And very nearby…
The sun and sky were bland.
Colors were not quite right.
Everything felt dim and dull . . . zapped of joy and luster.
Everywhere looked closed-off and hostile.
Had these same streets not once been somehow nicer, and maybe less littered by scads of such forlorn souls drifting along in downcast shambles?
Johnston sped beyond Holding Ave., pulling up fast to make a yellow light, and then pumping his brakes as he saw from the gauge just how far he was over the limit.
A large brown van ahead signaled to pull out in front.
Johnston slowed a tad more, holding until the van began to emerge. Then he sped up.
The van showed no signs of stopping.
Johnston counted seconds, convinced he had judged correctly.
One, one-thousand; two, one-thousand; three…
He whisked by, careful not to look in the direction of the blaring, retro horn blast.
A moment later, he returned to considering how happy he was about his hair, having shorn it neat and tight the night before. Simple and professional, it felt fresh on his head and cool on his neck.
But then there was the shirt. He could not be more aware of his yellow polo’s worn-out bottom button, its sad thread now several loops loose and obvious. He all but felt the speckled star-field stains that glimmered across his chest. Irregular fading gave his sleeves the look of having been splashed with mild acid.
And he knew his car could only be described as intensely nondescript and shabby.
To Johnston’s left, next to a grimy pole set to mark some forgettable locale, stood a young, odd-looking man. Pudgy and soft, the young man’s hair was painted black with blood-red tips. His face was powdery white, with greasy charcoal splotched about the eyes. He wore an ink-black coat, cut at its edges to strips and tendrils, which hung still in the windless, seedy heat of midday sun.
Johnston glared directly into the stranger’s eyes, forcing them with piercing ferocity back from whatever distance like an unyielding death-trap magnet.
Then, driving on, Johnston almost nodded to himself in satisfaction at the unspoken acknowledgment he knew had just occurred. His stare alone had been sufficient to draw a sharp enough distinction. He had needed no words to clearly declare, “You can paint yourself however you want. But you and I both know that you are really nothing. Look at me. I look normal—this shirt, this car, this haircut—but you can see in my face something more than you will ever reach. LOOK AT ME!”
He took a deep breath.
No use getting all worked up.
Not too far ahead, a car facing Johnston inched to its intersection and halted right at the line, ready to turn across.
Johnston’s light leapt from green to yellow. He sped up a little.
Now, Johnston knew for sure that he was not a violent person. He had never, ever been violent.
But he learned that day if he ever found himself thrown into a game of chicken, he would also never lose.
Never.
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