Phil's Story, Chapter 1 (1998 - 2002)

Rain.

It was really coming down. The rain that had been expected all morning had been withheld by some mystical force until I was exactly half way to the bus stop. I was just far enough to get drenched either way I went, were it back home or onward. I went onward; I felt obligated.

The rain fell all of a sudden, like the needles off last Christmas’ tree when it’s disturbed from its not-so-eternal resting-place of the 909 balcony in the month of May. I live on the ninth floor, in a dump, in the southwest of the new part of town… not that that’s relevant. I was on my way to work, which isn’t really of any importance either. The fact that it was raining really has no bearing to my story… but setting is a good opener, and it was raining.

By the time I reached the bus stop it didn’t matter that the bus shelter was inadequate in doing what I assume it was intended to do, namely shelter, because I was sufficiently wet. The dissonant patter of the rain on the leaky roof accompanied the steady stream of drops falling onto the brim of my cap quite nicely. The atmosphere was rather miserable, especially taking into consideration the circumstances surrounding the whole affair. It was late spring and unseasonably cold, which I was ill prepared for, seeing as I was rushed from sleep, to wake, to work, in as much time as it would normally take me to shower. I even forgot my watch… I feel naked without my watch. Even worse, I have a tendency to loose track, and not just of time, but of my whole sense of reality and that small, cobalt blue, analog face, with its fragile hands and its solitary faux silver XII, keeps me entrenched in the so-called real world; at least, more so than I am without it. And it’s pretty spiffy besides, even if it‘s a tad inaccurate most of the time. As it were, without the watch, my appearance and countenance blended right in to the dismal environment… but that was just a mask for the spectators; beneath the facade, there was an underlying joy that, though securely and purposely withheld from the inquisitions of the world, was nonetheless present, and being so protected, could not be affected by the weather or any other happenstance of the day. Her name was Angelica.

I didn’t know know Angelica, in the biblical sense, or really any other to speak of. We met at a party once. I saw her walk in. I don’t believe in love at first sight, but I was definitely infatuated immediately. A mutual friend introduced us and she sat next to me most of the night; separated by two one-half cushion widths on the love seat as we both opted for armrests. Some inconsiderate drunks stumbled awkwardly between us periodically, slurring efforts to get her number, but with every disgusted dismissal I became all the more enamored. We spoke offhandedly throughout the hour she sat there, not enough to say I know her, just enough to burn her into my memory. Of course, I hadn’t seen her for two months, since that party, but I had her visage caged within the recesses of my memory, and that, aided by a characteristically strong infatuation, makes an idealist like myself quite the introspective fool.

There’s a tendency to frequent those places we find safe and familiar and call them home. When you begin to build a better world in your head than the one outside, you’re in danger of doing what I was doing. I had lived despondently happy, harboring these fantasies for Angelica within the limitations of my imagination, for over eight weeks. Despondence, happiness, and a catalyst, can be quite a trip, and reality is a good catalyst sometimes. Today I saw Angelica.

The bus approached and I stepped from rain to rain. Unfortunately the buses marked “Not In Service” don’t slow down when they pass bus stops and I was doubly soaked when it sped through a conveniently located puddle. Were anyone around they would have seen my shoulders drop, and would have sworn that any remaining positive attitude was overcome, washed away by the filthy water that was now cascading from head to toe, however appearances are often costumes used to disguise a subversive ideal reality; because ideals are just beliefs that have yet to reach a practical application. I was picturing those beautiful blue eyes, that I may very well have invented and attached a name to, I mean it was two months ago, but there was no doubting that, for the time being, she was my ideal.

At length the bus came. You’d think I hate buses; the herding of the public to their jobs, the graffiti, the leers and mutterings of others genuinely or seemingly at odds with life, the two dollar fare… all reasons to despise public transit. However, all of those are easy enough to overlook, especially when you have something to occupy your thoughts as I did, and Angelica was not merely a temporary occupant, she was fast becoming a permanent resident. Besides, I had no other means of transportation, having recently written off my mother’s car. It wasn’t my fault though… it was raining.

The post-lunch rush hour was winding down so finding a seat wasn’t, in its self, a trial, and since finding a comfortable seat was an impossibility, any seat would suffice. I sat. One stop later an obese man chose the seat next to me to torture. The greatest thing about an active fantasy life is the ability to turn one soft touch into another, or old sweat into CK’s Obsession. The only danger lies in giving away your thoughts through expressions and subjecting them to the masses’ ignorant interpretations. I must have smiled or something because the bloated creature next to me spoke and asked me for the time. I showed him my naked wrist trying to avoid any sort of direct communication, but he was perspiring… did I say perspiring? I meant persistent, but he was perspiring too… profusely. I tried at all costs to avoid communication and escape to her open arms. Fatty shifted his weight to get a better look at me and the excessive flesh that composed his leg began to consume my own which rested next to him. I was so intent on getting his damp sponge-like flesh off of my mind, and my thigh, that I missed my stop. There are certain realities that no fantasy can overcome or remedy; tardiness is one of them. I struggled to my feet and I got off at the next stop, momentarily overjoyed to be once again in the cool rain. I think the fat man swore at me as I left, I can’t be sure, it could have been a cough, it didn’t matter anyway, I was once again in the rain and trudging contently on my way to work, all the while thinking of Angelica.

Then I’m running, splashing in the water, and all that registers is that I’m going to be late for work. When I enter the ‘Staff Only’ designated kitchen area I’m still a half-hour early. I wonder how that’s possible and I chalk it up to one more point against for the whole of existence. That brings the tally to a hell of a lot against, which remains heavily outweighed by the only real one that life has going for it, the one incessantly dangling like the carrot on a stick before my psyche… Angelica. I diligently await my starting the menial labor that I’m employed to do. Today it’s 26b. I hate 26b. I get a cup of tea and sit alone in the cafeteria perusing a paper. Someone’s already done the crossword. I look out the window and it’s raining still. Grey, wet, cold, the few people in view are huddled under various shelters, most smoking cigarettes, their exhaust adding to the ambiance that is an integral part of the scene. Cigarettes and smoke add character, a different kind than the cuts and scrapes and the obedience of eating all of your vegetables. For a moment I wish I was a smoker. I wonder if Angelica smokes. I wonder what time it is. I start thinking I’m late again and walk briskly to a clock. I begin replacing garbage bags, emptying the full, leaky, splitting sacks of refuse in my portable bin to dispose of them in the putrid dumpster, and I replace them with soon-to-be full, leaky, splitting bags, ten minutes early.

26b, after the garbage run, is responsible for the actual dish-washing. Luckily, washing dishes doesn’t take a lot of concentration directed towards that task in particular; after so many hours of repetitive manual labor a wonderful phenomenon, commonly referred to as muscle memory, technically muscular accommodation, makes it possible to wander from the confinement of a hot, noisy, dish room, to a musical land of beauty, or anywhere else you’d care to go. While your body is stuck standing by a gutter scraping partially eaten hospital food into a trough and suffering the consequences, like splash-back, your mind, though undoubtedly perturbed by the unknown half-eaten morsel that found its way in your ear, can escape with all the luxuries of the freethinking world at its disposal. My mind packs light, all I need is Angelica. But the atmosphere is not conducive to such pleasantries. As much as I’d like to escape I’m overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of the task before me. There are unwelcome intruders to my solace. The conveyor machine is loud, as is the Hobart, the machine that spews out the remnants of the remnants that are churned and gnarled and broken and rejected, into which the gutter flows. People yell at me because I haven’t put enough dishes in the tank to soak, because I’ve stopped the belt (again), because they want me to stop the belt (again), because I look like I’m about to kill someone glaring miserably at the stacks of dishes, wincing because more disease-ridden food has landed on my forehead. I hate 26b. It distracts me from Angelica.

By now you’ve probably pegged me as some obsessive psychotic. Please don’t misunderstand me. I’m certainly not sick… not in a twisted sense, I’m as appalled at my behavior as I’m sure you are. The craziest thing is that I don’t even know the girl I’m in love with. Infatuated. Sorry. All I know is that I can’t get Angelica out of my head. Believe me when I tell you that my thoughts have not strayed from this probing, inquisitive nature. I spend hours in thought just pondering, wondering what she loves, what she hates, why. Would she walk with me in the rain if I saw her now, huddled under an overhang, waiting, for something, for someone, for nothing? That’s just me, I question everything, especially good things, rather prospective good things, and because there was so little to question in regards to Angelica, except maybe whether or not I’d ever see her again, it just so happened that that was the question running through my mind while I rode the bus home that evening. I had finished work early. Still, by the time I left work, the first of the freaks were on the prowl, and the prowl often begins with the bus station. The stop I get on and off of, to get to work to, is downtown. At my stop alone a small gang of five teenagers waited, with chains linking various piercings, smoking in the non-smoking bus shelter. I hate smoking, or I assume that I would, and thereby I strengthen my resolve never to try it. The rain had stopped sometime during the long hours I spent in the dish room but the shelter was still wet… and it smelled like urine. I was the first on the bus at my stop and managed to get one of the few remaining unoccupied seats. One girl sat in an occupied seat and starting making out with the guy she sat on; I assumed they knew each other. The same fat man that almost swallowed me up that morning was sitting in the same seat I had left him in, only by now he had settled into the seats on either side of him as well. The bus crawled forward from stop to stop down the main strip and I patiently awaited my time to exit, all the while, ignoring the humdrum, and scripting what I’d say if Angelica got on at the next stop.

There are few more penetrating instances than the one when noise is silenced. That I can handle, I’ve had a lot of practice thinking throughout dead calms, and more often than not I can succeed. Tonight was no exception. As I rode home and the bus made a routine stop I didn’t even notice when the threats, boasts, slurs, murmurs, whispers, grunts, gasps, fits, and even the very breath of all but a few, ceased. I didn’t notice the soft steps make their way down the crowded isle and pause in front of me. What eventually ripped me from my soul searching was a voice.

“Frankie?”

Now that should never have succeeded where silence has failed. First of all, my name isn’t Frankie, it’s Phillip. My friends call me Frosty because I like winter sports and the malt drinks at Wendy’s but that’s irrelevant, she couldn’t have known that. What disengaged me from my self was her voice. Her voice was musical and I couldn’t help but think that it would be perfect for the dialogue I was still forming in my head, and seeing as I’m a sucker for a pretty voice, I looked up, giving her the impression that my name is Frankie.

“Frankie! It’s nice to see you again… it’s me, Angelica, we met at Jim’s house a few months ago… remember?”

What a question to ask… do I remember. Do I remember! I had been remembering daily. Of course this isn’t what you tell your crush, or at least, not what I tell my mine. I couldn’t lie to her and I couldn’t frighten her off, so I changed the subject with a gesture that must have made an impact. I stood and offered her my seat.

“Would you care to sit down?”

“Sure, thanks.”

She sat down and the frozen scene around us buzzed back into life, real life, not another Kodak moment courtesy of my super ego or id, whichever reigns over my active imagination. Angelica had walked into my life for the second time. What was the time? My first thought was that I hadn’t been kidding myself. Not about the non-existent relationship, that was a joke, but she was as beautiful as I made her out to be, only her eyes were green, not blue, and she must have seen me checking because when our eyes met she smiled and asked me a question. The kicker is that I was so intent on what was circulating in my head that I ignored it completely. I don’t think she was following my script either.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“I asked what you were up to.”

“Oh, right. Nothing much really. Just getting home from work.”

I’m such an idiot. Now most would pick up on why that is right away. I had to think about it for a good three minutes in silence before I figured it out, and I think I had help from some eavesdropping punk who explained my vital error to his friend, but the thought was eventually absorbed into my thick skull and at long last I returned the courtesy and asked her the same. Thus was learned a vital lesson in communication: reciprocate. It turns out that she was on her way to another party, one I wasn’t planning on going to, work being my excuse, but which I was now frantically trying to work out internally. The next question I heard, and thank God I did, because it changed the course of my whole life.

“Are you going?”

To be honest, I didn’t understand it at first. I had no context in which to place this potentially life-altering correspondence. Establishing context is important. One such method of doing so, or to drag out a conversation, or just to find something to say before you appear to be ignoring her altogether and she gets pissed off and slaps you across the face for being so rude and then opens the emergency exit and leaps out of the bus into traffic maybe even sacrificing herself just to get away from you and even if she survives you know that you‘ll never have another opportunity to get to know her better after you’ve so recklessly driven her from your life by your wretched silence so you have to say something, is to repeat the last word of the previous sentence with a rising intonation.

“Going?”

This will avoid being rendered speechless but may result is such side effects as being thought of as stupid or simple. At that instance I didn’t much care and there was nothing else to say. Besides, it often opens up the blocked channel needed for further communication.

“To the party…”

I established context.

“Right, the party… I wasn’t planning on it, I didn’t think I’d be home from work in time.”

“Yet here you are.”

There I was. I could have sworn this was commonly called flirting but I wasn’t about to believe that Angelica was interested in me. I continued anyhow, curious as to how this dream would end.

“Here I am, but I’m not exactly party material right now… I’d have to shower, change, and then I’d have to try and get a ride…”

“I’ll come with you.”

What was that?

“What was that?”

“I’ll hang with you until you’re ready to go. My ride isn’t going to be ready for a while anyway and I was going to be stuck at the mall for an hour or more waiting. I’d rather be with a friend than alone with a bunch of strangers.”

Six eavesdropping mallrats cursed at me from under their breath. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I could believe that anyone who heard what she was saying to me would curse me for sheer jealousy, but I still couldn’t believe that Angelica was offering to come home with me, chill, and then accompany me to a party of our peers. Things like this don’t happen to me, hence the overactive imagination and the storytelling. I was dumbfounded. I must have given some sort of affirming acknowledgment because when the bus stopped and I got off, she followed. Six birds were flipped at me when I turned, initially to watch the bus drive her from my life, to find her standing next to me asking where it was I lived.