Phil's Story, Chapter 5

The Dream.

I was with Angelica. We were running through a forest alongside a lively river. She was in the lead while we ran over the roots and rocks, through the puddles and grasses. She was laughing, and that beautiful smile of hers urged me onward into the thickening wood. She was wearing hunter orange.

We slowed to a walk; she remained one step ahead. Social pleasantries made up most of the conversation, little comments on the beauty of nature and the facts of life. She spoke in hushed tones and I was content to tread behind her and listen to her voice. The river eventually took a turn we did not. My guide plodded on through the pathless maze, sure of her direction. At length we arrived at our destination. She stopped and parted a wall of brambles before her, slashing them with a knife (but not before I tasted them), unveiling a scene I’ve sought in reality ever since.

We were atop a mountain. Directly before us, beyond the cleared foliage, was nothing but a view… and what a view. If you looked straight down you saw a lake, topaz blue; reluctant to reflect anything thereby revealing only it’s depth. The face of the mountain must concave beneath the jutting stage we stood upon, only by stretching out as far as balance would allow could I see that we were indeed supported by a few hundred feet of glacially hewed masonry. (I found my footing quite sturdy as I took in my surroundings, but I was on all fours.) Behind us was the curtain of twisted greenery and the split we caused in passing through. The forest seemed totally enclosed; even our newly hewed opening was being woven shut by spontaneous new growth. Angelica stood in all her reverent splendor. She was armed to the teeth, literally holding the knife in her mouth while securing a small armory, an assortment of clips and knives and guns, to her minimalist attire. She wore her vibrant vest that foretold of her intentions and protected her from those of a like mindset but apart from that, she was wearing a bathing suit, a two piece, also hunter orange (another Sports Illustrated influence bearing down on my subconscious). The trek through uncultivated land took its toll on her unprotected flesh. She was scratched and bleeding and dirty but her face was unblemished and ever smiling. Her eyes were focused on some distant thought she seemed to track over the sky. It came to rest on me.

My thoughts too had wandered off… but not to the skies. My thoughts remained one step ahead of me, and now slightly behind and to the side, coupled with Angelica. They were, after all, now one in the same. It had come to pass that when I thought, I thought of her, and when I dreamed, I dreamt of her, and even being in her shadow, I thought of the touch of her hand, and when her hand brushed against me, I thought of the smell of her hair, and when the wind carried it to me, I thought of the taste of… well, I’m sure you get the idea. Nonetheless, I was quite content to be led by the one I’d follow anywhere. And as we stood in silent wonder at the awesome magnitude of life and all that is in this world to behold, I knew that I was the happiest I’d ever been. It was rather all of a sudden it dawned on me that a great weight rested on my shoulders; when I turned to tell her so, and saw her looking at me with those big green eyes, through the crosshairs of a scope aimed down the barrel of a loaded thirty-thirty, something clicked.

It was the chamber. The weight on my shoulders was a startling revelation as well. I was so startled by the sight of the sights right there in front of my nose that I jerked my head back. In doing so something else clicked. It was the barrel of the gun getting butted by my antlers. I think Angelica was rather surprised too. She lost her balance and was pitched forwards and to the side, keeping hold of her gun as I jerked it free myself stumbling in the process. It's a very painful thing when one lands facing the sky in a net of thorns and bristles and needles and other oddly located jagged limbs and the like. Falling into nothing is far more comfortable, at least initially, which is probably why the expression on Angelica's face as she fell off of the precipice was one of astonishment and not agony. She made no sound as she fell. I, on the other hand, screamed. Or I wanted to, but no sound would form within me. My heart was screaming, but without a venue to vocalize my loss, I sought some other means to express it. It came in the form of panic. Panic is difficult to localize, especially in a form one is unaccustomed to, so in my panic, I ended up following my love, off of the cliff, into the depths of the water awaiting far below.

As an aside, for those who’ve never known the joys of free falling the way Tom Petty sings about it, I recommend cliff jumping. The highest I’ve jumped from at the time of my writing this is about seventy-seven feet, eighty when I’m telling the story after a beer or two. I don’t recommend starting at such heights. For a beginner thrill-seeker twenty should more than suffice. There’s something about leaping from the solid earth fifty feet into the loving arms of daring adventure that leaves you with a sense of invincibility… until you make a mistake. I made my first mistake at seventy-seven feet. It was subtle, but enough to teach me a lasting respect for risk and why it carries the reputation it does. I didn’t cross my legs, and just before I hit the water, my swimsuit ballooned out and that was one of those distinct “oh shit” moments in my life. To make a long, painful story rather short, those swimming trunks that blew apart upon contact with the water have been kept as a reminder of the worst enema of my life, and also as a symbol of what it means to risk and that I’d do it again in a second.

That said, this was no seventy-seven feet. It wasn’t eighty either. It seemed eternal. There’s also a question of intent, in this case there being none, that makes this one of the most thrilling recollections of my imaginary life. If I did find such a place as this in the world, and had this dream in mind, I’d jump. This is in retrospect… in the dream I was scared as hell. I hadn’t jumped. I fell. However, as I fell, I developed purpose and intent. Angelica had fallen… sort of. I had actually kind of pushed her, inadvertently thrown her even! As I accelerated towards the crystal blue I decided that I would save my beloved or die trying.

After my graceful entry into the lake (I just kind of remember falling and then being in the lake, so I’m sure it was a graceful entry…) I began my search. I searched for my shining light in the cold consuming dark. I groped in the suffocating endless vast lifeless well of despair for my one beacon of hope. I was fighting death looking for my reason to live. I found her, not in the water, on the shore. She was basking in the sun. When I approached, exhausted and elated, she grabbed her gun and shot at me without a second’s hesitation. The waterlogged firearm failed. She unsheathed a knife and raced towards me. Finally, I did what comes instinctively to all prey, and ran, white tail in air. She chased me mercilessly through forests, over hills, under endless skies and eventually into a dirty city street. The gutter clogged with various decaying paraphernalia from unknown after-dark escapades. She cornered me when a beeping truck reversed its way onto my escape route. She smiled. It was the same smile… but this time it scared me.

She said something. I couldn’t hear what it was due to the incessant beeping in my ear from the truck.

“What was that?”

I truly did want to know what it was that had driven the girl of my dreams to hunt me down, but she wouldn’t stop rambling on and on in her melodious voice… and that beeping would not give up. All my senses began to pulsate with the truck’s rhythmic warning. Angelica eventually finished her rant and approached for the kill, knife gleaming. As she raised it to strike I heard the truck driver yell something out of the window. As the knife plunged into my heart, and made its niche, the beeping stopped long enough for the driver to say the last words I would ever hear.

“Please hang up, and try your call again. This is a recording.”

Phil's Story, Chapter 4

The Train.

I didn’t even hear the boarding call. I wasn’t even at liberty to think until 10:57, that was when the bus was out of sight. I began to walk home in a carefree (careless?) fashion, having found at long last the love I had dreamed of. Before long my internal monologue was in full effect, promising, entreating, hoping, and romanticizing.

“When I call her tonight, I’ll profess my heart. (Yeah, right…)”

“Already I am overcome with a longing to see her, just to be with her (fear), just to spend a moment in her company (captivity), just to speak and hear an honest word exchanged between us (all lies).”

I paused in my ode to Angelica, but I was simply allowing my brain a breath.

“She’s so beautiful, and smart, and funny, and kind, and caring, sweet, and loving, and considerate, and honest, and level-headed, spontaneous, creative, and passionate, and well, just… ideal.”

That word bears consequences.

“I can’t believe this night. This is the night every wrong in my life has been made right. Every foul circumstance that I had cursed before this night has been turned into a blessed occasion if has led me here. Every error of my ways making me undeserving of this moment makes this only achievable through a perfect grace…”

The power that was ignored before, being so grotesquely evident in its unshielded form, had succeeded in poisoning the very roots of thought by masquerading as praise, and thus its venom began to flow. It is often only when we are made aware of our grievances that they begin to afflict us; I had been directed towards my own fallibility and thus my own penetrating introspective eye targeted myself. And once the eye is turned…

“She’s so good, but…”

Away from the focus; the end, the goal, the prize, the sum, the sought…

“I don’t deserve her…”

And onto the reflection; the means, the race, the efforts, the parts, the search…

“How could I ever hope to please her?”

The fight begins.

“Good question.”

I was divided. Torn apart, ripped asunder, by this self-destructive part of my own nature, which suddenly made his awesome presence known. It wasn’t I, the hopeful romantic who had lived this night, and fallen for this girl, who in any respect thought well of that question, it was he. He looked like me and spoke like me and thought like me. He waged war on my identity because he was a part of me. All of my doubts, my fears, my insecurities my nightmares and my sense of self amassed from the negative experiences of life were pitted against my hopes, my desires, my virtues, my dreams and that part of me composed of the kind and gentle past, both recalled and unremembered. And we were waging a war. It was surprisingly akin to a number of conversations I've shared with my best friend.

“It’s a horrible question.” said my self-esteem.

“Yet it must be answered, it shouldn’t be too difficult. Just satisfy this one curiosity and bask forever in the arms of the one you love; What do you have to offer her?”

“Love.”

Good answer. Way to go positive re-enforcement.

“The same love you had for your last crush? The same love that inspired four months of poems and songs only to fizzle out and die? The same love that was betrayed when you met Angelica? The same love that will hurt another when the next ‘true love’ comes along?”

Hope came forth…

“But there won’t be anyone else, there is no one better.”

“That’s exactly what you’ve said about every previous object of affection, what makes this one any different?”

Dreams respond.

“She’s perfect.”

“Then how unfitting that you should consider yourself worthy. You, who write because you can’t find words to say, think that you can communicate with her? You, who dream because you wouldn’t dare to live, think you can commit to a relationship? You, who are too afraid to confront your supposed true love honestly in fear that she will reject your pathetic wretched existence for one who can provide her with what she needs to be happy, think that you are even privileged to have spent this time with her? You have cursed her this night to have showed her this façade that will break her heart when she realizes your deceit!”

“No! You’re wrong”

It was a weak rebut no matter how passionately and vehemently my desire made it, and I was slipping further and deeper into a melancholy despondency as my bitter half circled around for the kill…

“Doesn’t Angelica deserve the best?”

“Yes.”

“Are you the best?”

“Perhaps… for her…”

I was reaching but found nothing to hold on to…

“No, I’m not.”

“Of course you’re not, you couldn’t possibly… and no, you’ll never be the best for anyone… you’re inadequate. Above all, you don’t deserve it.”

It’s like he read my mind.

“We share the same mind you idiot, I am a part of you.”

Oh yeah, I forgot… by that time I had forgotten everything of hope, love, peace, patience, understanding, all of my limited virtues had accomplished naught in retaliation to this devastating malady that resided in the recesses of my very own identity. This last realization was the deathblow; this very enemy of all that I cherished was in fact none other than myself. When this hit home I stopped. No movement, no thought, no feeling, would inhabit the broken vessel that stood at the corner of the bus terminal at 11:00. There was nothing left in me; all that fueled my will and intentions had been devoured by this animosity. The sky clouded over. There was nothing pathetic or fallible about the weather, it seemed that this deviation of my soul could be made into a manifest oppression that would go forth and consume the world if something would not stop it, and that is when the air chilled and the cloud fell. A dense penetrating discomfort settled upon me, it rendered me helpless and beat me into submission, driving me to spread this malcontent everywhere it sent me. It sent me home. No stops, just full steam ahead. A one way ticket, and I didn’t even get a window seat to enjoy the scenery.

With every step my brooding became less intense and more deep-rooted. If this kept going I would surely have become the sullen, depressed, enemy of happiness that was presently in control of my being. With my virtues cowering in a cramped hope, trying to pull themselves into some kind of opposition, my new identity sent me straight to a tortured sleep… but wouldn’t even allow me the comfort of my own bed. I spent the night on the couch. I’m glad my depressing self has its idiotic attributes too; nothing nourishes hope like dreams and I dreamt while I slept. In a futile effort to exact its supremacy over my will and body, my misanthropic self sent me a horrid dream that would become its own demise.

Op-ed: Through the Eye of the Storm: From Bush to Obama

Through the Eye of the Storm: From Bush to Obama

(Jan. 23, 2009)

I am decidedly a-political, if there is such a thing, at least concerning American and Canadian democratic systems. I do not believe myself to be of the Republican Conservative Right, nor the Democratic Liberal Left. Instead, I prefer to hold my ground, not in the center, but on a different platform altogether.

The last eight years have been trying years in America. My time in the States has nearly coincided with Bush's presidency. In that time I've known ardent Democrats, die-hard Republicans, and very few people in between. Ive learned one thing about politics: there are few greater divisive forces that incite more hatred, vitriol, and malevolent behavior in otherwise peaceable people, than these: Politics, Religion, and Nationalism. (Heartache, too comes to mind, but for different reasons.) The world has watched the American political dramedy unfold these past months and years before the backdrop of economic crises, natural disasters, wars on terror (on multiple fronts), terrorist attacks, attacking terrorists, terrorists torturing, and torturing terrorists. We've seen the President succeed and fail, falter, and flail. Mostly, I feel that I've seen an age through an aging man.

For all that Bush is and all that Bush was, I do believe him to be a man of certain principles that he struggled to uphold in the maelstrom of circumstances he was deemed responsible to lead a country through. He looks tired to me. He's aged. He's stuttered, stumbled, fallen, but he's continued to lead regardless of the pundits' followings. He's earned the same respect from me I'd offer anyone of such experience, no matter how much we differ in the end. We did not arrive on the other side of his legacy perfectly clean, unscathed, or unchanged - it would not have mattered who led America through these years - things would have changed regardless. Better or worse is a moot point. The point is that things have changed. It is a new world that we're waking to. It is a new country being led by a new man.

Obama has proven that Obama can inspire, but Obama cannot change anything that we ourselves are unwilling to change. If God is unwilling to sway the hearts and minds of mortals, how then can Barack? If the same burden placed on Bush is laden on Barack Obama, he too will quickly find that he's tired, aging, and bound until he sheds his mortality. Both will be recorded in annuls for the future's past, but I believe both will carry on in spirit too, and not unlike each other.

I honestly believe that the only politics we should be concerned about are our own personal politics. Call them morals, ethics, or principals, call them commandments, rules or laws, whatever you call them, these governing ideas and ideals are what will change the world. We can't agree on all, but we can all agree on some. We can agree that we have certain unalienable rights, endowed by God, or if you prefer, innate in our shared humanity, to life, liberty, and certain pursuits (I would not say property or happiness, perhaps not even freedom, but certainly a choice in who we will serve). We can agree that there are more important things than ourselves in our lives, at least, most can. We can agree on a handful of rights and wrongs. Ok, maybe two or three. Or just one. Just one? Any one? Anyone?

We cannot vote to end racism, we can only abolish it in ourselves and pray that others follow suit. It is high time to abolish racism, in all its forms, including "black" and "white". However, having visited countries and continents where I am a minority it's easy to see that we're far from a universal solution. Recognizing the problem seems to be the first step. We're still struggling through the rest. Why? We keep looking for reasons to divide, contrast and compare ourselves from our neighbors instead of seeing all the reasons we should love them as ourselves.

I don't think I'm truly a-political. I care. I care what side of my principles I stand on. Thankfully, my leadership doesn't ever change. I can't vote a new power into place. I can only continue to try and serve and learn, and serve and learn, and learn to better serve and love through widening my perspective to include more and more people into the outstretched arms awaiting them. God is love.

Perhaps that is the most divisive belief of all - more than all the world's politics, religions, nations and heartaches (heartache still being the closest thing I have to relate to division in my life) - that God is love. Some will not want to stand to read it. Yet, I do and will believe it. I believe too, that in believing such, I can still get along with you.

At the end of this term, I want to apologize for hurting those I've hurt, forgive all who hurt me too, thank all of you who've helped, and hope and dream in turn for all that is to come. I'm looking forward to the next.



(Sorry for the repost, but I wanted this in writing too.)

Phil's Story, Chapter 3

The Apartment, again

The first thing I did was excuse myself briefly while I went out to the balcony and swept away the scattered needles. This resulted in some odd reports to local weather stations from residents below concerning something along the lines of ‘the sky is falling’ that were dutifully ignored. No one was going to tell the local meteorologist his job. Once that was done I tended to my guest who remained where I had left her, standing in the threshold.

“Come in… please… I’m sorry I just-”

“That’s ok.”

She stepped inside. I’m glad she cut me off because I didn’t know where that was going. I probably would have spewed out the whole twisted tale. She would have slapped me and gone home absolutely appalled, and that would have left me alone, to tend to a love unrequited.

“Can I offer you something? Anything?”

“What have you got?”

Did that beautiful smile accompany everything? I thought for a second about what she asked me; to be totally honest I didn’t have much to offer, but there is a strategy in offering what you do have to offer.

“If you’re hungry I could make you a sandwich or something. Maybe just a cup of coffee? Or tea?”

Always start with offering that which has a moderate amount of preparation time. That way you create a little time to allow for development but not too much to leave you stranded. Speaking of time, I thought it’d be wise to take note of it, perhaps spare myself the future therapy bills, or at least make sure I was running within its confines and wouldn’t be roused by another unbalanced bus passenger. I expected some unrecognizable jumble, but this time the microwave flashed with a clear seven twenty eight, nine… it even progressed! It was really happening! And as an end to that aside, more often than not, the last option, if amiable enough, will be the most likely accepted.

“Tea sounds great.”

Offer something that has variety.

“Orange Pekoe, Earl Grey… Chai?”

“Chai?”

“Have you never had Chai tea?”

“I don’t think so…”

“Then you have to try it.”

She smiled

“Alright then.”

“The phone is on the table beside the couch in the family room.”

“Thanks.”

I let the tea brew while she used the phone. I took the opportunity to go to the bathroom and freshen up. I didn’t want to impose on her privacy at this juncture in our fledgling relationship. I looked in the bathroom mirror and examined what I saw. Still donning the blue “Kitchen Staff” uniform and my faded black baseball cap I looked like I was losing the battle of life. I took off the hat to uncover a matted mess of short brown hair… with frosted tips. The result of weeks of litigation between me and a friend, who swore that dying my hair would change my life and solve all my problems. It was half past seven and I hadn’t even grown a two o’clock shadow on my chin or upper lip, which I had shaved the previous night. Those were the only areas experiencing any development in facial hair growth and to be honest I was wondering if the rest wasn’t just bad soil. All that seemed to sprout anywhere else consisted of tightly knit clusters of hair spawning from moles, the odd stray strand that stood alone, and consistent patches of adolescent acne, all of which amounted to very little in the self esteem department. To be honest, it wasn’t as bad as all that, or else beauty is truly in the eye of the beholder, because in the other room, not more than fifty feet from where I stood scrutinizing my appearance, sat the most intriguingly beautiful being that could have ever graced my home and if Angelica was at all daunted or horrified by my youthful blemishes, she hid it amazingly well. To this day I still believe that there is only one factor with which to gauge self-esteem: requited love. If I loved Angelica (I was pretty sure it was escalating into such), and she loved me, there would be no need to further question my adequacy in the mirror. However that realization had not been made, and so I still tried to present what I had to work with the best I could in hopes of salvaging any possibility of kindling a mutual attraction; mutual feelings make surer foundations.

I took an uncomfortably brief shower, dried off, and focused my attention to my still-dripping hair, ruffling it back to some sort of life, though what type thereof I’m not at liberty to say. I preserved it in an extreme-hold gel. I always thought wet was better than dry anyhow; perhaps it appeals to some primal instinct relating to our foremost basic need of water; more than likely it’s a conditioning of “Sport’s Illustrated Swimsuit Editions”. I redressed, not wanting to be caught in a towel… yet, and quickly stopped into my room to change out of my shirt, trying not to link the food particles clinging to my sleeve to their respective entrees. I slipped on a nice button-up T-shirt and left a few strategically planned places unbuttoned. I then returned to the kitchen. I felt like a heel. I had left her to fend for herself for nearly fifteen minutes.

The tea in the pot had steeped into an aromatic and homogenous comfort drink, just as I had planned. I poured it, fixed it, and slowly walked out to serve my guest. She was off of the phone and didn’t appear to have had a very good conversation… or I was too long. That was it. She had been offended by my inadequate hosting of someone of her caliber. She was livid. There was no trace of that smile in her features, her gaze was distant, yet penetrating, and her lips slightly pursed, but she was as beautiful as ever. She looked at me as I approached and I thought it best if she was not the one forced to break the tension in the air. I wasn’t prepared to defend myself from an attack… my defenses, usually so keen, were waning in her imposing presence. I asked more for my own sake than for hers, to establish some parameters, not to be taken unaware…

“Everything ok?”

I regretted it as soon as I said it. I know it was stupid, after all it was more than obvious that everything was not ok; people were starving, AIDS had reached epidemic proportions in countries, and, on a more immediate and local scale, she was visibly upset. I sat beside her on the couch setting the teas down on the table and turned to face her. She began to speak, but that musical voice I was so fond of was accompanied by an expression I hadn’t heard in it before that moment; it sounded strained, as though it were about to break and let loose a sadness that would cause the greatest mountains to crack in its wake. I was afraid of what I was about to hear.

“What’s that look for? It’s not the end of the world. There will be other parties Frankie… besides, now we don’t have to feel rushed.”

She sipped her tea. Her voice was as composed as it ever was and I wondered if she wasn’t perpetually peaceful. I guess parties aren’t her whole life. Did she have a single character flaw? I would be hard pressed to find one. I smiled, and I too sipped my tea. At length she spoke:

“So…”

If you would call that speaking… I ventured a guess that she was action oriented.

“What would you like to do?”

“I don’t know… what do you usually do?”

“With company?”

“Yeah.”

“Go somewhere else.”

“Oh… well, do you have a deck of cards?”

“Playing cards?”

All I got in response was a knowing look and that smile; I fetched a deck of playing cards from a nearby drawer where they had sat untouched for years past.

“Do you know how to play Gin?”

I didn’t. Come to think of it, I knew how to play very few card games, with the exception of fifty-two-card pickup; I learned early on to avoid activities that involved any ‘picking up’. I shook my head. She proceeded to give me a quick five-minute lesson on the rules of play, followed by a ten-minute beginner’s strategy tutorial and went on to triumph in the game for an additional three quarters of an hour.

It was my deal, and if I wasn’t dropping them while shuffling, or tossing two at a time, I was flinging them clear off the table.

“Sorry.”

She shrugged it off and deftly organized her hand. As poor a player as I was I could definitely get used to this. Sitting face to face, looking intently in the eyes of your opponent to try and decipher their stratagem, the ease of conversation, the brushing of hands, the moments when the look in her eyes tells you that the last thought in her mind wasn’t on the game. Playing cards is a wonderful pastime. I was just about to go out, winning my first hand, when she glanced around and caught a glimpse of the glass-framed spectacle outside the window.

“Oh!”

“What?”

She simply stood in response and walked to the window.

“There’s a balcony you know…”

She eagerly followed me out onto the elevated open-faced platform nine stories above the parking lot where I caught a glimpse of the splendor she had seen. In the hour we had sat idly by and played cards the world around us had been busy churning up a storm. The sky was ominous and dark even though the sun would have just begun its decent. The turmoil of the atmosphere was presented to every faculty of sense. Lightning that bounced around illuminating the clouds, would be spontaneously released from its prison and smite the earth with its wrath, to which a deafening roar rolled behind; whether it was the cry of the earth, or the lightning’s unnecessary reinforcements couldn’t be distinguished. Although the rain had not yet been set free from its celestial stronghold, a warm breeze forewarned of its imminent presence with an aroma that can only be described as the calm before the storm, arriving late. We watched the gathering momentum of nature’s performance; the warm breeze blowing Angelica’s hair about her, mingling the scent of the coming rain with Outrageous shampoo; if only they could bottle that. Then, with an explosion of light and sound, a bolt of lightning rent the sky and let loose the torrent. It came too all of a sudden to wholly avoid. As quickly as we could we pushed the table and chairs back against the wall so we could sit and watch the show without audience interaction.

“Would you like a drink or anything?”

“Another cup of Chai would be nice.”

We must have sat out there for two hours engaged in conversation, sipping our teas, and enjoying the interruptions of the storm. When the clouds finally began to thin and disperse, revealing the backdrop of night scattered with the first distant stars, all three of those visible, still almost indistinguishable, through the haze of the city’s lights, I dreaded the impending announcement that Angelica would be heading home. Throughout the course of the evening I had fallen under the impression that the night would never end. To my dismay it seemed to be ending entirely too soon.

“I guess I had better get going… I didn’t think it was so late.”

I knew it.

“Yeah… I guess.”

“Thank you, Frankie… for a wonderful evening.”

I had been patient… but I figured I should bite the bullet, albeit lightheartedly, so I corrected her with a smile.

“Phillip.”

“Phillip? What have I been saying?”

“Frankie.”

“Oh m’gosh! I’m so sorry!”

She said it laughing. That was easy…

“I can’t believe I’ve been calling you Frankie all night…”

“It’s ok.”

The laughing stopped.

“No. It’s not. I’m such an idiot!”

On second thought, she seemed to be taking it rather hard…

“Why didn’t you correct me sooner? I hate you! I’m so stupid”

A little too hard…

“Really Angelica, it’s no big deal; I’m partly at fault.”

“Shut up! I hate you! I hate you, I hate me, I hate everything!”

I had to go and open my big mouth… she had started crying and was hyperventilating.

“Angelica?”

Between convulsions…

“Shut up! Get away from me!”

I took a step in her direction and she hurdled off of the balcony to a gruesome death nine stories below.

“Phil?”

She called me back.

“Are you ok?”

She called me Phil…

“Yeah, I’m fine… sorry, I just…”

“It’s ok… look, here’s my number. I had a lot of fun tonight. We should do this more often.”

She scribbled down her name and number on a piece of paper. Even her penmanship was of an unsurpassable quality in it’s own unique way. She turned to go.

“Wait!”

I tore the piece of paper, ever so carefully as to not mar her hastily scrawled yet beautiful name and number, and I wrote my own name, in my best block letters, and my number below it on the other piece and handed it to her. She looked confused.

“So you can call me too.”

I didn’t think a further explanation would be necessary, but that wasn’t the problem in the first place.

“Frankie?”

Shit! (That’s a word I’ll try never to say, but I’ve been certainly known to think it on occasion… this being one of them.) What was my name anyway? I took back the piece of paper and scribbled out “FRANKIE” and wrote “Phillip” next to it. I made a little nervous laugh and that seemed to set things right. She smiled, shook her head, and put the piece of paper in her pocket. Once again she turned to go.

“Wait!”

She turned back once more.

“You forgot something…”

I picked up a picture that was left on the table. It was taken from her wallet with a bunch of others during the course of the night to help illustrate a story. A tangible memory to share on rainy evenings; I made a mental note to get a camera and start taking more pictures, myself having none to accompany my stories.

“Oh! Thanks…”

She put the picture back in its place. With a final check to make sure nothing was left behind she was heading on her way.

“Wait!”

When she turned again it was with an amused impatience. I assumed a playful disposition.

“Can I walk you home?”

“No.”

Ouch. Shot down. Rejected. Too much too soon. I’ve betrayed myself. She’ll hate me now, start thinking I had ulterior motives. She’ll start finding excuses and will slowly, or quickly, distance herself from my seemingly obsessive-compulsive freaky pseudo love lust! Such honorable intentions unjustly misconstrued by not keeping my mouth shut and thinking before…

“I’m not walking home.”

I lost my train of thought… where was I?

Pause and think. Recapitulate. That was plausible. I later learned how far a walk that would be. Suffice it to say far, and it was… 10:30; unsafe for a beautiful girl alone at night, at least in this neighborhood; of course she wouldn’t walk. In the midst of my confusion she went on and abolished my ill-navigated locomotive.

“You can walk me to the bus though.”

I finally accompanied her off of the balcony breathing a silent sigh of so much more than mere relief. We were on our way the moment I was ready. It took me some time to get ready because I kept trying to tend to Angelica.

While getting a sweater…

“Would you like anything to drink?”

“No thanks.”

While tying my shoes…

“Hungry? A little something for the road?”

“No. Thank you.”

While searching for my wallet and keys, which were handed to me by the patient Angelica, standing with the door propped open and ready to go…

“Ready?”

“Quite.”

“You’re sure I can’t offer you a…”

Just a nod in reply.

We were out the door (which I mechanically locked). I walked halfway to the elevator before I stopped and ran back to the door to make sure it was locked. I did this all the time. I returned to the elevator to see Angelica waiting with her foot in the door (she was cute when impatient, so I couldn’t count it against her). Down the elevator, into the lobby, and onto the street. While opening the door I recalled my earlier premonition of the grim death that awaited me outside. I looked at Angelica and decided it would be worth it to make this night my last, before I had the opportunity to wake up again, or screw it up, and I continued on with her beside me. Deja vu. There was a guy getting the tar beat out of him (I knew him to be a smoker and I think he actually was coughing up black stuff while his assailants kicked him) and a group of 15 year olds smoking a joint. The two guys who would introduce me to my maker were conducting their business a few feet away. As I knew it would, everything stopped and everyone turned to look at Angelica. The victim of the attack struggled to his feet and stopped when he saw her. The kids smoking up saw her. My murderer and his accomplice saw her, as did their clients. Everything froze and I prepared myself for the inevitable.

“Hey! Not so fast; we’re not done with you yet…”

The assailant who first noticed that his punching bag had risen leapt after him and tackled him back to the ground. The other two rejoined in the festivities.

“This is some good shit!”

That was from one of the kids smoking the expensive clippings of a recently weeded garden. All of his friends agreed, nonetheless.

“Hey, Phil…”

This was from the guy who was going to stick me with an ice pick. Not everyone gets these predictions 100% accurate, Nostradomus missed more than a few, a number of times, but I was certain that my time had come.

“I thought you were gay. Where’d you find her? Hey baby, want a real man?”

“Sure, big guy.”

Angelica left me and took his arm. He had dealt me a blow worse than death.

“Come on Phil, let’s go.”

She took my arm and directed me and my hyperactive imagination, away from the fray, into the night.

There was the bus stop right across the street from my house. We went there. Now, for Angelica to get home she would have to ride the bus to the mall, where the terminal is, and transfer onto another bus. At this time at night, that driver would, by request, stop right in front of her house, provided it was en route, which it was, because she had done this before. The mall is a ten-minute walk from my building, so I suggested that we walk instead of wait, because there are stops along the way should the bus approach in the meantime.

It was a humid night, the streets still wet from the recent rain. It wasn’t too hot, it wasn’t too cool; everything about that night was absolutely perfect. As we walked together, I think we were both trying to figure out how we got where we were, trying to trace the day’s events and how they drew to this conclusion. We walked in silence for the most part, our footfalls and the odd passing car the only sounds with which to pace our thoughts. Personally, I’m a thinker. There’s always something being worked out in my head, and if some external guide isn’t keeping track of the real world for you, it’s easy to get caught up in a net of ideas. Somewhere in the back of my mind I was noting our footsteps, and the way they seemed to mesh, like we were meant to walk together. We weren’t in sync, but we were headed in the same direction, which is more than most people could say of another. We reached the bus stop without being overtaken, and we stood under a lamppost anticipating our separation. It wasn’t until we saw her bus pulling into the turnaround that we spoke to each other. Even then it seemed too soon in comparison to the amount of time needed to assess exactly what transpired that night. Were we friends? Were we strangers again? Were we more? I had so many questions. When would I see her again?

“Goodnight.”

It was the greatest night I had ever known.

“Goodnight, Phil. Call me sometime…”

Sometime didn’t sound very promising.

“How about tonight?”

I couldn’t believe I said that. I don’t know what was at fault, my brain for not keeping that thought a secret, my lips for not knowing when to keep shut, or my tongue for choosing this opportunity to liberate itself from the shackles of introversion. What’s more, I couldn’t believe her response.

“Sure.”

At this juncture the bus pulled up and opened its double doors. As she stepped up onto the first step I noticed that I had extended a hand towards her. I wasn’t waving, I wasn’t reaching, and I certainly wasn’t grabbing, although I think that is the impression I gave the bus driver. She cast a dreadful glare in my direction but I hardly even noticed it. Once on the second step Angelica turned around and saw my outstretched arm. Without any awkward pauses or silences or second thoughts she took my hand in hers. It wasn’t prolonged or profound, she just held it for a moment and turned around to seat herself for her ride home. That was goodbye. At least for an hour before I’d try and call her. The bus’ doors shut and it began its route. I watched it for as long as I could then I started on my way back home. There was not so much as an inkling of thought preoccupied with what horrors lay lurking in the night to thwart this perfect day as it approached its end. The time was ten fifty-seven. I didn’t know that because I still wasn’t wearing a watch, but if I were I would have known as much. At 11:00, not more than three minutes after her bus passed from view and I was homeward bound, the onslaught would be over and I would have failed. I was taken totally off guard.

Ever since the occasion I am about to share with you it has been my firm conviction that a faculty exists within every person whose only purpose is to bring agony to the self. A subtle, malicious, masochistic, thought process that, once begun, gathers the momentum of a freight train and careens down a track destined for misery and despair. This domestic enemy takes a number of forms and its sphere of influences stretches beyond the reaches of any innate defense mechanism if it is not halted in its tracks before it gathers steam. I had entertained a thought and the grueling battle had begun. I couldn’t have helped it. The battle was destined to be fought.

Phil's Story, Chapter 2

The Apartment.

The sun was flourishing as it descended behind the man-made, concrete, mountain range, determined not to be undone by such trivial temporal structures that accommodate the lower-middle class urban population in so many cities across the world. It seemed like the display was meant for us. We were out on the westward-facing balcony with a drink, watching the luminous descent. We had been in each others' company for nearly an hour. I had offered her everything short of my soul before she took the drink. I hoped that I hadn’t made too much of a fool of myself.

While she gazed out at the falling sun and sipped her water (with a wedge of lemon) I gazed at her; I’d seen the sun set before, to hell with the sun, Angelica was on my balcony. In my eyes no other beauty was comparable to her. Besides, her expressions summed up the setting sun and I didn’t miss a thing. I noted the exact instant her expressions changed, from one shade to the next, admiring the spectacle laid before her; first wonder, then warmth, which slowly melted away into a pensive peace. Everything was perfect; it came as a total shock when she found herself in pain.

“Ouch!”

I didn’t want to hear that. The declaration of pain was genuinely shared, though while hers was physical, having been impaled by two of the shed needles from the Christmas tree that was removed a couple weeks ago (in mid May), my pain was that of having such a beautiful moment ruined, not to mention having indirectly caused pain to Angelica. She sat, removed her black Italian suede sandal-esque three-inch heel, and clutched her foot. I sat, took it from her, and set it in my lap. Just my luck, a couple of browned evergreen needles had lodged themselves in her big toe. I considered amputation, being healthier in the long run if the wound were to become gangrenous. I excused myself and got her a Band-Aid. I removed the protruding flora, washed her foot, and bandaged the wound. We were laughing about it before the treatment was complete. Hitherto, I had never thought of feet as beautiful features. The stabilizing nature of them was appreciated, but they were often rank, rough, and soiled by dirt, sweat, and sock remnants. Having her foot in my hands led me to a whole new perspective, almost an epiphany; I almost understood, on a hedonistic level, certainly not the intended one, why Christ washed the feet of his disciples: there is a perspective gained in doing things for others that cannot be fathomed in having things done for you. I realized then that I would do anything for this girl, and that I mustn’t let her know as much, lest I become taken advantage of. I still didn’t know much about her, only that I was falling deeper into whatever emotion I felt every time I saw her.

“Jim should be here soon to pick us up.”

She didn’t sound eager or resentful to leave my abode, she implicitly stated, in a matter-of-factly tone, that it would be impolite if we were to keep Jim waiting. This was true, and courtesy is a wonderful trait, so I wasn’t crushed at her leaving, especially since it was together we left my apartment, took the elevator to the lobby, and waited in the front of the building for Jim. The microwave clock was flashing ‘RESET’, but I’m sure it was time to go.

Outside my apartment building, in the cover of night, or even dusk for the more daring, any number of hoodlums, criminals, and young people can be caught doing an assortment of misdemeanors and or felonies. I made it a point to ignore most of the goings-on; however, sometimes, the goings-on would not ignore you. Once again we were greeted by silence when Angelica became revealed to the throng. Not good. You see, the criminal element requires some distractions to flourish; shuffling steps, whispers, and general hustle and bustle can add up into an effective cover. Angelica had a tendency to put a stop to all such distractions and command attention. I’m sure it was innocent, but that just compounded the effect. Every shady transaction ceased. The victim of an assault hobbled to his feet and would have successfully scampered away had he not turned back to see what the lack of fuss was about. When he saw Angelica he too was under her spell.

The spell Angelica unwittingly casts on those around her is undone in due time… and unfortunately an enhanced sense of consciousness follows. She sobers up the drunkards and brings the high back to earth. I think it’s a side effect of the apparent innocence. Nonetheless, a fifty-dollar joint shared by three teenagers was discarded and the kid who sold it to them fled their wrath. The innocent victim who recovered quicker than his assailants, I can only assume it’s because of his being somewhat familiar with virtue himself, also mustered a renewed vigor and, coupled with his third-degree black-belt, kicked their asses in self defense. Then there was them. Only two of them, and they approached with a grimace marring their scarred faces. They were bad. You can recognize the extent to which something is truly evil only when it comes into contact with a certain degree of good. The greater the difference between the varying degrees the more frightening their encounter. When a massive good confronts a miniscule bad, the bad is overwhelmed and faint, the opposite holds should the bad so overpower the good. When equal forces meet, a victor must be established. Angelica took the offensive.

“Hi.”

Let no one deny the power of the spoken word. I looked at her, smiling at these misguided souls, and I was empowered.

“Either of you looking to score?”

This was them. The two minions offered us pills, vials, powders, and pouches, all of which were declined by a smile and a “no thanks”.

“You sure? We could make it worth your while. You see, when you came out our customers took off with a new-found conscience. We figure you owe us some business. If you give it to us, we won’t kick your ass.”

They were speaking to me. Not even they would dream of harming the beauty that stood next to me.

Not quite as empowered as I had thought…

“I’d really love to guys, but I don’t do drugs.”

“Good for you. Tell you what, if you just compensate our loss we’ll let you go with your girlfriend on your merry way.”

Increasingly aware of the total absence of power that I wielded…

“Again, I’d love to, but I don’t have a lot of cash on me.”

Ouch. This time it was me. Without another word the jerk punched me in the gut. I’ve been punched in the gut before, a number of times actually, but it never hurt so much as it did now; with a stabbing pain pouring out of me and I doubled over falling to my knees. Holding my stomach I began to feel cold and clammy, with the exception of that part of my torso that was burning and wet. It wasn’t until I caught a glimpse of my assailants running away, and the glint from an object one had clenched in his hand that it dawned on me; I wasn’t just punched, I was stabbed. Angelica caught on when one of my bloodied hands jutted out to catch me as I crumbled even lower. I’m sure that there are better ways to go about seeking such attention, but for the time being I was almost grateful for the circumstances that led up to the fuss Angelica presently made over me. She immediately came and knelt beside me. She clutched my arm and helped me to my feet. She led me to the wall of my building where she eased me back to the ground. I sat and bled while she beseeched passing strangers to call for help, all the while gently running her fingers through my hair as she supported my head on her shoulder. She succeeded eventually in rallying help, as I knew she would, and once help was reported to be on its way, she focused all of her attention on me. She struggled to keep positive, smiling when I managed to look at her, all the while holding the arm that I had covering my wound encouraging and aiding me to keep pressure against it. She tried to keep me conscious by telling me stories and anecdotes and little tidbits of her childhood, and although I was taking in and treasuring all that I could, not even she could forever ward off the darkness that descended upon me. I was powerless. Fade to black.

Death is, as Shakespeare noted, the undiscovered country. There truly is nothing I could say about death, nor could I so much as imagine anything concrete enough to put into words. Consequently, death remains an end and not a new beginning, as many believe. Personally, I don’t know what I believe, nevertheless, that is only to say that, for those I leave behind, I can no longer communicate my thoughts or ideas on my experiences, and thus they remain, for you, unknown. It should now be apparent that I could not possibly have died, because I am still communicating with the living. Still, when I woke up, I was quite surprised. Especially upon seeing that it was a woman’s backside that had jarred me awake, undoubtedly having lost her balance overcompensating for the bus stopping. She promptly left. Still, I was on the bus… and that was a confusing revelation.

“What bus is this?”

“It’s the downtown to the mall.”

“What’s the time?

The poor guy I was questioning showed me his wrist… more accurately, his watch.

“It’s not even seven?”

I couldn’t believe it. In what would surely have appeared as a melodramatic reenactment of some Jim Carey scene, I abruptly stood and searched my stomach for signs of gashes or pains and found neither. I did however receive a dollar from a woman who sat not far from where I was lifting up my shirt, mistaking my performance for one of a very different magnitude. I pocketed the offering and sat back down. It had only been five minutes since I stepped onto the bus with the intention of returning home after a long half-day at work. My overactive imagination had gained frightening momentum the past few days, and I was getting worried. I could no longer tell down from up. Was this just some extension of another dream? Would I awake again in a cold sweat to repeat an endless cycle of misspent moments never to be realized? It was appearing that way, because at that moment to my awkward surprise, Angelica paid her fare and glided down the isle towards me. That’s when I knew that my infatuation had developed a budding romantic undertone. When I saw her that day on the bus, I saw the same beautiful woman who later walked down the aisle on my wedding day, and who I lived with for forty years, through thick and thin, and loved through peaks and valleys.

“Frankie?”

I was getting ahead of myself again; it wasn't even seven. It wasn’t in my nature to plan or hypothesize so I decided to focus on the present situation before I made any more overreaching projections. First thing’s first, my name is Phillip not Frankie.

“Angelica? Hey. How are you doing?”

What’s in a name anyway. She could call me jackass and I’d still respond in the same fashion; totally enchanted by some unnamed magic.

“I’m fine.”

She certainly was, and that wouldn’t be the last time I’d use equivocation to my advantage.

“That’s good to hear. What have you been up to?”

I figured it was best not to be too forward and to allow for some communication.

“Not much… working.”

“Are you going back to school in the fall?”

“Yeah, second year of four.”

“Me too.”

It’s always good to establish a connection, find some common ground, where two can share their perspectives of similar vantage points.

She held the bar that ran along the bus’ interior directly in front of me as we spoke. I offered her my seat but she refused it laughing and took the empty one beside me. I tried to remain focused, but I wouldn’t be able to recall much of what was said during that bus ride. I just remember being there, having it happen, sitting next to Angelica laughing, smiling, talking, sharing; the 15-minute bus ride seemed to take an eternity; it was the best eternity I ever spent. Eternal moments are abundant in the regular course of life, you just have to know how to take them in and file them away. Any one particular span of time can become eternal; one of those moments that compile those vivid memories that make up our repertoire of stories and act as milestones that can never be forgotten. Even when I reluctantly pulled the cord and excused myself to exit at the stop in front of my apartment complex I knew that I would return to this bus ride again and again and that it would never be forgotten.

I left with a wave and a forced smile. The hidden hydraulics that always hiss when a bus lurches forward did so, and queued the instant that Angelica was carried to a separate unknown destination, presumably for a longer duration than my sanity would bear. I stood there watching as it moved forward, slowly at first, while it tried to gain momentum, then was forced to a stop at the red light it encountered 10 meters ahead. I had an urge to cross at the lights so that I could pass the bus once more and catch a glimpse of her stunning presence through the windowpane… pain is more accurate. When I looked up I saw nothing but the reflected image of the sky above, blanketed in a suburban smog haze… stupid characteristics of light. When I reached the intersection where the bus was stopped I stepped off of the curb in front of it and was almost an unwilling passenger masquerading as a hood ornament. Luckily the driver warned me by pressing the petal to the floor, causing the hulking mass-transit vehicle to peel out, leaving me in a thin cloud of burning rubber. As my lungs and nasal passages cleared I noticed that no sooner had the bus screeched to a start than it screeched to a halt on the opposite side of the intersection. I thought the bus driver was going to go postal and chase me down for stealing the rubber particles I inhaled, however, much to my surprise and elation, who should emerge but the girl of my dreams, and as she stepped to the ground she made sideways glances, I presumed in search of me, so I called to her… with little confidence.

It was too late. No sooner had I opened my mouth than the last bulb fizzled out, the load, one brick short, toppled over, the incomplete deck of cards was dropped and the people in the black van that stood constant watch over my fleeting sanity saw their queue and came to a screeching halt beside me right there to pick up the pieces. The men in white coats that everyone jokes about, leapt from the van, tackled me to the ground, restrained me, (If you’re wondering, straight jackets aren’t comfortable) and had me promptly committed.

“Frankie!”

I really should say something about my name…

“Angelica? What are you doing?”

All in due time, let’s not loose sight of what’s important… maintaining the moment so that it may be maintained.

She held aloft a small black canvas wallet. It looked remarkably like my own, and after a quick search of the pockets, the fact that it was my own was made clear. That, and her having rummaged through it to find identification, confirmed it pretty well, especially since the ID had my face on it. We met halfway, which was rather foolish considering we were on either side of a busy intersection, and became even more so once the light changed and stranded us on the concrete median that divided the two constant flows of traffic.

“Thanks.”

“Excuse me?”

I’m too soft spoken and the traffic was noisy.

“I said, ‘Thanks’!”

This time I said it a little louder. She handed me my wallet with a smile. I wish I could have kept a copy of that smile in my wallet. Yet, it would be too incongruous tucked in with my embarrassing mug shot license. She said something. I was too busy thinking about how beautiful she was when speeding traffic was playing with her hair, causing it to go every which way, over her face and mine (we were that close), which resulted in her attempts to tame it with her hands. I gently brushed a wild strand behind her ear and got another smile as a reward. I tried to return it but I’m sure I ended up with that part-smile mostly-smirk that ends when I coyly turn away. As I turned, the traffic light did too, so we walked together to the side of the road where I began, the crossing of a street away from my building. She looked at me, like she was waiting for some response. I must have looked as confused as I was because she had to repeat another question I didn’t hear.

“Would you mind?”

Still nothing… I needed a little more.

“If I made a call from your place?”

There it is.

“Mind? No, not at all, it’s the least I could do…”

She smiled again, the same beautiful smile; I could never get sick of that beautiful smile. We walked to my building and I swiped my security access card that enabled me to enter the premises. Half a dozen people lurking by the door took the opportunity to follow my lead, especially since the security booth, conveniently located in the lobby by the elevators, was empty. We squeezed into a crowded elevator, where we overheard that two of the three were for some reason or another not in service. That was toned down and pieced together from the various profane mumbling that often acts as our elevator music. We got off on the ninth floor and entered my domicile.

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.