For the third time that day, Julio was walking the length of Walnut Street. The drunken tramp was still ladling obscenities at everyone near 18th, and a very non-committal protest had broken out in grounds of the university near 33rd. But it was the first day of summer and the joggers near the Schuylkill trail were breaking into the running shoes they had bought at full price. Clumsy tourists flocked in mild disappointment near the Liberty bell on 6th, and children fumbled about in overalls at the train station near 50th. But it was the first day of summer, and there were holiday rainbow lights perched on the window of the tattered apartment of a girl Julio used to see a few months ago.
He walked across Philadelphia like it was a juvenile grid of roads and people and dogs and rickety buildings. On few days the city walked with him, but mostly it was too tired.
Julio drove a cab for money in the evenings, all the way into midnight. At the brief training program by the cab agency, he was instructed to be warm and cheery, ask for music and heating preferences. He was instructed to sympathize, apologize and organize convenience for his passengers. Julio did this by crushing the remains of his cigarette and rolling down the windows.
He had moved to the city as an apprehensive grad student, trying and failing miserably to cultivate an aura of effortless ambition. Stumbling through his classes, eating cold pizza and drinking inexpensive beer by the river, he fell into a liking, if not love of the chessboard city. Then he met the girl, Anna, found himself in fatal obsession with her freckles and open toed sandals. For the first time in his life he would wake up and want to kiss her on the forehead, tickle her while she picked her avocados. He surprised her with flowers at the coffee shop during her shift breaks, read his favorite children's stories to her in bed. She was pleasant but not overtly remarkable, but the manner of their meeting in a second-hand book store, the unfolding of summer with drinks before and after dinner, made Julio seize her like all the poetry that would walk into his life, singing of destiny and happily-ever-afters. He did not absolutely believe that, but like all cowards oscillating between the pits of cynicism and clouds of euphoria, he held on tightly. He did not exactly tell her that he might be in love, knowing fully well that she would laugh sarcastically if he did.
This went by in a few blinks, and it was not surprising when Anna, an ambitious girl of twenty three, slipped out of the city in the last Greyhound to New York, to look for a job while she lived with some friends. Julio did not exactly ask her not to go, he stared blankly at the ceiling as she packed. You need to be more put together and grown-up, she insisted. You have talent, you just needed direction, she insisted. I never meant to hurt you, she insisted.
Over the last days of summer, Julio drank excessively, exchanged wads of money for poor quality marijuana at the fringes of the city, bothered strangers with loud descriptions of how Anna had broken his heart, how Philadelphia had broken his heart.
He also found his bittersweet excuse to drop out of school, completing the final chunk of a painfully cliched story he would never write.
The years that followed were slow and comfortable in their monotony. At the brief interview for his driver's job, he dramatically broke down and rendered a version of his break-up. His passengers would be treated to similar renditions, though they grew violently tragic or sweetly nostalgic, depending on his mood that night. In the theatrical ones, Anna had left him for an ugly millionaire, leaving the humble engagement ring he had given her on the dresser. In the lighter ones, she had been cheating on her husband with him, and he had discovered their hideout. Their reactions were varied; some of the young people would shift uneasily and avert their eyes, trying to talk about the awful heat wave they were expecting, while the more sensitive ones would cluck their tongues in mild sympathy. The daintier older women would gently pat his shoulder and wipe a tear while their solemn husbands would ask him to get it together and move on, because he deserved happiness.
Julio went to bed in the early hours of the mornings, fuller and rounder from sips of pink wine and feedback he had garnered. He cut the calls from his mother, who was harried from her own divorce, living her days frivolously and bitterly. She texted him with details of more respectable jobs she could get him, which he deleted. He cut the calls from the few friends he remembered from college, consciously trying to forget every stray memory that did not fit the story of tragic lover/loser he had weaved. He dated sparsely, every girl leaving his apartment angry and hurt. Around midday he awoke and greedily ate croissants from one of the bakeries where he believed he had sat across from Anna, tracing his fingers over a spot she had probably laid down her glasses, and making sure the servers knew. After that he walked across the city he still accused of betraying him, looking for the direction he was determined not to find. In his seeming insanity he remained calm and steady, fulfilled by the unhappiness he wallowed in.
It was his sixth ride, the night was still young. He stopped the car while one of the skinny girls retched by the bushes. "She used to drink too much, Anna. One time she broke the heel of her shoe and I had to carry her all the way home.", Julio was telling anyone who would listen. He heard a nearly passed out girl ask her boyfriend if he would do the same for her, and smiled with what he believed was a pained expression. The drunken party was dropped off at a holiday inn on Spruce, and they fist-bumped him gratefully.
One girl remained in the cab, fiddling with her earphones while Julio tried to look at her pleasant, unremarkable face. She seemed quite disinterested in his story. When he pulled over outside her house, she came up to his window and tapped on the glass.
"Goodnight Julio. It was nice seeing you again".
He looked down at the name on his phone and burst out laughing. 'Annabel Carter', it read. He was still laughing when the lights went out, one by one.
Julio had forgotten, or perhaps never really known Anna's full name.
He walked across Philadelphia like it was a juvenile grid of roads and people and dogs and rickety buildings. On few days the city walked with him, but mostly it was too tired.
Julio drove a cab for money in the evenings, all the way into midnight. At the brief training program by the cab agency, he was instructed to be warm and cheery, ask for music and heating preferences. He was instructed to sympathize, apologize and organize convenience for his passengers. Julio did this by crushing the remains of his cigarette and rolling down the windows.
He had moved to the city as an apprehensive grad student, trying and failing miserably to cultivate an aura of effortless ambition. Stumbling through his classes, eating cold pizza and drinking inexpensive beer by the river, he fell into a liking, if not love of the chessboard city. Then he met the girl, Anna, found himself in fatal obsession with her freckles and open toed sandals. For the first time in his life he would wake up and want to kiss her on the forehead, tickle her while she picked her avocados. He surprised her with flowers at the coffee shop during her shift breaks, read his favorite children's stories to her in bed. She was pleasant but not overtly remarkable, but the manner of their meeting in a second-hand book store, the unfolding of summer with drinks before and after dinner, made Julio seize her like all the poetry that would walk into his life, singing of destiny and happily-ever-afters. He did not absolutely believe that, but like all cowards oscillating between the pits of cynicism and clouds of euphoria, he held on tightly. He did not exactly tell her that he might be in love, knowing fully well that she would laugh sarcastically if he did.
This went by in a few blinks, and it was not surprising when Anna, an ambitious girl of twenty three, slipped out of the city in the last Greyhound to New York, to look for a job while she lived with some friends. Julio did not exactly ask her not to go, he stared blankly at the ceiling as she packed. You need to be more put together and grown-up, she insisted. You have talent, you just needed direction, she insisted. I never meant to hurt you, she insisted.
Over the last days of summer, Julio drank excessively, exchanged wads of money for poor quality marijuana at the fringes of the city, bothered strangers with loud descriptions of how Anna had broken his heart, how Philadelphia had broken his heart.
He also found his bittersweet excuse to drop out of school, completing the final chunk of a painfully cliched story he would never write.
The years that followed were slow and comfortable in their monotony. At the brief interview for his driver's job, he dramatically broke down and rendered a version of his break-up. His passengers would be treated to similar renditions, though they grew violently tragic or sweetly nostalgic, depending on his mood that night. In the theatrical ones, Anna had left him for an ugly millionaire, leaving the humble engagement ring he had given her on the dresser. In the lighter ones, she had been cheating on her husband with him, and he had discovered their hideout. Their reactions were varied; some of the young people would shift uneasily and avert their eyes, trying to talk about the awful heat wave they were expecting, while the more sensitive ones would cluck their tongues in mild sympathy. The daintier older women would gently pat his shoulder and wipe a tear while their solemn husbands would ask him to get it together and move on, because he deserved happiness.
Julio went to bed in the early hours of the mornings, fuller and rounder from sips of pink wine and feedback he had garnered. He cut the calls from his mother, who was harried from her own divorce, living her days frivolously and bitterly. She texted him with details of more respectable jobs she could get him, which he deleted. He cut the calls from the few friends he remembered from college, consciously trying to forget every stray memory that did not fit the story of tragic lover/loser he had weaved. He dated sparsely, every girl leaving his apartment angry and hurt. Around midday he awoke and greedily ate croissants from one of the bakeries where he believed he had sat across from Anna, tracing his fingers over a spot she had probably laid down her glasses, and making sure the servers knew. After that he walked across the city he still accused of betraying him, looking for the direction he was determined not to find. In his seeming insanity he remained calm and steady, fulfilled by the unhappiness he wallowed in.
It was his sixth ride, the night was still young. He stopped the car while one of the skinny girls retched by the bushes. "She used to drink too much, Anna. One time she broke the heel of her shoe and I had to carry her all the way home.", Julio was telling anyone who would listen. He heard a nearly passed out girl ask her boyfriend if he would do the same for her, and smiled with what he believed was a pained expression. The drunken party was dropped off at a holiday inn on Spruce, and they fist-bumped him gratefully.
One girl remained in the cab, fiddling with her earphones while Julio tried to look at her pleasant, unremarkable face. She seemed quite disinterested in his story. When he pulled over outside her house, she came up to his window and tapped on the glass.
"Goodnight Julio. It was nice seeing you again".
He looked down at the name on his phone and burst out laughing. 'Annabel Carter', it read. He was still laughing when the lights went out, one by one.
Julio had forgotten, or perhaps never really known Anna's full name.
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