Short Fiction

Sitting Behind the White

I.

We sit on a bench in the park. Willis has gone into one of his spirals – a philosophical idea that, in order to explain it, he must reinvent the universe. Eventually, the point he was making becomes entirely lost. I begin to fidget.

Willis talks too much. It was with this thought that I notice a small white object on the walking path.

He explains something that I already know, and I yes-yes him, hoping he'll skip over this part. I bounce my knee, play with a strand of my hair and then shift my face-front position into other forms, as the bench will allow. I shift my gaze from him to the white object on the pathway. I squint to get a better look, but it's still just a white spot on a black plane.

Willis is the sort of person who believes that there is a deeper, mysterious meaning to everything. It's what I like about him. But sometimes, it's too much. I might rub my brow and before I can remove my hand, his brain will tell him that I'm bored with him – when really, all it might be is a caffeine headache, a moment of pondering, or one of my spontaneous fidgets. This time, I am bored with him. He slouches back now and looks into his palms when he speaks.

When I first met him, Willis seemed the sort of person you wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley: a tall, robust man, my father's age, long course wavy hair going gray at the sideburn, pulled back into ponytail. Having gotten to know him in the safe atmosphere of Washington Square, I can see that I mistook his unsmiling, silence to be dark and dangerous, when it was merely the same act of self-preservation that I had in my own fear of him.

Willis ends up being more like some kid's big teddy bear, loosening seams, an ear torn off, black bead eye dangling from a thread and patches of fur worn down to the fabric -- a bear loved so hard that it destroyed him and now the stuffing starts to come out.

Now, he explains Wayne and me. He wants to believe he understands the “complexities” of our relationship. But really, he wants me not to like Wayne so much. His reason is carefully calculated and lays out the pieces in front of me, like one of those complicated, all-black, 5000-piece puzzles. To me, though, it seems that he is putting each one down and pounding them together with his fist.

Willis is remembering having seen me around: at the Chess Forum or at the Park. He says he wanted to know me, then.

"Why didn't you come up and say 'hello'?" I ask.

He says, "Well, you know," he says smiling shyly, "you got them blue eyes and you, know....well.....you know...you was so tall and pretty. Besides, I couldn't hang with you because you was Wayne's girl.”

I want to say something about this masculine, territorial tendency and how his comment objectifies women, but instead, my mouth opens and demands, “Wayne's girl? I'm married. Remember?”

“See?" he taunts. "That's the thing, Rebecca!”

That white object disappears behind the legs of passers-by. I am afraid that someone will kick it away before I get a chance to see what it is.

I politely excuse myself and, while Willis keeps on, I wander across the blacktop to retrieve the mysterious white object. When I pick it up, I see that it is a small chunk of glass and I smile. Showing to Willis my treasure, I hope he'll forget about Wayne and me.

“Isn't it pretty?” I ask, holding out the reflective item.

“Yeah,” he says. “I was wondering when you were going to get it.”

II.

I've since pocketed that piece of white glass and several other findings: a red and white piece of string, a silver button, a cherry wine bead, a rubber zipper grip, a yellow tiddly wink, a dime, broken off bangles, countless buttons, and someone's discarded shopping list, tightly wadded. It's the only sort of fidgeting possible when walking with Willis. Plucking the miscellaneous from the slick Manhattan sidewalks is the only way my mind can quiet.

This time he is going to show me something. We walk six or seven blocks, me scanning the sidewalk for more small treasures, when he stops in front of a liquor store.

“I was standing right here when it happened. You used to be able to see the towers right there between those two buildings,” and he points to the southern horizon that lay behind the facing strip of SoHo shops. I imagine the World Trade Towers, one sister with a jet airplane lodged in her gut.

“I saw you with Wayne today,” he says as we start back to the park.

“Yeah. We got in a couple of games.”

“Does he know you're in love with him?”

“I'm not in love with him,” I inform him. I jab my hand into my pocket to find a hole the size of my index finger. I pause and look at the sidewalk all around me.

“Then why do you keep coming to New York?” he asks.

But the treasures are nowhere. I pat my back pockets, and then the front ones again. Frowning, I say, “I come to New York because I like it here.”

“Oh,” he says, face smiling slightly, challenging me. I look him straight in the face.

“What?” I demand.

Willis launches into a speech about how men interpret women's actions. It is the When Harry Met Sally men-and-women-can't-be-friends scene.

“Willis?”

“What?”

"Shut up."

He begins to say something like an apology and the start of another profound explanation. I raise my finger to my lips.

“Oh, yeah,” he says. “Sorry.”

And we walk the remainder in silence.

III.

After several days of riding Willis' stream of consciousness, I rub my brow. I am exhausted. The past few days in Washington Square have been slow for the boys, and now it explodes with voices and hums with the exchange of money and banter.

I spot Wayne sitting at someone else's table, and I slip into the seat across from him where the white pieces stand ready for battle. I notice Willis just over Wayne's shoulder. He's involved in a wager. I'd rather not see him today.

“Where have you been?” Wayne asks, smiling.

After moving a center pawn forward, I look up from the game I've already lost.

Written: 11/13/03

Okay, it's not entirely fiction...