True Connection_A Short Story

by Jon Mills

  True Connection

  by Jon Mills

  Copyright © 2015 Jon Mills

  True Connection is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  E-book Edition, License Notes

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to an online retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

  New York University, 2011

  On the afternoon of the eighteenth, I stood at the head of my creative writers’ class, surrounded by a motley crew of twenty freshman literature majors. They were troublemakers and dreamers, but for forty-five minutes they were mine, and it was my job, or pleasure some might say — to mold, shape, and hone their inner author. On that particular day, I was drawing to a close on a lengthy story submitted by my most recent student, Amanda Keen.

  “It seems, that one of the greatest things that a song, novel, film, photograph, relationship, or piece of art can do is to capture and convey a moment that is honest. Perceived good or bad, it doesn’t matter. Chemistry is a difficult thing to capture, sincerity even harder. When it does happen, it can appear effortless and often be brushed aside, overlooked, or considered a fluke. But here’s the thing: every second around the world, moments are captured and most are nothing out of the ordinary. In fact, if you placed them side-by-side they may even look identical to another. But once in a while, the stars align, a button clicks, a note is played, a word is uttered, a brush is stroked, someone glances up, and there it is... a moment in time never to be repeated again. Out of chaos something extraordinary appears, if only to remind us that among a billion decisions which could have been made - a step left, a turn right, a breath taken, a thought withheld, a glance or even a blink — magic can occur. It’s a rarity so priceless I like to think it creates ripples in the very fabric of life itself. Now many try to duplicate it, try to achieve the same elements, but that ‘it’ quality is unique, like the very strands of our DNA; anything else comes off as nothing more than a pale reflection. Most of us recognize it when we see it, because the real deal isn’t only seen, it’s felt. It’s tangible. It’s evident. It’s unmistakable. It moves the heart. That’s what my mother would say was the magic; the underlying current of life pulsating through a melody, an image, a conversation, or a connection with a person. The heartbeat that reminds us of what we so often forget — love.”

  Dropping the paper on my desk, I fished for a response.

  “So? Would anyone like to offer their thoughts?” I began to pace the floor waiting for a response. “Is it possible that two people can experience in one day, a connection that runs deeper than others could hope to experience in a lifetime together?” I thought of my own connections or lack thereof: my two previous short-lived marriages and the circumstances that had led to their demise; the string of uncomfortable blind dates I had been on, and my most recent falling out with my latest partner. Was length of time really an indication of depth? If so, then my previous connections felt very shallow.

  The rest of her classmates remained quiet, shuffling in their seats awkwardly as they pondered the question. For a moment I wondered if they were bored, until I caught one of them glancing at the clock. You see it wasn’t boredom that had dulled their minds that day or even the almost unbelievable tale that Amanda had recounted. A tale of love and loss that even now, if heard again, few might believe. No, it was the weekend - the weekend before Thanksgiving, to be precise. And with its sentimental values nearly upon us, I knew their thoughts were distracted by the essential things that young adolescent minds were consumed with when faced with time to kill: sex, drink, and general shenanigans.

  While the sound of the clock ticking and lack of enthusiasm shown by some of her classmates filled the gaps of silence, I however was intrigued by Amanda’s story. She seemed to have made a point to avoid giving her characters names, only referring to them as he or she, and yet there was something oddly familiar about them, something about the tale that reminded me of a time when I was nineteen — a day to be exact.

  Waiting in those final minutes for any response, I peered into the city beyond the steamed up window. Outside a gentle drizzle cloaked the stone jungle. I closed my eyes, listened to the clock ticking, and imagined time beginning to reverse. Though the passage of twenty-two years was behind me, every detail of that day still remained as clear to me as if it were yesterday.

  ****

  New York University, 1989

  It was the day before Thanksgiving, November 1989. I would like to say the events of that unforgettable day started with love, but that wouldn’t be exactly true. It started with chaos.

  “Can you speak up, I can’t hear you,” I pressed the phone against my ear while squeezing a finger into the other. I barely caught what my mother was saying over the hooting and hollering coming from my dorm room, along with the ever-increasing noise filling the hallway as students prepared to return home for Thanksgiving. There were three blue phones attached to the wall outside our dorms. Everyone shared them. At any given time of the day the phones were usually unavailable, and if they were, you had to be faster than a speeding bullet to get one. That day I considered myself fortunate in more ways than one.

  “Of course, hold on a sec, Mother.” I held the handset to my chest.

  “Charley, can you go tell Rico to shut the fuck up, I can’t hear myself think.”

  Charley gave me the thumbs up, opened our door, and entered the mushroom cloud of smoke. When the noise of a roommate exceeds the noise of thirty other students hustling to get out, some people might wonder why I chose to share a room with him. Unfortunately, I didn’t; it was chosen for me.

  Rico was a good guy by all accounts, just slightly insane. He was in the habit of holding weekly poker games in our room. He rigged everyone one of them but did it well enough that no one could ever know. Lose one, win one, lose two, and win three. The thing was, his card games usually turned into a pot-smoking fiesta, which I think was a key factor in why so many showed up, and so few took him up on his numerous wins the day after. The nuclear cloud of smoke that lingered in our room on any given Friday was enough to make even the most experienced stoner forget their name.

  “Sorry about that.” I returned to the conversation. My mother reminded me that the key was under the mat. “Yes, got it. I’m catching the late train to Boston. I figure the bus won’t get into Hyannis until the early hours of the morning, so don’t wait up. I look forward to seeing you.”

  ****

  Back in our room, I shoved a few remaining pieces of clothing into my bag and threaded my way around the lads, who at any given moment were laughing, shouting, or taking turns drawing on a bong that was being circled around the room like a native peace pipe ceremony.

  “Hold up, and don’t you dare look at my cards,” Rico shuffled over with a fistful of dollars in one hand, a bottle of beer in the other, and a grin a mile wide.

  “You not gonna stick around?”

  “I can’t.”

  “We got muuunnnchiiieeees…” he drawled out.

  “Tempting, but no.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive,” I said before stubbing my toe against one of Rico’s forty pound weights and wincing in agony.

  “Ooops, I’ll move them. I promise.”

&n
bsp; “You do that,” I gritted my teeth, recounting the number of times I had felt the same pain course through my body.

  “I got to say man, it’s going to be pretty dull around here. There’s only Thompson hanging back, and you know what a ball of fun he is.”

  Thompson was that guy, you know, the one who knew it all. If you had a question, he knew the answer. If you had a problem, he more than likely had the solution. He was a walking library. Despite always being at the top of his classes, he never took a night off. People just got used to it in the end. But Rico was spot on. He was a bit of a buzz kill.

  “Why don’t you come with me?” I said.

  “What? Spend Thanksgiving with your father?” He blew out a puff of smoke.

  “Yeah, you’ll have a blast.”

  “What? Doing twenty crunches and going on ten-mile runs before breakfast?”

  “You still remember that?”

  “How could I forget? Your dad is a loon, Ryan. Look, your sister is hot and all, but nah, you know me. I got ladies to meet, people to see, and well, who the hell is gonna run this place? Thompson?” He smirked.

  I chuckled under my breath.

  “Well don’t say I didn’t offer.”

  Behind us a commotion broke out. Turning we were met with an orange flame shooting up a mile high in the air. Well, it looked like a mile. Freshman attempting to light their ass gas is not a pretty sight. There are no rules to doing it right, but if there were, it would be: Don’t add fuel to the fire.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Rico blurted out. “Amateurs! I leave you for two minutes, and you start a fire?” Rico yelled, pushing them out of the way, and pouring an entire bottle of beer over the crotch of a poor kid who obviously had succumbed to one of Rico’s many mind-altering substances. At least that’s what I have to believe. I mean, what other reason would someone in their right mind put a flame to his or her ass?

  “Hey, I gotta go. I’ll see you next week.”

  Rico mumbled some parting words in between further expletives.

  ***

  New York City was a nightmare at the best of times. But around Thanksgiving there were throngs of people clogging up the streets. Hailing a cab was like attempting to win the lottery three times in a row. I decided to dive into the subway and avoid the endless parade of people hopelessly thumbing cabs. I glanced at my wristwatch. My train to Boston was leaving promptly at eleven-fifteen. It was already eleven, and I was not even in the vicinity of Penn Station. I could feel my collar constricting the blood flow to my head. I was hot and irritated. I loved New York, but it was in these moments that I wished I had my own lane, my own train, hell even a private helicopter.

  When I arrived I plowed my way through the mass of bodies like a Super Bowl player trying to make a touchdown. The entire place was a hub of activity. New Yorkers dashed to and fro. It was the last place on the planet you wanted to be when time wasn’t on your side. Out of breath, panting, and pulling at my collar, I stared up at the large clock on the wall. Had it been any other day, the rush wouldn’t have been so bad, but right then, it was as if life itself was slamming on the brakes and grinding everything to a halt. People kept stopping in front of me. Carts of luggage blocked my path, and I even had one lady ask me what the time was. I offered back the typical New Yorker scowl hoping that would be enough to give her the hint, obviously not. So I glared at the oversized clock behind her. Taking the hint, she blushed and apologized. I immediately felt like a jerk.

  The hands on the clock only increased my anxiety ten-fold as there was no chance in hell of me making it back in time if I didn’t get on that train. It would be hours before the next one, and the idea of spending Thanksgiving with Rico and Thompson was about as appealing as eating turkey off of a hobo’s foot.

  By the time I made it to the track, it must have looked as if I had been dragged through a bush backwards. I was stumbling over my loose shoe lace, my hair was matted against my forehead with sweat, and the pocket on my coat was torn from being caught on a turnstile.

  Though for all my heroic efforts I’m glad to say that I actually did make it on time — on time to see the back of the train disappearing into the distance.

  I threw my bag on the floor in frustration and slumped down on the nearest bench. Pulling out a Marlboro, I lit up and let the nicotine soothe my turmoil. Within minutes my stress level went from a ten to a nine. I took a moment to stare at the other people on the platform, wondering if they were also climbing the wall of frustration. There was something oddly comforting about the thought of others going through the same ordeal. It didn’t change the situation, it didn’t alleviate the reality, but in some odd way it made me feel like less of a chump.

  After crushing the cigarette beneath my boot, I pulled my coat tight around me, swept back my hair, and tossed my scarf over my shoulder, hoping I could at least resemble a human being again. I strolled back through the crowd like a salmon moving upstream.

  In my mind I could already see it. Rico would grin and pull me into his web of debauchery and illegal activities. Not that I didn’t mind a touch of debauchery; it was a nice escape from the work load of NYU and very much a part of the student culture, but even I had to come up from air. I relished the time away: sleeping in my old bed, waking up to the smell of bacon, and catching up with old friends.

  ***

  Arriving in Central Station on my way back to the University, I once again found myself dashing for a train. This one I was damn sure I wasn’t going to miss. All the crowds made me feel claustrophobic. Sweaty bodies pressed in against me, their elbows, legs, and hands entangled me like a game of Twister. My stress level had now reached epic proportions. I swear I was going to explode if one more unknowing person stopped in front of me.

  Now, I would be lying to say that I hadn’t seen my fair share of attractive women on route to my disheartening, annoying, and downright miserable missed connection. Seeing beautiful women was common in a city where the fashion district, dramatic arts, and the allure of opportunity dripped from neon signs and brought in wide-eyed youngsters by the truckload. So I can’t say it was beauty that caught my eye that day, and it also wasn’t the unusually bright colored heels that she wore, even though I’d seen plenty of women pass through our dorms wearing crazy heels. Nor was it the expression of complete confusion spread across her face, as most people in the city looked as if they had lost their comfort blanket.

  No, it was her eyes.

  I stole a glimpse of them for only a few seconds as I dashed past her, but it was more than enough to cause my head to turn for a second look. A decision that I’m both grateful for and deeply regret, as in doing so meant I didn’t see the concrete pillar that had a destiny with my skull.

  When I came to, and the starbursts vanished, I would like to say I found that beautiful goddess hovering over me or giving me mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Heck, I would have been content to awake to one of the many Good Samaritan New Yorkers — if they existed. But, those thoughts disappeared as quickly as the guy who ran off with my wristwatch. I hauled myself up hoping to get a glimpse of the bastard, but a shot of pain like a pinball machine went from my head to my hip and back again causing me to double over. After wiping the city grime from my pants, I turned to the once-again pleasant sight of my train hissing into motion.

  “You have got to be kidding me,” I said, unaware of how loud my voice echoed. “That is just perfect, bloody perfect.” I caught sight of myself in the window as the train pulled away. I now no longer looked as if I had been dragged through a bush backwards, instead I resembled… well… God knows what I resembled, but it wasn’t good.

  “If it’s any consolation, he didn’t take your wallet. It’s on the floor,” a girl’s voice came from behind me.

  I turned to casually observe the girl pointing at my wallet. She was probably nineteen, maybe twenty at the most. Well put-together she wore a green blouse, one that only seemed to compliment those gorgeous eyes. Looking into them was lik
e viewing a vast forest from the sky: expansive and breathtaking. I forced myself to look away once I saw a smirk appear on her face.

  I scooped up my wallet and pried off the sticky pink chewing gum that clung to the edge by wiping it against the wall. I glanced back at her.

  “Thanks,” I mumbled.

  She gave a nod and began routing around inside her handbag. I considered taking a seat beside her but decided to sit on the next bench. I gathered myself, lit a cigarette, and glanced over at her. She held a cigarette between her lips and appeared to be searching for a light. I hesitated for a moment before walking over.

  She glanced up. I held out a lighter. She touched my hand bringing the flame close. Expelling a cloud, she looked me over.

  “Thank you.”

  “Mind if I take a seat?” I asked.

  “Free country.”

  Her response made me smile.

  We sat for a moment, neither of us saying anything. It didn’t feel uncomfortable as I expected it to. She in turn didn’t look as if she was at all put off by my presence. Taking another pull on my cigarette, I glanced at her out the corner of my eye noticing the way her shoulder length dark hair gleamed beneath the light as she stared down at a timetable for buses and trains.

  Now it was in this unusual moment that I found myself having the strangest thoughts pass through my mind. Perhaps it was because I had missed two trains; maybe it was because I felt alone. But there they were: small talk, corny pickup lines, and personal questions. These were just a few of the zingers that crossed my mind. It wasn’t like I was contemplating the idea of dropping some lame line on her; I had never done that before and especially not here of all places. I glanced around at the people cramming into trains like sardines. You see, for one, I was shy and after walking in to a post and kissing the floor (for which she had a front row seat) I was in no state to be acting like God’s gift to women. Yet, that’s why I still find what happened next peculiar.

 
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