fake summer nights of december

it was in a bank on sixth avenue and 14th street that an older man told me his philosophy about living out your youth.

"you need to stay in one place only in four-year increments. just like college. it compartmentalizes your life. it's easier to remember the times you spent that way. they won't blend together like they would otherwise."

i nodded with interest while filling out a withdrawal slip.

"plus you don't need to stay in one place for more than four years. you need to move around. when you get married, when you have kids, you'll have your whole life to live in one place."

i smiled and thanked him. he nodded but seemed lost in his own thoughts, pleased with his improvised lesson. i left the bank and met my friend for lunch. we both expressed surprise at the idea of living past 28.

in a week i had sublet my apartment and sold away most of my things. it had been four years since i parked in manhattan and moved my computer and mini-fridge into a sixth floor walkup. it had been four years since i left my college campus, taking pictures with strangers and patting the communications building's brick wall one last time for good luck.

it was time to leave. the old man was right.

friends had regaled me with adventurous tales of driving cross-country, but there was no blossoming romance with these united states. there were stifling backups in thunderstorms across the midwest, detours due to snow around the rockies, a seemingly endless drive through the desert with incessant talk shows on the AM dial. i arrived in san diego california mid-afternoon on a sunday. it was dead. i felt slightly cheated, completely devoid of any victorious arrival.

things still felt like they did back east. one of my favorite little pleasures in life is the feeling you get those first few minutes in a new city. i had it at 25, driving into dallas in the rush hour traffic one friday afternoon in spring, surrounded by all the office workers heading to happy hour. there i was in my rented ford sedan, texas license plates, one of them but secretly an outsider. there was an awesome excitement about it all as i studied my map, crawling between freeway exits.

here i was, though, walking into a sears to buy some towels. my first act as a californian. the air felt normal, no electricity. the people looked familiar, new yorkers in less flashy clothes, quieter, less harried. i felt my heart sinking slowly.

parking the car at my new apartment complex, i threw the towels in the empty living room and shut the door. i had my fill of driving and sitting, that's for sure. i left to go for a walk around the new neighborhood. the sun had sunk low enough to only light the tops of the trees and patches here and there of unobstructed grass. the bungalow-type buildings sat squat in folds of darkness as here and there yellowed windows appeared like stars in the blackening sky.

walking down the boulevard i finally came upon a light rail station slapped by the roadside. the sky was thoroughly indigo by now, save for some threads of light blue on the far horizon. it would still be light in hawaii, i thought. a couple of hours of sunday afternoon would be left for them. there would be a blue sky above the open expanse of the pacific, and in asia they'd be just waking up to a new day. this day is gone for me, though, and i stared across the tracks to the large shopping center lit with multi-colored neon storefronts. i heard a train whistle and looked left to see an orange metal tube gliding towards us in the distance.

standing on the platform i recall only silence as the train approached, and i don't recall any shouts or screams or even loud voices as the man stepped forward from behind a large aluminum pylon. i think we all watched in shocked silence as he stepped down into the rail bed and simply sat there, hunched away from the oncoming locomotive, arms around his knees like an attentive child watching a teacher reading aloud. i turned when the actual impact occurred, a sickening twisting feeling sinking in me from chest to legs.

when i turned around finally he was prostrate, surrounded by onlookers. the train had stopped several feet after him and was sitting there, four cars long, humming slightly, its windows lit with passengers standing trying to get a look at what had happened. i thought about the train's driver, how this calm, empty sunday had now made its mark on him for good.

i flipped open my phone and dialed 911. a terse white male voice answered with "What?"

"there's been a suicide at the light rail station"

"which one? what is the address?"

i scanned around for a street sign.

"i see mission gorge road."

"that's no surprise." the line went dead.

i spent a long time walking home that night, careful with my steps. i don't recall looking up at that dark sky, i don't recall looking around me at my new surroundings. i walked the sidewalks slowly, past the low bushes and the driveways and the stone pathways. i spent a long time thinking.