A Second Attempt (standard:humor, 4084 words)
Author: Anastasia	Added: May 10 2005	Views/Reads: 3597/2371	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A young man has an interesting walk home from work when he bumps into a stranger unexpectedly.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

right into the girl. She drops her purse, and makeup items skid all 
over the sidewalk. I put my banjo down and grunt a rehearsed sort of 
“I'm sorry” that comes out more like, “mmmm-rr,” and she answers with a 
polite “eh-hm” as we both bend down to pick up her belongings. Avoiding 
eye contact, I hand her a cellular phone and an expensive powder 
compact—I recognize the brand because, being the manly man I am, I work 
at shop that sells perfume and cosmetics when I'm not giving banjo 
lessons. Our hands touch for a moment, almost awkwardly, although I 
tend to think of things as awkward, even when they aren't. I excuse 
myself, pick up my banjo, and walk away. The stop for my train is only 
a block away, and I find myself there in no time as I mull over the 
bizarre interaction. 

But the thing is, it wasn't bizarre. Not at all, by anyone else's
standards. It was completely normal and expected behavior—to grunt at 
each other in a gesture of apology, as we animals do, and continue our 
own ways. But why? Who knows, I could have a whole life ahead of me 
with that girl. Granted, she is probably a few years younger than I am, 
but it could be a barrier-defying, eye-opening relationship! Chances 
are it wouldn't be, but Jesus, I guess I'll never know. 

She joins me at the stop, putting a damper on my long-winded thoughts. I
watch her as she watches the road, waiting for the train. I want to say 
something to her, but I haven't the slightest clue what to start 
with—“Hello, Miss, would you like to have a conversation?” Absolutely 
not. I've never been a really forward kind of guy. So, to make up for 
our lack of interaction, which is bothering more than it probably 
should, I take in what I can of her: Her long red hair, damp from the 
rain, rests on her pale shoulders, smooth as an airbrushed model's. Her 
hands are daintily clasped in front, in what my voice coach as a 
teenager called the “fig leaf position”. I smile at this, because she 
carries a book under her arm entitled Popular Jazz Selections for the 
Mezzo Soprano. So, we have that in common. We're both musicians, and 
I'm coming from a banjo lesson. Maybe she's coming from a performance. 
Maybe spent her evening singing for middle-aged lawyers at an 
upper-class dinner party, where she was paid to sing and let older men 
ogle at her. Or maybe she sang at a gallery opening, her presence 
unnoticed as artists mingled and sipped red wine, laughing loudly. I 
want to ask her how it went, and maybe tell her how much we might have 
in common. But I'm really not forward like that. Instead, I imagine our 
life together. We will make beautiful music. I will play some 
innovative brand of jazz with my banjo, and her fluid voice will ride 
the notes I'm playing like gentle currents in a stream, caressing the 
stones at its bed. And I imagine our offspring—would they have bright 
red hair like hers, or does she dye it? Or maybe they'd have my dark 
hair. This is absolutely fanatical, the way I'm thinking right now. I 
should stop it. But I'm the kind of guy who thinks too much, and I 
guess you could say I'm a pretty impulsive thinker. I'm not forward, 
I'm really not; but something near valiance has come over me. 

“Let's try this again,” I say aloud. She doesn't seem to notice I'm
talking to her. I clear my throat, and attempt again. “Excuse me, 
miss?” I ask, tapping her on the shoulder. 

“Huh?” she says, shaking herself out of a daze. She narrows her eyes
slightly, seemingly annoyed. “What?” she asks, but says it as if it 
were a statement. 

“I said,” I say dramatically, clearing my throat another time, “Let's
try this again!” 

She wrinkles her brow, bewildered. I flash my crooked smile, and knock
her bag out of her arm again, this time sending the expensive powder 
compact down the gutter. 

“What the hell are you doing?!” she says, and whacks me with her bag,
harder than I thought she could. I fall back, but regain my balance 
before completely landing tail-first on the pavement. 

“I'm just saying hello,” I say, squinting past her. I'm shut down, and
shocked at my own behavior more than I am at hers—though her behavior 
is quite shocking, contrasted with her appearance. “I'm sorry I made 
you drop your bag. I'm just a little bit off tonight. I'm sorry. I'm in 
an off mood. I'll tell you what, I'll replace that compact. I work at 
that cosmetic shop, you know, in Pioneer Place. I could get you two for 
free, if you want. I mean, really. I'm so sorry.” 

“You're a psycho,” she says, scrunching her nose in disgust. She pivots
on one heel and walks briskly away from me. 

“Wait, Miss! Let me explain,” I call out after her, but she does not
turn around. 

I shrug, hoping I'll grow numb to my failed attempt at defying my human
tendencies as the night goes on. I wait for the train, which should be 
here in exactly two and a half minutes. And surely enough, the public 
transportation in Portland is dependable. My banjo and I step on the 
train—which rides above ground alongside cars in Portland, as opposed 
to New York's mildewy underground subway system—and I'm on our way 
home, eager to get into bed and call it a day. There are only two other 
people in the car: An elderly Asian-looking woman reading a magazine, 
and a boy about sixteen with a skateboard across his lap. 

“Hey you,” I say with articulation, to no one in particular. 

“Who you talkin' to?” the teenage boy asks, leaning forward to inspect
me. I meet his eyes under a baseball cap, sweat-stained around the rim. 


“Anyone,” I say. “Just looking for some people.” 

“Weird,” he says. He laughs and looks to the old Asian woman, expecting
her concurrence, but she pays no mind to our interaction. 

“She's pretty immersed in that...” I look at what she is reading:
Heidegger's Being and Time. “Don't think she gives a damn,” I say. “No 
one really does. Hey, mind if I ask you a question?” 

“Mind if I ask you one?” he answers. 

“Shoot,” I say. 

“Are you drunk or somethin'?” 

“Yes,” I say. “Very.” I feel like a jerk, talking to this sixteen year
old kid, letting him eye me and making him think I'm a crazy drunk. I'm 
really not. I'm pretty bad at faking it, too. Truth is, I'm just a 
college dropout who doesn't know what to do with his life, confused and 
acting on impulse, and I need an excuse for it. 

“Okay, ask your question,” he says. 

“I was just wondering',” I say, putting on my best drunken slur,
“Y'know, why everyone is so goddamn scared of talking to strangers. 
Like they'll bite your head off or something.” 

“What do you mean?” the kid asks, cocking his head inquisitively. “I
mean, I'm talking to you. I'm a stranger.” 

“Well, see, I come from New York, and in a city with ten million people,
it seems like no one wants to know anyone. And I think that's a shame. 
But it seems like people aren't like that around here. So, I was 
walking earlier, and I bumped into this girl—real pretty, red hair and 
all dressed up. Jazz singer.” I pause. “Why the hell am I telling you 
this?” I ask. 

“I don't know,” the kid shrugs. “Because you're a lunatic?” 

“I'm not,” I say defiantly, sitting up straight. “I'm not a drunk,
either. I lied.” 

“Oh,” the kid says. “Could've fooled me.” 

“Yeah,” I say. “I'm done.” I turn my head to look out the window. 

“I'd like to hear you finish,” the old Asian woman chimes in then,
closing her book. I look over at her. Her leathery face peers at me 
from behind her bifocals, waiting for me to finish. I feel obligated. 

“Anyway,” I say with a sigh, “I knocked all her crap out of her hands,
and we made these stupid grunting noises and we were on our way. I 
mean, what is that? I couldn't even get out a freakin' ‘I'm sorry', and 
she didn't even cuss at me.” 

“I think,” the old woman says, “I think that's just the way things are.”
She hesitates for a moment, lifting her chin and looking into the air, 
as if she needs to concentrate so the little workers in her head can 
generate a thought. And then she shakes herself out of it, and 
continues speaking. “We tend to clam up when confronted with a 
potentially awkward situation. It is a shame, though. You're right. But 
I think that's just the way we humans are.” 

“Yeah, well, it sucks,” I say apathetically. I sink back in my seat and
cross my arms, avoiding eye contact with the woman, feeling like a 
little boy. I don't want to continue the conversation. I want to sleep. 
She returns to her reading. 

And then the train slows to a halt, and of course, Miss Bombshell
Redhead herself steps on, and of course, it's after I've described her 
in detail to both of these strangers. I should've known she'd just gone 
to the next stop. 

She doesn't notice me at first; just takes a seat next to the old Asian
woman and closes her eyes for a moment. “People...” she says. 
Exasperated, she takes a deep breath. “...People are so crazy.” 

The old Asian woman laughs, seemingly tuned in to the awkwardness of the
situation. This prompts the redhead to open her eyes, and lo and 
behold, there I am, blatantly observing the interaction. 

“Oh, spare me!” she says, her eyes landing on me. 

“Y-yeah,” I stammer. “Sorry.” 

“Please, just stay away from me,” she pleads. “It's been a long day.” 

“I'm sure it was,” I say, matter-of-factly. “For all of us.” 

“You're a creep,” she replies. I hesitate to reply at first, but I can't
bear the thought of her thinking bad things about me, after I've 
thought such nice things about her, and our possible future together. 
For whatever reason, I can't let go of this idea. I decide to attempt, 
once more, to synchronize her thoughts with my own. Maybe all she needs 
is an explanation. 

“Look,” I say. “If you'd just allow me the opportunity to explain
myself, I could, well...I'd explain myself. I'd be glad to, really.” 

“I'll pass,” she says, and turns to the teenage boy—“You don't even know
how crazy this guy is.” 

“He ain't too terrible,” the boy says, nodding in my direction. “He's
weird, but I actually kinda like him.” 

“Thanks for trying, dude,” I say, “But she's thick-skinned.” 

“What's that supposed to mean?” she asks. She seems prepared to defend
herself. Confrontational. Predatory. I'm not in the mood. 

“I mean,” I say. I groan indignantly, as she glares at me with an evil
eye. I'm not quite sure of what I could say to ease the situation, so I 
decide to take the opportunity to explain myself while she's listening 
so intently. “I don't like the action of two passerby bumping into each 
other, grunting, and continuing on their merry little ways. After our 
little incident—” 

Clearly agitated, she cuts me off. “What incident?” she asks. “What
right do you have to deem it an incident? It was just fine, until you 
assaulted me.” 

“Listen, just hear me out!” I say, almost whining. I can feel my face
growing hot. I take a deep breath. “It was merely a reenactment, to 
prove a point.” 

The train stops, and we both watch as the old Asian woman gets off. She
smiles at me, and I nod her a goodbye. And then the boy gets off, 
yelling “Peace!” before skating away. 

“Yeah,” I say, when the train starts moving again. I look at my feet,
feeling intimidated without the security of my two new 
stranger-friends. Scrawny, greasy-haired, in my t-shirt and 
paint-stained brown corduroys and lugging around a freaking banjo while 
arguing with this stunningly beautiful girl who hates my guts, I feel 
awfully small. 

“So, a reenactment to prove a point?” she asks. “What point might that
be?” 

“Well, I thought you might be interesting, and you're pretty,” I say. I
pause and look up at her, to see if her expression hints at further 
disgust, in which case I'd stop. But she appears indifferent, so I 
continue. “I thought it might be nice if we could chat, instead of 
pretending like nothing ever happened and ignoring each other's 
existence for the rest of eternity. I mean, God, I may never see you 
again. I bet I'll never see that little old lady or that stupid kid 
ever again either, and man, I had some good talks with them. But I'll 
bet they'll never know that. I mean, they didn't sound like good talks. 
But man, I might've gone crazy if they weren't on this train when I got 
on.” 

“I think you've already gone crazy,” she says. 

“Yeah, maybe,” I say. “I'm sorry.” 

“Don't be,” she says, suddenly less apprehensive. 

“So you're not mad?” I ask. 

“Don't flatter yourself,” she replies. And then, seeing the look on my
face, adds that she's kidding, most likely just to appease me. 

“Good,” I say. 

“I guess what you're saying makes sense. But come on. Don't be getting
all weird on girls you don't know. Or ones you do know, for that 
matter. It freaks 'em out.” 

“I guess,” I say, noticing her smirk. “You're teasing me.” 

“I am,” she says. “You deserve it.” 

“I do.” I smile my crooked smile at her. “But look, now we're having
this conversation. And I'm really glad we're having it. I mean, I don't 
think I would've slept tonight if I didn't get a chance to explain 
myself. I would've felt absolutely horrible. I mean, I was feeling 
horrible already. I'm horrible. I'm sorry. I'm just a moody kind of 
guy.” I pause. “But really, isn't this nice?” 

“Isn't what nice?” she asks. 

“Well, this,” I say. “I mean, we're sitting here, talking, I don't know.
This conversation is kind of nice.” 

“Kind of,” she says. I can tell she still thinks I'm crazy, though. I
break our eye contact, feeling far too exposed for my own comfort. My 
stomach feels like a dead weight. 

“To me, anyway,” I say. 

We don't talk for a few moments, though it feels like eternity as I
watch her every move. She fumbles through her purse, pulls out a 
cellular phone, presses some buttons, and puts it back in her bag. 
Probably text messaging her boyfriend or someone, telling him some 
crazy guy with a banjo won't leave her alone. Then she closes her eyes 
and leans her head back for another moment, oblivious to my staring, 
maybe not thinking about me anymore. I mean, she'd have no reason to 
think about me, I guess. I shouldn't flatter myself, anyway. She even 
told me not to. If she wanted to spend time thinking about me, she 
wouldn't have told me not to flatter myself, would she? And then the 
intercom announces that we are approaching Eleventh, first a male voice 
in English, and then a female voice in Spanish, and she opens her eyes 
and reaches down to pick up her book. I assume this is her stop. 

“It was nice, wasn't it?” I ask again, desperate to continue talking
with her, and hoping I've enlightened her. 

“Yes, it was,” she says, without looking at me. She stands up and
smoothes her hair, quickly inspecting her reflection in the window of 
the train. “But it ends here.” 

I start to panic inside, not wanting it to end here. I mean, I really
don't want it to end here, after coming so far. “But I get off here, 
too,” I lie, desperate, but she is already off the train and doesn't 
hear me. I quickly pick up my banjo and follow her, but she walks 
briskly in front of me, pretending not to notice. 

“Hey, wait!” I call out. She stops, and turns to me. 

“You just won't let me get away,” she says. 

“It's true,” I say, as I come face to face with her. She smiles. 

“You know what?” she says, and with her eyes aglow even in the dimness
of the streetlight, I can tell she has an idea. “Let's try this again.” 
She pushes me, and I fall, tail-first into the wet pavement. 

“What the hell'd you do that for?” I ask, my brow knitted in
frustration. 

“It was merely a reenactment, to prove a point,” she says. And then, I
feel stupid for not realizing it sooner. She puts out her tiny hand, 
with perfectly manicured nails, and helps me up. I wipe off the seat of 
my pants, as if it makes a difference in the rain. 

“I'm Ariel,” she says. “It was nice meeting you. And I'll take you up on
that free powder compact deal, only because that's very expensive 
makeup. I'll see you tomorrow.” And then she kisses me on the cheek, 
and pivots on one heel as she did earlier. Baffled, I watch her as she 
hurriedly walks to the street corner, where she presses the crosswalk 
button, and waits impatiently for the light to change, looking up and 
down the street, but waits nonetheless, as a Portland native does. I 
don't try to catch up to her, though, because that would be weird, and 
I've been weird enough tonight. 

“Dan,” I mutter in reply, looking up at the sky. A raindrop lands on my
eyeball, and I look down at my feet, and my banjo at my feet, and then 
back up at the sky, and then down again. And then I watch the traffic 
light change twice, from yellow to red to green, yellow to red to 
green, and then I pick up my banjo and stand there for a moment. I 
wonder if her name is really Ariel, or if she's making a reference to 
The Little Mermaid and her long red hair. And I wonder if she's really 
going to come to my store to get a free powder compact from me, or if 
she's teasing. She seems like the type to tease. I guess I won't know 
until tomorrow, though. And even if she doesn't come tomorrow, I know 
I'll still wonder. And I'll be up all night tonight, wondering, even 
though I told her I'd be able to sleep soundly, now that I'd had a 
chance to explain myself. Yeah, this city sleeps, but it keeps me up 
all night. I sigh and begin my trek home, which is quite a walk due to 
my foolish decision to get off at Eleventh instead of Sixteenth. 

And so, as I walk, I take in the city and its strangers, and its
not-so-constant variables, like Ariel and the old Asian woman and the 
teenage boy and the unprecedented rainstorm that has me completely 
drenched by the time I reach my apartment. Standing on the stoop, I'm 
grinning like a fool. Even with the rain pouring down on me, I begin 
whistling myself a happy tune as I realize I've got no reason not to.


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