The Manrilla Blog | Life. Art. Religion. Culture.

It wasn’t like him to stay late at work. It was as if he didn’t get enough of work. He worked too much as it was. But he felt chatty; something seemed to keep him on, conversing with the next shift for a few extra moments. He looked down at his watch and saw that it was growing late. He hated missing the trolley; he’d have to wait another half-hour if he did and he had homework to do when he arrived home. Grabbing up his backpack he made his way to the elevator and out through the lobby.

The weather was brisk outside. Autumn came on swiftly, bringing with it a strong, cold breeze, reminding him he should dress heavier. There were few people on the streets now. The cold weather kept those who were out scurrying for cars and buses, any exit out of the frigid night temperature.

The trolley stop was filling up as he descended the stairs. People huddled amongst themselves, trying to stay warm. An older man lay on the last bench, wrapped in dirty blankets, his head propped up on the armrest as a make-shift pillow. His snoring reverberated off the high ceilings, making a constant low mumble.

He stared out the back of the trolley window, watching the platform slowly fade away into the encroaching darkness. He didn’t even clearly remember getting on. The window was a thick, semi-plastic type of glass, well-worn by years of grit kicked up against it from the rear of the trolley. Its opaque view gave anything lit a soft glow, almost as if looking in on a dream. He stared out into the darkness, watching the intermittent lanterns fade in and out, a hypnotic dance of light and shadow.

His attention was brought back as the trolley exited the access tunnel, shifting to the streets. As the trolley pulled out from the tunnel, police lights flashed, bathing the area in red and blue pulses. On the street were a number of transportation authority vehicles and two trolleys, both of which were stopped in the middle of the road. Police officers walked about the scene, questioning one another as well as an older couple who seemed to have struck on the trolleys with their car. He rolled his eyes, exasperated, and asked the driver to exit here.

The wind had died down a notch. That was the first thing he noticed. He quickly surveyed the scene and proceeded up the street. Only a few blocks from home, he thought to himself. Strapping on his backpack, he headed uphill towards his apartment.

Lost in thought again, it wasn’t until the second or third time he realized someone was talking to him.

“You walkin’ this way?”, a woman’s voice asked him.

Looking down, he noticed he was walking in the street, in the middle of the bike lane. “Yeah. You?”. He wondered if she was a student from one of his classes. He didn’t seem to recognize her. He crossed the bike lane and walked up on the sidewalk, joining her.

She was a small, petite girl, dressed in a grey sweatshirt, covered by a rust-colored vest. She had one small piercing on her nose, a small brass stud. “You live around here?”, she asked.

He looked down at her, suspicious for a moment. “Yeah, I live a few blocks from here.” He glanced behind him for a moment, to make sure no one was coming up from the rear.

“You mind if I walk with you? I’m headed to 47th Street.”

“No, not at all.” Maybe she was just reluctant to walk by herself, he wondered. The neighborhood was dark, and despite being populated with many students, it might have appeared eerie for her, he thought.

“So…, you workin’ late? You a student?”, she mustered in a confident voice.

“Yes. To both. I work at a law firm and go to school full-time.”

“What are you studying?”, she asked, taking a puff off of a cigarette.

“I just declared my major today, actually. Sociology. Minor in religion.”

“Religion, huh? What do you want to do with sociology?”

“Teach. Research. Go into academia, most likely. You?”

“I go to USP. Studying physical therapy. Health sciences.”

“USP?”, he asked. “What’s that?”

She giggled. “Yeah, no one seems to know about it. We’re so tucked away here in West Philly. USP – University of the Sciences in Philadelphia. Lot’s of people go there to study pharmacy and stuff.”

“Sounds neat.” He wasn’t quite sure of what to make of her. Awful trusting, if you ask me. He thought she should be more careful walking around at night, talking to strangers. They walked the next block in silence.

“So you’re not from around here. Where are you from?” She looked up at him, smiling.

“Detroit.”, he said coughing slightly. Where did she think this was going?

“I knew you weren’t from here. Your accent is funny. I’m from Chester. What brought you to Philly? School?”

“No, not exactly.” He looked over at her, seeing she was not going to be content with short answers. “I came here from a number of other places. San Francisco. Madison, Wisconsin. Durham. Santa Barbara.”

“Wow. You move around a lot. Why so many places?”

“Ha!”, he chuckled. “If I knew the answer to that…, well, let’s just say that I might have wasted a little less gas. And time.”

She stared at him eagerly. Sighing, he continued. “I wanted to get out. See the world a little bit. I didn’t know what I wanted to do when I was younger – when I was your age”, he laughed. “So, I had the chance to get out and I did. And ever since the first I’ve picked up and moved around several times since then. I went to California to pursue a dream and found that at the end of the journey, I was no closer to finding that dream than when I left.”

“That sounds really awesome. I’ve never really gone anywhere. Just trying to go to school. But I feel your way’s better. So many kids I see in school take classes have no idea what they’re doing and then drop out. They waste money and time. Maybe if they did like you and just took a few years off and worked, lived a little, things might be better.”

“Maybe”, he said in a non-committal voice. “You might think that. Sometimes I wish I hadn’t taken so much time. Now I’m trying to make up for lost time. And that’s hard when you’re my age. How old are you?”, he asked, smirking at her. She carried herself so seriously.

“I’m twenty one”, she said smugly. She knew she was acting pretentious. “How old are you?”, she accused him.

Smiling, he said, “Let’s just say I’m older than you. By a number of years.”

They had stopped in front of a building with a green awning. The front light casted harsh shadows on their faces. “Well, this is my stop”, she said somewhat reluctantly. “It was really nice talking with you.” Extending her hand she said, “My name’s Kattie.”

Her hand was the size of a child’s, he thought. “Marc”, he said simply. “Have a good night. Be careful out here. Not everyone’s a nice guy.”

She smiled back, “Okay. I will. Bye.”