Upon leaving the front door, I follow my father up some stairs to reach paved sidewalks. The breath of the polluted Chinatown air caressed my nasal cavity. The streets I used to amble so nonchalantly with my grandmother still accommodate people smoking and waiting for work vans, the stockpiles of litter from unruly tourists and ignorant immigrants, and locals walking to elementary school. It all came back to me: This place was once like a second home to me.
It doesn't seem to have lost its vibe either. The hustle, bustle, and gossip of grocery shopping mothers and nannies still roamed the streets. Tourists were still pouring their money into shrewd business owners' gift stores and restaurants, buying whatever plastic katanas or American Chinese cuisine they could lay their eyes on. My father looks at me:
"How's it feel to finally go outside?"
"Same as ever."
He scoffs and starts to walk toward the intersection with the main street. As I follow, I can't help but gape at the two attractive female specimens walking in front of us, with their black leggings and enthralling curvature. They glance back at me, returning my lustful stare with wrathful glares, compelling me to look elsewhere. How could they have noticed?
Once they turn right at the intersection, my dad smacks me on the back of my head and dishes out a lecture:
"Control yourself! I will not have a son who ruins his and his own father's reputation in one fell swoop!"
Geez. He's the one who forced me out here; How am I supposed to know every subtlety in social etiquette?
At the main street, locals are presumably commuting to Chinatown's own public elementary school, which happens to be built on the same street as the ditch I call home. The intersecting streets carry peddlers trying to sell their gardened fruits and vegetables. And they're all looking at me. They're judging me. They're expressing their scorn, and they're set on spreading the word about me.
I lower my cap and avoid eye contact with any passersby, focusing on the pace of my father's footsteps.
"Look at that ridiculous choice of clothing."
"Is this a couple of dwarves I see?"
"So that's the person who lives in that crappy basement! Ha!"
I can already hear their thoughts and intent in my mind, making actual words obsolete. At this rate, I'll be the sole laughingstock of the entire neighborhood. Kids will laugh at and prank me when I step out the door. Teenagers will spread viral memes about me. Adults will teach their kids to avoid being like me. Even senior citizens will immortalize me in convoluted idioms.
My father and I enter the elevated railway station at last. The amount of dread and sweat I've accumulated along the way is incredible.
"We're at the train station. When I pass the turnstile, I'll pass my transit card to you, and you'll have to scan it to come through."
"I'm not a child! I know how this works! You're making me look stupid, Dad!"
If not for my dark apparel, I surely would have been made a celebrity by my dad's selfish blunder. Even if there is no one actually present, security cameras constantly entail that someone is tracking everything I do. Eventually, that information will get to the government, the public, and every school and workplace. Staying cooped up in a moldy basement for three years has hidden me from the cycle of information, so I must take care to uphold it.
I traverse the turnstile and walk up escalators to the long elevated platform, where many people are also waiting for the train. Unsurprisingly, it's mostly locals taking the train to school. Geez, this isn't good. They'll realize I'm a college dropout just by looking at me and realizing I lack a backpack. If the morning sun means anything, it only tells me that a day of needless pain awaits.