you don't have to change
Some songs just remind me of the way my home feels. You Don't Have to Change by the Kool & the Gang sends me into a haze whenever it comes on my shuffle.
It reminds me of the late afternoons where I would ride a few extra stops on the subway on a split decision after school. I would take the streetcar down, round the loop, through Chinatown, all while the sun set over the early February slush. Me and my headphones, with no real reason to go home yet.
I would hop off the streetcar onto the corner where an older man always read the bible in Mandarin with a megaphone. I like to think he knew me, because we always made eye contact, and I would give him a little nod. He would stop for a moment to purse his lips before he carried on. Dedication is a beautiful thing.
I would walk down the street, maybe stop in the Chinese bakery if I was feeling like a treat. Red bean bun, sponge cake. Cash discounts, always. I kept change in my wallet just for this purpose. Sometimes, I would walk straight ahead, not without a wistful look in their window.
Then, as it stood illuminated by the lazy sunset, I would reach the gallery. I thank my city every day for having free passes under 25 years old. A beacon that cut through the cold air like a blade, it's modern overhang entryway warmed my soul before I ever even stepped inside.
The gallery taught me to carry a paper and a pencil, if not a sketchbook, wherever I went. I would go whether there was anything new or not. Sometimes just to sit for a bit and warm up, sometimes to see what there was to see. It would always be the tourists who coat checked, which made it really easy to spot the fellow wanderers with their big scarves undone.
I would only realize how long I had spent in the gallery when walking down the backside spiral stairs that overlooked the downtown. The sky would have gone from a light grey-blue to navy, and I would get that pang of hunger, and know exactly where I needed to go.
If you ever find yourself in my Chinatown, and you walk up the main street, on the west side there'll be a corner shop with a red roof and a band of windows that wrap around the whole building. The front window will have a cow decal on it. Inside, you will find the best, most comforting, cheapest bowl of pho you will ever have in your life.
I would sit down at a table for two, most of the time smack dab in the middle of the restaurant, and I wouldn't need to read the menu. Number one. House special. I'd bide my five minute wait with one more sketch, usually of whatever couple was sitting in the front window.
Some of the strongest love I've felt in my life has been from appreciating the love I see around me as an outsider. A couple splitting a spring roll, a family using a little bowl to split off some pho for their baby. Little reminders that love exists, I've felt it before, and I felt it in the strangers I was sharing the night with.
I would finish within twenty to thirty minutes, pay in cash only, always, and get up. I would cross the street, take the streetcar back up the loop, and go home for the night.