My Favorite Summer

Fourth of July has come and gone, and with it the fireworks that are never as good unless you have someone's hand to hold while watching them.  This, for me, has always signaled the peak of summer, and now that we have reached the apex of the year we begin the slow, grinding march toward the lesser seasons, eventually bottoming out sometime during the brutal January winter with numb fingers and sunsets at 4 p.m.  I realize that summer, at least how I see it, is more or less a mental construction put in place by years of public education; from my earliest memories it has been viewed as a three-month block of freedom, a respite from the maddening cycle of studying and tests and studying and papers, a slackening in the ropes of responsibility allowing for a chance to catch one's breath.

Of course, we are adults now.  The ropes do not slacken, we do not breathe.  The cycle of studying and assessments have been replaced by a pounding repetition of bills and commitments from which there is no respite.  And summer, as I experience it now, does not abruptly end with new backpacks and "first day of school pictures", but simply bleeds into autumn, morphing and melting, like a time-lapse movie of a person's life from birth to death.  One day we step outside, into a chilly steel-grey morning, and we realize that summer has passed, has vanished without saying goodbye; the fading was so subtle, the transition was seamless, we didn't even notice.  It is on this day - like the day, months after someone dies, when it finally hits you that they are gone forever - that I become aware of my own fleeting existence, of the ticking seconds that started out so patient but have somehow begun to accelerate.  My youth, like summer, has faded into nothingness, has been slowly dismantled, brick by brick, to build something familiar but new.  

When did this happen?  I didn't even get to say goodbye.

Often, I think back to those boyhood summers, when the days and hours seemed so numerous we did not even know how to fill them all.  When freedom mixed dangerously with boredom, when days of the week meant absolutely nothing.  We were too young, then, to travel or create or fall in love, but old enough to see the world unfolding before us and to begin testing the limitations of our bodies.  We had nothing and everything.  We were completely free to roam the tiny island of our shitty hometowns.

My favorite summer - at least, of my youth, but quite possibly of all time - is the summer after 8th grade, when our fifteen year-old bodies were gathering strength and our brains began formulating truths that would be completely destroyed in the coming years.  We were at the precipice, pausing only momentarily before the plunge into high school and adulthood...the wild roller coaster of growing up, of making mistakes, of realizing that we only get to go on this ride once...

This particular summer, I did not live at home.  Not that my home life was in any way turbulent or overly-strict; my parents were actually very lax and, for some reason, trusted me to make good decisions.  Instead of under their roof, though, which was miles out of town (and might have well been on the moon for my lack of driver's license), I chose to reside, for almost the entire three-month vacation, in my friend Cody's basement.  There, the shades were always drawn, letting little light enter as I sat on his couch watching MTV Spring Break Panama City and wishing that I was old enough to drive.  "I could be there," I thought.  "That could be me with those ridiculously hot eighteen year-olds, dancing like an idiot to some boy band remix.  Why am I not there?!?!"  My angsty propensity for flight had already set in.  We craved the freedom to MOVE.

But we could not leave, were limited by our age and our lack of funds.  After all, we were only fifteen; society had not expected us to get jobs just yet, and we were lucky enough that our parents had the means to indulge our slacker attitude for one more summer.  We were determined to take advantage of it, to squeeze the blood out of the sweltering days, to conquer our small town and stretch our fingertips as far as they would reach, from city limit sign to city limit sign.

Most days, our schedule looked something like this:

• Get up at 8:00 a.m. and stumble directly into Sandy's (Cody's mom) minivan to be taken to summer school.  Cody and I had decided to take P.E. with the pretense of wanting to get the credit out of the way, but really we just wanted to check out girls.  It was a joke, as most summer school classes are.
• After summer school, around noon, we would be picked up and chauffeured back to Cody's place, where we would change into bathing suits and ride our bikes to Michelle Dumontier's house...which happened to have a swimming pool.  Sometimes Michelle wouldn't even be there, but her mom would let us swim anyway.  We were regulars.
• Later we would come home, listen to Blink-182's "Enema of the State" on repeat while shooting tennis balls against his garage door.  We would do this for hours, but mostly because Cody's next door neighbor, Kelly, who was a Junior in high school and therefore automatically desirable, would come outside regularly - I don't even know why she came outside so much, she never seemed to get anything - and would sometimes even talk to us.  We thought we were Gods when this happened.
• After it cooled off, we would usually ride our bikes around town.  We rode bikes everywhere: to the theater, to the skating rink, to the snow cone stand, to this chinese food place that had all-you-can-eat crab legs.  Sometimes we would be gone for hours.  We had no cell-phones, no way of contacting anyone.  (Can kids even do this anymore?)  We were free to explore the town, a two-man cycle gang, getting into everything we could find to get in to.  We were once again in America's Age of Innocence; summer in the Midwest was the 1950's.
• At night, we would find ourselves back in Cody's basement, watching bad T.V., chatting up girls on ICQ, drinking gratuitous amounts of Surge.  Sometimes Sandy would make us pancakes for a late-night snack.  And then, around 2 a.m., I would pile comforters on Cody's linoleum floor (a precursor to my sleeping on airport benches and sheetless box springs) and we would talk about movies and music and sex (or what we knew of it, which was very little) until we fell asleep.  I remember wanting to save the last words either of us spoke before drifting off.  These words always seemed like the most important...

But in the mundane greatness of that summer, one particular memory stands out as my favorite.  One day my father - surely at the urging of my mom who realized that Sandy was actually caring for two teenage boys at this point - took me and Cody to Wal-Mart (still hyphenated in the 90's): The Land of Milk and Honey.  

"Get whatever you want," he said, "I'm footing the bill."

Wait...was he serious?  He was entrusting me and Cody to do our own shopping?!?!  Surely he must know better.  This was just irresponsible parenting.

We made him pay for his misplaced confidence in our decision-making skills.  By the end of the spree, we had cases of highly caffeinated soda, an array of white Hostess product boxes, and multiple packages of cookies and crackers.  We had chips and donuts and and fruit snacks.  We had lots and lots of Easy Cheese.  All in all, we totaled over $100.00 in junk food (which was an obscene amount by 1998 prices).  This food, we were instructed, was to last at least a few weeks, hopefully the rest of the summer.

Okay dad, no problem.

We ate it all in two days.

Huckleberry Finn and Head Wounds: A Float Trip Story

It is summertime in the Midwest.  This means my facebook wall is inevitably littered with people bitching about the heat, talking shit about baseball, or posting disastrous pictures of the Great Drunken American Tradition we here in the Middle States like to call The Float Trip.

This should be good...

For those of you who don't know, The Float Trip is like a cousin of White Water Rafting - the lazy, overweight, jobless cousin who eats all the candy on Easter and always asks you to join his World Of Warcraft clan.  The principles are basically the same in both activities; you sit in a boat and float down a river.  However, in White Water Rafting there are rapids and speed and danger and you have to wear helmets and you could die!...while on the Float Tripping there is binge drinking and sunburns and beer guts and country sing-alongs and there is also a good chance that you could die.

In fact, my friend Cole almost did once.  And here is the story:

I don't remember why, exactly, we were on this particular float trip.  It was probably someone's birthday, or a bachelor party, or maybe one of my frequently-thrown "Going Away Parties" (which I have about every two years, considering I can't stay in one place for longer than this without wanting to throw myself off a bridge for fear that I'm missing out on something much cooler anywhere else than where I happen to be).  There were only a handful of us; my friends from high school, their significant others...about seven of us total.  A small Float Trip contingent relatively speaking, but we felt confident that what we lacked in numbers we would make up for in gusto...and alcohol consumption.

The float trip started early, as is customary.  See, most pre-planned trips are only a few miles long, and if one were to float continuously, without stopping, the trip could be completed in one or two hours.  This type of "speed-floating", however, if extremely frowned upon and violates one of the Five Major Rules of Float Tripping (which I just made up).  There are as follows:

1. Dress like an idiot.  (My friend Cole once wore Daisy Dukes, ski goggles, and ONE BOOT he found in the river along the way.)  The dumber you look, the more it detracts from all the dumb stuff you will inevitably be doing...wait...that's not right...

2. At every sandbar, cave, rope swing, or shallow part of the river, you MUST stop for no less than 45 minutes and drink from a multitude of bottles being passed around.  You WILL cut the shit out of your feet, probably.  There will be blood...

3. Sunscreen is discouraged.  Talking like a schizophrenic hick river-dweller with a fourth-grade education is not only encouraged, it is mandatory.

4.  You will lose everything you bring with you - your sunglasses, your wallet, your shoes, your hat, the entire content of your cooler, and possibly even your bathing suit.  Do not bring ANYTHING to the river that you do not wish to donate to the river.

5. Don't die.

So, in strict observation of Rule #2, our small party proceeded to intentionally run our fleet of metal canoes aground every quarter mile or so, gratuitously drinking, making fun of overweight families that passed in tubes, soaking up the summer and enjoying our youth.  As you can imagine, in about three hours, the combination of sun and booze had done its damage to our synapses.  People were having trouble forming sentences.  Bad decisions were about to be made.

Me: Hey, look, a rope swing.

Casey: Where?

Me (pointing): Like, 15 feet up in that tree.

Cole and Casey: Yeah, that's not too high at all.

So off we bounded, splashing, swimming, clamoring up the rocky bank to the base of the tree which truck extended out over a deep part of the river.  Casey went up first, warning us as he climbed up the crudely fashioned steps (made by who?), "Be careful, this shit is really slippery.  Then grip, swing, "YAWWW!", SPLASH!  We were Huckleberry Finn, runaways from the world.  Nothing could touch us.

I was next.  Shit, he was right...the tree was extremely slippery.  But, despite my shaky equilibrium, I made it up.  Grip, swing, "YEEEEEEE", SPLASH!  The perfect feeling of flying and falling and then the cold rushing around you.  

Cole was after me.  I swam back to the bank next to the tree to watch him swing past me, to see him let go of the rope at end of the arc for maximum height and distance, to see his arms wave before he disappeared under the water.  But there was no grip, no swing, no "YAHOOO", no SPLASH!  Instead, the was a loud CRACK! and THUD!

Cole had fallen fifteen feet out of the tree.  On to his face.

As soon as I heard it I knew.  I spun around, expecting to see him twitching on the sharp river rocks, eyes going dim, bones sticking out of shredded skin.  Instead, he had righted himself almost instantly, and was staring straight ahead confusedly while blood gushed out of a giant cut in his forehead and from his hand.

I almost laughed.  Only to Cole, would this happen.

Suddenly, there was a guy there.  Where had he come from?  "It's all right, I'm an EMT" he said.  Or maybe he said, "It's all right, I'm in the Army."  Either way, he had somehow gotten to Cole in seconds, ripped off his shirt, fashioned a head bandage with it, and was talking in soothing tones while we watched stupidly from a few feet away, in awe that anyone could have the presence of mind to act so quickly in the event of something so unexpected.  This guy was like a NASCAR pit crew team member.  It was amazing.

Of course, being the good friends we were, we decided to cut the floating short...you know, seeing as how Cole probably had a concussion and had already started bleeding through his "bandages".  We hustled through the rest of the river, then packed our things quickly and quietly at the campsite while Cole played the victim in the backseat of the car.  Soon we were on our way back to Farmington and to the E.R.

Epilogue

Almost back to civilization, Casey turns to me and says "Man, I'm starving.  I could really go for some wings right now."  After minutes of deliberation, we decided that if Cole were to die, he would have done so by now, and what will it hurt putting off the E.R. a couple more hours, right?

The day finally ended sitting in a bar, drinking pitchers of cheap beer and eating hot wings, Cole wrapped in bandages, the summer's kiss on our cheeks and foreheads, laughing about how lucky we all were to be alive.  How did we survive this long? we asked ourselves.  We must be destined for Great Things.  

Cole did not die, but the way.

We are awesome friends.

How To Have The Best Birthday Ever

My birthday is tomorrow, so I thought I'd impart some of the wisdom I have acquired through years and years of birthdays.  Perhaps I will have a good story to tell after the next one, but until then, here is my advice to anyone having a birthday in the next year:

1.  Dress up.  Birthdays are always more fun when you are wearing your best shoes and a tie, or high heels and a sexy dress (though I would discourage wearing all of these items at the same time).  Regardless or what the birthday event is - nightclubs, restaurants, waterparks - dressing in Sunday's Best will get you in the mood to act like a rockstar.

2.  Act like a rockstar.  It's your freakin' birthday, damnit.  Do what you want to do.  Now, there are some cases where the birthday girl or guy can get carried away (like throwing a tantrum because you drank the bar out of Whipped Vodka or like that time I demanded that I got to keep everyone's pogs regardless of if I had actually won them or not because it was my birthday and who cares if it's fair!), but in general, you should get to do pretty much whatever you want sans consequences from friends, significant others, local authorities, etc.

3.  If your birthday is in the winter, petition to get it changed.  Summer birthdays are WAY better.  No one wants to go ice skating for your party, even if they pretend to act excited.

4.  Don't eat anything.  Or if you must, eat only small amounts of safe foods, like triscuits or ketchup.  I've seen one too many birthdays ruined because someone said "Oh! we should try that new tapas place!" and ended up home by eight, vomiting and cursing the Spaniards.  "But Jommy!" you whine, "if I don't eat anything, I'll get REALLY drunk and end up throwing up anyway."  Listen, we're old now; if you haven't figured out how this works yet, you should try another form of self-medication, like prescription drugs or meth.  We should all know how to handle our booze by now.

5.  Let someone else be in charge of your phone.  This practice should ALWAYS be observed when alcohol enters your system, in fact.  But especially on your birthday, it is best to appoint a trusty "Second in Command" to handle any and all incoming and outgoing texts, field phone calls from parents and concerned friends ("Where ARE you?!?!...I thought you were DEAD?!?"), and basically make sure that nothing regrettable is done that you may have to deal with the next day, when your birthday rockstar powers have worn off.

6.  If your house is big (or shitty, like ours) enough, consider throwing a themed party for your special day.  Depending on how amazing and awful your friends are, the money saved on drinking at the bars could outweigh the mess you have to clean up the next day, plus you don't have to worry about getting to your bed (unless you DO have to worry about getting to your bed, in which case you had a GREAT birthday).  However, your themed party must go in one of two directions: 1) The theme must be so explicit and simple that everyone will have no choice but to abide by it.  Example: "Wear Red."  OR 2) The theme must be so confusing and convoluted that no one has any idea what to wear, so they just don the most insane outfit they can get their hands on.  Example: "Jesus Christ Superstar VS Transformers."

7.  Always opt for experiences over presents.  I mean, sure, getting cool stuff is always fun, but unless it's a car (who gets a car for a present, anyway...those Christmas commercials with the car wearing a giant bow are full of shit) or something equally unrealistically extraordinary, one should focus on what they will be doing instead of what they will be getting.  This is the time we should be making memories and ruining future careers with embarrassing facebook pictures, right?  We can put off the accumulation of junk off for a few more years.

8.  Borrow a boombox - I guarantee someone you know still owns one - and carry it with you everywhere.  Make a birthday mix.  Play it loud everywhere you go, at the gas station and in the supermarket.  If your birthday is on a Sunday, take it to church.  Everyone will appreciate that you have created a soundtrack for your awesome day, and will likely show this appreciation by grimacing, leaving your immediate vicinity, or calling the police.  You must dance non-stop.

9.  Don't get your hopes up.  Just as with any over-hyped event, a la New Year's Eve or Flag Day, there is always a danger of convincing yourself that this birthday will be the perfect day, the day where you look fucking awesome and your hair is cool and you eat just the right amount of taco bell and there is a F-18 fly over in your honor and all of your exes see you and say "what a mistake we made letting you get away" and you DON'T wipe out on the dance floor and you get laid and everyone has the best night ever.  However, while all these things are possible, one should keep their fantasies at an achievable level, such as "I really hope I don't burn my mouth when I come home drunk and make hot pockets later"; this way, anything else that happens after that is a bonus. Birthdayers must live and die by the motto: Hope For The Best, Expect The Worst.

10.  Don't, whatever you do, acknowledge your actual age.  Unless you are turning 21, it only gets worse from here on out and will make you instantly depressed.  If it is your birthday, who gives a shit how old you are?  Party like you're going to live forever.

Birds Perched on Pachyderms and Outdoor Electro Parties (Part II)

Carly and I were sitting in a small, trendy restaurant in Montreal, house music playing as attractive servers poured us Mimosas.  It was Sunday.  Sundays = mimosas.  Around the table sat five French Canadiens who we had met only an hour beforehand: three bartenders, an owner?/manager?/representative? of a clothing line, and a synchronized swimmer who happened to be on the Canadian National Synchronize Swimming Team.  

Of course...totally normal.

How did we end up here, surrounded by eggs florentine, French conversation and 1 p.m. shots of Jack Daniels?  Connections, my friend.

Carly - who I have previously established as being a rockstar - was recently "made up" (I doubt this is actual industry lingo) by a semi-famous makeup artist/stylist for one of her MTV shoots. (I imagine that having a makeup artist do one's makeup is very similar to getting my hair cut by Bob, my local barber...except that Bob only speaks in grunts, would surely kill himself if anyone ever described him as "flamboyant," and somehow always manages to lightly rest his genitals on the armrest of the barber chair during the haircutting process, a spot which usually also happens to be occupied by my arm and hand.)  At some point in their conversation, no doubt between his gushing of how gorgeous she looks (because somehow she always does), Carly mentioned that she would be going to Montreal in the next few weeks, to which he responded that his best friend happened to live in Montreal and should we happen to meet up with him it would almost certainly be a good time.  You don't say...  

STEP 1: Don't Dismiss These Chance Encounters.  These Small Exchanges Are Worth More Than You Will Know.  Save Everything...

Fast forward to Sunday Morning in our Montreal Hostel Auberge de Paris, Carly talking to me as she finishes putting on her makeup, me catching flashes of her in the mirror.

Carly:  So, I know we don't know this guy, this "friend of a friend"...but would you want to meet up with him for brunch or something?  He seems cool...

Me (always down for anything): Sure...I mean, what's the worst that could happen...? (thinking that, actually, the worst that could happen would be to end up completely inebriated by 4 p.m., me stumbling on stage at a gay strip club somewhere, maybe getting arrested for badmouthing the Queen or Nickleback, ODing on poutine...all of which would make for a really great story...)

So, an email and an hour later, we found ourselves nestled in a booth listening to stories told in a combination of French and English, eating and drinking, enjoying the company of our new friends.  "Where were you planning on going today?" they asked us.  "Oh, we kinda wanted to see the Basilica de Notre Dame and Old Montreal and all that," we answered.  They frowned. This was not the correct response.  "Okay," they said with a look one gives a child that doesn't know any better, "go see those things, but you must go to Piknic before the day is over."  Piknic, they explained, is an electronic music festival held every Sunday, all summer long, at Jean-Drapeau Park.  "Just get off the train and follow the music."

Yeah, that sounds awesome.  We'll do that.

STEP 2:  Take What Others Have Offered You.  There Is A Reason It Has Been Given.  Your Life Will Be Better If You Take These Chances...

Losing daylight, we thanked our Canadien cohorts for their advice and bid them "au revoir!" then headed out to join the throngs of tourists "seeing the sights." Of course, the Canadiens were right.  The Basilica cost too much money and Old Montreal seemed too Disneyish, like it was trying too hard to be authentic and thus failing miserably at authenticity.  We jumped on a train heading toward the Jean-Drapeau stop and the Piknic Electronik, though we still had no idea what to expect.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

This is unreal.  

This is like something you see in a movie but doesn't actually happen in life.

I can't believe we are here... 

Thousands of people crowded under an enormous metal sculpture, its long legs lifting the riveted body toward the grey sky threatening to break open on us at any moment.  The music pulsed smoothly, the multitude responding with arms raised, eyes closed, vibrating bodies all held in place by time signatures.  All around us were the artists of Montreal, the hipsters, the shabby chic, those too trendy to be considered trendy; asymmetrical haircuts, boots, piercings, tattoos, smiles, colors, movement, beauty.  And we, in the middle of everything, absorbing and touching it all.  

The DJs remixed Whitney Houston's I Wanna Dance With Somebody.  We danced. In the distance the Montreal skyline stood silent, observing, jealous of our discovery.

We went and sat in the grassy area surrounding the sculpture, the music still audible but muffled slightly by the trees that obscured our view of the crowds.  Across the lake, in front of us, a small waterfall poured into the pool which reflected the green and the sky.  Around us, people smoked pot and drank out of wine sacks, tore pieces of baguettes produced from backpacks.  I sat up on my elbow, the grass staining my shirt, and tried to remember everything, exactly how it was at that exact moment.  

How do I keep finding myself in these moments with you?

STEP 3: Recognize The Great Moments In Life When They Happen.  Realize That We Cannot Do This Alone.  We Are All In This Together... 

montreal in the distance

the party

waterfalls and music

Music: Caffeine and Eggs Florentine

I miss you most in the mornings and evenings, and all afternoons, and of course when I'm dreaming...

Birds Perched on Pachyderms and Outdoor Electro Parties (Part I)

This life is all about connections.  The people we meet, the people we know, the people we idolize and the people we choose to ignore, the people who we allow into our tiny little worlds will influence the quality of our lives, both in the present and future, more than we could ever know or predict.  The relationships we forge, whether they be superficial or extremely intimate, will open some doors and close other, will fucking knock down walls and build doors to rooms you couldn't have imagined.  Or maybe they'll just tear the whole goddam building down and start from scratch.

In college, I always balked at the idea of it; the frat boys and business nerds called it networking.  It always struck me as fake, seemed to cheapen the human experience of actually knowing someone, of sharing secrets and memories and learning the most wonderful and terrible things, and knowing that they know these things about you as well. To network, I always thought, was to strip interaction of its beauty and emotion and leave only the cold and mechanical; friendships operating on a trade and barter system.  I have this to offer...see...I am a desirable person to know.  Let me look upon your...ahhh yes!  You have things that I need!  I'll trade you mine if I can have yours?  SIgn on the dotted line...voila!  Friendship!  

It is, as I once believed, the social equivalent of Go Fish.  Relationships are business transactions.  We are birds perched on pachyderms.  Mutualistic Symbiosis.

But now I am learning (slowly but surely, I swear that I am).  It is impossible to fall in love with everyone, it is unrealistic to invite every person I meet on a subway train or in line at the bank to my birthday party.  There are some people who will remain a business card in my wallet or a contact without a last name in my phone.  But even these people, these small and seemingly insignificant acquaintances, have something to offer.  I believed, once, that by accumulating these acquaintances I was acting insincere - that I was collecting the human equivalent of baseball cards, that I was simply keeping these "friends" in holding patterns until I could find a way to exploit them or make our relationship work to my advantage - but now I'm beginning to realize that we are all climbing the same mountain.  I will take your hand now, and tomorrow I will give someone else a boost.  We are all clinging to each other, a tottering mass of a billion arms and legs all clamoring to go up and up and up. 

We put ourselves out for the taking, and we must in turn take what we have been offered.  We can do nothing in this life by ourselves.  

We are all in this together.

The Girl on the Train

This could be considered an epilogue to the previous “The Most Interesting Man in the World.”  But you may take it as you will…

It will be late at night when you finally get on the train, calves aching, a thin film covering any and all exposed skin, a taste in your mouth that you can’t place but know that it is not something pleasant.  You will take your seat in the almost empty car, the fluorescent lights harshly burning down on the two or three other passengers that occupy various other seats, spread out equidistant, each person their own colony of destitution, each an isolationist nation, starving and slowly dying alone.  You will be exhausted.  You will already be picturing yourself in your bed, looking forward to flipping the switch, shutting off your brain for the day.  “So very close,” you will think…

Two stops down the line, they will get on the train, in your car, invading your territory like hostile enemy forces.  There will be four of them, three girls and one guy, and from the moment they board it will be obvious that they are completely intoxicated.  They will stumble and talk loudly.  They will slur and say stupid, inappropriate things.  They will have a lengthy debate on just where the fuck is this train going? And I think we’re going to wrong way! And no, we’re not, we’re going West I think.  “Jesus,” you will mumble under your breath, “If I’m like this when I drink I’m switching to a less annoying vice, like betting on horse races or watching Jersey Shore.”  All you will want is to avoid being touched by their suffocating shabbiness, their predictable Midwest B-list escapism that will surely be the talk around boring water coolers in the hot, hangover morning.  They will be “average” personified four-fold, and all you will desire it to elude drawing their attention, just quietly slip by, of no consequence and not providing any reason to be talked to…

“Hey, he’s cute,” the blonde girl with dead eyes and gift shop tattoos will say, getting up to come talk to you though you will have given her no indication that this is something you want her to do.

Goddamnit.  You will exhale the word through your mouth, making your tongue take the shape of the syllables but keeping your jaw and lips still; the result will sound like any old sigh, an expletive neatly disguised.

She will sit in the seat in front of you and ask your name, to which you will respond curtly but politely, and follow it up with a toothless smile.  “I’m Miranda,” she will say, her reciprocated smile haphazard, sloppy.  Her eyes will survey you, attempting to focus, losing the battle with the drugs that are depressing her central nervous system.  You will wonder how your eyes look at her (not that she would notice).  Do they glow of impatience? Do they shine with pity, with embarrassment for her?  Or are they just dull, deflated, extinguished…?

Miranda will make small talk with you and you will oblige her because you have never been the type to tell someone to “fuck off” even if you mean it, and have, in fact, always chosen to suffer through such exasperating social encounters rather than appear rude or insincere, though knowing full well that by feigning interest and indulging their unwanted conversations you are actually being both rude and insincere.  Besides, there will be nowhere else to go – you will be a captive audience in the small train car - and your stop will be only a few minutes away anyway. 

“What do you do for the monies?” you will ask.  (You always ask about someone’s job this way, because you believe that “careers” are a dying invention and asking “What do you do for a living” implies that a job keeps you alive, which you believe it does only as far as keeping you comfortable and fed and warm; but really, these are only small parts of actually “living,” just the dirty gears of it, the black-clad stagehands that move the set pieces and pull open the curtains.  “Living” is so much more than this, and you refuse to degrade its worth by using such a carelessly constructed comparison.  You will, instead, choose to sound ridiculous and childlike.)

“I’m…uh…in finance,” she will say, slightly caught off guard by your phrasing (as most people are).  “But I just lost my job.  Corporate downsizing.  I knew it was going to happen, but still.  I don’t know what I’m going to do now.”  She will look like she’s been slapped, like she has just been given terrible news in a public place and whattheHELL kind of person would give you news like that with so many people around?! (you inconsiderate asshole!) You will feel awful, she will have obviously been trying to forget about this all night.

“Well,” you will say, trying to be consoling, hoping to cover up the wounds exposed by what you thought was an innocent question, Jesus I hope she doesn’t start crying or something, “you know what they say about doors…”

Her expression will tell you that no, she does not know what they say about doors, and their ability to close and open and high school graduation speeches blah blah blah.  You will begin to actually feel sorry for this girl.  You will want to help her, but you have no idea how to go about this.

“So, what do you think you are going to do now?” you will ask, trying to sound cheery and hopeful and like losing her job is the best thing that could have ever happened to her.

“I just don’t know.  I think I’d like to move somewhere, maybe California.  But that probably won’t happen.”  She will look so broken, used up.

“Wow, Cali would be amazing, you should totally go!” you will say.  The conversation will turn to traveling, to the places you have each been, to the places you want to go.  You will recount the months after you graduated from college, of moving from Miami to Colorado to Texas, of being so poor that you could not eat, of living in Asia.  You will tell her that you may go to Brooklyn in the fall, that you feel like your time in the Midwest has expired.  She will look at you with wide eyes, unbelieving.

“I can’t believe you’ve been to all those places, have lived everywhere!” she will say, though you will feel undeserving of the attention because you know people who have led lives far more exciting, and you sometimes feel like a fraud knowing these people exist and are doing things you have been too cowardly to do.  “I could never do what you do, just pick up and move somewhere!”

“Sure you could,” you will say, “Anyone can do it.”

“But I don’t have enough money to move...or a job,” she will sigh, looking lost.

“Let me tell you this: you will NEVER have enough money to move, or to go anywhere you want to go.  There will never be enough money, or time, and things will get fucked up and there will be a million reasons why you probably shouldn’t go.  It doesn’t matter.  You just have to go and believe that everything will work out in the end, because it always does.  You won’t die, you won’t starve.  The worst thing that could happen is that you lose all your money and end up right back where you started…but money, in itself, is worthless.  It only has value once we use it for something we truly want.”

She will not know what to say.  “I’ve never met anyone like you before,” she will finally respond, softly.  You will take this as a compliment, but what she will really be saying is, “people do not live like you live.  You are not normal.  This is not how you are supposed to do it.”  You will smile at her, a reassuring type of smile.  The train will slow for your stop, and you will get up to leave.  You will wish Mirada the best of luck, and slip out of the doors into the humid night.

Alone, among her inebriated friends – one of the girls passed out against the window, the guy furiously texting in hopes of finding someone to share his bed with for the night – she will ride to the parking lot, then irresponsibly drive the rest of the way home drunk.  Tomorrow she will wake up, lie around in her pajamas all day, watch T.V. and eat ice cream from the carton.  She will feel sorry for herself, she will not know what the hell she is going to do.  Maybe she will think about the conversation she had with you on the train, but only for a second.  I could not live that way, she will think.  On Monday she will update her resume, send it off to other firms.  She will find another job, perhaps a better one, and eventually she will buy a house.  She will get married, have kids, live here and die here. 

One day far from now, as she watches the sun set from her kitchen window, her thin hands holding a cup of tea close to her pale lips, the steam rising and carrying the sweet smell to her sense, maybe she will wonder.  What would my life had been like if I had gone to California, all those years ago?  What if I would have taken a chance and followed my dreams?

Some questions are not meant to be answered.