Chapter Fourteen
I’ve read and re-read that penciled note again and again, trying to put some pieces together. The task reads, “Go be in a crowd.” That’s it. Something simple and open-ended.
What’s unusual is there’s no purpose or reason for “being in a crowd,” so I’m stuck in my head trying to piece together a line of logic where this task makes sense.
What I’ve come up with is this: my secret guy just wants me to go and do and be, to put the jewelry store and all that behind us and just enjoy life.
I’m also sensing that my new tasks are not meant to be done alone.
After the pay-it-forward day, each task has involved other people, like the digital date and visit with Gregory, and in this case, a whole crowd of people.
It makes me wonder just how much my secret person gets me, like he understands how the adventure has changed.
Despite being in a crowd, I can’t stop thinking about Martin.
Partly because I’m still heartbroken about his mom.
Partly because I can’t stop feeling his arms wrap around me or his chest against mine the last time we hugged.
It makes my adventures with my secret person kind of blurry.
I’m not sure what to expect from myself.
Will everything I think and believe now be a surprise to me?
I keep thinking what Martin might say. The answer to that is the obvious Japanese saying.
I hear it echo in my head softly. In his voice, not mine.
I think it’s the perfect saying for a guy like Martin.
And me. It’s not elegant. Or trendy. It’s almost ugly and imperfect.
But so real and true. So here I am, at the Bricktown Street Festival, treasuring the unrepeatable nature of this moment.
One time. One moment. Yet, still thinking about Martin.
I force myself to think about my secret man. I’m here for the adventure with him. For him.
My plan is just to take it all in and see what comes of it.
It’s early in the night, so the street festival is just winding up, if that’s a thing.
And the smells are amazing. Food trucks are parked at every intersection of the main drag, which has been converted into the bustle of the fair.
Booths sell all kinds of things near the curb, while the shops and cafes behind them are bustling.
The sun is just purpling through the sky, so the street lights and vendor booths sparkle in anticipation.
I catch the aroma of kettle corn and maybe something cinnamon, but don’t see either.
I’ve wandered halfway down the fair, past booths that sell roses, or vegetables, or handmade things.
Nothing really draws my attention until I see the puppies.
A pet adoption group is here, with cute puppies and kittens as their trap to lure you into adopting.
I’m caught. I’m drawn to a little spotted one, who immediately licks my fingers through the kennel door.
I’m not very knowledgeable about dog breeds, but this one is certainly purebred adorable.
It makes a soft sound and bounces his ears as he breathes, and keeps returning to lick my fingers.
“He likes you,” I hear a voice behind me. “Do you want to hold him?” The adoption lady is starting to open the cage.
“No, I, um,” I start. “I’m fine.”
“It’s no trouble. He needs you. He needs to be held,” she says, reaching in and grabbing him. She plops him in my arms, and he fits there naturally. “His name is Roger.”
I think I’m melting. I’m transported. Roger and I leave the universe together.
He licks my face and nuzzles up under my chin and I scratch behind his ears.
I treasure the unrepeatable nature of this moment for far too long, when a wash of people behind remind me where we are.
I thank the kind adoption people and hand Roger back, feeling soft and alive, despite the crowd.
The fair is suddenly overwhelming. There’s no room to walk, the people are a crush.
Making my way down the street through the crowd, I stop to buy a giant cone of kettle corn and wonder if it’s even too crowded to eat it in the street.
It’s warm and sweet smelling, and I hug it like it’s Roger.
I brush past couples and families, laughing at myself that I can’t even find a path.
Bodies press in from all sides. It feels as if the throng is moving in a single direction, like they all have the same destination in mind.
People holding food or flowers or bread or bags press against me as they pass.
I try to make my way to the sidewalk where I hope for more space, when I hear my name being called.
“Liam.”
I turn, searching, looking. I recognize no one.
“Liam.” There’s waving. Two hands, over the crowd. “Liam, over here.”
It’s Martin.
I press my way through the crowd and he hugs me tight. I wrap my arms around his strong back and smack a cone of kettle corn on it. We’ve become a boulder in the stream, as people crush past us. I can hardly hear him speak. “What are you doing here?” he asks.
It’s difficult to hear. How can I possibly explain this? I don’t. “What are you doing here?” I say instead.
“James Durn. The guitarist.” I can barely make out his words through the din. “He’s playing tonight at The Center.”
That must be where all these people are going. I’m only nodding along.
“Do you want to come?” he presses. “You should come with me. He’s great.” I get the feeling that my answer needs to be quick, because Martin appears eager to dive back into the river and drift upstream. Like he’s missing an opportunity by standing here talking to me.
I think about it for a second too long.
“No worries,” he says. “I’ll see you later. Have fun at the street fair.” He turns into the crowd, but I don’t let him disappear.
With a quick step and a shuffle I’m in the stream too, right behind him yelling, “I’m coming.
I’ll come. I’ll go with you.” I’m not sure he hears me because the current seems to be separating us.
I keep pressing on, using my cone of corn as a shield.
I think I’ve lost him entirely when I feel something strong softly grab my wrist. It’s a hand.
Pulling me through the crowd. I nearly stumble at the sudden surge of speed, when I smash chest-first into Martin.
He’s got a firm grip on my left wrist and he says, “Stick with me, through the crowd,” and then takes off with me in tow.
The world is a blur as we make our way up the street.
Giant speakers are blaring incredible guitar music, and overhead lights are orbiting spots of color on the crowd, which has mostly stopped moving and has started bouncing instead.
The gentle squeeze of Martin’s hand around my wrist is captivating as I brush against his shoulder.
He pulls me into a spot with a little elbow room, lets go and says something.
I can’t hear what he says, but his smile is transfixing and he’s pointing at the stage.
I notice now that a guitarist is center stage with a band of other players and the sliding up and down the neck of his instrument is matching the music that fills the space.
The rhythm is intoxicating. The crowd is bouncing and the world becomes a blur of joy and rhythm and people.
It’s not crowded in the claustrophobic sense I expected from a community concert at The Center.
It’s alive, it breathes, it brings us all together.
A stranger brushes against me, forcing me into Martin’s side.
Martin looks over, beaming and presses back playfully.
His arm flings around my shoulders momentarily while the music surges and we sway back and forth together with the crowd, swimming in the orbiting blobs of light.
By the fourth song, we are a single mass of joy, Martin and I and the crowd.
Swinging and dancing and spinning and smiling.
It is alive. It’s charged. And I am lost in it.
Time seems to vanish. I watch Martin as much as I watch the band.
They are the same, lost in the sheer loudness and chaos of this perfect moment.
The song ends and the tone shifts. The drumming softens, and the guitar switches from twangs and slides to something more plucky and smooth. The lights stop moving and everything turns hues of green and blue.
“Are you having a good time?” Martin leans in. I can actually hear him, and I find myself breathing in the woody aroma of his aftershave.
“This is pretty great,” I whisper.
“Say again?” he says, pointing to his ear, tilting his head toward me. The crowd around us is swaying differently. People have turned from the stage to face each other and sway in a whole new motion as they wrap up in each other’s arms.
I turn to repeat myself, when the crush of people moves in, pressing me into Martin.
Chest to chest, thigh to thigh. We are also swaying, and then stop.
I feel his breath on my ear. I feel his eyelash brush my temple.
I realize we’re close enough that he could probably hear me now, but I find no words.
Time freezes, or speeds up. I can’t tell.
I just keep thinking, “one moment, one moment.” He turns his face slightly and we make eye contact.
A quick blink and eye contact again. This is a new kind of soul-lock.
I never want it to stop. I feel my spine go molten and I look at his lips.
Then back to his eyes. And back again. His gaze never leaves mine, and I feel his breathing slow.
Someone presses into him from behind and we move even closer, our knees and chests together as one.
I close my eyes and begin to memorize the feel of our chests breathing together.