Passerby

Photo Credit: R. Healy

Inspired by the prompt “Write a Poem About ‘A Glance’,” from Write the Poem, by Piccadilly, this short story is intended to make the “passerby” rethink what she may actually be missing at any given moment.

Enjoy!

-W.B.HEALY

Crossing Jefferson in the middle of a frigid, unpleasant January afternoon, I had the the stifling feeling that someone or something was watching me. Eager to get out of the biting cold and just as eager to get home to the warmth of my Cuddl Dud blanket and electric fireplace, I gathered my coat at the waist, tightened it another notch, and stuffed my fingers into my now too-deep pockets (a hole had worn into the material, and now its depth rivaled that of a void, or pit, or other abysmal depth).

My fingers fumbling, I crossed the “business district“ of our town, fiddling with the too-deep pocket and continuing on down the Avenue, the task at hand the first and last thing on my mind. Driving downtown hadn't exactly been the “perfect” way I’d imagined spending my day off. The air was freezing, the sidewalks drippy and dirtied by half-melted ice, the paying of the water bill asinine because “E-Billing was just not what we do here” when every other payment could be completed with a click or, even better, with “autopay”.

So here I was, a chilly mid-January afternoon, making my way downtown to pay the bill I forgot to pay every other month anyway, which always cordially correlated with a red “Shut-off Notice Coming” message in my mailbox, anyway. The bill was always paid, even if it was often “better late than never”.

In-person payments were for the birds.

Now soured, I pulled my handmade scarf about my neck and, mumbling incoherencies about the weather, the lack of snow when cold, the puddled sidewalks, likely frustrated, even likelier cursing, I reached the plain, unimpressive all-brick building and, stuffing to the envelope into the drop-off slot, I turned to go, my glove catching on the aged hinge and snagging.

I cursed again. They were good gloves.

My expression now, most certainly, nothing short of livid, I turned on my heel towards the Avenue, stepped off the curb with purpose (and with attitude) right into a too-deep pile of too-deep melted snow and ice, soaking through my boots to my socks.

Some would say I deserved that. I would say it was “just one more thing...”

My scowl soured even further and, quickly looking around, I hoped no one had seen that. I looked up, down the street, and out from my scarf-covered face.

We locked eyes.

A gentle smile crossed her face, a ”babushka”—or however that is spelled—gathered in a quaint, tight knot just beneath her chin.

Her smile grew.

She sort of half-nodded towards me, chuckled, and looked away.

There had been life behind those gray eyes and periwinkle curls.

I stepped—or went to step—in the direction towards the Buick (and my transport home)—but I doubled back, changing my course.

Our town was way too small for a Starbucks or even a Dunkin, and the closest decent cup of coffee was one town over at the Circle-K (now that’s living for you). Coffee was out.

But we did have an exceptional ice cream-pizza shop, just down the street. Everyone likes a good cone, right? Even in the middle of winter?

The decision made, I chose the direction of the shop, quickening my step. I opened the door, the gentle “ding-a-ling-ling” of the bell letting the owner know that someone was crazy enough to order ice cream on January 16th.

“Older folks like Whitehouse Cherry, right? I’ll take a double scoop of that. Oh, and a double of Superman too, please. $4.58? No matter. Keep the change.“

Somewhat frantically, I left the shop and turned down the Avenue again, toward Mrs. Babushka and her periwinkle hair. I glanced towards the bench: it was empty.

Panicked, I looked up and down Jefferson.

“Surely she didn’t go far...”

But she was no where to be seen.

By then, I was at the bench. I sat in her place and looked at my boots, toe toned charcoal from the puddle and the rest a pleasant, Appaloosa gray. I toed the sidewalk.

More time passed. I looked at the Whitehouse Cherry and, since it should have been hers, I started on it: it couldn‘t go to waste.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw an elderly man approaching, clad in a Newspaper Boy’s cap, a well-worn overcoat, and waterproof boots (which, at that moment, I envied).

To my surprise, he sat.

“Waiting on someone special?” He said, eyeing the cones.

“Not—No, not exactly,” I responded.

He chuckled her chuckle. I looked at him at stared, open-mouthed and awed.

“Well, rough day then, if you’re doubling up in January”, and he chuckled again.

I continued staring.

“Cherry, huh? That was her favorite. Me, not so much. I liked to switch it up. Sometimes I would even order two flavors. Butter Pecan and French Vanilla, one scoop Mint Chocolate Chip, one Strawberry. That one drove her crazy...”

He chuckled the chuckle again. At least this time I blinked.

Then, he was quiet for a while.

“She loved this bench. Said she could see and hear everything from here,” he looked up at the sky, down the Avenue, into the antique shop window across the street, “And that scarf—your work?”

”It is,“ I finally managed.

“A perfect half-double, I see. And you worked the back stitch to get that intriguing, ‘has texture and dimension’ look. She loved that trick,” He examined the scarf more closely, eyed squinting, smile growing.

“It could be one of hers,” he said with a sort of finality.

There was sadness in his gaze, but only briefly.

“Well, if you’re not waiting, I suppose I’m intruding. I’ll let you be,” and he pushed himself up to stand, stretching his back a little as he rose.

“My grandmother taught me,“ I blurted. I swear he almost jumped.

“She was always teaching me to do things. Encouraged me to find new ways to do things. It was nice. She died when I was thirteen.”

The old man smiled. I handed him the Superman. He took it, grinning.

”Well, now this is more my speed,” he looked the cone up and down.

“I remember when this one first came out—we all thought she would be a bunch of flavors you could taste individually, but they somehow all blend together. My friends swore it tasted like cherry and lemon, at least. I somehow always get bubblegum. Always liked that about her—a sort of enigma we accepted as unresolved...”

I thought about Mrs. Babushka, her purple hair, her characteristic chuckle. I thought about the old man, his history, his present, his past. I thought about the puddle, the unimpressive brick, the snagged glove.

I took another taste of my Whitehouse Cherry and smiled.

“Some puzzles meant to be unsolved.”

”I suppose there are,” he smiled back.

And we finished our doubles in silence, watching the people pass by.