The Bend in Buckley Road
Dec. 30th, 2008 09:05 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thisnewdayI never knew her name. Only that she lived in the nice looking two-story, with the studio grand in the front picture window, at the bend in Buckley Road. And that she looked awfully good in the lycra running shorts that she wore every morning as we passed on the shoulder of the road, me on my hand-built mountain bike on my way to work and she on her way home from her daily run. She was in her mid-thirties, I was in my mid-fifties, and that was ten years ago.
This morning, I passed by her house on the way to pick up my daughter's boyfriend who was stranded at a car repair shop outside the city and needed a ride home. He needed a ride because it was 25 degrees outside with blowing snow and a wind-chill in the low teens. And because he was wearing khaki shorts, an unlined Hollister windbreaker, and running shoes with no socks. And because his cell phone might've frozen to the side of his face if he'd had to walk.
The repair shop, it turns out, was situated on an odd little island of commercial property in front of the sprawling suburban campus where I'd been recruited to teach when I first came to Central New York, forty-some years ago. If he'd said, "Oh, it's right in front of Liverpool High School," I'd have known instantly where to find him. But I guess that's not something that pops up on a touch-screen or enters your head through a Bluetooth earpiece.
On the way home, I tried to engage him in conversation. My daughter says that we haven't given him a chance, haven't talked to him, haven't gotten to know him. When we passed the house at the bend, I mentioned the girl, how she would smile and wave as we passed. I didn't mention that I wish I'd known her name, that I looked forward to seeing her every day, that even though we never spoke I'll never forget her.
He wouldn't have heard me anyway because the tiny screen that he held kept lighting up and because, you know, there are some things in life that can't be ignored...
This morning, I passed by her house on the way to pick up my daughter's boyfriend who was stranded at a car repair shop outside the city and needed a ride home. He needed a ride because it was 25 degrees outside with blowing snow and a wind-chill in the low teens. And because he was wearing khaki shorts, an unlined Hollister windbreaker, and running shoes with no socks. And because his cell phone might've frozen to the side of his face if he'd had to walk.
The repair shop, it turns out, was situated on an odd little island of commercial property in front of the sprawling suburban campus where I'd been recruited to teach when I first came to Central New York, forty-some years ago. If he'd said, "Oh, it's right in front of Liverpool High School," I'd have known instantly where to find him. But I guess that's not something that pops up on a touch-screen or enters your head through a Bluetooth earpiece.
On the way home, I tried to engage him in conversation. My daughter says that we haven't given him a chance, haven't talked to him, haven't gotten to know him. When we passed the house at the bend, I mentioned the girl, how she would smile and wave as we passed. I didn't mention that I wish I'd known her name, that I looked forward to seeing her every day, that even though we never spoke I'll never forget her.
He wouldn't have heard me anyway because the tiny screen that he held kept lighting up and because, you know, there are some things in life that can't be ignored...
