Morning... Soon

“Don’t you think it would have been rad if we met in Woodstock…”

“Why?”

“…while Santana is playing.”

“The guy that did that Smooth song? I hate him.”

“No, that’s, who was it, yeah, Rob Thomas.”

“With Santana. Why would it be cool if we met in some hippie muck, twenty billion miles away, forty light years ago, while Santana rapes my ears?”

“It would just been, you know, um, cool. Woodstock has tons of acid.”

“So does Charles Manson, but I don’t think it would be cool if we met under those circumstances. Between trips and mass murdering pregnant women.”

“Um, okay. It would just have been nice to tell a story of how we met during cocktail parties your pill popping mother throws for her socialite friends.”

“You haven’t met my mother nor went to one of her parties. Your assumptions on my family are all without merit.”

“You just told me three hours ago that you came from one of those parties, how is that without merit?”

“Because I’m a liar.”

“In a cocktail dress.”

They sat in silence on a park somewhere. It was dark. Mid-October. Chances of rain.

He outlines her face, searching for a hint of something, anything, cloaked by shadows made by the monkey bars. He was transfixed for the past cascading hours, figuring out what to say next, careful not to be sucked in her vortex. She thinks, her gaze as far away as the parked stars, winking and telling ghost stories.

“I need to be going soon,” she tells him, not meeting his stares. “They’ll be looking for the dress.”

“Oh, so you’re one of those. The rebellious daughter that doesn’t get her parent’s attention, so she goes around in playgrounds at night looking for more depth via conversations with strange men,” he said, still keeping his eye on her.

“Strange boys. And no, that’s too many clichés. I just like to play dress up,” she answers as she looks away from grassy parts of the playground, shaking away whatever it is she is thinking.

“Have you ever questioned your existence? In this Earth, I mean. Have you ever thought that ‘Man, why am I here? Is all this drama dictating the whole course of my life? Why am I here?’ you know, existentialist shit. Profound pondering.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls and think you make them wet with all your intelligent bullshit. You know sometimes things don’t work out perfectly, they just work out. They fit like gloves, only we don’t wear gloves here, you know, because it’s too hot. Anyway, I guess what I’m saying is, no. No I don’t do profound pondering. I much rather think that I swerve randomly.”

“I wasn’t actually trying to be an intelligent bullshitter…”

“Sure you were. I bet you listen to snotty indie bands too and secretly dream you were Rob with the sense of humor of Barry, paired with the sensitivity of Dick.”

“Sensitivity of Dick, that’s a good one.”

“I know right? I just thought about it now. I have wit you know. My father tells me I have too much of it, resulting in too much talking out of my ass.”

“My father used to tell me things like that too. Thinking about it now, it seems that he was the one that had the tendency to talk out of his ass though.”

“Parents do that a lot. I have Jerry Springer episodes bookmarked on my computer to prove it.”

“I like the episodes with the Nazis. And that one with that guy from Swing Kids.”

“I knew you listened to pretentious music.”

“Okay? How’d you figure that one out then?”

“You could have just said The Locust since Justin is more known to be part of that band, but instead you pulled out the cred card and went with Swing Kids. You should be ashamed.”

“I like Swing Kids more.”

“Don’t pout. It’s unbecoming. That’s what my posture coach always tells me.”

“You have a posture coach?”

“Ha, yeah. Yes. My mother insists that I must be a lady, you see. But then again, she also insists that Tyra Banks is the next Oprah. Or I don’t know, maybe, um, because she’s black also? My mother is racist like that.”

“She should be in Springer.”

“This would be my last cigarette, and then I’ll go home. I still have to prance around and pray rosaries. Dub English subtitles to Kurosawa’s Red Beard. And think really hard of my existence in this life.”

She gingerly lights the cigarette placed on her pursed lips and inhales fire deeply. The fleeting joys of smoking a cigarette are lost in today’s youth, but hers is sensual, bordering gratifying. She is a poster girl of fifties black and white noir vixens; smart brain and even a smarter mouth. She could be a heroine or heroin—that all depends. Early morning hours that tick away, no matter how unsettlingly intimate and nonsensically grandiose, isn’t enough to judge someone if they’re insane or just out of it. Mere hours are not enough to bank on. All could be just red herrings.

The boy shivers and hugs himself. He watches her take lavish drags, the clouds of smoke like druid envelopes. In-between those gaps, shadows of cats run around looking for mates. It’s getting late, but late is slow like honey, Sundays folding church chairs, kids from the OC or 90210.

“Want to hear a story?”

“I thought you had to leave?”

“I have time. I still have cigs. Do you want to hear the story or not?”

“Shoot.”

“One time, I had this boyfriend, well, ex-boyfriend, and that prick told me that if I don’t sleep with him he’ll leave me.”

“That’s dumb. You seen all theses sitcom episodes where some jock pressures the girl, then hilarious moments follows. So you slept with him?”

“Fuck no! God, no. Are you seriou… yes. Yes, I did. I was a dumb girl that thought he was the one. Then two weeks after, he dumps me and I try to kill myself.”

“Can you smell that?”

“What? No? What?”

“Clichés. It smells like a big stinking pile of clichés.”

“Fuck you!”

“So, you want to hear my story?”

“If you must, then you must. Be quick though, my cigarette is almost done.”

“Light another one.”

“I don’t want to; I’m saving it for later. You know, just in case.”

“Just in case what? You need to torture someone with lit cigarette sticks?”

‘No, just in case. Jesus, you suck at this game really bad don’t you? Just in case, just in case, JUST IN CASE.”

“Can I walk you home?”

“We’ll see, won’t we? Tell your story already. Stop stalling.”

“Cigarettes are bad for you, you know.”

“If you’re story is not about cigarettes, then you should drop it. Is it about cigarettes?”

“No.”

“Then drop it.”

She taps her cigarette’s last ashes and takes her last drag. The girl looks over to the boy, blowing her smoke in the other direction, followed by a gracious flick of her fingers. The cashed cigarette sails into the dark patches of the grassy playground. Without a word she gets up and walks below a streetlight, a halo forming on her head.

The boy rushes over, in some sort of panic, but more bewildered than most. Almost stumbling on his own shoes, he catches her just standing there, watching him. “Wait, my story,” he calls out, almost in desperation.

She eyes him once over, “Let’s hear it.”

“I always dreamt of leaving, you know. Just leave everything behind and never look back. Won’t even pack a bag, not even an ID.”

“Why?”

“Because, I don’t belong here.”

“Where are you going then?”

“I dunno, the Bahamas maybe. Anyway, last night I broke it off.”

“You broke what off?”

“Everything. All my ties in the world. My mother’s heart. My girlfriend’s, or should I say, ex-girlfriend’s bank account—which by the way only had five hundred bucks left, that made me feel guilty so I didn’t take it, even if she still lives with her parents and works a shitty call center job for foreigner hicks. Everything. Like a Viking funeral.”

“Sounds like something Johnny Cash would sing, doesn’t it? You know what you should do? Make a pilgrimage to Haight-Ashbury. Be a Dylan. I would love to do that.”

“I don’t have money. And a passport. I have nothing.”

“But dreams. So fucking go for it for crying out loud. You’ve gotten this far, what the hell is holding you back? Sneak in a traveler’s bag if you have to, I don’t believe NAIA is that secure.”

“Do you want to come with me? You did say you would love to do that.”

“I dunno, um, maybe. When are we leaving?”

“Tonight.”

“How?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Hmmm, sounds like a plan, although, I don’t know.”

“Have you heard the new Minus the Bear? The acoustic EP?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“That would be the perfect soundtrack.”

“Meh, give me Blonde Redhead. Or, goddammit, Nativity in Black. I want to go out with some really rocking tunes.”

“Elliott Smith?”

“Hmm, passable.”

“Charlotte Gainsbourg?”

“Should stick to making movies.”

“So you’re coming?”

“Maybe.”

“Is this your ‘just in case?’”

“Psh, no.”

Smiles creep on their faces. A sudden wave of reality washed over them, making them hesitate, although, not extinguishing their pearly whites in full view. It just made it look awkward. Ambiguous. To vague to tell.

“Can I walk you home?”

The streetlight flickers, like its trying to wink. The night is already growing hot, and the dark slowly seems visible. It would be morning soon.

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