Don't Forget to Write

Racial Differences and Birthday Plans

The sky was darkening and the street-lamps were glowing faintly over the quiet sidewalks when I started my walk home with heavy legs and an exhausted mind. Everything was tired and sore except for my eyes and ears. My eyes followed every figure in the shadows - innocent people, stationary object tucked behind front stoops, low bushes - everything seemed suspect to producing a violent threat. My ears prickled at the rattling leaves on the sidewalk and the flapping wings of pigeons, it all sounded like somebody reaching for a gun or getting ready to attack. I knew I was being crazy, I told myself self to toughen up. I tried to talk myself out of being shaken up by the robbery the whole walk home. It's not like he fired the gun, I told myself, he just pointed it at you. Don't be such a little bitch. And he probably just guessed at where you lived, he doesn't actually know you live in apartment 21 of this building. And even if he does actually know, what is he gonna do? Kill me?"

The walk up the six flights of stairs was slow, my feet sliding onto each dusty marble step. I opened the apartment door, locked it behind me, dropped my bags in my room, double checked that the apartment door was locked, and went into the kitchen. Bruno was in the living room doing homework.

"Peter," he said without looking up from his papers

"Bruno," I said as I opened the cabinet over our stove. It was mostly empty except for two loaves of bread, peanut butter, jelly, Nutella, and ramen noodles. Though Bruno and I both had the fortune and good grades to warrant scholarship and grant money to cover our tuition, the other things like rent, transportation, food, etc., would never be covered. My share all had to come out of a reserve account from years of working and saving up Jersey, as well as selling many of my belongings (including my precious car, a 1998 Acura Integra LS). Naturally, my standard meal was peanut butter and jelly, for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. When I got sick of that, I switched the jelly for Nutella, and when I felt like treating myself, I cooked up some of that spicy ramen.

"Got any plans for your 21st?" he asked as I spread peanut butter on whole wheat.

"Nah."

He looked up from his papers, "What do you mean 'nah,' aren't you excited?"

I shrugged, "never really celebrated my birthday."

"But this is different, it's 21."

"So I can just legally do what I've already been doing with a fake I.D. for years?"

"Yeah, but now you won't have to worry about getting kicked out."

"I never had to worry about that. Look at me. People think I'm in my thirties."

"Yeah you do look pretty old. I think it's the eyes. You got some old man eyes."

"I've been told it's because I'm wise beyond my years."

"There's a difference between being wise, and being a wise-ass."

"Ha."

"I'm not sure you're wise, maybe you just have the weathered eyes of a person who saw too much too young."

"Gee, thanks."

"Ah never mind, I don't want to get into that with you right now. I haven't had enough alcohol for us to talk about or deep dark personal histories."

"Agreed," I said through a mouthful of peanut butter.

"But if you shaved that beard you'd probably look your age."

"I like having a beard."

"What are you some kind of hipster?"

"No, I just like having a beard."