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The Accidental Nature of Mistakes
by Jawanza D. Barial-Lumumba

…All I need is some space to clear my head.

            I turn to my door to escape—yet, I know he stares back. His once warm brown eyes now chill me, resentment seething back at me. It appears that our talk didn’t go as well as he’d hope. I leave him at my house, desperately sitting and linger in the sunkenness of my comfy home. He knows what’s to come. He sits. He stays. He hopes. He waits. He prays that those words of separation never split my lips. Clearing my head is my only certainty. I escape the giant, burdenous weight of my life with him. I alleviate that feeling of guilt that comes from the pressures of choice by getting out of the clutteredness of my abode, my life, and more importantly, my boyfriend.

            Rushing down the steps, the sunshiny, Californian warmth sweeps over me as I start my morning run—truly the only perfected method of ridding my rattling brain of these plaguing ponderments. The sound of my feet slapping against the uneven pavement is faster and harder now, causing my tiny magenta shack to disappear down the endless rows of college housing—but still my mind can’t clear! I mean Jesus!! He needs to understand that accidents like these don’t just happen senselessly! I mean, I have never been the source of any kind of mindless accident like that one. My feet hit the ground harder and faster now. Sweat streams down my reddening cheeks—My breath shorten. I’m halting. I must… Inhaling. Exhaling. Inhaling. Exhaling… There it is. My heart begins settling. But it can’t. It won’t. Not completely. Is it Jasper? His words? His whole “Accidents just happen!”-line, which is such a copout because every accident just occurs through a series of unfortunate decisions—one of them clearly labeled: the wrong decision—that leads a person to magical Land of Accidents.

            Maybe I’m not actually mad at that guy that claims to be my boyfriend. In fact, I’m not. Not really. I’m still upset about what happened. Just hearing those horrific sounds of their screaming and crying and yelling was just so much more terrifying than… anything. These children are dying right in front of us and all Jasper can say is that “Accidents are just life’s version of hiccups—random events that just happen for no particular reason because everything else in life happens for a reason.” Bullshit! How can someone just “accidentally” allow for something like that to happen! I can still see the towering flames searing and scorching through that school building, the crowd wearing that same scared and appalled expression that I had, and the alarmingly calm, glazed-over expression that hung off his face. No, I stand corrected, thanks to the deep and seething resentment that’s seeping from me: He does, in fact, upset me. What I once believed to be a fluttering possibility is now a grounded fact. I take in a deep breath and my heart settles. My pace resumes, my eyelids tightly clamp shut, so that my mind can try to clear itself of Jasper’s ramblings and my certainties that accidents—“Shit! Oh, I’m really sorry” she says. Her voice rings familiar, though I can’t place it right away. I hear her feet trailing away before I can occupy my mind with that lingering wonder. She isn’t running as fast as before—like a giant mob was chasing after her with pitchforks and torches. Still, at the speed she’s running, one thing is certain: she’s running away from something.

            I smile. The mighty rays of the sun warm me. It has been a drastically warmer day than yesterday, which leads me to assume that the beautiful arrays of vibrant colors that should speckle and litter the world around me are just a bit more magnificent today. Still, I smile. I appreciate the calm of the day, the warmth of bench, the chirping of the birds, and hearing the steps of the runners dashing by across the street. For me, it’s serene—the perfect way to clear my head. The bench I’m sitting on is metal and heating up pretty readily—but I don’t care. My smile maintains because I can feel that pain. That means I live—I am alive. I hear a cool breeze rustling by and cars passing as well. Their thick scent of fuel floods and burns my nostrils, forcing my nose to crinkle with disgust.

            Now from the same direction that the girl came a weaker set of footsteps approaching along with the pungent and deathening scent of a burning cigarette overtaking my nostrils. Thank you mighty downwind. And that same reeking sensation filled my lungs yesterday—twice actually. The first had been around lunchtime. I always take a quick walk around my school’s neighbor. Though I didn’t notice anyone around, I most definitely smelt a burning cigarette, possibly coming from the nearby schoolyard. The second whiff I got was after school on the route that I take home every day—three blocks down from my school, I’d hang a right, go for about four blocks passed the pleasant smells of the bakery, hang a left and before I knew, I’d be passing the bustling park filled of giggling laughing children, hang another right and walk forward, passed a schoolyard pilled with children, until I reached my home. Barely even to the bakery, the faint odor of smoke was the first giveaway—my notion that it was indeed another approaching smoker dissipated when the blaring sirens of either fire-trucks or ambulances kept flying by while the obnoxious and frighten chatter of passer-byers overwhelmed me. “What happened?” “Are the children all okay!” “Who could’ve done something so vicious and cruel!!” “Ian? What’re you doing here?? Of all people you definitely shouldn’t be here. Head home!!” If it wasn’t their persistent chatter that warned me something was wrong, then the escalating sensation of heat was all I needed. But why am I thinking this? This isn’t what I’m trying to do. I’ve been trying to clear my head of these thoughts, that was the whole reason that I am sitting here—feeling the bench beneath me remind me: I am indeed alive. So, I breathe, I clear my thoughts, and I listen. The scent of the smoker is nearing and dreadfully familiar. His footsteps are passing by me now—No. No, not this one… nope, not this either… or this! I just need something that’ll take my mind off things—off her. Let’s see… how about—yes!! This one!! Perfect! I mean, at first I was afraid—I was petrified! Kept thinking I could never without you by my side. Yup! There’s nothing like a little Aretha Franklin to help clear my mind of things… even with the irony of the situation being very apparent. Oh irony, how it clearly enjoys itself just a little too much.

            I maintain my patience like my pace. I’m moving further and further away from her house, but she’s still on my mind. I’m just wondering… I wonder if this is the same path she takes for her long run. I wonder if she actually went for a run to clear her head or to just get rid of me. I wonder why she’s lying to me about why she’s really mad. I wonder, of course, against my best judgment, if she misses me. And I wonder about why I even stop to wonder about all this. We—the people of the world—cannot prevent these things from happening. I flick my still-embering cigarette aside as I reach into my pocket to grasp hold of another when I conclude this that I have concluded countless times before: accidents happen solely for the reason that there is no reason to them. No bigger picture, no higher purpose. They are out of our control—and we should just be able to accept the odd and cyclical, yet logical, nature of accidents. They’re like hiccups for life. I’m contemplating this because of what happened. Yesterday, as our fingers were tightly and joyfully intertwined together, we came upon the source of our disagreement. That moment stands like a snapshot in my mind: staring out at the flames viciously demolishing the building, its young residents of that preschool all silently lined up, and the gawking crowd that held that same almost tranquil expression of knowing that I had. The only sound that filled my ears were the dull roars of the flame. I (and the rest of crowd) seemed to reach the same conclusion as the firemarshall: it was an accident. All of our collectively relaxed faces watched the flames. Only you, Jane, erupted with anger, breaking our once intertwined fingers. And whenever I attempt to explain the nature of accidents and how most cannot be rooted back to one simple decision that went wrong, she just gets that annoyed, obnoxiously claiming her better-than-thou expression plastered upon her face. I winced, that I remember as clear as that day. I carried that hurt and pitiful expression—but I’m trying to push these thoughts aside. My eyes close, pushing away the world, trying to focus on the positive. I can do what I always like to do when I want to clear my head: get to my car, light another cigarette, blast my music, and drive off somewhere to get away from this craziness.

            Now, I exhaust another cigarette, flicking it to the floor, and dispersing my distractions with the constant satisfaction that is another cigarette. I cup my hands to my face, lighting another and I—Hey! Hey!! HEY!!! Watch where you’re walking!! Smoke rises from his face, ignorantly breezing by me, nearly crushing me to death. That jerk!! Jerk! JERK!! He stinks. He always stinks. And everywhere he goes—puff and throw, puff and throw, puff and throw. Just like he did yesterday. I resume my pace, tugging Mister Fernando along with me. I drag him along the same path we do everyday, because any day upholds its simplistic, rhythmic tone, filled with complex, yet necessary procedures to guarantee a successfully wonderful day: The procedures go as follows: Wake up. Stretch. Shake the hair outta my eyes. Be noisy enough to try to wake up Mister Fernandez. After failing at the initial “wake up” -attempt, run around the house crazily until Mister Fernandez gets up. Eagerly wait to be fed. Eat!! And lastly, enjoy a nice morning stroll with him, before returning home, taking a nap, and repeating said procedure upon reawakening. That is indeed the normalcy of my day. And since my routine is pretty… well, routine, I very clearly remember even the smallest abnormality within my day. And it’s fair to say that the abnormality of my yesterday was far from small.

            As I trot along the same path we always do, I can still smell the foul, unpleasant burning stench of the embering cigarette behind us. The distinct stench is as unforgettable today as it was yesterday. That was how the initial blip began. The same shock as moments earlier had also erupted when the embers of his still-burning cigarette soared passed my eye yesterday. Hey. Hey! HEY! I barked at the guy—the same guy—kept his strolling pace as overly self-centered as ever he could be. . He blared his iPod just as he did today in order to shut out the world, joyously blinding himself to his actions. Mister Fernandez knelt down to make sure I wasn’t hurt and I gleefully reassured him of my safety. My eyes glared over at the cigarette, still burning, caught amongst the dry brush outside of the familiarly loud school of hyperactive children. Our stroll continued. When we rounded back. The cigarette was still in its unfortunate location and—

            HEY! HEY! HEY! The cars rush by, ignoring my barks of exctiement. I rush towards the edge of the sidewalk, eagerly yearning to chase after them, but this time it is Mister Fernando who tugs on me. Reluctantly, I back down and resume my pleasant trotting. What was I thinking about? I’m not sure, it escapes… I look ahead and I see two people preparing to cross paths. My nose wrinkles at the unpleasant sensation of his cigarette once again and a rage bubbles over me and I dash after him. I want to hear what they say, but Misterr Fernando tugs me in a different direction. We cross the street, but on the sidewalk where we once were I can see the guy who smokes too much and idly discards his cigarette with a familiar looking girl who approaches him uneasily and all he can say is “Hey.” “Hi” is all I can respond with, ensuring that I don’t break from my steady stride. I know if I look back, I’ll see him stopped, waiting for me to see him halted, turn around and to talk to him. But I cannot. I will not. Not now. I still need space. I continue. I persist. I endure. I leave him behind. I must. He is as certain on his stance as I am on mine. I’m sure my voice was filled with anger as I told him destruction of that sort must have been preconceived and not a so-called “accident” yesterday. So, I sigh, turn back to him for just a moment and my eyes meet with hers. I will survive. I try to smile, hoping for a smile back, but that’s not what I receive. She speaks and I can’t hear (stupid Aretha!). I only see that same disappointed half-smile I saw from her yesterday. Irritation and annoyance beamed from her eyes. And it confused me, amongst such a settled and understanding crowd at the site of accident, why does the one who I believed to know me the best throw me into disarray? But, I root myself back in the present and rip my earphones from their perch, but she’s already turned away. “Jane!” I release another sigh. I turn back to him and my eyes lock with his longing gaze. “We can talk later, alright?” His response is only a soft nod, he turns away, heading to his house, and before I know it, I’m off again and—A slight fright overwhelms the girl as I sneak up from behind her. She looks down at me, steps aside, to allow for myself and then Mister Fernando to pass. I continue trotting along, wanting my routine to return to its normality but it can’t. I won’t. My mind swims with thoughts from yesterday—and how I am supposed to maintain my simplistic, objective days with these thoughts plaguing me?

            I try to push it away, but I remember now as clear as the day the flames poured out from that school building. When Mister Fernando took me out for the midday stroll, I prepared myself as we approached the same spot where the mean smoker had flicked his cigarette at me. I could still smell smoke, but it didn’t hi me right away just how thick the smell was (that distraction was due to the large red trucks that kept rushing by us). When we got back to that spot, it overwhelmed me. The heavy scent of smoke and flames overtook my round, black nose while the excited conversations of people and the blaring sirens of the red trucks rattled my long brown ears. I whined—and I’m not usually one to whine—upon seeing the sight and hid behind Mister Fernando who watched in a mutual awe: the flames licking the building; the huddled and frightened children; the furious and agitated crowd; and the sense of safety the resonated from the parents. And then I saw him. I began barking uncontrollably, but Mister Fernando held me back and started us on our way back home. He stood there, his expression dumbfounded as he spoke with that same girl, more likely unaware that all of this was his fault. He had flicked his cigarette and now the building stood aflame. I growled the whole way rest of the way back home, unsettled. But that was yesterday. And though it’s unsettling nature should have left me, it still resides. So I stop. I look up at Mister Fernando and he lovingly pats me on the head. My eyes close and a restlessness from yesterday’s exhaustion creeps upon me. I hear the same girl approaching, but it doesn’t matter, not any more. Tomorrow, everything will just go back to it’s normal routine, and all will be well. A new hand—her hand?—rubs my head carefully and I realize that this attempt at clearing my head didn’t really work out.

            I leave the resting dog and resume my run. This isn’t right. I’m still running, again, away from Jasper. How could something so meager be blown this out of proportion? And doesn’t he remember things like I do? We both heard the horrific sounds of the accident miles away before even seeing the ignited school grounds. The children of the school were on the opposite side of the street, screaming and crying amidst the chaos of it all. The blood stains covered their already charred clothes and an unspeakable fear embedded itself in all their faces. A certain look of horror overcame me, which had also engulfed the entirety of the gawking crowd—except for yours. You stayed calm, just as you did today. So, why does he remember the accident differently? And what does this say about he and I? I see my final corner approaching me as I finally near home and I still hold my claim with great certainty: accidents don’t just happen for no apparent—A loud crashing thud interrupts my once peaceful thoughts. “I’m sorry!” she cries. It’s the same voice from before. “Oh! Ian. I’m really sorry.” Her voice rings for familiar and I recognize it, just as I did at the site of the accident. “No, it’s okay Jane.” I smile, wait and listen for Jane to take her steps again but instead, “Hey, were you okay yesterday?” Nod. “Yeah, it was just unfortunate what happened.” I’m eager to continue home, but she persists. “Can you believe that they’re calling the fire an accident?” Shrug. “You heard all those people yesterday—the outrage alone!” I think for a moment before responding. The tone of her words suggest that there may be something else wrong, so I tread carefully. “I remember hearing the crowd of people… but they seemed more concerned than angry. And I also believe that… well, accidents can’t be overanalyzed. Sometimes people need to believe accidents happen one way or another in order to deal with them. Sometimes there’s a reason behind them, sometimes there’s not. But they do happen. So, you see it. You accept it. You deal. You move on.” With my hand that is not clutching onto my cane, I point to my glasses. “This was an accident, still I don’t know why it happened, but I continue on in life without questioning it.”

            “Well maybe you should.” Then the last thing she says is, “I gotta go.” I hear her walk off at the same efficient pace that she did before. I return to my journey home. I step off the curb and I carefully make my way across the street. Is there some truth to what Jane said? Should I perhaps question the tragedy at the school? Or even my own? But I am certain with my reasoning, just as she is with hers. And although I hear the approaching car furiously driving down the street, mindlessly blaring its music, with the heavy stench of smoke spewing from it,  I don’t worry that—The loud collusion and the horrific sound of the shattering bones jolts me out of the memory of the calm and peaceful nature of yesterday’s the gawking crowd. I cringe. Though the car has now completely halted, my rapidly beating heart cannot.

            “Oh, shit.”

            There’s nothing like an accident to end your day.