Walking through the grand entrance, she feels as though she is entering a church. There are some places, indoors or outdoors, that just feel holy. Sometimes it's the beauty of the view, the love with which the structure was created, the tangible feel of history just out of reach, and sometimes, it's what is in the place that makes the difference.
Similar to a cathedral in more ways than one, the high ceilings and detailed architecture impose an air of quiet reverence upon visitors. She feels the contemplative silence of the art museum curl around her feet before enveloping her entirely.
She walks slowly from painting to painting. First gazing from a distance, then gradually creeping closer until she is an arms length away from the art work. She likes to take in the whole picture, then break in down into details; the brushstrokes, the textures, the individual colors and shapes. She moves closer still, all she sees are meaningless pieces of the whole. Beautiful, fragmented parts that together are called a masterpiece. One of the museum guards circles near her, she leans away from the painting as he watching, taking care that he sees that she's not touching or threatening the art in any way.
The museum is busy on this Saturday afternoon. Couples, young and old roam around her, appreciating the art, but still moving quickly. They have schedules, movies to catch, dinner to eat. She is an anchor in their wake, spending time with each piece that grabs her heart, her eye, her curiosity.
The couples discuss the art as they flow around her. The dynamic seems to be consistent. In a group of two, one is knowledgeable, sharing what they've learned and the other is listening, nodding, asking questions. They are quiet and quick, moving eagerly from point to point. "See, this painting was before the Campbell soup screen prints and the Monroe prints. One of the first. He just figured out how to silkscreen pictures on canvas like this. . . Oh, look at this one!" And they're onto the next and next.
Some of the conversations between couples aren't in English. She listens, while studying the tiny painted cars on the freeway wrapped around a California cliff, trying to pick out the meaning behind the foreign tongue. Brain resisting her efforts to recall past semesters of foreign language, she manages to gleam little from the chatter. pintura, realismo, político.Admittedly, in an art museum, some of the things English speakers say are just as difficult to translate.
It’s odd the way looking at so much beauty can make her feel this way. Refreshing, intoxicating, and then cleansing. Hours later, when she finally drifts toward the exit, she wonders if leaving will break the spell. She hesitates, lingering by the tall, stately columns that line the entrance before pushing through the swinging glass doors. She breaths deeply, comforted by the feeling that is carried in her, even out the door.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
headlights shine like diamonds
The unseasonal rain had been threatening all day. Rumbles of thunder sounding at a distance, jangles of bass vibrating on the edges of the horizon. Now the rain poured like the heavens had been ripped open. Big, fat drops of rain pelted the cars, the street, the plants that were shutting down for the coming winter.
The city asleep, gleamed like a jewel. The street lights and stop lights shone brilliantly, despite the rain. The streets, saturated with water, reflected the every light like a mirror. The reflection of the street lights stretched out on the streets like unrolled ribbon. Red, green and gold, the street looked more like a wrapped Christmas present than a place to drive.
The downpour continued until dawn broke, gray and foggy, the streets still shining with the last rain of fall.
The city asleep, gleamed like a jewel. The street lights and stop lights shone brilliantly, despite the rain. The streets, saturated with water, reflected the every light like a mirror. The reflection of the street lights stretched out on the streets like unrolled ribbon. Red, green and gold, the street looked more like a wrapped Christmas present than a place to drive.
The downpour continued until dawn broke, gray and foggy, the streets still shining with the last rain of fall.
Lost in the Stacks
From behind the bookshelves, the sound of crying slowly grew louder. A man spoke reassuringly, "Don't worry, we'll take a walk and find your mom."
Shuffling out into the aisle, the boy, barely more than a toddler, clutched the security officer's hand and whimpered. His shoelaces, nearly untied, flopped forward with each timid step of his cartoon sneakers. Spongebob's smiling face had never seemed so out of place. The boy wore a backpack over his winter jacket, his right hand with its crumpled tissue barely hanging out of the still too big hand-me-down coat.
The officer walked slowly, bending to the side so that he could hold the four-year-olds hand as they searched. Eyes moving around the room, he looked for a woman with a distracted, worried expression, one that would jump to attention at the sound of her son's familiar cry. He looked for a sibling, warily accustomed to the way their younger brother wanders off.
"Now I have to tell you. I've never failed to find a lost mom. They just can't hide from me, son," the officer said.
There's plenty of nooks and crannies in the library, quiet areas with comfortable chairs for reading, computer rooms, bathrooms, adult books, children's books and a huge video room. The officer considers the most likely places that the mother might have gone to as they shuffle down the hall.
"Now I need you to take me to where you were when you realized your mom was gone, ok? And I need you to help me look for her, because you know her better than I do, sound like a plan?"
The boy nods as he trys to stops crying, gasping for breath the way kids do when they've been sobbing for a while. "I was on the computer. . ." he manages before breaking into another wail.
The officer, uniform pressed crisply and tucked in properly, doesn't miss a beat as he sweeps the child up into his arms. "It'll be ok, Ben. We'll find her, I promise."
Shuffling out into the aisle, the boy, barely more than a toddler, clutched the security officer's hand and whimpered. His shoelaces, nearly untied, flopped forward with each timid step of his cartoon sneakers. Spongebob's smiling face had never seemed so out of place. The boy wore a backpack over his winter jacket, his right hand with its crumpled tissue barely hanging out of the still too big hand-me-down coat.
The officer walked slowly, bending to the side so that he could hold the four-year-olds hand as they searched. Eyes moving around the room, he looked for a woman with a distracted, worried expression, one that would jump to attention at the sound of her son's familiar cry. He looked for a sibling, warily accustomed to the way their younger brother wanders off.
"Now I have to tell you. I've never failed to find a lost mom. They just can't hide from me, son," the officer said.
There's plenty of nooks and crannies in the library, quiet areas with comfortable chairs for reading, computer rooms, bathrooms, adult books, children's books and a huge video room. The officer considers the most likely places that the mother might have gone to as they shuffle down the hall.
"Now I need you to take me to where you were when you realized your mom was gone, ok? And I need you to help me look for her, because you know her better than I do, sound like a plan?"
The boy nods as he trys to stops crying, gasping for breath the way kids do when they've been sobbing for a while. "I was on the computer. . ." he manages before breaking into another wail.
The officer, uniform pressed crisply and tucked in properly, doesn't miss a beat as he sweeps the child up into his arms. "It'll be ok, Ben. We'll find her, I promise."
Thursday, November 6, 2008
a boy in uniform
They swarm her hotel every couple of weeks. Jerseys and sweatpants, they eat, sleep, shower and sleep some more.
On the ice against the Roadrunners, the teams looks tough but agile. They move so quickly that it's difficult to keep up with a game. The puck is constantly moving, and the men are right behind it. Lightning fast hockey sticks jab and poke, as the players physically prevent each other from scoring. A simple shoulder bump can turn into an all-out, gloves off fight as sticks are snapped and thrown onto the ice.
In the light of the hotel, those men turn back into boys. They're young, most fresh from high school, though you wouldn't know it from their conversations.
"Excuse me, do you have a map I can look at?" the ruddy-checked hockey player asked.
The desk clerk looked at the big, easy to use map of Topeka lying on the counter. "I have this one," she said.
"No, I mean, um... do you have a bigger one. One that shows more?" he gestures with his hands. Apparently he's looking for a map that's about four feet wide.
"Nope, this is it," she says it with a smile, wondering when they'd leave for lunch and let her have a moment of peace.
He sighs, resigning himself to getting his answer from a person. "Well, can you just tell me. Are we above or below Nebraska?" he asks with a straight face, gesturing to a group of the boys waiting outside. "We were having an argument about this."
"Below. We are below Nebraska," the desk clerk says, noting that he doesn't look particularly pleased to hear this.
The player mumbles his thanks as he walks away, leaving the clerk shaking her head in disbelief. . . "Next time, remember not to talk to the players," she reminds herself. "They were so much cuter when they were fighting on the ice."
On the ice against the Roadrunners, the teams looks tough but agile. They move so quickly that it's difficult to keep up with a game. The puck is constantly moving, and the men are right behind it. Lightning fast hockey sticks jab and poke, as the players physically prevent each other from scoring. A simple shoulder bump can turn into an all-out, gloves off fight as sticks are snapped and thrown onto the ice.
In the light of the hotel, those men turn back into boys. They're young, most fresh from high school, though you wouldn't know it from their conversations.
"Excuse me, do you have a map I can look at?" the ruddy-checked hockey player asked.
The desk clerk looked at the big, easy to use map of Topeka lying on the counter. "I have this one," she said.
"No, I mean, um... do you have a bigger one. One that shows more?" he gestures with his hands. Apparently he's looking for a map that's about four feet wide.
"Nope, this is it," she says it with a smile, wondering when they'd leave for lunch and let her have a moment of peace.
He sighs, resigning himself to getting his answer from a person. "Well, can you just tell me. Are we above or below Nebraska?" he asks with a straight face, gesturing to a group of the boys waiting outside. "We were having an argument about this."
"Below. We are below Nebraska," the desk clerk says, noting that he doesn't look particularly pleased to hear this.
The player mumbles his thanks as he walks away, leaving the clerk shaking her head in disbelief. . . "Next time, remember not to talk to the players," she reminds herself. "They were so much cuter when they were fighting on the ice."
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
kids and trains
In a thriving college town, no real estate opportunity is passed by. Any house-size lot eventually grows some sort of rentable living quarters. This lot happened to be tucked behind an grand old Victorian style house on a tree-lined avenue that dead ends just before the river. Proud and dignified, the two story Victorian shadows a dirt drive that curves around to the back, where a separate two bedroom flat hides from view. Past the house, the yard drops off suddenly, a five foot drop to the ground below. This ditch directly behind the house must be the reason for the unusually low rent. Railroad tracks gleam in the sunlight, not 20 feet from the bedroom windows.
Looking wistfully at the tracks, Rich said, “I wonder when the next one will be. I heard like, five go by last night.”
“Maybe we can check the train schedule online,” someone answers.
Their backs warm from the sunlight; they lean back into the grass, still green, but covered with the red and orange leaves of fall. Beer cans in hand; the friends relax, legs dangling off the ledge to the tracks.
“The first of November and I’m hot!” Rachel said. “This is just silly.”
“Hey Shalyn, do you remember when we used to walk along the railroad tracks and pick up the big spikes?” Skyler asked, pointing at a rusty seven inch nail laying along the tracks.
“Yeah. . . why did we want those again?” Shalyn said.
“No idea. Just kid stuff,” Skyler answered.
“And those glass bulbs that were on the old electrical lines. Sometimes they were clear and sometimes they were that turquoise blue,” Shalyn said. “They were pretty.”
Hours later, they are inside the house, listening to music and reminiscing when they hear it.
Midsentence, Shalyn trails to a stop before jumping to her feet, saying, “It’s here!”
Out the door and down the hill, they are eager and waving when the train rushes by. The blast of air sends the leaves swirling around their bodies, they are laughing, hooting and hollering against the unbelievable loudness of the train. Horn blaring, wheels clacking, the sound is carried, fading into the twilight of the most perfect fall day.
Looking wistfully at the tracks, Rich said, “I wonder when the next one will be. I heard like, five go by last night.”
“Maybe we can check the train schedule online,” someone answers.
Their backs warm from the sunlight; they lean back into the grass, still green, but covered with the red and orange leaves of fall. Beer cans in hand; the friends relax, legs dangling off the ledge to the tracks.
“The first of November and I’m hot!” Rachel said. “This is just silly.”
“Hey Shalyn, do you remember when we used to walk along the railroad tracks and pick up the big spikes?” Skyler asked, pointing at a rusty seven inch nail laying along the tracks.
“Yeah. . . why did we want those again?” Shalyn said.
“No idea. Just kid stuff,” Skyler answered.
“And those glass bulbs that were on the old electrical lines. Sometimes they were clear and sometimes they were that turquoise blue,” Shalyn said. “They were pretty.”
Hours later, they are inside the house, listening to music and reminiscing when they hear it.
Midsentence, Shalyn trails to a stop before jumping to her feet, saying, “It’s here!”
Out the door and down the hill, they are eager and waving when the train rushes by. The blast of air sends the leaves swirling around their bodies, they are laughing, hooting and hollering against the unbelievable loudness of the train. Horn blaring, wheels clacking, the sound is carried, fading into the twilight of the most perfect fall day.
Friday, October 3, 2008
The Thrill of Spangles
In his soccer uniform of shorts and a team t-shirt, the little boy couldn’t contain his energy. He slipped under his mother’s arm, under the table and out of the booth.
“Wooooo!” He calls out playfully as he bounces across the restaurant, little plastic shin guards flapping against his legs. He hops from the booth all the way to the soda dispensers and back. With each hop, he crouches low before bounding up in the air, swinging arms and landing solidly. Every couple of hops he lets out a happy noise. Simply thrilled to be allowed to play, he celebrates.
His mother watches him with one eye, resigned to let him misbehave for a few minutes while she eats. It is late and the restaurant, fast-food and family-friendly, was nearly empty. Surely he isn't bothering anyone.
His play is contagious, it seems. His little sister, just moments before curled up against her grandmother looking sleepy, slides out of the booth as well.
She mimics her brother shyly. Adorable with her big blue eyes and blonde ponytail, she joins him in running circles around an empty table. Dressed in a black leotard, pink tights and pink ballet slippers, she doesn’t have good traction on the tile floor. Scrambling to keep up, she makes happy noises with him. “Wooooo! Yeah, soccer! Yay, hamburger!” Their cheers echo across the linoleum and late night diners smile involuntarily.
“Wooooo!” He calls out playfully as he bounces across the restaurant, little plastic shin guards flapping against his legs. He hops from the booth all the way to the soda dispensers and back. With each hop, he crouches low before bounding up in the air, swinging arms and landing solidly. Every couple of hops he lets out a happy noise. Simply thrilled to be allowed to play, he celebrates.
His mother watches him with one eye, resigned to let him misbehave for a few minutes while she eats. It is late and the restaurant, fast-food and family-friendly, was nearly empty. Surely he isn't bothering anyone.
His play is contagious, it seems. His little sister, just moments before curled up against her grandmother looking sleepy, slides out of the booth as well.
She mimics her brother shyly. Adorable with her big blue eyes and blonde ponytail, she joins him in running circles around an empty table. Dressed in a black leotard, pink tights and pink ballet slippers, she doesn’t have good traction on the tile floor. Scrambling to keep up, she makes happy noises with him. “Wooooo! Yeah, soccer! Yay, hamburger!” Their cheers echo across the linoleum and late night diners smile involuntarily.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
the art of control
She takes a deep breath slowly and holds it for several seconds before exhaling slowly. She’s rarely aware of doing it, an unconscious attempt at clearing her mind, encouraging her body to reboot with the clean wash of oxygen. After a month of yoga classes, she lost interest and took up the old habit of sleeping until 9 a.m., but the cleansing deep breaths stuck with her.
Thirty minutes into the exam and she’s hit a roadblock. Elbows on the table, she leans her head against her left hand. Long blonde hair sweeping past her shoulders like a curtain, she stares at the test in sudden bewilderment.
The first page of the exam was easy enough. Multiple choice questions were simple to solve. The second page was short answer questions, her neat loopy handwriting started out in easy-to-read print and sloped to cursive as her hand grew careless across the page. It was the third and final page that had her stumped.
She stares at the question, reading and rereading until she no longer sees the question. She no longer sees the test. On the brink on frustrated tears, she sits up straight, pushing her hair away from her face. Resolving to remember the details of what she’d spent hours studying, she takes another slow deep breath. One. Two. Three. Pencil in hand, elbow on table, hand to paper, she writes her answer while breathing slow and steady.
Thirty minutes into the exam and she’s hit a roadblock. Elbows on the table, she leans her head against her left hand. Long blonde hair sweeping past her shoulders like a curtain, she stares at the test in sudden bewilderment.
The first page of the exam was easy enough. Multiple choice questions were simple to solve. The second page was short answer questions, her neat loopy handwriting started out in easy-to-read print and sloped to cursive as her hand grew careless across the page. It was the third and final page that had her stumped.
She stares at the question, reading and rereading until she no longer sees the question. She no longer sees the test. On the brink on frustrated tears, she sits up straight, pushing her hair away from her face. Resolving to remember the details of what she’d spent hours studying, she takes another slow deep breath. One. Two. Three. Pencil in hand, elbow on table, hand to paper, she writes her answer while breathing slow and steady.
Monday, September 8, 2008
The road is my home
This isn't really for the assignment. This is something else.
The wheels of the truck rumble under his feet, a steady, relentless hum that he doesn’t even recognize as noise anymore. The world is dark outside the illumination of his headlights, but he doesn’t need to see it to know what’s there. Ditches, drainage pipes, fields of crops, the occasional billboard; those details he can fill in mentally. The dark focuses his attention. It’s just road; it’s just lights; it’s just him and the wheels turning round. He’s always like driving at night. He’s never thought of himself as a thinker of higher things, but over the years he’s discovered a pure and simple pleasure in the potency of driving alone with his thoughts at night.
With hours stretched before him at the wheel, he even ponders time itself. He knows that one can spend hours on the road, hardly aware of time passing. Long haul truck drivers mark miles, not minutes. Frequently hours pass without event, without a way to mark the time, so for the sake of your sanity, you stop paying attention to the numbers glowing above the radio. But you have to turn that attention somewhere, spacing out entirely will ease you to sleep quicker than you’d believe and in big trouble soon after. Sleepiness is the arch-enemy of the night driver; easy slumber is elusive during the day when it’s ‘time’ to sleep and your unwelcome companion in the driver’s seat.
Luckily, he doesn’t feel the pull of sleep tonight. Tonight, his memories are like a well-loved book he can open at random and revel in. The solid white line on the right side of the road is his boundary. He can feel the gravity of the road, anchoring him safe and sure to his allotted space. The road and the driver have grown to trust each other in the hours upon hours they have spent together. Now it holds him steady between the solid and dashed lines. The road curves… he doesn’t even think about it. His hands on the wheel, automatic and sure. Driving like this is sublime, a positive feedback loop he navigates in an eighteen wheeler. He smiles as he selects a jewel from his treasure chest of memory and loses himself to the past.
Through the haze of memory, he realizes that things look different. The sky is a slightly different shade of black than it was before. Then he can see just a little better. He notices the fake wood trim of the dashboard, the bright orange plastic on the gear shift, empty coffee cups. He watches as the scenery outside the truck slowly comes into focus. Trees, wildflowers, foxes bounding through the tall grass and away. The sun rises slowly and suddenly. Pouring itself up and over the edge of the earth with such powerful slowness that he thinks he might be dreaming. Leaving his memories is like waking up from a long sleep. Quiet and contemplative, but also ready for the sunlight and the chance of conversation that daytime brings. Despite his efforts not to, he stares at the sun rising until all he sees is the negative image of the huge burning star superimposed on the highway.
He breaks the silence and asks himself with a smile, “Well, how am I supposed to watch the road when the sun is doing that?”
The wheels of the truck rumble under his feet, a steady, relentless hum that he doesn’t even recognize as noise anymore. The world is dark outside the illumination of his headlights, but he doesn’t need to see it to know what’s there. Ditches, drainage pipes, fields of crops, the occasional billboard; those details he can fill in mentally. The dark focuses his attention. It’s just road; it’s just lights; it’s just him and the wheels turning round. He’s always like driving at night. He’s never thought of himself as a thinker of higher things, but over the years he’s discovered a pure and simple pleasure in the potency of driving alone with his thoughts at night.
With hours stretched before him at the wheel, he even ponders time itself. He knows that one can spend hours on the road, hardly aware of time passing. Long haul truck drivers mark miles, not minutes. Frequently hours pass without event, without a way to mark the time, so for the sake of your sanity, you stop paying attention to the numbers glowing above the radio. But you have to turn that attention somewhere, spacing out entirely will ease you to sleep quicker than you’d believe and in big trouble soon after. Sleepiness is the arch-enemy of the night driver; easy slumber is elusive during the day when it’s ‘time’ to sleep and your unwelcome companion in the driver’s seat.
Luckily, he doesn’t feel the pull of sleep tonight. Tonight, his memories are like a well-loved book he can open at random and revel in. The solid white line on the right side of the road is his boundary. He can feel the gravity of the road, anchoring him safe and sure to his allotted space. The road and the driver have grown to trust each other in the hours upon hours they have spent together. Now it holds him steady between the solid and dashed lines. The road curves… he doesn’t even think about it. His hands on the wheel, automatic and sure. Driving like this is sublime, a positive feedback loop he navigates in an eighteen wheeler. He smiles as he selects a jewel from his treasure chest of memory and loses himself to the past.
Through the haze of memory, he realizes that things look different. The sky is a slightly different shade of black than it was before. Then he can see just a little better. He notices the fake wood trim of the dashboard, the bright orange plastic on the gear shift, empty coffee cups. He watches as the scenery outside the truck slowly comes into focus. Trees, wildflowers, foxes bounding through the tall grass and away. The sun rises slowly and suddenly. Pouring itself up and over the edge of the earth with such powerful slowness that he thinks he might be dreaming. Leaving his memories is like waking up from a long sleep. Quiet and contemplative, but also ready for the sunlight and the chance of conversation that daytime brings. Despite his efforts not to, he stares at the sun rising until all he sees is the negative image of the huge burning star superimposed on the highway.
He breaks the silence and asks himself with a smile, “Well, how am I supposed to watch the road when the sun is doing that?”
Thursday, September 4, 2008
where we're going, we don't need umbrellas
The rain has almost stopped now. On this unusually calm afternoon, the water seems to just hang in the air. More mist than fog, it restricts vision all the same. Through the haze, a man walks down a sidewalk. Dressed for the weather, not the calendar in his khaki trousers and navy blue jacket, closed below his collar. His faded Nike running shoes suggest that this is a walk of habit, not one determined by a specific destination or purpose. He must be a religious weather checker. Clutching a black umbrella, he was clearly prepared for the rain. The umbrella is no defense against the water simply suspended in mid-air, though. He has surrendered the protection, umbrella swinging closed at his side. His glasses are lightly covered in raindrops, his familiar walk reduced to smears of color, hazy shapes and the muffled watery noise of the world outside the park.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
timing is everything
He’s been talking to her all night. The conversation has been a spirited competition of words, funny voices, impressions and dumb jokes. He could go all night. And he would, if he thought she’d be won over.
She hasn’t let him buy her a single drink. It’s the ‘let me buy you a drink’ line that gets you in trouble, she knows. When the bartender looks her way, she is quick to signal for another. One more, for her. He can signal his own.
The birthday of a mutual friend is their cause for gathering. It’s drinks and cake all around, friends crowded around the birthday girl, batting balloons ahead their heads until someone jabs it with a cigarette. POP!
They’re sitting at the corner table, discussing in detail why these balloons won’t stick to the wall after being rubbed on another’s head. It’s probably a conspiracy, they decide.
Everyone is trickling out, complaining about early mornings at work, getting older and that smell in the bar bathroom. She’s settling her tab and chatting with the bartender. He’s lingering, bar tab already paid, purposely, not yet awkwardly, but obviously. She’s starting to get anxious, eyes avoiding his, not wanting to encourage him. She imagines him trying to walk her to her car, standing around awkwardly, trying to ask about her weekend plans while she dives into her car and escapes. The polite but unmistakable ‘no thanks’ is so difficult. There’s a fine line between being clear and being a bitch.
They sit at the bar, nursing the last beer of the evening while the jukebox rocks and rolls. TV's positioned around the bar show a variety of sports shows. Silent, glowing boxes, the men watch the captions that roll along the bottom of the screen.
As the guys begin to argue football and hockey stats, she spaces out, wondering how this will play out. . . oh god. What if he tries to kiss her? She worries and drinks.
He stands and yawns “Excuse me for a sec, hon.” He saunters into the men’s room.
Gazing at the dark amber bottle in her hand, she grins at the solution that dropped into her lap so unexpectedly. If only it was always this easy. One more swig finishes her beer and she’s on her feet.
She hasn’t let him buy her a single drink. It’s the ‘let me buy you a drink’ line that gets you in trouble, she knows. When the bartender looks her way, she is quick to signal for another. One more, for her. He can signal his own.
The birthday of a mutual friend is their cause for gathering. It’s drinks and cake all around, friends crowded around the birthday girl, batting balloons ahead their heads until someone jabs it with a cigarette. POP!
They’re sitting at the corner table, discussing in detail why these balloons won’t stick to the wall after being rubbed on another’s head. It’s probably a conspiracy, they decide.
Everyone is trickling out, complaining about early mornings at work, getting older and that smell in the bar bathroom. She’s settling her tab and chatting with the bartender. He’s lingering, bar tab already paid, purposely, not yet awkwardly, but obviously. She’s starting to get anxious, eyes avoiding his, not wanting to encourage him. She imagines him trying to walk her to her car, standing around awkwardly, trying to ask about her weekend plans while she dives into her car and escapes. The polite but unmistakable ‘no thanks’ is so difficult. There’s a fine line between being clear and being a bitch.
They sit at the bar, nursing the last beer of the evening while the jukebox rocks and rolls. TV's positioned around the bar show a variety of sports shows. Silent, glowing boxes, the men watch the captions that roll along the bottom of the screen.
As the guys begin to argue football and hockey stats, she spaces out, wondering how this will play out. . . oh god. What if he tries to kiss her? She worries and drinks.
He stands and yawns “Excuse me for a sec, hon.” He saunters into the men’s room.
Gazing at the dark amber bottle in her hand, she grins at the solution that dropped into her lap so unexpectedly. If only it was always this easy. One more swig finishes her beer and she’s on her feet.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Stop light stage
At the intersection of 29th and Fairlawn, Shalyn waits for the green arrow that allows her to turn left. Every night at this intersection, she waits, head full of the day's debris. Instead of watching the light, she watches her rearview mirror as it reveals a silver Dodge Neon. It's occupants visible in the red glow of the stoplight. Safe and sound inside their car, it never occurs to them that they are on a silent stage.
A young woman in the driver's seat. A young man at her side.
He is telling a story, talking animatedly, wild hand gestures and funny faces.
The driver is entertained, smiling broadly, shoulders rocking in laughter.
He laughs as well, pleased with her reaction.
Something changes the conversation, maybe a song on the radio, maybe a situation one of them referenced. They both begin to dance in their bucket seats. It’s purposely silly with head bopping and exaggerated movements. Pushing each other towards hysterical laughter, their dance becomes even more ridiculous.
Still waiting and watching, Shalyn laughs out loud. Having danced her fair share of stupid car dances, the simple delight is easily recalled.
When the light turns green, the audience of one and the unaware actors drive away.
A young woman in the driver's seat. A young man at her side.
He is telling a story, talking animatedly, wild hand gestures and funny faces.
The driver is entertained, smiling broadly, shoulders rocking in laughter.
He laughs as well, pleased with her reaction.
Something changes the conversation, maybe a song on the radio, maybe a situation one of them referenced. They both begin to dance in their bucket seats. It’s purposely silly with head bopping and exaggerated movements. Pushing each other towards hysterical laughter, their dance becomes even more ridiculous.
Still waiting and watching, Shalyn laughs out loud. Having danced her fair share of stupid car dances, the simple delight is easily recalled.
When the light turns green, the audience of one and the unaware actors drive away.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
hoping for more than 10%
It was the time of day that afternoon slide into evening and the restaurant was suddenly packed. The waiting area was filled with waiting families, parents with squirming children, wearing matching baseball jerseys and hats. The hostess and waiters set to work quickly, moving tables together, finding enough chairs to seat the mix of family and friends together.
“Did they call ahead?” the waiter asked under his breath.
The hostess glanced up at group, all shifting and sighing, juggling diaper bags and babies before answering, “Nope.”
“Of course we can seat 18 during rush. Why call ahead?” the waiter said softly with only a trace of sarcasm in his voice.
The place settings arranged at last, the hostess bounds back toward the waiting herd with a bright smile and friendly tone, “Thanks for waiting, your tables are ready if you’ll just follow me.”
Likewise transformed, the waiter grinned and greeted his suddenly welcome customers, hiding any irritation in hopes of a decent tip.
“Did they call ahead?” the waiter asked under his breath.
The hostess glanced up at group, all shifting and sighing, juggling diaper bags and babies before answering, “Nope.”
“Of course we can seat 18 during rush. Why call ahead?” the waiter said softly with only a trace of sarcasm in his voice.
The place settings arranged at last, the hostess bounds back toward the waiting herd with a bright smile and friendly tone, “Thanks for waiting, your tables are ready if you’ll just follow me.”
Likewise transformed, the waiter grinned and greeted his suddenly welcome customers, hiding any irritation in hopes of a decent tip.
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