by Ross Anthony
I passed through a cappella groups, art groups, sports, and countless political clubs advocating for disabilities and minorities.
While some of them piqued my interest, particularly the Color Wheel, I didn’t want to commit to any distractions.
I continued onward.
Huntington Hall was brighter and far more colorful. Of course, I expected no less, as it was the building solely dedicated to the arts. The floor was made out of colorful tiled mosaics, which portrayed the nation’s vast landscapes in great artistic form. Murals of the world’s most iconic leaders and figures covered the walls that held the vaulted ceiling over my head. As I proceeded down the corridor, I stepped gently, so as not to deface the beautiful work below my feet. Every tap of my step led me deeper into the beautiful history of our world.
I looked to my wrist. It was 2:50, time to return back to reality. I withdrew my admiration from the art and hurried my pace.
I casually entered the classroom, which was still nearly empty.
I was greeted by a frail, yet joyous middle-aged man. His sandy brown hair was tied into a bun, and on his face he had patches of gray stubble. He wore casual attire, which didn’t differ too much from what the beachgoers wore: shorts, sandals, and a basic loose-fitting tee. I felt comfortable in his presence. He was Professor Jordan Smith.
“Hello,” he said with a soft voice. “Welcome. Please have a seat at any one of the computers.”
“Thank you,” I grinned and nodded.
When he smiled back, he did so in a manner that set me at ease. His eyes displayed lines of pure contentment, which made me forget about reality for a moment. He was a man at peace with himself and the world around him.
The room held three rows of tables divided into four columns. Each table, with the exception of the the fourth column, had enough room to sit two computers. That meant there could be at least eighteen people in the class.
I sat down in the middle of the last row, leaving the left seat open, hoping that no one would sit next to me.
I pulled out a notebook and a pencil, in case there would be notes I needed to take, but mostly because I just wanted to look prepared and set a better first impression with this instructor.
As the minute hand on the wall clock ticked closer to 3, more people started filling the seats around me. So far, the seat next to me had been left empty.
Finally, it was 3, which meant I would have the whole desk to myself.
“Welcome, everyone,” began the professor, “to…” He was interrupted by a man at the doorway. “Oh, well hello. Please have a seat,” the professor said, looking for an open spot. “There,” he said, pointing my way.
The man turned to my direction.
It was him, the man who’d pulled me out from in front of the car.
Everyone in the class watched as he strolled through the sea of computers. His stride demanded attention, though he seemingly didn’t notice this. Surely he was used to it.
As he effortlessly inched my way, I felt a sense of animosity growing in my body.
“Could this day get any better?” I thought.
I had hoped I’d never have to see him again, yet there he was about to sit next to me, a socially inept fool.
“Oh,” he whispered, “it’s you.”
I looked at him as he sat. The smell of bold ginger and bergamot pulled my senses into him. Hidden within spicy boldness, there lingered a touch of vanilla, cinnamon, and something woodsy, perhaps cedarwood? There were other notes hanging off of him, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on them. It was without a doubt a scent used outside of my social class, exclusive to those with a higher pay scale. I should’ve already known this, based on his Jessu attire.
With that, I had to pull away.
I rolled my eyes back to the front of the class.
“Well okay, then,” he muttered.
“All right, all the seats are full,” continued the professor, joyfully. “Let’s get into it, shall we?” He glided to the desk in the front corner of the room and grabbed a stack of papers. “So, welcome to Art History. Here, I have a syllabus for you, so if everyone could take one and pass it back,” he counted a smaller stack and handed it to each front of the columns.
“You know I saved your life, right?” whispered the stranger as he handed me a syllabus.
I turned and gave him an accidentally arrogant grin.
“All you have to say is thank you,” he seemed to tease.
“Thank you,” I replied flatly.
“See, now was that so hard?” he whispered, pleased with himself. “Now be quiet. I’m trying to listen.” He looked forward to the front of the room and looked back at me through the corner of his eye, letting out a sly grin.
I bit the bottom of my lip, trying to hold back a smile. He was aggravating, but I liked it.
“So as you all can see,” continued the soft-spoken man at the front of the class, “per your syllabi, there is an entirely optional trip. It will in no way affect your grade in my class. It will simply bring life to the pictures. Now, every year in this class, I pick a different destination. Last year it was Paris, the year before was London, and this year, I’ve chosen Greece. You will, of course, be required to fund your way, should you decide to partake in this extracurricular activity. So please let me know of your interest by signing the slip at the bottom and turning it in by the end of the week. Then we can start working on the finer details.”
A girl toward the front right corner of the room shouted, “Yes!”
“Now that’s what I like to hear,” exclaimed the professor.
Greece. I had dreamt of the place ever since my childhood. My mother would read me Greek mythos in the form of Homer’s Iliad and would joke that it was our family history, as my absent father was of Grecian descent.
“Greek through and through,” as my mother would describe him. She would tell me that I reminded her “so much of him,” from my wavy dark, almost black, brown hair, wildly untamed eyebrows, to the slight bump that sat on the bridge of my nose.
I wouldn't ever truly know how alike we were. The only image I had of him was what I’d painted with the words from the books of “my ancestors” and what I saw in the mirror looking back at me.
I had grown obsessed with the idea that my missing father and his father’s father were great immortal gods, busy in the land above.
Then, as I grew older, she sat me down with the truth that my father never actually wanted me to make it into his life. He left us the moment she told him she was expecting me.
But that harsh reality made the idea of Greece no less desirable to me. This trip was an amazing opportunity, but there was no way I’d be able to go. I would need a passport, money, the round trip airline tickets, money, hotel accommodations, money, food, and everything else. There would also be no way I could leave my mom with how sick she was.
With that, I set the expectation for myself that it wasn’t feasible.
“You like Greece,” whispered the man next to me. He was referring back to my books he had picked off the ground earlier. “You going to go?”
“I can’t,” I replied.
“Why not?”
“Because I can’t,” I said firmly. I didn’t feel the need to divulge my personal life to a man I had just barely met, nor did I want his pity.
“All right, just asking. I think I’m going to go.”
“That’s nice,” I said, dismissively.
“On that note,” continued the professor, “my name is Professor Jordan Smith, but you all can call me Jordan. This is art, and after all, it’s not that serious. I also want you to know that where you’re seated now is where you’ll be sitting for the rest of the semester, so I’m going to give you all a moment to get to know one another, if you don’t already.”
The man next to me turned in his seat to face me. I felt my cheeks get warm again.
“Hi, I’m Nicolas Evans. You can just call me Nick… Because I’ll be there... in the nick of time,
should you almost get hit by a car,” he winked.
I withheld a smile from his cringe-inducing play on words, but I couldn't deny his charm.
“Nice to meet you, Nicolas,” I replied, putting out my hand for a shake, still holding back even a grin. “Mīlo Barkley.”
“Pleasure,” he said, smiling and revealing an immaculate white sheen.
I flashed a snarky grin back at him. I didn’t know why I had an attitude, but it seemed to be something that he brought out of me.
“Yup, we’re going to have a good time,” he stated, still smiling.
Jordan then went on about classroom expectations and how his grading scale worked. He went over a brief summary of the things we would cover in his class, and then he released us.
“See you. I’m looking forward to Wednesday already,” exclaimed Nicolas.
“Yup,” I looked back at him as I packed my bag and started toward the door.
“Well, don’t sound so enthused, Mĭlo,” he replied, shortening the “i” sound of my name. He said it like no one else had before, effortless and smooth.
There was something in the way he said it that made me feel like I was a foreigner in another land. I smiled back at him, completely blushed.
It was like magic.
Two
Wednesday had come and gone, and there was no sign of Nicolas. I thought up a few excuses for him. Maybe he had dropped the class. Can’t say I’d blame him, as I wouldn’t necessarily want to be trapped next to someone like myself all semester. Another thought that crossed my mind was maybe the first week of partying was hitting him hard; he seemed like he may be into that sort of thing. People with money often seem to have not a care in the world, so the education surely wouldn’t be much of a loss to him.
Either way, I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been looking forward to seeing him. He was the embodiment of what the Greeks praised Adonis for: beautiful and desirable by all. However, I assumed he was more than likely looking for his goddess, Aphrodite, which meant that I was out of the running. Mainly because I wasn’t a woman, but also because I wasn’t nearly as aesthetically pleasing as him.
Not to mention, he was well above my tax bracket. Anyone who knows a thing or two about the immortals knows that it is forbidden to intermingle with peasants of mortality.
I was said peasant.
I pushed my interest in him aside and carried on through the rest of the week.
Due to my mother’s cancer, she was unable to work at the diner. Mikey, the owner of Blondie’s, was kind enough to allow me to work bussing tables and washing dishes. I did this after class and on the weekends.
Blondie’s was a 24-hour, cliché diner nestled between a laundromat and a dive bar. Its location pulled in quite a mixed bag of clientele. Between the drunks and people waiting for their laundry to get done, they were almost always busy.
The diner’s dark red brick and mortar was topped with an oversized turquoise guitar pick-shaped moniker. The shape was a call to the 1950s, and it made its exterior look rather drab. The bright lights affixed to it flashed desperately as an even louder call to be noticed.
Inside, the entirety of the place was retrofitted in an attempt to replicate the splendor of Hollywood’s golden age.
It was for fun and nostalgia’s sake, so I didn’t mind the restaurant and all of its themed gaudiness.
Tucked away in a unused corner of the restaurant was a small booth. Before I was old enough to stay home alone, my mom would take me with her and set me up there. Daycare or even a babysitter was a luxury she couldn’t afford.
The regular waitresses, Cindy, Barbara, and Francis, would stop by between customers and shower me with attention. Francis, who we all called Franny, was by far my favorite. She’d leave me with a blue raspberry flavored candy sucker every visit. To her, I was her little “Gatsby.” She would call me this because I sat quietly, watching “the party,” which was their work.
As for the others, Barbara always used to visit the apartment and gossip with my mom over a cup of coffee. This so-called friendship came between moments of hateful outbursts in which she would verbally assault customers and her coworkers, my mother included. I didn’t like her, and I could never trust her.
Perhaps neither did my mother, and that’s why she kept her so close. On top of everything else, she was loud and had the most contrived cackle when conversing at others. In addition to all of her unhinged behaviors, she was the only waitress who had to wear a wig to match the theme, as her natural hair color was pale brown.
Cindy was just Cindy. The poor girl was always battling with someone from her endless list of lovers. Often times she’d be sent home early because one of the men or women that made up her list would come into the diner and cause a riot. This was particularly helpful to my mother. Cindy’s unstable love life meant more tables and tips for everyone else. Surprisingly, they never fired her.
Then, there was Mikey, Franny’s husband and owner of Blondie’s. He would bring me lunch and snacks of his own concocting. He used me as his personal taste tester, and while I was grateful for the meal, I can’t recall a single recipe trial I enjoyed. He did his best when he stuck to the classics. Most specifically, I remember the cheesy garlic bread that came as a side with his pasta dishes. The way he crafted it was pure genius. The crust flaked and crunched with every bite, while the buttery garlic flavors melted the heart of the bread into a delightful, secret blend of cheesy goodness. I could make a meal simply out of that.
For everyone else, what truly set Blondie’s apart was their quality of care. Everyone who stepped foot into the diner was immediately delighted with the blonde waitstaff’s virtuous welcome. Every full-bellied guest left feeling like a part of the family, which was a refreshment rarely found on tap in that part of Tempe, California.
Being full grown now, it felt good to be an official part of the machine that produced such joy.
Not to mention, working at the diner was always particularly helpful, because we were always fed. I was grateful even more so after my graduation, as my mother’s food stamps decreased drastically, specifically to the amount of $20 a month. My mother never solely relied on the government’s help, but it was always just that: help. During her treatments they would’ve been even more helpful, but she didn’t complain, nor did she ever act as though the world owed her anything. She knew that she had made specific choices that put her where she was.
However, cancer was not a choice, so I pushed myself harder for her. I felt guilty at times, knowing that the reason she used to work from sunrise to sundown was because of me. Blondie’s knew that I was her motivation too, and they were always accommodating to us. Without them, I probably would’ve starved. Although looking at me, one might think I was anyway.
The following week, I went with my mother to her first radiation treatment. The doctors had tried chemotherapy as the initial step in trying to shrink the tumors, but due to her blood work causing a late start on treatments, it wasn’t enough. This was the next step, which, as the doctors said, would “most certainly be effective, along with patience and optimism,” allowing for the sleeve resection to be easier. That meant that eventually she’d have a part of her lung surgically removed.
The specific clinic we had to go to was on the other side of the city, so weren’t able to walk, like I did to school and work. We had to take the bus routes, which took an additional two hours from our schedule.
I never liked the bus, or any form of public transportation. It was dirty and crowded, certainly not a place for children to be left unattended. In addition, it cost money, and I was fond of penny pinching as much as possible.
On the first bus we took, seats were scarce, as it was 8 in the morning. People sat flipping through their rustling newspapers and gazing into their glowing, palm-sized glass screens. Some people, including my mom and I, stood holding onto the metal bus grab handles hanging from the ceiling. The one thing everyone did was keep their head down, so as not to provoke anyone. Th
at particular part of the route was known for hostile passengers lashing out at one another, which ended in an occasional homicide.
After a couple of stops, a seat opened up next to a large man crunching on an apple, as red and juicy as his cheeks. I knew my mom wasn’t thrilled to be next to him. I watched her squint with gentle distaste as he took each bite, but I wouldn’t allow her to stand.
I remained on my feet, holding onto the grab handle. The one I held was particularly greasy, making it hard to keep my grip. Sitting, you don’t feel too many of the street’s imperfections, but standing, you feel every single one. Holding the proper stance was its own artform, which one must work to perfect, and having a slippery grab handle didn’t help.
After 30 minutes of swaying and leaning with every bump, pothole, and stop, we switched to another bus.
I felt nauseous, as if we had just gotten off of a boat.
The second bus was a little less crowded, and there were enough seats for the both of us. They weren’t next to each other, but we sat across from one another. Aside from the screeching of the bus brakes, it was mostly quiet, with somber undertones floating around in the air. No one but myself seemed to notice, as everyone else looked to be lost in their thoughts, contemplating their purpose.
The third and final bus was packed. There wasn’t a seat for either of us.
It was getting hot, and there was a sign at the front of the bus, next to the driver, apologizing for the inconvenience for the broken air conditioning. It reeked of must, cheap perfumes, and city life, a concoction of smells that is simply not explainable. You’d have to ride a bus to know. To heighten the scent, there were overtones of tobacco that lingered on the modest clothes of the passengers who smoked at the bus stop.
It seemed like every time the bus stopped, just as many people, if not more, got on as had gotten off. With that, grabbing a seat was tricky. If one didn’t move fast enough to the empty spot, someone would swoop in faster. If you weren’t careful, you could end up sitting in a stranger’s lap, and a sweaty one at that.