By Zary Fekete
Summer days. Breeze through the fingers. The feeling of lake water around my ankles.
Soon September. Gathering books. Father’s call. Climbing into the car.
My first phone…carefully placed between books in my bag.
Father pulls away and I walk up to Rob. We join the throng of other eleven year-olds slowly
mashing their way through the front doors of the middle school.
Rob and I float through morning hours, dazed and sleepy. The phone stays in my bag through
math and history and PE. We join the other students in the cafeteria at lunchtime. Smiles.
Everyone with a new phone. Coaxing from Rob, I show the table. Everybody is happy for me.
Caitlin shows me an app. William plays songs from his playlist. We gather together in a lively
knot…then guiltily steal away to afternoon classes many minutes late.
Social studies. English. Soon recess. More phones. Giddy laughter. Pictures snapping. Profiles
created. Passwords shared.
A wind begins to blow across the sports fields. Dust fills the air. Hands outstretched, we feel
toward the exits. Teacher’s voices snap with anger. Bags forgotten. A final bell rings and we
pour from the doors. I kiss friends’ and sweethearts’ cheeks farewell.
I stop at the curb, uncertain, seeing no marks of my father’s car, though I had, hadn’t I, texted
him? I pass my hand before my eyes wearily as I search. A figure stops next to me, a middle-
aged man, but with a faintly familiar face.
“How nice to see you again,” he says.
“Yes, it’s been such an age since we met,” I say.
He goes along his way and I turn back to the street. Such differences! Where were the crossing
guards? Where the marked, painted signs? Instead all is a buzz of electrical insect whizzing as
vehicles cross haphazardly across my vision.
All since this morning? I step along the sidewalk feeling a distant pain in my back. I wander a
few steps, looking feebly for a way across, finding none. An ambulance blares its siren and
several cars honk. Airplanes tear across the sky, flashing advertisements in their wake. I
remember when this was all wide, open fields. Now buildings of every size loom and cut across
the sun. I look down. Somehow my phone in my hand again, buzzing and flashing and filling
with images and texts and shouts of anger. The crush in the street threatens to overwhelm the
sidewalks. How was I ever to cross over?
I stand there for a long time. Finally, a young man approaches me.
“Grandpa,” he says. “Let me help you across.”
Zary Fekete…
…grew up in Hungary
…has a debut chapbook of short stories out from Alien Buddha Press and a novelette (In the Beginning) coming out from ELJ Publications.
…enjoys books, podcasts, and many many many films. Twitter: @ZaryFekete
Hot Pot Magazine 