Passenger(3)

Yet I know some Spanish, I think. I can read and understand some of those words. Not all of them, but some.

Again, the newspaper rack catches my attention. I go to it, pick up the top paper, hold it up to my face. The Baltimore Sun. This is Baltimore City. The date—today’s date?—is December 1.

“Is this today’s paper?” I call to the woman behind the sandwich counter, holding up the paper in one hand.

“Hey?” says the woman.

I repeat this question, my skin suddenly prickling with sweat. I credit the overactive wall-mounted heater for its arrival.

“Today,” says the woman, not looking up at me. She executes a single agitated nod of the head. “Today, today.”

I set the newspaper down…then think better of it. Although I feel I know everything I need to know about the larger world around me—I know who the President is, for instance, and the countries of the world—I do not trust this knowledge. I do not trust anything about anything. And, anyway, is it impossible there could be an article about a man who was mugged, beaten and mugged, and left in an alleyway somewhere? A man like me? No—I feel this is a very real possibility.

Along with a bottle of water and a small tub of aspirin, I carry the paper to the counter and set the items down. “And,” I say, scanning the sandwich board above the elderly woman’s head, “a turkey on white, please.” Not because I have a preference, but because the turkey on white is on special and it is the first sandwich that catches my eye on the sandwich board. I do not know if I like it or not, but it is the first thing I see. Also, I am ravenous.

“No—closed.”

“I’m sorry?”

The woman waves a hand—flutters it up and down, up and down—and when she looks at me, I can see the way her eyes have gone all narrow with impatience and disdain. The lines of her face are so deep they look like knife wounds.

“No sa’wich now,” the woman intones, still fluttering her hand. “Is closed. Is late; is closed.”

“Then just this,” I say, sliding the newspaper, aspirin, and bottled water over to the cash register. “Oh—wait. Damn.” I shake my head, embarrassed. I am a fool. “I’m sorry. I don’t have any money.”

“Hey?” says the woman.

Holding up my empty hands, I repeat, “I’m sorry. No money.”

“Ahhh,” says the woman, disgusted. She snatches my items from the counter and buries them somewhere down below. Then that fluttering hand appears over the counter—goodbye, goodbye, goodbye. It is not her intention to waste good heat on nonpaying customers.

“Sorry,” I say, and cross the small shop toward the door.

I only pause once, briefly, as my eyes fall on a tiny red and blue painted gumball machine, its circular glass fishbowl half-filled with tiny colored balls.

Then, a moment later, I am back out in the night.





TWO





Lost, I meander in the drizzling rain for some time, the black sky highlighted with the dull sodium pulse of city lights along the horizon. All of a sudden, the city is not completely alien to me: I can recall certain street names and find a haunting familiarity with some street corners and specific buildings. It is the acid of déjà vu burning through the fabric veiling my mind’s eye. It takes reading the street signs and spotting the buildings to remind me that this city is familiar, that this place may actually be home for me.

At one point, I crowd beneath a bus stop portico to examine a large map detailing the different bus routes. Two homeless men huddled together on a bench, sharing a fibrous charcoal-colored blanket, eye me with incredulity. I locate the you are here asterisk then, tracing with one long, white finger, find St. Paul Street. It is the address written on my hand. I am not far—just a few blocks. I have been walking in circles, it seems.

“Baltimore,” I say to the two homeless men. It is not a question. I am merely speaking to hear the words. Like a toddler who walks not to get someplace but simply because he can. “This is Baltimore.”

The homeless men ignore me.

In the dark, I hurry along the avenue and, eventually, cross over to St. Paul Street. A misty rain radiates like a halo at each lamppost. Around and above me, the limestone and sandstone buildings press in to crowd me. The fa?ades are old and straight, rigid like arthritic men, ornamented with intricate brickwork and elaborate arches. The street seems to narrow and I feel my breath catch momentarily in my throat. Am I claustrophobic? I do not know. Am I hypoglycemic? Homosexual? Racist? Fascist? Nothing—

Nothing.

My mind is an empty web.

I have to review the address on my palm once more in order to locate the appropriate building. An icy finger of fear prods the base of my spine when I realize the dampness of the night, coupled with my carelessness, has smeared some of the writing. Still, it is legible. Crossing St. Paul, I stand for a moment in the center of the empty, darkened street, turning in a full circle while watching all the lights in the windows of the row homes shine through the night. This specific street is foreign to me. I could be standing in the middle of Cairo, or some remote village in South America. Detroit. Bermuda. Bangladesh.

I think, You are here.

I think, Believe.

Headlights glimmer farther down the street, heading toward me. I hurry to the other side and watch from the curb as a small, red Triumph with a convertible top sleeks by. I know cars. I recognize it as an old Triumph.