harold and gloria.

harold and gloria held out their hands for me as i reached the top of the nine stairs
leading into the yellowed-brownstone. i know there were nine
(seven with cracks, four missing paint) because i always count
things when i am nervous, and this icy morning was no
exception. i have no idea why harold was wearing a long,
heavy overcoat nor why gloria had a thick sweater on. i only
knew these articles were needed and i somehow didn't get the
memo until after i stepped off the train at 9:34 on May 19th.
Too late. I clenched my thinly covered arms and tried to pretend
this 40-something windy weather was nothing out of the ordinary
for a mississippi native. this charade must have been half-believable,
for in a moment, gloria had accepted my decline for a jacket out of
her station-wagon and was carrying on with harold about the latest
city news. a lot of the first week in this city was a blur, but i remember
these few moments clearly. Here they were before me. Harold and
Gloria were real, live city-dwellers - the people I always envied.
Harold's chattering was filtered through an accent which could only
be pulled off by a native of the city. Terribly legit. Gloria didn't have
quite the credentials Harold was packing - she had lived in a country
town until she was seven. But that didn't matter to me. There was
something about this semi-retired photographer and school teacher
that i liked. They were nothing out of the ordinary and yet everything
about them was extraordinary. As Harold was getting off the 55
Express yesterday and I was walking away from my evening train,
he smiled and tipped the same old brown hat he wore the day
I met them both.
"How you doin, kid?"