[CW: Medical discomfort (as vague metaphor for closetedness); Brief depiction of car accident aftermath.]
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May swelters into June, and Tom melts into the windowpane.
The family apartment is small, even by inner-city standards, and the only reliable place that Tom can get in any alone time is the last place anyone wants to be. A window sullied with bird shit, welcoming in sunlight during one of the hottest months of the year. A small, white fan oscillates endlessly back and forth behind him, never casting the breeze his way. And still, he sits there, indomitable, drinking in the sun, his legs in their casts sweating beneath their braces.
The rest of the household buzzes along without Tom, like the empty hiss of the airwaves when he turns the dial on his portable radio. His mama cooks eggs and leaves for work. And his little brother eats the eggs and leaves for work. And his brother's young wife cleans up after their new babe, while their old apartment gets a fresh coat of paint.
Beside this window, Tom can watch more exciting and tortuous dramas play out than the ones behind him. He hadn't been able to talk since that bus knocked him so hard into the road the doctors sewed his jaw shut to 'keep it from popping off.' But that didn't mean he couldn't hear, couldn't think. There is no dearth in his creativity. He wove whole narratives to the tunes of David Bowie and Donna Summer, the people out there on the ground just as much a source of inspiration and entertainment.
Of course, there aren't usually so many.
But from early in the morning, Tom can tell this day would be different. They huddle before the sun comes up, pasting flyers and clearing away cars. The commodious street seems barren, then. For what purpose, he doesn't know. Classical violin trills pensively out of his radio.
Then, as the sun was on the rise, so too came up the decorations. The signs, funny and crass and warm as the people who'd written them. The girls with baskets of treats and their clientele pouring out of bars with bottles and bottles of beer before noon. The revved-up motorcycles, with gritty characters clad in black and studded leather, glaring down those on the sidelines like so many gargoyles.
One man is so beautiful Tom can hardly believe his eyes. Resting after a long day of reverie, the man bends back against a rod-iron fence, holding a red balloon that bobs in his hand and against his chest like a gentle animal, and the man smiles so wide that his eyes close.
And for a day, when after so long it felt as if the world was out to get him, Tom remembers his love for the world.
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May swelters into June, and Tom melts into the windowpane.
The family apartment is small, even by inner-city standards, and the only reliable place that Tom can get in any alone time is the last place anyone wants to be. A window sullied with bird shit, welcoming in sunlight during one of the hottest months of the year. A small, white fan oscillates endlessly back and forth behind him, never casting the breeze his way. And still, he sits there, indomitable, drinking in the sun, his legs in their casts sweating beneath their braces.
The rest of the household buzzes along without Tom, like the empty hiss of the airwaves when he turns the dial on his portable radio. His mama cooks eggs and leaves for work. And his little brother eats the eggs and leaves for work. And his brother's young wife cleans up after their new babe, while their old apartment gets a fresh coat of paint.
Beside this window, Tom can watch more exciting and tortuous dramas play out than the ones behind him. He hadn't been able to talk since that bus knocked him so hard into the road the doctors sewed his jaw shut to 'keep it from popping off.' But that didn't mean he couldn't hear, couldn't think. There is no dearth in his creativity. He wove whole narratives to the tunes of David Bowie and Donna Summer, the people out there on the ground just as much a source of inspiration and entertainment.
Of course, there aren't usually so many.
But from early in the morning, Tom can tell this day would be different. They huddle before the sun comes up, pasting flyers and clearing away cars. The commodious street seems barren, then. For what purpose, he doesn't know. Classical violin trills pensively out of his radio.
Then, as the sun was on the rise, so too came up the decorations. The signs, funny and crass and warm as the people who'd written them. The girls with baskets of treats and their clientele pouring out of bars with bottles and bottles of beer before noon. The revved-up motorcycles, with gritty characters clad in black and studded leather, glaring down those on the sidelines like so many gargoyles.
One man is so beautiful Tom can hardly believe his eyes. Resting after a long day of reverie, the man bends back against a rod-iron fence, holding a red balloon that bobs in his hand and against his chest like a gentle animal, and the man smiles so wide that his eyes close.
And for a day, when after so long it felt as if the world was out to get him, Tom remembers his love for the world.