Murphy walking down Washtenaw, mid morning light, men and women leaving the frats and sororities. The traffic sounds fill up the still morning. Vehicles hurtle through the air, semis’ brakes emit mighty, frightening hissing sounds. Everything is suspended for a moment. Trees that still have gold and red leaves on them articulate themselves from the grey sky and horizon beyond. The tall medical buildings further up the hill catch the sun and then freeze like that. Murphy is dressed in fatigues, with heavy leather boots that go up past the ankle, military style hat and backpack lolling about his shoulder blades. In this moment anything is possible. Men and women continue pouring from somber facades of sororities and fraternities. They are as vulnerable as anyone to the unpredictability of this day, to the fate that our particular circumstances have in store for us. I step out from the porch, and my feet feel scarred concrete through thick soles of hiking boots. Murphy is an anomaly, an unlikelihood, with his fatigues and headphones, and soft, animated face, walking to class like that amidst Uggs, Nikes, acid washed skinny jeans, blond ponytails, black leggings, headbands, stories of drunken exploits and heinous social faux pas. Overwhelming, oddly hilarious conformity. I wave at him from across Washtenaw and cross over to his side, catch up to him in a minute or two. Vitality and joviality emanate from this boy and I respect him for walking down Washtenaw at ten in the morning, for doing the unthinkable (the absurd) and being himself, stepping into this day, maybe not knowing why or how, but certain about something that I haven’t figured out yet. I want to be enveloped in his good humor, want to maybe share some of that inexplicable glow. Who cares if he’s going to ROTC training later today, he is real and special and I want in on him.
