Compassion

by Neal, Xavier

  Do you know how much easier it would be to just end all this? Stop the memories from pounding around in my skull, from whispering that no one would even fucking notice if I was gone. Do you know fucking depressing that is? To know I could disappear right now and no one would even mourn me?

  Smothering out the banal thoughts of despair that I use as my indication I need some rest, I arrange my backpack to double as a pillow and curl into a ball.

  At least I have a warm place to sleep for another night. Hell, I even have breakfast with real substance for tomorrow. Maybe even lunch if I make it stretch. I've been making that shit stretch too far lately. People haven't thrown out their damn Christmas leftovers yet.

  My eyes shut and a vision of the kind brown eyed female clutching the pizza immediately appears.

  Alright. So today was a better day than normal. Today was the kind of day almost worth living for. Almost...

  Jaye

  The vision of the homeless man blissful over cold pizza, two days ago, has continuously been replaying in my mind.

  I mean the entire thing. From the first time I looked at him to the point where I backed away slowly with our eyes still glued on one another. Those green eyes were so beguiling yet so broken. Then there was the look of pure pleasure on his face, which sent my mind whirling in the absolute last route it had any business going. What is wrong with me? If you saw some dude in your trashcan he would probably be the last thing you'd be thinking about. Am I right? You probably would've called the police or chased him away with a broom, not walked defenselessly over to him with leftovers. For the record, I wasn't completely defenseless. My dad is a cop, almost retired, but I learned self-defense tactics at a very young age.

  “Jaye,” a voice calls over my shoulder. “You alright?”

  I turn to see Merrick McCoy, the preschool's personal painter, leaning in the doorway of the library.

  Down ladies. Yes, he's extremely dreamy with those bright blue eyes, but he's also extremely taken. His girlfriend is a doll. Met her when she brought him dinner one night a few weeks ago.

  I grab my work bag. “I'm fine.”

  “You sure?” He asks again cautiously. “You look like something is on your mind.”

  Someone is more like it.

  Offering him a warm smile, I simply cradle my shoulder bag closer. “Nope.” Without letting him pressure me for more information, I inquire, “I haven't seen you much since the holidays. Did you enjoy your break?”

  He carefully tugs his painters cart into the room. “Yeah.”

  “Do anything special?”

  “Went home and visited my brothers. Hadn't seen them in a few months.”

  Moving out of his way I innocently question, “Not close?”

  “We're really close,” his reply comes with a crooked smile. “Just...had a small hiccup.”

  Wonder what kind of hiccup would make you stop talking to your family for months?

  My mouth opens to ask, when he cuts me off. “What about you? Did you enjoy your holiday break?”

  Spending Christmas dinner for the third year in a row with my dead fiancé's parents who also happen to be my parent's best friends is how every twenty nine year old woman wants to spend her time off from work. Not hard to find the holiday spirit when you're staring into the eyes that gave birth to the person you had planned to spend the rest of your life with. Oh? Too much sarcasm?

  “It was nice,” I lie. “Thanks for asking.”

  He nods and pulls out the protective paint covers.

  “Need anything before I go?”

  Merrick gives me a wide grin. “Not to kill me if paint drops on your books?”

  “Oh...” A sweet coo comes from me. “That's a murderous offense.”

  He chuckles, turns his black baseball cap around, and reaches for his supplies. “Have a good night, Jaye.”

  “You too, Merrick.”

  Exiting my sanctuary, I keep a polite smile plastered on my face for the final parents picking up their children so late in the evening. I give kind waves and nods during my route to the parking lot only stopping once to tell my boss where Merrick is located.

  From the slight panic on her face I have a feeling it's going to be a late night for one of them.

  On the drive home, the mundane routine of being stuck in traffic gives my mind more time to carelessly drift the direction it can't seem to refrain from going.

  How did he become homeless? Is he a drug addict? What kind of drugs? He didn't seem like one. I didn't see any of the signs I would expect to see. And why is that the only reason I assume he can be homeless? Why I do care? It's not like he's the first homeless person I've ever come across. He's definitely the first to ever be on my doorstep. The first I've ever actually spoken too. The first I've ever even gave a second thought about. Does that make me emotionally callous?

  A horn behind me blares and I slam my foot on the accelerator. Dying to get him off my mind, I reach to turn up the radio just seconds before the Bluetooth in my car starts to ring.

  With a push of a button my mother's voice is in full surround sound. “Tell me he called.”

  Taken off guard by her demand, I question, “Who?”

  “Calvin.”

  “Who?”

  “The doctor I was telling you about at dinner, remember?”

  Ah. Prince Charming with a stethoscope.

  “Why would he call?”

  “I gave him your number.”

  A heavy sigh slips out as I change lanes. “Mom...”

  “Jaye,” she begins in such a familiar way I can practically recite what's coming next. “I showed him your picture at work-”

  Sarcastically I mumble, “That's not weird-”

  “-and he thought you were attractive. Actually he thought you were stunning. Yes I'm quoting him. Stunning. I simply offered him your number afterward and was just curious if he used it. Nothing to get upset about.”

  Tell me. How much of that is worth getting upset about? She means well. I know this. I know this like every line of ‘If You Give a Mouse a Cookie’, but it doesn't change the fact it bothers me. Severely.

  “I'm not upset.”

  “You sound upset.”

  Hitting my head against the headrest I argue, “I do not.”

  “You do,” she insists. “But that's alright. I know it was a little pushy-”

  “A little mo-”

  “But you should have someone in your life to come home to. Someone to build a family with. It's been three years.”

  Instead of screaming that I can count, that it's me who has to wake up every morning alone and deal with the realization life continues on after death, I quietly say, “I'm working on it. Look mom, the other line is ringing. I'll talk to you soon.”

  “I love you.”

  Reluctantly I reply, “I love you too.”

  Hitting the end button feels like I'm allowed to breathe again.

  I'm convinced she's the reason my wine intake has increased over the past year.

  At the next stop sign I look both ways, preparing to go forward, which is when the shadow of a figure catches my attention. I lean forward anxiously trying to get a better look at the person slipping back into the gathering of trees. Without being able to identify if that was the man from the other night, I continue the drive home.

  You think he's hungry again? How long can a person go without eating? Well, yeah I did feed him just a couple days ago and he did take some stuff out of my trash, but I wonder if he's eaten that food already. Hell, how long had it been before that moment he had previously eaten?

  I take one final turn into the cul-de-sac, my house the first one beside the walking path that leads to the park. As soon as my car is in park, I call for chinese take-out knowing the conversation with my mother was the final blow in the never ending Cooking Wars.

  Cooking for one isn't something I love to do, but take-out every night isn't exactly healthy. Don't even pitch the idea of those frozen single meals. They'r
e disgusting. See my dilemma. Take-out wins this round of self-feuding as does a hot shower, a glass of wine, and Netflix. Hey...there are worse routines out there.

  Archer

  I turn off the hose after my water bottles are filled.

  You know what most people don't realize? That they're routine based. Most people do little things every day, all the time, without so much as a second thought. Take a minute and really give some thought to the basic shit you do every day, mindlessly. These little thoughtless moments make it easy for me to slip by and live off of you when I need to. When you leave for your morning thirty minute jog, I can pick up the peaches from your tree that fell last night. The ones you won't notice until the ants or other rodents come for the taking. Basically that's what you think I am, right? A giant rodent. A pest on society. Useless. Pathetic. Well, let that be the reason I pee on your fucking petunias you can only seem to remember to water after your neighbor sneers their nose at you.

  The sound of a car coming pushes my back against the side of the brick house. Staying still, I listen to the over powering male voice yelling at whoever is on the other end of the phone and wait to hear the car door close. The horn honks to let me know the car is locked. After that I count to sixty and come out from the spot I was waiting.

  Like clock-work.

  I wander away from the house, take a right and continue onto the next street. My head falls forward with pretend determination on my face.

  Wanna know a trick to keeping suspicions down? You know, besides the obvious stick to shadows when you can? Avoid eye contact and walk like you know exactly where you're going. People tend not to think twice if you look like you're headed somewhere versus aimless roaming. This goes for whether you're slinking around the burbs or prowling the streets downtown.

  Relentlessly the wind picks up and punches me in the face. My body fights against it, determined to keep moving forward, which is when it slaps harsher than before.

  Apparently it doesn't like being defied. Well, I don't like the inability to not feel my cheeks. Makes us even.

  “You're a cheating bastard!” The woman across the street from where I'm passing yells to the man on the front lawn. Giving the situation a glance, I see her throw the roses he handed to her in the yard harshly. “I never wanna see you again!”

  His pleas sound mumbled as I divert my attention back down.

  Most people don't realize how good they have it in relationships until they've already trespassed into an area they have no business being in. Violated, the simplicity of trust. Yeah. I said simplicity. Because it is simple. Say the shit you mean. Do the shit you say you'll do. Be honest. If you say you're going to be faithful then fucking be it.

  Veering to the left, I begin towards the Pizza House.

  Yeah. I nicknamed it that. Before that I called it the 'Two Day House'. Oddly enough, the food in the trash is never more than a couple days old, bread products aside. It's wasteful, but I won't complain. It's the least rancid food I've found in months.

  The sight of it has a smile sliding on my face.

  What! Not only was I given a little post-holiday food miracle by the most beautiful woman I've seen in years, she spoke to me. Spoke to me. Do you understand, she didn't yell? She didn't scream. She didn't threaten to call the cops. She talked to me like she viewed me as a person rather than a pest. Haven't been able to shake that high of humanity since. It's been calling me to go back. See if it was a fluke. It's tempting me to return and test the truth. Am I still human? Do I still deserve kindness? Will it still matter if I exist another day?

  Cautiously approaching her house, I head for the trashcan, eyes examining the blind covered bay window. Unsure if our paths will even cross again, I lift the lid slightly disappointed when there's only one bag inside. Just as I reach for it, the sound of a door opening has my body halting all movements.

  “How about Chinese food instead?”

  With a hard swallow, I carefully lower the lid back down to see the woman with a styrofoam container in her grip. My mouth drops open to respond. Nothing comes out.

  The first time we met I swore I didn't say anything because I didn't want to scare her off. Now I'm beginning to think maybe I can't talk around her. Maybe my mind has morphed into believing if I speak it'll ruin everything. I fucking ruin everything. That's what I do. Ruin shit and get others killed.

  “I just ordered it a couple hours ago,” she continues. Each step she takes is less careful than the last. “I hate leftover Chinese food probably most of all.” When my head tilts to the side the words rush out of her. “There's something about the way the rice hardens and the bread on the chicken gets too soggy. I mean even if you reheat it in the oven there's no bringing it back to life. I was bringing it outside because it ends up smelling up the whole house and that's not a smell I enjoy waking up to.” At this point she's only an arm’s length away from me. No concern or fear seems to be present. “Hope you like Sesame Chicken.”

  I do love Sesame Chicken. And fried rice. And wontons. I love it all and the fact that like pizza, I haven't had it fresh in years makes her act of kindness mean so much fucking more than I can verbally say.

  As soon as the unexpected prize is in my possession, I try harder to verbally express my gratitude, but am stopped by the sudden universal sign of flashing of headlights to warn other drivers there's a cop around the corner. Instinctively my body waivers causing me to nearly lose the box. Shaking my head at the sounds, the screaming, I grip whatever I'm carrying tighter and stumble away, tripping over my own feet in the process.

  There's so much smoke! Too much smoke! It's suffocating! How can you breathe? How can anyone breathe?! How the hell am I breathing? Is this when I'm going to die?

  My body sways while sounds of gun fire sharply ring in my ears. I maneuver myself, dodging fire until my back is pinned against a tree. Cold air desperately tries to fill my lungs but can't.

  Is that Seth screaming in agony? What about Micah? Is he wounded? Why aren't you firing?! Fire!

  Panic pushes my body down until my ass collapses to the ground. The container pops open beside me. Seeing the contents forces my hands to cover my ears. I shut my eyes and begin to rock, reciting the only thing that helps the nightmares that are my memories to fade. “That was then....this is now....Seth was then...Seasme Chicken is now....That was then...this is now...Seth was then...”

  Eventually the repetition yanks me out of the hole of horrific images and tosses me back into reality. I let out a deep breath, slam my head against the tree trunk, and drag the container over with the tip of my finger.

  Being without a steady place to live, a job, or people who give a fuck about you is hard enough. Having a trigger that can spiral you back into time with no way of escaping is like having cancer in remission. You're never sure when it'll wake back up or if it will. You can only suspect. You can pray to whoever it is you pray to that it won't. But in reality it doesn't matter. You still have a ticking time bomb waiting to blow up inside. No one should have to suffer through this. No one.

  Jaye

  Late! I'm late! Okay, not exactly late. Not yet. But I could be! I slept fifteen minutes past my alarm! This is why I hate falling asleep on the couch. It's a double edged sword of an issue. When I sleep on the couch it's the closest thing to peaceful rest I get. It's one of the only things I bought after Chris' death. We had a couch when he was alive. It was white. During one of my sob fests, I managed to get red wine on it, and by on it I mean all over it. Ordered a new one through the tears that night.

  In record time, I shower, change, and manage to get on the small amount of make-up I wear. I apply the last of my lip gloss before I give myself one final look.

  Does my hair look like it's out of control? Like a bunch of curly fries are having a meeting on my head? See. This is what happens when I sleep in too late and can't spend the extra fifteen minutes taming them.

  Once I'm down stairs, I wiggle on my flats, my coat, grab my work bag, and my purse. M
y first step outside the front door unexpectedly lands on something. I look down at my front porch where I see a brown piece of paper being held down by one of the rocks from my garden alongside a gorgeous red rose.

  A bright smile jumps on my face as I grab the note and flower.

  Thank you.

  Just two words. Two very simple, very common words, yet they feel like he scoured the entire globe searching for them. I bite my bottom lip.

  Of course I know it was him who left this. Who else could it have possibly been? Don't be silly. He was clearly trying to express his gratitude. This was thoughtful. That's the only reason why I'm smiling. Because it was sweet. Sweet without an agenda is rare in the world.