Month: August 2011

Union Station

I once met a girl on a bus. She was a stripper headed to a work opportunity in San Antonio by way of Los Angeles. I was a broke guy on a Greyhound bus going to visit his folks. We talked a bit. Nothing I can remember. Later in the evening, as we sat quietly, she tried to talk more, but I had nothing to say. She tried this several times.

She eventually sighed—exasperated—and said, “I’m just trying connect with you.”

There was nothing more to say except, “You shouldn’t.”

I had the audacity to say goodbye at Union Station.

Rene

“Ugh. You left your stubble in the sink!”

I was making her coffee and Rene was about to shower. I’d stayed over for the first time. Her roommate was away for the weekend.

“Sorry,” I said, though I doubt she heard. It wasn’t sincere.

I sat in one of the dark wooden chairs they used as dining furniture and flipped through a catalog. I forget which one or what it sold. It may have been clothing. I do remember thinking at some point in the interval that she’d look good wearing striped socks, but given my propensity for that thought I wouldn’t pin it on the catalog.

Some time later, I was just sitting on the couch. Morning silence reminds me of moments.

“Vic!” she yelped. I stood and walked to her roommate’s bedroom (lectures on respect for others’ private space are not necessary). She was standing beside the bed, wrapped in a canary towel and matted in all senses of the word. As I stood and gawked, she gestured to the white sheets. “Look.”

I glanced over, expecting some stain or another, and saw that she was pointing at a light smattering of dark hairs, undoubtedly from me as she had barely a shadow in all areas below her neck. I looked back at her.

“What.”

“Look at this hair. We need to clean this up.”

“Now? We’ve got all weekend.”

“Yea, but we just can’t leave it like this. This is gross.” She looked exasperated.

I was borderline offended, but instead approached her and put my arms on her shoulders.

“Does it really bother you?”

“Just, we can’t leave it like this.”

So, naturally, I removed my shirt and laid down in the bed despite her protests.

“Come on.”

“I’m wet.”

I smiled and resisted. “So wrap a towel around your head and come here.”

I waited, and she did. We laid there for a while, that first morning. I was making a point that I certainly wasn’t aware of.

“Being with me’s like being with an animal, you know?”

“Will I have to look after you all the time?”

I wasn’t sure how to respond. It was an unfamilar question.

“Maybe,” I said. “But I don’t need much. And I scare off prowlers.”

I did help her get her roommate’s room in order later that weekend, but by that point I’d been all over the apartment. My presence was undeniable.

Union Station

I once met a girl on a bus. She was a stripper headed to a work opportunity in San Antonio by way of Los Angeles. I was a broke guy on a Greyhound bus going to visit his folks. We talked a bit. Nothing I can remember. Later in the evening, as we sat quietly, she tried to talk more, but I had nothing to say. She tried this several times.

She eventually sighed—exasperated—and said, “I’m just trying connect with you.”

There was nothing more to say except, “You shouldn’t.”

I had the audacity to say goodbye at Union Station.

Rene

“Ugh. You left your stubble in the sink!”

I was making her coffee and Rene was about to shower. I’d stayed over for the first time. Her roommate was away for the weekend.

“Sorry,” I said, though I doubt she heard. It wasn’t sincere.

I sat in one of the dark wooden chairs they used as dining furniture and flipped through a catalog. I forget which one or what it sold. It may have been clothing. I do remember thinking at some point in the interval that she’d look good wearing striped socks, but given my propensity for that thought I wouldn’t pin it on the catalog.

Some time later, I was just sitting on the couch. Morning silence reminds me of moments.

“Vic!” she yelped. I stood and walked to her roommate’s bedroom (lectures on respect for others’ private space are not necessary). She was standing beside the bed, wrapped in a canary towel and matted in all senses of the word. As I stood and gawked, she gestured to the white sheets. “Look.”

I glanced over, expecting some stain or another, and saw that she was pointing at a light smattering of dark hairs, undoubtedly from me as she had barely a shadow in all areas below her neck. I looked back at her.

“What.”

“Look at this hair. We need to clean this up.”

“Now? We’ve got all weekend.”

“Yea, but we just can’t leave it like this. This is gross.” She looked exasperated.

I was borderline offended, but instead approached her and put my arms on her shoulders.

“Does it really bother you?”

“Just, we can’t leave it like this.”

So, naturally, I removed my shirt and laid down in the bed despite her protests.

“Come on.”

“I’m wet.”

I smiled and resisted. “So wrap a towel around your head and come here.”

I waited, and she did. We laid there for a while, that first morning. I was making a point that I certainly wasn’t aware of.

“Being with me’s like being with an animal, you know?”

“Will I have to look after you all the time?”

I wasn’t sure how to respond. It was an unfamilar question.

“Maybe,” I said. “But I don’t need much. And I scare off prowlers.”

I did help her get her roommate’s room in order later that weekend, but by that point I’d been all over the apartment. My presence was undeniable.

growl thing

I do this guttural growl thing when I am settling in. Think of the way a dog curls up and then lets out a deep sigh before it konks out for the night. It’s a defintive sort of sound. Everyone asked, no one complained. Just another thing to add to any “weird shit about my ex” lists that I may have inspired.

Groggy night time revelations. This must be a thing somewhere on the Internet.

a fucking light

Hey, tumblr.

You know how I get to sleep? I imagine a long overnight flight to Australia. And because it costs nothing, I’m in first class, I’ve got small bottles of Jim Beam, and I’m thinking ahead to a beautiful woman who’s going to meet me at the airport until I lean against the window and fade out.

Out like a fucking light. It’s worked for twenty years.

A Study of Short Stories

Lying in bed, I began to think about A Study of Short Stories. This was a class I took last Fall, before I knew I was going to move to a different state and thus pause my ever-continuing education. This one was at a college further away than the others I’d been attending. It required driving north on the 280 and exiting onto Skyline just before the arrival in Daly City. I drove this highway every week from August to December. That’s a big change. Warm summer to rainy winter. I was reading for that class, watching films for the film class, and listening to music for the music class. Each one was at a different college. I was going through a series of realizations about denial I’d been in and what I wanted from myself and others, which I had never stopped to consider until then. I had only one person who knew any of this, and she was someone I never met. It was a busy time. I began to think of the drive to that short story class. I thought of the long drive on empty roads at night, free of oncoming headlights and street lamps. I thought of my jeep’s radiator blowing up on the freeway and the cost of towing back to my apartment. I remembered driving by the San Bruno fires and seeing everyone at the college in a panic. I remembered Raymond Carver and Jindabyne. I remembered talking to students, people who were (somewhat) interested in literature and discussion of fictional works. I remembered the Russian gymnast with her aspirations to be a lawyer. During the course of all this thought, which mind you was a mere flash in time, my head started to stir. My chest tightened. I could not move for a minute or two until finally I stood and paced. I have space here—halls to tread, impatient, in the middle of the night. I mention this because before, during that busy time, I barely had room to sleep in. I still could not name the source of this feeling. It was not pain, nor confusion. It was an unfamiliar sensation. It was unease of the most unidentifiable kind, which, for someone like me, is the worst kind. An invisible aggressor, something inherent and profound enough to get me out of bed in the middle of the night. I don’t know what a panic attack is like, so thinking I had one is likely an overreaction. But it sure as hell was something. It might simply be that, finally, I miss the people and place I left behind.

A Study of Short Stories

Lying in bed, I began to think about A Study of Short Stories. This was a class I took last Fall, before I knew I was going to move to a different state and thus pause my ever-continuing education. This one was at a college further away than the others I’d been attending. It required driving north on the 280 and exiting onto Skyline just before the arrival in Daly City. I drove this highway every week from August to December. That’s a big change. Warm summer to rainy winter. I was reading for that class, watching films for the film class, and listening to music for the music class. Each one was at a different college. I was going through a series of realizations about denial I’d been in and what I wanted from myself and others, which I had never stopped to consider until then. I had only one person who knew any of this, and she was someone I never met. It was a busy time. I began to think of the drive to that short story class. I thought of the long drive on empty roads at night, free of oncoming headlights and street lamps. I thought of my jeep’s radiator blowing up on the freeway and the cost of towing back to my apartment. I remembered driving by the San Bruno fires and seeing everyone at the college in a panic. I remembered Raymond Carver and Jindabyne. I remembered talking to students, people who were (somewhat) interested in literature and discussion of fictional works. I remembered the Russian gymnast with her aspirations to be a lawyer. During the course of all this thought, which mind you was a mere flash in time, my head started to stir. My chest tightened. I could not move for a minute or two until finally I stood and paced. I have space here—halls to tread, impatient, in the middle of the night. I mention this because before, during that busy time, I barely had room to sleep in. I still could not name the source of this feeling. It was not pain, nor confusion. It was an unfamiliar sensation. It was unease of the most unidentifiable kind, which, for someone like me, is the worst kind. An invisible aggressor, something inherent and profound enough to get me out of bed in the middle of the night. I don’t know what a panic attack is like, so thinking I had one is likely an overreaction. But it sure as hell was something. It might simply be that, finally, I miss the people and place I left behind.

a fucking light

Hey, tumblr.

You know how I get to sleep? I imagine a long overnight flight to Australia. And because it costs nothing, I’m in first class, I’ve got small bottles of Jim Beam, and I’m thinking ahead to a beautiful woman who’s going to meet me at the airport until I lean against the window and fade out.

Out like a fucking light. It’s worked for twenty years.

growl thing

I do this guttural growl thing when I am settling in. Think of the way a dog curls up and then lets out a deep sigh before it konks out for the night. It’s a defintive sort of sound. Everyone asked, no one complained. Just another thing to add to any “weird shit about my ex” lists that I may have inspired.

Groggy night time revelations. This must be a thing somewhere on the Internet.