Crossed Signals
ME: long brown hair, skater in red plaid flannel.
YOU: shaven blonde, nose ring and great green eyes.
you had a coffee, I, a dropped jaw.
Stared at you, can’t forget you.
Can I buy your next Java?
call. #786.
-The number’s 555-PUMP.
Waking. I turned over and shoved my face into my pillow. Six a.m. Time to get up. I hit snooze. The voice from the radio buzzed out of existence. I dreamed quickly. I stopped having sex when the insipid voice turned on again. “It’s 6:15 on this cold January morning. A whoppin’ 10 degrees out there.” I wished he hadn’t mentioned it. Now it would seem even colder. I sat up and took in the room. My roommate was still asleep, snoring lightly.
I grabbed my grey flannel and shoved it on over my long underwear. An old sweater, a coat, extra thermal bottoms and jeans, gloves, scarf, hat. I paused at the door. Was I forgetting anything? Keys. I put them in my pocket. Max hated winter. She said in winter there was always something to forget, hat, coat, gloves, scarf, extra sweaters. In the summer one only had to remember themselves. No small feat for some college students. I shut the door behind me quietly and headed out. The walk to the stables where I worked took about twenty minutes. I looked forward to it as I looked forward to cleaning the stalls. There was time to daydream. To talk to myself, make up scenarios and reflect. The daily meditation of shoveling shit and earning money. It wasn’t that bad.
I put down the pitchfork and stared at her. I had just finished all the stalls and had been putting things away when this student had brought her horse in. The horse had promptly taken advantage of the clean sawdust, and the woman “reminded” me to straighten out the stall. We shared a sociology class, this woman and I. Thousands of words came to my mind, but I picked up the pitchfork and handed it to the woman, saying nothing. I walked out of the barn. The rest of the day was mine. School was out for break,I had just stayed to work. I decided this woman wasn’t worth getting upset about. It wasn’t worth ruining the day.
I thought of all the options possible for the day. Movies? Rented or gone to? That costs money. Borrow a movie from the library? Possibly. Really long shower. That had to be first on the agenda. my room mate was still in bed. I smiled and turned on the coffee pot. I placed a glass of water and two tylenol by the bed. We had been up and partying. This was routine. I took off my clothes and headed for the shower. At least twenty more mintues to dream. The shower was wonderful. I sat down and leaned against the wall, letting the water fall on and drop off. I thought that whoever I ended up with would really have to like showers. I chose a song and started to sing. What the hell, it was vacation. No one would overhear except Pele. And she was still asleep.
When I returned to the room, the glass of water was empty, the tylenol gone. The coffee was ready. As I poured it, Pele sat up. She was that leftover green color. Pele asked me how work had gone. I described the woman in the barn. I always told Pele things. I recalled the day Pele held and rocked me on the floor in this bedroom. It was the first time I’d told anyone anything about herself. But Pele had listened, had wanted to, and had tried to understand. The two became friends. There was nothing left to hide. Pele opened her mouth to reply and the phone rang.
“For you, Miss Dee.” Pele handed me the phone. “A man.” She mouthed.
Taylor had played trumpet in my high school band. That is how I met him. When I was in seventh grade, I spent my study hall watching him practice jazz pieces. I pretended I was doing homework. I memorized his schedule, knew his phone number, (but never called) and always looked down when he happened to look at her. In eighth grade I was able to play flute with the high school band. That was when I started sitting in front of him. A little to his left so I could look at him out of the corner of my eye. In ninth grade I called him for the first time. To my surprise, he was willing to talk to me. We talked for a while. By tenth grade, though we still never spoke in school, we were talking on the phone often, and discovered we had some things in common. Enough to maintain a conversation. We spent time philosophizing about the meaning of life, but mostly we talked about our families. Neither of us knew our fathers. Both of us thought about them. It was the beginning of a long relationship for us both.
He had called to say he would be in the area. Could he drop by?