Tolerance, Pt. III

            How infuriating! After all this time, all those promises. After I was there for him when his dad died and how I let him cry on my shoulder. How I so foolishly believed that he loved me, would do anything for me. I’ve been tolerating you? Gawd, he really has some nerve.

            I took a sharp left and made my way through the park. I noticed things as I power walked by, like the roses blooming in the flower garden that me and Michael first kissed in. I thought back to that day and wondered how we got to this point. How I thought maybe Michael was “the one.” I wanted to help. I wanted to understand. But he’s been shutting me out since the accident, and I can’t handle it anymore. He’s been driving me insane.

            Maybe I’ve been tolerating him. Ha! That’s rich. Wait until Thomas hears about this. He’ll go insane. I hope he kicks Michael’s ass. Seriously, he would deserve it at this point. He can only play the dead father card for so long.

            What am I thinking? His dad died. And not just died, but was killed. Blown up. Fighting for something he believed in. I stopped walking. I started to take in the things around me. The blooming roses, their deep reds and pure whites. The sugary scent that drifted through the air took me back to that magical moment when Michael and I first touched lips. Only our second date. The stars twinkled brighter and the full moon cast romantic shadows across the sidewalk, witnesses to the blossoming love. Even thinking about it now, I know it was all a little cliché. But it didn’t change how I felt at the time, the sheer emotions that pulsed through my veins and the way I felt Michael’s heart beating out of his chest when he held me.

Thomas didn’t even know about us then. We had both been too afraid to tell him, maybe even too afraid to admit to ourselves what was happening. We were falling in love. We did fall in love. We still are in love.

I hoped it wasn’t too late as I ran back to the fountain. Damn flip-flops. I kicked them off and ran barefoot across the grass, praying that Michael was still there, that I could tell him I’m sorry and I loved him and I understood. Or at least I wanted to understand.

I saw the top of the fountain first, and as the rest of the ivory monument came into view I only saw a girl with pigtails, tossing a penny into the water. I kept running anyway, grasping on to some hope that Michael would see me and come back. When I reached the fountain I doubled over, breathing hard and grasping my side that felt like it was being stabbed with a dull spoon. Each breath compounded the annoying pain, but it slowly subsided. I rested with my hands on my knees, still taking deep breathes not because I needed to but because I was trying not to cry.

“Are you okay?” A tiny voice squeaked in front of me. I looked up and saw two pigtails protruding from a small round head. The little girl’s blonde hair glimmered in the sun. She looked about seven years old, and she tilted her head at me the way a puppy tilts its head when you try to speak to it.

“I’m fine,” I said, and repeated it again. “I’m fine. I’m fine.” The mantra was more for me than the little girl. I stood up and looked at the sky, hands on my hips. I just didn’t want to cry. I looked around and saw a group of guys walking away with a bright green Frisbee. A woman was crouching down in the grass petting her dog. A young couple sat on a park bench and their faces grew nearer. They kissed.

I wanted to march over and tear the girl away from the boy. Tell her it’s not worth it, not to go down that road. Because once you do there is no turning back. Once you’re in love, it’s not the beginning but the end. You could lose him forever.

“Why aren’t you wearing shoes?” I looked down and the pigtails were now pointed down and, following suit, her finger pointed down to my bare feet. I wiggled my toes and laughed, and I could feel a pair of curious 7-year-old eyes on me.

“I guess I lost them,” I said. I couldn’t fathom explaining to this child what love makes a person do. How it makes them act. I barely understand, just a 23-year-old young woman who barely knows her own self.

“Well you should find them. My mom says you’re not supposed to walk around the park with your shoes off,” PigTails scolded me. Her “supposed to” sounded more like “sposta” and she rocked back and forth on her heels as she spoke. “You could step on a needle and then you’ll have itchy feet.” I mused over this statement for a moment, guessing Mom had said HIV and her seven-year-old daughter heard ‘itchy feet.’ I squatted down so Pigtails was at my eye-level.

“We wouldn’t want that would we? Don’t worry, I’ll find my shoes and be careful not to step on a needle,” I assured her. “Did you throw a penny into the fountain? What did you wish for?”

“I can’t tell! It won’t come true!”

“Okay, okay! You’re right.” I tried to calm her hysteria. “I just hope it was for something good.” I smiled and her eyes lit with excitement.

“It was. I hope it works, because I don’t want you to be mad anymore.” She turned and ran back to her mom, probably to tell her the crazy girl that was yelling and screaming earlier isn’t wearing any shoes, but she promises not to get itchy feet. I wondered what she had wished for, about me. She didn’t want me to be mad anymore. If only she could understand. Anger didn’t make that monster inside me surface—love did. I watched her as she reached her mother, and tilted my head the way a puppy tilts its head when you try to speak to it.

Tolerance, Pt. II

Michael closed his eyes and let the sun seep into his pores. The spring was unusually warm for New York, and his leather jacket enveloped him like a winter furnace. He took it off and slung it over his shoulder as he stood. He looked around the park. More people were making their way into the sun as the afternoon grew warmer. A group of college kids threw a lime-green Frisbee around in the grass. A young woman jogged by with her golden retriever dutifully leading the way. A high school couple walked along the path, joining hands for the first time.

            Michael wondered how they did it. How they continued their lives. How they lived with themselves. Consciously, he knew none of these people had been responsible; yet he held everyone accountable. Everyone had played some role and he wasn’t about to let anyone get away with it. Rebecca was the first to pay. She had been nice enough, he mused. He might have even loved her at one point. But there was only so much CNN vomit he could take. He wished he could believe that was the last time he would see her, but he knew better. The long-standing relationship between his family and hers guaranteed them another meeting. Thomas would be infuriated. After he found out about Michael and Rebecca began dating, Thomas approached Michael and warned him about breaking his little sister’s heart. Dammit, he thought.

            With his jacket slung over his shoulder and his sunglasses again placed over his eyes, Michael made his way back to the subway. His white v-neck t-shirt hung over his dark washed jeans, and he walked with an air of cool confidence. Michael always gave the impression that he had everywhere and nowhere to be, the kind of irresponsible know-all typically seen in teenagers. But he wasn’t a teenager. He was 25-year-old man, haunted by the ghost of his father’s death.

He contemplated lighting another cigarette but thought he would save it for later. His mother had begged him to quit, and in light of recent events he told her this would be his last pack. His mother was the only thing keeping him going. He knew with his father gone he had to keep it together, for her. He had taken the sudden death the hardest of anyone, but he didn’t show it. Apart from his fits of selfishness and self-pity, Michael had the best interests of his family at heart.

The subway was slowest in mid-afternoon. At least as slow as anything ever was in New York. The city that never sleeps. Michael hadn’t been sleeping as much—not since the bombing. When he did sleep it was littered with nightmares of protestors armed with weapons, storming his home and dragging his family into the street to be slaughtered. He woke up drenched in sweat, and developed a habit of walking around the house to check the locks on the doors and windows. They still knew his family was here, and Michael worried they would attack their home next. But his mother had refused to move, to go anywhere. She believed her husband’s death would be in vain if they abandoned their home and their efforts. So she still woke each morning and went to the synagogue, joining the supporters of what Rebecca had called religious tolerance. Peacefully fighting the protestors that had killed Michael’s father.

He knew his mother wanted him to come with her, but Michael’s skin crawled at the thought of picking up where his father had left off. Fuck that, he thought, I’m not going to be the next body blasted apart in the street, my fucking brains smeared across the sidewalk. His mother’s implied request wouldn’t be enough to have Michael join the cause. Even if she did ask, it might not be enough. Michael was not his father, and since his death he made a point of showing that to everyone.

Michael checked the time. 3:42 PM. Thomas got off work at four. Michael expected him to be at his house waiting to pummel him into the ground. But Michael was ready. He knew Thomas couldn’t wail too hard on a guy who had just lost his father, and Michael wasn’t afraid to use that to his advantage. He climbed the stairs out of the subway tunnel and returned his shades to his eyes. Instinctively, he checked his surroundings before turning down the street toward his home.

He stood outside and lit another cigarette. The house loomed over him, oppressive and judgmental. The plain, beige siding needed a fresh coat of paint, and the windows were dark, nearly angry looking. Michael remembered when they first moved into the home, their happy family. The house seemed happy then. Bright and colorful. Welcoming. Now it just sat ominously, expecting the worst. Michael inhaled the final drag and tossed the butt under the patio where his mother wouldn’t see it.

When Michael entered the house, he was fully prepared to face the wrath of his friend.

“Hello Michael!” This voice was familiar, but not the one Michael had expected.

“Ahmad? Is that you?”

“Why yes, Michael, who else would it be? Come, come, I have some very important news to share with you today.” Michael nodded stiffly and followed Ahmad into the kitchen. He was still unsure how to act around Ahmad. Of all the people he blamed for his father’s death, Ahmad was the man he held responsible above all others.

“Here, Michael, sit.” He did. “See these articles? These letters? All these people have written because of what your father was doing! They support us, Michael, they do! We aren’t as alone as we thought. So much work to be done, but now we know that more people are willing to help us! Just look!” A pile of letters covered the family dining table. Some had spilled onto the floor. A few of the envelopes had been torn open, the discarded shells on the ground next to the trash receptacle. The opened letters sprawled across the mound of envelopes, the chicken scratches and scrawls across the page dancing like a horde of troops ready for battle. At least, this is what Michael thought Ahmad imagined.

He picked up the nearest opened letter and read silently to himself.

Dear Erikson family,

I am deeply sorry for the loss you have suffered, but I want you to know that you are not alone. My husband died in Palestine last year fighting for equality among the religions and the tribes, trying to find a peaceful way to resolve the issues that surround these troubled countries. Mrs. Erikson, our husbands shared a dream—that all people, regardless of their beliefs, be treated equally. Like your Mike, my Jeffrey was not a Muslim, but believed strongly in the right to practice religion freely, no matter where we live. I was truly moved my your husband’s and your family’s story. Who ever would have thought that here, in “the land of the free,” such a tragic and hateful crime would take place. I want you to know you are not alone, and I share in your pain and sorrow. But I also share in your vision and your dream, and pray you will continue to fight the good fight—

“Isn’t this wonderful, Michael! All of these people have such kind words and such support!”

Michael stopped reading and crumpled the letter into a tight ball. Ahmad Hassan, his father’s Muslim best friend, droned on about the letters. The supporters. The do-gooders. Michael felt the heat rising in the pit of his stomach. It boiled there for a moment, then shot through his veins so rapidly he thought he was going to implode, caving into himself in a ball of fiery rage.

“Enough!” Michael shouted. Ahmad jumped and dropped several letters. They drifted to the ground in slow motion. “That’s enough! Don’t you think you’ve done enough already? The protests, the support, the fucking bomb!” Michael lowered his voice to a deep whisper. To that sinister tone. “All of it was because of you. You, my father’s best friend. You’re the only reason he supported that fucking synagogue in the first place. The only reason.” Ahmad’s eyes grew large and round. He took a few steps back as Michael stood and towered over his smaller frame. “You! You are the reason my father is dead! Fuck the supporters! Fuck the letters! But most of all, fuck you and your damn religion.”

Tolerance

Tolerance. What a funny word. We tolerate the antics of toddlers because they don’t know any better. We tolerate that friend of ours with no tact or social skills because they have no one else. I tolerate that fucking blinking light outside my apartment because I pay a measely $475 a month for this cramped studio apartment. I even tolerate Mrs. Kilpinski’s damn cat because she brings me dinner every Thursday night.

            Yeah, we “tolerate” a lot of things. So when Rebecca touts her liberal religious tolerance to me today, I want to rip off her head. Damn left-wingers. Spouting about tolerance and equality and liberty, like they’re all intertwined, compatible—synonymous even. Some noble vendetta in creating a world full of fucking butterflies and rainbows.

            We tolerate annoying shit. Annoying friends, annoying pets, annoying blinking lights. The euphemism has lost its power. Apparently we’re supposed to do the same thing with annoying religions. That’s what Rebecca tells me.

            “Religious tolerance means we’re accepting of other religions. Like, I totally get that Christianity isn’t the absolute only religion. Lots of people practice different beliefs.” She was excited. Her words started to blend together. I hated it.

But I tolerated it.

“Lotsa different people means lotsa different beliefs, I totally get that. We hafta tolerate other people’s beliefs and respect that!”

            Tolerate and respect. So, like, totally contradicting, dontcha think? I wanted to spout off in that valley girl accent. But I just tolerate it. She keeps talking. I ignore her. She hums in my ear about some more political debates, shit she picked up that week on MSNBC or in Newsweek. She stayed there, hovering like a humming bird searching for nectar in my flowery ears.

            Yeah, I tolerate her. Not for long though.

            “You know what I mean?” she says, and the long pause tells me it’s my turn to interject some contributing comment to the conversation.

            “Yeah, people are fucking ignorant.” This line usually worked.

            “I know, right?” she squealed, pleased with what she must have thought was a decent argument. I wouldn’t know—I never listened anymore. I was at least mildly pleased that I could drown out her rambling and answer with something so vague and ambiguous. She never did catch on. Probably because she liked to talk so fucking much. She just never shut the fuck up.

            I sat down on the bench by the fountain, lit a cigarette, and tipped my head back. I took a long drag, letting the toxins fill my lungs and filter into my bloodstream. The pounding in my head subsided. I exhaled. The sun came out behind the clouds and warmed my face. The rays were the only warm thing between me and Rebecca anymore.

            “Hey babe, I’ve been thinking.” My voice sounded deeper than usual. Almost sinister.

Good.

 “This thing, with you and me? It’s not really working.” I took another drag. I could feel her staring at me, the confused look that probably washed over her peppy face. The way her rosy lips pushed together in a tight pout and her brows furrowed into a sharp V above her piercing blue eyes.

            Those eyes. Those baby blues. The little discs of death that sucked me into this draining relationship in the first place.

            “Whatareyoutryingtosay?” The sentence sounded like one word. “If the ‘thing’ you’re talking about is our relationship, then, well…what the fuck Michael? You’ve never said anything before! This is just totally out of the fucking blue—”

            She morphed back into her hummingbird, flitting from one ear to the other, dancing around like a clown at a 5-year-old’s birthday party. Hummmmmmmmmm. Hummmmm. Hummm. Hummmmmmmmm.

            “Michael! You could at least fucking look at me! Where the hell is this coming from?” she screamed, grabbing the attention of some family across the fountain. A little girl with pigtails peered up from just above the ledge, wide-eyed and mouth open. She tugged on her mother’s sleeve and pointed at us, obviously distressed at Rebecca’s choice vocabulary. The scene kept me calm, kept me on track. I didn’t want to look at Rebecca. To see the hurt and the pain and the anger in those big blues. Yeah, I knew I was being a coward. But it was always easier that way.

            “Let’s just say I’ve been tolerating you for a while now.” I stared straight ahead, completely aware of the fury and rage boiling in the pot beside me. I thought if I looked at her I would see steam coming out of her head. I had to check.

            Big mistake. As soon as I did, a hard slap landed across my face. The force knocked my sunglasses off my head and flung my cancer stick from my mouth. It landed in the fountain. Dammit. I reached down for my sunglasses, and when I looked up Rebecca was already walking away, flinging her grotesque Prada bag over her shoulder. I remembered when she bought that thing, fucking $500 for a damn purse. She was preaching about starving kids in Ethiopia that day. The flop, flop of her yellow sandals faded the farther she walked, and she disappeared from sight.

            Good-fucking-riddance.