Boulevard of noise

Islands in the Noise

Greta walked along the street one sunny spring day. She was out for her noon hour walk; “exercise” her cardiologist said she should do every day. Walking was not a favourite hobby of hers. The strolling time brought back memories she would sooner forget. Memories from a long time ago, that haunted her days and nights. But her doctor said she should walk, a half an hour every day. There were days that the walk outdoors distracted her from the memories. This being a sunny spring day, Greta accepted the responsibility to walk for exercise and extend her life. If walking was the prescription, she could do that.

On the ultra short walk signal, she hurried across to the Middle Boulevard. She became trapped by the rushing traffic. The busy sounds of rubber tires on tarmac swirled, small squeaks burped from the strain of rubber turning, pressing, resisting the turn. A radio announcer blasted from a car window, proclaiming ‘listen to KISS 101 on your dial.” A woman’s voice chased that one around the turn. “710 on your dial.” Thumping bass beat and pounded behind like muggers on the run. A concerto followed, trumpeted by a car horn. A screech of tires, a curse word. Another silly beep.

Greta was caught in the middle of a gridlock on a concrete island with two other women she did not know. They were trapped like shipwreck survivors on a tropical island surrounded by sharks that burped gaseous fumes. These were circling beasts threatening injury if she or the other two women stepped off the curb. The three women were fenced as if confined by a Gestapo wall.
One woman was a tall blonde, with perfect makeup, dressed in a Chanel suit, matching pink shoes, carrying a matching pink purse. Her companion is a short woman with round hips that have carried more than one child, a back that has supported one, more often than not, absent husband. With a scratched hand she brushed a strand of pesky red-brown hair from her chin.

“MaryAnn, my kids found the kittens the other day.” The short woman started a conversation as if Greta wasn’t there. The short woman sighed and pulled at the hem of her brown sweater.
“I bet they were cute, Jesse.”
“Peppy, the poodle that Katy so desperately had to have, has been acting like a crazed bundle of teeth with fur. We decided it’s because of the family living under our porch.”
“Now that you know what’s causing his problem, you can deal with it.”
“Mike brought one of the kittens inside. Peppy went nuts. The kitten ran into my closet and decided it was a rainforest. He climbed up the bridesmaid dress I was going to wear to my cousin’s wedding next weekend. Now it has claw marks up the front.”
“Is there time to replace it?”
“Can I borrow two hundred dollars?”
“I’m broke until my next pay. Two weeks, Jesse.”
“Credit card?”
“Maxed out. Ed needed new tires on his car. Sorry.”
Jesse’s head turned in the same direction as a car turning left tires within inches of her toes. “Katy came home early yesterday because of the janitors at her school being on strike. The school board decided the place is unsanitary. Someone had time to write that little note to inform parents, but they don’t have time to clean the bathrooms? I had to put her to bed early because all she could do is sneeze. She’s got a rash too. I decided that she might be allergic to something. Mites or some miniature beastie living in the carpets.”
“The Kitten? Ed, my boyfriend, is allergic to kittens.”
“The kitten turned out to be a skunk.”
Mary Ann’s laughter broke above the swooshing sounds of moving cars. “Sounds like it’s caused more problems than it’s worth. I had to get rid of my cat, because Eddie is allergic to cats.”
“I think you should have gotten rid of Eddie. But that’s just my opinion.”
“I don’t much like your husband either, Jesse. Where is he this week?”
“Long haul trip to Arizona. He took his golf clubs and his favourite cologne.”
As if in agreement a truck horn blasted above the parade of cars.

“The skunk!” Mary Ann shouted at her friend.
“Well, yes, the mother skunk came back and found out that one of her kittens is missing and decided to show her indignation. The stink permeated the living room curtains. Mike, the know-it-all-at ten-years old, said I should wash the curtains in tomato juice. He promptly disappeared to play soccer with his buddies. When I pulled out the cans of tomato juice, Katy just decided, for once in her short life, to be helpful. She sneezed while carrying a can and dropped the open can of tomato juice on the dining room carpet. That will have to be replaced. So all in all, the week has been lousy, the kids have been rotten and I think I’ll kill myself.”
The Walk signal flashed. The pink Chanel suit stepped off the curb.
The woman with hips that had carried more than one child and a back that had braced her husband through thick and thin didn’t move. “I mean it, Mary Ann. I’m going to kill myself.”
“And miss your cousin’s wedding?” Mary Ann called from the middle of the southbound traffic lanes.
“She won’t miss me.” Jesse called out and waved on a left turning vehicle.
The walk signal turned to “Don’t Walk.” Jesse stepped back from the curb.
Greta watched in dismay as Jesse sat on the sidewalk and leaned back against the lamp pole. Jesse pushed her red-brown hair to the side, away from her eyes. Her sneakers needed new laces. Her pants needed to be hemmed. Her sweater had a moth hole in the shoulder.
Greta peered across the street. The southbound traffic whooshed south, burped smoke up at her nose and the traffic moving north passed beside her right shoulder. The road was loaded again with cars and vans, and clouds of yellow and brown fumes belched from delivery trucks. Music escaped through open car windows. Across the traffic channel, as treacherous as the English Channel in the winter of 1943, the pink suit on the sidewalk jerked as if pulled or pushed. Mary Ann’s head rocked back and forth. She turned a full circle. She shaded her eyes and peered through the rising fumes. Vans intermittently hid her from view. Mary Ann in the pink suit looked like an escapee peeking from behind a forest of trees, just beyond the Gestapo fence. She looked more lost than the woman sitting on the boulevard did.
Greta glimpsed down at Jesse.
Jesse smiled up at Greta and said, “I hate these short walk signals. Except for today.”
“Why not today?” Greta asked.
“I can’t smell the skunks. I can’t hear the kids screaming, or the dog yapping. Boulevards are like islands between the noise.”