A Break from Routine

As I slide the gloves off my hands, the winter chill crawls between my fingers and into my veins. I suppose it doesn’t feel better than leaving them warm and isolated, but today is my day, and the numbing sensation only makes me feel alive. I look around to see the hundreds of people surrounding me, each one marching off to whichever destination they so choose. They are all rushed, and irritation burns in their eyes, as they are drawn into their respective routine, like a moth to fire. In the lines of each of their faces is written determined intent, as if never arriving where they wish, or arriving late, spells certain doom. Not I, though. I walk to walk. I have no destination. I have no deadline. There is only the pit-pat of my steps and the cold bite of New York City breathing down my spine, keeping me aware, keeping me alive.

I stared at the crystal traces left in the air by my freezing breath. How different. Each breath is of its own shape, and gently floats on to the whims of the wind, only to dissipate and join the rest of the world. How I’d love to be one. I gently close my eyes and curl my trembling, freezing fingers into tight fists, and what else do I do but walk? The pit-pat continues as I stroll on without sight, yet never such a lucid perception of reality. I run into no one, and no one bumps into me. I know when to walk for traffic. I know when to stop. I am in complete synchronization with the world around me. I walk. I walk. I walk. For how long, I don’t know. It could have been a minute. It could have been an hour. It’s hardly relevant. All I know is that eventually I stopped, and that I stopped for no other reason than reason itself.

When I opened my eyes, the light of day pierced my tender retinas, as if I just woke in a bright room. The blurriness of my vision cleared just in time to see him coming toward me. He’s rushed. He’s young. He’s in a suit. I see the same determined intent written in his face as everyone else about, the same crazed need for punctuality, but he is not the same. I see this anxiety, yet I see more. I see passion. I see flare. He’s gripping a boiling latte in one hand, rifling through a stack of papers in the other, and holding a pen between his teeth. He couldn’t have been more occupied, more oblivious of my presence.

I ought to have moved, so as to not complicate his day, so as to not end my blissful walk, but it felt right. I wouldn’t say it was destined, but it simply felt right. He continued toward me, still occupied with his papers, still young, still ambitious. The second we hit his papers were in the air, scalding latte drenched my hand, the pen was out of his mouth, and profanities were out of his mouth.

“Damn it! I’m sorry. I had no idea you were there. Here, use my handkerchief. You need it more than I do.”

As he pulled the handkerchief out of his front suit pocket, I watched the burning coffee sizzle and steam on my hand. I imagined it was excruciating; searing my skin away cell by cell. Perhaps for better or for worse, I couldn’t feel a thing on my frozen hand, anyway. I took the handkerchief out of his open hand and wiped the burning latte from mine.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m so sorry. I wasn’t paying attention at all.”

“Don’t worry. It was just as much of my fault as yours. Let’s get your papers.”

I bent down to help him gather his fifty-or-so sheets of paper. I put them in a stack and handed them to him as he grabbed the remainder of his latte and put the pen in his front pocket.

"It’s a report. I’m really sorry about this, and I have somewhere to be. Thanks for the help,” he said as he walked off toward the crowds.

He may have planned to go on with his day, but I didn’t feel inclined to let him go. I caught up to him and conveniently got in his way, “What’s does your report cover?”

He seemed slightly taken aback, “Um… It’s over the percent of my company’s budget that should be allocated to electricity and plumbing expenses.”

“That’s bland.”

“Well, it’s my job. Now if you’d excuse me—”

“What’s the rush?”

“I need to get to work and give myself at least an hour review this report.”

“You mean waste an hour of your time?”

“Look I’m sorry about running into you, but I have to go.”

“Do you?”

“What the Hell? I have to go to work. Doesn’t that make sense to you?”

“Not really.”

“You’re helpless. Good bye.”

“You’re not going to need an hour to review that. I bet your boss won’t even read that crap. They’ll get their plumbing and electricity bills, and that will tell them what to pay. It’s pretty simple. It sure doesn’t take 50 pages.”

“I don’t care. This is my job, and this is what I was told to do. I’m going to do it best I can. I take pride in my work.”

“Try taking pride in life. Let yourself loose a little. Come on, grab a coffee with me.”

“Don’t you get the point? I have somewhere to be.”

“There are plenty of places to be. One where you are reviewing a report no one will read is not one I suggest. Let’s get a coffee. It’s not going to take more than 15 minutes.”

“I appreciate the offer, but really—”

“Your coffee burned my hand bare. The least you can do is sit down with me for a minute.”

“I—”

“Come on.”

“Fine, but I don’t know why I’m doing this.”

“You won’t regret it.”

“Let’s go to this little coffee shop here. They have the best lattes in town. That is, when I don’t spill them.”

“Better than Starbucks?”

“Absolutely.”

“I’m in.”

When we entered the café, my nose picked up the keen smell of coffee beans, and my heart jumped into caffeine mode even before my first sip of latte. Once we got our lattes, mine vanilla with lots of cream, lots of sugar and his plain, we sat down on across from one another and sank into our deep, soft lounge chairs.

How long did you work on that report?”

“More or less, two weeks.”

“Two weeks? That’s just a waste.”

“It was what I was told to do. I’m not in any position to argue my employer.”

“Why not? Why can’t you let go of what you’re supposed to do every now and then? Sure, write the report. But come in early to revise it? Check it while you walk the streets of New York City? Surely time was meant for better things.”

“It’s my job. I’m being depended on for this, and more importantly, my paycheck relies how I perform, even if it is an unimportant report.”

“Unimportant report? That’s putting it nicely. I don’t think you quite understand. Let me tell you a story you ought to hear. Have you ever gone... people watching?”

“What? No. What’s that?”

“It’s exactly what it implies. The watching of fellow human beings as they go about their day-to-day activities. It’s perhaps a nicer word for spying, but it is the highest entertainment you can get, and trust me when I say there is no better place to do it in the world than Central Park.”

“What of it?”

“What of it? Well I’ll tell you what of it. There is no better way to be entertained, and more importantly, learn, than from observing other people. Take for example: I spent an entire month watching from the same bench at Central Park from 8 to 10 in the morning. You get to see all the strange and exciting people, and get let in on bits of others’ lives, but, by far, the most interesting part is when it comes to seeing people’s routines. Literally every day, at exactly 9:27 on the dot, the same young man, such as yourself, came jogging by me, always flashing a smile, and ended his run, resting upon the same oak tree when he finished. It was so routine, so damn identical every single day for weeks, and I couldn’t get over it. The weather may have changed, flowers may have bloomed or withered away, yet it was always at the same time, with the same bright smile. I decided to mix things up.”

“What did you do?”

“I’ll tell you exactly what I did. Near the end of that month, I took a sticky note, and minutes before I knew he would finish his run, I wrote a simple word on it and stuck it to the oak tree. It read: Stumble.”

“Did he see it?”

“You bet he did. He read it, slipped it in his pocket, and went off on his way. The next day I waited like a ravenous hawk for him to pass me by. I was anxious to see a bruise, a cut on his knee, or something, anything that actually made this time different. I checked my watch, it was 9:27. I looked up. He was not there. ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘I’ll give him a minute to recover.’

“Yet, at 9:28 he was still not there. I squirmed in my bench waiting in anticipation, just to see a different scene. It was 9:29; not a trace of him. At 9:30, he was still not there. At 9:31, I was nearly tearing my hair out. At 9:32, I, finally, saw him come by.”

“Was he hurt? Could you tell if he stumbled?"

“Yes, he had traces of dirt on his knee, so I knew he actually followed the message, but that was hardly what I was interested in.”

“Why, what else was different?”

“He wasn’t even jogging. He was walking by with a girl to his side, deep in conversation. He never looked so content. He paused a second and looked over her shoulder and stared me in the eye. Then he cracked the same bright smile as always, and walked off with his new friend. I haven’t gone back to see him since.”

“That’s pretty unbelievable.”

“I know. I was surprised myself. Who knew the implications of such a small change? That’s not even the beginning of examples. Let me give one you might relate to better.

“A man wakes up at 6 in the morning. He fries himself an omelet, and washes it down with a glass of orange juice. He slips on his gloves, his coat and walks out the door. Bitterly cold winds slap him in the face, freezing his tears where they stand. The hospital is in sight, and to it he is drawn. He walks toward his appointment. He walks towards his fate. He knows that once he arrives, he will share the same waiting room as all those around him. The crying babies; the coughing adults; they will share the room for hours as he watches the clock, as he watches it tick and watches it tock. Time will pass as slowly as it always does in such a waiting room, yet it will pass faster, and more meaningfully than ever before.

“He knows that once he is finally called in, the doctor won’t be able to look him in the eye. When the man asks, 'How long do I have?' he will hesitate. All of his expertise, all of his medical training will forgo him, as he will struggle to tell a man that he has a finite number of days left in this world.

“The man knew this would happen. He knew it wasn’t worth going into the hospital at all. And so he stood, thinking, wondering, contemplating the last moments of his life, however many there may be. It was then that he slid the gloves off of his hands and allowed the cold atmosphere to engulf them. It was then that he wished he were one of the countless frosty exhalations in this world. It was then that he closed his eyes and walked, not because he had anywhere to go, not because it was what he was supposed to do, but because he could walk. As if he were a child proud of its own first steps, he walked gleefully. No, even… blissfully. It was then that he saw a young businessman, and, not because he was accidentally in the wrong place at the wrong time, stood in his way till they collided. It was then that he sat down with him in a coffee shop and told him stories no one had ever cared to listen to before.”

The young businessman was speechless. He swallowed his pride and all of his being as he realized the fate of the man before him.

“Don’t worry about me. Worry about you, worry about the affect small differences make. Don’t let routine hold you back. Don’t let what you’re supposed to do restrain you from what you could do. If you never break routine, if you never let loose, then you never know what else life is willing to offer you. Do exactly what doesn’t make sense to do, and you will see what exactly doesn’t make sense to see. You might think certain things aren’t right to do, but maybe once you do it, nothing could have ever felt so befitting. Had I gone where I ought to have gone, only to hear the limit on my life, whether it be two weeks or two months, where would we be now?”

“Not here.”

“Exactly.”