"The Sound of Color"

By Rida Haq

        In a huge blur, the beeping, screaming and the pink rush all zoom by. The smell of chlorine mingles with the fragrance of the cooking hot dogs and gyros. We run around the fountain of pink color, neither of us knowing who is chasing whom, and suddenly, the chaos of rush hour surrounds us as we both collapse and watch nervous drivers headed for I-95.
        Exchanging nothing but a look, we sprint over to a pretzel stand. Ryan buys one and as I pick up a piping-hot pair, he knocks one out of my hand. It falls to the ground, which is ornamented with bird droppings and cigarette butts. The red-faced vendor unleashes a stream of colorful obscenities, so I make Ryan pay for that pretzel and for the one that I am going to eat and we head back to the rim of the fountain’s pool.
        The water, which was turned pink for breast cancer month and remains that way even though it is now June, has soaked our book bags with the needles that it sprays. My hair blows in front of my face, bugging me. I violently yank it back and retie my ponytail. As I lean back on the little border of the pool to study the sky that has long been absent due to the height of the buildings, I instead find myself looking up at the statue of Penn, standing exactly as he stood five years ago, on that day that I stopped here to buy a bagel. He smirks out over this city that has developed its own taste. He stands there smelling the falafels, the pizza (not Pizza Hut, real Italian), the bourbon chicken and the roasting corn, probably very hungry. The flavor, the very essence of Philadelphia, is all under his gaze. Show off.
        My eyes float over to the skyscraper in which Ryan’s dad works, and from where we watched the fireworks on New Year’s. It’s a luxurious office with huge glass windows that provide a clear view of the art museum where the fireworks are set.
        The sun glares directly into my eyes and I squint to look in the direction of the art museum now. I may catch a glimpse of the picture on the steps if I crane my neck. This stuff is packed around Arch Street, where I believe that all of my Philadelphia is.
        Arch Street is where all the rallies took place when we tried to defeat Bush. It is where there are two McDonalds, a Starbucks, and two fountains. From it, I can see City Hall, the Art Museum, Suburban Station, and the Parkway, where Live 8 took place. The memories from this very spot at Love Park, even, play in my head like a fast paced film in flashes of vibrant colors.
        A microphone squeaks and I look over behind the fountain to see several people wearing anti-Bush t-shirts. A voice begins calmly but swells with emotion, well on the road to a hysterical rant.
        Ryan opens up a book as I stare at the LOVE statue. A deep red, the letters are bordered with silver siding. Silver frames imbued with red. Red frozen under the hot sun. LOVE stands stubborn, against the wind and the rain. It stands through all the festivals, the rallies, the protests, and the concerts.
        LOVE remains even now, as an explosion of laughter occurs on the other side of the fountain, distinct above the commotion of the cars speeding, honking and screeching here and there. It is heard over the clatter of the lunch trucks as the cheese steaks begin to cook, and over the confusion of the bus and train passengers as they cross over from Suburban Station, running through red lights, their Starbucks beverages sloshing over onto their professional clothing. They all stop and stare at the laughter. Three people have stacked themselves on top of one another, each sitting on the others’ shoulders. How they’ve achieved this brilliant feat, I don’t know. I roll my eyes but cannot prevent a small grin.
        The anti-war group has looked over to see what the entire hullabaloo is about and of course, they frown. Actually, they glare. Looking at their angry faces takes me back. Just after eight grade finals, eight teenagers decided to blow off some steam with a good swim. Shoes and socks were off in a matter of seconds and into the fountain’s pool is was. Shrieking, slipping and sliding ensued, as our bottled up energy was discharged, more harmful to the environment than car exhaust. At least that was the analogy given to us by the portly police officer after Ryan demanded that the man let him try on his hat after he dragged us out. Twenty minutes later, the seven leftovers managed to get into a silly string fight. We had all made a stop at Dollar Express. Boys against girls. The same police officer was called. That time we were in trouble.
    These protesters’ faces look exactly like that cop’s formidable expression. The boys fall on top of each other like I knew they would. A driver has leaned out of his car and yelled at them for being idiots and continued down the road. It takes about five seconds but is enough to cause a traffic jam and horns begin to go crazy as drivers wave their cellular phones at the cars in front of them.
        Night starts to fall and Ryan and I walk over to a restaurant across the street that offers outdoor dining so we can watch the materializing lights of all the sky scrapers. The fountain looks almost foreboding as it begins to spurt white foam. Suddenly it is just as terrifying a sight as Niagara Falls. Couples, friends, and families stroll around the park eating ice cream or having that nightly cup of coffee. Everywhere I look, lights twinkle in the tall buildings. City hall is beginning to glow. I think that Penn is getting hungry, because his smirk begins to look fake. But his job is to watch over the city. He cannot just neglect his duties due to such banal needs.
        The noises around me are friendly. Many times, a laugh will rise above the buzzing of voices, along with an occasional sneeze dropped in here or there. There is always a gentle hum of people talking, harmonizing with the swooshing of the water that still sprays the passerby and creates its own breeze.
        Ryan, who’s decided that it’s time to go, jerks me out of my reverie. We cross the street as a car honks, a man calls for us to come back and sign a petition, a sizzle floats over from the nearest food truck, and the white of the water still slices through my ears.
        A few moments later, the silence is booming in my throbbing eardrums. I lie in bed and the sound of color is gone.