The sun had just set behind a distant cornfield. I was sitting alone in an old rustic dinner far from the city. I seemed to be in the middle of nowhere. Only a green-neon-vacant-sign-motel, one with an hourly rate, was in the visible distance. The diner was one of those heaps that held the resemblance of an over sized aluminum motor home. Inside, burning florescent lights bounced off the red tile counter top where I’d found myself sitting. The smell of bleach stung my nostrils and my swivel seat screeched when I shifted my body. It all made me uncomfortable.
I was waiting for Claire. I wasn’t sure why she chose to meet me at that dump, but she’d accepted my proposal to see her, so what else could I have asked for? Recently, it was becoming more and more difficult for us to meet. I wasn’t sure of why. To my belief, our understanding was still strong and I was quite certain that no act of my own had taken away her incentive to give me her company. I knew she was a busy girl, but I’d hopped that she’d considered our time together as a breath of fresh air; at least, compared to the regular folk she associated with. That night, I was pleased to have the opportunity to insure our relationship was strong.
While I waited, I took the time to think about my past. Usually, my history would commonly flutter through the transient of my mind, but recently I’ve really been fully pondering my back life. I’d guess it was because my future wasn’t looking too bright and I was running out of things to do with my hands that held any kind of purpose.
In that diner, I recalled my childhood. To be more specific, I pondered the winter vacations my family took year. We held them, or should I say my father held them, in an old and beaten time-shared cabin up north. To this day, I can’t fully explain why my father insisted upon it. He never seemed to have a good time. He always wallowed about, complaining about the cold while he smoked his cigarettes with a window cracked open for ventilation – a request certainly made by my mother. Though, it all makes me think; maybe the trips weren’t for him at all,maybe it was for an ideal, maybe he dreamed that we’d miraculously become one of the families in the time-share brochures; full of smiles, sipping cocoa in wool sweaters.
On the first night we stayed in the cabin, I’d found one of those brochures in the living room. “Let your family relax,” it read, “enjoy the mountain air, the trickling snow, and the warmth of a wood burning fire.” After reading those words I looked upon the fireplace and felt an instant disappointed. I quickly found that what was told to burn firewood, unmistakably was lit by gas. Above the fireplace, on a red plaque, it read, “No Wood,” in charcoal black. Naturally, I crumbled the glossed brochure and tossed it into the furnace and flipped the switch to light the flame. My disappointment grew further when I found the damn thing was broken.
The cabin was small and cramped. It didn’t smell like redwood, as I would have liked, but more like my grandpa’s feet. Most of the windows looked out to walls of snow my father was too lazy to shovel away. Our trips were predictable. Common staples included: feigned family camaraderie, fights behind closed doors, and an uncle who drank too much spiked eggnog. However, I did find my solace.
Whenever possible, I’d vanish into the seclusion of the forest. I love the nature. Everything about it makes me feel as if I was meant to be born an animal. Some days, as I traveled out into the snowy abyss, I’d consider never coming back with the intent of being free forever.
When I left, I’d be gone for hours. Usually no one would make a fuss. Hardly anyone would even say a word when I left or when I returned. Only my mother seemed to bring any notice to my long disappearances. Whenever I arrived back to the cabin, she’d question me, and I’d quickly find myself becoming angry with her. I couldn’t stand that she didn’t believe that I could take care of myself. My rage would immeasurably build when she went as far as to request that I inform her whenever I departed the cabin. When this request was stated, my gut reaction, which I always followed, was to throw a fit and aggressively proclaim that life wasn’t fair. I’d recently read 1984 so I compared her tyranny to a police state. Soon enough, we’d find ourselves in one of our family’s well known closed-door fights. It’d never end well, because I refused to break on anything. I don’t believe I even register many of her words. Not once did I consider the possibility that she simply wanted to join on of my adventures. I painfully question that now, just like how I now always question my gut reactions.
Sitting in that dinner, I recalled one of those vacations with optimal clarity; one that I hold with particular scrutiny, but also conflicted affection. During it, I couldn’t adhere to my natural animalistic qualities. I was painfully bedridden with the flu – a cold sweat, fever inducing sickness that maliciously swept through my entire family, but started with me. Though, undoubtedly, my drained body, debilitating headache, and twisted stomach were memorable; my flu symptoms were just a catalyst to my reoccurring recollection of that holiday. The true source of my stirred memory comes from my mother. Without her actions, I’d certainly force the whole memory down to insignificant torture.
While I was imprisoned in bed, I felt my winter break slipping through my mucus-encrusted fingers. All I wanted in the world was to be better and go outside to wilderness I beloved. My mother knew this well. Before she became sick, which was soon after I’d recovered, she used the extent of her vacation to take after me. I paid her no credit for this. To my undying shame, while she took care of me, I used the remainder of my strength to complain and argue with her. I went as far as to blaming her for me being sick. I claimed that my sickness pleased her, because it meant I couldn’t adventure into the forest. She admitted that though the relieved prospect of me being eaten alive by a grizzly bear was a certain relief, she wasn’t at all happy that I was ill.
My mother took my callous swings with grace. Eventually my attacks shifted into typical pathetic bellyaching. And now as I reflect upon it, it’s the kind of memory I hold with embarrassment. To bring myself back to my words of first world wallowing is to bring me grief, because now I fully realize my empty vat of self-realization. Though, I think about it often because what followed my sad display is what I ponder with warm amusement.
My mother listened to my sorrows with open ears. When I finished my pouting, when my mouth was good and dry, she told me to think about the things I enjoyed in life. I resisted of course, because to think about positive things seemed as difficult as running a 5k in my condition. Though, my mother had this persuasive way about her, this kind of whimsical lightness that could take hold and make even the most mundane task seem enticing. Firstly, She drew me in by listing the things she loved. She only had to mention a few of her joys with joy before I found myself joining in.
As I told her what I loved, she wrote my words on post-it notes and stuck them on my bedroom walls. She approvingly commented upon everything I said and complimented me for my creativity. I coyly snuck subtle messages like, “When you take us camping” or “Dogs. Big ones that can hike.” And when I couldn’t think of anything else, she encouraged me to focus on the little things that went unnoticed: the light switch in my room, the sound of a clap, the feeling of silk. She encouraged me so well that by the end of the game my room was covered in orange and green notes and my mind was no longer focused on how life could be better, but how good life was.
That was a long time ago. Fifteen years later, while sitting in that nearly empty dinner, I felt the usual mix of joy and sorrow I received from those memories. My location was perfect for that sort of wallowing. There was a terrible draft, because the entrance would insistently blow open and push through a chilling breeze. I was eating a steak I wasn’t enjoying because I’d ordered it to be cooked medium, but it came out too rare. The jukebox in the corner had been playing the same song over and over, some drab novelty ballad, because a few young punk kids came in a twenty minutes before and pumped their pocket change in the machine and punched in the numbers for a single song and that song alone. It wasn’t until the third time the same intro blared out did I get their prank. They sat in the corner booth, chuckling to themselves, while watching me. I sat their, acting unbothered, not wanting to give them the satisfaction.
I could’ve asked the bus boy to get the door to stay in its place, but he seemed too busy wiping down the tables to be bothered. I could’ve asked the waitress if she’d have the chef throw the meat on the grill for a little longer, but I didn’t want to offend the chef. I could’ve unplugged the jukebox, but the thought made nervous, because I felt like it wasn’t my place. So, I zipped my jacket up a little tighter. I ate my bloody steak, bloody. And I learned to tune out the song I was sure I’d never enjoy again.
Claire was running late. This seemed to be a reoccurring problem. Her secretary, or whoever the woman that made the arrangements title was, said to meet her at this dinner by 8:00. So far, the only person to enter since I’ve arrived is a strange lady that sat two seats down from me, despite there being a long bar with ample seating to suit.
As I waited, I wondered what things I’d now write on post-it notes and spread about my bedroom. Would those things flow through me as they did in my youth? Would they be the innocent scrapes of life that I wrote then? Or could they be the mature standards of a well and civil structured man. I knew what was normal for a man of my age to say was his priorities. Though I do believe myself to embrace the moral and fulfilling fibers of life, I’d be lying if I didn’t also feel the pull to live as a wandering greedless thief, counting my blessing by the number of essentials I could place underneath my trench coat; off the grid, living for me and only me. Though, I knew, all the different lifestyles in the world couldn’t give me the satisfaction that Claire could give me. As I fantasized about living this kind of lifestyle, with Claire by my side, I suddenly found myself disturbed by the woman two seats down from me.
“You wouldn’t happen to know where I could get a good glass of wine would you?” said the lone middle-aged woman. She was tapping upon a carton of cigarettes. She looked at me with dull brown eyes, with pupils as deep as the swell of an ocean’s cove during the peak of a moonless midnight. Her voice crackled like a campfire, but left none of the soothing sensations that a flame under a night sky could give.
“Sorry, I don’t have a clue,” I said while giving her a shrug to solidify my claim. I was actually impressed by my confidence. Maybe I wasn’t completely lost to human contact. But still, I turned away and brought my focus back to my fantasy. But soon I found myself looking back to the woman, because I couldn’t shake the feeling that she was looking at me. When I looked, I found she wasn’t looking at me at all, but simply looking forward with a strange grimace on her face.
For some reason, I began to stare. I never stare at people, but this woman was so unique, she captivated me. She was big, some would say bodacious. She wore a red dress with a mink scarf. Her dark hair was well kept, but not in a way that many would say looked well. Her cheeks were roused and her lips were set to match. But she looked tough, like she could break anyone and anything.
I found myself feeling sorry for her. She was alone, just her and her cigarettes she couldn’t smoke inside and her apple pie that had gone cold. Then I wondered if I should feel sorry for myself, but then I remembered that I liked it this way, unless I could have Claire. Everything was better when I had Claire.
As I stared at the woman, the strap of her dress coyly slipped down her shoulder blade and down to her elbow. She let it hang. It seemed to have been by practice that she further revealed her tan skin, which looked like sultry sandpaper, rough but somehow exotic.
She turned to me, and I turned away. But then to my surprise, I realized that I could see her through the long dirty mirror that extended along the counter ahead of us. Damn me, I thought, I’ve never been observant of my space. I was sure that she was watching me stare at her like she was some kind of zoo animal. I wanted to apologize, but I wouldn’t dare admit to my transgression. I glanced back at her through the mirror and she gave me a wink and a knowing smirk. She obviously enjoyed the attention. Her eyebrows bred flirtation and I knew that she believed herself to be rarer than my steak. I awkwardly sipped my water and picked up the newspaper that the man before me had left behind. But she wouldn’t let me off that easy.
“Well, Honey.” She said flirtatiously, “Do you know anything about wine?”
I considered the strategy of not answering at all, but I couldn’t commit to that. I don’t know why, but when I’m addressed, despite my social quips and insatiable desire for separation, I feel completely and utterly forced not to be rude. I think I got that from my mother.
“No. Not really,” I said, stuttering, without taking my eyes off my paper. I did know about wine. I knew a lot about wine, but I’d never tell her that. I didn’t want to talk.
“That’s a shame,” she said, “there’s something profound about a man who knows about good wine.”
I nodded, but I didn’t respond vocally. I just stared blankly into the newspaper, hoping she’d be content with my small interaction and leave me be.
“So, what do you know about?” she asked.
“Nothing special.” I respond.
“I bet that’s not true. A smart looking man like you. There’s got to be something.”
“No, not really.”
She nodded her head and I desperately hoped she’d leave it at that. Where the hell was Claire? I thought. The jukebox finished another round of its repetitious song, but it didn’t play again. The punk kids’ prank had ended. And there I was, sitting in silence with the strange lady, who seemed insistent on conversation. Funny thing, I actually found myself missing the song.
Then the conversation got strange. The flirtation suddenly stopped. It suddenly felt like a line of questioning.
“You have a girlfriend?”
I shake my head.
“You gay.”
“No.” I say abruptly.
“Where you from?”
I told her here.
“Your age?”
“What’s it to you?” I say, but not like a hard man of confidence. I kind of stutter it, let it slip out of me.
“You know, my grandson’s gay.” She said, changing the subject, as she cut into her pie, “My granddaughter told me. I knew before everyone else in the family. God that felt like something else.” She stabbed into her pie, searching for a good bite. “He’s been the talk of the family ever since the fourth of July.”
I nod.
“How do you feel about the gay community?”
“Its none of my business.”
“Do you have any gay friends?”
“No.”
“Could you?”
I think of the prospect of a friend. The idea sounds so foreign to me. I reflect on the thought, and I don’t respond to the question.
“If you thought someone was gay, would you want him or her to come out?”
“Sure. Why not.”
“I think so too. That’s exactly why I brought my grandson’s preference to everyone’s attention. Why are they so damn secretive, you know?”
In that moment, I realized that this woman was a monster and I felt the inseparable urge to tell her so, but I couldn’t possibly do it. I could have stood up and walked away, taken another seat elsewhere, but for some reason I felt the clinching anxiety that she would watch me from afar, filled with an offense caused by my divergence from her. In a way, this woman frightened me. So instead, to avoid such a conflict, I sincerely read the newspaper in the attempt to separate my mind and hopefully my ears from her.
“Where do you work?” she asked.
I reluctantly told her I was trail inspector, despite being recently been fired.
“A what?” she asked.
“A trail inspector.” I responded.
I think she heard me the first time, but expected me to elaborate. I preferred to act ignorant. Then she cleared her throat. Not in a way that seemed like she actually needed to clear her throat. She cleared her throat in a way that asked for attention.
“What’cha reading?” she said with an undertone of vile disdain.
I gave her a quick look and said the most vague thing that came to my mind, which was once again, “nothing special.” and returned to staring at white and black. She nodded again, and I was hopping she’d get the hint, but then she became direct.
“But it’s more special than a real conversation?”
Her words hit me in the gut and a hooked me in my lip. I set down the paper and turned to her. I found myself apologizing to her, which instantly felt wrong, but she interrupted me before I could fully feel the extent of the my disgust for giving this woman any sort apology.
“What’s wrong with people these days, always having their noses stuffed into something or other. Can’t anyone have a real goddamn talk anymore? What do people have to hide? What do you have to hide?”
“Look…I just…”
“You just like your little world the way it is. All men are the same, you know? Everyone one of ‘em. They’re all looking to get off. Even you. I’m sure, as God’s good earth is green; you’re no different than any of ‘em”
She took out of one her cigarettes, almost as an impulse, but then put it back in the container once the waitress came back. I was happy to see her return. My heart was racing. Who was this woman? I thought. Where the hell was Clair?
“You all need anything?” the waitress asked. I shook my head. The crazy lady waived her hand in front of her face. The waitress nodded and I went back into the back of the restaurant. Once she was gone, the mad woman pulled out another cigarette, but this time she didn’t put it back in the container. After seeing that the sight was clear, she lit the cigarette and took a deep drag. Then she pointed at me with a slowly drawn finger, as if she was lowering a gun upon me.
“What gets you off, Paul?”
At the sound of my name, I felt that hook in my lip tear out and the knot in my gut twist. How did she know my name? How the hell did she know my name?
“Look here. Claire’s my girl.” She says, “You get me? Do you get what I mean by that?”
My heart rumbled and realized that I was speaking with Claire’s procurer. Why was she here? Where was Claire? I didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t hit Claire or do anything to cross the line. If anything, I stayed as far from the line as possible.
“Look, Paulie boy. Clair doesn’t want anymore of your late night hangouts anymore.”
“Why?” I asked in desperation.
“I don’t, therefore she doesn’t. That’s how it goes.”
“What did I do? I pay?”
“You do, but there’s something strange about a man who pays for nothing but conversation. What am I suppose to think about that?”
“Its just conversation.”
“Why don’t you go speak to your mother?”
She stood up, threw down a few bills on the counter and left the diner. The next day I went to the cemetery. I brought post it notes and flowers. I wouldn’t tell my mother about Claire. She wasn’t a good thing anymore.