1992: It’s middle school, and everybody feels awkward. The Providence Public School system is doing what it can with its resources. School lunch is the highlight of the day. Many families fall below the poverty line. They’re able to gather, eat, and socialize. The walls are brick and brutalistic by design. The tables are oval-shaped and over-crowded. Pre-teens giggle, yell, and chew over the corrective shouts of cafeteria chaperons. It’s happenstance from the start. Her hand brushes his as she reaches over for her milk carton. She teases him. “Stay on your side.” “Your milk was on my side,” he retorts, then blatantly violates her rule by placing his brownie on her tray. For the rest of the school year, they would exchange notes, scrawled across snippets of paper folded up small and simple to pass off. They were wholesome and platonic in nature, detailing day-to-day victories and defeats. They confide in sentiments that are typically covert. They share a similar humor that blossoms into private jokes, which explode into unexpected laughter midclass, earning rebuke from an overworked Mr. Pape. Assigned to different high schools on opposite sides of the city, they were separated by space and time. Each would move about within their own circle, experiencing their own journey, and while neither would forget the other, life would send them in different directions.
1999: New Year’s Eve and First Night Providence festivities are in full swing. The holy trinity of streets that slice through the heart of downcity (Washington, Weybossett, Westminster) have all been closed to traffic and are thick with clusters of celebratory masses. They wear masks with holes in them for noisemakers. Different genres of rhythm meld together in the chilly night air to concoct a cacophony of big-band jazz, salsa, and chamber music He walks alone, admiring the sights along his path. Couples stroll hand-in-hand, and families shuffle, happily pushing strollers and corralling tiny toddlers. He spots her immediately among a crowd of giggly girls in glittery, sequin dresses. They move in an orbit all their own yet stand out starkly in the sea. He zeroes in on her. Their eyes meet for the first time in seven years. There is a shared smile and a simple nod before they melt into the melody of the masses.
2006: The Cranston Street Armory is monolithic, imposing, and fortress-like, among a neighborhood of triple-deckers and bodegas. It has stood deserted for years, but Dexter Street Park, which cradles it, still plays host to the locals for its playground, grass clearings, and baseball field. He is pushing a stroller containing his newborn son. She is pushing a toddler on the swings. There is an instant recognition in their traveling gaze. They stop and approach before hugging stiffly. Pleasantries are exchanged, and children are introduced. They catch up on seven more years that have drifted past. When they’re through, they part ways, each glancing back once before their silhouettes dissolve.
2013: Chance would bring them together again. This time through work. He is a “floating” unarmed guard for a private security contractor. She is a longtime nurse’s aide in the elderly home, where he is sent to cover the overnights for a week. Over those five graveyard shifts, they marvel at how long it’s been and play catch-up during stolen moments when neither is busy. The residents are asleep, so the unused, dimly-lit dining hall is ideal for their shared breaks. It is eerily reminiscent of where they first met. She is unhappily married with two additional children. He has been through one divorce and is racing head-on towards a second. In one unguarded moment, on his last night there, she wonders aloud how it would’ve been – with them. He has no response.
2020: It’s late August, and the humidity is stifling. COVID restrictions and mask-wearing dampen the hope of a traditional summer. Despite a worldwide shutdown, life lumbers on. Broad Street still bristles with activity, but the mood is more subdued. There is no blaring bachata music. There are no crowded outdoor tables where elderly gentlemen slam dominos And bodegas have no concept of social distancing or six feet of space. She’s at the register paying for an apple juice dressed in powder blue work scrubs. He places his soda on the counter beside her, and their hands brush. At that moment, a pair of eyes that no mask could conceal meet for the first time in seven years. •
Image: Edward Hopper, Nighthawks, 1942. Art Institue of Chicago
