In the morning I offered her coffee and stuff. She said,
“No, I have to go serve hot drinks.”
I said, “Okay.”
It was nice, but all a bit awkward. Mornings are awkward. Her breath smelled. Then she left.
After she left, I went into the kitchen to fetch my German-English dictionary. My housemate was there (he is a little shorter, with a shaved head, and perpetual beard stubble). As usual, he was wearing old checkered boxer shorts and an argyle sweater, and no shoes. He walked around the house like this most days until about 10am; until he had to go someplace. This guy was a professional academic. He was probably the most intellectually capable person in my universe, but, as to be expected, his ability to render social cues was a bit tilted. He wasn't ill equipped when it came to social situations, he was just tuned to a different frequency than everyone else. This wasn't your absent minded professor, more someone who understood the world through a slightly strange lens. And, when he drank cold beverages he suffered from loud episodes of a cursing disease, which was embarrassing at times in bars and stuff since he wasn't used to controlling it all the time.
“Did that girl ride the bus last night?”
He said to me, sitting and sipping his coffee, scratching himself with his feet stretched out on the table in the kitchen, his face lit up with a mischievous smile.
“What bus? We walked home from . . .”
“You know what I am talking about. The pigskin bus. Did she ride the pigskin bus to tuna town?”
“Ahh. Got it,” I said. “No, not this time.”
He sipped his coffee loudly and scooped his scrambled eggs into a bowl with ketchup and some cold pieces of lunch meat.
“You think she is interested in experiencing an Eiffel Tower?” He said laughing.
“Maybe, but I don't think I will ask.”
He took a bite of his breakfast and let out his customary barrage of orgasmic noises,
“Oh God, yes, that is good, hmmmmmmm, sooo good.”
He did this any time he ate anything. I am not sure if it was a deliberate exaggeration or due to a mild case of a different kind of disease. Nonetheless, it continued as I walked out of the kitchen,
“Ohhhhhh, God, soo good, sooo good, yes, yes.”
I won't lie, that day when I saw the semi-hippy woman at the Shop my blood felt like it was racing through my veins—like all the platelets and cells involved thought there was a race to win, but that no one had clued them into the fact that they were racing in a circle. I saw her as I walked in and for some reason didn't know if I should say hello or walk by and let her attend to her work or something else altogether. So many things change in life—time takes them from us cruelly, heartlessly—our bodies change, or good friends move away, or you get in a car accident with some metal and a government. But, as I passed the semi-hippy woman in the Shop that day, the blood cells and platelets raced round and round the circular track of my body just like they had after the first time I kissed Lauren Olson in 6th grade at lunch time and then saw her in class afterwards. Am I just naïve? Shouldn't time have hardened me to this sort of childish excitement? Shouldn't time have taught me that one night—one couch and some dying bears—isn't a big deal? Shouldn't I just grow up? Did she think it was a big deal? Were here platelets racing or did they know there was nothing to win? Had she somehow clued them into this fact? I won't lie, I was frustrated myself for not having learned how to control or tame the cells and platelets any better than when I was in sixth grade; but I was thankful for the inexplainable, unexpected feelings of excitement, giddiness, wonder, and expectation.
After Brett had given me my hot drink, I sat down in the corner and tried to read some Flannery O'Connor, but none of it sank in to my brain. I think the blood race inside me meant that my brain was not able to do anything but think about the race—who would win? Is there a winner? How would I know who won? I guess technically they were my blood cells and my platelets, so I would win no matter what happened. But, I didn't have any control of them at that point, and thus it didn't feel like it was possible for me to win. I concluded that there is no winner for a circular race between cells and platelets, but I think it is fun nonetheless.
Are there ever winners for races that go in circles? They are fun at the beginning, but the cycle gets old, doesn't it?I should have remembered this, but at the time, I didn't care.
I kept glancing over at her to see if she was looking at me. I kept wondering what I should say. She came over after about an hour.
“Hey you. I am on break.”
“Hi, how are you today?”
“Well, my neck hurts because I fell asleep on a couch last night. And, my eyes hurt because before I fell asleep I was staring at a huge TV.”
I almost asked her if the small of her back hurt because of the erection that was prodding her on the couch, but I realized that this would probably not be smooth.
“Huh, sounds like an awful night you had. Sorry to hear it was so bad.”
“I didn't say it was bad. It was actually one of the best nights I have had in a long time, even though half my body is creaky as a result.”
I wanted to say that the next time she slept on that couch that her body would be more than creaky afterwards; but, I realized this would not be smooth.
“Well, what made it so good?”
“I had good company.”
With that, she walked off and went back to work.
This conversation did not stop the race in my veins. I went back to reading, and this time my brain allowed some things inside. So, that was good.
The Old Man came into the Smoke-Filled Coffeeshop later that day. After a about a half hour of reading the newspaper he came over and stood over my table. I looked up at the wrinkly, brooding figure above me—kind of like an aged God in some strange way. His tattered maroon polo shirt was unbuttoned. His gray hair protuded out from his fisherman's hat. And his face seemed to be petrified in way that allowed his eyes to zoom in and out. I don't know if God ages, but if he did he might look like the Old Man did over my table.
“Can I help you?” “Why don't you and I take a walk out to the shore?” I didn't ask questions. I just got up, got a refill of my hot drink, and followed him out the door.
“Okay.”
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