The boy going on 20 and the girl who said "whoa"

I needed to cross, so I pushed the button. The light turned green but the little white permission man never replaced the red foreboding hand. If you've ever crossed a street with me, you probably tried to continue in our conversation for a moment then realized I had already raced to other side. My fear of intersections does it to me.

I stood and threw a silent tantrum on the darkening corner, even though I knew the white permission man was probably just out and the green light would still allow me enough time to cross unharmed, and without any jay walking accusation. An out-of-nowhere blond boy raced past me and, seizing the opportunity to have a crossing buddy, I raced with him and arrived at the corner as he was pressing the next crossing button.

"It's scary! When there's no white man light!"

"Ah, fuck the light. Excuse my language."

"That's okay."

"And there's what I missed," he said, pointing to an OCTA member driving away.

"The bus?"

"Yeah."

"Was it stopped there when we got to the corner?"

"Yeah."

"Well, is there another one coming?"

"I think so."

I noticed the functional white permission man beckoning us, so I pointed and started walking. He followed.

"Sorry for walking in the same direction. I'm not following you or anything."

"That's okay."

"I guess it's back to work."

"Where do you work?"

"Right between those two office buildings."

"What do you do?"

"In a nutshell, real estate. In not a nutshell, something very complicated."

"Is it legal?"

"Well considering that when I was doing it when I was 13, 14, and 15 years old and it was definitely not legal then, it must be legal now."

"How old are you now?"

"19. Going on 20."

"Cool."

"You?"

"22."

"Sorry, I guess I'm not supposed to ask."

"It's okay. I asked you."

"Where are you off to?"

"The library."

"You like to read, then?"

"Yep."

"Reading's good for you. It's good for your brain."

"Yeah, I've heard that."

Then I said something that was very much something I would say. If you've ever become friends with me it's probably because I said something like, "Hey let's be friends!" Or, "Hey, look. We're hanging out. We must be friends." Or, "Want to get a drink some time? I think we could be good friends." My friendships never seem to happen organically. I always feel the need to comment on the conversational or relational development, or lack thereof. So I said something like this, something like, "Look we became crossing buddy friends!" Or, "What a fast conversation we started and are now ending as we part our ways." But I don't remember exactly what it was because at this point I saw the fire hydrant, made to pass to the right of the fire hydrant, subsequently failed and incurred a bruise I'm sure will be hideous by tomorrow morning. I do remember what I said after that, though.

"I just ran into the fire hydrant."

"I saw that."

"It really hurts."

"I believe it."

"Owe."

"Well, it was good meeting you."

"You, too."

"And best of luck to you."

"Bye."

Returning from the library and approaching the same intersection, my new crossing buddy had an interesting outfit: helmet, wrist pads, knee pads, elbow pads, and a bike as an accessory.

"Why are you walking your bike?"

"I forgot my light."

"Oh. You should just wave your cell phone in front of you while you ride."

"I don't think the police men would like that," she laughed.

"Where are you coming from?"

"The library."

"Me, too!"

This middle-aged woman told me about how hard her tax class is and that she lived by the high school, which was in my direction, so of course I said, "Hey! Let's be walking buddies!"

"Okay!"

I held up my phone to her and said, "I'm expecting a phone call soon, though."

"Where do you go to school?"

"I just graduated from Vanguard University."

"Whoa! You look like you're in high school."

"I'm 22."

"Whoa. What did you study?"

"English. Literature."

"Whoa. That's deep."

"Where are you from?"

"Venezula. You're Californian?"

When people say "Californian" or "Oregonian" or "Delwarian" it seems to clarify that each state does in fact have its own culture, own people, own ways and shit of that sort. I like it.

"Born and raised. What's your name?"

"Korkee." (Clearly not spelled right, but it sounded something like that while we shook hands.) "Yours?"

"Hannah."

"Hannah, like..."

"Montana."

My phone rang and I answered, finishing my conversation so Cyntho could hear all the way in Miami.

"Well, I have to take this. Good meeting you."

"You, too! Have a safe walk home!"

"You, too!"

Harbor and Baker is a good intersection to meet two-minute friends.