Late Encounters

Strangely, I don't think of my family very much. They're distant figures in the fog of my memory. Which is ok with me, I like to focus my energy on important stuff....like TV. Every once in a while, though, some tangible remnant of their existences will surface and I am seized by a longing to see them again.



When I am late, I'm focused. There's a checklist in my mind which remains absolutely impermeable until all tasks have been completed: find ID, pack stethoscope and Ipod, feed nikko, turn off all lights, 2 dollars for coffee-no matter how late I am, I always have time to stop for coffee. As per my usual routine, today I was running late. By the time I made it to the unforgiving elevators (not even having five of them in one bank permits their timely arrival) both my ice coffee and I were sweating. Running over my mental check list one last time, I barely registered the whistler approaching. It wasn't until he stood a few feet behind me that I was seized with excitement. His breath passed his teeth in a hiss: a lipless whistle, the type I have not heard since I was nearing double digits. I was swimming in adrenaline and thoughts of my uncle, who made this kind of music as he ate his evening hydrox or read the paper. I could smell the menthol and tobacco that had always clung to his skin. In that elevator bank, something strange happened to me: I devolved. There was no composure, no control. My heart slammed against it's walls and I struggled to move air in and out of my lungs. I wanted to believe that it was Jim standing behind me. That I would turn and he would smile as though this were an every day occurrence. He would ask me about my plans for the day and I prattle on aimlessly for a bit. In the end there would be nonchalant 'see ya laters' because we would know that we would indeed see each other later. The elevator came and I heard him shift restlessly as white coats poured out with quick and heavy footsteps. For a moment I stood fixed: in that spot, in that time, in that delusion. He brushed my arm as he passed, his cigarette scent trailing. I didn't have to glance down at my watch to know how late I was. But, I did. I didn't have to peer down the hall to know that it was empty. But I did. The doors closed. The elevator rumbled, shuttling my unseen relative back into my past leaving me behind in the echoing bank. alone, once again.

Just another day at the bitch beach

I am fairly certain that we all have people in our lives that we wish weren’t. They are those particularly irritating individuals that, like stubborn grains of sand in our panties, can ruin even the most pleasant day at the beach. The worst ones are, again like panty sand, undetectable by others around us-friends, family….pets. While the injury is in our unwanted companion’s stank behavior, the insult is in their ability to go unnoticed as they pour acid rain down onto our otherwise sunshine filled day. This is, of course, a highly biased assessment of the situation. But I’m unapologetic. Not because I don’t care, but because the virulence of these individuals is not the point of my current musing. Instead, I dwell on a happier thought (and occurrence): the vindication experienced when panty sand shows his or her proverbial ass to all those who always doubted your assessment of their character.

Picture this: five minutes into Hollywood’s latest contribution to the espionage genre, a seemingly benign individual graces the screen. Without attention given to dialogue or context, you declare that this is the ‘bad guy’. Of course no one believes you, and because more consideration was given to your gargantuan tub of popcorn and atherosclerotic plaques in the making then to the plot which was likely constructed by some rich producer’s ten year old, they seem justified in their dissent. But you retain the conviction of your hypothesis. Why? Is it the handlebar mustache or the way the proposed villain strokes said facial hair with skinny elongated fingers? Perhaps it’s the figure eight eye mask, black and white striped shirt, and burlap sac bearing the well-known dollar symbol clenched in his non-mustache fondling hand. Whatever it is, it’s obvious to you and mind baffling that this would go unnoticed by your peers. Your time will undoubtedly come, though, ten minutes before the credits roll. This of course is not always the case with non-silver screen people. You may go an entire life time alone in your understanding of someone’s “crappiness”. So when one of these real life under-cover enemies reveals their true nature to mutual acquaintances, it is as delicious as it is rare.

Perhaps it’s vindictive and childish of me to relish such moments as they may come. But I cannot help reveling in the feelings of vindication. So I do so, with childlike enthusiasm…..and it is magnificent.

Nostalgia

Me and Carra last summer: I remember our endeavor to photograph everything that is inane and frame the fruits of our labor. Endless shots in sepia: her lips, my cup, our feet.

I came across those photos today and they made me miss her. Thoughts of other friends were kindled. I thought of relationships long dissolved; 'conflagrated' bridges. Snide comments that severed the veins of diseased friendships. I let my mind wander aimlessly over lost companions: old classmates, disappearing cousins, indifferent crushes.

Winter at 22: Strands of flaming red hair pass in and out of view as I spin on the Dianna Ross playground tire swing. We talk disparagingly about our nasty, slow witted, or unfriendly co-workers. We rehash conversations had with the particularly jocular or fetching employees. There are lamentations about a godzilla-esque assistant manager, Coke jokes about a leathery skinned boss. I recall the reassuring euphoria that comes from sitting in the park at midnight with a close friend.

16, Ferndale, MI: With quiet effort I dab my sweaty forehead with a sleeve. The warbled voice of stevie wonder is permeating the thick unconditioned air of his living room. It smells like warm wood. We scribble nonsensical farewells into each other’s yearbook. We laugh as he gives voice to the many personalities that invade his mind. Goodbyes are hugged. Love that he will never be fully aware of is slowly cultivated.

A montage: He is three years my junior. He calls me sha sha. At four he is waiting for me in his ghostbusters uniform, insisting on being called peter venkman. We are caught smuggling candy from the gingerbread house into the car to be privately devoured-he immediately rolls and I am fingered as the mastermind. There is a fort of giant primary colored Waffle blocks, An alliance for the greater good of beating Donky Kong Country. We hastily snap Polaroids and tape them onto poster board. I am angrily ordering him out of my room, out of my teenage life, not realizing that I will never see him again.

I wonder at the passing of loved ones. We meet we love we lose. We share one common moment, A second in galactic time. But the importance is made evident by their eternal impressions. I remember forever her words, his laugh, the sound of him crying. Should I love less because I realize the inevitability of a painful loss? Should I take to relationships with even more apprehension and suspicion? I don’t know. But I do know that I will recall the scent of your pillow when your head no longer rests there and search for your face in crowds when you no longer grace me with your presence. Like those that came before you, you will leave behind a memory which will remain with me forever.