by Patricia Sicilia

Created on: June 21, 2008

DIFFERENT TRACKS

The weary woman, weighed down on either side by two large shopping bags, a briefcase and purse slung over her shoulder, trekked through the downtown Mall on the way to her commuter train. She was shopped-out and overheated. Her face was flushed, her shoulder-length, styled "do" was blown about her face, and her long royal blue wool coat was open, revealing a grey linen suit and white silk blouse. After checking the timetables, she found she had time to light a cigarette (this was '89, before smoking bans), but had no matches. Looking around for someone else who shared her vice, she headed for the little round tables ringing the food court. She spotted a table where two shabbily dressed men were seated, almost passed them by, but suddenly stopped, surprised.

"Jack!" A man of indeterminate age looked up and stared at her for a second. Then, a slow, sardonic grin appeared as he recognized her as well. "Well, hi!"

Jack looked exactly the same after ten years. His craggy, weather-beaten face and slight but wiry frame had always disguised his age, but a guess would have made him a worn-out 40-something ten years before, mid-50s now. He wore battered jeans, a plaid flannel shirt and an olive drab Army jacket, circa Vietnam, the same outfit she remembered him always wearing. The remains of his fast food dinner had been stuffed into the paper bag on the table and he was using a coffee cup as an ashtray. "What are you doing down here, Jack?"

"I live here."

"Whereabouts?"

"Arch Street."

"Oh, you got a room there?"

He and his friend exchanged raised eyebrows. "Uh," something like that." Taken aback by the suspicion that Jack was living on the street, but not surprised, she shrugged and remembered her unlit cigarette. "Hey, Jack, you got a light?" she asked with an embarrassed laugh, suddenly recognizing the irony in this situation.

Jack had been a neighbor when she took an apartment in a lower rent part of town in 1976, referred to by her father as "two rooms over a vacant lot." The block was populated by low-income families or single mothers who rented the poorly maintained converted rowhouse apartments. The neighborhood wasn't her first choice, but it was cheap, only a block from the trolley and the avenue where she could accomplish all her shopping needs, and there was a laundromat directly across the street. This particular street had a reputation, and while most of the trouble occurred farther down toward the overhead highway, it did occasionally make its

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