The Exceptions

by David Cristofano

  If I’d found tracking Melody in my car a challenge (I’d nearly lost her at two different lights), it was almost impossible to stay concealed once we were on foot. She parked on the third floor of the garage, and I halfway up the fourth. I slipped a pack of smokes in my jeans, put on my sunglasses and a stained Yankees cap unearthed from under the passenger seat, closed the door of my car by pushing my weight against it to soften the sound. As she walked down the eastern glass-encased stairwell, I raced to the western and watched her from a distance of a few hundred feet, mirrored her pace as she went down each flight. We arrived on the sidewalk of Broadway Road at the exact same time.

  She immediately turned and walked toward the town center with apparent intent. My hope was that she was meeting a friend, a date, a lover—anything to indicate that a glimmer of happiness might be on her horizon. The point of my entire journey, of the tailing and tracking and watching, was to see if the damage I had created in her life was on the wane, somehow being replaced with joy or contentment, that healthy relationships had developed in her life. What I witnessed once I starting walking in the shadow of her paces that day was not only the opposite of my hope for her, but it might have been the worst-case scenario.

  Melody had not gone to Lexington to shop. She did not navigate the office buildings to meet with her accountant or lawyer or dentist. She did not visit a bar or restaurant or coffeehouse, go to see her favorite band or watch a movie. Yet she walked the streets with a specific destination in mind, a target I did not first understand even while making the journey alongside her. Her pace did not slow until we reached Lexington Park in the center of town, a triangle defined by Main, Vine, and Broadway, a scale version of Central Park, trees and trails watched over by skyscrapers. At one far edge, an enormous fountain in the style of water running down bleachers curved around the perimeter for more than a hundred feet, a work of urban art that would’ve been equally as admired in Manhattan. Adolescent kids played in the fountain behind signs that read PLEASE DO NOT PLAY IN THE FOUNTAIN. Couples held hands and walked slowly, joggers zipped around walkers, bikers zipped around joggers. University of Kentucky students paraded through with clothing indicating their respective fraternities and sororities. And it was here, at this large gathering place, that Melody came to a stop.

  She looked around in a manner that less suggested she was looking for someone than that she was looking for the right spot. I sheltered myself a safe distance off and to the side, away from the fountain and under the shade of three towering maples. As I lit a cigarette, Melody moved closer to the fountain, approached a bench built directly in the path of the park.

  Here’s where things went awry: Melody sat down carefully, crossed her legs tightly, then gently pulled up on the edge of her sundress. She sort of studied herself, ran her hand down the length of her leg, then leaned forward a little, allowing the front of her dress to lower and open slightly. She’d become the opposite of the woman standing on the steps of her apartment building. I considered this might be an attempt to look sexy for someone specific, except the look on her face was clearly one of not looking for anyone at all, of trying too hard to appear casual and disinterested. When I’m waiting for someone, my eyes are either constantly searching the landscape or checking my cell; Melody, with sunglasses on, simply tipped her head back and let the late-day sun bake her face as countless men and women passed her by.

  In my continued effort to understand what was happening, I began to drift. The way she sat captured me, the way she’d crossed her legs, how her high-heeled sandals fit the curves of her feet, how she would run her finger in small circles around her knee—I lost a cigarette’s worth of time. The thin straps of her dress barely held it to her body, making it easy to imagine her in a piece of lingerie; her sundress was little more.

  I lit another cigarette with the smoldering end of the near-dead one in my mouth, snuffed the stub with the heel of my shoe. Melody sat in the hot sun for fifteen minutes, never looking for anyone, never checking a cell, never even looking down other than to readjust her dress to a more suggestive manner.

  Not long after that, though, her demeanor changed and, in the process, exposed her purpose. As the people of Lexington continued to pass her by, she started watching them pass her by. I sat in my safety zone, unable to take my eyes off of her—for a multitude of reasons now—and this is when it struck me: I was the only one looking.

  She would make note of a guy or group of guys coming her way and act nonchalant, but as they passed her without even a single glance, she’d watch them fade out of her view. After a half hour of being invisible to these collegiate and urban Kentuckians, she began to slouch her shoulders with each missed opportunity. Every day of my life I walk by people and never notice a single thing about them; New York is an abyss of anonymity and we’re trained to ignore. How many people have I passed whose only hope is that someone, anyone, would fill this simple yearning: Please notice me. For Melody it had slowly built into a scream, so loud I couldn’t understand why no one would come to her rescue.

  I’d always been a moderate smoker, but by that time I was on my fifth successive cigarette; no amount of nicotine could alleviate my rising anxiety. I cursed as each passing guy would walk right by, or glance weakly and not return his eyes to her, as though she wasn’t worth a second look. Because she was. What were they missing? Every yuppie doofus, every frat bastard who ignored her brought a deeper drag to my smoke. Watching her became so painful that I could barely contain myself, finally acknowledging why my eyes were moist: Melody was breaking my heart.

  No matter what the government had turned her into, whoever they wanted her to be, she was still just a girl longing for attention. I could see it as plain as the sun on her skin. Based on my age, I did a quick calculation and realized she was probably just shy of twenty-one, and with that realization, I saw a glimpse of her future: In a matter of months, the parks would turn into bars, where she would surely catch the eye of some loser looking to fulfill his fleeting need, and where, for a few moments in an evening, Melody, too, would feel wanted, and the feeling would last until she returned home alone to a house with only one place setting, one bath towel, one toothbrush. The sadness would seep into her lonely life and she would find a desperate longing to connect again, alcohol softening her sadness and allowing her to open up to a lower level of loser. I was not going to let it happen.

  I was going to save her before it was too late.

  I was going to end it all, blow my cover. What was the point of all my worrying about her happiness and safety if I could not ensure its existence? Someone was going to notice her the way she deserved to be, and it would be me. Regardless of what she might think of me as a man, whether I was her type or not, I would send her home that day with the notion that someone found beauty in her. And as I rose to my feet and snuffed my cigarette, my services were no longer required, for this is when they arrived.

  Three white guys who’d been smoking and laughing near the fountain’s edge wandered in Melody’s direction and eventually passed her. From my distance they appeared nondescript and average, neither yuppies nor frat boys, just a trio of unshaven twentysomethings with lanky bodies and baggy clothes, their only oddity how overdressed they were on that hot Kentucky day, the tallest one wearing a sweat jacket with the hood up; had they continued on their way, I would have categorized them as nothing more than locals.

  But the one in the sweat jacket finally gave Melody what she so longed for: a double take. Then she gave him what he was looking for: a response. He slowed and bobbed on his feet a little, then casually walked backward. I watched as he said something to her and she smiled a little. As his friends continued walking away, the guy said something else and Melody nodded and said something back. They chatted for no more than fifteen seconds before Melody sent up an involuntary red flag: She reached down to the top of her sundress and pulled it back up to cover the gap that exposed her chest, then a quick pull down on the bottom of her dress to cover her l
egs. The guy continued talking, smiling a little more as he spoke, then Melody looked down at the ground and uncrossed her legs, pressed her knees together tightly.

  I closed my eyes, shook my head. Not this guy, I thought. Why’d it have to be this guy?

  I reached for my cigarettes and started to pull one out when the most nightmarish scene began to unfold: The other two guys turned around to find their friend lingering with the girl, then started heading back in his direction.

  As Melody stood, Sweat Jacket slid in front of her, blocking my view of her face, and as I ran into the grass to reposition my angle, the other two guys were now at their buddy’s side and the four of them were in a circle. The noises of the park—the flow of water from the enormous fountain, kids playing and shrilling, booming music coming from some distant point—masked what was unfolding before the public. Even from my distance they just looked like friends chatting. But when Sweat Jacket started nudging his friends, and his friends responded with inflated laughter, and Melody reacted by bowing her head and shaking it slowly, I knew things were progressing. I grew up around people who could smell vulnerability and preyed upon it for nothing more than entertainment. That’s what these guys were, future wards of the state.

  I flicked my unlit cigarette into the grass, mumbled every profane word I’d ever learned as I slid closer to the scene, still out of range of their conversation. But watching their interaction, there could be no doubt as to what was happening. And as parents walked by with their kids, they stepped up their pace and pulled their children to their sides, a few frat boys looked over until one of Sweat Jacket’s buddies stared at them, stepped once in their direction to indicate they should mind their own business, and compliance was delivered in the form of indifference. Turns out no matter where you go in this world everyone is the same.

  I didn’t see a thing.

  I didn’t hear a thing.

  I don’t know nothin’.

  Then Sweat Jacket reached out and touched Melody’s shoulder and she jerked away like the tips of his fingers were aflame. She stepped to the left and one of the other guys leaned in, forcing her back toward their apparent leader, and for a few seconds she nervously bounced between the three of them like a human hacky sack.

  When Sweat Jacket grabbed her elbow, she yanked it away and managed to slip out and abandon them at a good clip. I walked in parallel with her a hundred or more feet away and kept my eyes on the guys. Let her go, I thought. Do not follow her. With Melody now twenty or so feet in front of them, Sweat Jacket cracked a joke for his buddies that I could not hear, grabbed his crotch in an exaggerated manner, and then the three of them were right on her tail.

  I followed Melody, and as we made our way back to Broadway, I knew exactly where Melody was heading: the parking garage. She would look over her shoulder every five seconds to see if they were still close behind, and having grown up in a neighborhood with a class order determined by bullies, I knew this manner of showing her fear would keep them interested. And then the final turning point: Melody slipped across a six-lane intersection next to the garage before the light changed; the guys didn’t make it in time, had no choice but to let the traffic pass. This is where I would have expected them to move on, to yell some lewd comments in her direction, wave her off, and return to their wasted world.

  But they waited the light out.

  As I ran across the street a half block away, dodging cars in every lane, I voiced vulgarities I had no idea were in my vocabulary. I knew Melody’s exact destination, almost right to the specific parking space; all I had to do was break our triangle apart and cut off the hoodlums before they could get to her.

  I reached the western stairwell and ran up the steps so fast that I fell into the door and the sound as it flew open reverberated throughout the garage like a gunshot. Melody emerged from the eastern stairwell, moving as quickly as she could in her sandals, aimed right for her car. I let her get out of sight, then sprinted for the stairwell she’d just exited. I opened the door, slid to the left and closed the door gently, watched Melody through a small square window, catching my breath as quietly as possible. I was certain she was going to make it, that the timing of all of this would work, until the heel of her left sandal gave way; she lost her footing but not her momentum, and tumbled across the concrete floor like she was sliding into home.

  And there she stayed for too many seconds, an uncomfortable gap in time before she slowly turned to her side and grabbed her ankle. My instinct, as foolish as it would have been, was to run out and help her, but even in the frenzy of that moment I knew the help she really needed had to be applied elsewhere.

  Below I could hear the trio ascending the stairs.

  Had she not taken the spill, she would have slipped away; her lead was simply running out.

  The losers were one flight below, laughing and verbally offering their crude intentions for this innocent girl.

  I took off my sunglasses and crammed them in the pocket of my jeans, turned my baseball cap backward.

  Melody, now crying, pulled herself to her feet, tried to resume running, but nearly fell to the ground again.

  The losers came into view at the landing one half flight below. Sweat Jacket had his hood pulled tightly around his head, adjusted himself through his jeans.

  Melody could barely walk, bracing herself on the trunks and hoods of the cars she passed. She did not have her keys out, and she was too far from her car. Melody was not going to make it.

  And as the three hoodlums stepped up to the top of the flight, stood a mere two feet behind me, Sweat Jacket put his hand on my shoulder, gave me a weak shove, and said, “Look out.”

  I sighed, turned from the door to face the men, knocked Sweat Jacket’s hand from my shoulder and simply stated, “I’m afraid this is where your journey ends.”

  I spent my life assessing tough guys, who could be beaten and who couldn’t. Respectively, the three guys facing me in the garage stairwell were amateurs, juvenile delinquents in the bodies of adults. My ultimate reaction to the hoodlums was driven partly by adrenaline, but not at all by bravado. Imagine three toddlers coming your way in an attempt to wreak havoc. How concerned would you really be?

  Sweat Jacket, clearly the leader, as demonstrated by his constant position at the front and center of the other two, stood about three inches taller than me and six taller than his buddies, morons who giggled and laughed at anything Sweat Jacket said or did. Each of them appeared to be emaciated, thinner versions of their once healthier selves, their skin hanging on them like garments from a heavier season of their lives. They hesitated in front of me only to catch their collective breath.

  So, if bravado played no role in my reaction and adrenaline a minimal one, what drove my response to these men? The answer is embedded in the snapshots that flooded my mind, the images of what might have happened if I were not there that day, what Sweat Jacket would have done to Melody, and what his hangers-on would have emulated shortly thereafter, the way they would’ve torn her apart in a vile and violent way, how she would learn the lesson that nothing and no one in this life can be trusted and how there is not much worth living for, how they would have reinforced the notion that she was nobody, echoing what the federal government had already imprinted in her young mind: She was nothing more than an object to be used and discarded. Regardless of how I managed to be there at the right time, how I managed to eliminate this destructive and potentially deadly event from Melody’s life, understand that I am not a hero. I am not a guardian angel, for no angel could do what I am capable of, for what I ended up doing in that stairwell. The simple answer to that question is this: My reaction to those three men was based on a torrent of unabated hatred and rage.

  Sweat Jacket tried—failed—to shove me to the side, decided yelling at me might get the reaction he desired. “Fugoutamaway!”

  “No,” I said, “and I’m telling you now this is probably going to turn out badly for the three of you.”

  “Dude, don’t
mess with me!”

  One of Sweat Jacket’s buddies—can’t remember which one—added a warning inside a chuckle: “Serious, dude, you don’t wanna mess with Willie.”

  “Oh, the mess is unavoidable. The challenge for me will be beating you to the point where I don’t actually kill you.”

  Willie smirked, tried to move me to the side again with no success. Remember: toddler. He bobbed his head a few times like a prizefighter, looked more like a chicken. “Let me help you figure something out,” he said. “It’s three-on-one.”

  “No, it’s not,” I said. “It’s one-on-one. You think these idiots are gonna help you? They only hang out with you to continue their access to meth and get your assistance writing bad checks at Wal-Mart. I’m gonna put you down, Willie, and they’re going to stand here and watch. Maybe cry a little.”

  Willie squinted as though genuinely confused as to what was happening, then leaned in. “Dude, I don’t know where you think you are, but—”

  “What the—why is everyone calling me dude? Am I wearing a frigging cowboy hat? Listen, you redneck mother—” The door behind us swung open and into the stairwell walked a young father carrying a little girl in his arms. He slid by nervously, eyeing each of us as he maintained a two-foot buffer, had to scrape the wall to get around. “And that’s why the Reds don’t have a prayer, man. I could have called that in spring training. Seriously, their entire roster is full of guys batting in the high two hundreds. I’m telling you, the Cubs are who you should be watching. They got a few surprises coming this year, and I’m not the only one saying that.”

  Willie seemed to pick up on what I was doing, though not bright enough to contribute. His buddies looked completely bewildered.

  From the corner of my eye, I glanced out the little square window, could see Melody fumbling with her keys. She pressed the button to unlock her car, the taillights flashed in response.

  Right as the door at the bottom of the stairwell closed with a bang, I balled up a fistful of Willie’s jacket and smashed him into the concrete wall next to the windows overlooking the street. He started pawing my forearms.