Instead, he said, ‘That was intense!’ Finally, I was understood.
‘How long have you been blind?’ I asked him. He quieted me with his finger and held his Texan smile in place as he stood up. He was taller than I expected. He grabbed his cane, put his glasses back on, and shuffled out the door. He left me sitting there, drowning in my puddle of horror like a little boy who ejaculated too soon the first time he made out with a girl, but there was nothing left to say. As he waved goodnight to Sandy, I noticed The Braille Institute logo on the back of his shirt.
‘See you tomorrow morning for our volunteer training seminar, Sammy!’ she cried out. He was a volunteer? Not even blind at all?
I looked over to Dwight for answers but he just sat there laughing at me from afar, jubilant in his opaque bath of glory.
Turns out Roselyn didn’t know much about love. I started to rifle through my Mary Poppins bag of personal baggage in an effort to find something, anything, that would justify why I kept doing this, but I had nothing except the lingering tingling sensation on my arm. I could still feel his fingers on my skin like a phantom limb. I was giving off some major sexual energy and I just had this feeling that something good was about to happen. Maybe my chakras were opening and I was becoming a real woman. It was in that moment I realized I wasn’t heartbroken; I was heart-disappointed.
It was probably time for me to go home. My mom would be home soon and she hates it when I’m late because she feels like people who are late are lazy and lazy people never find happiness, even though she isn’t particularly happy but always punctual. Tonight she was making lasagna, and that’s what I was thinking about when Dwight grabbed my hand and said, ‘I guess we’re all just shooting in the dark.’
Funny, I never even saw him coming. It would be romantic if he were the one for me, fervent Dwight with the bad eyes. He was right; we are all just trying to get it right but none of us really know what we’re doing. We’re out there, putting ourselves on the line to make some sense of our worlds and why we’re here. So I found out blind men didn’t necessarily make good lovers, and that old people with dementia don’t always know what’s best, but at least I’m still trying. Hunter S. Thompson said we’re all just figuring out ‘whether to float with the tide or swim for a goal.’ I’m swimming; I just don’t have a life vest.
I ran outside as fast as I could. I was huffing and panting and about to pass out from shortness of breath when I noticed Milk driving by in his Ford Thunderbird. He caught my eye and slowed to a pause. He took in The Braille Institute sign above me and then looked back at me and smiled. I was alone, drowning in the middle of the sidewalk, unable to catch my breath, and this dude can’t stop smiling.
He rolled down the window. ‘Want a ride?’
I jumped in and banged the door shut, trying not to look at him. Brenda had to drive my car to work because hers was in the shop for maintenance, so I had taken the bus there and was quietly relieved I didn’t have to take it back.
We rode in silence for a while, listening to Leadbelly. Nothing like a little blues to steer you through a comedown. Eventually I turned towards him at the same time he looked at me and all he said was, ‘Hey.’
‘How do you always seem to know where I am?’ I said, annoyed that he always catches me at those fragile moments when I actually need some help. ‘Are you following me?’
‘Oh,’ he joked. ‘Was I not supposed to hack into your computer and look at your calendar?’
‘Not funny,’ I said.
‘Let’s call it fate. I thought you love that, anyway. Did your adventures with blind men not go as planned?’ he said as his smile turned to laughter.
I was so mad I clenched my teeth. I was gritting them so hard my jaw eventually gave way. It’s hard to be mad for too long.
‘You’re not helping my confidence, you know,’ I said. ‘I’m just trying to make shit happen. I’m trying to fall in love. All The Secret stuff, all these affirmations, and I still haven’t found anyone. I don’t get it.’
‘You’ll be fine,’ he said, eyes focused on the road. Men simplify things so much. I needed to know I’d be fine, not just whimsically be told I would be, like what you tell a kid with a scrape. It’s gonna be fine, you say, but do you really know? Are you absolutely sure?
‘All I want is to play backgammon in the park with a fifties picnic set filled with treats, and for a guy I’m in love with to bring out a piece of paper and he’ll draw a face and then I’ll draw the neck and back and forth until we’ve drawn a couple – us! – while we enjoy the vodka-spiked elderflower pressé I would have packed – homemade, of course! – as he takes breaks to play his guitar. Is that too much to ask?’
‘Haha,’ Milk said. ‘Well, yes.’
He didn’t get it. ‘But this kind of romance exists, Milk! It really does. It has to.’ I kept looking over to see if he was going to say something but he didn’t.
‘I know it does,’ he said, glancing over at me. ‘Don’t worry about it. It will happen when the time is right.’
‘Thanks, Milky.’
‘At the risk of sounding like a broken record, I’ve always said it would be hard for you.’
‘Ugh. Yeah.’
‘You have something very specific you want. You’re not just looking for the hay. You’re looking for the needle.’
We were quiet again for a while as we rode up the bends in the canyon.
‘So then,’ he said, ‘tell me a story.’
He always did that. He always wanted to hear a good story.
The Passenger
When I think about flying, I never get scared – mostly because it means I am going to have to sit next to someone who’s already dealt with the fact that his personal space will be invaded. He is prepared for it, which makes my encroaching upon his so-called ‘boundaries’ less invasive, less offensive. It will come as no surprise, therefore, when I accidentally push his elbow off our shared armrest and pretend to fall asleep on his shoulder so innocently, so naturally, that he’ll feel like a dick waking me up.
I’m pushing the male pronoun here only because I had a premonition the other night that I was going to get on a plane and sit next to a man named Jimmy on a flight somewhere exotic and, because of turbulence, hand holding and a false sense of mortality, we would fall in love. The name Jimmy made me think about the pussy-twisting effect reggae music has on me, and its inevitable, albeit jumpy, connection to Jimmy Cliff. I’ve always loved rice and beans and the robust smell of dreadlocks so it all makes quite a lot of sense. The prospect of sitting next to a man is more exciting than sitting next to an attractive woman because I’m not into lipstick lesbians, although if she were butch enough I could get into it. When I was in my early twenties, I had a crush on a forty-year-old black lesbian named Sunshine, but that’s another story.
When I told my mother in the kitchen, she looked at me with these round eyes that were once much bigger, much brighter. They had the same diameter, the same oaky color, but they were cloudy and distracted, as if she didn’t use them to see anymore. She was moving around the room nervously. Feet never touching the ground, holding on to something I didn’t understand. Reorganizing. Reshuffling. Reordering the placement of cups and saucers that had already been organized, shuffled and ordered earlier. She said she’d always dreamt of sitting next to a man on a plane who would become her soul mate, so if this omen were real, I could be – to some degree – fulfilling a multi-generational goal. An opportunity I had to take advantage of or else it could turn into the moment that, in retrospect, was the moment that changed my life but never did because I didn’t take it. So this is me, seizing opportunities. Naturally, and I suppose as a consequence, I started googling the next available flight out of Los Angeles International Airport. I could barely wait to call Brenda and let her know I wouldn’t be able to watch Mary for a few days because I had business out of town.
‘But you don’t work,’ she said. ‘That’s why I pay you to take care of your niece.’ Sh
e really just had no idea how much work I was putting into this, but I let it slide because she was tired and she is, after all, my sister.
‘Yes I do!’ I screamed. ‘I coach teens with confidence issues. Plus, you’re not really paying me right now for Mary anyway, remember?’
‘You went to a meeting one time because you were bored and stood at the front to make a speech like you were in AA. I don’t think that counts.’
I shrugged, unable to counter.
‘Where are you going?’ she continued.
I knew I was leaving, I just didn’t know where I was going. ‘I’m not entirely sure yet. I’m thinking of just showing up at the airport and seeing what the next flight is to really get fate into the picture.’
I heard her sigh through the phone. ‘You’re kidding, right?’
That’s the problem with my sister.
‘Of course I’m not kidding! There are so few real surprises in life, why should I get in the way of one of them? It’s like waiting to name your baby until it’s born. So much more interesting, real, spontaneous . . . right?’
‘How can you say that? Mary was our great-grandmother’s name!’
‘I’m sorry. I know honoring ancestry is the kind of thing you have to plan.’ I avoided the rest of the conversation before it escalated. ‘I’ll be back on Monday. Adios!’
‘Wait, how can you afford to go on a trip anyway?’ she said, just before hanging up. ‘Given that I haven’t been able to pay you lately with the whole ex-husband fiasco.’
‘Savings,’ I said. When our grandfather Morty died, he left each of us a modest sum, about $10,000, that was to be used only for ‘a rainy day.’ I’ve been waiting for that drizzly, wet day for two years and then realized I could die waiting for that day, the right time, so I might as well use the money to live while I’m alive.
I packed a small backpack’s worth of clothes because I knew traveling light was a man’s dream. I mean, it practically screams low maintenance. I put on my new bangles and did my hair just right with a little twist at the top to give myself elevation. I always wondered if I’d be more of a bitch if I were taller because height gives me so much confidence. I put on my sparkly skirt, despite it being a little inappropriate for a plane journey, because I needed pizazz. I looked really good; heck, I was sparkling!
When I arrived at the airport, I made a pact with myself as I approached the departures board that I was going to choose what city I’d go to by flipping a coin. Heads would mean that I’d go to the second one down the departures list, and tails would mean the fourth. Whatever city it would land on would determine where I would go. I knew it was crazy, but time was ticking. My mother had upped her Klonopin intake (against our wishes) from daily to twice daily, and that meant soon it would be three and four times daily. I had to make this work and had a feeling this time was it. I imagine it’s like actresses who spend years auditioning without stopping, but they keep trying because they never know when they’ll get their lucky break. What if I gave up right before landing my big role? I guess that was another thing I learned from the blind men: to just keep moving forward even if you can’t see the light. And I was living in the dark now. Sure, I was learning and spots of light would sometimes get through the cracks, but I couldn’t see anymore what was happening or where I was going. I had to trust the things that weren’t yet in sight.
I tossed the coin and got tails. I was going to Frankfurt.
Rio de Janeiro was the second one, and Lisbon was third. I was a little upset that I chose fourth down for my coin toss rules because everyone knows Germans are terrible lovers (except if you are into fetish porn), but that was the game and I had to follow the rules and so Frankfurt it was. I walked up to the Virgin Airlines ticket counter with my carry-on, passport and the unadulterated air of someone about to find love, which you’d think would charm a nun, but the lady in the smart red suit with the matching handkerchief just tossed me a bitter look. I hoped it was only because I was looking so fantastic and going on an adventure and she was working, married to a man who wasn’t her match and had blisters from having to wear those patent leather low heels all day. I felt bad for her. I looked down and took in her nametag: Tricia.
‘What’s your destination?’ she asked.
‘Frankfurt,’ I said, sliding her my passport. ‘I haven’t purchased a ticket yet, but I’m hoping to get on the 14:25 flight.’
As she typed, her face showed no emotion. No flicker of the lids, no twitch at the edges of her mouth. Not even a wrinkle stretched or bent.
‘I had an aunt named Tricia,’ I said. ‘My dad’s sister. I always called her Tish.’ Again, her face was sterile, detached. After a few moments, as Jimmy’s mirage began to fade and hope was about to commit suicide, Tricia craned her neck around and said, ‘Well, if it isn’t your lucky day.’
I panicked when I entered the security line, thinking maybe the end of a joint I smoked five years ago was somehow, someway, tucked absentmindedly into my bag that I had forgotten about. I imagined life in jail; the people I’d meet. I had too many layers on. Too many scarves, too many jackets, too many technological appliances to place into separate containers. It was exhausting but I kept the finish line – the one with Bloody Marys at the end – in mind as I wrestled through the cattle in order to keep my belongings by me. As I went through the X-ray machines, hands extended, the alarm bells went off, making me jump. My panic settled, though, as I remembered not even having that bag the last time I smoked pot. Phew! Something about being questioned though, even if you’re innocent, makes you nervous and act guilty.
‘This way, ma’am,’ the female security officer said. ‘Are these your bags?’ She pointed towards my suitcase and purse. I nodded, Yes.
‘Arms out!’ she instructed. ‘I’m going to search you now, is that okay?’
I didn’t even realize what I was doing but I felt myself nodding so hysterically it were as if someone had just asked me if I’d like to jump into a lake of chocolate with a fleet of Olympic male swimmers. The security woman was patting me down – the back, the arms, the legs, under the bra, all the good spots – and I couldn’t help but grin.
She looked at me, her demeanor still deadpan but moving, changing shape. She said: ‘I’ve never seen anyone so excited to get frisked before.’
I was so happy I couldn’t hide it. I didn’t even want to hide it. Fuck it, I was alive and who wouldn’t gobble up the physical attention given in a security search? We all want to be touched. That’s why getting your hair washed at the hairdresser’s is such a heavenly experience.
Two hours later I’m sitting in the lounge, ready to board with a to-go bag of niçoise salad from an awful airport restaurant called On The Fly. The smell of fish and hard-boiled eggs are already clinging to my clothes but there’s no way I’m throwing this food away. It cost me twice as much as it would outside the airport; I know about being economical. I tie the knot tighter, hoping to trap the smell inside. I hear the announcement that my flight is about to board and that’s where I am right now: in line, smelling like tuna and eggs.
I take the moment to size up my co-passengers. When you’re in line at an airport, you realize there are two types of people: those who make you proud to be an American, and those who make you embarrassed to be one. I want the guy in front of me – the businessman – to just lighten up. Loosen his tie, unbutton his shirt, make me patriotic. I want to lean in and ask him if buttoning his top button made him feel contained, secure, safe, or if it held him back. I want to tell him that it does, in fact, hold him back, but I know it isn’t my place. Adults know how to hold their tongue so I switch my attention to assess the woman behind me: a mother. She isn’t just any mother, though. She is a hipster mother.
Hipster mothers have this wonderful way of making you feel terrible about where you’re at in life without really ever saying anything. They’re basically shouting, ‘I’m cool and I’m fertile . . . fuck you.’ The hipster mother in front of me has a pixie haircut
and bright red lips and a stylish outfit she probably stole from some Instagram style blog by some anorexic Italian who takes selfies in clothes no one could ever afford or get into. I sound really awful; they’re probably all quite nice. I think I just need to start running.
I look over to the first-class line because, well, who doesn’t? You have to know what you want to affirm it. I see a beautiful man with a beard who looks like his name could be Jimmy but that may just be wishful thinking because he’s gorgeous and in the first-class line. Don’t get me wrong; it’s not about money. It’s about class. As I inch closer and closer to the air hostess, or flight attendant depending on how PC I’m feeling, I watch Jimmy board ahead of me with so much swagger it makes my cookie tingle. I say cookie because it sounds substantially more classy than pussy. Jimmy’s got a leather jacket on and a bachelor vibe, plus no ring: perfect. He’s got a nose ring (I’ll deal), a few tattoos inching around the top of his V-neck T-shirt. His hair is messy and curly, like a musician’s, ready and asking for hands of screaming girls or one screaming Tabby. His locks rest dark and silky. I imagine rolling around on a bed of guitar strings, pulling on his hair like he pulls at those strings, the tension screaming out of him with pleasure. Pleasure that bursts from his roots to the extremities of his limbs and makes his whole body tingle and shake. I’ll use the opportunity to nurture him and embrace his lost soul and tell him, ‘Baby, home is where you hang your hat.’ He’ll look at me and sign, ‘I love you’ because he can’t breathe, let alone talk. But when he does catch his breath, he’ll remind me that we won’t burst. That the love will just keep growing and growing, like a big man’s belly. People always say that things go sour, after you peak, but that’s the best thing about always being at the bottom.
I hand my ticket to one of the stewardesses who I have to admit is pretty hot – Claudia Schiffer hot, so boiling in fact that I’m slightly worried she might get Jimmy’s attention before I do, but I tell myself she probably has a smelly pussy. That makes me feel better.
The Optimist Page 18