On Saturday June 5th George Allistar woke up not feeling like himself. He felt as though he was watching his life go by through the keyhole of a door: seeing only colors, no details. He saw himself put on his grey wrinkled suit, gaze at his grizzly beard and pocketed eyes in the mirror. It was depressing really, the life he was leading. Every morning he went out to look for a job but would always end up in the same place, sitting on a bench in the park, watching everyone lead their lives. He loved to watch the beautiful newly wed young women walk their dogs and listen to the gossip about their trivial housewiferey. He loved to watch the old men feed the pigeons, and listen to the great stories of their lost youth. Different faces came and went, but they were all the same people.
Life for George seemed like a faint etching on a dirty concrete wall. Jobs passed by, one day he was painting houses, another day he was the reporter for the back page news. Women drifted by, first there was Flaura, then Susan, Laura, Marguerite, Daisy, and last but certainly not the least, Julia. What had caught his attention about her was her resemblance to Joan of Arc (or at least how he imagined her). Julia, like all the rest of them, had found him romantic at first, the mysterious poet they had always fantasized about; but soon, when the gleam of his intellect began to fade, they started to notice that he was really just a vagabond in a suit who could barely keep a job for more than a few days.
He had always felt that only Julia understood him, even if it was only slightly. One day, when she had asked him what he did outside everyday if he wasn't working, he brought her to the park. When she asked him what the point was, what was the differences between sitting in an office and sitting on this bench, he began to tell her their stories. George told her about Mrs. Wilson's problems with her husband, about how they could never decide what to watch on the television or which movie they were going to go to at the cinema, how it was tearing their marriage apart. He told her about Mr. Cambell and how he won the war. How he left everything behind, including his sweetheart Lucille (who was the best girl he'd ever had) to kill Germans. Julia nodded as he told her about the lives he has been living through for so long. When he finished, he looked back at her, searching for understanding in her eyes, but all he got was,
"You're crazy."
That was the last time he saw her, the lone Jean of Arc of his heart. He sent a few halfhearted letter, telling her he would try to find a job, that he'd change. She knew he wouldn't, he knew he wouldn't, because under everything:
he really did not care.
MONDAY.
There is a woman in her mid-twenties, I've never seen her here before. She has black hair that barely grazes the top of her breasts. She is wearing a gray/green sweater through which I can see the faint outline of her white strapless bra. She has been sitting across from me for the past 10 minutes, during which time she has smoked at least two cigarettes. Her skin is a toasted white and her face is long, but just the right length that it's attractive. Her eyes are slightly pulled and she has carefully applied makeup that really makes them stand out. On her lap is a light forest green parka with a brown fur edging.I watch her and wonder what it is that she is so stressed about, what has made her cremate those sticks of tobacco so impatiently and urgently. From the way she is glancing at me I can tell she knows I'm watching her and taking notes about her behavior, but I can't help it. My eyes cannot get enough of her, nor can my hands quit documenting this moment. She is iron and I am a magnet, it is not my fault. Suddenly she stands up, tosses her last torch onto the ground, allowing me to soak in her body in the process: not as good as I had expected, but still a ravishing woman. She confidently strides down the path, out of the park, and goes down into the subway station. I am forced to give my attention to someone else.
From the other direction a woman in white hesitantly sits on the bench in front of me. She has a faint mustache on the top of her lips and her hair is disheveled and black. Her white jacket looks quite expensive but out of place under her dirty face and over her gray dusty sweatpants. On her lap she has a checkered purse that looks as though it hold everything she owns. She's looking around, anxiously puffing on a cigarette like the last woman, as if she were waiting for someone who she must see urgently but is late. This is not the first time I've seen her, she comes here everyday, moving from bench to bench, restlessly waiting for someone who has never come. Most people here shift in their seats whenever her stare even grazes them, and move to another bench whenever she sits next to them, they think her crazy. Sometimes I see her talk to herself, answer phone calls from the palm of her hand and I wonder who she is. She comes to the park everyday in search of something, anything. She hesitantly stands up and shuffles to a young couple that is chatting near by, asking them if they have any cigs. The man,seeing her approach, pulls his girl in closer, as he feels the need to protect her from a nearing predator. They give her what she wants and quickly walk away, whispering to each other words that only lovers understand. I look at the time, 4:55, It's time to go back. Sometimes I wonder if this woman and I are not looking for the same thing, what exactly that is, I do not know. A shiver runs down my spine as I accidentally imagine her naked. I quicken my pace. It's been a long day.
MONDAY
The office is completely silent, save the sound of papers rustling and pens scratching paper. In front of her sits Carl, with his chunky glasses, balding black greasy hair, and soaking armpits. Every few seconds he lets out a faint sigh as he draws and redraws the outlines for a soon to be TV Dinner commercial. Julia finds it strange how stressed he has become, and notes down his behavior; she's never seen him show so much attention to anything. The faint taping of his index finger on the side of the table blends in perfectly with the rhythmic noises of the writing room.The smoke from his cigarette melts in with the great foggy cloud mass of pollution that looms and drifts above every ones head. Julia sits their everyday, watching Carl do his thing; she is not attracted to him in anyway, just interested. She wonders what governs his mind when he erases and redraws the same thing over and over again, continuing the same pattern every single day.
"Julia!"
She turns her head with everyone else and finds Charles is calling her over. He is wearing a bright purple polka-dotted tie over a wrinkled white button up shirt and black pants. He has jelled back curly hair and a look in his eyes that always makes Julia feel uncomfortable, but she reluctantly shuffles over, pulling her skirt lower so that it covers as much of her legs as possible and flinching at the thought of his warm fish breath hitting her face. He starts blabbing about things that she honestly does not care about, the next project and the weather. Julia's eyes trace the room and she sees Gloria is fast asleep, her thin white arms occasionally twitching under he head of blonde curls. Next to her is a bald man who shes never seen before, but who can't stop sneezing. All these things Julia documents in her notebook, nothing escapes her eyes in this 300 foot office.
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