It’s a sunny day for Dublin, and I think everyone knows it. It’s the sort of day that is great for biking; a mix of warm sun and cool breeze as you whip past the parked cars. I’ve got a smirk on my face, I don’t really care. There are cars parked on my left and cars cruising past on my right. I’m left alone in my narrow corridor between the two, smirking like an idiot, enjoying the mix of warm and cool.
I should focus on my presentation. Mike and Tim were talking about some ‘cans in the park’ as we were leaving the module seminar. I lingered beside them, idly touching the couch in the hallway, wondering if I’d be invited. I have to work on my presentation anyways. It’s worth 30%, I would like to do well. I’ll have plenty of time to drink beer in the sun later, once I’m finished. Besides, I should also call my Mom.
I stop at a red light. Another cyclist pulls up behind me. I am perched with one foot on a pedal, the other on the sidewalk; one foot beside a driver with her window down, the other beside an elderly man in a coat waiting to cross. Behind me is the cyclist, in front are cars, driving by. I watch the face, the face, the face, as each car slides past. Happy, angry, singing, they continue on and I continue to watch. It seems people are so predictable, so easy to read. Sure I don’t know their names or birthdays or favourite cars or minor things like that, but so much that is essential to a person is sitting right there, in the face, for all to see.
The light is green and I’m back to pedalling and the smirk is back on my face. It’s fun, trying to stay within the invisible corridor between parked and moving cars. I feel like I’m playing some sort of game, some sort of sport. There are plenty of other cyclists around also playing, and I’m sure that even the passing cars are playing their own version of the game, trying to not hit me or the cars in the lane of oncoming traffic. Ha, I guess we’re all having fun today. I try to see who else is smirking.
I get home, but I can’t concentrate tonight. I decide to go for a walk. Temple Bar is pretty close and there are always so many people, I decide to check it out. I’m suddenly in a crowd of people, all walking somewhere different. I’ve forgotten Mike and Tim, well no I guess I haven’t, but it certainly doesn’t bother me anymore. I’m feeling pretty good, just walking around within this crowd. I’m not thinking about much, just walking. It’s kinda cool living in a big city, never being far from a large crowd of people. I’m surrounded by faces, by voices and bodies, and now that’s all I am too. No one is thinking of what makes them unique here, what makes them special, and therefore vulnerable – we are our common elements. I’m a stranger within strangers and I feel invincible.
I go home; I need to call my Mom. I sometimes wonder if she’s the only one I know, her and Dad. I want to know how he is. She’s crying when I call, I think I start crying as well. It’s terminal; I tell her I’ll call her back. I want to call a friend, but I don’t know who. It can’t be a guy, or at least not a straight one, that wouldn’t work. But who? I imagine the call, maybe to Sara or Jenna. I tell them what has happened, the past 3 months of phone calls with my Mom and sometimes, when I’m lucky, to him in the hospital. How bullshit the whole thing is, how I wish I hadn’t left for Dublin. But I can’t. I don’t want to involve them, I don’t want anyone to know. As soon as they do I become a victim. And I certainly can’t talk to my Mom right now. I’m crying, so I shower.
I find myself back in Temple Bar. The strangers, they’re all so nice to me. No one bothers me, but I’m not sure - it’s not the same. I look around; I seem to be the only one alone in the crowd. Everyone else is a man and a woman, or a woman with her friend, or a child with his parents. Of course, everyone has family, friends – unique histories. They are all here doing something, living, breathing, thinking thoughts behind their faces.
All these people remind me of when Dad and I used to walk in Ottawa’s Chinatown. But that will never happen again, it’s out of our reach forever. I realize no one else here is probably thinking thoughts like I am. How could they be - everyone is so happy. I walk, it’s cold and I put my hood up. I look into a restaurant, first at the people and then at my reflection in the glass. I can see myself in all of them, the me of Chinatown. They’re all so fucking happy. When I turn to my own reflection, I see, even in the faint image, that I’m crying. Someone bumps into me, talking to the man beside them; they don’t even notice I exist. I should go home, but I can’t. I don’t want to be alone, so I sit down, gazing at the legs as they pass by.
Written by Ben Bousada