Angel

To be honest, I was thinking about this girl I like, and the thing is, she’s like a half an inch taller than me. And I know I shouldn’t care, but for some reason it kind of bothers me. I keep hoping I’m still growing of course; I mean I’m twenty years old, but I’ve heard of people who’ve gotten growth spurts in college, so there’s a chance I guess. Plus I’m the only short one in my family, so it doesn’t even make sense, really.

But a good way to gain a few inches is just to stand up straight rather than slouching. So I want to make that a habit, and now that I’m remembering, I do it. I’m walking through the tunnels beneath DC, and I take my hand off the railing that runs down the center of the tunnel, and I pick up and stand straight as I walk and perhaps I even make a face, I’m not sure.

I guess the man walking the other way with the sleek black gloves sees it, and with a quick, “How are you?” he passes. The West Coast in me responds, “Good. And how are you.” I mean most of the time you pass someone you can get away with a smile or a head-nod, and with some people you don’t even look at them as you pass. Or there’s an awkward stare to see who looks away first; we’re all just automatons on our government missions.

Sometimes though you’re reminded of humanity, and the man stops and turns back towards me. “Good. Are you all right?” he says through a thick accent. I wonder if he saw me arch my back up and thought I was depressed about something. Well he’s simply being considerate, and caring more than most strangers would, but now I’m in need of a thing to say; luckily I’m holding a sheet of paper.

It’s a good trick to know; always having something to talk on. The sheet of paper is called a separation clearance form, and I’m heading towards another government building and another one of the signatures I need; I’m wanting to go back home. And maybe sub-consciously I am a little stressed over it, but I don’t think that much. Either way, I turn and open the sheet out to the man, with his light-dark skin and his nappy hair.

“Well it’s my last day of work. And I’ve got to get this filled out.” We’re facing each other now, both backwards as other workers squeeze around us, and he removes one of his leather gloves. He extends his hand over the rail. “My name is Angel.” “Angel,” I repeat as I shake his hand, “my name is Alex.”

I’m smiling at him, since he’s taking the time to be sincere in a world that increasingly isn’t. Also I’m not quite sure what to do, but I want to show him I care too. Looking at him, I wonder if he’s from the Middle East. I speak a little bit of Arabic, and I feel like talking with him in his native tongue, beneath the capital of a mostly ignorant nation, would make his day.

But I don’t know how to ask him. I wouldn’t want to risk offending him by asking him where he’s from. That might imply I don’t think of him as American. That I’m judging him. So I simply continue to smile at him as he tells me, “Have a good day.” And I repeat, “You have a good day as well.”

And now we both turn back on our respective drone-like paths, and I let the moment pass. I walk away from the random human connection, closer towards leaving this place, and I still can’t quite wrap my mind around it.