It was a hot afternoon, too hot for a two month old to be out in the exposed heat, anyway. He was sitting, muscles limp and relaxed, propped up in my lap, in nothing but a onesy and a baseball cap, the sweat clinging us together, even through the layer of my shirt. His head lulled forward in a way that would've looked awkward on anyone but an infant.
I hadn't felt this bored in... well, years.
And it was wonderful.
There was a light breeze, but it was more like having someone breathing down your neck while standing in front of an open oven. I had brought a book to pass the time at the Farmer's Market, but the current weather was conducive only to a handful of limited options: dozing or sitting perfectly still.
Or, if you happen be a multi-tasker like me, both at the exact same time.
Yes, boredom could be wonderful. My baby Andrew shifted his weight against me, almost imperceptibly, but at two months, I had every feel of him memorized, and I sighed as I nudged his head deeper into my chest. The afternoon crowd that had gathered at the downtown venue, where I was currently seeling crocheted baby hats in the middle of July, blurred past in the afternoon sun, their faces and legs merging together in syncopated beat back and forth. Then suddenly, a single figure jutted from the mesh of color and movement, a solitary form, tall and dark, a soft amused smile playing at the corners of his lips, his hair shorn, a cigarette tucked neatly behind one ear. His hands were tucked casually into the pockets of his baggy jeans, and his toned sculptured arms were bare. In fact, his whole chest seemed bare, naked, but was in actuality covered with a tight white wife-beater. The man reminded me of every hispanic I'd ever gone to school with. Gangsters, real or wannabes, it didn't make much difference, they all looked the same. Although the man in front of me was definitely years beyond high school. And there he stood, in all his intimidating ethnicity, staring down on my own very white self and veyr white baby boy. The rest of the market melted away as our eyes met in a tractor beam of concentrated aim.
He swaggered towards me, pulling the cigarette out from behind his ear in a fluid easy motion, and I got a sudden image of the Rock pulling a similar move, but of course with him, it would be a gun. The man smiled, opened his mouth to say something, but paused as he carefully cocked his head to one side as if trying to get a better view of something just out of his reach. It all seemed so scripted, I felt like I was watching reruns on TNT. I wondered if I was playing the role of the sassy free spirited hispanic or the stubbornly social-conscious mutedly racist white lady. Whatever part, I willed myself to appear casual while leaning figuratively forward in my seat, waiting to see how the scene played out.
He was leaning in now, a mere two feet between us. I could feel the sweat stand still on the back of my neck and I held my breath. He was still smiling, lips drawn like he was trying to keep it from erupting over his features. It reminded me of a carnivore's stealthy quiet motions right before it went in for the kill.
He leaned in closer, almost touching my baby now; my fingers are trigger happy and on a muscle pathway to all out slapping him away when he finally speaks, but in a voice that is at once gruff and disarming.
"Cute baby."
I sputter a cough, apparently choking on my own racial generalizations, but I cover it quickly with a friendly guffaw. The man waves a friendly good-bye and melts back into the crowd.
I hug my infant a bit closer despite the heat. It's not his fault he's so darn adorable.
