redlight

Essential Unavoidable Step One: Must be read while listening to James Taylor’s Greatest Hits, after one has settled into a contemplative happy groove, after one can sit back and laugh at all the shit they have to endure in the course of a day, a month, a lifetime.

I have some friends. And every once in a while the phone will ring and one of them will be on the other end.

“So, we going out tonight?”

“Yeah. Sure. Otherwise I was just gonna sit here and read and up my caffeine tolerance.”

“Where are we gonna go?”

“Didn’t you call me?”

“Um, I think so. I just thought the decision of where to go was a group process, so maybe you’d like to suggest something.”

“Or maybe not”, I say in complete disgust, not knowing why I suffer this same experience three or four times in the course of a week. And I sit and hum even though this always pisses off the friend on the other line. But otherwise I can’t maintain the essential “Carolina in my mind” mentality. Otherwise, I want to hit things, and scream, and, most notably, hang up the phone and disconnect it. But I don’t. I hum. Again. And promise to be in the courtyard in fifteen to meet whoever has been recruited for this seemingly random adventure.

I showed up on campus looking for my equal. Or myself. I had read that I might find both. I went through all the changes. Hair cut. Different clothes. New bedspread. I existed a semester for what I thought it was that I was supposed to be. And then I woke up. Found my old t-shirts, got back to painting my toenails blue, remembered what it felt like to let loose and cry, and settled back into the me that I had lost somewhere along the 200 miles of interstate. On the long trek from home to school. For a while it troubled me that it had taken her three months to hitch such a short distance, but she had been so dearly missed, that I didn’t hold this over her head when she returned. And after all, had she witnessed what had transpired in that semester, she may have drawn back into herself of an unbearably long amount of time. Unconsciously, I promise myself to reveal to her all that has happened.

Late at night, before we both drift off, I converse with her. She often prefers a whisper. When whispered to, she is less likely to cry. Whispers have great difficulty filtering through crying, and she knows this. She wants to know what she has missed, because without that she can’t be part of this new world.

The courtyard isn’t that full. It’s a Thursday. Most everyone else is either doing homework or already somewhere partying and forgetting about that calculus test at nine in the morning. We meet up under a tree.

“Aren’t you supposed to be writing a paper?”

“Aren’t I always supposed to be writing a paper?” I retort.

There will be no praise for brilliant sarcasm tonight, I quickly realize. Seems a lot like yesterday, I think. And every day before, to be more accurate. And while I sit tracing back the days it has been since I felt appreciated and revered, the rest assemble, count cash and set off for Mecca. Where the espresso flows like, um, like espresso. Where it is alleged that intelligent conversation has taken place in the last day or two.

Hands shoved in pockets, walking beside an ex boyfriend, we set off. I strongly consider turning back, fleeing to the “comforts” of my dorm room, but realize that the in a moment of weakness I hadn’t turned the phone off. And beyond that, these people know where I live. Something tells me I’d be easier to track than a long dead cow in a sweltering desert. I trudge on, thankful for my choice of wool socks. Winter has, eerily appropriately, decided to return, even if only for the night.

She’s still there with me and reminds me of our conversation from the previous night. “Are these the ones that you can’t talk to?” she questions. Yes, they would fall into that group but this isn’t all of them, I think to myself, as I wonder how I can look so at ease with this group and smile and laugh on occasion. I realize she seems depressed by this, so I make an effort to comfort her.

It isn’t that I’m living in the bell jar, but that I’ve been given the ability to see everyone else’s rose colored, putrid air filled bell jar.

“No”, I tell her. It doesn’t make me cry much. Only when I let the wrong songs play too long in my head. And she, the angel on my shoulder/ all knowing devil in my head, frowns a little, but takes things as I give them to her. She has no choice. This is how things have always been. One slow realization after the next, weighing down what everyone else would qualify as happiness. Making it harder and harder to listen to so much James Taylor.

Essential Unavoidable Step Two: Remove James Taylor’s Greatest Hits and throw it from an appropriate height corresponding with your new found loathing of his voice and/or sentiments. Find a new CD. Preferably one reflecting mild angst while still maintaining intelligent lyrics and selling fewer than 3 million copies.

“Hazelnut Latte, thank you. And make it a big one.”

“Yeah, that’s what I want, too. Isn’t it cool how we drink the same thing?” says the mirror girl.

Mirror girl. You know one, I know you do. The one that always spits things back at you like she too has come to these epiphanies after sleepless nights. But after a while you realize that the reflection is no better than a flat copy of you that always seems to emphasize your zits and stray hairs. You never liked looking in the mirror all that much, in the first place, so you come where you are very content that she is not you. Could never be you. She does not blink when I do, and this is reassuring. But then again, we are all someone’s mirror girl, now aren’t we?

I down the coffee too fast and am again disappointed for the fact coffee is unable to mimic alcohol. These people would be considerably more interesting through an inebriated haze, I think, as I settle a little further down into the futonesque homemade couch with latte balanced precariously on one knee. I realize I’m in the mood for poetry and cold Chinese food, but I know better than to speak of it. Too many of this crowd are too deeply imbedded discussing eighties music, fearful to admit that they were only four when said resurrected pop tune first reared its ugly head.

In a gesture of ultimate irony, the speakers in the coffee joint lowly hum out top 40 alterna-hits that I know all the lyrics to. As my comfort, I mouth the words while they ridicule each popular artist with the wit and creativity one would normally only find in a group of elitist toddlers.

Essential Unavoidable Step Three: Abandon music all together. You have realized that the concept is divisive. Talk to yourself. This is a more reliable outlet, as you will always be there to listen. And as the voices become more profound, record their ramblings every once in a while. Lose fear of scribbling and chicken scratching.

“Why do you spend time with them?” she interrupts as I try for the fifth time to engage with one of their strange species in conversation. Because if I didn’t I’d spend too much time in my room eating ice cream, but the answer doesn’t sedate her. Ok, might as well ponder this, I resolve. Not like there is much interaction going on around me.

I spend time with them because they don’t drink on Friday nights. Because one of them has eyes exactly like my little brother’s. Because I’m falling in love with the idea of another one of them. Because yet another makes me laugh. Because the prospect of drinking coffee alone is always a little bit more dull than the prospect of drinking coffee alone surrounded by acquaintances. Not a bad question, I concede. Just one I didn’t particularly care to answer.

The crowd dwindles and I’m left with the one of the group that has yet make me ill, the one of the group that I’ve carelessly placed expectation upon. Cigar smoke rolls over his fingers, past his nose, through his hair. Something within me lets me giggle with him. I’ve yet to decipher what it is that gives me this freedom.

He’s careless with his ashes, and they float down to his navy Dockers and my pale pink fingernails. I leave my hand draped carelessly beside the ashtray, acknowledging subconsciously that he will have to ash eventually, not sure if I want to feel the side of his hand or if I’m simply interested in giving him equal opportunity to touch mine. I notice that he tries to hide the smallness of his face behind chin grazing hair. It suits him. The face, the hair, the ashes, all purely him. I make a conscious effort not to focus on his mouth, knowing that that could only lead down roads made treacherous by years of potholes left unattended.

“If we don’t leave soon, we’re going to reek of smoke for months to come,” I remind him.

“So where to?” he asks.

For some reason, the question isn’t as demanding coming from his mouth but I’m still hesitant to be the judge and jury in this instance.

“Wal-Mart is always nice this time of year,” I reply with a smirk.

“Got your coat?”

“Yup.”

“Okay then. You remember where the door is.”

I lead the way out, past two discussions. One of Kant the other of Kevin Costner’s ass. So goes the world, I think, so goes the world.

She is smiling as the two of us leave the coffeehouse. “Something in him reminds me of us; don’t you feel it, too?” she asks so innocently. Yes, I think. That is what allows for giggles. That is what leads me to glance for too long into his eyes. That may even be what led you back, I tell her. “I knew it,” she says.

She too brought secrets with her. I hadn’t ever considered it, upon her return. I had been jaded by the bliss of her reappearance. But of course, her dark corners have always been my dark corners. And where I hadn’t taken the time to clear cobwebs, she had been peering with a candle.

Essential Unavoidable Step Four: Tell all the voices to listen to you. Remind them of the fun of singing in the shower, and with that affirmation, make a motion to renew faith in music. And eventually, progress to singing in cars. Quietly at first, then blaringly with windows rolled down and cold air trying to snatch your breath away.

He almost always drives the speed limit. Apparently his testosterone levels are high enough that endangerment at 80 miles an hour is not a necessary right of proving his manhood. He doesn’t drum on the steering wheel and this is a great comfort to me. He sings, loudly and clearly and boldly enough to leave me to ponder how many octaves his range is. Regardless of artist or style, he sings with the same reckless abandon that most men drive. I am amazed at this, but don’t openly admit it. Admitting it might keep me from seeing the way his hair moves over his cheek each time he nods his head with a strong beat. He brakes cautiously, stays three car lengths back, rarely looks over at the passenger’s seat. I’m at a loss to ponder if dazzling singing and peaceful driving manner are related, so in lieu of thought I sit, arms folded across my waist, imagining again what it would be like to kiss him. If half the time I spent imagining kissing people were spent ACTUALLY kissing people, my world would be a drastically more interesting place. But then again, I’d have to buy a lot more chapstick to keep up. Again, give and take. It’s all a matter of priorities.

My brain tumbles into some grand fantasy of stopping at a red light as he brakes for a yellow… He turns to look at me, gives that usual little smirk. Forget if the light turns green, I tell myself. I lean over, he doesn’t notice at first, and when he does, he doesn’t pull away. I put my right had behind his head, god his hair is soft, tilt my head a little to the left, open my mouth, and (shall we forego the harlequin subtleties here) lay my lips on his, lightly at first, then weave my tongue in between them. The cigar flavor lingers. I don’t pull back. He starts to, for air or distance or in some noble effort to reestablish the friendship boundary, lean away from me. The light turns green. Forget if the light turns green. I think I lost sight of the boundary earlier in some plume of cigar smoke. A car slows behind us. We are still nose to nose, thinking, silently debating, already recalling what that first hesitant kiss was like. I can feel him as he breathes through his nose, the air warm on my lips. I can see from the corner of my eye the middle aged balding man behind us as he lowers his hand to the center of the steering wheel. And while he considers blowing his horn, disrupting our moment of some form of undiscovered bliss, I can see us through his eyes. The two of us engaged in an odd forehead to forehead huddle on the brink of a great discovery of some form or another. The man thinks it over; I’m almost sure of it, reasons through the repercussions in his mind and places his hand back on top of the wheel. Turns his tires to the right, and passes us in the next lane. I flutter my eyelids a little and glance down to the floorboard, still aware of his face so close to my own. I become excruciatingly aware of his feet. Sexual tension does not lend one to intelligent thought of menial things like whether the brake pedal is on the right or the left. He isn’t going for the gas. I don’t lean away. As he lets his lips slip toward mine again, I have one of those bizarre thought-flashing-before-your-eyes moments. I see one of those Fox sweeps week “When Animals Attack” shows, a zebra cornered by a lion, relying on its fight of flight cognition skills. And what category does this fall into. Neither of us is reaching for the door handle, and it really doesn’t feel that much like fighting. And I don’t even want to start the debate over who gets to be the zebra in this scenario.

“What in the hell are you thinking?” she screams at me. Oh, hey, didn’t know you were still here. I was just doing everything in my power not to get lost in the moment, that’s all. “Get lost. Go with it. How many times do you have to be reminded of that? We’re going to invest in some strategically placed post-it notes for you.” Note on dashboard reads: Kiss like it’s your first time with your true love and you’ve just eaten an entire roll of Butter Rum Lifesavers.

I try to erase from my mind the entire concept of self-consciousness. This is neither the time nor the place. Thank goodness I’ve yet to banish that little voice from my head. She does tend to come in handy in circumstances where I’m better off at remembering that I’ve already thrown caution to the wind. I’m here; I’m kissing him, too late to turn back now.

We’ve cycled through the green light. It’s yellow again, and my logic progresses as follows: Why sit through a red light of awkwardness when I could have one more kiss? I leave my eyes open this time and let it progress timidly, leaving myself open for him as I’ve grown accustomed to doing, one contradiction after another.

I suppress the urge to turn this into a “movie kiss”. I’m sure the camera is rolling somewhere, but not in this car, not with my lips, not with his eyes, not here. But before I give my brain time to plan each slight movement, his lips are on mine, warm and soft and slow. He has the aura of a good kisser and a roll-about-in-the-grass lover and a great many other things as well, but for now my entire awareness is of his hand on my cheek. Long thin fingers gently placed on the side of my face while we let our lips discover each other again. And we let the kiss end.

“I think we were on our way to Wal-Mart,” he says, just as I dare to take a glance to notice that he isn’t blushing in the least.

“Oh… yes… yes, Wal-Mart.”

“You still wanna go?”

“Sure, I guess,” I say with my ever-present lingering tone of indecisiveness.

“Well, I can’t really think of anything better to do.”

Essential Unavoidable Step Five: After your voice is hoarse and you realize you have less than perfect pitch, grab some good classical. Something bought on a whim for three dollars with the word ‘adagio’ in at least one of the titles. Conduct with your imaginary baton in the air during the fast songs, and during the slow ones, make mental lists of things you would rather do than ‘nothing’.

The gas pedal is right where we both remember it, both of us finding reassurance in the fact that the universe hasn’t shifted that greatly. Everything appears to be in working order, just as we had left it. And we did leave it, didn’t we? In that moment something transcended, not necessarily in a noble Thoreau-like sort of way. We weren’t contemplating by a pond in New England. But at times like this; head leaned back against the leather headrest, right arm on the door, left arm draped casually across my lap, I wonder what wonderful philosophical realizations Thoreau might have come to if he had had someone caress his cheek on occasion.

“Maybe Wal-Mart isn’t where we were intended to end up tonight,” I say, risking sounding like a moron.

“Intended?”

“Yes, intended. Maybe we aren’t supposed to end up at Wal-Mart.”

“And on whose authority do you get this?”

“My own, of course.”

“And your authority would be important how?”

“Oh, shut up. You know what I mean. Let’s go somewhere new. I think we’ve got a theme going tonight. Adventure and fearlessness and all that crap. I’d rather not see it end at Wal-Mart buying shampoo from someone in a blue smock. It just doesn’t seem fitting.”

“Then where to, m’lady?”

“Italy?”

“Go go gadget Pontoon!… The fact remains that this is a car, not a ship. Any other suggestions?”

“Hmm, what time is it? Almost 1:30? Nothing is open, but that shouldn’t stop us. You know how that study room in the library is open 24-7? Isn’t the computer lab the same way?”

“Yeah, I think so. Where are you going with this?”

“Well, in a building that big with at least two rooms open and available to the unassuming public, there must be some way to get into the rest of the building. I think we should try it.”

“Break into the library?”

“Yeah, why not?”

“You and only you would think of something like this.” “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You and only you would think of something like this,” I can hear her quoting in my head. Does he know me that well or does he just think he does? Have I left him to make assumptions where I haven’t been open enough to reveal who I am? Who this person is that takes over my impulses at two in the morning? I’m sure his assumptions won’t harm the situation, she whispers. There are places to go tonight. Your job is to make sure that you’re the only one with the map.

I can feel her presence with me still. Her calmness and creativity speaking through me.

I don’t grab his hand as we slink past the doors to the study room and across the wide hallway toward the elevators. What we have discovered is not the kind of intimacy that one questions or pushes. We make it stealthily across the hall and into the elevator. He turns back to glance at me just as we pass through its sliding metal doors and gives that smile again.

Have you ever noticed how not all women have the same reaction to mega stars like Tom Cruise and Brad Pitt? Well, I have a very simple theory. Every woman has in her mind an exact image of the smile, be in wide toothed grin or thin ambiguous smirk, that can make her know that she is safe and happy. Just to see the corners of someone’s eyes crinkle in a certain way can do things to your heart that you wouldn’t even imagine.

For me, Tom Cruise can do it, as can Ben Affleck. But neither of them just looked over their shoulder at me as my accomplice. My accomplice in crime and I suspect a great many things to come.

“Will any floor do?” he asks, being less familiar with the layout of this grand haven for the written word than me.

“Do you never come to the library?”

“Not unless someone ties me up and drags me here.”

“Actually, that could be arranged…”

“Very funny”

“But before we get apprehended by the library rent-a-cops, fifth floor.”

I’ve always thought these elevators to be small. Tonight they are enormous. An inch between us feels like a football field of open space. And while I debate moving to the other side of the elevator to be closer to him, I worry that my one moment of boldness stripped me of all my bravery. Perhaps I need a refractory period in which to build up my nerve again.

Essential Unavoidable Step Six: Now that the voices are in agreement most of the time, faith has been renewed in the written, spoken, and sung word, get to know yourself in respect to where you’ve been and where you’re going. Make lists like you always found around your house. Follow your mother’s lead. 1:30-2:00—Clean bathroom. 2:00-2:15—Evaluate Life Mission Statement.

“You’re scared and I don’t want you to deny it”

Why must you always be so right? Can I not get a minute of peace away from the truth? Sure, sure, live for the moment. I bet you really believed that when you said it.

“I did, but the point is you’re trying too hard. Why are you even here in the first place? It’s because he reminds you of the last one. I know it. You think he can take his place.”

Would you just shut up? No one can take his place. No one should. There isn’t a void there, just a scar. And anyway, he would have never kissed me back. You know that. You’re living this, too. You’ve lived all of it. If I’m scared of anything it’s of not seeing how far I can ride this.

Quiet resumes upstairs and I wonder if he’s been blessed with a tiny prosecuting attorney for a conscious.

Off the elevator, we wander over to the windows overlooking the center of the campus. His math and engineering buildings to the left, and the Humanities building straight ahead.

“I’ve never taken the time to examine the layout of campus on a ‘philosophical’ level,” he says. Smirking, again. A man invented smirking, I’m sure of it. That stupid grin is just as much of a weapon of manipulation as my breasts are.

I lean up against the window, sticking my chest out. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“Look how much higher up the engineering buildings are. Even the university has positioned us to be superior.”

“Nope.”

“Nope?”

“There is a different agenda at the heart of this matter.”

“And in yet another fluke of the universe, YOU are the only person in possession of the true explanation for the quite obvious positioning of the non-humanities buildings elevation in respect to your little seventies academic ‘powerhouse’,” he gloats. Smirk. Damnit.

“It’s quite simple. We free spirits, we humanities majors won’t be spending our years in cubicles. And I’ve heard that the air circulation in those tiny compartments of efficiency is atrocious. Quite similar to the quality of air one might get in an elevated environment…”

“Funny.”

“They are only trying to strengthen your abilities to respirate less than perfect air. You should thank them.”

He shares a genuine smile this time, and looks over at me instead of gazing out across the campus.

‘Well, this has been nice, hasn’t it?” he says in an all too casual I’ll-have-forgotten-about-this-by-the-morning sort of way.

“Traversing across campus like lust struck fools?”

“I should be getting back.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’.”

“Yeah, fun.”

And with that we stroll back to the elevator, ride down to the main floor and exit the building as calmly as if for the past two hours we’d been devoting our every thought to the analyzing of William Carlos Williams.

This boy can be seen one of two ways. One, he is the quintessential red wheelbarrow. Dripping with meaning yet to be discovered and assigned. Or, two, the boy is simply that. A boy. Two lips, a libido that would shame a chimp in mating season and just enough spark of mystery to keep me wandering through libraries after-hours and wondering of what could be and what should be.

“But we got what we wanted, didn’t we?” she interrogates in her casual yet seeking manner.

Yeah, we did. You are back with a vengeance and a voice and I somehow got my spontaneity back at that damn red-light. All in all, the night has been productive.

And of course, the seeking and discovering of oneself is always rewarding no matter what barricades, stumbling blocks, and kisses have stood in the way.

It was a nice kiss, wasn’t it?

Essential Unavoidable Step Seven: Gain from experiences what you can; not what others think you should or even what you have come to believe you should. You are in this for you and your ghosts and your kisses. Throw away the lists and plans to chicken scratch out a mission statement.

Because mission statements can only be presented in the flesh, in stopped car, deep within library stacks, nuzzled in personal conversations with yourself.

fiction

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