A Steaming Hot, Summer Day in Fresno

Barder was normal looking dog by most standards. You wouldn’t think anything of it if you saw him walking down the street. But he was not a normal dog, he was a troublemaker. Wherever he went, trouble came along with him.

It was a steaming hot, summer day in Fresno, California. The humidity was creeping up which made your skin moist and your hair cling to your body. No one was walking outside, which gave the streets a silent, peaceful vibe.

Billy was a young Caucasian boy who stood out on a smoldering hot day like today. He wore long jean pants, a huge navy sweatshirt, hiking boots and a strange orange turban. Billy was as sensitive to the sun as you can get, he was forced to always cover up, even on hot beautiful days like this. The orange turban was a fun way for him to protect his scalp and face from the harsh rays of the sun. He was always picked on by the kids in his neighborhood and so, preferred to spend his time alone.

Today, he was walking to the old antique shop on the corner of Charles St. to buy a teacup his mother had asked him to get. On his way, he passed by a normal looking dog in the shade of the shops awning. He reached down and patted the dog before opening toe shop door. The door was slow moving due t years and years of wear, and so Billy didn’t notice the dog sneak in behind him. The store was surprisingly packed for a Wednesday afternoon, but it was still eerie and quiet, as most antique shops are.  No one noticed him (or the dog) as they walked in.

He glanced around, taking his time, he loved antiques, they made him imagine life in another time and place. He silently tiptoed around, trying not to disturb anything for fear of angering the old, ill-tempered, Indian shop owner.

He was gazing into a glass cabinet containing old, signed baseballs when he heard a sequence of loud, deafening crashes beside him. He looked to the floor and saw the dog he had seen outside the shop happily panting surrounded by shards of an old porcelain tea set. Before Billy could think the manager was in front of him yelling at the top of his lungs. All he thought to do was run. He pulled the dog and ran as fast as his small legs could carry him towards the entrance of the store. He looked back and saw nearly the entire store chasing after him and that dog. Billy pushed open the door and immediately a wave of thick air filled his lungs. He jumped on the dog like he was riding a horse. It was a big dog compared to him so he expected it would be a faster way of getting them away from the angry mob of antique-ers. He yelled “GO!” But what happened next was not what he expected, he was no longer on the ground. Actually, he was nowhere near the hot asphalt of the street. He felt a cool breeze, he looked down, the ground was much farther away than he had expected. He was flying. 

An Old, Worn CD Player

Neither of them knew what they were getting into. She was a young white woman with plain modest clothing and pants worn a bit too high. Her hair is long, frizzy and dirty brown. She was heading to her job as an assistant for Bank of America. Patricia Newhouse was traveling from her apartment in Queens to the Manhattan headquarters located on the lower west side. She had missed the number 4 train which would have take her straight to her building on Broadway between Barday and Liberty. Instead she has to take the 5 train which brought her one block from where she would have rather been.

He was a large heavy built, older black man. He wore a cream colored hat with a dark navy blue windbreaker. He carried a newspaper that he picked up on the way from his house, a bag containing a new set of headphones and a couple of jazz cd’s from the local electronics store, and an old wooden cane to support his ailing knee. He was on his way to the grocery store he ran on Canal Street in China Town. He too was running late, and had to take the 5 train instead of the 6. George Franklin got on the subway from his small cramped apartment in Brooklyn, which he shared with his only daughter and 6 year old granddaughter.

He got on the train and took a seat beside an average sized, young, Caucasian woman with long frizzy dirty brown hair. She dressed modestly and carried a large black bag. She wore large black headphones attached to an old, worn CD player. He couldn’t help but overhear that she was listening to the same CD he had bought previously that morning. He wouldn’t expect a young, modern woman to be listening to Jazz.  Most of the young people he saw on the subway blasted their loud, heavy base, music on their tiny brightly colored ipods with their pristine miniscule white earbuds. This girl was different.

“You like Miles Davis?” He inquired, pointing at the new CD he bought.

“Yeah!” She said, slightly caught off guard by this mans kind curiosity. “You too?”

“Yeah….I used to play in a jazz band when I was younger, o’course. But we used too git all our inspiration an such from guys like Miles Davis, an Duke Ellington. We was pretty damn good if you ask me.”

Patricia, a former musician herself, found that she was strangely intrigues by this mans tale. They continued to talk. They were both so involved that they both missed their stops and did not realize what had happened until the train stopped and turned back around in the direction it had come from.

When it came time for them to part, they exchanged phone numbers. Little did they know, this seemingly insignificant meeting would lead to changes in their lives that they never would have expected…