to these collegiate and urban Kentuckians, she began to slouch her shoulders with each missed opportunity. Every day of my life I walk by people and never notice a single thing about them; New York is an abyss of anonymity and we’re trained to ignore. How many people have I passed whose only hope is that someone, anyone, would fill this simple yearning: Please notice me. For Melody it had slowly built into a scream, so loud I couldn’t understand why no one would come to her rescue.
I’d always been a moderate smoker, but by that time I was on my fifth successive cigarette; no amount of nicotine could alleviate my rising anxiety. I cursed as each passing guy would walk right by, or glance weakly and not return his eyes to her, as though she wasn’t worth a second look. Because she was. What were they missing? Every yuppie doofus, every frat bastard who ignored her brought a deeper drag to my smoke. Watching her became so painful that I could barely contain myself, finally acknowledging why my eyes were moist: Melody was breaking my heart.
No matter what the government had turned her into, whoever they wanted her to be, she was still just a girl longing for attention. I could see it as plain as the sun on her skin. Based on my age, I did a quick calculation and realized she was probably just shy of twenty-one, and with that realization, I saw a glimpse of her future: In a matter of months, the parks would turn into bars, where she would surely catch the eye of some loser looking to fulfill his fleeting need, and where, for a few moments in an evening, Melody, too, would feel wanted, and the feeling would last until she returned home alone to a house with only one place setting, one bath towel, one toothbrush. The sadness would seep into her lonely life and she would find a desperate longing to connect again, alcohol softening her sadness and allowing her to open up to a lower level of loser. I was not going to let it happen.
I was going to save her before it was too late.
I was going to end it all, blow my cover. What was the point of all my worrying about her happiness and safety if I could not ensure its existence? Someone was going to notice her the way she deserved to be, and it would be me. Regardless of what she might think of me as a man, whether I was her type or not, I would send her home that day with the notion that someone found beauty in her. And as I rose to my feet and snuffed my cigarette, my services were no longer required, for this is when they arrived.
Three white guys who’d been smoking and laughing near the fountain’s edge wandered in Melody’s direction and eventually passed her. From my distance they appeared nondescript and average, neither yuppies nor frat boys, just a trio of unshaven twentysomethings with lanky bodies and baggy clothes, their only oddity how overdressed they were on that hot Kentucky day, the tallest one wearing a sweat jacket with the hood up; had they continued on their way, I would have categorized them as nothing more than locals.
But the one in the sweat jacket finally gave Melody what she so longed for: a double take. Then she gave him what he was looking for: a response. He slowed and bobbed on his feet a little, then casually walked backward. I watched as he said something to her and she smiled a little. As his friends continued walking away, the guy said something else and Melody nodded and said something back. They chatted for no more than fifteen seconds before Melody sent up an involuntary red flag: She reached down to the top of her sundress and pulled it back up to cover the gap that exposed her chest, then a quick pull down on the bottom of her dress to cover her legs. The guy continued talking, smiling a little more as he spoke, then Melody looked down at the ground and uncrossed her legs, pressed her knees together tightly.
I closed my eyes, shook my head. Not this guy, I thought. Why’d it have to be this guy?
I reached for my cigarettes and started to pull one out when the most nightmarish scene began to unfold: The other two guys turned around to find their