can work. And you’re going to be in charge of it—you are the project manager. This is your baby. You’ve got your money, and I’m giving you the authority to put together your own task force—your own team. Select whomever you want. Tell them that this is to be their top priority!”

“Wow, thank you, sir,” I managed to say as the pang in my gut subsided and the smile on my face arrived.

“You know Hayes, I’ve been told that you’re stubborn, not too bright, and always do things ass-backwards—‘a real pile of bricks,’ I think someone said. Don’t let me down on this one. I’m putting my neck on the line for you.”

Friday: 5:00 P.M.

Well, what a day: I got the funding; I recruited a “task force”; and the boss called me a dumb-ass. But now it is the weekend! I’m going out to eat tonight to celebrate. Time to get home.

God, it is a beautiful night, even though it is raining. I cannot let that bastard boss down. Getting this project has given me renewed confidence—even after those belittling revelations. I feel like a new person.

So now I’m walking back down Pike. Again I get stopped at the intersection with 5th. My hands are in my pockets to stay warm. The light seems to be taking forever to change. I glance behind me and see the doors to Banana Republic. I look back in front of me and see a similar looking man standing on the other side of the road. He too is wearing gray pants and a black coat. He looks glum, like he had a bad day. He looks like I thought I would look at the end of today. Well, I hope I don’t look as hapless as he does—I had a good day; I’m going to Pete’s Pizza for a calzone.

I see a traffic light turn green. I step out into 5th with my head down and hands still in my pockets.

I feel the car hit me. I’ve never felt a car hit me, but I knew that’s what it had to be. Now I’m laying on the cement wondering what happened and feeling nothing. My head happens to be laying in the right position to allow me to see the street light that I just thought had turned green: It is red. I can also see the light at 4th: It is green. Damn. I should have been paying closer attention—not thinking of Banana Republic, Pete’s, or that guy across the street.

5th and Pike:

I stood there and watched the ambulance come and put that man on a gurney. They covered his body with a white sheet. I suppose they always use white sheets, but I thought it looked good—matching perfectly with the lights and the storefront.

Now the body is gone and the ambulance is leaving. Now the light turns green. I walk across.