Thanksgiving
I felt a gentle nudge at my back when I failed to move up to claim the empty space in the queue as yet another indigent diner took his tray. Only six people away from the front of the line, I’d frozen in my tracks and blinked several times, because even as he disappeared through a swinging door behind the counter, I could hardly believe it was him.
“Sorry.” I turned, and only then realized—shame on me—that the person behind me was a woman with a small child clinging to her arm. I was faced with a decision, one that took only a moment to make. I motioned for the pair to step ahead, as someone else took over scooping the mashed potatoes and ladling the gravy. I would have felt terribly guilty if I had gotten the last of either, and the little one was left without. My turn came soon enough, just as Sawyer—or someone who looked just like him—returned to his serving position. Though I’d been hoping to avoid my past, it seemed as if the fates had planned it another way.
“Happy Thanksgiving.”
His voice hadn’t changed much in over a decade. My looks, apparently, had. There wasn’t even a hint of recognition in his hazel eyes as they met my dark ones, likely filled with anxiety and shame, when I couldn’t help but look up. I’d considered bolting, but I was hungry. I hadn’t had a single meal the day before and only coffee for breakfast with the money I’d collected holding out my hand to passersby. “Thanks.” I hung my head again, because of what I’d become, and also so Sawyer might not see it.
My plate full, I slid it down the line. It was all over. Every fantasy I’d ever had about Sawyer Ettinger over the past twelve years was squelched within an instant. And who would have guessed it? Whoever would have imagined that a guy with perfectly coiffed hair and manicured nails, who wore a fancy dress shirt and gold watch to serve food to bums, wouldn’t throw himself on his knees in front of one in a soup line on Thanksgiving?
I looked at my plate as I sat. The food no longer held any appeal, so I got up to search the room. Walking up the center aisle, two rows with eight tables on either side, I looked for the little girl and her mother, to offer them my meal, and then go. Part of me was hurt Sawyer hadn’t recognized me. Our one and only interaction, though many years prior, had been nothing short of magical, unless, of course, I had blown the whole thing way out of proportion in my mind.
* * * *
It had been my first time in New York City, even though I only lived about an hour away. I was lost—totally lost. Looking for Grand Central Station to hop a train for Basic, I trudged up the sidewalk for about the one hundredth time—back and forth, back and forth, dragging my gear behind me. I’d been following a little girl in pink pants and a Tigger sweatshirt when it happened, not necessarily because I thought she knew the way, but because I was suddenly rather worried about what she was doing wandering the streets all alone. Her hair was in a ponytail, but a hundred little wisps of gold danced all around her face in the breeze, too threadlike to be held. She came to halt in front of me for no reason, so I stopped as well. Bam!I’ll never forget the sound. I’m sure Sawyer never will either. He’d been riding a bike, and somehow he’d crashed head on into the side of a city bus. I ran right over. It amazed me how many people didn’t, how many just kept on rushing to wherever it was they were going.
“Hey.”
“Hmm.”
“It’s all right. You’re going to be okay.” How could I promise such a thing? There was a lot of blood—from his nose and from wherever else it flowed—and his leg was bent at an angle a leg shouldn’t bend.
“My papers?”
“Huh?” I was kneeling on the pavement beside him. Already sirens could be heard. That was the good thing about the city, I’d supposed. Emergency services was never too far away.
“Where are my—ow!”
“Yeah. Seriously. ‘Ow.’ Stop talking. Relax. The ambulance will be here soon.”
He had a mop of wild reddish blond hair and I got glimpse of his beautiful eyes when his lids flitted open and shut. There was a crowd gathered now, but just the little girl and I were down on the ground with him. “I’m Countdown,” I said to Sawyer before I knew his name. “Yeah, it’s dumb,” I told him, “but I’m stuck with it. My real name is Bart…Bartholomew, but no one calls me that. If only my parents had known The Simpsons would be coming along in four more years. My brother picked the nickname ‘cause he said I don’t live in the moment. My birthday’s in September, and by then I’m counting ahead to Halloween. Instead of enjoying candy apples and Hershey bars dressed as a pirate when that does come along, I’d be making my list for Santa two months ahead. I’m talking so you have something to concentrate on other than…”
“My papers?”
“Dude. Your satchel is safe. It’s right there beside you.”
“Good.”
“Least of your worries, the way I see it, but I’ll make sure they keep them with you.” I had guessed by then the sirens I’d heard hadn’t been for him. Maybe the next batch would be. “What’s your name?”
“Sawyer Ettinger.”
“Nice to meet you, Sawyer. You a bike messenger?”
“Yeah.”
I’d heard stories about how reckless they were. Seemed accurate, as this one was lying in the street after a game of chicken with a forty-thousand pound bus.
