She Looked Out the Window

by Kira Heisler

She looked out the window and pressed her cheeks to the glass, waiting for the world to stop. She focused on the water droplets that ran down the window, while everything around her was moving forward. As the train made its next stop, more people moved towards her as she cringed at the thought of sharing the crimson and violet bench. A middle aged man, reeking of soup, advanced toward her, wearing a misbuttoned striped blue shirt underneath an oversized suit and a watch that was three minutes late.  She readjusted herself and felt mocked by the arrogant floating square pattern that paraded around the fabric of the bench. She was terrified of the possibility of introducing herself or creating a friendly persona. She needed to survive the 45 minutes left on the voyage to her new life. As he dared to venture to the territory that she had claimed for herself, she couldn’t help but stare right at him. She felt safe that the poster of a puppy wearing a bow tie seemed to allure the man, considering she was gawking at him quite openly.  She stopped herself, when she realized that the captivating power of adorable animals taking human form appeared to fade. He sat down on the seat across from her and took out his brown leather briefcase with rusting silver hinges. Once opened, the briefcase was revealed to be utterly hollow aside from a rotting red apple that the man ignored. He closed the briefcase after a moment and she was left bewildered. While, he turned his head once again to admire the eyes of the enticing puppy, he smiled at her.

Whether it was a made up persona that he created to somehow excite his mundane daily routine of commuting to his cubicle or not, he had her attention.  She decided to risk her own secretive identity and introduced herself.  He quickly shifted himself towards her and eagerly reached out his clammy hands. She reluctantly shook his hand and then immediately wiped the sweat from his palm onto the polyester bench that seemed to be her only asylum from the insanity surrounding her. He told her that his name was Harold and that he was an accountant but his real passion was stamp collecting. After hearing Harold babble while opening to the comics’ page of his newspaper that he produced from inside of his suit jacket, she decided to assume that he was charming rather than disturbing.  When he realized that his blathering was not being stifled, he infringed on her personal space and slid over to the crimson and violet bench. Her sense of running to the next train car was suppressed. She felt safe with him.

Harold checked his watch and itched his hand nervously.  She wanted to calm his nerves and informed him that his watch was three minutes late. He smiled and rewarded her amiability by admitting his fear of tardiness.  After a traumatizing childhood experience of coming late to a peer’s birthday party, he missed the bouncy house that held any hope of childhood joy and swore to arrive promptly to all occasions. His watch was a reminder to abide by the moral code of punctuality. She laughed while he was entertained by the misadventures of Garfield. She rested her head on his shoulder, disregarding the normal behavior for meeting strangers. Harold didn’t say anything so she closed her eyes. As the train stopped, she felt the silent air questioning her principles. She started to think about the life she gave up. She reminisced about the warmth of her blanket that seemed to gain a different stain every night. She missed the bubble gum scent of her bed and the accumulation of trash that surrounded it. She remembered the notches she made on her desk that counted the times her mother entered to remind her of trivial troubles in a monotone. She missed her dog that proudly shed over her bed and was the only one that listened to all of her grievances. She missed the reoccurring aroma of fresh paint that filled her house. She recalled how her father used to rant about his “action-packed” days at work.  She remembered the fights she had with her parents about her fear to become like them. She feared to have the most exciting part of her day to be cleaning the windows or making small talk at the water-cooler with people that were oblivious to their monotonous lives.

 When her eyes opened, they were directed towards Harold’s briefcase. She confessed to her sinister analysis and her confusion towards the rotting apple. Harold sighed and explained, “I’ve always been ready to be inspired by fluorescent lights and post-its and have two collies that are on display in a modest home. When I finally achieved a cubicle with the essence of mediocrity and a home where people awaited my return, I convinced myself that I was content. My evening included hanging my jacket on the coat rack and eating meatloaf at precisely six thirty every night. One day, I left for work when I met this apple lying in the middle of the street. It called out for me. I refused to answer to inanimate objects and continued my journey to the place of staples and paper cuts. When I came back, the house was empty and the picture frames were bare. Lying on the place mat that once joyfully read “Welcome home” was a yellow piece of paper that told me that I would no longer have meatloaf Mondays or people who waited for me. I ran outside and lay down on the asphalt, the only thing that could never desert me. I shut my eyes from a world that no longer wanted me. When I awoke, I was ready to leave the pavement and this apple motivated me to regain faith in humanity. When I began to piece my life together again, this apple was my only testament to hope and trust and all the cartoons that brainwashed me to dream.”              

She held his hand tight and they looked out the window and watched the plastic bag dance in the wind. She watched his tear run down his cheek and felt incompetent in aiding the emotions of a middle-aged man that reeked of soup.  She confessed her fear of clowns, but after watching him sigh repeatedly she told him of her past life, a life that accepted the ideals of normalcy and conformity. Harold told her that he was bewildered by her discontent towards her fortunes. She felt disparaged and redirected her attention towards the window. Then in a fit of rage, she explained to Harold that he didn’t understand. She told him that she was not ready to be another depressed housewife. She was going to be free and didn’t care how trite it sounded from a girl her age. She told him that she was going to experience life and he missed his chance. She would travel, befriend a starving artist or even become a homeless bird lady and refuse a life of boredom. She disregarded her father’s voice rebuking her for her fixation with Mary Poppins and the song reminding of the importance of bird-feeding. She became too overwrought to continue her rant. Harold smirked and told her that it would be okay. After acknowledging her insanity, she decided to convince herself that her tirade might have kept his mind off of his troubles. She quickly apologized and they continued to study the activities of the plastic bag that seemed hopelessly content. Harold confessed that he once fantasized about running away from his identity. After packing his bag, he realized he had nowhere to go and then feared that no one would come after him. She explained that she always dreamt of deserting her life and fading away from reality. Now that it is the actuality, she has grown to resent that no one had gone on a quest to find her like the movies have taught her. There was no heartwarming speech about unity and love. No one recognized the error of their ways and promised happiness. Whether it was neglect or some type of hidden message with shades of arrogance, she felt that she could never return to a home that fostered so much spite. Harold echoed the lessons of generations of mothers and told her not to cut off her nose to spite her face. He told her to embrace normalcy for a few more years because her home also fostered love and care. She realized in that moment that she could never run away from her mother. Her mother’s notorious smothering and pathological mind games traveled beyond space and time into a place of submission. She turned off the fantasy of freedom. On a crimson and violet bench in the middle of a crowded train, she wept.

Harold apologized and denied the conspiracy that her mother was in alliance with him to bring her to recognition. She gave up. As the train rolled into its last stop, Harold asked if he could join her on the voyage to self-liberation. She smiled and kissed his cheek, gathered her belongings and took a step onto the train platform that perhaps harbored a new beginning.