Don't Forget to Write

A Friendly Neighbor

A few days later I was beginning to have complete thoughts and could even understand full sentences and words without much delay. My mother had left the hospital bill with a note written in Portuguese on the kitchen counter - Can't help you with this, sorry. Insurance deductibles suck! The amount on the bill, despite us having great health insurance on account of my father belonging to a union, was nearly all of the money that I had left. Now, thanks to one unfriendly giant intentionally knocking my skull and splitting it in two, I was unable to play soccer, unable to think clearly, and unable to afford living. There was a copious amount rage and choice words coursing through my boiling blood, but in the end it all amounted to a simple – Fuck. Because what else was there to do or say? Shit happens. Most of it is shit you have no control over, and all you can do is try to steady yourself out keep going.

My sister drove me to the nearest train station and I rode the rails back to Manhattan. I wandered out into Penn Station. Where are the subway terminals again? I took a guess and went right, but then saw the street at the top of the stairs, so turned around. Ah, go left here, of course... Wait. Nope nope, this is the Amtrak terminal. Maybe my concussion wasn't totally healed. I stopped for a while to look up at all of the destinations for the Amtrak. I could be in DC in three hours, or Charlotte in five. I could go anywhere in the damn country from here and nobody would even know. I would start a new life with a new name, maybe I would call myself Jericho. I always liked the name Jericho. I would get bartending job, and write stories about what happened there. I'd live with a quirky roommate and a dog. I'd stay off the grid, paying for everything in cash and never using a credit card or social security number, staying detached from everything and everyone until I had saved up enough money to travel the world.

"Watch it," a portly woman said as she bumped my shoulder and brought me back to reality. She knocked the glasses off of my face. Usually, I wear contacts, on account of the fact that you shouldn't get on a soccer field with glasses on, but today I wore the glasses. I picked them up to find that, of course, they were scratched write in the center. I walked around somewhat lost for a while before finding a sign for the C Train and following it until I faltered at the gate that divided uptown from downtown, unable to remember which way Harlem was. New Yorkers don't take kindly to slow movers, so people bumped me and told me to move or fuck off. I remembered Harlem was uptown and got on the train, then got off on 145th street and started walking the wrong way for about two blocks before I realized it, then turned around.

There was a group of young kids running around the park that sat adjacent to Bradhurst Ave. The tallest one, a black boy with deep brown eyes and long hair, walked up to me. "Hey Mister,"

"What's up big man?"

"What happened to your head? Did you get in a fight?"

I had nearly forgotten about the bandages. They were probably blood-stained, which explained all the weird looks I got on the train. "Oh, this? No, no, I'm no fighter. I got this from a little accident on the soccer field."

"Did it hurt?"

"Yes. But I'm pretty tough, so it's okay."

He nodded his approval. He was still staring at me quizzically. "Are you white?"

"Uhh... It kind of depends on who you ask."

"What do you mean?"

"Some people say I'm white, some say Hispanic."

"You're kind of dark for a white boy. But pretty white at the same time."

"That's my dilemma."

"I'm gonna say you're white."