It was a hot day today and the wind was blowing from the North, from just beyond the mountains. It was the kind of day when you’d rather be inside when the sun is high, unless you have to be outside, and then if you are outside, you would want to make sure that you are not outside for too long.
It was that kind of day. And so, I waited for an hour longer, a half-hour longer, for the sun to set well beyond the horizon to the west before I dared step outside again. Aida was in the living room, manipulating her arms in incredible ways and expecting her online workout students to follow along, when I put in on khaki t-shirt, sky blue tube scarf, and navy blue walking shoes, air-kissed her goodbye, and stepped out.
I press against the building entrance door with the fronts of my two closed fists and regret it immediately – I should have used my butt instead, because I won’t be using my butt to scratch my nose or cheek while I walk. Before I make my way from the door to the mid-street traffic light, which is about a ten-second walk, I try to mentally calculate the odds that the outsides of my fingers would be “exposed” – they say the coronavirus lives on metal surfaces for about twelve hours, and given the scorching weather not many people would have gone out before I did, and if they did they were probably more vigilant than me and used a part of their body covered in clothing to open the entrance door. So, I’m probably good, no?
I tap on the pedestrian signal with my bottom joint of my left-hand ring finger – ok, so that would be the “no-touching” body part for this citywalk – and the light instantly turns white for me to cross Colorado Street.
I get to other side of the street… except this time, instead of heading straight for the alleyway between Nordstrom and Barnes & Noble, I start walking toward Central Avenue in order to better study the very building I live in. For the past several days, I have found myself scratching my head in wonder, wondering how the west-facing part of our residential building comes to be. As far as I know, all the units of the building face to east, and if you walk along the corridors, you will see almost no door to a unit facing the west. But seen from outside, the western part of the building is as ornate with windows and balconies as the eastern part. I walk along Colorado Street toward Central Avenue, drawing blueprints in my head to find the secret nook through which residents enter that part of the structure. I defer solving that to a later time, when I would be even more interested in knowing the answer than I am now. I continue my path.
I pull out my phone right after it chimes. It’s a Telegram message from my friend from Germany, and I remember telling him a few moments ago that I would be calling him. It’s too early for him now, leave it for later, I think. He’s German, he would want me to stay true to my word, and beside, he didn’t object to my notion of ringing him,I debate with myself. Enjoy your walk, put your phone away,I hear myself countering. He texted you just now, clearly he’s not asleep, I win myself over and hit “dial.” The first buzz goes through, no answer. Second buzz, no answer. On the third buzz, I look at my screen to make sure the call is going through, see the current time on the top-right corner of the phone read 7:37pm, and notice the word “Ringing” switch to “Connecting” against the faded background of his profile picture on Telegram. Right when I realize it’s around 4:30am his time, and just about to ask him why on Earth he is up this late (or early), he picks up:
“You are calling me at half past four in the morning, do you know that?!” come his whispering words, which seem more annoyed than the sound of his voice, which is in fact calm. I reason that, well, he was texting me, so I guess he must have been half-asleep, and he confirms that he was indeed half-asleep, but he is not asleep now. He says his trip to Armenia is still showing, and I let him know – confirming by voice what I had texted a few moments ago – that the wedding was being postponed, although I would love to host him in Yerevan if he still decides to come and if we are also there, because our flights have been cancelled for the second time. He says that he’ll make it if the flight actually happens, and I ask him to get more rest and that it was great hearing his voice.
I would not consult the screen of my phone for the next thirteen minutes, which is exactly how long it took me to make my way up Brand Boulevard, cross it at Broadway, and continue along that road past the Glendale main post office (marveling at its infrastructural significance) and stand right across from the Zhengyalov Hatz restaurant, which was still open. I look at my phone once more then; it’s 7:51pm. They’re about to close, at 8:00pm, but the two ladies dressed in white behind the plexiglass counter still seem to be kneading dough and tossing herbs. I consult my stomach, which seems sufficiently full, and consider calling Aida to ask if she’s down for some good stuff. I eventually decide against it, largely because of the unlikeliness that they’ll take a new order seven minutes before closing time, which is when I would be walking into the restaurant if I did indeed cross the street toward them.
I continue my path toward Glendale Avenue.
/to be continued/
Chronicles 