A Downward Climb to up the Punx

During my senior year of high school I spent my mornings in a coffee race competing with my coworkers in ‘who could take the most espresso shots’ and ‘how much sleep did you get last night?’ to keep up with the fuming sedans in their morning rites. Everything moved too quickly to be understood but we knew the steps. Two medium coffees with light cream and sugar and two chocolate frosted, but before you begin, start the latte for the car moving up...he hates to wait…and find your center on your way out the door. You have ten seconds until the next beep comes in so remember to breathe.

But today was different, and I was too busy to notice. All I could see was an awkwardly skinny boy who didn’t know the steps and frankly, was in my way. Or so I thought because I didn’t know where I was going. Everything that reminded me of this was a hindrance. Another step I couldn’t fit in because I was living a perfectly timed musical underlay with a black comedic twist.

Annoyed with myself that he annoyed me, one morning when the rush had calmed I tried to get to know him. Overcome with a wave of energy after feeling accomplished by fulfilling my ritualistic chores, I jumped in front of him and wouldn’t let him pass until he answered my question, “What kind of music do you like?” He looked right at me and said, “Punk”, then kept walking as if nothing in the world mattered except what was occurring in his mind.

From that moment I was captivated. How did he make everything disappear? Why didn’t he care? There were the steps! Everyone noticed that he didn’t fit in…there’s no way he couldn’t have known they were talking about him. But I couldn’t look away. I didn’t understand why yet, but I knew there was a whole other realm inside of him that I wanted to be apart of.

As the days moved forward I secretly smiled at the realization that I couldn’t keep myself away from him. I took every opportunity to share a gripping story that might leave me remembered and when I left the coffee shop for the day I would try to relive what I didn’t understand. One afternoon when the surge of the morning had slowed he started to tell me about a time before life had brought him to this small city. He said he was a squatter and had returned from an adventure that had taken him from New Jersey to California. His story was filled with train hopping, fleeing from police, complete disregard for the law, and freedom. It was chosen homelessness. To me, it was determined autonomy.

My life before Troy was an upward climb that missed many surrounding details. His stare that looked through me and everything else had permanently left the ladder and I lying on the ground.