Mirror in the Bathroom

I hate taking showers at the gym after working out. Sure, there’s a moment when the sweat gets washed off in the cold weak stream coming from the faucet, but almost immediately the sweat returns due to the massive amount of literally stinking humidity of the locker room. When I get my clothes back on, I always realize that no matter how hard I try; I never get fully dry – making my clothes uncomfortable and every thing about me unpleasant. This is especially true on hot summer days. I actually feel dirtier after the shower and dressing than I did prior to the workout when I step outside and the sun is blazing down. This was one of those days. Luckily I was on my way home during the latter part of a weekday evening commute. Unfortunately, I was on the bus and it was packed and I’m pretty sure the driver had the heat on.

I put on my headphones and started my player. The slowly building feedback of Jawbreaker’s “Shield Your Eyes” tickled my ears before crashing into the opening line: “There was a sun once and it lit the whole damn sky.” How appropriate, I thought to myself. I adjusted the volume to be loud enough to drown out all extraneous noise, but not so loud that everyone around me suffering through the commute would have to jam along. My forehead was beading up with sweat and it began to run into my eyes. I wiped my hand across my brow and the sides of my face in a feeble effort to stop it. I readjusted myself in the window seat of the bus, and put my bag on my lap to make room for any boarding passengers. I flipped through my bag in an effort to find some reading material, but was distracted by a small bleeding abrasion on my index finger. I’m not sure what had happened, but it had been there awhile, because some blood had been smeared and began to dry onto the side of my hand. I pulled a corner of my towel out of the bag and wiped the freshest blood from my hand before getting lost in the music.

This bus trip was regularly about a half hour and this day was no exception. It seemed longer, because people kept loading on, but not exiting. And the heat! There was no hope in stopping the sweat beading up all over my face. People started filling up the aisles from the back all the way to the front door and for some reason no one was sitting in the open spot next to me. I know I’m not the most handsome person, but I try to be polite. Maybe my stink was simply overpowering. I grabbed the sleeve on my t-shirt and sneaked a whiff on the sly. Not too bad actually. I had put on fresh deodorant and taken a shower just a short while before, even if I was getting drenched in sweat. This was disconcerting, which is strange considering that I am generally disconcerted when someone does sit by me on most days.

Another stop: more people load on and try and squeeze past the mob blocking the entry way by the driver. A friendly looking older woman spots the opening by me and starts to head in my direction. Yes, this must be the reason. People didn’t want to take the seat in case someone needing the seat boarded. This made perfect sense. As she approached I pulled the headphones off and shut down the music. I decided that I should be welcoming and friendly. I looked at her and smiled a friendly nod of invitation to sit next to me. Instead of returning my welcome, she focused her eyes hard on mine, sneered and then continued moving her way by my empty seat and upsetting the crowd smashed into the narrow aisle. This was ridiculous! Now I officially had a complex. It was bad enough before that – having always felt like kind of like a big Sasquatch-like beast – but now, everyone was willing to forgo a semblance of comfort in order to completely avoid me and stand awkwardly smashed among anyone else. This trend continued the entire trip and I had no idea what to think. What did I do to these people? I smiled at the people around me, I use subtle hand gestures to present the open seat and all I got in return was averting glances and silence in response.

Mercifully, my stop arrived. The transit center was a welcome site, not only to get my cramping legs moving again, but to get away from this weird scene. I folded the transfer slip in half and left it on my seat. I swept my hand across my forehead again and threw my bag over my shoulder. I was getting irritated by this shunning I was experiencing and stomped down the three steps and onto the sidewalk. I was instantly confronted by what seemed to be transit security. This was just what I needed.

“May I see your transfer ticket please?” he firmly inquired.

I gazed at him with complete disdain in before angrily replying, “I am not on the bus, nor will I be boarding another bus, so why in the hell would I need a transfer ticket?”

He started to respond, but cut himself off after taking in a deep breath. I pointed at the bus I had exited and told him that I left the ticket on the bus in case someone else could use it. My anger was continuing to build, while his demeanor had changed more into confusion. He nodded his head and walked away. In turn I stormed off in the opposite direction, even more confused, towards home.

I spent the entire walk home racking my brain, trying to understand what had just happened. None of it made any sense. I thought to myself: “It's one thing to be cast aside as a freak in certain situations, but a bunch of adults on public transportation? And why today and not the day before, or the week before that?”

At the end of my destination, I stormed up the stairs to my apartment and slammed the door shut behind me. My aggravation was growing, but at least I was home. I took a deep breath. Set my bag down on the floor and headed in to the bathroom. It was time to take another shower. I needed to regain my sense of normalcy. That was when I caught something in the corner of my eye while passing in front of the mirror in the bathroom. I stopped, turned and moved in for a closer look. There was dried blood smeared all over my cheeks and forehead – almost like war paint. This changed everything.

Max IV: The Final Chapter

MAX IV
May 8, 1998:

Feeling a bit lucky to find a seat on the MAX downtown during the Friday evening rush hour, I start to wonder what kind of freak will end up sitting by me from the next stop. Usually, it’s some old woman who seems appalled at my very existence, or some drunk fuck who likes to spread out onto my half of the seat, rubbing his stained fur-lined jean jacket all over me, while chattering incoherently about something incoherent. I’ve never been able to figure out why they call the Light Rail Train “MAX.” The “Metropolitan Area Express.” What is that? Are they kidding? I think maybe it’s a generic name for the strange beings that you’re sure to encounter while riding, and has nothing to do with the name of the train itself. Maybe the “MAX” printed on the outside of the train is a warning. Actually, the commute on the train everyday isn’t so bad. Mostly, there’s just everyday people and it sure as hell beats sitting on the freeway going nowhere, but today I’m just not in the mood.

Much to my surprise, an attractive girl decides to save me from my usual fate. As she sits, we make eye contact. I try to force a smile through my natural scowl. I’ve been trying to smile at women more frequently. Anything to improve my status as a lonely single guy. In response, this girl beams back and lightly nudges me with her elbow.

“How are you?” she queries with genuine enthusiasm.

Unable to reply with words, due to shock, I wave my hands aimlessly in the air and look at her with a confused expression. Eventually, I shrug my shoulders. I don’t lie well. I quickly turn my head and look down at the magazine that I have sitting on my lap. I try and keep the image of her alive in my mind. She’s wearing a bright white T-shirt and some gray sweatpants. She was carrying an athletic bag over her shoulder. It is now sitting at her feet. She must’ve just finished a workout. She has a tired confidence about her, the kind of satisfaction that a cathartic workout can give. Damn, she’s cute. Absolutely, adorable. Her eyes, dare I say, dazzle with some kind of energy, as if she has made a pact with the devil to easily recruit unsuspecting chumps like me.

She leans forward and pulls a magazine out of her bag. I glance over at her. Her light brown hair is slightly mussed and very soft. The direction of her hair seems to flow effortlessly over her ear, and the ends begin to curl back toward her earlobes, framing her face. Her eyes look nearly closed as she focuses on her magazine and situates herself. The lids of her eyes are so smooth and supple and her eyelashes so long, I begin to lose my already tenuous grip on reality. Her eyelashes tangle, ever so slightly, as she blinks. Each blink seems to occur in slow motion.

“How are you?” I stammer without warning. Instantly, she glances over at me with her head still tilted forward. Her mouth is open a little bit and she’s smiling. Her smile draws my eyes to the tiny lines that frame the ends of her lips. Blood floods my face. My body temperature has risen to about eight times its functional capacity.

“I’m glad it’s the weekend,” I hear her joyful lilt float through me.

I begin to shake. My heart pounds uncontrollably and I tug my shirt away from my chest. I begin to hyperventilate. I actively try and slow down my breath by holding it for a pause every time I exhale.

“What are you reading?” she asks, as she bumps my shoulder again with her forearm.

“Um, it’s called, uh….” I can’t speak! I have completely forgotten how to talk! I show her the cover.

“Oh, the Utne Reader, I’ve heard that that’s pretty cool! Where did you buy it? I’ve never seen it anywhere.”

Oh, no.

“Uh, over at the, um, that bookstore…you know, the, uh, big one….” I fumble in answer.

Her smile somehow grows. I tug at my shirt again. I am staring into her deep, dark blue eyes, and she is looking back at mine. For a moment, I feel as if I am floating miles above the ocean, seeing the sun glitter off of the various blue shades of the rippled surface of the water. A chill goes up my back. My eyes start to sting from not blinking.

“Powell’s?” she asks.

“Oh yeah, Powell’s. Yes, they sell it at Powell’s.”

“How is it?”

“Powell’s?” I ask for clarification.

“No, silly, the magazine,” she laughs.

“It’s pretty cool.” I look down at the pages, as if to demonstrate it’s powerful draw.

“Oh, okay,” she trails off.

Snap the fuck out of it! I am better than this!

“It’s a sort of a compilation of writing from various independent magazines of all sorts presented thematically each issue.” That’s a bit more like it.

“That does sound cool, and impressive,” she says as she flashes her eyes playfully.

My fear and nerves are starting to turn into excited energy. I think this girl likes me! Doesn’t she realize that I daydream about this kind of thing, never believing it could happen?

“What are you reading?” I ask, just as some guy stands directly in front of the seat we’re in. The MAX is absolutely jammed. This guy’s overcoat is dangling between us and a sour smell fills my nostrils. I also hear some mysterious growling noises coming from the coat, but try and ignore them. She leans back, never losing sight of me, nor me of her. I see her tongue poke lightly at the left side of her mouth just before she closes it. Her smile remains. I grimace and shoot a glance towards the guy’s coat wondering if I am the only one hearing the growls and smelling the stench.

“It’s just a crappy Rolling Stone,” she sighs.

I smile and ask her what happened to Rolling Stone. Why did it turn into something so terrible? We both shake our heads in silence.

The man with the jacket moves. I regain the sweet scent of her hair. I take in long deep breaths in order to absorb her aroma and to keep myself as relaxed as possible.

Silence.

I start to fiddle with the rubber band on my right wrist, which is near her left knee. I am hoping that I can somehow find a way to ask her out, without sounding like an idiot.

“Is that a reminder for something?” she asks, as she sticks her index finger under the rubber band. For a brief moment, her skin is touching mine. The entire world stops. I truly begin to realize how important each moment in life really is. How I don’t appreciate the beauty and majesty of the world all around.

“No, it’s just there…huh huh.” Not the Butthead laugh! I suppose if you joke around enough, use it enough, it becomes a part of you. Memo to myself: stop the Butthead laughs. I don’t have the heart to tell her that the rubber band is meaningful to me. It does act as a reminder – a reminder of someone, of lost hopes and dreams, of my biggest mistakes.

I cross my feet at the ankles, in an attempt to relax my tense body. I am so pumped up! I have to ask this girl out. I just need to figure out how and when to pull it off. I start thinking of questions that might lead me to the key one. My throat starts to constrict and my temples pound. I glance outside the MAX and try and take in the tranquility of the fresh mist outside. I look back at her. Our eyes meet again. She is pinning down her lower lip with her upper one. Her eyebrows are raised and her eyes, as a result, are fully open. The sheer beauty of her expression nearly reduces me to tears. She looks down, but still toward me. I try and follow her eyes, as if I’ll lose a part of my soul if I don’t. She presses the bottom of her right foot against the bottom of my left one. I take in a fast gasp of air from the surprise.

“Boy, you sure have big feet!” she laughs, as her hand brushes my leg. This is so weird! This is so strange! No really, this is unbelievable! How can I not ask her out? How can even I blow this one? Even I have something to work with here. Maybe this year won’t be so bad after all. Maybe this is some kind of cosmic birthday present, surprising me a day late.

“No, my feet really aren’t that big. They’re pretty average.” A little more enthusiasm would be nice here. Don’t get too cool. “Um…” I start to speak, but I am not able to focus on anything to say. Now seems like the time I’ve been waiting for. Waiting for so long. She takes a quick breath. I know. I can ask her name. I can do the introduction thing.

“My boyfriend is about your size, and his feet aren’t this big.”

Boyfriend. Of course she has a boyfriend. No girl this unbelievable could be without a boyfriend. He’s probably really cool too. He probably has a good paying job, which is fun and self-actualizing. He's probably active and in superb shape. He’s most assuredly confident - at ease with himself and his surroundings. Even with all of that, she’ll still most likely still break up with him at some point, because he’s just not good enough for her. Boyfriend. What a bastard! He gets to hear her opinions on everything. He has the chance to learn her views on music, books, politics, religion, and whatever else may come up. He gets to enjoy her sense of humor. He’s lucky enough to hear her speak of times from her past – good and bad. He gets to hold her in his arms, when she needs to be held.

“He must have small feet,” I mumble, barely able to hold back the devastation.

“No, I’m the one with small feet!” she says with a smile as she looks down for a second, before making eye contact again.

“Yes. Yes, I suppose you do,” I say flatly, as I close my magazine and set it in my bag sitting on the floor. My stop is a way off, but I want off now. I grab my bag and set it on my lap. Without looking at her, while twirling the bag’s shoulder strap around my fist, I say, “It’s been nice talking with you.” My heart has dropped into my stomach. My teeth are clenched. Fuck it! I still have to do something. This is too much to take. I have to at least try.

“I know what you just said, but…I don’t suppose it’s too much to, um, ask if you’d like to go out sometime?” I can almost see the words floating out of my mouth. I wish I could grab them and pull them back in. I want to hide them away forever. She looks deep into my eyes with a very serious focus. I avert my eyes. “You are so very beautiful,” I mumble half-heartedly, while I stand up. I take a long step, which puts me near the door. I look at her again. About twelve people are staring at me, save for our friend in the trench coat who has moved to the seat across the aisle. He seems comfortable making squealing noises, while staring at the helpless victim next to him.

“Thank you,” she says, as she looks down at her magazine. “That’s really sweet, but….” Believe me, I know. You wouldn’t want to waste your time with me anyway. Having to put up with my constant fear and paranoia. Seeing all of my confused and pent up anger. I would not be worth your while. Why would you ever want to deal with me? You’d have to hold me while I bawl my head off every night, due to my countless insecurities. I have nothing to offer you but frustration. Believe me, I know.

“I’m sorry,” she quietly begins. “I hope I didn’t….”

“No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have put you in that position.” I cut her off. I look at one of the people watching all of this. They turn away. The girl’s smile is gone. I already miss her smile. The MAX stops and the doors open. People start to flood between us in and out the door. I try to smile to her.

“Really, it was nice to talk with you, and I’m very sorry,” I say sincerely as I turn to the steps.

“Thanks! Take care!” she beams, as she waves.

I am outside in the mist. The doors close. Thanks for what?

I throw my bag over my shoulder and stand still. The MAX starts to move. I look in through the window to where I was sitting. The girl is reading her Rolling Stone.

Already forgotten.


for more MAX misadventures check out the links here:

MAX I
MAX II
MAX III
MAX V