The Real World
Came Calling
I Saw...
A collection of stories from a day in Washington, D.C.
By Chris Hannas
One I Two I Three
I saw him on the train. We both
got on the eastbound car heading into the city. He was already on his cell
phone by the time we started moving. Must have been important.
His shoes made him curious. Black wingtips, shined like he was the prime minister
of Great Britain. They gave him an air of aristocracy, at least on the Orange
Line. He could have been a high-powered K Street lobbyist or a big-time prosecutor
with those shoes.
But the shoes were the only thing getting him in the door of the courthouse.
His worn, white khakis, wrinkled at the cuff, started his plunge back to fiefdom.
He became ordinary with his black polo shirt, the top button undone.
Now he looked like a high school kid, made to go to the school dance but not
allowed to wear his usual sneakers. Mom just couldn’t allow that. He had
to borrow his father’s shoes for that night.
He read a newspaper, the big one, not the free paragraph-only synopsis version
taken in by the family sitting right in front of me. They flipped right past
the front-page story on alarming new obesity data and waxed on the hospitalization
of actor Owen Wilson.
The man looked like he was ready to work the second he got off the train. A
black lanyard with red and white lettering was already draped around his neck
holding a namebadge and his farecard. The black leather messenger bag he brought
sat slightly off his right thigh. It was resting off his shoulder for the ride
but primed to be scooped up in the fury of “this is my stop”-ness.
He’s put the paper down now, having gleaned all the day’s news that’s
fit for his interest. The phone rings again until he answers. It’s in
his left hand, the side next to the window. His elbow rests on the black rubber
that serves as the sill. It was another short call, less than a minute. I think
he’s late and someone from the office is checking in. There was traffic,
or at least he’ll say there was. It’s the end of August and a lot
of people are on vacation, scooping and soaking in one last bit of summer.
Maybe the people at his office didn’t notice that the traffic wasn’t
so bad. Maybe he’s high enough on the totem pole that it doesn’t
matter.
He gets off the train. He walks like he’s escorting a child through a
crowded mall—small steps, at a pace where it’s hard to tell he’s
even going somewhere. The train pulls away.
Two
I saw him at the Georgetown waterfront. I sat waiting,
looking at the water rippling by. He wasn’t the first person I saw but
he’s the first one who stood out. So far there have been three different
kinds of people. Bikers in their full regalia channeling their inner Lance
Armstrong. They’re all ignoring the signs that say they have to dismount
and walk their bikes through this section. I’m not going to call the
cops. Runners pound the bricks like soldiers marching in time over a wooden
bridge. You hear them coming long before you see them. Older folks and tourists
with sunglasses, khaki shorts, tennis shoes and an obvious need to go nowhere
fast.
I’m not sure what this guy was doing, or if he somehow belonged to any
of those other categories. He was feeding some ducks in the river, which at
first made me chuckle because he looked to be easily 30 years old. Then I saw what he
was feeding the ducks. I’ve done my share of bird feeding, though most
of it was taken care of by age 10. I stayed with the normal fare—white
bread, crackers, maybe some sunflower seeds depending on what was available
at the time.
This guy helped solve the aviary question nobody had ever asked: Do birds like
Cheetos? They might not later when the whole digestion thing kicks in, but
you can definitely say now that birds will eat Cheetos.
It wasn’t like he was eating lunch here and couldn’t quite finish
his snack-size bag. He opened, and then distributed, what can only be described
as a family size fun bag of the cheesy delight.
The ducks are floating around now in some sort of strange circular pattern.
The effort in their bodies makes it seem as if they are just going with the
current. The ripples in the water and the sticks floating by suggest something
else is afoot. I’m no expert on ducks, but if you hear about a bunch of
ducks going crazy and attacking sheep, or running at super-human speeds after,
well, humans, don’t forget about the Cheetos.
Three
I saw her at a three-way stop. I guess the signs actually
say “All Way Stop,” but there are only three directions. I’ve
been walking for about 15 minutes looking for a shady place to sit down,
and in the city that’s not always easy to find.
I’ve never been in this neighborhood before, so wandering aimlessly is
a pretty easy thing to do. I’m not drawn towards a favorite old spot or
someplace I’ve even heard of. I take a left when I feel like taking a
left. This left took me to 37th Street, NW, a place lined on the left side
with neatly kept rowhomes sitting across from a bank of trees rising up on
a hillside. This might be the quietest urban place I’ve ever been.
Ahead of me I see a girl start walking—fast walking. It’s the kind
that makes you wonder why they don’t just run. A minute later she does
run. I start to give her credit when I notice she kicked into another gear
only when she reached the downhill portion of the street. Taking the easy way
out. It was then that the park came into view. The girl started walking as
soon as she got there and disappeared onto the trail at the back of the park.
I had to cross the street to get here, going through the three-way stop. Having
spent enough time walking in cities I know that there’s no use in waiting
for someone to “let” you cross. You just have to make it happen.
Cars were coming from my left and right, nobody from the street behind me.
A white box truck with a plumbing logo on the side moves through the intersection
from the left. I start walking, knowing I have the near lane to myself and
intending on walking behind the car in the far lane as it begins to move through
from my right. It’s usually a beautifully timed dance.
It was a blue sedan, I think a Nissan from a few years ago. The young woman
driving turns her head and looks at me. She smiles with an expression that’s
usually followed by some sort of “go ahead, I won’t run you over” gesture.
I didn’t have time to react by the time she moved her foot from left to
right, punching the gas pedal to push her car up the hill I had just left.
I walk a hundred feet into the park, making a beeline for the picnic table
shaded by the massive maple tree. I put down my bag and pull out my green spiral
notebook—bound at the top instead of the side. I pluck the black pen from
my left pocket, click the end, and begin to write.
Copyright © 2007 Chris Hannas