because I can can can
I promised Maddo I'd send her humorous vibes today while she was flying over the Pacific, so allow me to do so by posting an anecdote I've been meaning to put up here for a week--in Film Noir Style.
It's the worst kind of snow. Not good enough for snowballs, snowmen, forts. Little kids stay inside because it gets into their gloves and shoes and chills them to the bone. I've been in it all night, walking the beat, collar turned up against the biting wind. I'm wearing the pastel-plaid scarf she got me and trying not to think as I breathe through it to protect myself from the chill of the night. This isn't the hour, the weather, for nice people. It's a night for people who will do anything for money. I fit right in.
Footsteps crunch behind me. I turn, but the traitorous scarf blocks most of my view. Snow white hair is all I catch a glimpse of in the gloom. Some old man, on his way home for the night. Nothing to worry about. I'm about to walk on and try to find some shelter from the biting wind when the figure speaks.
"I recognize those pigtails." The voice is oddly jovial, but rich, like a Santa Claus that grew up smoking and drinking gin while his mom sang jazz tunes. Memories come flooding back. This is the voice that took my everything. This is the voice that haunts my mind every night as I lie in bed wrapped in tangled sheets and wonder why the hell I bother waking up to face another day.
"Evening, professor." I turn and step into the glow of the streetlight, pulling the scarf down so he can see my face. He's buttoning up his coat, probably on his way home to the wife and the grandkids. When I leave in two hours, the apartment I drive to will be dark and empty, except for the cat. But who needs a dame when you've got a needy puss?
"Staying warm?"
"Trying to, anyways."
He gives a merry chuckle that makes me want to haul off and sock him one. "I'm glad I ran into you. I've been meaning to pull you aside for a chat."
My spine stiffens, and I consider my options. Could probably lose him on the steps--he's got a good forty years on me, but in snow like this I'm just as likely to wipe out. The building I was heading to is at the top. No luck there. I'm trapped. I know what his words can do, and I know I can't withstand another onslaught. Not tonight. Not after everything else that's gone wrong. My skin's gone colder than the air surrounding us.
"What's going on?" I accept my defeat. He's around me four days a week, so it's bound to happen sometime.
"I wanted to tell you I'm proud of all the good work you've done since we talked last."
My breath freezes in the air between us like a ghost and I stand frozen, waiting for the catch.
"I'll never forget--you gave me some perspective, that's for sure." He finishes the top button and starts on his gloves. "I'll never forget our conversation about your attendance. I had no idea what you'd been going through. And student teaching is a challenge for everyone, but I think you can do it."
My mind races like a two-dollar whore who just spotted the rich guy in her strip club. First things first--common graces, gotta keep up the pretense of humanity when I can.
"Thanks, Prof."
He dons his hat in an absurdly old-man fashion--don't pretend like you don't know what I mean--and heads for his car. I pull my scarf back around my face and turn back to the steps, but they seem suddenly endless.
Eight weeks. I've plotted, planned, dreamed of proving him wrong for eight weeks. And now he's told me he's sorry, in his way, and I don't feel justified. I don't feel free. Wrongs have not been righted.
In a way, I am angrier than before. I reach into my pocket and fire up a cig, letting its smoke be bombarded by the huge, soft flakes surrounding me. My shrink thinks I've got anger problems. Wants me to sit on a cushion and face a wall thirty minutes a day and pretend I'm not thinking about revenge. But the apology isn't enough. He needs to feel like I feel.
He needs to lose what I lost. Then we'll be even.
Having a smoke seems suddenly pointless. I toss the cigarette butt into the snowbank to my left and trudge up the stairs, listening to the soft hiss of fire enveloped by ice. It falls silent as I reach the top.
- Long coat with popped collar? check.
- Whoreswhoreswhoreswhores? check.
- Dames? check.
- Cigarette? check.
- Angst? doubleplus check.
- Context? Fiiiiine.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have laundry to do.
NOTE TO SELF: Update this banner.
