One: Prick
He walked by and glanced by at the house as if I couldn’t see him. I was sitting on the chair on the front porch with a math book in my lap so of course I could see him. I saw him the first time he got out of his car with his cell phone clutched in his fingers and walked past the house kicking rocks on the road. I saw him each time after that- saw him glancing up at the house frantically as he strolled by. We never did make eye contact as he walked. The fourth time he walked by, he finally found the courage I guess he had been searching for.
“Hey, do you live here?”
I raised an eyebrow and set my pen down in the binding of the book. ‘No,’ I wanted to say, ‘I’m just sitting on this ratty porch because the chipping paint and piles of filled hefty bags are aesthetically pleasing.’
He shifted his weight back and forth, shoving his hands in his pockets and trying not to look me in the eyes.
“Yeah,” I replied, “And what are you doing walking back and forth in a neighborhood like this? A preppy boy in a silver sports car…you’re likely to be shot, you know.”
He rolled his eyes slightly and leaned against the fence in front of my house, “I’m a big boy. I think I can handle a dangerous neighborhood. And after some of the neighborhoods I’ve seen on the streets of New York City, this is Pleasantville.”
“That still doesn’t answer my question. Can I help you?” I looked the stranger up and down. He had ruddy cheeks, tousled, sandy hair and a skinny frame.
“I was wondering if I could talk to you,” he said after I noticed a big swallow.
“You are. About what?” I cocked my head in his direction. He seemed fairly innocent, but you can never be too careful. For all I knew he was a Jehovah’s Witness ready to whip out his Bible.
“Can I have a seat?” He motioned to the plastic chair next to me.
I nodded and watched as he pushed open the squeaky, steel gate and walked up the path. He sat down next to me and drummed his fingers on his jeans, finally looking up and facing me in the eyes. I’d say his eyes were either a stormy blue or a crystallized cyan, but I noted right away that there was no true way to describe how pretty they were.
“I wanted to talk to you…about your life, unless it offends you.”
I wondered if I liked where this was going. What kind of conversation starts off like that and ends for the better?
“I’m going to be honest with you…no games. I just started college this year and my assignment was to do a project on poverty. With all due respect, I was thinking maybe you could give me some insight.”
“What class?” I asked, prolonging my response until I had really thought about it.
“Psychology…”
“At the University of Tulsa?”
“OSU- Tulsa campus, actually.”
I nodded approvingly, “Why aren’t you off at the Stillwater campus?”
“I couldn’t go away. My work is here, so I have to commute to school and I’m not willing to drive an hour to and from Stillwater everyday.”
“I bet not,” I smiled, picking up my pen and distracting myself from his curious eyes by circling the next example in my notebook.
“Are you still in high school?” He probed.
“Unfortunately,” I admitted, “8 months left.”
“And then are you off to University of Tulsa?”
“OSU- Stillwater,” I smiled, “Hopefully. We’ll see how the financial aid thing goes. And there you go. Your first insight on the life of a poor person. Education doesn’t depend on hard work but on how much pity the university takes on you.”
An intrigued grin started to curl against his top lip.
“And I’m not generally one for pity,” I affirmed.
He took a tiny notebook and a pencil from his pocket and opened it, writing something down. He held it up to me and in scribbled, boyish letters it said, “FINANCIAL AID. NO PITY.”
“I didn’t exactly agree yet,” I reminded him. He looked up at me, his eyes full of worry and apology, “How do you think you would react if someone asked you that? Hey, tell me about your life as a poor person. It’s not exactly an invitation to tea.”
“We could go get some tea if you’d like. There’s a Starbucks on Lewis.”
I laughed and shook my head, “I don’t generally enjoy tea.”
“Cokes. Let me treat you to a coke.” He stood up and looked down at me.
“You’re a stranger.”
“You live in this neighborhood. You yourself warned me of the risk in walking around here…yet you live here. I don’t think going with me is remotely dangerous compared to…well…” he spread his arms out to the shacks around us.
“Should I be offended?”
“I don’t mean to offend,” he spoke with a sincerity I insist I could literally feel run through my veins when he talked.
I only paused for a moment to think. Without much more hesitation, I shut the book and left it on the chair, following him down to his BMW. I raised an eyebrow at the black leather interior before I sat back and sighed, waiting for him to get in.
“Denny’s sound okay?”
“Fine by me.”
He nodded, turned on the radio, frowned at some of the pot holes in the road, and started off for Denny’s.
*****
“You have some confidence to come to one of the poorest neighborhoods in West Tulsa and ask to interview me,” I said with a sip of my Dr. Pepper.
“I know,” he nodded, “But no one ever really lives until they learn to take risks.”
“So the dead man says…”
He cocked an eyebrow, “Maybe. So I’m doing a project on not what causes poverty, and not on how to stop it, because I think the answer is clear. Tax the hell out of us rich bastards,” he smirked, “Kidding. I don’t know the solution to poverty, and I won’t even try to find it. I’ll leave that to the Karl Marx’s and the Martin Luther King’s of this world.”
This boy could ramble, I noted, studying the ripped up straw wrapper he held in his fingers.
“I’m not good at philosophy. And actually, this is for a psychology class. My main objective is to describe and create empathy for the human condition of poverty. And I figured observing with a lens is one thing…and internet research will only get you so far. A case study…now that is a good representation. I decided I needed to talk to someone…someone who would give me the details. I wanted someone who could paint me something to write about, you know?” He paused and waited for my response, “Do you know what I’m saying?”
“What did you say your name was?”
“Taylor.”
“Taylor, I’m not sure if I want to be some science experiment-”
“You’re not!”
“And I’m not sure if I want you creating anyone’s empathy. Did I not say I dislike pity?”
“Two completely different-”
“And Taylor, I just don’t think I want to be your case study for the human condition of poverty,” I rolled my eyes.
“I sound like a bigheaded prick don’t I?”
I nodded.
He nodded too, understandingly, and took a big sip of his Coke, “You’re right. People say I do have a big head sometimes…physically. Then again, they probably say I have a big head metaphorically too I guess. Well, I hope not…”
That rambling thing again….
“Honestly though, I just don’t think people understand poverty. I think people just see poor people as these careless slobs who brought on their own ruins. Drug addicts, wife beaters….whiney and ignorant…people of their choices.”
I wasn’t quite sure if I could believe what I was hearing. The boy before me was just sitting there insulting me and he had absolutely no clue.
“But I want to show the world otherwise, well okay, just my psychology class. But one by one the world will see the poor for what it really is! Gabrielle, I’m sick of people acting like poor people are pathetic losers…”
I couldn’t take it anymore. I tried to suppress it, chewing on my straw, but eventually I just couldn’t take it anymore, “Taylor! Shut up! Shut up!”
He froze, his jaw hanging down and his eyes wide.
“I have never met anyone with their foot more wedged in their mouth than you. Please…I cannot help you with your project.” He looked disappointed…but I think he was more disappointed he had offended me than that I wasn’t going to help him. He looked down at his hands, folded them on the table and bit his lip in thought.
“I’ll pay for my Coke, but I just can’t help you. I’m sorry I made you think I could…”
“I don’t mean to sound like an ass…” he muttered, “My mom always says that for a musician, I’m not good with my words.”
I reached into my pocket and found nothing but two quarters, “This is all I have. I’ll pay you back when we get back to my house.” I laid the quarters on the table and stood up, waiting for him.
He didn’t fight me though. He just nodded, laid some bills down next to my quarters, and followed me with his head down, very dramatically, out to the car.
When we pulled onto my street, I noticed his car started rolling at five miles per hour. He crept his car past our already suspicious neighbors.
“Taylor, don’t do that. People around here hate when you drive this slow. They think you’re bad news.”
I heard him sigh loudly and he pressed his foot against the gas a little harder, muttering something about being sorry under his breath. Finally we arrived in front of my house, my math book still where I left it. The only thing different about the house was my mother’s boyfriend’s Chevy parked in front.
“I’m really sorry,” he heaved.
“You’re rich. I forgive you,” I nodded, undoing my seatbelt and looking around his car to gather my things. Only I didn’t have anything. It occurred to me that maybe I was stalling just so I could talk to him some more, or maybe so I didn’t have to go back inside.
“You don’t know that.”
I snorted at his leather and ran a finger down the side of the seat, “Sorry I can’t help you.”
He watched me without saying anything. He waited to speak in fact until I opened the door. “Reconsider. Help me with this project, Gabrielle.” He said my name with unease, as if he couldn’t figure out if he was allowed to.
I shook my head, stepping out of his car, “Good luck.”
I watched him, again, bite his lip in consideration. He didn’t follow it up with any reply though. He just let me close the door and walk up the steps. I noticed he sat there for a few seconds though, watching as I picked up my math book and opened the front door. As I stepped in, I heard his car accelerate and he obediently drove off quicker than he had been driving before.