a day in the life

in my current profession, i am only given a moment's glance at a person. there is no investment of significant time or energy; there is meerly the mutual exchange of presence. i rap with one or smile at another, sometimes there is a passing of money and they are out the door, their purchases swinging from their hips.

now, my profession isn't a dangerous nor even an exotic one. it's a minimum wage, part-time one. however, on this particular day, a peculiar young man walked in, possessing a very peculiar way about him. he was dressed very professionally, that isn't to be confused with sharply, but he had set up the canvas of himself unlike anyone else in hilo. he was, what you might call an FOB, meaning he was Fresh Off the Boat. but upon which boat had he descended? that was the question i was trying to figure out when i first waved my hand to him in a friendly greeting. he was young and wore beige men's dress pants, his shoes were unremarkable and conservative. he wore what appeared to be a navy blue polo or perhaps a collared shirt under a navy blue sweater. over this he had a beige colored jacket, something like a fancy sports jacket from the 80s. perhaps that's what made him seem so odd, his wearing clothes from a time period he had not even been born in. sure, vintage, has been the style as of late, but this wasn't "cool" or "hip" vintage, this was just strange. he should have been an older man, but i could tell by his soft face still cushioned with baby fat, that he was barely 20. his back pack looked like the shell of a hermit. i half expected him to crawl inside and wait until i had dimmed the lights or stepped into another room before re-emerging.

naturally i found him interesting. it wasn't until he removed his backpack and laid it on the floor, that i began to worry about just how peculiar he might be. he began rummaging in one of the pockets and gave me a quick smile. he was going to shoot me no doubt. i was troubled thinking of how i was going to duck behind the counter. i also didn't want to make any sudden erratic movements just in case i stood a chance of making it out alive. he kept searching and i kept thinking of how exactly i was going to duck and call 911 at the same time. i watched every breath he took and saw him ease something small and black out of his backpack. it was angular and dark. in the wash of the windows and with the light behind him i couldn't quite catch it's true shape. he leveled it at me.

did i see my life flash before my eyes? no. i had some sense that my imagination might just be getting the better of me. but i was fearful nonetheless. i stared hard at him, trying to read his intent. his eyes were not malicious, rather they were youthful and light like a little boy. still i wasn't convinced that he wasn't going to shoot me. he stood not more than ten feet from me. i watched his eyes the entire time. the intent is in the eyes before it reaches any other part of the body. he smiled again. he seemed to like having my undivided attention.

suddenly i heard a click and i blinked. i was still standing. however, had he been holding a gun and had it been loaded and had he truly fired, i would have been dead. this wasn't a story i was writing anymore. it wasn't something i could edit so that the character ducks in time. i was as helpless as all my characters. that would have been my end and no amount of tapping on the key board could have brought me back. everything could have changed, ultimately, absolutely, forever.

this thought still scares me. staring at this young man, i couldn't quite tell if i was real or not real. had i imagined this whole thing? for all my irrational fears, imaginary fears, i knew this was real. and though he didn't actually shoot me, he could have. there was no way i would have been able to stop him.

what, then, was in his hands? after the click and after i released myself from the blink (brink), i spied what he held. it was rectangle that had snapped open revealing a lens. did he take a picture? if so, then he had, in a literal way of speaking, shot me. this was a novel feeling. i was the one being observed and recorded. i was the one whose image had been captured and fixed. how the tables had turned. and it felt close to death.

i walked up to him, hesitantly, but putting on a air of rooughness, like a tough cowboy character that didn't die with the first shot. i didn't want him to see my fear. the closer i got to him, the more nervous he became.

"what do you have there?" i asked and looked closely at what he was holding. binoculars. collapsible binoculars. i laughed. i see, i thought, i see.

"they're just like the ones you have" and he pointed to an identical pair in one of our display cases. he was right. just like the ones we have. but somehow they seem so much safer when they aren't pointed directly at you.

"well, that's the truth isn't it?"

he looked around a little more and i kept a watchful eye on him, asking him questions all the while. how close he had gotten to me. how many details he took in with that motion, that act, those binoculars. he had too much of me and i wanted some back. i plumbed his history. learned of his studies and his career plans. i asked him where he was from and he replied Hilo. i told him he didn't quite fit the bill for someone from Hilo.

"yes, i've always been the strange one in the family"

i smiled at this. "yes, i feel that way about myself sometimes"

his young boy smile revealed itself again. i had no fear of him now. he parted with a little of me and i held a little of him. a fair trade i thought and felt my aching chest where my heart had quit beating for a moment or two.