A Poor Boy’s Dream & A Rich Man’s Regret

A Poor Boy’s Dream & A Rich Man’s Regret

By Damon Decker

It felt so strange being back here after so long. It’s unbelievable what a different person I am now versus who I was the last time I sat here on this very bench, on this very train platform. It looked exactly how I remembered it. Everything was exactly the same. Every trash receptacle was overflowing with the same garbage. Every surface was layered in the same thick coats of graffiti. The “No Smoking” sign was defaced with the same gang tag. The benches were grimy with the exact same filth for which I never bore any desire to know the origin. But most of all I remember the train’s schedule. I looked down at my silver Hamilton to see it was now the top of the hour. The next train would be arriving shortly. I sat in silence with one knee atop the other entertained only by the music of dystopia. An orchestra of car engines, horns, barking dogs, distressed cats, and wailing emergency sirens in the far distance. The darkness of night had not completely lifted yet. The whole city was wrapped in a gloomy, cloudy purple dawn. The sun was hiding behind the tall skyline buried under layers of clouds.

My presence attracted the eyes of almost every passer-by. I took no offense to this, though. I understand how a white man sitting at a train platform near the projects at 7:00 in the morning, wearing a custom-tailored, bespoke three-piece suit and tie, polished leather shoes, and a Hamilton watch would be as much an anomaly as a lion living in Antarctica.

As I have already said, I am a million miles from the man I was when I last sat here on this bench at this decaying train platform. I also distinctly remember being able to sit down and stand up from this bench without my joints and my back echoing a complaint.

If I remember right, it was exactly 7:11 AM when I was joined on the bench by a young white boy no older than 17. The young boy wore Levi’s jeans, a band hoodie, and tennis shoes that looked as though they couldn’t be a week old.

I was not expecting him to speak first, which is why it startled me when he said, “Look at that, we both have the same backpack.” I looked down between my feet. Sure enough, we both carried the exact same battered red and yellow backpack.

“We sure do,” I replied. Until I got a good look at his backpack, I was unsure what I should say next. “But mine only has a laptop, a change of underwear, and an extra tie. Yours looks like it's packed for a family of four.” The kid chuckled, seemingly unsure of how else to reply.

“Where are you headed on this fine day, young man?” I asked.

“School,” the young man replied in a way that sounded more rehearsed than genuine.

“Are you spending the weekend there? Why is it packed like you're preparing for a three-day expedition?” I sounded more accusatory than I meant to.

“Why do you care?” the kid scolded, perhaps deservedly.

“I am sorry, I did not mean to upset you.”

The kid sighed with an air of remorse. “Sorry, you’re right. That was rude. What’s your name, sir?” he said, apologetically.

“Levi. Yours?” I replied, offering my hand.

“Cody.” We joined hands for a polite shake.

“Well, Cody, where are you going to school? What grade are you in?”

“Nowhere at the moment. The truth is, my whole life is packed into this bag. I’m going to Ebonyville.”

“What will be waiting for you when you get there?”

“A bus…to take me to California.”

“What’s in California?”

“Hollywood. I’m going to get into the acting business.”

“Ambitious.”

“I think so. Anyways, where are you goin’?”

“Nowhere really.”

“How does a man like you find himself out here?”

“Nowhere else better to be, I suppose. Where’s your family? Shouldn’t they be here to bid you farewell on your Hollywood adventure?”

“There’s no one left for me out here.”

“You look far too young to have no one in your life, young man.”

“My momma died when I was a baby.”

“What about dad?”

He scoffed as though I made a humorous joke. “I don’t even know what rock he crawled under. Ever since then, I’ve ricocheted from foster home to foster home until I crash landed in some shitbox group home out here. Not much else needs to be said, I reckon.”

“You’re right about that. I remember that phase of my life all too well.”

“You were a foster kid, too?”

“Try foster system royalty. But I don’t remember a single pair of clothes I had that I didn’t find abandoned in a lost-and-found bin. Yours, on the other hand, look fresh off the shelf of Target.”

“Well, that’s the interesting part. I just recently got picked up by a black family. The Jacksons.”

“You don’t sound anywhere near excited.”

“Don’t give them too much credit. I’m 17, they’ll probably take the checks and kick me out the door next year.”

“I hate to sound like I’m taking sides, but them buying you those clothes tells me you are more than just an easy cash grab.”

“I know better than to fall for their pity gifts.”

“Did you say you're 17? Shouldn’t you still be in high school?”

“I doubt that anyone there will miss me when I’m gone.”

“How do you think your family will fare with your departure?”

“I’m not sure I’d give them that title. Besides, there’s plenty more where I came from.” 

Something about those words dug into me like a corkscrew through my chest. The pain made me readjust myself on the bench. It was then I noticed the funny little cartoon dog tattoo the kid had on his forearm. “You’re a little young to have a tattoo.”

“Oh yeah!” The kid looked down at his arm. “My friend, Connor, did it. He owns a parlor. He was still a rookie though. The feet are backwards, and his tail looks like a dick.”

“How kind of you to be his Guinea pig.”

“You still haven’t told me why you’re here. Certainly, it’s not for the view.”

“You’re right. It’s not. The truth is, I just needed to come back one last time. The last time I sat on this very bench was about a few decades ago. It was here that I made the biggest mistake of my life.”

“What kind of mistake is that?”

“The same one I think you’re about to make.”

“What the hell do you mean by that exactly?” he said, incredulously.

“Not too long ago, I met my foster father for the first time since I left. I learned that the day I slammed the door in their face he was going to surprise me by taking me to be included in the family photo. He was planning to give me adoption papers as my 18th birthday present if I just held out long enough.” For a moment, there was complete mournful silence. The memories replayed in my mind like a silent film.

“Looks like you did well for yourself, though,” the kid finally said.

“Depends who you ask,” I admitted.

“Your watch, and your suit tells me you’ve made a good living.”

“Looks can be deceiving. Money can be a very clever disguise. Tell me more about the Jacksons.”

“Why, you writing my biography?”

“Well, I’m curious. They’re nice enough to buy you new clothes but not enough to make you stay?”

“It’s more complicated than that. I’ll probably be out the door at 18, and they’ll never talk to me again. Even if that doesn’t turn out to be the case, I’m just supposed to pretend I’ve always been destined to be a Jackson? That my mom dying and my dad disappearing was some kind of blessing in disguise?”

“There are worse things to pretend, I can assure you. So you’re so convinced that they’re going to abandon you that you’re going to abandon them first?”

“If I don’t escape now, I might never be able to.”

“If you have a family that loves you, what are you trying to escape from?”

“Man, what are you blind? Haven’t you been listening? All that’s left out here is bullet casings and street tar. Being adopted by the Jacksons would mean I’m stuck in this shithole! I’ve had enough heartbreak for one lifetime.”

During the next silence, I reflected on the time when I was in the same place as Cody. The way I remember it, my foster family made me feel love that I swore I would never have. But what did I do when surrounded by all that love? I put up walls and shut everyone out because it was all I knew how to do. Abandonment and loneliness, though I called it being an independent lone wolf who made all the rules, were the foundations of my raising. Foundations, I now realize, that may as well have been made of sand. “Look man,” the kid continued, “It’s not like being part of a family is all it’s cracked up to be anyway. Sometimes I think sharing a last name with someone is just setting yourself up for heartbreak. Why the hell should I have to love my parents? I’m going to have to bury them one day just like I had to for my mom. Might as well leave them behind before doing so hurts even more.”

“Hiding from the pain you're already facing is fear, but running away from suffering that doesn’t yet exist anywhere but in your imagination is just cowardice!”

Now the kid jumped up from the bench, shouting, “So why did YOU leave your family then?! All those years ago?”

I leaned back on the bench and took a deep inhale. I was worried he would ask that question. “Because I was afraid. Afraid of falling in love. Just like you, I was afraid of falling in love with my parents, because I knew every argument would hurt so much more. I also knew that one day I would have to bury them. Then I would have lost the only people in the world who wanted me to be better than them. I was afraid of falling in love with my grandparents because one day I would have to bury them, too. I was afraid of falling in love with my brothers and sisters because I was afraid of the day we may grow apart. But something I learned far too late is that if you spend your whole life avoiding heartbreak, then one day you will learn that you never had a heart to begin with. Care to guess how I know?”

I paused a spell. “Because family is way more complicated than just a group photo of smiling faces on the wall. Being part of a family means a lot more than just sharing a last name. You can’t be a boxer while having the fear of getting punched. You can’t be in a family while having the fear of heartbreak. Funny how now I think I would trade everything I have just so that I could have a chance to feel that heartbreak because, as strange as it sounds, that pain and heartbreak is just as much a gift as the joy and the happy memories because not only does it prove that the love is real but it also proves that nothing can make it disappear.” I reached down and undid the band and pulled the Hamilton off of my wrist, holding it out in front of me. “Wherever you are going, take this with you.”

“Why?” Cody asked.

“You need it way more than me, son.” Reluctant, as if this was some kind of prank, the kid took the Hamilton from my hand and attached it to his own wrist. He stood there for a moment, unsure of how to respond. “Trust me, kid. Success is important, but it isn’t everything; Happiness and joy may be temporary, but pain and regret lasts forever. In time, you won’t even recognize yourself. Not even when you look in the mirror. Care to guess how I know?”

A mutilated horn interrupted our conversation as the train came chugging to a stop beside us. Every car, including the engine, was abused with as much graffiti as the rest of the platform. The rambunctious horn ripped through the neighborhood as the doors slid open. Cody threw his backpack on, his face pale from the decision he now had to make. He gazed down at me. “It’s your choice now, kid,” I explained, “Know that once you get on that train, there’s no going back. You’ve built a bridge, but you’ve also burned one for good.” For a few painful seconds, the train just sat there, as though it, too, was waiting for the boy’s decision. Cody took one step forward towards the open doors. Could this be his only chance of freedom? Was this the only way he could achieve his version of the American dream?

To my surprise, a minute later, Cody still stood there. A woman’s voice came over the speakers, “The doors are now closing. Please stand clear of the doors. Repeat, the doors are now closing. Please stand clear of the doors.” The doors of the train shut, sealing the boy’s decision along with them. Soon, the brakes on the train released, and it pushed forward, chugging along as it picked up speed. Before long, the train had turned away and was out of sight. The boy sighed, clearly still uncertain if he made the right decision. He turned towards me and held out his hand, “Thank you, sir. You sure have changed my life more than you know.” I gladly took his hand and bid him farewell. “I hope we meet again someday,” was all he said before turning around and walking back from where he had come.

I leaned back on the bench, satisfied with what I had done. Once Cody was out of earshot, I said to myself, “We will, kid. We certainly will.” I rolled up the sleeves of my suit, revealing the cartoon dog tattoo on my forearm that I have learned to ignore for decades. I had forgotten how bad it was until the kid reminded me. God, his tail does look like a dick.

I rose from the bench and threw on my battered red and yellow backpack with much more difficulty than it required when I was that young man. I walked away, and everything changed forever.