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

Forgotten Favorite

Some late evening some time ago, I received a text message from Mindy (whose excellent blogs can be found here and here) challenging me out of the blue to write a story about making a mix tape/cd for person one had never met. We have had a few discussions prior regarding the sometimes agonizing process of making mixes for people we already know all too well. The idea of making one for a person one would know very little about would be torturous. I thought this was a great idea, so her idea sat in the back of my thoughts for several days with no solid story line popping into my head. Then one day soon after, I received an email with her very raw and emotional story using this theme (please read it here!) and I knew I had to get my act together. Here are the so-so results:

Chuck had been at his new job for a week, but had already found himself hopelessly infatuated with a co-worker. As far as he could tell, she worked in the accounting department, but this was a big place and he hadn’t quite figured out where everything was. He was not used to the size of everything. He came from a small town and had grown up working at a mom and pop shop through high school and during his summers of his college years. Now, he found himself alone in a new city in the shipping and receiving department of a company that occupied the entirety of a business park in the suburbs.

Chuck was quiet and insular, so he didn’t make friends easily. The friends he had earned were close and lifelong, but he had been looking to branch out and get away from the environment he had grown up in. Going to college was a huge step, but he still relied on his parents and his old friends too much. He needed to find his own way. This way began here with this job and his first studio apartment. He liked the group of guys he found himself working with at this place so far, but he hadn’t reached a level of trust with any of them yet to feel comfortable about inquiring about the hot girl on the second floor.

What enticed him most about this woman he was lucky enough to see around two or three times a day, as he made his rounds through the offices to grab packages to be shipped out, was that she reminded him of the women who sang on some of his favorite indie records.

Chuck was a music enthusiast. At that time, “alternative” music was setting the world on fire, which was something he had often hoped for during his formative teenage years. He would wonder why his punk and post-punk bands didn’t get the exposure they deserved. To his ears, there wasn’t anything not to like about this music. Instead, in school, he had been labeled as the guy who listened to “fag” music, while most everyone else had love affairs with bands like Bon Jovi, Poison, and Def Leppard. Yet, now that music inspired by his genres of rock had climbed into the mainstream, all he could feel was mild disdain. This stuff wasn’t as good as his icons, nor was this music forward thinking. Instead his realm of music had flown further off the charts into the most minute scale, so much so, that he had to buy (and buy he did) nearly all of it via mail order directly from bands and small labels. His collection had become almost entirely stocked with limited edition, colored vinyl 45s that would arrive in his mailbox with handwritten notes from the artists themselves. Still, he would wonder to himself: why aren’t these bands getting more exposure?

Over the years, his efforts to extend exposure for this music he was so passionate about, generally involved making mix tapes for his friends. Almost always, they were thoughtless compilations of all the brand new stuff that had him watering at the mouth. A few times though, he had stressed over a mix that he hoped would open doors for him with some particular girl who he was attracted to. Those were painful exercises, as he would fret over what songs would convey his interest for the girl without going too far and becoming creepy. This always proved more difficult then it would seem on the surface, because in these instances, he would realize that his taste in music seemed to always coincide with lyrics of severe longing, loneliness and depression. Not exactly the “hey, here are some fun songs, I kinda like you” vibe he strove for, then again, small town, Bon Jovi, etc. Those girls probably didn’t listen to lyrics anyway, since they seemed to enjoy their music with a heaping dosage of spandex, teased hair and keyboard enhanced power riffs. In other words, these tapes were fruitless and would become a part of his long lonely drives through town late at night, as he hoped to run into someone else who might be out and about in the dead town with nothing to do and nowhere to go.

Now Chuck was in the city – a place where there were good bands to see nearly every night and multitudes of people who shared his interests, and though he didn’t know the woman from accounting, he believed that she was a kindred spirit. In his short time at this company, she’d always shown up to work with a different hairstyle. Her hair was short and a little butch, but she was very feminine. One day she arrived at work in a black leather jacket, a short black dress and tattered fishnets. Another day, she wore an oversized white T-shirt with a big black question mark adorning the front. She always wore lots of brightly colored bracelets and skull earrings. She didn’t dress like anyone else there and she clearly didn’t care that she wasn’t following the ‘business casual’ dress code regulation he remembered reading in the employee handbook.
That particular morning, the first chilly one of the fall, he saw her arrive to work, while he was standing at the front truck dock stacking a bunch of boxes onto a pallet. She was wearing striking make-up around her eyes and what looked like a vintage bomber jacket with its fur lined hood framing her stunning features. It was at this moment that he’d decided to find a way to get to know her. He would try and say something to her as he passed by her cubicle, while pushing his orange squeaky cart through the office. If she wasn’t around, he’d keep making casual passes until she returned for as long as he could stall without being noticed by anyone else.

His heart raced as he approached her domain, which she shared with two other older women. He could tell that she was at her desk, because he had already become attuned to the magical scent that would linger whenever she passed nearby. His routine up to that point had always been to approach everyone’s cubicle, check each person’s outbox and transfer whatever was ready to his cart and move on wordlessly. The only evidence of his presence was the shrieking wheels of his cart that would howl obnoxiously in the hushed environs of the office. This time, he was announcing his arrival and talking to everyone, in order to build up some courage to talk to the hot accountant.

“Good morning,” Chuck declared to the three women, all sitting with their backs to each other, working silently on their PCs. “Do you have your packages ready?” he continued.

“No, Chuck, but you’ll be back by later for a final run, right?” asked this new woman of his dreams, as she leaned her chin against her upraised hand and smiled at him.

“Oh, sure, of course,” he agreed, not sure how to respond, “I was just checking. Thanks!” he shouted a little too loudly. She knew his name! “I’ll see you later!” he added with enthusiasm as he shoved his whining cart away with a huge grin on his face. It was then that he knew he had to make her a mix tape.

That evening Chuck eschewed trying to make himself a meal, in favor of focusing on creating the perfect mix tape for this new woman in his life. This was a big one; the tape he had been practicing for all along. He didn’t know much about this person, other than where she worked and a small sampling of her fashion sense. He hadn’t learned her name. He began to doubt his earlier resolve that doing this was a good idea. He played some scenarios through his mind about how his encounter might go the next day. He could ask her if she liked music. And she could respond sarcastically and make him feel small. He decided to scratch his pessimistic mindset and simply make the mix. He had already pulled about 100 selections of amazing songs for the 90 minute limit. The records and CDs were strewn all over his small studio apartment in small groups. The songs were matched to each other based on how they would sound together and on a macro scale were organized in a way to make the tape flow from light upbeat and catchy pop songs to more meaningful and powerful songs. He imagined her listening to the tape over and over again, always thinking of him.

He was up all night testing songs against each other and debating internally over which songs would make the cut in order to make the subtle message he was attempting to express. He was excited by how easily it all came together. Still he found himself tossing and turning for the few hours he had left before having to get ready for work in a state of worry about some of the lyrics. Plus those scenarios about how to give this tape to her out of the blue plagued his thoughts. Who makes mix tapes for people they don’t know? He kept thinking to himself. He could’ve simply asked her out, but this step had always proved too difficult for him. He had been down that road a few times and it always led to instant rejection. If only the music that he loved so much could do his talking for him. It would do so much more elegantly.

He was startled awake by his beeping alarm clock with a sound so terrible that he had always awoken before its repeated screeches in order to avoid its harsh reminder. He pounded the off switch with the back of his fist, took a deep breath with his face smashed into his pillow, and then pushed himself out of bed. He showered, put on some cologne that he had never touched, chose his lucky shirt – the only shirt that anyone had ever complimented – and snagged the new tape on his way to the bus stop. He flipped the tape case over and over in his hand nervously. He had titled it: “Forgotten Favorite” after the Velocity Girl song. He went through the list of songs he had so carefully written down on the J-card in alternating black and blue ink. He played bits of the songs through his mind as he examined the song titles. It sounded really solid to him, which built his always sagging confidence.

It was all he could do to wait till his first go round through the office at 10 am. He hadn’t seen her arrive that morning, so he feared that she would not be there and his resolve would fade. At the same time, he could feel a small part of him hoping that she would not be there, so he could take a breath. It was a Friday morning, and if she hadn’t been there, he’d have been stuck with this heavy anticipation and self-doubt the entire weekend. At least if he had made his odd move and if it all went down in flames, he’d have the satisfaction of having made the effort. It was little consolation in the face of another failure that he would no doubt stew on.

As his cart squawked his arrival through the office, he finally approached the big cubicle. He could hear her voice over the grinding wheels of his reject cart and his heart stopped beating. He felt light-headed, like he might pass out. He grabbed a couple of envelopes from the basket, peered slowly into the doorway of the cubicle and warbled an unsteady ‘good morning.’ It was at the moment that he realized that he hadn’t said a word to anyone since he’d left work the prior evening, so his throat was not ready for use.

“Hey! Good morning Chuck,” she responded with a bright smile. He loved how friendly and genuine she presented herself.

“Do you like music?” he asked with zero transition.

“Sure! Love it! Who doesn’t? Why do you ask?”

This would’ve been an opportune time for Chuck to invite her to a show, but his mind went blank as to what was coming up, despite having looked at the city’s culture weekly paper not ten minutes before in search of weekend shows to attend. Plus, this new strategy was way off script.

“I-I was listening to this old mix tape I made on the way to work this morning, and I thought that maybe you’d – maybe – want to check it out.” He held it out toward her and she reignited her smile, more likely from his rambling suggestion, as opposed to the gift he was offering.

She took the case and examined it for a moment, turned it over and looked at the song listing and told him that she really liked his handwriting.

This was not what Chuck had been hoping to hear, but it wasn’t as bad as what he thought would happen. He nodded a thank you as she offered the tape back to him.

“Thank you, that’s really sweet of you, but I don’t have a cassette player,” she apologized, as their hands met for a second during the exchange. A shock went through his body.

“Oh, okay. That’s cool,” he barely managed, before abruptly turning his cart away from her desk towards his next destination. He wasn’t sure what had just happened, and there didn’t seem to be any songs in his collection that would help him at that point.

Road to Nowhere

This afternoon I was sorting through a bunch of notebooks and papers I have packed away in boxes. I really wonder why I do this stuff. For a few years at a time, I store every loose piece of paper that comes my way and throw it into different piles, which then eventually make it into a box, which then gets stuck into a closet. Eventually I decide I need to clean stuff up and I sort through it. Inevitably, I throw most of it away. There are always the dreaded exceptions. I run into stuff I’ve written over the years. I have never kept it in any kind of order. Most of what I’ve written, be it so-called journal entries, music reviews, short stories, whatever, finds itself unfinished on random bits of paper, or in the middle of mostly empty notebooks and for some unknown reason, I keep it. I always run into something that makes me think that maybe I can finish, or improve upon, and there’s also the stuff that catches my attention because it is so damn pathetic and because it reflects something written exactly ten years ago. What was I doing ten years ago? Let’s find out:

“May 23rd, 2000

What the hell am I doing? Someone gives me a tiny little notebook with tiny paper and I start writing a bunch of embarrassing and humiliating crap about how damn lonely I feel and what girl I have a crush on at that particular moment. Luckily, I haven’t done this much over the years. Just to get it over with, the crush is on *name withheld*. She’s way younger than me, we have essentially nothing in common (it’s debatable if I have anything in common with any woman I find attractive) and real bad for me. She’s real bad for me, because I am so damn crazy for her. I do not need to be sent over the edge with crazy, but damn she’s got me.

This tiny book is too small to write in. It’s absurd. Why would anyone buy such a thing?

Currently, I am listening to a Czech band named The Ecstasy of Saint Theresa. My hope right now is to inspire myself to write. Not write this nonsense, but to be creative and write. I need to find a way to pull myself out of this nosedive I’ve been on since like 1979. This Friday I get to go in and find out how my kidneys are doing. Can’t wait for that! I wonder when this tenuous streak of 7 years of no surgeries will end. The docs never sound encouraging, but they’ve let me go this far. I’m also wondering about this headache I’ve had for like a week now. I’m pretty used to headaches, but this one has not wavered in its intensity. That doesn’t seem right. Maybe I’m stressing out about the check up. I have always been right in my (giant) gut about when the news will be bad with these things and it is screaming this time. But, hey, after the check-up, Ryan and I are driving off to Black Butte to play golf for the holiday weekend. Could this be the last time I have a golf weekend? I really need to enjoy it. Treat it like it could be my last. Take in everything like a breath of fresh air, instead of getting so damn angry at my continual bad play. I really should give golf up. I should give up most things. I’d be better off.

Maybe I’ll write some music reviews tonight. I’ve been considering starting up the ‘zine again; Wil and I have been talking about putting it online. If I start writing something, then maybe the motivation to find an audience will increase. I should give him a call. That’s a good way to feel like I’m making progress without actually writing. That is solid stuff there.

There is so much in the air right now. I can sense something big on the horizon, but it is elusively just out of reach. I don’t know what it is, nor can I tell if it’s good or bad, it’s just there. It’s almost tangible. It’s been teasing me with its tempting draw of major change, but not giving me any clues. Maybe it’s the upcoming useless work trip to Vegas, I think *name withheld* is going too. At any rate, I cannot wait to find out what this big thing is! Strange things are definitely afoot. I mean I had that weird Laker fan girl making moves on me at the Blazer game last week. At least Ryan said she was picking up on me. I cannot read women at all. But, boy, oh, boy, something needs to happen! The sad truth is that nothing has really changed in my life since like ’88. I’m just more scared and somehow more jaded. Life is so funny, isn’t it?”




Looks like nothing has really changed. Nice. I was right about one thing though. There was big change ahead, I was just dreading the wrong thing going wrong. That headache was being caused by a cyst the size of a navel orange sitting smack dab in the middle of my brain stem. Life sure is funny.

Inside of Love

It’s been a long while since I’ve sat down and tried to write. About a month and a half ago everything on my computer was lost to a virus, which was contracted thanks to one of my stupid jobs. Not surprisingly I never bothered to back anything up, or save anything to an outside source, so I lost everything. I had several years’ worth of writing tidbits, short stories, true stories and even seven chapters of a long abandoned novel. Instead of getting angry about it, I just shrugged my shoulders and went on with life. The only thing is, ever since, I have noticed a slowly encroaching dark cloud surrounding me. First of all, I have allowed my work situation to grow wildly out of control. I have two part time jobs, which theoretically should total between 40-45 hours a week between them. Instead, now I am working essentially every waking hour of each weekday, save for the moments that I’m traveling to and from each location. I have always been someone willing to go the extra mile for those who I work for, but I have never identified myself with what I do to make a living. I did manage to get away for a few days two weeks ago for my High School’s 20 year class reunion. It was a lot of fun and despite a lot of ambivalence and some apprehension, I had a great time! Oddly though, during my nightmarish drive home in stop and go traffic, I felt a strong sense of sadness. This sadness seemed to have no source. I have no idea what could have caused it. I had a good time and had a chance to catch up with some old friends, but here I was feeling sad. Things didn’t take a change for the better, when two nights later; I was driving home fairly late at night and turned right off the freeway onto an off-ramp only to plow over some sort of creature that jumped onto the road directly in front of me. The moment I saw this small creature’s dark shape and glowing eyes (no clue what it was), I swerved dramatically, but could not avoid hearing and feeling the crunch of its tiny skeleton underneath my front left tire. I drifted home slowly after my indiscriminate killing machine plowed into this poor scared once living being, feeling like my head would explode from massive guilt and the increasing volume in my self-questioning of where my life is headed. I feel like I’ve painted myself into a corner that I cannot escape from. This isn’t the first time I’ve felt like I had nowhere to turn after making poor decisions, but I received a second chance nearly five years ago when I received a cadaver kidney the same morning that I had finally given up. At that time I vowed to myself that I would become a better person in every way possible. In many ways, I have. I am, overall, a much more positive person. I am much wiser when it comes to finances and keeping my affairs in order. And I have devoted myself to helping my brother through his nightmare ordeal by trying to make his life as tolerable as possible. Yet, recently, it all feels like it’s slipping away. I feel like I’m losing control of things. I have allowed stress to put the squeeze on my life and a constant nagging feeling of worry. I do not know what to do.

Then, the plot shifted. Last weekend, I saw a woman who sent chills down my spine. I was in a social environment, where I barely knew anyone and normally would have bailed quickly – being that I am not the most outgoing person. Instead I lingered and planned on how I could meet this beautiful person – to see her amazing smile up close. I kept glancing at her as I worked my through the group introducing myself to the strangers on my way toward her. She proved elusive – seemingly moving through the crowd at the same rate I was. I felt like she was always as far away as she possibly could be, while still in sight. Unusually though, I began to believe that she was returning my quick glances with some sort of positive energy. I cannot convince myself that this could ever be true, or possible, but I almost believed it. She seemed to know everyone, but didn’t seem to be there with any one clique. Her easy calm and casual demeanor built up a serious longing in me. To cut the scene short, I finally managed to win an introduction, but due to circumstances, that is all I managed. This would normally be no big deal. Actually, it would be par for the course. Another pretty girl that I was attracted to that I made no show of interest to, other than maybe a disturbing amount of staring. This time though, her visage has stayed with me. I still have butterflies rumbling around in my stomach after such a brief encounter a week later. I can say that only two times previously in my life have I been affected like this. That head over heels loopy madness and a complete loss of appetite or any coherent thought. I don’t understand it and I don’t like to admit to myself that I have a hole in my life. When I think about her vivid smile, a ray of light breaks through that dark cloud that has been enveloping me and makes me think of possibilities instead of corners and dead ends, yet I still don’t know what to do. There is not a likely scenario where I would ever encounter her again, but I could try and force the issue. I do know someone that could put me in touch with her, though it would be more uncomfortable than actually asking her out – something that has never come easy for me. It doesn’t help that I feel like a combination of Frankenstein and Bigfoot wandering around this planet as a curiosity. Much like the time in the early 90’s when a bunch of my old co-workers and I were at a work lunch at Red Robin and I had ordered the Monster Burger. When the waitress brought the order for the 12 or so of us, she called out: “Monster? Monster?” and it was only me who raised a hand. I don’t know what to do.

The Only Prescription...

Sometimes, during my day to day activities, I’m prone to develop crushes on particular women who I’ll encounter on a fairly frequent basis. A few years back, there was a nice and attractive woman who worked as a cashier at my regular grocery store. She will forever be known as the “Sweet Sweet Checker Girl.” She was so pretty and friendly and fun. She made easy conversation and seemed very genuine. After months of her ringing up my groceries and seeing my bad habits and such, I managed to learn a little about her as well. I learned that I really liked her. Eventually, I managed the nerve to ask her out, while she scanned some treats I was buying to bring in to work the next day, for which I asked her advice. I made this move after asking a few close friends what they thought I should do and how I should go about asking her out. I never feel good about asking someone out. I feel like I’m committing some sort of crime. This feeling clearly shows that I have issues, but that can be addressed some other time. At any rate, most of the offerings I get from my male friends essentially amounts to things Trent would say in the movie “Swingers.” There is always a specific strategy and game plan and a message to let me know how “money” I am no matter the result. On the other hand, without fail, the message from my female friends is to “just be yourself.”
On the one hand, I sometimes sigh in the face of the message I get about me being “so money,” but I do find the game plan part of the hints to be helpful. However, the “just be yourself” advice simply confuses me. If I am to “be myself,” then clearly I would never have a shot. Just being myself has led me nowhere in my twenty some odd years of being someone who wouldn’t mind having a relationship. Also, for anyone that knows me – or has known me – when have I not been myself? The answer could be the few times I’ve duped some woman to hang out with me. Once the “being myself” part comes around, those relationships seem to deteriorate in some strange friendly way. They always peter out quietly. I am clearly better at being a good mate (as in friend, buddy, etc.), than I am at being an actual mate. Case in point, the Sweet Sweet Checker Girl turned me down when I asked her out. She had just found herself engaged the weekend prior (I have incredible timing). Oddly enough though, she thought so much of me that she continuously updated me on the wedding plans and eventually she showed me pictures of her wedding. Before she finally quit her job at the grocery store, she gave me a hug and said that she would miss our conversations.
Well, I’m at it again. I have developed another similar relationship. I am hoping to ask my latest hopeful flame out this week to a show ("flame out"...interesting). I made an effort to flirt and get to know her on a personal level recently. I found out that we may have similar music tastes and that she loves going to see it live. This gives me a game plan and allows me to “be myself” in an area that I am most comfortable in. Additionally, she works tangentially in the medical field, which could also help. During my very involved medical history I have found that I exude some sort of strange confidence in hospitals, clinics and doctors offices. Will this mean I am “so money”? It remains to be seen, but it always feels unlikely.

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

Wildflower

He was standing on the second floor of the old apartment building. The hallway was in shadows, as the flickering lights that normally cast a dingy white hue across the middle of the hallway had clicked off. There were no windows in these sloping old passages, so the only illumination came from the buzzing bank of lights from the hallway behind him and from her room.

Her door was open and he stood nearby. Her door was usually open at least part way when she was home. Her room was a beacon of hope for him in this old building. Her brilliance inside felt like a cozy and safe place deep in the bowels of this soot stained dark brick beast that eats the desolate lives inside generation after generation. The early autumn rain that had begun to fall that day could not begin to wash away the shroud of filth that blackened the four story building over its 100 years of existence. It was a building allowed to survive inside bleak shadows, while providing affordable rent downtown.

Colored lights were bouncing around the expanse of the nicotine stained wall that was exposed. He decided that her TV must have been on. Her room was at the end of this stretch of the hallway. Straight ahead, past her door, was a painted over old fire escape. The rusty ladders outside the escape had long been taken down and dumped in a pile behind the building. They were so worn that they were more dangerous than dueling with a fire inside with no where to run. The door had been sealed shut by crackling off-white paint, in an attempt to blend it in with the wall color. Unfortunately, the wall paint had worn off decades ago, leaving the door conspicuous and the building frightfully escape proof. Between him and her room, she had left a garbage can just outside her door. He could hear the sounds of movement inside. He marveled at the different colors that looked like reflections of twinkling Christmas or carnival lights. He was trying to slow his breath, while picturing her inside. He had never seen the inside of her place, except for the two feet of temptation that she often provided for him as he passed by on his way to or from the front stairwell.

***

The last time he saw her, she had spoken to him. Somehow she knew his name. She commanded him to smile, as she was walking purposefully down the hallway in the opposite direction, while beaming at him. He almost cowered on the other side of the hall they had shared. Her strong personality was too much for him and he had not been ready. He did not yet know her name, though he had been attracted to her since the day he had moved in. She knew his name and he could not stop thinking about her.
The first time he remembered seeing her, she was at the café across the busy boulevard outside the building. She was sitting at a table on the sidewalk outside the café in the warm evening sunlight and he was on the steps up to the front door of the apartments. He was trying to enjoy the fresh evening air after working up a sweat all afternoon moving junk into his place. At first she seemed familiar to him. She was very pretty with her short dark brown hair curving just around her ears. Something made her different to him than all of the other pretty girls he normally saw from day to day. Her draw was hypnotic, yet elusive for him to comprehend. While he stared at her, she caught him. She was chatting with a younger girl – maybe a niece or a younger sister, because she didn’t look old enough to be the mother of a girl nearing her teens. When their eyes met, she smiled and raised her eyebrows in acknowledgement, before turning her attention back to her companion.

This was his first apartment and he felt energized. It had been a long time, since he had felt a spark. He chuckled to himself as he stood up to stretch out his tired muscles, hoping she would look his way again.

***

He shook this memory from his mind and moved a step closer to her door. He stopped and felt a chill trundle down his back. He thought of her smile. She was able to not just smile with her eyes and mouth, but with her entire body. Her smile was so genuine and so overwhelming to him that his stomach knotted up every time she used it. She expressed a carefree and positive energy that electrified every thing in range. Her presence made him excited and yet he didn’t know her. He was trying to gather up the nerve to knock. He wanted to express how attracted he had become to her since he moved in a month earlier. Then he heard voices from inside her room. He thought that someone was in the apartment with her. Maybe it was the TV, but it was too hard to tell. The noise began to crumble his resolve.

He looked down at the flower in his hand. It looked weary. When he picked the flower, only a short while before, it was brimming with life and color against the graying skies and the grim backdrop of the building. The flower had been a solitary bright color amongst the dusty weeds that had spit out from the broken backside of the apartments. The rich red petals of the flower reminded him of her lips and the silky dress he had seen her in almost a week earlier. They had met at the front door the previous Friday when he was returning from a late movie alone. She was wearing a rich red strapless dress that drew his attention to her smooth ivory skin. She also wore a black choker around her neck and black stockings that highlighted her nice legs. Her short, dark brown hair was shining in the streetlights and had a little added wave to it. He had never seen a more stunning beauty. He tripped as he approached the front steps, barely keeping upright. She smiled down at him and asked if he was okay. She was wearing more make-up than he had seen her with prior, especially that lipstick and striking eye-liner. He assumed that she was returning from a date, because her spirits were clearly high. He wanted desperately to ask her out then, but how could he? He was disheveled and greasy from the popcorn he spent his last five dollars on. He didn’t compliment her. He didn’t say a word.

He had never seen her with anyone who looked like a boyfriend. She was with different people most of the time he saw her around. With her ability to be friendly to anyone, his inability to engage her in casual conversation had frustrated him. Despite the sense of familiarity she had for him and his belief in her as a kind and tender person, his nerves always won out. All he wanted to do was ask her out, or find the courage to talk with her. He was hoping that just knowing her would instill him with some comfort. If he did manage the courage to open his heart to her, he would’ve expected her to say no. This is the response he expected from any girl who ever peaked his interest with any intensity. This girl was the first one who had broken through his self-imposed purgatory and had him considering that she might give him a chance. If only he would ask. He felt a slight glimmer of hope from her, an indulgence he didn’t understand, but grabbed hold of. With that indulgence, came pressure for him to do something about it.

That pressure really intensified the evening that she knocked on his door. She and another girl he had seen in the building unexpectedly visited his room. He had been engrossed in a book, sitting beneath his desk lamp. He had been reading for so long that when he looked up, startled by the commotion at his door, his eyes had trouble focusing. The rest of his room was dark and all he could see was the slit of light peeking in from the hall. He opened the door hurriedly, without even considering that this was his first visitor and was immediately embarrassed by his state when he saw the two girls. The shock of seeing her launched his heart rate into the stratosphere and he began to choke on his own saliva.

He stood there listening to what they had to say, though he was distracted by his worries of having her see him so ragged, standing over a pile of dirty clothes in his dark room. He was worried about his unshaven face and his sloppy hair and the huge red blotch that had formed on his left cheek from propping his head up for the previous few hours. They had shown up to invite him to a potluck gathering they had planned for the tenants of the building. It was all over before he could respond or acknowledge what they were doing. The girls had moved on cheerfully to the next room over extending their generous invitation to the prying, despicable old man next door. He was always at his door listening to what went on outside. He would often open his door and stand there and watch if people were having an exchange. If there was no action in the hall, he was probably listening through the walls of his neighbors or staring out the window at whatever motivated this emotionless gray man’s habit.

“Only this girl would have the guts to try and get the outcasts around this dump to all become neighborly,” he thought to himself, as he reluctantly closed his door. Seeing her in his doorway so unexpectedly nearly made him pass out with surprise. He felt like one of those swooning teenage girls from the clips he’d seen so many times of the Beatles or Elvis on the Ed Sullivan show. It was a daydream he had repeatedly, finally coming true, or at least, partially true. The girls had been dressed up in second hand prom dresses as they delivered their home-made invitations. Though they were going for some humor with their outfits, he couldn’t help but realize how fetching she was. She wore a frilly pale pink dress and gaudy, bulbous costume jewelry that was dangling off her ears, wrapped around her neck and slipping around her slender wrists.

He lay back onto his bed and stared up at the sagging and stained ceiling. He usually slept on his stomach or sides, mostly out of paranoia about what was up above his helpless body at night. He guessed that the ceiling was comprised of a mixture of asbestos, mold and pests. At any time he expected the concoction to give way in a shower of debris, his upstairs neighbor, rodents and piles of sticky mulch that would splash down on him. If he didn’t look at it, he wouldn’t worry about it. At that moment, however, his mind was focused on her and the opportunity that this potluck presented to him. Maybe then he would get a chance to know her a little and to finally talk with her.

As he lay there alone, his thoughts turned to fantasy and he imagined a second knock on his door. This time she would be alone. This time, she would ask him out or she would confess her love to him. This would fill him with so much confidence that he would wrap his arms around her and she would bury her face into his neck as he pulled her closer to him. He would enjoy her velvety hair against his chin and savor her sweet scent. He would close his eyes and try to absorb her essence. Lying there in his room, he could still smell her.

***

The colors on the wall changed. He could hear voices and could not place their source. Then he thought he heard crying. This was not his time. He looked at the trashcan outside her door and moved quickly towards it. He held the flower in front of his face between his fingers and examined it, then took a shaky deep breath. As he exhaled, he parted his fingers and dropped the flower into the can. His body slouched with disappointment and he felt nauseous. He turned around, nudging the garbage can accidentally with his right toe, and headed back to his apartment frustrated.

When he reached the stairwell door, halfway down the hall and into the light, he slapped the heavy door with both hands and shoved it in. His apartment was up one story above hers. When he found the third floor, the fluorescent hall lights were piercingly bright, burning his squinting eyes. He stopped at his door, turned the knob to the unlocked room, looked both directions and stepped inside.

His heart was pounding and he was breathing quickly. There was a pressure at his temples, so he decided to lie down. He couldn’t relax, because he had failed. The mounting urgency in his mind was so massive that he was exhausted. He was sickened at his inadequacy. He had no insurmountable trouble functioning in any other part of his life, but he could not break through and ask this girl out, or even attempt a conversation. Maybe the potluck was his time.

***

She was sitting on the futon in her room, surrounded by several crumpled wads of yellow paper from the pad she held in her lap. She set the pad and her pen down and stood to stretch and rub her tired eyes. She wanted to turn off her blaring TV, which had begun to irritate her. If she was going to get anything done, she would need some music.

Her apartment was warmly lit by a table lamp next to the folded futon and a light hanging on the wall next to the kitchen doorway. Her studio had a couple of bookshelves loaded with books, CD’s, a stereo, a few plants and lots of framed pictures. As she reached over to the stereo to put something on, she heard a bang outside her open door. She froze in place and stared intently at the partial opening. All that she saw were the boxes that she had packed earlier stacked neatly behind where the door swings inward. She was startled by the sound and a bit shaken, because she lived at the end of the hall, so no one had any reason to be out there, unless they were visiting. She called out a quiet hello and waited for a moment and then, despite her nerves, cautiously went to the door and pulled it open. She peaked out into the darkened hallway and didn’t see anyone, so she put her left hand on the knob, toed the line between her room and the threadbare carpet in the hall and leaned out. To her right was the sealed Fire Escape as always and to her left, she spotted the quiet guy from the third floor walking into the stairwell, letting the door slam behind him. She rummaged through her thoughts, to determine the source of the sound and relaxed as she decided it must’ve been the guy tripping on what was left of the carpet. It was worn completely through in places, and folding upwards in others. She laughed, because the carpet had made her stumble on a few occasions. She always assumed that the patterned carpet once had an array of colors, but now it was a mossy dark gray and a serious hazard. She relaxed and leaned back into her room, spotting a red flower in amongst her garbage. She picked it up with curiosity and pondered this new mystery as she turned it around between her right thumb and forefinger enjoying its simple beauty. She pinched her lips together in thought and shot another glimpse back down the vacant hallway.

She went back into her room, wondering about the appearance of the flower, still damp from the rain outside. She heard a muffled door crash echo through the stairwell. With sudden determination, she shot from her room padding towards the stairs in her bright white socks. She was ready to gamble and track the flower to its source.

With a bit of trepidation, but mostly exhilaration, she hopped up the stairs, two at a time, reaching the heavy door for the third floor before the door behind her had closed. She looked through the wired glass to see if anyone was visible. Then she slid into the hallway, holding the door, so it wouldn’t slam shut and crept down the hall looking at each door that she passed, searching for the source of the flower.

***

He had sat on the edge of his bed feeling a bit woozy. The only light source was coming from the kitchen in the back left corner of his place. The window directly across the floor from his door was open as it had been since he moved in at the end of August. His bed sat to the left of the door as you entered with the headboard against the hallway wall. Other than the kitchen and bathroom, his apartment was a perfect square. No decorations hung on the walls, there was no television and the only light source was the lamp on his desk at the foot of his bed, along with a little stereo. He had taken the bulbs out of the overhead light, so it could never be turned on. A pile of CD’s and records sat on the window sill getting damp from the rain blowing in. A cool wind swept through the room, as a blinking crosswalk sign flashed endlessly from above the intersection outside. He listened to the traffic splash through the wet crossing below, thinking of how to redeem himself.

He was in disbelief that he hadn’t knocked on her door. He mocked himself in frustration. In reality, deep down, he knew that he wouldn’t go through with it. His loneliness was sometimes unbearable, but it was all he knew and he was too timid to change what little of a life he had managed to pile together – no matter how fragile. He was terrified of being rejected, but the pain this girl was causing him from her peripheral presence alone, had him feeling hollow, lost and achingly empty. If he would’ve just left a note or something with the flower, it would have been cowardly, but it might’ve at least started a dialog.

***

A light knock tapped on his door, startling him. He looked at the blond wood of the door, unsure whether the knock was at his or his neighbor’s door. Another, firmer, knock hit three times. He stood up and attempted to compose himself. His hands were trembling. He didn’t want to answer the door, because he was too shattered by his failure. He opened it anyway.

She was standing in front of him holding the flower he had found for her. It no longer looked wilted and tired in her hands. She looked up at him expectantly and didn’t say a word. She didn’t budge or avert her eyes from his. She presented the flower to him with a quizzical expression.

After several seconds, he slid his feet backwards, moved his shoulder back and opened the room up for her to enter. She took a couple of short steps into his room, leaving the door wide open. She noticed a smell like burnt toast as she scanned the sparse arrangement of his place and wrapped her arms around each other with a sudden chill. He stood back watching her eyes as they looked over his life. The room didn’t reveal much, but her presence made him fidget with anxiety. He felt naked and vulnerable.

“What is this?” she finally asked, breaking the hypnotic sizzle of the cars driving on the wet pavement outside.

He looked at the flower that she was again holding out for him and stammered, “It’s a flower,” knowing full well that his sarcasm was unwanted by both of them.

“How did it end up in my garbage?” she queried expectantly, undaunted by his annoying reply.

“I feel like I’m in trouble,” he laughed back nervously.

“Maybe you should be,” she replied sternly, grimacing slightly.

“Maybe wild flowers grow from the trash,” he explained and turned his head toward the window.

Her hand holding the flower dropped to her side as she exhaled. She looked down at the cracked tile beneath her feet and let more air out from her lungs. She was upset. This was too awkward. She was unsure of what to do. His flippant responses made her feel that coming to him was a mistake. Maybe she had been mistaken about his interest in her.

“Listen, I’m sorry I’ve bothered you like this. I thought that you had brought this flower to me, but maybe that was an absurd thought, since I found it in the trash. Just because you put a flower in my garbage…” she trailed off, “I don’t know what I’m doing. Maybe I’m losing my mind. I thought that…” she stopped again, looking back down and reset herself, “I’ve been packing all afternoon…”

“Packing?” he asked quickly.

“Yes, looks like I’m moving out,” she managed in reply.

“Why?” he asked with increased panic.

“There are too many expenses. I have been unable to keep a job and continue full time with school. I don’t know how to handle it all,” she paused and crossed her arms again as another chill hit her. She looked out the open window into the blackness, seeing only a faint reflection of him and her and the blinking light outside. She mumbled, “I guess we’re meant to be only one color in life…” she stopped before finishing with a shrug. “I’m moving home to try and sort things out.”

She looked back at him, directly into his blue eyes. He noticed that her eyes were filling up with tears. His were already, but he had been trying to keep them hidden. His mind had been frantically racing the entire time, unable to put together a coherent thought. He wanted to help her, but even more urgently, he wanted to stop her. He needed to keep her there, so he could figure things out, and to calm down. His head was spinning from what was happening. He had been alone so long that he wasn’t even certain if this was real. He said nothing to her. Instead he looked at her with concern and felt her slipping away.

“Yes,” he finally blurted, “I was going to give you the flower. I thought I overheard someone with you, so I left. I didn’t want to bother you,” he confessed, as she moved towards his door, “that’s all.”

“That’s all? Well, thanks for the sentiment, I guess,” she said to him and turned away.

He didn’t say anything as she stepped back into the hall. He followed her to his door, as she spun around again to face him. He could see her lips quivering as she raised the flower up to her chest. Her eyes were wide open and glistening with emotion. He still didn’t know what to say to her. She’d just told him that she was moving away, right after allowing him the notion that she might be interested in him. She had come and completely shattered his world and he was agitated.

She continued to stand in front of his door, waiting for him to say something. In his eyes, she could see that he was searching for something, but nothing came.

“I’d better get back to packing,” she whispered into the void.

“When will you be moving?” he asked, grabbing the chance to inquire about the concept his mind couldn’t comprehend.

“Tomorrow afternoon. My father will be helping me.”

He didn’t want her to leave. He didn’t know how to get her to stay. He didn’t have a clue what to do. He never did. He didn’t know why he was so afraid. He had never pictured himself with a girlfriend and has always stuck by that by shooting himself down before anyone else could. This entire moment was foreign and frightening for him.

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” he stated, trying to stop from throwing a tantrum. “What about the potluck next weekend?”

The old man next door opened his door to her right and she jerked her face in his direction. The man looked at her, as if she wasn’t aware of him. After a moment, she managed a half smile for him as she sniffed and he pulled his head back inside and closed his door. Feeling overwhelmed, she turned to leave.

“The potluck doesn’t need me. Go and have a good time,” she tried to sound enthusiastic. “Enjoy the party without me,” she added as she disappeared around the corner back to the stairwell.

He continued to stand in his doorway. He wanted to go after her, but it was futile. She was gone.

***

He closed his door lightly and dropped, once again, onto his bed. He was in shock. Hundreds of undeveloped thoughts tore through his mind, confusing him more. He wondered if she was interested in him and how she knew that he left the flower. She had been in his room, but now she was moving out. He still didn’t know what to do. He never had known.

As he sat there, he thought of what he always thought of when he wanted a girl in his life. He continued to keep that Christmas vacation when he was 16 years old in his mind. It was a trap he didn’t feel he could escape. A girl he had known as a young kid was visiting his family with her mom. Before then, he had only known her as the snotty little brat who lived next door, who his parents forced him to play with. It was probably because she was the only kid his age on the block, but he figured it was because she had no friends. When she was there, that Christmas, he realized that she had become a very pretty girl. She had these iridescent blue eyes, sweet full lips and soft, shoulder-length light brown hair. She was stunning – a totally different girl. During her stay, they became friends. They shared many interests and joked about the old neighborhood and really enjoyed each others company. One night, after watching a movie on cable, and all the parents had gone to bed, they discovered each other. It was clumsy and scary, because neither one knew what they were doing. It didn’t matter to him though, because he was falling in love and it was a rush he had never experienced. The next day, their last together, he wanted to stay with her every possible second and profess his feelings to her, but she wouldn’t talk to him. She stayed by her mother’s side and if she even looked at him, she would do so with a cold emotionless gaze. He never saw her again, except when her mom sent school photos of her in cards and letters. Her eyes in those pictures were always the same ones that shunned him at his most desperate moment. She raised him to his highest high and smashed him with one look. She had stolen his ability to trust. Perhaps the girl who had just been in his room was right. Maybe people are one color in life. Maybe people are unable to truly change. Maybe his path had been chosen. Maybe his hopes of a girlfriend weren’t meant to be.

He stood up and stepped out into the hallway. He shut his door, locked the deadbolt, flipped off the creepy old man’s door, imagining him crouched on the other side listening. He went down to the second floor, slowing near the darkened corner of the hall where her room sat, noticing her door was now closed and the garbage can was gone, before speeding off to the front entrance of the building.

The steps up to the front door extended up from the sidewalk to the second floor for some reason. He didn’t know how the first floor inhabitants got in and out of their apartments, because there seemed to be no doorway or stairs for them, and the building had no functioning elevator. They were most likely trapped there like everyone else. Except for her, she was leaving.

He stepped outside and remained at the top of the steep stairs, where he first saw her. He sat down on the wet concrete handrail. He could not see anything but his breath and streaks of rain dropping down on him. He looked back at the building in the direction of her place, but her window was around the corner. The building was almost invisible in the dark, except for a few lit windows scattered around its carcass. This building had no charm and most assuredly never did. It was just a piece of trash. He didn’t want to go back inside, so he crossed his arms over his knees and leaned forward to rest his head onto them.

***

In her room, she sat on the futon and held her head in her hands. Her room was silent. She felt humiliated. Her life was falling apart. The phone rang and she lifted her head to stare at it with her bleary eyes, cursing the unwanted alarm until it stopped. She had gone through so many emotions during the day that she felt numb. After several moments, she looked out her window to the shiny blacktop below. Traffic passed as it always did. She thought of his blank expression when she went to him, and then climbed off the futon. She kicked the wads of paper into a pile and threw them into her garbage. She took a long deep breath and puffed out her cheeks when she exhaled. She grabbed some books from her shelf, ignoring the wild flower sitting in a glass of water, and began stacking them into an open box by her door.




Story last finished in 2005
With inspiration provided by the long missed band, The Abecedarians