Story Saturday! January 3, 2010

Straight Lines

There are flashes. There are moments. There are snippets. The moments of the days that were crushing remain imprinted on my brain. I do not like them, I do not like them one bit. They’re reminiscent of days when I got hurt, days when I wasn’t me, when I wasn’t fearless. I left one day, only ever to look back. It’s like a backwards Wizard of Oz. There’s a not-so-innocent ingénue, who leaves her black and white home to get to a city that was every bit as grey as she had hoped it would be. I’m warning you now, she does not end up clicking her heels three times, going home, or surrounded by kindly old men.

There are three reasons why I love Big City. One: unlike small towns, there are always more people than the people you know. There are always, always, people cooler than you; there are always crazy cat people. You are always, always simply average and indistinguishable. Two: unlike small towns, there is no need to sleep, ever. There is always a deli open or a coffee shop brewing a fresh pot. There are always people awake, always people having sex or doing dishes or any number of mundane things, but there are also always people making deals, meeting new people, laughing, crying, jumping, falling, flying. Three: The people you don’t know who are doing things you don’t know about are only three feet away from you. The simple proximity of the people makes Big City electric.
There is a way to be close to everyone and not connect with anyone.
This is appealing to me.
I walk through the grid that I can’t get lost in, but can still lose myself in, and my day begins with a rush of energy and adrenaline. Only Big City can offer me that. Here, there is only concrete and cars and lights and glass. There is nothing that isn’t hard. There is nothing that can break. The doors to my building are big and glass and they spin. I’m always afraid I’m going to get stuck going round and around forever. I never have. It’s an irrational fear. I keep walking. They keep spinning. My elevator is packed, but I am running late, so I squish in, making my first human body contact in two days. I don’t make eye contact, but I stare at my feet and mumble vague apologies. There is awkward shuffling and someone brushes my arm. I am 15; I am wearing jeans and a sweater that my mother gave me. It is blue. Someone runs into me and I am back in the present, unshaken, on the outside anyways. I step off my elevator.
“Good morning, Helen” These are the first words I speak in three days.
“Hello, Anne.” That is not my real name, but I have told everyone it is.
In my office there are stacks upon stacks of manuscripts. There are hundreds of stories. Other people’s stories, more importantly. I never read, before. I do now. I get lost in a world where pirates roam free, kidnapping women who will return home safe and sound. It’s predictable and boring. I have no issues tossing it away. In Big City, I don’t have issues discarding anything. Someone knocks on my door. I am 16, I am crying on my pink bed spread. Music is playing. I ignore it. Helen walks in and tells me I have an appointment with an author. A timid, mousy girl with glasses walks in.
“It’s so nice to meet you, I’m Nancy Wilson. I’m from Harwood, North Dakota. I wrote that book about the pirates.” She smiles and she’s warm and friendly. She’s so charmingly innocent that I can’t tell her that her book sucks, I tell her to make some revisions and get back to me. She gets up, smiles at me, and closes the door. I am 16. The sounds of doors closing are all around me. It’s inescapable. I can’t breathe, I can’t see, I can’t sleep, All I can do is cry.
I remember the first day; I remember the last day.
The middle is fuzzy, but those were the moments that didn’t mean anything. Only the fact that it started, and then ended, matter.

I am 15, I smile and giggle, I bat my eyelashes. My eyes, they shine and sparkle, people tell me that I have a “je ne sais quoi”. I act humble, but my heart soars every time I receive a compliment. There is no reason I should have a tough heart or a discerning mind. There are bad people in the world, but not mine. My world was made with open doors.

My days pass and blend into one and other seamlessly. It’s a sea of concrete, asphalt, glass, marble carpet. Reverse. Repeat. There is no beginning; there is no end.
My nights go differently. I have lived in Big City for 4 years. I have never been to the same place twice. I am 17. My existence is limited to 4 places. I am starved. After work, I throw a dart at my map of Big City. I go where the dart lands, and I pick the place within one block that stays open the latest. Tonight, it’s the corner of Main and 87th.

Tonight’s venue is a diner. It’s been open since 1987, so says the proud “ thanks for 20 years” sign out front. I think they should take it down. I almost don’t go in. I don’t like things that have lasted very long. I am 17. There is a glittering piece of jewelry in a little box. I am terrified.
“Honey, if you don’t order something I’m going to kick you out.”
“Coffee, please. Regular.”
There are five other people in the diner. There’s a couple who are speaking easily, making fun of each other, their silences aren’t awkward, but they aren’t filled with things unsaid either. They have been dating 3 months. I am 15. I am sitting in a car for the first time. I have my foot on the pedal. I taste freedom. I am an addict. The waitress hands me my coffee.
“Anything else?” She’s in her mid 50’s, and surly.
“Not quite yet. Soon.” I’m preoccupied with the old men sitting in the booth in front of me.
“Angelo, you are full of crap. The year we went to California was ’63. Remember? You didn’t wanna leave Angie here, but I made you, told you we’d bring her out as soon as our vineyard was set up.”
“Robert, you are wrong. We never went to California. We went to South Carolina and tried to open a bar. And Angie came with us!” Angelo slammed his hand on the table. His silverware clattered. They continued the argument they’d been having since 1995.
There is one more man sitting on a stool. He is… uninteresting. For now. Maybe when, if, someone comes to meet him, they will interest me. But for now, he is too much like me to be interesting. I am boring, I am unhappy. Unhappy people are only that, unhappy. Happy people have lives, have joys, have relationships, have futures. I am 17. It is incredibly dark on the road. My lights are on bright, but I can’t see further than 20 feet. My addiction is satiated. The man is never joined. He leaves 20 minutes later.

The road eastward, I told you it was backwards, will continue to Big City. I am 17 and alone. The concrete awes me. I have a high school degree. I start working as a waitress. I put myself through college. I become entranced in the lives of other people. I am a history major.

The diner starts closing down. I am tired, vaguely, and I am full. I have had two cups of coffee and a piece of pie. I leave a larger tip than I should. Money is replaceable. I walk down the dark Big City streets. I am thinking. This is dangerous, I think to myself.

I was 17. There was a ring. I said yes. Three months later, I am wearing a white dress. My mother is beaming. She is my warden, and I am in a tulle prison of white. The white surrounds me, I can’t breathe, I can’t see, I can’t smile. The bells are in my ears and they are deafening. There are bells and doors closing and I can’t see and I can’t breathe and the white is closing around me.
That night, in the black of night, the blackest night of the month, the blackest moment of that black night, I put my foot to the pedal. I am gone. They will never find me.

The concrete is grey. The sky is grey. The buildings are taupe. The Windows are mirrored. The streets are grey and their skin crawls with parasites. Even the parks aren’t as green as they are other places. Everything is muted, everything is clear. Straight lines and clean edges. Nothing is fuzzy, nothing is unclear.

I end up in coffee shops, alone, in Big City, because I threw a dart at a board. It’s chance. Everything is chance. Chalk everything up to fate. If I was supposed to turn around, If I was supposed to still be home, I would be. If that sea of white was the right place for me to be, it wouldn’t have been soul-crushing, right? Right? Right.

I look back every step of the way.
I know this is right. I know I am right. I know I am supposed to be alive. This sea of white is killing me.
I have the urge to turn back. Again and again, I almost retrace my steps.
Again and again, I move forward.
I stopped in Big City because after that, there is sea.
I went to Big City to breathe, but instead, ended up suffocating.