It was a Wednesday. I hated Wednesdays. Wednesdays were the worst. I was on my way to work when I came to a stoplight and forgot to take my feet of the pedals of my bicycle. Hopelessly trying to regain my composure and dignity after the fall, I stood up in a way that looked like I was trying to say, "I don't care, and neither should you." When I was finally able to start taking in the world again, I was pleased to see that no one had noticed, save one person: Rockefeller. He was standing on the other side of the street, doubled over so far over laughing that it looked like his red suit was folded up and hanging on a hanger.
I wanted to hit him. I wanted to leave my bike right there in the street, sprint at him headlong and tackle him. But I didn't. I just watched him not give a damn about me, except for the comedic value I brought to his life.
Two cycles of the stoplight later, he was still laughing. His brighter than bright red suit bouncing merrily. He abruptly stopped.
"What's the matter Rockefeller?!" I yelled at him. Like a bull, I hate him so much as he shooted me with arrows. (This sentence was written by a committee process)
Rockefeller rolled his eyes. All the courage I had mustered to shout at him was now gone. I remembered the other people around me, and looked about. Surely one of them would be laughing at the ridiculous suit Rockefeller was wearing. No one was there. The whole city was empty. We were the only two people who lived in the whole place. I stood there on the edge of the street, in front of a stoplight that was now cycling so fast that it was as if it had been replaced with a green and red strobe light. I could see my shadow racing out before me. Time and space were racing each other and, like usual, time was winning. Rockefeller was staring at me still, not in a mad way, not in an insulting way, just in a dismissive way. Like he was staring at me without even seeing me.
Then I realized he didn't see me. He was staring at something behind me. I whipped around. "Oh God," I thought. The city was full of people again. I snapped back to Rockefeller but he was gone. I rolled my eyes towards the spot where he had been standing, pretending that he was there so that I could pretend that he wasn't there. He hated it when I did that.
Reflexively, I looked at my watch, not that I knew what time it should have been. Judging on when I left my apartment, I had probably been standing there for a few minutes. Putting my feet back on the pedals of my stupid bicycle, I was about to start pumping again, when I saw him.
He hadn't shaved since I saw him last, the once-crisp edges of his goatee now starting to soften as hair filled in around it. His head was still quite bald, though. I had named him since I last saw him. Charles. Not much of a name for a Filipino, but that was his name. I decided that I would call him Charlie most of the time, but that wouldn't be the name he'd sign on his checks. It also wasn't the name he had printed on his business cards. Those said "Charles. Genius at-large"
It takes an interesting kind of man to put that on a business card. He needed to be confident enough in his intelligence that he could pass tests thrown his way because of the card. He also needed to be good-humored enough to take the constant ribbing the card certainly brought. But that's why he was so perfect. Charlie, the perfect Filipino.
He was standing right in front of me, it was a good thing I checked before starting to pedal, or I would have run straight into him. He stood there in the crosswalk in front of me, calm and collected in his cream-colored suit, a half smirk painted on his face.
I remembered our last encounter, and judging by the look on his face, I could tell he remembered it just as clearly as I had.
"Charlie," I started to move my bike out of the road, so we could continue our conversation. "How are things?"
But that suave bastard didn't answer. He turned around and started walking away from me. I began walking after him, wheeling my bike beside me. Even with his back to me, he was still staring at me, I knew he was. He knew how uncomfortable I felt in the itchy silence following behind him instep.
Washington is a strange sort-of city. I don't think I know a single person who lives there. Sure there are some people who happen to be in the city at times, and some happen to get some mail there everyday except Sunday, but it's less about the city and more about government. If that weren't there, nobody would ever get mail there, Sundays or no Sundays. Other than Phillip, me and Charlie. If it weren't for the government, we'd be living here like kings. All these office chairs and no one to sit in them. It would be perfect.
Charlie was just a few feet ahead of me when he stopped to toss some change in the cup of a homeless man. I had forgotten about them. Homeless people live in D.C., too. Take out the government and you've got me, Phillip, Charlie, and the homeless people. This man had large, out-of-place hoop earrings and was carrying a jumble of chicken wire. I couldn't figure out why he'd have chicken wire, which was a refreshing feeling. Maybe that's why Charlie liked him.
As I kept following Charlie, I grew tired of wheeling my bike and leaned it against a tree that looked just as awkward and out of place in this city as I did.
"You stay there." I shot it a stern look to make sure that it knew I would be very mad if it wasn't there when I came back for it.
