A Mosquito in the Park

My location: dutifully positioned under a tree on the south/southeast corner of the park, as far away as I can get from the road. Trees are providing a canopy for me as I protect myself from the few raindrops that are falling at a slow pace. I believe the tree is a Maple — though I never claimed to be an arborist.

My legs are crossed and my palms on my bare knees in a pair of shorts. My hair is wild and untamed, curling around and back again, blowing in the stiff breeze and high humidity of early summer.

Sitting here, I can see the majority of humanity.

I guess the first thing I notice would have to be the rhythm of it all. There is a breath in the earth as families run and yell and speak in unknown dialects. Somewhere non-detectable by my current line of sight, there is a loud creaking noise at intervals of, like, one second.

A swing.

Cars burp, spit, and moan as they move down the road. Horns are sounding on the nearby street in groups of two or, at most, three, indicative of a neighborly nod. Towards what, I am uncertain. An apparently unseen change of light or something. Occasionally, the horn blast is singular and prolonged. These last for what feels like hours, though it’s closer to just a second or two, and are reserved for those which have veered into a lane they don’t belong in or similar affronts to other drivers.

All of these noises work together in splendid chaos and without harmony. The best music has no harmony. It rattles about and terries to and forth and doesn’t return to a starting place. Humanity makes its best music when it is not trying to. When we are being played as instruments for the earth herself, providing music in life and food for her in our death.

I hear a single note playing as if from a synthesizer. The straw-like snout of the American mosquito plunges into the nape of my neck and I can see that it was the music of his wings. I do not stop him from drinking my blood. I am in the world of this mosquito. The mosquito has invited me out to it’s home where God meets man.

For God does not meet man in the buildings or homes we have built but, rather, in the bush, the mountains, the trees that They have built. Occasional droplets of blood are the cost for the adventure and I need not all of the blood in my body so drink as deeply as you need.

Were it that I was inside, where the air can blast at a tremendous speed and the comforts needed to melt away the stress of a day-to-day life for those of us burdened with a conscience and a need to figure our lives out, then, sure. Right arm splayed outward and then, after a moment, beginning it’s decent, recoiling. Reducing the music of the mosquito to a singular clanging of a symbol as my hand descends towards the destruction of this being that dared break into my home and steal my blood. My fury woul —

“Could you return to the rhythm you were talking about in the park?”

Right. Of course.

A helicopter flies due-north at break-neck pace. I cannot make out the logo on the helicopter but, given the course in which it is taking, it seems likely to be for emergency medical services. Dull thudding of the wings provide a drum-solo as the rest of the park looks up in awe as if none of us had ever seen a helicopter before.

Unconsciously, my head begins to bob up and down along with some apparently unseen melody in all the noise. Unsure for how long my head has been nodding along as I was already in the middle of it when I noticed, I am in sync with the motions and vibrations occurring in the park today.

An ambulance speeds through the intersection, lights ablaze and horns sounding, likely confirming that something truly terrible has happened while providing the park with some impromptu jazz for the afternoon. The music continues on forever and then, without warning, the beat drops. There is an moment of silence where even the earth holds her breath in honor of the poor souls aboard the vessels of morbidity.

A respite.

Sacred time passes, unscathed and unmarred by any actions or words or events. Time deliberately wasted by those of us who are happy and care-free out of respect. ‘You seem to be running out of time, have some of ours.’

I swear you can count on a motorcycle tearing ass through the street every 20 or so seconds and, when it does, a natural reset. A palette-cleanser, ridding us of the fear and pain that we had to feel on behalf of someone else for an amount of time. The earth begins her breathing again.

Families resume their laughter, now unpaused. Squeaking returns and I can hear the mosquito again, providing the backing track as soccer balls are dully kicked and people run by in rhythm with the earth.

A woman in a sports bra and a headband indicative of the cardiovascular equivalent of, say, an Iron Man competition or something similar can be counted on to laugh each time she walks by while on the phone. She is currently on her second leisurely lap. On the other side of the phone, her roommate that she has finally gotten the courage to leave so she can get in some exercise and be able to love the person in the mirror each morning, drivels on about nothing that could not have waited until her return to the moldy two-bedroom, one-bathroom apartment that has consumed her entire identity for years.

Exasperation washes over her face as the person she wanted to get a few moments away from is now preventing her from getting the exercise she came here for. Attempts to enjoy the person she is being squashed before my very own eyes as she is stuck on the phone, apathetically pushing out sounds that are similar to laughter. Her noises are being received, lest you be concerned, by her roommate and understood to be that of irritation and anger.

No human could hear the laughter being presented and not understand that it is done so out of pity and anguish. Her roommate is keeping her on the phone as an act of aggression. Stopping her from enjoying herself because, if she will not enjoy her roommate, then she will not enjoy herself either. Secretly, though, her roommate doesn’t like herself and that’s where the real disconnect is, unbeknownst to her.

Jogger, now defeated, has to go back to questioning why she continues getting up every single day and returning to the shitty job she hasn’t loved for years just to pay for the apartment she has to share with a woman she hates. She begins to cry. Loudly, visually. She slaps her head repeatedly out of frustration and begins to scream at her roommate over the phone. All manner of f-words and c-words being thrown about, it’s becoming quite an ugly affair as the music turns punk rock.

Everyone in the park is ignoring the woman, who is now prostrate and yelling as if in terrible pain. Patrons carry on walking while she has a mental collapse inward and-

Sorry, back to the rhythm.

“Actually, this seems a good place to stop”

There is a loud screech and the unmistakable sound of bumper-on-bumper. A man screams “What the fuck?” Something seems off. The family on the northeast corner is now standing, looking due west. I stand up myself and, indeed, it is clear that a catastrophe has occurred at the intersection on the north-west corner. I stand up immediately and with haste and I can feel the mosquito pull out of my flesh and take flight.

Walking quickly over to where the noise was coming from on the northeast corner, my mouth is unable to close. Walking briskly but not running (I don’t want people looking at me funny or think me odd for running,) I finally reach the corner where the accident took place. There is a broken down stairway crafted out of uneven stones that leads to the sidewalk and, subsequently, the road.

For a moment, I believe that nothing has happened. Traffic seems normal and life seems to be continuing along without impediment. I notice a police officer on the opposite side of the street and his lights aren’t even on. Maybe all of this was fake? A man with unkempt facial hair is playing nondescript audio from his smartphone located in his front shirt pocket-

As a quick side bar, do you think it’s odd that we call them “front shirt pockets?” When have you ever heard of a back or side shirt pocket? Seems we can just call it a shirt pocket and all surmise the location of it, no? Don’t answer that. It’s rhetorical.

He — the man — is staring out towards where the noise came from in a way that is making it extremely evident that (1) he saw what happened and (2) he wasn’t going to want to talk with anybody about it.

Maybe it’s a police scanner coming out of his phone? Or maybe he’s playing music? I can’t tell. I worry that I’ve lost the rhythm of the park. Maybe rhythm in general.

Glimmering light captures my attention and I realize that two cop cars are positioned in the intersection now. They are surrounding a car and speaking with a man. There is damage to the car but I cannot make out where or how much, it’s just something I can understand from the vibrations of the event. I try for a few moments to make out what has happened.

For a while, the man with the facial hair and I are both staring in the same direction. Simultaneously we are both blown away by the fact that this even happened and the fact that this event is not very rare. Noise is all around us but I feel silence in this place. Peace surrounds us as we gaze from the park into the chaos.

I am guessing this to be a hit-and-run judging by the screeching I heard and the detailed report the officers appear to be getting. Not to mention that accidents are common on this road — I have been in three myself. Additionally, the impoverished nature of this area often leads to people deciding that it is better to take their chances than to stay and face their metaphorical music via a day in court or jail or whatever.

Evil exists here and so does poverty and sometimes the two are hard to distinguish. Sometimes they’re caught in a mystical dance asking you to shoot the other only for you to realize that you cannot tell them apart.

After several moments it becomes apparent to me that I will never be able to understand what is going on here. The street is too blurry and I am not invited to the information it is trying to disseminate. Maybe, I can find others that will share with me what has happened.

An old man walks by, unphased. The shadow of a smile rests on his face. He is paying no attention to the events at the corner. I suppose I am not either now. He has matted down hair and outdated glasses. Grime layers over his clothing. Beer is on his breath. He is walking the path in front of where I have been on the stairs.

As I am watching, he walks over to a woman who came to the park alone with her small dog and begins asking if she knows what happened in a way that informs her that he clearly does. Intrigued, I debate leaving my post at the stairs and, after a few moments of trying to hear him from afar, I begin to walk forward with haste to the man and his new confidant hoping to not miss out on what happened before the man finishes his tale. My palms are sweaty at the idea of having to speak with another person.

As I begin my trek over though, the man scurries away, walking briskly from me. I fear I have given off the impression that I am coming to confront him about talking with this woman who didn’t seem very interested in his story.

Should I have been? Shame fills me as I realize that I have scared this man and also that I maybe should have been trying to.

Did I let this woman down? Meeting her eyes, she gives me a nod as a way to say thank you for breaking up the whole affair. The nod feels inviting as if she might tell me what has happened if I ask her but the shame I feel for my miscategorized deed is too high. I decide to just keep walking and see if anybody seems willing to talk with me.

The path is long and spirals. It is the type of pathway that doesn’t allow you to tell which route is the fastest. They all seem longer than they should. None of this “point-a-to-point-b” business. It would be unlikely to make it through without adding at least 3 points to that map. As I walk, I pass by the family on the northeast side that was standing to see what happened.

I consider stopping to ask if they saw the events unfold but I can tell they have moved on and I do not want to make them live in it any longer. Additionally, I can tell that they are not speaking English and I worry that my scampering over there to cheerfully ask them about what happened might cause them anxiety at having to speak outside of their native tongue.

I reach a point where I have spent so much time looking and thinking about them that it feels as if I was actually out here with them today. I feel a kinship with them for having been through this event together, though I wish I knew what the event was. For a moment, I can almost understand what they are saying.

“There is a lot for us to talk about here and I don’t want to run out of time.”

There’s a commotion in the parking lot blocking my way out. Though I am unable to determine exactly what is happening, it appears to be a party. Loud music playing, local adolescents laughing and talking and living care-free lives. Something about it scares me.

Fear has controlled my life. Since that day, five years ago, when two men cocked a silver and black pistol, respectively, and pointed them at me asking for me to unload my personal belongings. I have listened to my gut since then but feel as though a part of me died that day.

Today I have nothing to offer though but this journal I am writing in. Were they to pounce on me, I would be given only that which I do not have already. Bruises, cuts, scars, etc. Today I cannot be mugged, I can only be gifted. I would rather take the chance.

My heart is throbbing rhythmically in my throat with the loud bass in the music being played in the lot. I can taste it. As I get closer, the music gains speed and my heart follows suit to the point where I am having to take my breath at intervals as my cardioidic muscles swell to and from the size of my esophagus. I alternate between deep, quick breaths and agonizing periods of time characterized by uncertainty to the situation, to my body, to my breath.

To my back I can hear sirens gaining momentum and I can feel a fire engine and ambulance pull to a stop at the corner. I wonder if I left too early. I wonder why the street refused to give it’s secrets to me. Maybe I wouldn’t have been able to emotionally handle it.

Whatever the reason, it’s now clear that this event was worse than I thought and doom washes over me in increasingly unbearable waves as I continue my march towards the parking lot. As I step up, I see that the music is playing in no discernable way from a stretch limousine painted lime-green. A young woman is standing in front of the butterfly doors which are propped open wearing a silken robe and cap.

I detest myself for fearing what turned out to be a high school graduation party. The woman graduating is hispanic and thin. She has long, straight black hair and dark brown eyes. Her smile is evident from afar and I don’t know how I didn’t see it before. Her whole family is there. Love surrounds this place. Love that I have never felt before. I am so happy that she has so much support. Truthfully, I’m even a little jealous.

Later in life she’s going to find a career that she’s passionate about. She will marry a partner that will provide her with the tools necessary to grow into who she really is and will encourage her to continually better herself and will follow her in that endeavor as he/she/they better his/her/themselves as well. Happiness will not prove elusive to her as it has I. It will knock on the door and teach her to love the person she is stuck with. Birds will sing and healthy, long lives will be lived. This day will be the day she looks back on as the time that her family launched her, fully prepared, into the world.

I begin to cry. Either because of the love that is in the parking lot or because of the guilt I feel for assuming the worst. But the family doesn’t notice or, at least, chooses to not acknowledge it for which I am immensely grateful.

As I begin my walk home, I travel again by all the sights of my day as a way to rewind through it and return to where I was before. I thank each of the instruments of the park for what they have provided me.

I first thank the young girl and her family for teaching me that my fear comes from within and not from outside. That love can and does exist. That families can encourage one-another and not drag each other down. I thank her particularly for giving me a glimpse into her beautiful life that she will be able to live through.

Then I thank the wreckage and all of those involved for their reminder that things aren’t always as they seem. Sometimes they’re nothing at all.

The man on the steps for reminding me that we don’t need to be able to talk to each other to share in an event. Just shut the fuck up and experience it. Silence is what gives trauma power. Similarly, to important events in our lives. Humanity is such a talkative bunch that we forget sometimes that power comes from no words at all.

Thank you to the gentleman with a shadow of a smile on his face for reminding me to not take things too seriously. And to the woman he was speaking to for thinking the best of my intentions though she did not know me.

To the family on the blanket on the northeast corner: thank you for allowing me to participate in your family day, though it was from afar. Whether you knew it or not, I felt companionship with you on that blanket today.

The woman in a sports bra jogs past me, finally free of the weight of her phone call, and I thank her softly for surviving. Survival is all we have sometimes and, if that’s what needs to be thanked, so be it. Her dedication to continue running despite the respite necessitated by her phone is motivational to me. She is a superhero.

Nearing the gate, I made sure to thank all the others who contributed to my afternoon. The neighborly drivers with their brief succession of honks and the not-so-neighborly ones with the embellished groans they sent forth. The child who was swinging that I never got to see with my own eyes. The cars that bustled down the street providing a backing track to the tune of the day.

Finally I thanked the mosquito who allowed me into his home so that we both may feast. Enjoy the blood that I have allowed you today and know that my neck is always open should you need more. Humanity visits the mosquito frequently but often winds up destroying it in the process. Thank you for reminding me that nature has a price.

Walking up to the gate, I realized that I had forgotten my keys. A friendly neighbor holds the gate open for me.

‘Thank you so much,’ I tell them.

‘Anytime,’ they reply cooly.

I feel my head mid-bob as the rhythm has returned without me even noticing.