After a bout with his Psychology test Thomas headed home. It was getting late. His thoughts drifted between Maslow and Pavlov, then to the puppy from the paint store that morning. He could have sword that its eyes nearly popped out when its owner squeezed it into silence. Sometimes it felt like college was like a make-up heavy old woman. Any original thoughts or sparks of creativity are squeezed into oblivion due to the mounting pressure of mid-terms, papers, homework, and a part-time job, not to mention a roller-coaster relationship with a girl who's mood changed as often as Thomas got hungry.
Hunger.
I'm hungry again.
Burrito Tuesday.
The thought brought a smile to his face.
Then a different. Why couldn't he share burrito Tuesday with Sara. He loved her, and yet he didn't share some of the simplest things in life with her. The things that made him smile.
She hates burritos.
She hates Mexican food.
She doesn't even like taco salad if it has the tiniest bit of salsa on it.
Do we have anything in common?
Anything at all?
Thomas thought about that as he walked. He tried to think of the last time he and Sara actually had a conversation about something other than being in school. They shared the same major - sports psychology. In fact, that is how they met. Thomas thought it was so cool that there was a girl taking the same sports psychology classes that he was. It didn't hurt that her blonde hair and California tan made her a real head turner. The first day of class that semester he decided that she would be his girlfriend. The first time they kissed he couldn't feel his feet he was so excited. That was back in September. Now, the first week of December, and he couldn't feel his feet because of the snow. Sara was still California tan, which come to find out was due to her weekly fake bake, something she wouldn't miss for anything, even an impromptu celebratory afternoon date after Thomas got accepted for the internship of his dreams. Sometimes she hurt him.
Sometimes it feels like I love her. Other times it feels like I've been standing all day on a hard floor with nowhere to sit down.
That night, after burrito Tuesday he dropped by Sara's apartment to say hi. She had her hair pulled up in a pony-tail, a U sweatshirt on and a pair of fitted sweat pants. Something about her casualness was so attractive. Somehow she turned frumpy into fashion. Just looking at her sent a fire through Thomas' whole being, a desire pull her into his arms and hold her close, ignoring the bustle of life around them.
Hi.
Hey, What are you doing here?
I thought it was burrito Tuesday?
It certainly smells like burrito Tuesday...
The fluttering in Thomas' stomach turned to repulsion as the look on Sara's face twisted. He stepped into her apartment with some lame excuse about how he just wanted to see her tonight and could they maybe work on their homework together. A bit put out, Sara grudgingly agreed. She had grown to enjoy a night to relax by herself instead of having to stay in character while around her boyfriend. The two sat down and ended up watching tv rather than doing homework. Thomas took Sara's left hand while she flipped through the channels with the remote in her right hand.
A sadness loomed over his mind when he held her hand. He yearned to hold her, but the hand was all she ever made available. Even that felt reluctant. Not in the way she held his hand back, but in how she kissed him and the ways she never leaned her head on his shoulder during a movie. They spoke of love and more. He gazed upon her familiar face, never really knowing who she was. Both clinging onto what they hoped the other would someday become, denying the facts so plainly displayed in their lack of mutual affection. Even in his yearning there was illusion.
By now they were both pretending and only holding on for convenience and fear of solitude. What they had both fallen in love with was companionship and acceptance, not each other. Thomas knew it. Sara knew it. The unspoken agreement was finally being divulged tonight. They sat next to each other, stiff and afraid of what was next. The tragedy had begun when they deceived themselves and spoke the too often uttered words of love. They spent their kisses like carnival tickets. It is difficult to part with a friend you have suffered so much with, someone you have been through hell with. In this case, however, goodbye was their only gateway to the solitude that breeds joy and life. And so they said goodbye. He left her crying on the couch. Through her sobbing she obligatorily cried out one last time, don't go! and though he didn't leave the room right then, his heart had been gone for some time. A consoling arm and comforting embrace from a distant heart only adds to the pain. And yet, they were somehow closer in separation than all the days of their supposed love. Truth be told, he loved with a wholeness unmatched and unmeasured. Truth be told, it wasn't for her. She had intercepted his emotions for a time and now, realizing the farce, he had to move on.
Asleep that night, tangled in his sheets and faint dreams, his phone rang. He hadn't changed the personalized ring tone yet and the familiar sound that had always precluded their conversations made its way through the darkness. There was the temptation to let it go. Her voice was void of sadness. She knew it was late; that he was in bed was a forgone conclusion. Could she please see him just once more. The late night darkness overshadowed his judgment and he made his way against the chilly wind to her. Her silhouetted figure stood shivering in the breeze. An embrace, a look of passion in her eyes, a look that had been absent since the night they first kissed. They talked softly in the aftermath, both knowing this meeting was more a time for apologies than hope. Apologies for never having loved; apologies for not sitting facing, cheek to cheek, holding each others hearts. Appreciation for granting a vision of what it could mean to truly be whole through another; a vision yet to be made completely clear until the haze would begin to settle.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Part I
It was all dark at first. The haze settling thick, much like awaking from a dream in the early morning and not being sure if what you see is real or just an extension of a floating nighttime vision. All Thomas saw was an impression, a first impression. She looked kind. She was the one little children run to when they scrape their knees and they can't find their mom. Thomas did not then realize that when the haze lifted it would leave behind insurmountable pain. He walked away from her after their brief exchange thumbing the keys in his pocket. It would take about 10 minutes to walk home, another 30 to eat, shower and be out the door to make it to work on time. Life was leaving an unsettled aftertaste lately. Work classes girlfriend sleep. Often sleep was interrupted by said girlfriend. Oh, they loved each other, the way one loves a car that constantly breaks down; great when its running and cursed when it leaves you on the side of the road. Her name was Sara. The relationship wasn’t a junker, yet, perhaps it was just time for a trade-in. But how do you just trade-in someone you love like that. Despite being stranded roadside here and there he could never forget her or the joy they shared. Even behind the wheel of a newer model you never forget the feel of past loves. The memories forever protected by the junkyard dogs.
Thomas got home in 8 minutes flat. As he walked in the door he nearly collided with his roommate who was in a rush to Calculus class. The glasses that were perched beneath a blossoming uni-brow must have been what made the difference. In elementary school Thomas had wanted glasses-- convinced his IQ would consequently soar through the roof. Cursed 20/20 vision he thought as his mother pulled him from the showcase of frames. Already he had the perfect ones picked out. Light and wire-rimmed. A sharp, intelligent look. It seemed to him that he already knew all the answers on an upcoming test. And now, 15 years later, there wasn't a math bone in his body; cursed 20/20 vision. Often he regretted not cheating on the eye test, faking the last line, maybe even the last two for emphasis' sake. Oh the genius that could have been! Now it was up to the Lyle Cormwicks of the world to fight terrorism with equations and derivatives. They smiled and greeted one another in passing. They would rehash the events of the day later in front of the fishbowl on the coffee table, no doubt through mouthfuls of their traditional Tuesday night microwavable burritos.
Thomas mechanically ate, showered, and got dressed for work, all the while there was a cloud settling over his mind. Something was tugging at his unconscious, something was nestling itself into the folds of his future, he was changing.
The paint fumes at work left him feeling dizzy. He mostly just delivered it to local contractors, got their signatures and drove off to the next job site for the next delivery. However, sometimes when there weren't many deliveries to make, Thomas got to hang around the store and mix paint to match colors. That afternoon a plump old woman came into the store, her eccentric makeup enough to pass as a Joker look-a-like. Tucked partly under her arm and partly into a folded stomach roll was a puppy. It chirped all the way to the front desk until a not so gentle squeeze quieted its bark. She set the pup on the counter and then came her request, in full blown smoker's rumble, scratchy voice and all,
I need some paint for my puppy dog's room. Its gotta match her coat.... exactly!
What a time for the real employees to either be on their lunch break or humming softly, waiting to finish their business in the commode. Thomas wanted to tell her that he just delivers the stuff off, that he wasn't a technician. Her tone, however, didn't imply she was ready to be patient with the likes of a twenty-something year old college kid.
So to match a color you have to physically take a sample of it, i.e. a chip of paint, strip of cloth or maybe even a chunk of something unidentifiable. You take the sample and place it beneath a scanner that is connected to a computer. Special computer software analyzes the components of the sample and produces a recipe of sorts, a type of chemical equation that can be followed to make the match. The paint technician then selects the right base paint, be it a semi-gloss or flat paint, gloss or satin, then he adds a specific number of drops of tint according to the recipe. Finally, the tech will put the container of paint in the mixer. The mixer clutches the bucket and shakes it like a seven year old trying to get that last nickel out of the piggy bank. The whole process is quite scientific and yet relatively simple thanks to the software. However, there is a great deal of experience needed to make a perfect match. Often, the recipe will get it close, but the technician has to add a dab of this and a drop of that to get it just right. Not exactly something the delivery boy has actually been successful at before.
And there he sat; just hoping the phone wouldn't ring, holding down the fort until the real technicians returned from their various mid-afternoon distractions and in walks the Joker and her little dog too. Match the paint to the mutt’s fur?!? He screamed so loud in his mind that his ears were ringing. What did she expect me to do? Hold that rat under the scanner? Yank a chunk of its fur out and analyze it with a magnifying glass? Absurd requests always seem to find their way to my plate. He tried to stare her down, in hopes that an extended glare would somehow send the telepathic message that she was insane and persuade her pick up her puppy and leave. It must be all that make-up sinking into her skin, he thought, absorbed through her pores, stream-lined to the blood and sent gushing to her brain that makes her so intolerable. Then a stroke of genius:
What kind of base did you want that in?
A semi-gloss.
I'll be right back; we keep our semi-glosses in the back of the store.
He escaped to the back to wait for Batman to come to the rescue. Luckily a co-worker returned within about five minutes, still humming his tune. He eyed the dog momentarily and whipped up a concoction with some tints and a semi-gloss stored right next to the front desk. He told Thomas to put it the shaker while he scratched the dog behind ears and made small talk with the villainous old woman. I just drive he kept thinking to myself. I just drive.
Thomas clocked out and headed back to campus. He was on his way to the testing center for the psychology mid-term. He began to review in his mind the material he had been studying that morning. His thoughts plodded from one thing to another. Maslow's hierarchy of needs, the pyramid shape they formed, the Egyptian head drawn in the margin of the girl's notes he had borrowed. Her smile and gracious aura when he returned them to her a half hour before he left for work earlier that day. The haze was thinning.
Thomas got home in 8 minutes flat. As he walked in the door he nearly collided with his roommate who was in a rush to Calculus class. The glasses that were perched beneath a blossoming uni-brow must have been what made the difference. In elementary school Thomas had wanted glasses-- convinced his IQ would consequently soar through the roof. Cursed 20/20 vision he thought as his mother pulled him from the showcase of frames. Already he had the perfect ones picked out. Light and wire-rimmed. A sharp, intelligent look. It seemed to him that he already knew all the answers on an upcoming test. And now, 15 years later, there wasn't a math bone in his body; cursed 20/20 vision. Often he regretted not cheating on the eye test, faking the last line, maybe even the last two for emphasis' sake. Oh the genius that could have been! Now it was up to the Lyle Cormwicks of the world to fight terrorism with equations and derivatives. They smiled and greeted one another in passing. They would rehash the events of the day later in front of the fishbowl on the coffee table, no doubt through mouthfuls of their traditional Tuesday night microwavable burritos.
Thomas mechanically ate, showered, and got dressed for work, all the while there was a cloud settling over his mind. Something was tugging at his unconscious, something was nestling itself into the folds of his future, he was changing.
The paint fumes at work left him feeling dizzy. He mostly just delivered it to local contractors, got their signatures and drove off to the next job site for the next delivery. However, sometimes when there weren't many deliveries to make, Thomas got to hang around the store and mix paint to match colors. That afternoon a plump old woman came into the store, her eccentric makeup enough to pass as a Joker look-a-like. Tucked partly under her arm and partly into a folded stomach roll was a puppy. It chirped all the way to the front desk until a not so gentle squeeze quieted its bark. She set the pup on the counter and then came her request, in full blown smoker's rumble, scratchy voice and all,
I need some paint for my puppy dog's room. Its gotta match her coat.... exactly!
What a time for the real employees to either be on their lunch break or humming softly, waiting to finish their business in the commode. Thomas wanted to tell her that he just delivers the stuff off, that he wasn't a technician. Her tone, however, didn't imply she was ready to be patient with the likes of a twenty-something year old college kid.
So to match a color you have to physically take a sample of it, i.e. a chip of paint, strip of cloth or maybe even a chunk of something unidentifiable. You take the sample and place it beneath a scanner that is connected to a computer. Special computer software analyzes the components of the sample and produces a recipe of sorts, a type of chemical equation that can be followed to make the match. The paint technician then selects the right base paint, be it a semi-gloss or flat paint, gloss or satin, then he adds a specific number of drops of tint according to the recipe. Finally, the tech will put the container of paint in the mixer. The mixer clutches the bucket and shakes it like a seven year old trying to get that last nickel out of the piggy bank. The whole process is quite scientific and yet relatively simple thanks to the software. However, there is a great deal of experience needed to make a perfect match. Often, the recipe will get it close, but the technician has to add a dab of this and a drop of that to get it just right. Not exactly something the delivery boy has actually been successful at before.
And there he sat; just hoping the phone wouldn't ring, holding down the fort until the real technicians returned from their various mid-afternoon distractions and in walks the Joker and her little dog too. Match the paint to the mutt’s fur?!? He screamed so loud in his mind that his ears were ringing. What did she expect me to do? Hold that rat under the scanner? Yank a chunk of its fur out and analyze it with a magnifying glass? Absurd requests always seem to find their way to my plate. He tried to stare her down, in hopes that an extended glare would somehow send the telepathic message that she was insane and persuade her pick up her puppy and leave. It must be all that make-up sinking into her skin, he thought, absorbed through her pores, stream-lined to the blood and sent gushing to her brain that makes her so intolerable. Then a stroke of genius:
What kind of base did you want that in?
A semi-gloss.
I'll be right back; we keep our semi-glosses in the back of the store.
He escaped to the back to wait for Batman to come to the rescue. Luckily a co-worker returned within about five minutes, still humming his tune. He eyed the dog momentarily and whipped up a concoction with some tints and a semi-gloss stored right next to the front desk. He told Thomas to put it the shaker while he scratched the dog behind ears and made small talk with the villainous old woman. I just drive he kept thinking to myself. I just drive.
Thomas clocked out and headed back to campus. He was on his way to the testing center for the psychology mid-term. He began to review in his mind the material he had been studying that morning. His thoughts plodded from one thing to another. Maslow's hierarchy of needs, the pyramid shape they formed, the Egyptian head drawn in the margin of the girl's notes he had borrowed. Her smile and gracious aura when he returned them to her a half hour before he left for work earlier that day. The haze was thinning.
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