Black Metallic

I have decided to finally post the first of the five old MAX (commuter) stories.  As mentioned previously, these were all written quickly post-occurance originally as part of intended correspondence, so really for an audience of one.  But here we are: another story filled with self-doubting inner dialogue - most of which is pretty funny in this case - as we look at the awkwardness of pretty much any moment I spend in public places.


MAX Part I
9/30/97

Another endless day at work is finally over. It’s not yet Daylight Savings and I’m already going to and from work in the dark. I am completely worn out. I’m so drained that it’s difficult to move my limbs. Tonight, I’ll swing by the Post Office and check the PO Box and then simply head straight home. No energy for anything else.


Finally, the weather has come around to my liking. I was able to pull out the old overcoat this morning for the first time since early March. With the weather turning a little cool, rainy and windy, generally I’d be getting a rush of energy following the dead hot air of the oppressive summer.

At the Post Office, I make eye contact with an older woman and I smile. She returns my smile with a look of horror and disgust as she quickens her pace out the door I just came through.

“What’s up with that?” I mumble to myself, confused at why I seem to bother so many people by trying to be friendly.

No mail in the box. No surprise, but still a disappointment. At least there are no bills, but I still am left with a feeling that there’s nothing out there for me. I’m feeling disconnected.

The rain picks up its intensity as I meander the ten or so blocks down toward the Max stop at Pioneer Place. Not long from now I will be able to take a shower and relax and prepare myself for another long week of work.

I wonder what that lady’s problem with me was. Am I really that terrifying? Though unplanned, my only intention was to be a nice guy. I frequently hold doors open for people and offer a friendly greeting, which is generally met with a cold shoulder, or worse: sheer terror! It’s no wonder my self-esteem is so low.

A block shy of my MAX stop at the downtown mall, I notice that I just missed a train. Great. A long wait could be in the works. I shrug and take a deep breath and accept my fate and try my best to take shelter and soak in the refreshing wash of wind and rain.

The city feels extraordinarily dead this early evening. There is almost no one in sight with only an occasional car splashing by. This actually is nice. Just last week I was standing in this spot sweating from the extreme heat surrounded by what must have been the entire population of Portland waiting for the next train. This triggers my memory of how annoyed I get with so many people in those types of crowds that force themselves onto the train with desperate urgency. It’s as if they will perish if they don’t smash themselves into this particular train immediately. Maybe I’m bitter because I am always the last one to board the train, no matter how well I position myself on the platform. Luckily, this won’t be an issue this evening, because it’s just me here, alone.

Scratch that. That pretty woman I’ve been seeing around this stop and on the train the last week or so has just appeared from the mall’s exit. I think she works for that fancy BCBG store, but I cannot be sure. She is always dressed very finely. This evening she is clad in classic black. Her outfit sets off her short, almost black hair and her smooth fair skin. She is wearing a knee length skirt and a business style jacket that is form fitting at her hips. Every time I’ve seen her I am forced to stare with my mouth hanging open, completely hypnotized. I would love to talk with her and find out what her story is. She walks within a few feet of me, carefully staying close to the building and out of the rain and she glances at me as she nears my position. She looks very stern. I try out my smile again, which does not phase her fixed glare. She parks herself against the building underneath the awning a few feet off of my right shoulder. I’ve seen this beauty so many times over the last week that I feel like I should at least acknowledge her existence. In an obtuse way, we are learning about each other by pure circumstance. At least that’s what I tell myself. There’s still no one else around. The only sound is from the distant traffic, the patter of rain on the awning above us and the indeterminate buzz of a city. We both face the tracks and the street in front of us. The Max will be arriving from our right side and I keep glancing in that direction every couple of moments out of nerves. It’s as if my glances will urge the train to show sooner. These glances also allow me quick view of the stunning stranger next to me. Her hair is so dark and smooth and soft.

Oops! She just caught me looking at her! Why did she have to show up now? I am clearly not ready for her. I am never ready for this, no matter how much I want to be. She shivers a bit as a gust of wind sweeps through the block. I see her eyes moisten and her jaw quiver slightly as she fights back a yawn.

“I never see you when you’re smiling,” I blurt suddenly, surprising myself. What kind of opening line is that? Why am I using a Catherine Wheel lyric to start a conversation with one of the prettiest women I have ever seen?

Another cool breeze floats down the roadside, pushing her velvety hair partially across her face, as she turns and fixes her gaze onto mine. I look down to the ground immediately out of shame, but only for a moment. I am able to reattach my eyes to hers.

A small smirk pushes the corners of her mouth upward slightly, before stopping. She continues to look right at me and then gasps in a deep breath. Her expanded chest pushes her coat open a bit and I cannot help but peak. I am certain she notices my shifting eyes. She looks so elegant – so way out of my league.

“I’m sorry,” she quietly replies after what seems like an eternity. She exhales as she says this and tilts her head against the breeze.

Over the last couple of days I’ve had a cold slowly defeating my immune system and I begin to feel a trickle of something slide out from inside my left nostril. I sniff, but it’s no use, because that side of my nose is too stuffed up and the trickle has escaped too far. If I were to sniff harder a second time, it could only be characterized as a snort and that seems like it would be bad. I fight off the instinct to wipe my nose with my sleeve. I can only hope that nothing is visible, or try and pretend it’s a raindrop.

Why did I have to say such a freaky thing to her? Maybe it could’ve been worse. I could’ve crooned the song lyric to her as it repeats often in my head. I had put the pressure on myself and I broke. Even if she wasn’t a wet dream come true, I would have that uncomfortable feeling that I should try and start a conversation considering that we are the only two people on the entire block and we’re standing only a few feet apart. She’s still looking at me and in this light her eyes look nearly obsidian. I realize that she just spoke to me.

“Don’t be sorry.” This statement is followed by what seems to be another unending pause. “Why?” Another pause, as I gulp down a sudden need to cough. “Why, uh, no, um…smile?” Oh dear. Could I be any more of a dumbass?

She looks down, purses her lips as if trying to force her mouth into a smile, but her eyes are stones. If I were in her position, I’m sure I’d find this stupid clown pretty hard not to laugh at.

“Things have been rough lately, but that’s no excuse,” she says hesitantly. She looks back to me and partially averts her gaze for a beat before reasserting her focus on me. I begin to wonder what she sees. When I look at her, I see probably the most attractive woman I have ever been in the presence of. She is bold and pristine. She radiates a class that feels far above any level I can ever imagine. What must she see when she looks at me? She can only possibly see a slob wearing a tattered T-shirt and jeans and my old overcoat. I have never made an effort to be anything but the rumpled, portly and shaggy waste that I resigned myself to be years ago. At this moment, I regret this decision.

“I suppose.” My entire body begins to itch intensely, as if tiny insects are skittering all over me in rapid motion. I cannot believe that she is actually engaging me in any manner at all.

My coat smells putrid. I really need to get it cleaned. Its odor is especially foul when it gets damp, which unfortunately, it is. Maybe I could piss myself right now to round out the perfect first impression.

“You looked tired,” she says, incredibly with what seems to be an attempt to keep this faltering conversation alive. My esteem might be higher in general, if this wasn’t about the most positive comment about my appearance that I ever get. My other favorites are the classic: “You look sick!” or the common: “You look terrible!” or the new one I heard this morning at work: “What the hell happened to you?”

“Yeah,” I begin to drawl with an unplanned completely wasted voice. “So I’ve been told.” Insert another long pause here. “You, uh, on the other hand, look stunning.”

“Now I feel bad, but thank you. That is very kind of you,” she says sheepishly, as she shrugs her shoulders for a moment and shifts her attention towards her feet.

“Heh heh heh heh!” What the hell was that?!

The MAX mercifully slides into place at our block, along with some sort of urgent gas bubble just below my gut. It feels like someone has stabbed me, while I’ve been distracted by this amazing looking woman next to me. And really, I deserve to be stabbed for what a mess it has become. The sudden gas pressure is making it difficult to stand up straight, let alone lift my legs up the tall stairs onto the train. Too bad I can’t request the wheelchair lift to help me out.

“Hey, the train is finally here! Where are you heading?” I ask. Great question. Maybe I can follow you home! Can I get any creepier?

“I’m heading home. It’s been a long day,” she replies quickly and efficiently.

The doors open on the train and I step aside for her to climb in first, both to be gentlemanly and so she doesn’t have to witness my struggle with the emerging gas bubble. I bet it’s from the chocolate milk I drank with my lunch. That stuff always forms a kind of impenetrable orb inside my stomach.

Inside the train, she doesn’t sit down. Instead she holds onto the rail and lets me pass by her. The train is nearly empty; much like the downtown streets had been, so now I am left to decide how to proceed. Do I stand near her and try and cling to this terrible thread of a conversation as desperately as I want to, or do I find a seat and hope that she follows me down that road. She should sprint to the opposite end of the long train car and leave me stranded with my bowel issues. I decide to be bold and take an uneasy seat by the seats closest to where she’s standing. Amazingly, she sits next to me, and my senses are overwhelmed. I take a deep breath and exhale slowly in an effort to compose myself. My nose begins a new trickle again and I quickly wipe at it with my left hand without thought. Damn!

“I’m so happy that you smiled. You have an amazing one.” Where am I going with this? “I’m sorry that you’ve had a rough time,” I finish satisfactorily.

She thanks me again and smiles weakly. Sitting next to her, I realize how good she smells, despite the reek of my coat. She takes in a quick breath and tugs at the bottom of her form-fitting jacket, before easing back in the seat. She begins to tell me her story. Within the last year, her parents had divorced, and then her father passed away shortly thereafter from a cancer diagnosed too late. She then split up with her longtime boyfriend, dropped out of college and to escape her hell moved away from all of her friends and family from San Francisco to Portland. Since moving, she’s only found work that she doesn’t like, after a long stretch of unemployment, and is uncertain that she can trust her roommate. She tells me she’s at a loss about what to do. I listen attentively and nod my head and express sympathy and I notice that my stop is nearing and that my gas discomfort is increasing while sitting down. The sad face I present is easy to achieve both from the tragic story of her past year and from the pain emanating from my gut. She seems nervous about having told me this laundry list of her problems and she apologizes for having told me.

Outside the windows of the train is almost complete blackness in contrast to the blinding fluorescent lights inside. I can tell that the rain is stepping up its intensity, because the windows are getting blasted. I look around the train as I carefully stand up and am amazed at the lack of passengers. I tell her that my stop is coming up.

“I am so sorry, you must think I’m a disaster,” she says, forcing another smile.

“No, not at all. I am sorry for your struggles. I know you can turn this around,” I say uselessly, as I offer my hand for a shake. Not knowing what else to do. She places her hand lightly into mine and I grasp it for a moment. I gently squeeze her hand reassuringly and let go before it starts to feel creepy, especially since I am towering over her trapped next to the window, while she is sitting. Luckily, she finally stands up in order to allow me to leave, by using my hand for leverage.

“Please take care,” I turn back to her just as the MAX comes to a sudden jolting stop and the doors violently slap open.

“I will do my best. Thank you for listening,” she smiles again and I see that her eyes look tired.

“Anytime,” I respond, and then point aimlessly into different directions with my index fingers, like I always do, before hopping down the three steep stairs and into the downpour. I hunch my head into the wind and begin to move quickly with my hands buried deep into my coat. As the train pulls away, I see the girl inside and begin to realize that I have no idea who she is. I learned a bit about her recent troubles, and yet I didn’t learn her name, what she likes, maybe her phone number, or anything that would help me talk to her again without random chance being a factor. I had been hoping to learn all of these things from the first moment I saw her by the train the week or so prior. At least find out her name! She does not look out the window toward me as the train speeds away. Maybe I’ll see her during the next commute, I decide.

The rain engulfs me as I stomp through the vast expanse of the Lloyd Cinemas parking lot. The bottom of my coat whips around my legs from the wind and I squint to keep the rain from flooding my eyes, while I hum to myself and fall into a deep sadness. I still can’t believe what I said to her and more importantly, what I didn’t say.

“I never see you when you’re smiling

It really gets under my skin”

And so on….


The other MAX stories can be found here:
MAX II
MAX III
MAX IV
MAX V

They Said Tomorrow

Here is a very old story that has been posted and removed more than once.  It is a story that I find to be too specific for anyone to truly identify with, yet I think it finds the voice of struggle for those who have not found any confidence.  This is painful to read - looking back at my younger self - but I have never been able to revise this quickly written story, because of its brutal honesty and immediacy.  It is the second part of the Max series of stories - all of which were originally written as letters to an old friend.

Max 2
written: 12/15/97

I'm standing outside Pioneer Square, around Five PM, less than two weeks before Christmas. It's festive out here. The sky looks pitch black this early in the evening, because of the bright contrast the Christmas lights in the Square create. It's cool out today, but not wet. The city's official Christmas tree towers behind my back, as I stand and wait for the Max like I do most days after work. I was considering doing my Christmas shopping, but doused that plan. I don't know what to get anyone anyway. This time of year used to be my favorite. The vacations from school, lots of presents, the chance for snow; what could be better? Even with most of these benefits vanished as an adult; I would still love this season, if my Mom were still alive to share it. She was my family's Christmas spirit. Nowadays, it's just another time of year with extra expenses that I cannot afford.


I take a deep breath. I'm thinking that I should go grab a pack of cigarettes. If you're waiting for the Max and you decide to light a smoke, the Max will show. It always happens. On the other hand, if I run across the street to grab the smokes, the Max will arrive during that transaction. Instead I'll just be patient and look around at people and hope I can manage to score a seat on the train. It will be doubtful with the size of crowd that's hanging around tonight.

To my left, down the block about 10 or 15 feet, my eyes catch a familiar face, a face that I will not ever forget - a face that I used to gaze at longingly throughout the summer of 1993. That was the summer when all of my friends and I went haywire. It was the summer of 70+ hour work weeks at two different jobs. The summer of playing hoops at Oceanlake School with Bad Religion cranked from Matt's VW Rabbit and piles of "Dino-size" cups and fries lying about. It was the summer that I fell in love with Little Debbie and her tantalizing treats. And who could forget about all the Blitz Beer? It was the summer that "Emmaline" broke my heart. It was a summer lacking sleep, or any real direction. It was that summer that I relied on my friends to keep me from spending time alone.

I have always had great friends, but have mostly lived as a loner. This has been self-imposed to a large degree. I have never wanted to hassle anyone with my medical issues, or my crazy phobias. I have always kept everyone at arms length, especially women. It's not like women are clamoring to get at me anyway, so it isn't very difficult to build a wall to hide behind and focus on survival. But it was her face, the one down the block that ruined everything.

I'll refer to her simply as "R" and she is waiting for the Max train as I am now. Her face is older and her features more striking than before. She is tastefully dressed, wearing a clean cut, dark woolen winter overcoat, and a black skirt that drops to her knees. Below the skirt, she has on dark stockings that hug her muscular calves. This is quite a change from the shorts and T-shirts she usually wore that summer. She is standing close to some guy and huddling into his left shoulder, as I peer at her profile. He seems oblivious. I can see a small strip of her soft brown hair twitch as it sits lightly on her long eyelashes.

***

I was trapped in Lincoln City that summer after another false start with college in Seattle during the fall of '92. Unfortunately, both of my kidneys were full of tumors and another surgery was necessary. This has been the story of my life: false starts and incompletes. The summer of '93 was sort of a last hurrah for me and my friends – most of who had just graduated from college. I hadn't. This was the last summer "back home" for us, before heading off into whatever directions to deal with the crapheap of adulthood. The fun that we seemed to be having every night drinking and joking around felt frantic with desperation. Personally, I was afraid to be alone. I could not sleep, so I would just stay out all night. If I didn't, there was a good chance I would cut my throat, or something wacky like that. I could no longer trust myself alone.

I remember seeing "R" around that summer, when she used to hang out with the usual clan that would slide into Gallucci's Pizzeria near closing time on most nights. The pizza place was a hangout joint for the under-21/over-18 crowd. They would gather in huge groups for hours and only order the 30 cent cheese bread. I worked days at a One Hour Photo lab and nights making pizzas and those orders of cheese bread. We got to know each other by sight, but we never spoke. I asked some friends of friends and co-workers and anyone else I could think of about her. I found out she was new to town, 20 years old, and by all accounts a cool girl. She was gorgeous. Her lips and eyes, her deep tan skin, and her long slender body overwhelmed me every time I saw her around, until long after she had gone away. She was way out of my league. She was driving me crazy.

The first time I ever saw her she was surfing. She was pretty good. I was out there attempting to surf as well, but I never got the hang of it. My old hippie high school chemistry teacher was also out there on his long board. I was afraid that he would run me down and bust my head open, causing me to drown in a mixture of seaweed, blood and patchouli oil. Besides, the ocean didn't need this fat fuck paddling around like a wounded manatee.

It took me the entire summer to build up the nerve to talk to "R," and I doubt I ever would have, until she gave me an opportunity.

Prior to all of that, I had a blind date early that summer with a girl recently moved from San Francisco named Alexandra. She was the daughter of the drummer from the 60's band Paul Revere and the Raiders. You know, "Cherokee People," and a whole bunch of other songs that get played on oldies radio? She wrote me a letter. My friends and I used to occasionally Xerox a terrible 'zine called "This Wreckage," and she liked it. The 'zine almost never received feedback for our efforts, so I excitedly wrote back to her pages and pages of thoughts along with copies of the back issues. We corresponded a few more times before deciding to meet. The meeting went well. We hit it off and we started to hang out. She was pretty, funny, smart, and we liked a lot of the same music, books and movies. My best friend Wil really liked her too. The three of us would stay up all night on the beach drinking beer, or up in the old cemetery above Spanish Head drinking more beer, talking about crazy times and singing the sad songs of Mark Eitzel. Wil fell for Alex big time, and I was distracted by my huge crush on "R," so it was easy for me to step aside. This is assuming that I was in the game, which is never a lock. Whatever the case, all of my thoughts were about "R." Every song I listened to pertained to her or my attraction to her. Every moment my mind was free to wander, it wondered about her. Would she be interested in someone like me? Would I ever get over myself and talk to her? What would I say? What would she say?

***

Looking up from the grey sidewalk, I see "R" talking to her companion. They are arm in arm. She is looking at him, so I can see her face directly. It is definitely her. She's smiling. I recognize that wide smile where her full lips part slightly to show off a glimmer of her teeth. Her boyfriend is shorter than her and looks like a total shit. I am terrified by the jealousy I feel toward some stranger who is spending valuable time with a girl who I once dreamt about. Something about seeing her with him bugs me. I cannot shake the thought of that weasel with her. I may be old fashioned, and most likely a sexist bastard, but I'm sickened by the idea of some jackass sportfucking a woman who I once held in such high regard. I can't seem to stomach the thought, despite knowing better.

***

I'll never forget that day when I was working at the Photo Shop, when she wandered in. My Dad owned the shop and had some of his paintings on display around the front counter. She quietly walked in with no film to be developed. She was looking around at the paintings with a content expression in her eyes. We crossed glances several times, as I sat on a stool at the machine adjusting light densities to badly taken pictures. I did not know what to do. Normally, my exposure to her had been when she was surrounded by a huge group of people, but now she was on her own. We were on our own. I kept looking over at her, feeling serious panic. Finally, I asked her if she needed help, wondering why she was there. Asking her this simple question that I was being paid to ask felt difficult. I could feel each word stick in my throat. She nodded with a shy smile and, after a few moments, she silently walked out the door. Maybe she was there to see me. I needed to stop hating myself and do something, so I suddenly bolted after her, catching her outside the doorway.

"Hey!" I mumbled, out of breath, not from the quick sprint, but because of nerves and adrenaline. I couldn't believe what I was doing. I had no plan.

"Yeah?" She turned and grinned as if she expected my affront.

What ensued was remarkable. Somehow, as if possessed by someone who knows what they're doing, my mouth formed some words that formally introduced me to her. I told her how beautiful I thought she was, and I managed to ask some general questions. She continued smiling throughout, and never broke our eye contact. She said that she would love to meet up for lunch sometime, when I asked her for a date. She wrote down her phone number and asked me to call her at such and such a time.

This may seem routine, but then you don't understand. She said yes. For the first and last time in my life, a girl who I had amassed a major crush on said yes!

***

Moving closer to "R" on the platform while waiting for the Max, I can see her eyes tearing up from the cold, dry breeze. My eyes begin to tear up from not blinking for so long, like that day when I asked her out and our gazes were locked.

***

She was the girl who said yes. She had told me on that sidewalk outside the Photo shop that she was working at Subway and that maybe we could meet for lunch or coffee before her shift in the next couple of days. I watched her tongue explore her top lip as she wrote her phone number on a slip of paper. She slid the paper into my hand and held it for a moment, before turning to walk away from wherever she had appeared from. I was shuddering from her touch and breathing in her sweet scent. My heart was pounding so hard that my shirt was hopping up and down. After a few steps, she turned her head over her shoulder and reiterated that I call her. Her smile was gentle, smooth and cool. She had a seductive ease about her. I was shocked that she said yes.

***

The Max pulls into position at the stop and the doors slap open, releasing a collection of homeless skate punks, Goths, drunks, Christmas shoppers, commuters and in-betweeners like me. Unfortunately, a far greater number of people are attempting to squeeze into the Max. These are mostly people heading home from their various jobs downtown. I manage to slide into the Max using the same door that "R" and the guy use. Once I am inside, I stay by the door and lean against the backside of the elevated seats. This position is easy for getting out in a hurry when the train is jammed. "R" and her little buddy find a seat to share with their backs toward me. I can see them sitting close, unknowing of my intent stare.

***

I remember that first call. I was over hanging out with Wil at his Mom's house in Taft. He and I had a few beers and he gave me a pep talk rivaling any speech from a sports movie. "R" had told me a time to call so I did. She answered and I told her who I was, half expecting her not to remember. Wil left the room, leaving me to pace back and forth nervously, while talking with my hands. She did remember me to my surprise. I asked her if she wanted to meet up for lunch the next day. Instead, she said she wanted to get out of town. She said that Lincoln City was getting too claustrophobic for her. She asked if I had any other ideas. Did I ever? I had already envisioned a plan while I was working up the guts to ask this girl out.

The plan was to leisurely drive up the coast to Oceanside. Oceanside is a quiet coastal town, mostly devoid of the usual family tourist trappings. It's nestled into a large cliff that juts out to the sea on its north end, making the small town reachable only from the south. Plus it's off the main highway, providing one of the most secluded and scenic beaches around. Visiting there a couple of times earlier that summer, I found a rare inner peace. It instilled in me a sense of comfort - a sense of home - I hadn't felt in years. "R" and I would walk the beach to the end by the cliff, where the driftwood collects, and sit there as the sun set behind the rock island that towers up a few hundred feet off shore. We would talk and hopefully (at least) hold hands. At dusk we would stroll back to the cozy restaurant at the south end of the beach and enjoy an incredible dinner. This was and still is my most romantic daydream. It may be my only romantic notion. In this vision, however, my car would not have been the tiny piece of shit Subaru that I drove at the time. A car so rusted out that the driver's side door was taped on, forcing me to climb in and out through the passenger's side door. I could never sort out this problem with my plan. I could open the door for her, but I'd have to climb in first. Or I could pretend to be gentlemanly and help her into the car, before jumping into the open window of the driver's side like the Duke Brothers used to do on TV. Of course the chances of a coastal mist soaking the inside of my car were too high to leave the window down. I left the door details out of my description, as I tried my best to tell her my date idea, while trying to make it sound as if I were inventing it on the spot. Telling her this plan felt unbelievable and magical to me. Here I was, rambling on, and the girl of my dreams was listening. When I finally shut up, she paused and then sighed, sending shivers down my spine.

"That sounds so nice," her voice cracked. I will never forget the sound of her voice as she said this. She sounded so sultry and sexy that I stopped pacing and dropped into a chair and melted into the phone. I was hooked on this girl and could not believe what was happening. Maybe there actually is a merciful God or whatever, instead of the bleak black hole that life had previously presented itself to be.

We spoke for a few more minutes. She said that she had to go, but would call me back, so we could set a date. The inflection of her voice told me that she liked my idea.

***

I couldn't help but stare at her, while standing on the crowded train. She is so fucking alluring. Her friend was looking straight ahead as she whispered to him. I could not hear her words, but I could remember how her voice had given me goose bumps. I stare at the side of her face and stop breathing.

***

A week passed after that first phone conversation. It seemed like an eternity. I went into Subway for lunch hoping to run into her. My patience was not as strong as my excitement. She wasn't there. The girl who made the sandwich I felt obligated to order seemed to know who I was. She told me that she was "R's" older sister. She encouraged me to call "R" and not to wait any longer. So I did, after forcing down the sandwich, but nothing came together.

This all happened at the end of that summer. Eric and I had been planning to be roommates and move to Portland to get out of town. She was right when she told me that Lincoln City was getting claustrophobic.

The move took place early in September, but I hadn't given up. I felt like a new man. I had broken through my insecurities and was finally growing up. Besides, it had only been a few weeks since I had asked her out. Since I was planning to drive back to the coast the first weekend after the move to get a final load, in a new-to-me car, I decided to give her another call. Now I had a car with functioning doors, so I wouldn't have to resort to Dukes of Hazzard tactics during the date and she could come visit me at my place whenever.

After collecting the last of my things at my Dad's house, I phoned her. I was brimming with my renewed confidence. We chatted for a long time, and she told me that she was sorry that we hadn't ever met up. She told me that her life had recently been hard to deal with, because lots of "bad things" were happening to her. She asked if I would be in town all weekend. If so, she wanted to meet up Sunday afternoon. I tried to pin down a time and place. Instead she asked me to call her.

***

Thinking about that conversation, I begin to grind my teeth - forcing myself not to look at her sitting in front of me on the train. At that moment, I hum to myself the lyrics of a song my memory of her always brings to mind: "If I bother you / please tell me to go away / I don't want to bother you / but it's not for me to say." Those words always acted as my motto for the few times I have asked women out. I simply want honesty. I am not as afraid of rejection as much as being misled.

I focus my attention on the windows of the train. The blackness beyond made the reflections of the other passengers as sharp as a mirror's. Thinking back on that call, I cannot figure out how I could be so naïve. There she is in front of me now. I swivel my head back toward her. The last time I saw her, she left me shaken with an excitement and a high that I haven't felt since. Here she is again, with her hazel eyes and long eyelashes, looking better than before. Her head turned over her shoulder as it had been when she asked me to call her in front of the Photo shop all those years prior. That's when we make eye contact, as she stops her diatribe to her silent partner. She does a double take when she sees me. I fix my eyes on her and do not blink. The train comes to a stop and the doors open to allow the cool breeze in and several people out.

***

On the afternoon of that Sunday, I was about to drive back to Portland from Lincoln City. The promising phone conversation that "R" and I had two days earlier had not been enough for me. Something didn't feel right, so I was giving up. I was feeling like a pest and I had moved out of town. If we couldn't manage to meet up while living in the same small town, how would we manage living 90 miles apart? In addition, I had two passengers returning to Portland with me. I was driving Wil and Alexandra back to Portland. They were now a couple living together in downtown Portland. As we were heading out of town, Alex convinced me to give "R" one last call.

It was a grey day. I remember that detail vividly. Everything seemed grey. The road, the buildings, and the sky were all grey.

I pulled into the Safeway parking lot near the north end of town, parked, and went to the payphone feeling dread well up inside my chest.

"R" answered the phone after several rings. I took a deep breath to settle my nerves - determined to get something definitive out of her. Before I could say anything, aside from the hello that followed hers, she asked me to hold on. After what seemed an eternity, there was a clatter on the other end of the line, followed by the voice of a male.

"Don't call here again," the voice said flatly. The line went dead.

I glared at the payphone for several moments and slammed the receiver before storming back to the car. Alex, sitting in the back seat, quietly said that she was sorry. We rode back to Portland in verbal silence. I played music loudly, while trying to keep my frustration and anger inside. But every song on the drive home broke my heart. The songs were still all about her, but at least now I finally had my definitive answer.

Why didn't she tell me? I clearly couldn't figure it out on my own. If she wasn't interested, she could've told me or not acted so interested initially. It would've hurt, but not like this. Apparently, she had to stomp on my heart after coaxing it from its dark cavern. Maybe she had been interested, but I did something wrong along the way to change her mind. Maybe I was blind from the beginning.

***

Another stop. The Max stops about every two blocks as it trickles through downtown. "R" and the short man stand up and move toward the door I am lurking near. Her eyes are fixed on mine. I sense the recognition in her eyes. Her face had already been burned into my memory forever. I would recognize her face more quickly than my own, but she had to search her memory. Not surprisingly, I had been forgotten.

As the line of people pass in front of me to escape the density of the train, she moves to within a foot of me. She breaks our silent staring contest and turns to the dwarf on her other shoulder.

"That's the fool who wouldn't stop calling me, when I lived in L.C.," she belts out so loudly that it numbs my ears and makes me cringe. Her right hand points at me to make sure everyone around are aware who she's shouting about. As they reach the door, they both turn back towards me. They look at me with malicious grins. I continue to stare back blankly, against my better judgment. "What is your problem? Did you ever get a clue?" She laughs at me, as she disappears outside.

I put my head down as the doors clatter shut and the train shudders back into motion. A hush takes over my surroundings and I no longer feel anyone around me. My vision blurs and my temples begin to pound. I feel boxed in and claustrophobic. I feel like I did seconds after last Halloween's debacle, when a gang of Russians jumped Jeff and I ran in to try and stop it. I managed to stop the attack, but not in time to keep us both out of an ambulance ride to the Emergency Room. I remember sitting on the edge of the examination table, with my eyes swollen shut and a head the shape of the Elephant Man, as some doctor told my roommate to check on me while I was trying to sleep that night. Apparently, sometimes when people get their face kicked in they wake up with panic attacks. I am already familiar with panic attacks. I know them from years of being butchered by surgeons and from waking up alone in my own skin.

I didn't want to bother her. Apparently I did.




more MAX stories can be found here:

MAX I
MAX III
MAX IV
MAX V

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

Horror Head

Max III

January 1998

The fluorescent lights seem to be burning through my clenched eyes. I fold my arms around myself and lean over to one side. My head is pounding and my stomach is filled with an angry sea of booze. I think it’s a Thursday (or was), but I cannot be too sure, save for the realization that I am scheduled to be at work at 7:30 am later this morning. I do not know exactly what time it is. I do know that I am on the last eastbound Max train for the evening. It’s sometime before last call, where a few manage to reach the public transit stumbling just in time to a wobbly, shaky and bumpy ride home. Riding a bus or train home after a feverish night of drinking is a good way to accelerate the buzz to the hangover. I suppose it’s better than driving home drunk, but it is certainly not fun. The only hope is to just pass out and hope you wake up near your stop, or hope you wake up at all. I have to avoid passing out despite the urge, because my home is only a handful of stops away. I do not know where I am. It’s dark outside the Max, and blinding inside. I struggle to open my eyes.

What the hell happened? I remember going over to Jeff’s. We haven’t hung out since he went to Chicago for Christmas. Wait, I remember going to the 1201 first. I had some time to kill before Jeff would be home from work. I checked my mail, and then hit the 1201. I had a few whiskey sours while I read the latest Willamette Week. Then what? I remember heading to Jeff’s, with the cold breeze whipping my overcoat around. I should’ve worn more than my Husker Du T-shirt underneath the coat, but I am never prepared for being cold. I remember buying a sixer of Henry’s Ale. I also remember Jeff with a twelver of Milwaukee’s Best Light already broken into at his place. What I do not remember is what happened to the contents those cans and bottles. The cans and bottles were strewn about his studio, but the beer had vanished in a short span of time. We chatted excitedly about how we finally had hope that 1998 was going to be our year. To celebrate, we decided that we had better head down to the Marathon for a little dinner and some drinks.

The Marathon is an odd bar. They have essentially two sections. Where the bar actually sits, near the entrance, there is a clientele of old, hardcore barflies who waste away their time watching several televisions portraying many sporting events. Around the bar to the right and down the ramp, sits a section with pool tables dominated by the 20-something crowd and a loud mix of heavy metal and classic rock songs pumping from the jukebox. The consumer dichotomy is great as well as the certainty of separation between the two camps. Jeff and I showed our ID’s and confidently strode to the back section housing the pool tables. We were in the mood to celebrate and maybe play some pool. My game stinks. Jeff, on the other hand, plays all the time, has his own stick and can run me into the ground. We found a free table and sat and chatted awhile, ordered a large pitcher of Widmer Hefeweizen and pondered the bar menu. Being a weeknight, the bar was not packed, but fairly busy. A pool table in the middle of the section became available, so we decided to move our pitcher and belongings over there and play a game. A “game” of eight-ball between Jeff and I goes something like this: I rack the balls loosely, in what we refer to as a swamp or amoeba rack, so any attack on the break is met with little or no movement by the triangle of balls at the other end of the table. This is completely unintentional, but it is almost a talent, because I rack them so badly. From there, Jeff sank a few shots. I missed one badly. He dropped a few more in. I missed a shot embarrassingly. He sank a few more and talked smack, while I missed another. Then Jeff toyed with me, missing the eight-ball on purpose over and over, while I struggled over several turns to sink the stripes or solids that I had remaining. Eventually, and I mean eventually, I got down to the final chance, and even then Jeff gave me stellar opportunities to win, but I couldn’t pull it off. Finally, he slammed the eight-ball into a pocket with authority and it mercifully ended. The sad part is that there is always a stash of quarters at the ready for another game, which will follow the same M.O..  I ordered a second pitcher.

These games are always painful for me, but still entertaining, because Jeff and I have a good time as we play. The scenarios that kill me are when we get challenged. As we eased into our second pitcher, Jeff was looking around the room, wondering if we would be challenged by any “chickies.” This is essentially the goal right? A little fun competition, along with an easy introduction, and a common ground to chat casually, makes the pool scenario a bit more natural than the usual lame line and a slap in the face. Aren’t we there to meet the “chickies” after-all? I don’t know. I was really hungry for food at that point.

As the Max squeals around a corner downtown and flops me upright for a moment, I begin to flashback to the night of the “chickies.” Using “chicks” as a term for the ladies wasn’t even in my vocabulary until recently, and now I use “chickies.” What happened? That was another drunken night hanging with Jeff, back when I had a car. We were creeping around in the car amongst the warehouses and lofts in Northwest Portland - the Pearl District. We were drinking 40 ounce PBR’s and talking about our past flummoxes with women, when we spotted two couples wandering around a corner heading in our direction. I had pulled to a stop on the once abandoned street and drained the rest of my 40. As the couple passed by my open window, I suddenly blurted out, as I tossed the 40 haphazardly in their direction, “We’re gonna kick your ass and steal your chickies!” I drove to the corner and we headed off towards the Caribou for some $1 drinks, as Jeff, who had been in mid-swill during my outburst, tried frantically to keep from spitting up, because he was laughing so hard. From then on, we have been in search of “chickies.”

A challenge arose at the Marathon from two short middle-aged guys wearing the type of leather jackets that inexplicably has denim sleeves and collars lined with sheep fur. These guys were greasy and clearly serious. Once the challenge was set, however, Jeff accepted. This was bad. They were not female and it took me close to an hour to knock down 7 shots with intentionally nice set-ups from Jeff in the prior game. This was where my complete ineptitude had lost its humor. Seeing these two across the table setting up the balls and strutting about with their cues, I felt that I had to play well. We couldn’t lose to these fools! I knew Jeff was thinking the same thing, but probably more so, knowing that he would have to carry us. The scene was cordial, we all shook hands, but the extended eye contact between us all proved that nothing but victory would be accepted. Jeff broke and nothing dropped. One of the dwarves stretched across the table and sank a tough shot, but couldn’t sustain a run. My turn left a short easy shot to the corner pocket. Wasted. I laughed, to show that I was not serious about the game, but mostly out of complete humiliation. The other guy sank a couple of balls. Jeff got one down. They missed a tough one. I had too much green and completely missed the target. I told Jeff how pathetic I am. He encouraged me and told me to do it for the two “chickies” who had taken to watching the game nearby. We were still alive, when Jeff stepped up. They had one stripe and the eight remaining, while we had six balls and the eight. Jeff slammed each solid into a pocket one by one. Then he eased into the eight-ball and turned away as it plopped into the corner for the win.

Jeff leaned over to me and said, “The chickies want you!” He giggled and ordered another pitcher of beer. The chicks he was referring to were the ones watching our game. Since we had won, we held the table, and were challenged by the two girls. I knew that Jeff’s enthusiasm was both sarcastic, because the girls were not all that enticing at first glance. They looked like they had a good collection of Phish memorabilia and maybe autographed tits by the harmonica wielding wheelchair warrior John Popper. Their natty carefully careless hair, their dirty earth tone jeans that didn’t accentuate their curves, and the fact that they may have been moving in to get to know us better, made them somehow a potpourri of wrong. Yes, I’m judgmental, and I chose to avoid Lilith Fair as well. Also, Jeff’s enthusiasm stemmed from the simple fact that chicks rarely move towards us in a bar or anywhere, and if they did, we would rarely realize it.

The dirty blond girl, wearing some sort of drab colored hempwear, and looking like Jewel if she were 30 pounds heavier and had been beaten, began to rack the balls, while the brunette wandered around the bar looking for some cues. The introductory speak had already taken place to set the game, during which Jeff stroked his red-haired beard and intoned in an exaggerated deep voice, cracking me up and him as well. The brunette complimented the painted figure on Jeff’s jacket that was draped over a stool near the table. I nudged Jeff’s side with my forearm firmly, and asked him if that was Meatloaf painted on the jacket. This was maybe Ryan’s best line ever being repeated once again, and it clearly still left Jeff speechless in exasperation.

The game began and really was nothing memorable. Jeff, maybe due to the Meatloaf line, was trying to play me up for these girls, knowing my lack of interest. He somehow tried to use my ineptitude on the table as an overall sign that it was me who needed loving, while, he, master of the table, needed no part of these chunky pseudo hippies. It was a bold move and I was defenseless. The sad truth is that I was the one who needed loving, but I just wasn’t really interested looking for it here with Paula Cole and her dirty blond pal who likes to show her excessive mid-rif. We ended up playing more than one game. I don’t know who won what, I just know that I ordered more pitchers of beer throughout and felt more and more disoriented. This was war now and Jeff was winning. He wasn’t winning in the sense that he almost had me in with one of (or both?) these two ladies. Instead he had me running scared, and that damn shit-eating grin on his face proved that he was completely aware of his success.

It was around this point that I started watching the clock. I had to catch the Max home, because I had to work tomorrow. I decided to act immediately as I stood up from the stool I was on. We were done with pool, and don’t ask me how the games with the girls ended, because I don’t know. I think we finally lost and gave up the table, opening the door for the leather/jean jacket gang to challenge. I hope they all live happily ever after.

I turned to Jeff and told him that I had to go catch the Max. At that point another pitcher of beer arrived.

“Just have one more beer first,” Jeff said as he filled my glass and his. I sat down again and we drained the pitcher. This wasn’t going to end yet.

Instead of conversation, Jeff and I sat at stools and scanned the room. Jeff was clearly trying to find me more chicks, since I didn’t take up with the last ones. I was just thinking about not having to walk all the way home from the Marathon. Not an impossible task, but I do live across the river and it was late, and I was starting to feel the buzz. Maybe one more pitcher wouldn’t be too bad. I waved down our loyal waitress. I told Jeff my plan. I told him that I had to leave by 1:15, or else I’d miss the last Max across the river. He nodded in agreement. I could see that his eyes were starting to get distant and that his blinks were awfully slow. We determinedly drank our way through this last pitcher. Just drinking that much liquid takes some effort, but we couldn’t leave any beer. Our entire surroundings seemed to shut off. My mind was completely focused on finishing that pitcher of Hefeweizen and finding the energy to walk down to the Max stop.

The Max shakes and jerks from side to side as it curls itself around a corner downtown. My stomach sloshes in response and I groan. I am still leaning over to one side and keeping my eyes shut. I’m trying to steady myself. I don’t want anything bad to happen. I’ve made it this far.

Suddenly, the Max comes to a halt. Every once in a while this happens. Even though the train creeps through downtown, sometimes it’ll glide into position and just stop on a dime, throwing everyone inside off balance. In this case, it threw me around and my head ends up banging against the hollow metal tubing that outlines the seats and acts as a handle. I begin to chuckle, because my head is in no position to take such a blow and because it reminds me of what just occurred outside the Marathon.

Jeff and I had managed to stumble outside of the bar, and I offered him a high right hand for a handshake goodbye.

“I need to get some smokes,” Jeff shouted out and began walking across the street towards the little store a couple of blocks west up Burnside. I followed across the street to where McDonalds sits menacingly.

“I gotta catch the Max man, so I’m outta here,” I shouted just as I saw Jeff’s fist flying in a slow uppercut into the heart of my gut. He hit me soft enough and slow enough that I knew it wasn’t a serious blow. This had happened in our past before, drunken brawls that act as a closer for a drunken night. Being that I was drunk, the hit didn’t hurt. However, it did make me stumble nearly into the street as a car sped by honking its horn. Jeff began to laugh. I charged at him with a wild right hand into the shoulder. He fell back a bit and fell into me with his right. It was a stand off. We were now leaning against each other.

“You bitch! That hurt!” Jeff yelled as he shoved me away from him. “I need some cash for the smokes.”

“So, that’s why you socked me? Why didn’t you say so?” I asked as I pulled some wadded bills that had, at some point during the night, been stuffed into my front pocket. Without counting the bills, I slapped them into Jeff’s extended hand. I reiterated that I needed to go, and we made off in our separate directions.

A cold wind bursts through the open door of the train. I cringe as the icy air slaps my cold sweat covered face. A girl wanders in through the nearest door and sits directly across the walkway from me. She has short black hair and black eyeliner. She reminds me immediately of the singer from Curve, that amazing band from the early 90’s so-called British shoe-gaze scene. She’s wearing a stylized black cowboy hat, a white faux furry coat, which is open revealing a tight t-shirt with the Marlboro Man lighting up a smoke. Immediately, I am entranced. A type of deep, rumbling and groovy bass tone reminiscent of many Curve songs begins to swirl its way into my head.

“How are you doing there soldier?” she asks me playfully. She must be mistaking me for someone else. Maybe the allure of the smells I am emitting is just too much for her to hold herself back. What could be finer than the smell of ashtray and recycled beer, mixed with a touch of dry sweat?

“Uh, I’ve been better,” I groan, not realizing that my body isn’t ready to react to things that my mind tells it to.

“You look like you’ve had quite a night. I’m just hoping that you’re okay,” she smiles shyly and looks away. Her eyelashes are so dark and so long that cannot help but stare at them. They must be fake. No one has eyelashes like that!

“Are your eyelashes fake?” I stammer without warning.

She doesn’t reply. She just locks her eyes onto my wandering drunken eyes. The grip of her stare feels like a vice pinching my already pulsating head.

“What do you think?” she says in disgust.

I sure handled that one like a champion. This cooler than cool girl shows concern for my slovenly ass and all I can come back with is a potentially insulting question.

“Well, yeah, they look phony. But, that’s cool!” I have to hang on for a second as the train jolts to and fro as it turns in toward the Rose Garden. “I like it. I like the look,” I finish after the intermission.

“Yeah, well, thanks.”

“No problem.” I am clearly too drunk to handle this. I’m amazed that this beautiful young woman, who again reminds me of the singer from Curve who is not only hot, but has the best voice around, and I won’t even mention how Garbage stole their sound. I must be having some sort of half-passed out fantasy as I fly out towards Gresham on the last Max of the night. This horror in my head from too much to drink and nothing to eat has me uncertain and unstable.

I close my eyes and then slowly reopen them. The girl is still sitting there across from me. She smells like bubblegum, or maybe I have some gum stuck to my coat. I look around at both my sides to investigate. No gum.

“You said that your stop is at Lloyd Center,” she says to me flatly.

“What?” I shout back.

“Your stop! You wanted me to make sure that you didn’t miss your stop. Well, your stop is next!” she shouts with emphasis, as if yelling at a nearly deaf person.

“Oh, right, thanks. Hey, listen,” I pause as I try and stand up, while using both arms to grapple all of the available handrails, “what’s your name?”

“Christine.”

“Hey, that’s my name.” I respond immediately.

“Your name is Christine?” she queries with a smirk on her face.

“No. No, it isn’t,” I drift off as the Max stops, nearly throwing me to the floor and the doors swing open. “I gotta go,” I say and point as I stumble out into the frigid night air. I hear the doors slam behind me and I sit down on the bench awaiting me outside to catch my breath. I think I’m going to puke.



for more MAX misadventures, check out the links here:

MAX I
MAX II
MAX IV
MAX V