Empathy
I walked by a pizza place the other night. Saw a guy there. He was sitting with his friends, frat guys. They were laughing over pepperoni; I was on my way home. It was kind of cold outside, kinda desolate. The street was dirty, the joint was alive. Maybe I was scared, walking that street at night alone. But I used to do things like that.
I looked in, the lights a faint glow, the air seeming warm and reddish (if air can be red). He was at the end of the table, no one at its head. He sat to my right, and peering in, I could barely see my reflection in the glass. I only saw him laughing. As he lifted a slice close to take a bite, I saw a flash, became disembodied.
Suddenly, the piece neared my face, my head in his head, my shoes in his shoes. I looked out, and there stood a girl outside with her head to the window as she watched me. The faint lights made her seem ghostly and ethereal, the street another world.
I felt what it was like to be him, to see her. I touched my arm, felt the solidity of his—my—sweater and skin, sinew and muscle. I turned to my right; he was beside me: John, an old and very good friend.
Who was the girl staring so intently? Why did she care? Why did I. Such big eyes, so frightened and curious. This pizza was good. I should get home, get some sleep, study first.
Photo by Deborah Stokol. A glimpse of, at and in someone else’s shoes. Berkeley evening, Fall. 2004.