The Purple Slide

Noah was too old for playgrounds. At sixteen, he should be driving to the skate park, going out on dates.

Instead, he was crouched in a purple tube slide, doodling on his sneakers and, occasionally, on the plastic sides.

Noah liked it here.

This playground was old. Not quite abandoned, but close. Almost no one found this side of Grace Park. The front half was always bustling, full of the newest playground equipment.

There was even a waterpark.

But in the back side, this part, the metal parts were crawling with rust. The plastic parts were tagged with vulgar graffiti. The ground, which had been paved over with asphalt, was cracked, faded, and bleeding through with weeds.

It was quiet. Dark.

And Noah had learned that quiet and darkness meant safety.

His house was bright and loud. The gleam of empty broken beer bottles, the loudness of his mother and father screaming at each other.

Sometimes, they screamed at him.

Noah didn't like the loud. Noah liked the quiet. The dark.

The safety of this abandoned playground.

Once upon a time, Noah met a drug dealer in his playground. The dealer was a woman with curly blonde hair and wide green eyes.

She was skinny. Very skinny.

Noah didn't like her very much, but he took one of the needles anyway.

And Noah realized that he didn't like drugs. They made the whole world loud and bright, all the things he hated.

And one day, the drug dealer with the green eyes and the curly hair was gone, and Noah was okay with that.

It was his playground. He might as well own it. He'd been coming here for six years, ever since he was ten. He'd watch the rust creep higher, farther, faster. He watched the asphalt crumble, he watched the graffiti grow.

He watched his haven get darker, and quieter, and he loved it.

Noah pressed his sneakers into the side of the purple slide.

They were once white, but years of grime and sharpie had made them almost tie-dyed, with shades of brown and black.

Thunk-thunk-thunk.

Noah froze, his sharpie hovering in midair over his sneakers.

Someone was on top of his slide.

Thunk-thunk-thunk.

Noah could hear a story in those thuds.

"Here we go," says the mystery boy. "Peace and quiet at last."

The thuds stopped, and Noah watched the shadow over top of him come to a stop.

"Well, not quiet. I guess I'm talking to myself. But here, no one cares who you talk to. It's nice here. Can't believe I just found this place."

Noah stayed very still, too petrified to move. His safe place was being invaded. Stolen. He could not allow this.

As the mystery boy kept talking, Noah listened to his voice. The mystery boy told all his struggles to the empty air. Every thought he had was voiced. So different from Noah. Silent Noah. Withdrawn Noah. Scared Noah. Sixteen-year-old Noah, who still hid in playgrounds like a toddler.

The mystery boy had a voice like dark chocolate. Rich, smooth, but bitter.

Noah didn't know what his voice sounded like. Noah didn't even remember the last time he spoke.

It was probably since the divorce. When Noah lost one dad, to be replaced by another. A meaner, crueler dad. He lost his good, safe, quiet, strong dad, in favor of a loud, harsh dad.

Noah didn't understand why his mom divorced his dad, trading him for this one.

Lost in his thoughts, his sneaker slipped.

Squeak.

For the first time, the stranger fell silent. Quiet.

"Fuck," the stranger says at last. "Fucking fuck. Of course you didn't check the slide, Jonathan, you stupid sonofabitch."

He began to crawl down the slide, and Noah was paralyzed.

He realized that he'd just listened to Jonathan's secrets. Jonathan had invaded his space, and Noah had invaded his mind.

He could not move, stuck fast with his fear, as Jonathan climbed down the slide.

"Who's there, you nosy sonofabitch?"

Noah did not respond.

"I'm fucking coming for you."

Noah still did not respond. He still did not move. He waited.

And then he saw Jonathan.

He had curly blonde hair. He had green eyes. Just like the drug dealer, except he was a little less skinny and had wider shoulders.

"Well, well, well. You spying on me?"

Noah still could not move.

"You got something to say?"

Noah finally shook his head.

To his surprise, Jonathan's face softened.

"I shoulda checked the slide before. That's on me. How much did you hear?"

Noah made the smart decision and shrugged.

"Well, my name's Jonathan. In case you didn't hear that. You?"

Noah stared, helplessly, at Jonathan. He was not going to speak. At this point, he wasn't even sure if he could.

Jonathan raised an eyebrow and Noah remembered the sharpie, dangling loosely in his hand.

NOAH, he scrawled on the side of the slide.

"Noah, huh? I have a cousin named Noah. He's a dick, though."

Noah managed to crack a grin.

"So, I guess you found this place before I did."

A nod.

"Mind if we share?"

Silence. Noah doesn't shrug. He doesn't nod. He doesn't know what to make of Jonathan. He doesn't know what to make of himself, of the instinct in his chest telling him to let him stay.

Finally, Noah shrugs and nods.

He knows that his quiet dark place will get a lot less quiet. From hearing Jonathan talk to himself, Noah knows that Jonathan will keep talking.

But Noah is okay with that.

Sometimes noise isn't all bad.