I've been writing a lot more nonfiction lately, so I am taking a nonfiction writing class this semester. This is one of the exercises for that class; the prompt was to write about an emotion, and not discuss that emotion anywhere else besides the title.

Elation

I can feel my legs shaking with each step I take. I worry about my choice of high-rise footwear, and worry more about tripping over the band’s feet, or mic stands, or cords on my way to the front of the stage. I take a deep breath, adjust my dress, and wipe a small bead of sweat from my forehead.

The lights are hot and bright. Besides these, all around me is a permeating black. I feel swallowed alive in the darkness, kept moving only by the yellow-white of the spotlight. I can barely make out round, pale shapes below, in front, and further away, above me – the audience awaits. There is an intense follow spot on me as I walk from the back of the stage to the front, finally taking my place standing next to the world-famous bass player. Rufus grins at me – that old jazz cat smile – and I can feel my insides unwinding. His small nod speaks volumes; you got this, girl. Just like we talked about, you and me, playin’ the blues. I nod back, smiling just a bit, excitement waging a coups d’état over my nervousness.

I wrestle the mic from its stand. The clip has an iron-clad grip, and I can tell the mic is hot – my struggle creates some white noise and finally, having the small amplifier free, I stand calmly. I look slowly to my right. The silence is saturated with possibilities.

Rufus plucks his first string, a low tremor emanating royally from the 6-foot-tall instrument. Then he plucks another, and another, and his solo unfolds gracefully, soulfully, until a small riff that I know means my entrance is soon.

A deep breath. I open my mouth and raise the mic to my lips.

There is a timbre to my voice that I’ve never heard before. My mind goes blissfully blank and all I can see are the lyrics shining across my memory: Loneliness did not exist in a world with you living in it. The meaning is suddenly so clear, and a vision of him – the one I’ve been dreaming about for months now – shimmers into view. As the melody winds up, melts down, twists around, I think of him, wish he was here to hear me pour my soul out of my windpipe for him. I wish everyone I know and love was here, because I know instinctively that this moment will be important to me forever.

For once, I am not critical of my performance. Going into the last chorus, I know that every note was in tune, every run balanced, every pause creating an anxiousness in the audience for the chord’s resolution. I know that I deserve to be here, on this stage at the Blue Note, singing Rufus Reid’s ballad the same way he performed with Billie Holiday, Ella Fitzgerald, Sarah Vaughan.
And then, I feel it.

There is a moment on stage that any performer will understand, albeit struggle to explain. There is a microsecond after the last note quivers to a halt and resonates all around you, waving your eardrums, shaking your very molecules. Between that microsecond and the moment the first pair of hands slap together in applause, there is an invisible woosh that washes over you – starting at the tips of your hair, then rolling down through your neck, your chest, your abdomen, your thighs, and finally out the tips of your toes, making every bit of your body feel like you could be defying gravity if you cared to.

This moment is exactly where it is felt. It is the emotion that keeps each performer coming back for more. It is the reason one falls in love with the stage, being in front of many to be acknowledged and admired, even if only for a mere second. It is when your hours of struggling and sweating and practicing, however fruitlessly, are finally vindicated.

After the woosh finds me like it never has before, the audience begins to applaud. First a few, then many, and finally the whole room sounds like thunder, rising to their feet in exaltation. A standing ovation from a full house can still bring any seasoned performer to tears. I turn to Rufus and thank him. He reaches out and his wrinkled, brown hand takes mine. I can feel the callouses on his fingertips as he pulls my wrist towards his face and kisses my hand. The gesture and the moment are timeless; I am Billie, and Ella, and Sarah. I am Jackie and I created this beautiful fraction of time and shared it, if only so briefly, with those around me.

As I retreat back into the darkness of the wings of the stage, I know that there will never be another moment in my life quite like this one.

People later asked me, “What was it like, being up there on stage with Rufus Reid?” I wished I could explain the feel of the microphone slipping slightly in my sweaty palm, the heat of the lights, the roar of the applause, the dazzling connection I felt with that incredible musician. But you can’t explain that sort of thing aloud. I just smiled and told them it was great. How can one ever explain that a performance has no twin?

The Timeless Trifecta

I have been meditating a lot on age, time, and regret – three things that I think inevitably go hand in hand. One of the biggest causes of this thinking is the addition to our family of Cooper. We will never again be a family of 6 – but I guess that changed when Kat married Steve, anyway. We are now 8 and it is becoming increasingly difficult to remember how we were ever that happy without everyone. Being around Cooper makes me know that things are changing, and that if change comes in the form of something that sweet and pure, that it can’t all be bad.

I have to picture this new family portrait as the big F word – my future – is brought up again and again. Not a day goes by that I don’t worry – about the job market, the economy, student loans, what to do after May. My life’s calendar just seems to sort of trail off after graduation. Shouldn’t that be the beginning, not the end? Isn’t this what I’ve worked so hard for all of these years… a job, a career, a life ahead of me? Why does it all suddenly seem so unattainable?

This “future” talk all relates back to age, time, and regret. I will be 22 when I graduate – so young in the grand scheme of things, but I feel so much older. I don’t want to feel that old. I want to be reminded on a daily basis that my life is stretched out in front of me, and that this isn’t it. It can’t be.

Regret is a big worry for me. I don’t want to look back and wonder, “what was I thinking?” We all think that about something - I wish I’d studied more, I wish I’d partied more, I wish I’d thought more about this or that. Europe was incredible, don’t get me wrong. (That isn’t a non-sequiter, don’t be fooled). I spent all of this time planning and visualizing and hoping and although it was great, to be sure, it wasn’t what I’d hoped for, and that part was my fault. I didn’t make it happen. We were all told to go with no regrets, and I do have some that I will never be able to rectify. I don’t want to just spend every day with the bare minimum of living happening. I want to make happen what I know I deserve. But how does anyone go about changing their life in a big way? What’s that first crucial step? In a run, the hardest mile is the first one. How do I push myself through that first 5,280 feet?

Sometimes, I wonder if all of these thoughts are unique in any capacity. Surely everyone of my generation is worried about these things, too. Makes me wonder why I feel so alone in this sometimes.

Midnight Musings

Is there a science behind the concept of “love?”

What is love, really, but some chemical reaction caused by the sight, feel, thought of one another? What are those senses but mere firings of neurons, an electric current pulsing around a network of human veins, arteries, capillaries, causing the release of extra compounds that in turn, twist and contort our organs and inevitably get misinterpreted as “butterflies”?

What causes someone to feel that, so to speak, chemistry? What if we are all walking science experiments, just waiting for that one right match that will cause some sort of explosion? (Or do you settle for the one that just causes bubbles, smoke, steam, rainbows, sediment?)

I have a theory that we only meet that exact right chemical match in one person. Perhaps several could do the trick, with several catalysts, but there is only that ONE that makes you come undone at the hinges. What if, for some reason, they’re immune to all of the atomic work at hand? What if you are the only one who is affected by the catastrophic reaction? What if the match isn’t really a match, but you as an individual alone in your equation?

Does that mean you’re alone forever? That everyone else you meet that seems to click with you just doesn’t quite do the trick for you, in any sense?

What if you like someone to the point of friendship and fondness, but it doesn’t exceed that? You can miss them. You can kiss them, run your fingers through their hair, laugh with them, talk with them, make love with them. But is that love? Can you define that as love? Or are all of us, the ones that have settled for that smoke and mirrors, just fooling ourselves?

It's been too long.

A short story I wrote recently. It needs a lot of work, but here is my most recent draft.

Crash

I raise my hand, signaling to the teacher’s aide that I’m finished with my lab. She walks over, checks my barely-pink titration, and signs my worksheet as completed. Sometimes, college feels so much like high school, especially these entry-level courses I’m required to take. Transferring from private to state school without checking what credits transferred wasn’t one of my better ideas. I gather my things, leaving the cleanup for my half-assed lab partner who’s napping on the table next to me, his plastic goggles leaving unforgiving rings around his stoned eyes. I am usually the first to finish – as a junior, Chem 120 comes especially easily for me – but Mike, a friend I have known since middle school, has finished just ahead of me. He’s already out the door of the old brick building and is strolling towards the quad in the muggy September air.

“Mike, wait up man.” My long legs catch him quickly. “What are you up to tonight?”
“Oh, you know, probably going to hit up Ella and Paige’s place later. They were talking about getting a keg to celebrate Paige’s brother coming home from the Middle East. Should be a good crowd, you in?”

My heart jumps a beat at the mention of Ella’s name, but I push past that and try to focus. “He’s in the army? I didn’t know that,” I say.

“Not army, man, he’s a journalist. He’s been over there for eight months or so covering that prison that was torturing dudes. I’m sure he’s got a lot of great stories.”

I jump through my mental calendar and land on the test I have in thermodynamics Monday, but decide one night of seeing Ella, er, Paige’s brother couldn’t hurt. “I can meet you guys there after 10 or so. They still living over at Riverside?”

We chat for a few more steps about insignificant, student-oriented details and then part at a crosswalk, Mike heading south to his next class and me heading north towards the parking garage. Alone amongst the late-afternoon campus bustle, I kick a rock along the sidewalk and think about the evening ahead – what I should wear, logistics for a sober driver, whether or not I should bring my roommate, all on the forefront – while subconsciously Ella’s face is floating languidly on the surface of my mind. I haven’t seen her in several months, and even now I’m not completely sure that I want to. It still feels like there is debris beneath my skin from our last moments together. I’ve tried to heal, tried to just think about the good things, but actually seeing her… Physically, she can hold a man in a trance. God, is she beautiful. Her blue eyes, her black hair, the smooth curve of her waist flowing down towards her –

Smack. My thoughts are jarred by running face-first into a large black guy smoking a menthol outside the library. I apologize profusely while he glares at me, and I back away looking like the fool I am.

***

The exit ramp onto the highway between my apartment and Ella’s is stop-and-go because of an accident up ahead. I can see rotating blue and red lights nearby when traffic slows to a gridlock, and I fiddle with the radio, looking for something to distract me from my impatience. I look up and start with a yell at a man standing directly in my headlights and think absurdly that he looks like Jesus. He is holding a cardboard sign that reads, “HOMELESS VET. NEED $ FOR FOOD. GOD BLESS.” He apologetically smiles a black-toothed grin at my reaction and I realize my windows are down. He heads towards the driver’s side window and I am torn between rolling it up quickly and offending him or risking probable death by a secondhand samurai knife. My Grandmother Dorothy’s voice echoes in my head, telling me not to trust “those smelly beggar-folk,” but my father’s liberal voice resonates louder than hers and tells me to give the poor guy a chance.

“Hello there, sir.” His voice is gravelly but warm, and he looks right at me. His clothes are worn and dirty and his pack is patched up at the corners. His long white beard is laced with yellow tobacco stains, but despite my conservative grandmother’s warnings he doesn’t smell too bad. His blue eyes appear perfectly sober. “Got any spare change for an old man?”

I reach into my wallet and pull out a few singles and, upon second thought, hand over the bag of pretzels I was bringing for the party. I picture Grandmother Dorothy rolling around in her grave and mentally shrug. He takes them both with a grateful nod and presses a worn card into my hand before disappearing into the darkness alongside the highway.

I flip the card in my hand rightways. Looking for a second chance? Then, on the back: Jesus saves! An address is printed at the bottom for a non-denominational church a few counties over. My brow furrows and I am unsure whether to be offended or appreciative, but I toss the card into the passenger seat and shift my car into drive as traffic is now creeping slowly towards the highway.

***

I walk in the door of Ella’s apartment, freshly shaved, smelling like (too much?) cologne, carrying a 6-pack of Boulevard Wheat, and hope I don’t look like I’m trying too hard. The room is already full of people drinking, but even through the smoky cloud above the room I can easily pick out Ella’s long black hair. She’s sitting on the countertop in the kitchen next to Brent, Paige’s brother. She sees me enter and waves, smoothing out her top nervously. I tilt my chin in greeting (is that still cool? Should I wave?) and make my way through the crowd, depositing my beer in the fridge after removing one and cracking it open.

Brent is taller than I remember him, his skin tan and slightly weathered-looking. Despite this, he looks confident and strong, and I am hyperaware of Ella’s proximity to him as her legs dangle over the edge of the counter she’s sitting on. He’s in the middle of a story that has the girls enthralled. Ella is covering her mouth with her long, slender fingers and the “o” shape of her eyes mirrors Paige’s.

“Some of these prisoners – you couldn’t believe what they went through. Have you seen any of the pictures?” The girls shake their heads. “It was shocking…almost otherworldly. I didn’t know men were capable of doing some of that to other men.”

“What did they do?” Ella asks in a hushed voice.

“Torture, daily humiliation, rape, homicide, you name it. Part of my job was to micro-analyze the photographs for details that had been missed. I’ll never get some of that out of my head.”

By now, Mike has worked his way through the room and is leaning on the counter next to me. “That’s so messed up, man. What did they do to the soldiers? It’s been on the news, but I haven’t followed it too closely,” he says.

“Most were demoted or removed from service, a handful court-martialed and put in jail. Not enough of a punishment, if you ask me.” I can hear his journalism voice kicking in. “Dostoyevsky had it right – you can measure society by walking into its prisons.” A cute blonde walks through the kitchen to the fridge for another beer, throwing a flirtatious smile in Brent’s direction, but realizing how serious the conversation has turned she rolls her eyes and walks out. I watch her leave, unable to help staring just a little bit, and catch Ella looking at me looking at her. We both quickly revert our eyes back to Brent.

Mike raises his arms and points his palms at Brent. “Whoa, man, that’s not really fair. It wasn’t our society that was in those prisons to begin with, we were just guarding them.”
Brent turns toward him, and I myself am a bit intimidated. Mike visibly shrinks. “That quote is more about the prison guards than the prisoners. If we’re going to push democracy on the world, we should treat men with respect. Some of those soldiers got off far too easily. I mean, I don’t care who you are, not everybody deserves a second chance.”

Ella’s eyes snap up from the floor. Her feet stop swinging. “Sure they do. Everyone deserves forgiveness. Why would you say that?” she says.

“Forgiveness? Who was talking about forgiveness? Second chances and forgiveness are apples and oranges. You can forgive someone and not give them a second chance,” Brent says. He reaches out and pinches Ella on the forearm.

“Ah! What the hell was that for?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what got into me,” he says.

“It’s okay,” she says reluctantly, rubbing her arm. He smiles, then reaches out towards her once more, and she slaps his hand away. “Brent, what the hell –"

“What, you forgave me, didn’t you? Then why won’t you let me near your arm again?”

She falls silent, glaring at him. I stifle a smile, but I’m sure her quick eyes catch it. She slides down from the counter and storms up the stairs.

I’m pleased that his smug face looks somewhat confused. “What, was it something I said? I was just trying to prove a point.”

Mike looks from me to the stairs pointedly, then turns to Brent. “Don’t worry about it, bro, she’s always a little dramatic like that. Here, try this pumpkin beer I brought, it’s the first of the season.” He cracks the top on the bottle and hands him one while I steal away up the stairs.

I find Ella in her room sitting at her desk chair. I take a seat on the edge of the bed opposite her, feeling the reverberations of the party left behind through the floor. “What was that all about?” I ask stupidly. Hell, I know exactly what it was about… but I’m giving her a chance to back out.
“Don’t play that game, Jake. You know what it was about.” I love that she knows that about me. I hate that she knows that about me. She looks right into my eyes and says the one thing I’ve been hoping she wouldn’t say, she would say. “Do you believe in second chances?”

I swallow. “I don’t know, Ella. What happened –”

“Was in June! Four fucking months, and you just ignore me? You just cut me out of your life like I’m nothing, after everything we’ve been through?”

“I walked in on you with that creep and you expect me to forgive you just like that?”

“Not just like that. I’ve tried everything, and don’t you think four months of silence is enough torture?” She lowers her voice and comes to sit next to me on the bed. “Don’t you miss me? Don’t you miss this?” She takes my face in her hands and kisses me, her soft lips tasting sweet like the cosmopolitan she’d been sipping earlier. I fight off every instinct I have to keep some distance between us. Internally, I’m at war – my residual feelings for her battling my pride – but inevitably, my pride wins over. I push her away firmly. “Of course I miss it, Ella. But it’s not enough. Maybe he’s right – maybe everybody doesn’t deserve a second chance.”

I stand up. Without looking back, I walk out the door and down the stairs to join Mike and Brent for another beer.

***

Once outside, I fiddle with the keys, then reach out and touch my nose, getting a feel for my sense of depth perception. I hit the bridge – that’s close enough, right? – and besides, six beers in two and a half hours wouldn’t make a guy my size drunk. I stick the keys in the ignition and buckle my seatbelt in one, two tries. The engine roars to life and I back down the driveway, hearing an aluminum can crunch under my back tires, then my front ones. The highway is the quickest way back to my apartment, although there could be a few more cops that way (why am I worried about cops? Of course I’m okay to drive). Four exits and I’ll be in the clear (not that there’s anything unclear to get out of).

The highway is empty and dark, the grass grown a bit too tall on both sides, but no police cars are in sight so I step on the gas a little harder. I reach down to find a better radio station. My phone vibrates in my pocket and I pull it out. From Ella: Let me know when you get home okay. Sure, sure. I reach to put it back in my pocket when an earsplitting

THUD!

sounds from the front of the hood and my car goes into a wild spin – I hold on to the wheel as it jerks out of control – four seconds of my own screaming sounds like hours in my terrified mind and finally I am stopped in the middle of the highway, one headlight out and steam rising in small columns from the front end of my car. My mind is reeling and I can’t distinguish one beat of my heart from the next. My hands grip the wheel so hard that the knuckles are nearly see-through.

Minutes pass. I can already feel the tension and soreness settling in my neck and shoulder muscles. My breathing slows enough to consider seeing what the hell just happened. Shaky hands manage to unbuckle my seatbelt and I open the door and walk around to inspect the damage.

The front end of my car is significantly dented. I reach out to touch the grille and my hand comes back sticky and red. I turn around and look for the deer that is inevitably dying on the side of the road and see a mass twenty or so feet ahead, just out of reach of my one good headlight. Ugh. I can eat a steak like the best of carnivores, but I’m not prepared to see uncooked venison in the middle of the highway. I take a few steps forward just to make sure it’s dead and am surprised by a soft crunch underneath my feet. I look down.

There is a mass of brown crumbs and – what the? – are those pretzels?

I look forward to the mangled mess and the realization hits me like a second car accident. I feel strangely torn in two as my heart drops through my ribcage to my feet and I simultaneously rise out of my body and hover, no longer in control of myself. I run forward, knowing I shouldn’t look, but unable to stop myself – and see the homeless man from the exit ramp. He is lying face-up, his features nearly unrecognizable, the flesh stripped cruelly down to sinew and bone, blood trickling out of what is left of his ear, his neck at an irreconcilable angle to his body, his limbs appearing to have come undone at the hinges. His tobacco-stained beard is streaked with blood and flesh and – worst of all – his blue eyes are open, looking without seeing at the star-spotted twilight above.

I turn into the grass and retch violently until there is nothing left in me, the world spinning once more. My ears are ringing loudly and tears obscure my vision so that I don’t hear the police car approach or see the flashing lights until a deep voice booms, “Stand up and put your hands behind your head.”

I obey slowly, sobs escaping me at irregular intervals. “I didn’t mean to – I didn’t see him – oh my God, what have I –“ I am unable to finish. The officer lowers his voice but keeps his flashlight raised. He walks over to the homeless man and checks his pulse. He says something into his walkie that I can’t hear. He puts it away, walks back over and looks at me. “Have you been drinking this evening?” He shines the flashlight into my eyes.

I know there’s no point in lying. “Yes, sir, I just came from a party. I’m not drunk, but I have been drinking.”

“I need to see your license and registration.” I move slowly towards the car, trying my hardest to walk in a straight line, but the crash has seriously shaken me. I find what he’s asked for and remain sitting in the driver’s seat.

He looks at the license, then back at me. “Sarkozy. That’s not a very common name.”

“No, sir,” I respond. “Not in the Midwest it’s not.”

He runs his fingers along his chin stubble in thought. “You aren’t related to a Sid Sarkozy, are you?”

I blink in surprise. “Yes, sir, but I’ve never met him. Sid Sarkozy was my uncle, he died in a fire before I was born. He was a firefighter in –”

“Port’s Ferry?” he asks. I nod.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” He stares at me for a long moment, apparently torn about something. He tells me to wait where I am. He walks to his car, pulls out a water bottle, and hands it to me.
“Drink this. My backup will be here soon, don’t tell them where you got it from. It will help you pass the breathalyzer at the station, my field unit is conveniently broken right now.”

I look at him in bewilderment. “Sir, what –”

He looks at me hard. “Son, I’ve been warning Jimmy to keep off this highway and head to the shelter for six months. He has been an accident waiting to happen – he’ll jump out in front of cars to get them to stop and give him change. There’s nothing you could have done. But you get caught above the legal limit on a breathalyzer after hitting him and your life is done for.”
I keep my mouth shut and just stare at him, unable to respond. Finally, he sighs and takes off his hat. I hold back a gasp as I see burn scars snaking the left half of his head and the back of his neck. He sees me staring and says with certain gravity, “Let’s just say I owed your uncle a big favor and leave it at that.” He puts his hat back on and walks towards where the other cars will be parking.

I can hear the other sirens now. The second police car pulls up behind him, along with an ambulance. I down my water bottle and don’t say another word.

***

I walk out of the police station the next morning and crawl into the waiting cab.

“Where to?” the driver asks. I start to give him my home address, but change my mind. “The Café Romano on Eighth and Wallace downtown, you familiar with it?” I can’t explain, even to myself, why a coffee shop is the first place I want to go, especially after not sleeping all night. The cabbie rolls his eyes at my naiveté of his direction skills and pulls away from the sidewalk a little quicker than necessary. I can feel the soreness seize in my muscles and my heart beats a bit quicker as his tires nudge the curb. I take a deep breath. It could take awhile to get used to riding in cars again. Several minutes later, he drops me off in front of the brick building, and I hand him a bill and tell him to keep the change.

The place looks the same as it always has – forest green walls, a cocoa-colored floor, the heavenly aromas of cinnamon and Arabica beans intermingling and drawing me towards the counter where I purchase a latte with an extra shot of much-needed espresso.

The scene is almost too peaceful after a night like last night. Images and sounds keep flashing across my mind – Jimmy’s grateful smile in contrast to his twisted, bloody face, the look in Ella’s eyes as I left her room, the officer’s burn scars, the EMTs examining me, the police interrogating me, my hysterical mother on the phone, swearing she’ll never leave town again, saying she’s catching the next flight back from Detroit. Twelve hours feels so much more like twelve months.
I settle into my favorite corner where I can watch people walk outside. I sip slowly. Minutes tick by. I reach into my pocket to put away my wallet and out comes a small card. Looking for a second chance? it reads. Despite myself, I can’t help but crack a smile at all of the god damn irony. I leave the card on the table, then reach back into my pocket for my cell phone. I scroll through the contacts, settling on Ella’s name. I set the phone down. My pride threatens to shut it off or throw it out the window. I glance at the card next to me and pick the phone back up. I send her a quick text. Meet me at our place in ten?

Her response is nearly immediate. If you’re lucky.

I smile, set down the phone, sip my latte, and wait.

And one more for the road...

Duality



We’re at IHOP on a Tuesday morning, well, afternoon, and Garrison is sucking ice water through a straw like he’s in the Sahara. A waitress passes, and he waves and points to his near-empty glass. He begins nursing my orange juice in the meantime.

“Long night, Gare?” I ask. Has the answer ever been no?

“You have no idea,” he says. “I took about a half-dozen hits off the Purple People Eater, you know, Meg’s roommate’s new bong. Lives up to its name. All that after a 30-pack of Bud Heavy split with Shep. The room’s still spinning.”

“Dude, did you drive here?” You can be such a dumbass.

The waitress conveniently arrives with a pitcher, and he doesn’t answer me. She takes our order – Southwest omelette for me, sausage links and bacon for him. “Toast or pancakes?” she asks, popping her gum. There’s a piece still stuck to her lip. “Both,” he answers with a wink. She hesitates, then shrugs and collects our menus.

“So how is Meg?” I ask. Horse-faced whore.

“She’s fine. Her mom’s been in and out of rehab for the past few months, so she’s a little out of it, but she’s better than she was.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, I hope she’s okay.” Okay, I take back the ‘whore’ part.

“Yeah, thanks. Actually, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that, Alli.”

“Which part?” Oh, shit.

“Well… we’ve been best friends since hell, I don’t know when, and there’s no one else I can really talk to about this sort of stuff.” He pulls a small, velvet box out of the back pocket of his jeans and opens it, revealing a square diamond set in a silver band. “What do you think?”

My heart stops beating for a third of a second before I remember Meg. Horse-faced whore. “It’s absolutely beautiful,” I manage to get out. And it should be mine. “Are you sure you’re ready for that, man? You guys have only been together what, a year?” And I’ve known you for fourteen.

“I’ve thought about it a lot. She’s perfect for me. I can’t really explain it. Sometimes you just know.”

My body seems to have quit all involuntary functions, and I have to focus on breathing in, then out, then in. I force a smile. “Well, she’ll love the ring. How are you going to ask?”

Just then, the waitress arrives with our breakfast. She spies the diamond on the table and raises her eyebrows, looking back and forth between us, and I can hear her thinking, did he really just propose in IHOP? Garrison notices her staring and laughs, his voice musical as it always is, telling her it’s not for me, I’m just a test-proposal. She smiles awkwardly and walks away without giving us silverware. As Garrison rambles away about butterfly houses (or maybe candlelit dinner downtown), I look down at my omelette, thinking of how cruelly ironic it is that something this good is in front of me, and I’m unable to touch it without making a mess.

***

By the time I hit Basin, the main drag through town, I’m on my third cigarette. He wants to marry that unstable hag? How can someone who allocates the majority of their income to weed even be considering marriage? It’s just like Garrison to romanticize an unromantic situation. Shame that’s one of the things I love about him. I flick ashes out the window and breeze through a yellow light, then flip on the radio to avoid listening to my own thoughts. There’s a Sheryl Crow tune on, and I turn up the volume so I can sing along without hearing myself. “If it makes you happy,” I all but scream. A man in the car next to me is staring, and I realize a little too late that my windows are rolled down.

Despite my best efforts, the one thought I’ve been avoiding melts through my mental fault lines. Why her? Which leads to, Why not me? I shake my head to rid it of the thought, trying to focus on the road leading to Marissa’s house.

I pull into the driveway. The miniature statue of Buddha that Mr. Claymore got for his wife for Mother’s Day seems to greet me cheerfully. I walk in the front door without knocking and head down to Marissa’s room in the basement after shouting a hurried hello to her parents.

As always, her door beads catch my long, wavy hair. One of these days I will remember to pull it back when entering. She’s sitting on the floor reading a Twain novel and rises when she sees my face. “Alli, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.” She reassesses the anger in my expression, and adds, “Gyrating on your grandmother.” I nod. Close enough. I tell her about Garrison’s planned proposal and she nods slowly. “Yeah, I sort of saw that one coming, hon. It’s in the way he looks at her. You can tell he knows.”

“What the hell does that mean, ‘he knows’? He said that too. I think it’s such a copout way of explaining your feelings.”

“Well Alli, can you explain how you feel about him?” she asks. I hesitate. “That’s what I thought. Defining your emotions isn’t an easy thing to do. Granted, I think it’s a little quick myself, but there isn’t much we can do about it.”

“He asked me to tape the proposal.”

Her mouth drops open. “What do you mean, tape the proposal? Like with a video camera?”

“Yeah. He said she’s the type of person who would want to cherish the memory.” He’s always saying bullshit like that. “He wants me to record it and then edit it into some movie collage with video and pictures of them. So cheese.”

She shakes her head. “Well, I’m calling Switzerland on that one, it’s really up to you. I mean, it is pretty cheesy, but it’s not his fault he has no idea you’re madly in love with him.” She stares pointedly at me, raising her eyebrows.

“Don’t even start.” I might accidentally kill you. “Anyway, I have to go, I promised him I’d come over and help plan the big night.” She smiles sympathetically, tells me to call her if I need anything, then holds the door beads open so I can leave without being snared.

***

I walk into Garrison’s apartment and am surprised to see Shep, Andy, Mills, and Parker crowded around his kitchen table. They are drinking beers (probably left over from last night) and thumping Gare on the back. He looks up at me and grins. “You know I can’t keep a secret. They came over to celebrate and give me some advice.” Advice on what? None of them has ever proposed. “That’s great.” I sit down in a comfortable armchair and listen to the testosterone driven conversation, allowing my mind to wander. In spite of Marissa’s claims, I start making a mental list: Reasons Why I’m in Love with Garrison, in No Particular Order. Number one: he lives life like he’s going to die tomorrow. Number two: he never does anything small-scale. Number three: he is honest, whether it hurts or not. I start to realize that this list should read Reasons Why I Love/Hate Garrison.

I look from Andy, to Mills, to Shep, to Parker, all attractive and fun to be around. Reason that trumps all of the other reasons why I’m in love with Garrison: I’m sitting in a room with four other men, and that’s how I know it’s him, and no one else. There are four other pairs of arms that could pick me up and spin me, four other minds that could make me laugh, four other pairs of hands that could hold mine, four other dicks, all of which would get the job done. But I don’t want any of it except him.

“Al? Alli?” I start from my reverie. “Earth to Allison. We’re leaving.”

“What? Where are we going?”

“To the restaurant. Weren’t you listening?” He grabs the velvet box and shoves it into his pocket.

My mind latches on to where he’s going and I nearly lose my balance standing up. “You’re proposing tonight? Whatever happened to thinking it over?”

“I just did think it over. Didn’t you hear us thinking?” He grabs his duffel, presumably full of video equipment, from the closet and tosses it to me. “Come on, the reservation’s for seven thirty.” He runs out the door without waiting for me to pull my shoes on, and I’m left running after him, like usual.

***

The Olive Garden? Really, Garrison? Classy. We’ve talked it over with the hostess (who stared at us like we’re idiots), and I’m crouched on the floor behind the bar with a video camera (like the biggest idiot of all), waiting for Meg to arrive. Never before in my life have I prayed so hard that I won’t see anyone I know.

Seven thirty, then seven forty-five roll around, and finally she walks in, much to the relief of my aching knees. I flip on the camera and press the square red button on top.

Garrison stands up, gives her a kiss, and they sit together. There’s something slow and sad in her movements, and I’m wondering if her mom’s back in rehab, but I’m too far away to hear what’s going on. Time ticks by slowly. I’m glad I brought a tripod for the camera.

After what seems like several hours, I see him reaching into his pocket, his face full of anticipation – then his expression freezes, and his features seem to turn upside down, his eyes widening. Meg’s back is to me and I’m wishing I could see her face too. Garrison pulls his fist out of his pocket, but he’s empty-handed. Meg stands up and walks out abruptly. I shut off the video camera. Oh, fuck. Garrison stands up, too, then runs out after her.

I pack up the video equipment quickly, tip the bartender a few bucks for his trouble, then leave, sure Garrison’s forgotten all about me.

***

I walk into Garrison’s apartment – the door’s unlocked, which is unusual for my paranoid friend. All is quiet save for the sound of running water. “Gare?” I call, wading through the litter on the carpet towards the bathroom. I knock. “Garrison? You okay?”

“No,” he answers.

“Can I come in?” I ask. He doesn’t respond. I walk in anyway, breathing in the heavy, clean scent of his body wash. The bath tub is full to the rim, and Garrison is sitting in it, knees to his chest like a child, with the shower head running hot water onto his upturned face. His nakedness startles me and I try not to stare.

“That’s how chickens drown, you know,” I try to joke, but he’s in no mood.
With some difficulty, he stands up from the cloudy water. His exposure mocks me now, taunting me to look down where my eyes don’t belong.

“She didn’t even get to see the ring.”

I can’t tell if his face is wet from tears or the running water. His eyes focus suddenly and turn towards me. Seeking comfort, he reaches out and pulls me into the water stream. His lips find mine, and there is a sadness in them that I can’t refute. My body, clothed as it is, finds its way against his, molding perfectly into the curve of his hips. Closing my eyes and hating myself, I give in, unable to see, hear, or feel anything but him.

***

I awaken to persistent mid-morning sunlight that’s found its way through cracks in the blinds. Sheets are bunched around my ankles, and I’m just slightly too warm to be comfortable. My insides feel twisted up, like I’ve drank too much, and with an ironic shock I wonder if it’s possible to have an emotional hangover. I look over at Garrison, who’s lying splayed across the bed, his mouth agape. He’s drooling slightly. It’s certainly not how I’d pictured waking up next to him.
My hair a tangled mess, I hop into the shower, replaying every moment from the night before.

When I come out, dressed in his robe, he’s awake and sitting at his kitchen table. “Hey,” he says, “I made eggs.” I sit next to him and pick up a fork. “Listen, thank you for last night. Really, you’re such a great friend. You’re always here when I need you. But can we meet up for coffee later to talk?”

I put down my fork. “Why can’t we talk now?”

He clears his throat, looking at his plate. “Meg’s coming over in an hour.”

I stop breathing for a moment and am reminded of the old saying about the calm before the storm. “She’s coming over for what, her stuff?”

“No, it’s more of a… reconciliatory visit.” I walk into the bathroom and start gathering up my clothes. He follows behind me. “Wait, where are you going? You don’t have to leave so fast, I just didn’t want her to find you here…” he trails off. I can feel the complacent words rising up in my throat, the it’s fine, don’t worry, we can talk later, work it out with her comments that the friend in me used to make.

But for once, speaking to him, I find the monologue of my mind syncing up with my vocal cords, reverberating and gracefully entwining into one solid entity. “Fuck you, Garrison. Fuck you and your horse-faced whore.” I slip on my shoes. “And fuck your eggs, they’re dry as hell.”

“Alli, come on, it’s me. We’re still friends. We’re best friends. I don’t want that to change.”

I open the front door and stand in the frame. I turn around to say one last thing, but he interjects with, “You’re still wearing my robe.”

I throw my things down, rip off the terrycloth, and throw it at him. Grabbing my clothes, I walk out the door naked just as Meg is walking up. The look on her face is priceless. “I hope your babies look like him,” I call over my shoulder, walking towards my car.

***

In the car on the way home, Janis Joplin comes on the radio. I reach forward to twist the dial up, but something stops me. Instead of twisting to the right, I turn it to the left until the guitar is barely audible. Louder than Janis, I sing out the melody, slightly off-key, not bothering to roll up the windows.

It's all about perspective

This is the opening page to a piece that I'm working on. It's been more difficult for me to complete because I'm writing it from the perspective of a college guy, and quite frankly, I'm guessing wrong most of the time when I try to decipher them. Here goes, anyway.

****************************************************

Marley says there’s a movie quote for every situation in her life. She’s always saying bullshit like that. Usually, I ignore her, but after being stuck in campus construction traffic for 45 minutes, my patience is worn through. Every situation? Really, Marley? Yeah, Jake, she answers. Pretty much.

How about now? I challenge. We’re sitting at the kitchen table in our sparsely decorated college apartment. None of the four chairs match. The floor is spotted with debris of varying sizes, popcorn kernels, Bud cans, the occasional bobby pin or bit of a broken leaf. This place is shit, I tell her. What quote comes to mind for that?

She pauses. Always pauses with her. She’s always thinking about something. Or maybe she isn’t. Maybe she’s just pretending to think, for the attractive dramatic element of it or some other bullshit she read in Cosmo last month.

There’s a muffled thud of a knock at the door. She seizes the opportunity and pronounces, life is like a box of chocolates, Jake. You never know what you’re gonna get. With that, she tosses her blonde hair over her shoulder and prances out of the room. No, really, prances. You’d think she was a fucking show dog or something.

I turn the door handle to find Shepherd holding a twelve pack in one hand and a plastic grocery bag in the other, the most prominent item displayed through the pearly sheen being a box of Trojans.

What’s up, Shep, I ask, moving out of the way so he can step into the living room. What I don’t say, and want to, is why do you have to be so damn obvious when you come over to fuck my sister? Can’t you at least get the brown paper sacks so I don’t have to witness the multicolored rubbers you put on before she starts screaming, you complete me? But I don’t say it. One of these days, maybe, but not today. There’s a game on, and plus, he brought beer.