A Stranger
A strange man came into my bar last night. He was old, probably late sixties or early seventies. I didn’t see any lights pulling into the parking lot, so I guessed he’d been walking. That’s not unusual; we get a lot of folks from the nearby apartments walking in, wanting to hedge their bets against the cops. The story he told though, now that was unusual. I’m getting a little ahead of myself though.
The bar was empty both before and after he came in. We’re not exactly a booming place here in El Paso anyways, but this close to the holidays we’re pretty much always dead – everyone wants to save their money for presents, not spend it on beer.
I heard the door jingle – the stupid little decorations the bartenders put up when I’m not around – and looked up to see this old man walk in, covered in jackets and looking like he’d never met a razor before in his life. My first thought, of course, was that he was a bum; we get a few of those around every once in a while, and I’m more than willing to buy them a beer or two for doing odd jobs around the place.
Something about him told me that he was different though. Maybe it was the way that he walked, or something in his eyes, but he wasn’t a regular, run-of-the-mill bum. He sat down at the bar and I walked over to him.
“What can I get you?” I asked as I finished drying the glass I’d been washing.
His accent was strange; not quite British, definitely not American, but it was clear enough to where I could tell he’d at least grown up speaking English.
“I’ll have a … oh, what do you people call it … oh, that’s right. I’ll have a ‘beer’.” His voice was pleasant, happy, not the near-bitter tone that most of our patrons have. I gave him his beer, and he paid me from a large wad of bills that I wouldn’t have expected given his appearance. He put a twenty in the tip jar, and sipped his beer with a sigh of relief.
I went back to my cleaning, letting him drink in peace while I washed glasses and mopped behind the bar. It was mostly busy work; there wasn’t much to clean up, since there hadn’t been any customers earlier in the day or the night before. He called me over for another beer, and I poured it for him. This time, when he offered to pay, I waved him off.
“Don’t worry about it. This one’s on the house,” I told him, and he smiled. He paused for a moment, as if trying to find the right words, and then his expression brightened.
“That’s right,” he said, “‘Thank you’. I knew I’d remember.”
I wiped the bar off to one side of him – again, just busy work. “So, where you from?” I asked. It was obvious that he wasn’t from here, or from any country I could guess. That didn’t mean much; around here, the only two languages I ever heard were English and Spanish, and it’s not like I’ve toured the world or anything.
He smiled, a warm, knowing smile, and sipped from his mug before he spoke again. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he said, and something in his voice made me think he was right.
“Well,” I said, setting my rag down on a shelf behind the bar. “Try me. I hear a lot of crazy stories in this place; I’m sure one more won’t hurt.”
He laughed. “No, no. I’m sure it wouldn’t hurt. But…”
I laughed a little. Truth was I was dead bored, and he could’ve told me he was from the moon and I would’ve probably listened intently. “Well, try me anyways,” I repeated. He sighed, and was silent long enough that I almost thought he’d fallen asleep. Eventually, though, he looked up, a smile still lighting his face and an intensity in his eyes that almost scared me.
“I am,” he began, “a refugee, as your people would call it.” Great, I thought. We’re going to have immigration beating down the door now. I almost kicked him out right then, but he raised his hand before I could say anything.
“Not quite the right word, but close enough,” he said, and I relaxed a little bit. At least I could hear him out.
“I come from a place that isn’t unlike this one, or, at least, it used to be quite similar. Better, actually, but I won’t get into that. It … it doesn’t matter any more anyways.” He said this last part with a distant hurt, and was silent again for a brief moment before continuing.
“My ‘country’,” he said, with the same excitement he’d had earlier over finding the right words, “is currently in the middle of a … ‘revolution’, I believe you call it. I have been lucky enough to … escape. To find my way to your land, one I’d heard of many times but only recently truly believed existed. I must say, I’m quite pleased I made it, too. This place is … nice.”
“You obviously haven’t been here very long,” I said. He laughed.
“No, not long at all. Only a few … ‘hours’,” he said.
I didn’t know what to make of his story. I’ve never paid much attention to the news, so I didn’t know what countries were fighting at the moment. There was something about him that sounded reliable though (and yes, that’s gotten me into trouble before, too), and I figured I’d at least give him the benefit of the doubt. I was going to ask him some questions, but he continued before I could start.
“The place I come from is … scarred, you could say. I’ve come here seeking refuge, to finish out my life in what peace I may be able to find.” He took a sip from his beer, and a look of surprised anguish came over his face. I almost laughed; it was terribly melodramatic, but he took me by the arm with a grip that seemed unnaturally strong for such an old man.
“They’re coming,” he gasped. I stifled a laugh; it was like something out of a bad movie, but the fear in his eyes could only have been real. He stood up and threw a wad of bills on the counter.
“Tell no one I was here,” he said, his voice strained. Before I could say anything, he walked out the door.
I looked at the money he left on the counter – at least two hundred dollars, just from what I could tell at a quick glance. I had to catch him; I could keep my mouth shut for free, he didn’t need to give me a month’s worth of profits for that, especially this close to Christmas.
Even as fast as I ran out the door though, he was gone. I looked up and down the street, and couldn’t see him anywhere. I even ran up to one corner, didn’t see him down that street, and ran back to the other corner. Nothing.
I went back inside and counted the money, which I’d foolishly left on the counter. Thankfully no one had come in during my search, as he’d left a total of three hundred, forty-five dollars to pay for a two-dollar mug of beer. Nice tip…
Roughly a minute after I’d put the cash in my pocket (there was no way I was letting that much money slip into the tax man’s hands), two GI’s came in. They were dressed in civilian clothes, but this is a military town as much as it’s a border town; you can spot a military man a mile away once you’ve been here for a while. They both sat down at the bar and ordered a soda each.
They didn’t say much to me, but they eyed the place much more carefully than a normal customer would. One went to the restroom as soon as I set their drinks down; he returned a few moments later looking a little strange. Disappointed? Relieved? I couldn’t tell.
I couldn’t really get anything from their conversation, either. They talked about Iraq, about UTEP’s football team, about the Dallas Cowboys. It was a little forced, like they were putting up a front, but it was also well practiced. Had I not had such a strange visitor earlier in the night, I probably wouldn’t even have noticed. As it was though, my nerves were a little on edge, and I probably paid them more attention than necessary.
They didn’t stay but for the one soda, and left me a two dollar tip. When they were leaving, though, I heard – maybe just my imagination, I won’t deny it – one of them whisper “Not here; he’s probably back already.” Then he grunted something, and they got into their car (a plain civilian make) and took off.
Never saw the GI’s or that stranger again.
I did hear on the news later that night about a homeless man they’d found dead on a park bench downtown though, and it made me think of him. Hope it wasn’t; he seemed like a decent guy. Maybe a little too loose with his cash, but I ain’t complaining.
Want to find out what happens next? Go to http://matthewcory.com/2008/12/13/the-note/.
Coffee
Image via Wikipedia
It was warm for a winter day, even in El Paso, where the temperatures were often over fifty degrees in December. The sun was shining brightly, and the soft breeze was cold enough to remind me that it was still winter, whatever the temperature may be
I sat, staring out the window of Denny’s, my usual haunt, looking at the dusting of snow on the mountains and sipping my coffee. For a Saturday afternoon, there was little else I could wish for between the beautiful weather, the gorgeous scenery, and the bottomless cup of absurdly strong coffee. That’s what I thought at that moment, at least, right before she walked in the door.
From her uniform, it was obvious she was a waitress. Between never having seen her in there before, and the cautious look in her eyes, it was also obvious that she was a new employee starting one of her first days on the job. She smiled at me as she walked past to go to the kitchen; dazed, I only stared at her. By the time I got my mouth to form itself into a smile, only the door she’d walked through was there to see it, still swinging gently from her passing.
Even from that brief glance as she walked past, she was fixed firmly in my mind: long, dark hair, tied back in a pony tail that, though beautiful, did her little justice; a warm and slender face, eyes lit brightly from that quick smile; a slight figure with enough curves to be seductive, but still the light frame of a runner or dancer.
She returned through the door, and stood behind the counter, trying to figure out what to do first. As she looked at me, I raised my coffee mug to her, even though it was still half full. She turned to get the coffee pot for a refill, and I quickly downed what was left in my mug, unmindful of the scalding temperature as it scorched my throat.
Now’s your chance, I thought to myself as she poured my coffee. Unfortunately, my mouth was still in excruciating pain from draining the coffee so quickly, and all I could stammer out was something akin to “Mmmph ahhgh glurrrrg.” She laughed, a light and playful laugh that made me smile in spite of myself, probably making me look further as though I were mentally challenged than I already did.
“Are you okay?” she asked. I took a second to make sure my toungue was working properly, thankful that she waited for me to speak.
“Yeah, just … that last cup was a little warm. Are you new?” I asked, though I knew full well that she was; I was simply trying to keep her at my table as long as possible, though I wouldn’t have been able to tell you why.
“Yeah, second day. That obvious?”
“No, just never seen you before. You’re doing good so far.”
“Thanks, but I just came on the clock. Let’s see if I break more dishes today than yesterday before we say anything though.” We both laughed, and I knew I’d be drinking more than my fair share of coffee that day.
And I did. I drank my share, and her share, and your share. And I came in the next day after work and did the same thing, and every day after that. It surprised me; most waitresses would’ve thought I was stalking them, and grown quite leary of me within a couple of days. She was different, and seemed to enjoy my company (for some reason) more and more as time passed.
It was some time later that things changed, as they normally do in spring time. The leaves were turning green, the wind was picking up, the rains were starting, and the temperatures rose higher and higher. I came in one day as I always did, and waited patiently for her to arrive. Much to my disappointment, she didn’t — another waitress came in her spot, an older woman who, though somewhat attractive, was also about as cuddly as steel wool. I drank a single cup of coffee and left, wondering what had happened to the woman I’d grown quite fond of over the period of a few months.
Of course I’d never gotten her phone number, nor did I learn her last name. And why should I? She was a constant; she was always there at the restaurant at a given time, on specific days of the week. Eventually, I found out she’d left for a different job, with better pay and better hours. I was happy for her, though I missed her greatly. I also stopped going to that restaurant as frequently, and my stomach was thankful I’d stopped the constant onslaught of their bitter coffee.
Quite by accident — literally — things changed yet again with the season. As summer brought it’s triple-digit days and nights of monsoon rains, I found myself at a red light one evening in a torrential downpour. I could hardly see the lines in the road, and though initially shocked by the impact, I wasn’t terribly surprised when I got rear-ended. It was not good driving weather, and it was only because I’d run out of (of all things) coffee for the mornings that I’d been out.
Though the accident itself wasn’t much of a surprise, the beautiful, slender face in the car that had hit me was. It was my waitress, and her expression changed from a grimace of fear and regret to a bright smile when she realized who it was she’d run into. Finally, I had the nerve and the chance to find out her phone number, and found many excuses over the next couple of days to call her — an extra fee for this, another ding here that I’d pay for anyways, just wanted to let her know, so on and so forth.
That was two years ago, this summer, and there wasn’t a chance I’d let her get away this time. I invited her out to coffee for the first date, and by the third date we’d decided that we would do much better as husband and wife than as customer and waitress. Now, every morning as we get up for work — of all things, she’d quit her job as a waitress for a job as an auto insurance claims adjuster — I pour her cup of coffee for her, and she tips me with a kiss.
![Reblog this post [with Zemanta]](http://img.zemanta.com/reblog_e.png?x-id=8893587f-cc2e-49e8-a1ea-945479f73cb5)
The Dishes
The Dishes
The tavern was deserted, which was perfectly fine by me. Lisa was in one of her moods again, and I needed to get away from it all. I walked to the counter and waited for the barkeep to show from wherever he might be. He came out from the restroom a few minutes later, wiping his age-worn face with a brown paper towel that he threw into an unseen garbage can behind the bar.
Well into his sixties, maybe even seventies, he still had the rugged good looks and the fire and charm he must’ve had at my age. Even now, he could be quite the lady killer if he wanted, but behind his hey-there-glad-to-see-ya veneer, he still silently mourned his wife Chrissie. She’d now been a resident of Stillwater Pines cemetery for the past five years.
“Hey Mike, the usual?” he asked, his gravelly voice oddly making the cheerful tone seem more sincere.
“Same flavor, but not a bottle tonight. Gimme one of those mugs.”
He smiled a little. “Ah, one of those nights, eh?”
“Yeah. Let me have five in quarters and some ones with that.” I handed him a twenty, and gave him two singles for a tip after he gave me my mug. I found a pool table in the corner and grabbed a cue stick from the rack on the wall.
The thunder of the balls rolling down to the end of the table as I put the quarters in was teasingly cathartic, and I knew I was going to be shooting good for the night. I set up one rack, broke and ran the solids first, then the stripes. I set up another, missed one shot, and ran the rest. If Lisa could get mad at me before a money game, I might be able to make something of myself.
I finished my mug after the third game and Joey responded to my wave with a fresh one.
“So what’s the story?” He’d been a bartender long enough to know when someone felt like talking and when they didn’t. Between the beer and the game, I felt a little better and he could see it.
“Lisa’s having one of her days again.”
“Oh really? What’s going on? If you don’t mind me asking, that is…”
“Nah, no big deal. She’s just getting on to me about little things, doing the dishes, the garbage. Nag, nag, nag. Just needed to get away for a bit.”
He gave me a sad but almost condescending smile. “Ah, youth. You get so fired up so easily. I was like that too, a long time ago. Well, not that long, only about forty years, but it feels like an eternity some time. Hey, why doncha sit at the bar, I’ll break out an ashtray, and lemme tell you a story. It’s a little on the crazy side, and I know you won’t believe it, but it’s a good listen at least and you’ll get a couple of beers on the house for your troubles. Sound good?”
I looked at the table, with the remnants of my last break scattered on the green. It could wait. I put the cue stick back on the rack and followed him to the bar.
He pulled himself a mug from the taps, and tossed a plastic ashtray on the bar in front of me. I grabbed my pack out of my pocket and set it on the bar.
“Not worried about the cops tonight?”
“Nah, no one’s here, they’ll skip us. Hate that damned law anyways. Almost killed this place when they started it.” We each lit a cigarette and took that first, deep drag normally indicative of a long day at some hard, physical work. He took almost half his mug at a swallow, and I took a couple of good drinks from mine. We sat for a moment or two in silence while he tried (I assume) to find a good starting point. Finally he did.
“You know, Chrissie was a lot like Lisa. I see that when you guys come in here together. Same energy, same level of intensity. Had that same no-nonsense, git-er-done-now mentality. Used to bug the hell out of me.
“I was a lot like you. Stubborn, a bit too much pride, almost arrogant. Not trying to get on to you or anything, just want to let you know where this starts.” I nodded to assure him no harm was done, and took a drink from my mug.
“Anyways, one night-this was when we first got married, only a couple of weeks after the honeymoon-we got into it over who was going to do the dishes. I’d had a hard day at work, and it was my turn but I didn’t want to. I just wanted to sit back, have a beer or two, and watch a bit of TV before bed.
“One thing led to another, and before you know it I’m red in the face, screaming at her, she’s screaming back at me, just on and on. I walked out of the house and slammed the door behind me. Didn’t know where I was going, didn’t care. Just needed to get away from it before I said something stupid.
“So I walked. It was a nice night, middle of August when it starts to cool down in the evenings, with about a half moon giving a decent amount of light where the street lights didn’t catch. About an hour later, I was a good distance from the house, ended up by the forests out there by Johnson road, over where the Chevron station is now.
“Now here’s where it starts to get crazy. I need a refill before I go on; you want one too?” I still had barely touched mine, while he finished his while waiting for an answer. I shook my head, and pulled out another cigarette. He poured me another one from the taps anyways, and set it down beside my current mug.
“Here, this way I might not have to get up, and if it gets warm I’ll just get you another one anyways. Draft’s cheap-that glass you’re drinking from cost more than a case worth of beer out of the keg.
“Anyways, like I said, I was out by the forests, walking along, still mad. I don’t know…”
…exactly what it was that made me look up across the road at that part of the forest right then, but something did. A sound, maybe just a weird feeling. But I looked up into the underbrush, and there was this…this thing there, about halfway hidden by the brush and the shadows the moon cast, and it was looking at me.
I didn’t know what to think it was at the time, hadn’t seen anything like it before. But since then it’s been all over the place. Movies, tee shirts, posters they sell in the mall. Everywhere. Only they aren’t quite the same as what I saw, close, but not quite. You know, like a police sketch is close to what the suspect looks like, but maybe the nose is a little too wide, or the eyebrows are a bit lower.
It was short, maybe would’ve been able to look over this bar, but not by too much. It didn’t look like it had any clothes on, but I wouldn’t swear to it. It was about half in the brush anyways, so I wouldn’t have seen a belt or a shirt tail or anything like that. It had a hand on a branch, and I could only see maybe three fingers at the end of an arm that was way too long, like a monkey’s arms or something. The head looked like it was too big for what I could see of its neck, like it shouldn’t have been able to hold it up, but it did. Couldn’t see a nose, and it had a thin little black line where its mouth should’ve been.
Its eyes were what got me the most I think. It had two big, black eyes, which were more oval than round. It looked almost oriental, but when I think about them, I think the eyes were really that shape, not the skin around them. But they were empty. I mean, absolutely nothing there. Not mean, not happy, not curious or afraid. It was like looking at rocks or an eight ball or something. And they were just looking at me.
Mind you, I’ve been thinking about this for some forty-odd years now. It didn’t all dawn at me at once, it’s not like I stood there thinking “wow, it only has three fingers and its eyes are oval.” It stuck in my head pretty well though, and I’ve been rolling the memories around for a long time. I might have changed things around in that time, like the way your childhood home always seems a lot smaller than the big castle you remember growing up in, but I think I’m still pretty close to the money.
Anyways, we stood there looking at each other for a few minutes. I don’t know what it was thinking, but I was too scared to move. I’d probably still be standing there if the car hadn’t driven by, and scared my new “friend” deeper into the forest. Even then, I still just stood there for a second or two, trying to think of what to do next. Then I decided to do the stupidest thing I think I’ve ever done in my life, and I’ve done some pretty stupid things. I followed it.
I don’t know why, but I was both scared to death and utterly fearless, if that makes any sense. I ran across the street and into the brush without thinking about it any more than if I was just going to the bank or something, but at the same time I wanted to run in the other direction. Still don’t know why I went in, but I did.
You know that running in the forests around here isn’t exactly the easiest thing to do, especially at night when you can’t see a branch in your way or some blackberry bushes ready to trip you up. I ended up doing little more than a slow jog, and after a minute or so I realized that I didn’t know where I was going-I might even have already passed the little bugger and maybe it was following me now. So I stopped and listened for a bit. Nothing at all. I looked around and couldn’t see anything, but somehow I knew I couldn’t just walk out of the forest now. I kept on in the direction I’d been going, at a fast walk and going as quietly as I could.
It wasn’t too long before I came up to a little patch that had been logged a year or so before that, still a few stumps they hadn’t cleared out but otherwise empty. I walked out from the forest to almost the middle of the clearing and looked around, couldn’t see anything. I finally decided whatever that thing had been was either gone for good, or more likely just some branches that caught the light funny and when the car drove past I just looked at that spot a little differently and couldn’t see it. I turned around and took a couple of steps towards the road before I saw three of the stumps that I had passed coming into the clearing stand up.
One of them was surely my new friend, but all three of them looked exactly the same so I couldn’t tell which one it was. They all stood there, looking at me, with those same empty eyes reflecting the moon. They were standing almost at attention, like a squad of soldiers ready for inspection. A bit more relaxed than that, but that’s close enough for government work. I don’t know how long we stood there, staring at each other. Maybe a minute, maybe an hour, probably closer to ten or fifteen minutes but I don’t know. Then they started walking.
They walked with an eerie grace, like dancers almost, or cats or something. Not quite synchronized, which killed the military image they almost had, but pretty close, and rhythmic, like they were each walking to a different drum that was part of the same song. They walked towards me, and I couldn’t do anything but watch them get closer and closer. They stopped a couple of feet from me, close enough to where I had to look down to see them.
I’ve heard a lot of stories about people getting abducted, or waking up and seeing these guys in the middle of the night, and they always talk about these things talking to them with their minds. Telepathy, they call it I think. I don’t know about that, but these guys didn’t say anything to me, either with their mouths or with their minds. They just stood there, like they were waiting for me to introduce myself or something.
I wanted to say something, wanted to do anything except just stand there like an idiot, but I couldn’t. Couldn’t move, couldn’t talk, nothing. I think I must’ve bored them, or something, because they started walking again, and walked right past me.
I turned around and watched them walk for a few moments, and then they stopped in the middle of the clearing and turned back towards me. Then they were gone. No sounds, no bright light, no ship or anything that I could see. They just disappeared from that clearing, like someone flipped a switch or something, no fade or nothing. Just gone.
His silence stretched out until I realized that he was finished.
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“What happened next?”
“I went home and did the dishes. You ready for another one?”
I couldn’t believe it. “What do you mean you went home to do the dishes? Why didn’t you call someone, the cops or the army or something?”
“What did I have to show for it? No one would’ve believed it. Even if they did, what could they have done?”
“Something, anything. At least someone could’ve been keeping an eye out or something.”
“You just don’t get it, do you kid? We get so caught up in our little lives, our jobs, our hobbies, our petty he-said-she-said arguments. We’re arrogant, all of us, we all think we’re the end-all-and-be-all of creation, but we’re not.
“Even on this chunk of rock, do you think it’s going to matter if you did the dishes or not? Do you think standing your ground on that will keep Mt. St. Helens from erupting when it decides to blow again? Do you think they’re going to have a national holiday for you because you made Lisa do housework? Our little arguments about taking the garbage out or cleaning up the cat box are so much less than insignificant in the bigger picture that it’s almost funny to think about them.
“I’m not saying you need to believe my story-half the time I don’t even believe it myself. But let’s just say I’m not making it up, and I’m not crazy. Let’s say there are ET’s out there. Could be hundreds, thousands, maybe even millions of other civilizations out there, not just the one whose ambassadors I met that night.
“Take how petty doing the laundry is compared to just the problems of the six billion other people on this planet, and hold that in comparison with a thousand other planets. Is it worth fighting over?” I said nothing; it seemed rhetorical. “How old are you Mike, twenty-four?”
“Twenty-three.”
“Twenty-three. I remember being that young. You think you’re the cream of the crop. Thirty’s still old and forty’s ancient. You can’t even imagine a world before you yet. You know how old I am, right?”
“No.” I had my guesses, but figured it’d be best to keep quiet rather than guess wrong.
“Seventy-two. I’ve been around for more than three of you. Think about that. I’m not trying to be condescending, but think about how your experience measures to a seven year old. When you’re seven, you can’t imagine being twenty-three. When you’re twenty-three, you can’t imagine being seventy-two. Believe me, I’ve been all three.” I took a drink from my almost-empty mug, waiting for him to get to his point.
“For forty-two of those seventy-two years, Chrissie and I were together, married for forty-one of those years. In that time we still fought-you can’t completely stop being human, I don’t care what happens to you-but that night, seeing those three things in that clearing put everything in a different perspective. I started to see what mattered.
“It wasn’t the dishes. It wasn’t that the bathroom needed to be cleaned or the bed needed to be made. It wasn’t even that bills needed to get paid and we needed a roof over our heads.
“What mattered was that, in this universe that may be filled with life-hell, even just this planet if you don’t want to believe me-I had a person that I loved more than anything else. And she loved me. One person out of billions. That’s all that matters.” I said nothing, just sat there, smoking the last of my cigarette. The jingle of the bell on the door announced a visitor.
“Aw crap, I got a customer.” He stood up and greeted a middle aged man carrying a leather cue case. I downed the last of my beer and put a five on the bar as I walked towards the door.
“Think about what I said Mike,” he called after me from behind the bar. I turned and nodded and walked out the door.
Then I went home and did the dishes.
Solitaire
We played solitaire that night, her mother and I, as she lay dying only a breath away from us. It sounds bad now, insensitive, but it was all we could find to distract ourselves from the grief at hand: that stupid little video game that our daughter used to carry around with her everywhere she went, much to our annoyance, was now our only hope for sanity.
My wife slipped over an Ace before I could say anything. I almost snapped at her, but my daughter’s breathing stuttered for a moment, stopping me. It steadied again, and again I was torn — it was more time with her, the little girl with my wife’s eyes and my laugh; but it wasn’t, really. She was gone, and every breath was less a fight to survive than a mockery of the life she’d been given.
We’d given up any hope that there’d be a miraculous recovery, with glowing sunbeams, handsome doctors, triumphant music coming from nowhere. She was dead, breathing only out of sheer habit, while my wife and I played solitaire waiting for the end.
I watched it happen, too, the fall that brought her to that hospital bed. It was almost trivial, the kind of fall that just about everyone’s had at one time or another. The stairs were slick, freshly polished, and perhaps a little too steep, but nothing different from any other day for the twelve years she’d been able to walk down them herself. She wasn’t clumsy, but she had all the grace of your average, lanky fourteen year old, and she happened to run a little too fast when I called her down for dinner.
What had excited her I’ll never know. A guy asked her to a dance? Maybe; though she probably knew we’d be hard pressed to let her go. Probably wasn’t joy over a good grade on a test — she was a smart girl, and got plenty of A’s and high B’s, so that wouldn’t have impressed her too much. Odds are it was just standard, school girl giddiness over some bit of gossip she was anxious to share with her mother (probably not her father — dad was never very good at a girl-to-girl chat). I’ve wondered what she was so excited about many times since she fell, and wished she’d held back a little, at least until she sat down.
She came to the landing and most of her stopped, but her feet betrayed her, continuing on out from under the frame they were supposed to support. It took me almost a full minute to realize that something was wrong with the dull thunk I’d heard. Half an hour later, my wife and I walked into the emergency room as she arrived in the ambulance. Two days later we were told she was all but gone, and, still mostly in shock, we agreed to have her taken off the machines that were breathing for her.
I’d like to think it’s because my wife and I both knew for certain that she would rather have died than stay on the machine; in honesty though, I think it was because the word “yes” comes out easier when you’re scared to death. We held her hand and brushed her hair and hugged her and talked to her for several hours. Then we played solitaire, not wanting to stay and watch her die, but not wanting to leave her.
It’s strange to say “we” played, but that’s what it was. We’d point to which card to play when the other was about to miss it. We’d suggest playing one red nine over the other red nine when there was a choice. Not that there’s any real strategy to the game, or that either of us knows what to do better than the other. It just makes it seem a little easier when we both play together, even though it’s still just as difficult as when you go it alone.
My wife gasped silently with modest delight, and I could see she’d finally beaten it. I smiled and kissed her head and placed my hand on her shoulder. She started to sob, silently though it shook her body, and I started to try and calm her — emotions were running high, and though I couldn’t explain it to anyone, I could understand how beating a simple game might cause her to break down. Before I could say anything though, and without really knowing why, I glanced briefly at the equipment attached to our daughter. I did a double take as I saw the green lines on the monitor give a short leap, then fall still.
Later that night, as my wife lay next to me in bed after crying herself to sleep (I’ll admit I wanted to do the same, though I couldn’t break down when she needed some kind of a rock), I crept out to my daughter’s former room. I pulled the chair from her desk and faced it towards the window, overlooking the beautiful rose bushes at our neighbor’s house, now gray with night. I grabbed the solitaire game from her bed, where we’d set it with an aching despair when we returned from the hospital. I played it, letting tears I didn’t know I was crying hit it freely.
After some time, I wiped it dry, intent on trying to steady myself. Another tear landed on it, and I looked over my shoulder to see my wife standing above me. “You missed an Ace,” she said, her voice thick and trembling. She reached down and I hugged her, closer than I knew possible, and after a moment she sat on the bed next to me. My wife and I played solitaire that night, in the walls of the room our daughter had called her own, walls that would never echo back the sound of her voice again.
An Old Love
We were great together once. I see that now, years after I turned my back on her. I needed her more than I knew, and as is too often the case, I took her for granted. I disregarded the importance of the long days together and th longer nights, the soft whispers and thunderous, cathartic outpourings. The times she’d echo my joy, or hold my heart as I wept.
Not once in the many years we were together did she turn from me, though not always did I run to her either. But, when I did, she was there. Sometimes graceful and elegant, sometimes tired and haggard, but there nonetheless.
It was in the splendor of youth’s ignorance we first met, the playful days of summer at the time in life with no cares or worries of what others may think. Had it been later, when image becomes everything and the slightest mistake is shunned, our romance would likely have never bloomed. As it was, I cared nothing for every misplaced step (and there were countless), and we flourished.
It was in high school where our romance took hold, with the irregularities of hormonal emotions pushed us together as no other force could. The highs and lows of teenage angst, where the smallest event is either a crises or pure ecstasy, drove the fires of our passion.
As with so many high school sweethearts, college brought our downfall. In the later years of high school, I’d grown insecure, felt unworthy of her, not good enough to make it last. Everyone assured me this was groundless, but how can you uproot those seeds once they’re sown?
We tried to make it work in college, though the new sights and distractions proved too much for me. We didn’t grow apart; I grew away from her. On several occasions I tried to go back, but it was never the same. I’d changed too much to speak with her as I once had.
I see her often now, in movies or television, or hear her on the radio. She still makes me laugh or cry, but, most of the time, I find myself unable to open to her as I did back in the carefree days of yesteryear. I’ll see her sometimes in a store, or a friend house, and I’m torn between the desire to touch her again, to open my heart like it opened so many years ago; and the knowledge that it could never be the same.
Tonight I whispered to her though, softly, as my wife lay in bed and I didn’t want to wake her. There was the same, undying battle: let everything pour out as it may, or hold it back for fear of … well, just fear. Perhaps of feeling unworthy again. Perhaps fear of getting too wrapped up in something I can’t have now, at least not as I once did.
The fear won out tonight, though it was a tough battle. I dusted off her nameplate — she’s had several names since we first met, this time it’s Kimball — and I slid the polished wood cover back over her keys, keeping the pedal held down to let the last whisper hold out a little longer.
Short Story vs. Novel
(Originally posted on http://mcory.wordpress.com/ on 4/28/2007)
I’m trying to come up with something to write, plotting, etc. Ain’t happening very well. I do have a “set of scenes” in mind that could play out well for a novel, but it’s not gelling together very well just yet–it’s hiding quite effectively amid the forests of the rest of my life.
Last year, when I started trying to write seriously, I churned out 4 short stories in a relatively short amount of time. I don’t know what’s happening on that front; I’ve gotten more focused on wanting to write a novel, and I’m finding it much harder to find something that’s worth saying and possible to say in a handful of pages.
That’s crap.
I’m too closely tying “short story” with “horror story”. That was the genre I was trying to get into last year when I wrote those. A short story is great for those, in my opinion: you set the scene, give a slight amount of back story if necessary, and then bring in the ghost/monster/psycho. Quick, simple, marginally effective.
Now I’m wanting to write “fake biographies” (for lack of a better term), or quasi-romance, whatever exactly this stuff is. It’s much harder to generate an emotional attachment to a character in four pages than in four chapters, and, quite frankly, I’m not exactly looking for a challenge at the moment.
At the same time, I don’t have the time (without really moving things around) to get another novel out in short time span here. A short story would be great; perfect. Get up one morning, sketch it out. Next morning (maybe couple of mornings), draft it. Edit. Revise. Rinse and repeat. Start on Monday, by the weekend you have another story ready for the limelight. (in theory, at least.)
With a novel, well… Working on it just a couple of hours each morning it’d take me a couple of months at least to get it knocked out, and that’s assuming the story just falls into place and I don’t have to waste a morning or three staring at a blank piece of note paper counting the lines and then the spaces and then the lines and then….
But, you get what you pay for I guess; it feels pretty cool to tell people “yeah, after I finished my book, I…”
Oh well. I’m going to the rez for smokes now that Patti’s home. We’ll see what’s going on later; maybe we’ll do some music stuff or something. Who knows?
RSS
RSS Feed