“things i noticed outside” by Roma Uzzaman

i am sitting on a cement brick. there is a cold drink cupped in my hands, and one earbud trails out of my ear. i’m not paying attention to whatever it is i’m supposed to be listening to, whatever song has sorted to the top of my queue. i am thinking about the futility of making friends, the way fires burn sharp and acrid and wither away quickly, the look in someone’s eyes when they’re not looking at me.

 behind me, there is a loud noise and a stomp. a group of four boys pass by, laughing. bemused, i call out, “that was so aggressive.”

 one of them hides his face behind his hand, pulling his mask further up his nose. another stops in his tracks and, grinning, points over at the place they had been just a moment ago.

 “i sneezed,” says the first boy.

 “and then you stepped on the M,” says the second. the other two burst into raucous laughter.

 “how could you?” i gasp. “you’re never gonna graduate, now.”

 one of the boys snickers. “he sneezed and then stepped on the m. what the fuck dude.”

 “you’re never gonna graduate now!” yells another boy, and he jumps on the back of the one who’d sneezed. they keep walking, the boy staggering under the weight of the other. the last one adjusts his baseball cap, his eyes hidden by the brim of it.

 i watch them walk away, down the street, around the corner. and i wonder how they do what they do. what their stories are.

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on the way to get bubble tea, my friend and i pass a tall man asking for signatures to support a cause against workplace discrimination. i’m not old enough to sign yet, but my friend does.

 after we get our tea, we sit at a bench near the man. he looks over at us; my friend shrinks back, but i wave my hand in the air like i’m once again seeing a long-lost friend. we watch as he approaches strangers and is turned away more than not, most people choosing to walk right by while hardly acknowledging his existence. my earbuds are tied around my phone, dropped in my lap. we watch as he gets a signature.

 as the person walks away, i hold my hands in the air and cheer.

 the man turns to me, bewildered. i yell, “you got a signature!”

 he grins and says, “all part of the job, coach!”

 he’s a football player from alabama, getting signatures for money. i want to ask if it’s pay-per-signature or if he gets paid for the amount of time he spends, but i don’t. he tells us about quarterbacks and linebackers and words that i know but don’t at the same time, all those football terms i’ve learned but never retained.

 an hour flies by, and my friend goes home. when a person ignores the man, he turns to me and says, “i’ll get it next time, coach!” when he gets a signature, he says, “you see that play, coach? all me.” his work partner and a few friends join him, and i’m slowly forgotten.

 i’m sitting and drawing in my chem notebook, idling away the minutes, when they walk away. down the path leading to the road. i wonder, will i ever see them again? was this momentary connection just that: just a moment in the grand scheme of things? my hands are cold, so i walk in the same direction, towards the coffee shop overlooking the street. as i pass by, i pass them, and the man says, “have a good day, coach.”

 and i think, what a beautiful thing it is to know a stranger. i smile at him behind my mask and say, “you too.”

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there are five of us sitting on the concrete benches, staring out over the plaza. i’m nursing a cappuccino in my cold fingers, and my friends are talking about something that happened in their dorm hall last week. i don’t live there, so i guess i wouldn’t understand. i am looking in from the outside.

 on the other side of the brick plaza, a man yells in an approximation of soulful acoustic music. he strums away at his guitar, growing louder and quieter at irregular intervals. we watch as he raises his head and belts words that make no sense to us, are obviously english but impossible to understand; we watch as his own art moves him to continue, moves him to create. and though we laugh, there is something in that audacity, in that rich fire, that inspires me. i think, i would like to be like that someday, able to put my art on display for the world.

 my friends walk quickly but i lag behind, my aching legs struggling to keep up with my racing mind.

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the big rooms of this building seem more fit as ballrooms. there’s one officially titled a ballroom at the end of the hall, but even these smaller study rooms give off that majestic feeling. that, or the rows of single-person tables make the room feel like an exam location. it’s quiet enough to be one.

 in front of me, another student sits back in his chair. i can see him watching youtube videos on his computer, his headphones over his ears. i put my earbuds in but don’t play anything for a long moment, staring down at my homework. i glance over at the girl across the row and she shrugs at me, turning back to her notes on her ipad.

 i hold my mask down to take a sip of water. then pull it back up over my mouth and nose and get to work.

 a man, probably someone who works here, patrols the rooms, watching for missing masks and people who are just a bit too close. he stops in our study room and gestures to catch the attention of the boy in front of me. “excuse me?”

 there is no response.

 irritated, the worker taps the boy on the shoulder. the boy looks up at him, his unmasked mouth pulled down in a frown.

 “you need to keep your mask on inside,” the worker says. the boy reaches across his table and grabs his mask, rolls it on over his face, hooks it around his ears. for a moment my heart floods with panic, the idea of breathing the same air as him terrifying me.

 i flee from the building at top speed.

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i’m walking home late at night. it’s past dark, maybe nine pm. i’m walking past older buildings and people returning or going between parties, and i feel that dark fear of the unknown grip at my heart. i look over my shoulder to make sure there’s no one following me.

 my fists are clenched. i recite to myself the human body’s weak points, and then the lyrics of the song i’ve been thinking about for the past two hours. my earbuds are in my ears, but they are silent; i must be watchful, careful. i need to be able to hear.

 as i swerve around a large group of friends, i hear them say something along the lines of, “all babies are born autistic.” i strain my ears to listen, but i only catch the tail end of that sentence, something about people becoming less autistic as they grow older, or something. i pause, dumbfounded. my previous fear feels so strange now, when all i can think about is this one phrase. what does it mean? what’s the evidence? i have to look it up.

 with renewed energy, i plod down the sidewalk and take the bus back home.

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 i’m home, and i think of the outside. i think of the breeze and the warm sun and the cold nip of autumn on my fingertips. i think of sweaters and jackets and the faces of people i’ve met that i will never see again, the faces of people i haven’t met and will know for a long time, sometime in the future. i wonder what it means to be alive. i wonder if this is it, if this — yearning, a quiet waiting, laughter — is what it means to be alive. i wonder if i am alive.

Roma Uzzaman is a rising BCN major. She dreams of someday becoming a mushroom.