Just a Monumental Summer: Girl on the train

by Schneiders, M.

  “Alin, do you still love her? Did you let her go?”

  “I let her go, Mona. Trust me.”

  You didn’t answer me if you still love her, my dear Alin.

  It was getting hotter, so we decided we had enough of the beach. We packed up everything and made our way back to their house. On the way back, I changed the topic and asked about Jony. “What is his story. Are you two friends or only colleagues?”

  “I thought we were friends. It’s hard to say with him. He’s had enough of this life, the band, the shows. He wants to leave the band. I have a feeling he was never into it. I have to watch him. I am trying to make connections; but he doesn’t gives a shit.”

  “I noticed with George T.”

  “I may have overreacted. George T. does it all the time. You can’t be an asshole and expect nice treatment in return. Anyway, I envy Jony.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he is free. He doesn’t need anyone. He is happy by himself. He doesn’t need anyone’s approval.”

  “Hmm. He sounds like an asshole to me. The alcohol, the girls.” I said tried to sound convincing. The closer Alin and I became, the more intrigued I was by Jony. What is wrong with me?

  “He will come around. Maybe.”

  “Did he have a girlfriend?”

  “He was married, but not for long. He cheated on her. She left him. She came back. She tried everything. They always fought. It was always the small, stupid details. No matter how small it was, they managed to fight about it. It was a tough time for him.”

  I was afraid to hear the answer, but I still asked, “Is he over her?”

  “I don’t think so. I think he is still hurt.”

  ***13 July 1989

  In the past two years, living conditions have worsened dramatically. We could have dealt with the shortage of food products, but the lack of electricity and thermal energy is beyond the capacity of people to endure without protest or rebellion.

  Yep – it is 1989 and we are living the Stone Age, not the “Golden Age”.

  One example – ludicrous and petty, and oh so typical – a light bulb. My mother replaced a lightbulb in the hallway in front of our apartment staircase. No big deal – except the lightbulb didn’t need to be replaced because it had burned out. Nope. It was removed by a government flunky – a ‘block administrator’ - because he received orders to do so by city hall. Why? To ‘save electricity’, because of the ‘outrageous waste’ of lightbulbs left on in apartment hallways. The propaganda machine had been busy broadcasting this latest idea via TV. Yes, we had TVs, but even in 1989 they were black and white.

  So my mother defied the stupid rule and replaced the light bulb. The response was predictable. “Would you please be so kind and remove the bulb?” The administrator asked my mother, irritated because of the petty tasks he must perform.

  “Uncle Toma. Let me ask you a question.” My mother, known for being stubborn, dug in her heels and girded herself for the verbal battle to come. “Do you know why we have light bulbs?” She continued without waiting for an answer. “To emanate light in the dark. That’s why I put it out there. I can’t risk my children falling on the stairs and breaking their back because of a freaking bulb. Period.”

  “I understand,” he answered, sighing, knowing she was right. “But, there is the campaign - ”

  My mother’s tone rose with anger as she interrupted him. “Bullshit! So, the whole economy depends on one freaking bulb now? Give me a break with that nonsense. Why are you wasting my time with that? Go and find out when we will get hot water, and why they cut it again last week! This is your job. Period. Not to kiss their ass and come here and bother me.”

  “But you know, if they find out, they will send a reporter – you will end up on TV -”

  “So what?” She wouldn’t let him finish. “They will arrest me like a criminal? For a bulb? Is it because of me the economy is so bad? Or because of him? Let them come and show me on TV. No one watches that shit anymore, anyway. The news is filled with his bullshit propaganda. I’m leaving the lightbulb where it is, and if someone dares to touch it, I swear I will find out who did it and that person will never have peace with me. Period.”

  One neighbor tried to ease the tension with a joke. “Watch out, we may have to come and visit you in prison. No more “Dallas” for you.”

  My mother waved her hand dismissively as she replied, “Like I give a shit. I may be able to finally get some sleep in prison. Yes, people, listen to me, and mark my words: even the prison is a better place these days,” my mother concluded, bitterly laughing. I remember those discussions. Always ending in jokes. Deviations and distractions from our misery. Hope for better times.

  Of course no one touched that bulb. Of course, no one came and took my mother away. But TV did air some news ‘reports’, interviewing bloc administrators who were ‘responsible’ for ‘wasting precious electricity’ and they had to apologize to the ‘hard working people across the country’ for their ‘unacceptable deeds’. You could only laugh about that surreal circus and hope someday it will all end.

  There was little to take our minds off of our daily struggles. The Dallas TV show was one of the few escapes allowed to us – it was the only broadcast TV show we received from abroad. We all loved Dallas. It was more than a TV Show, it was the ticket to paradise. An escape to another world. A desired world. A better world. It was a way to forget about the constant struggles – the lines, the shortages – and instead meet with friends and be part of a beautiful world; well-lit homes, cozy and fancily decorated interiors, amazing fashion and hair styles, expensive cars, and conflicts that were foreign to us: ‘Rich people’s problems’. Every Saturday evening at 8 pm, the whole country was glued to the TV. Then the whole week followed with discussions about the last episode; discussions which made everyone forget their own miseries, at least for a little while.

  But we could not even escape our situation not even in our literal dreams; our sleep was disturbed by the constant lines. People would stay in line at the supermarket and the liquefied petroleum gas place (LPG)all night and all day. Unfortunately, this was right across from our apartment, and we could hear all of the sounds from the crowds of people – chatting, rattling of milk bottles, carrying the containers of gas through the line and back to their apartments. We could not escape the noise because without electricity, there were no fans, and without fans we were forced to sleep with the windows open in our apartment. Of course that also left us vulnerable to the voracious mosquitoes that were prevalent in the summer months.

  Those gas containers, when full, were heavy and awkward to carry; I remember my mother having to drag the empty canister to the LPG, and full cylinder back to the apartment by herself. Sometimes the neighbors would help, but they were not always available – everyone was busy struggling to survive. My mother was physically strong, however; and, although her complaints were numerous, she never complained about that.

  In the summer it was heat and mosquitoes; in the winter we had different problems. My mother always complained about the laundry during the winter time.

  Having to do wash by hand in ice cold water was torture for my mother. She loved her beautiful hands, and she hated laundry knowing it destroyed that beauty. She was not just afraid of the visible damage – she had read that cold water could damage joints and lead to arthritis. To attempt to cope with the winter laundry, I remember her putting on hard rubber gloves. Later on, she managed to buy a washing machine, but that didn’t change much; because of the astronomical cost of electricity she couldn’t afford to let it run. Still, it was one of the best gifts she ever received and she absolutely loved it. Always dramatic, I remember her often saying “I will die if anyone takes away my washing machine!” Always ironic, we will always say: “We know you love your washing machine more than us”.

  CHAPTER 22

  INK

  A couple of weeks later, and Alin’s house continued to grow on me; continued to feel more and more like
my own. The noise in the main room stopped bothering me. The need for space and privacy faded out slowly, replaced by a sense of belonging to this crazy group of people. One day, I woke up and the house felt empty – too quiet. Before, the noise would wake me up; now, ironically, it was the silence. I wandered into the kitchen to get some coffee. I heard keys in the door and turned to find Ema entering. She has the keys as well, I thought with envy.

  Noticing my confusion, Ema felt the need to explain. “They all left already for the Poetry Festival. They’ll perform live on the Obelisk around noon, and they need to get their stuff set up. We’ll meet them there,” She walked over to the coffee maker and poured a cup for herself, joining me at the kitchen table. She put sugar in her coffee and stirred, asking, “So tell me about Alin. How are things going between you two?”

  “He’s great. We are having a lot of fun together.”

  “But?”

  “Excuse me?” I asked, surprised.

  “There’s always a but, Mona. Especially if you’re a woman. We are screwed-up creatures. We don’t know what we want, but we want it all and right away.” She tapped her cup to mine in solidarity and took a sip, waiting for me to answer.

  “You’re right.” I smiled and relaxed.

  “Even if everything runs perfectly, we would always find a way to question things.” she reflected.

  “Interesting. I remember when I was younger, I was talking with a cousin of mine. I told her I am not able to fully enjoy life, like simple things. And she told me something I will never forget.”

  “What?”

  “She thinks women may have the gene of unhappiness. Or it may run in the family. It was the way she said it that struck me. Like she knew the formula for life. Or for a women’s brain.”

  I got a yogurt from the fridge and asked Ema if she wanted one. She shook her head no.

  “I think it’s not only your family. I think all women may have it. Do you think you have it?”

  “Oh yes. Definitely. I am fucked up.” I grinned like was not a big deal.

  “Really? I thought I was screwed up. I thought you were -”

  I gave her a hint. “A normal person?”

  “You are so full of life, you are… fresh.”

  I hadn’t expected Ema would give me a compliment. I hadn’t expected she would notice that I have two hands or two legs. A sudden feeling of warmth came upon me. I felt a new closeness to Ema, something I didn’t expect.

  “I feel so tired, drained, I envy you.” She said, staring at her coffee. She leaned forward and put her chin in her hand, sighing.

  “Still nothing from George T.?” I asked with concern.

  “Nope. I think that’s it. Finito!” She sliced her hand through the air for emphasis, and slapped it on the table, making the coffee mugs jump.

  “You are free now, Ema.”

  “Yep. But I am hurting.” Silence between us. Embarrassing silence.

  Some moments later I broke the silence. “I may have the cure for you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did you know that the brain’s response to physical pain is the same response as the one associated with rejection?”

  “So, the brain may think you have left me if you punch me in the face, or the other way around?” She asked.

  “So they say. There are studies. People would experience physical pain, and then they would look at pictures of their exes. Both registered the same area of the brain. Now, the best part. What do you do when you have a bad headache?”

  “I guess I take an aspirin.”

  “Correct! If someone rejects you, your heart is broken. Sometimes, the pain you experience in the chest may be real. What do you do? You sit at home, you cry, you suffer. But you know what helps?”

  “Tylenol?” She’d figured it out. “You must be kidding!”

  I answered proud, “Nope. Now, you know. Take a pain killer and you are good. And you’re welcome.”

  She changed the topic after a while. “So, tell me about you and Alin. You are aware every girl wants him.”

  “Of course I know. That’s not my concern at all,” I said without worry.

  “Really?” She looked surprised.

  “Don’t look at me like I’m an idiot. I am aware of that. But you can’t lose what you don’t have, Ema.”

  “What do you mean? He’s crazy about you. You must be blind not to see it,” she corrected me.

  I was ready to test her – to see if I could learn what really happened between them. I had to know.

  “He may be crazy about me, but maybe he’s lying to himself. You know, fake it till you make it. He’s not ready yet. He didn’t let it go.”

  I was talking about her. About his love for her. I wanted her to admit it.

  She hesitated. “He didn’t let what go?” She asked, standing to refill her coffee. She avoided my eyes.

  “Ema, I have a sixth sense for that. I feel it. In fact, I know he is still hurting. There is someone still in his life.”

  I probed, unwilling to give up.I was trying to read her mind. She walked back to the table, still not meeting my eyes – she flipped through a book that was lying on the table.

  “Mona, there’s one thing Alin isn’t. He is not a cheater. He is not Jony. There is nobody else in his life.”

  She didn’t get it. I had to know, so I kept pushing.

  “I know I am his only girlfriend. I’m not talking about that. You know his tattoo?”

  “It’s a stupid tattoo,” Ema said, closing the book.

  “Is it, Ema?” I asked her with a demanding tone.

  “So you are implying it might be me?” She seemed scared.

  “I’m not implying. I am asking you. As my friend. I’m sorry, I don’t want to sound mean. I’m not angry at you. You can’t do anything about that, no one can.” I forced a laugh.

  “Mona, I don’t know what to say,” Ema said, finally looking me in the eye.

  “I am just complaining. He didn’t give any reason to believe he is not over you.” I said, trying to reassure her of my feelings so that she would confide in me.

  “Mona, we only had a fling. Our relationship lasted like five minutes. I knew I was a bitch- ” She stopped herself, embarrassed.

  “You weren’t a bitch. You tried.” I sighed.

  “You may be wrong, Mona. He never asked me to come back to him, or whatever. I think you are exaggerating things,” she said earnestly.

  I wasn’t – I was convinced Alin was still recovering. But I didn’t want her to know. “Maybe you’re right, Ema. I need drama in my life. Everything is perfect, and my gene for unhappiness won’t let me be happy.”

  “Bitches need drama, girl.”

  We were laughing when Vera knocked on the door. Her timing was perfect. I let her in and we walked back to the kitchen. Ema didn’t seem happy to see her. I didn’t care.

  We told Vera about the Poetry Festival.

  “Damn, girl.” She was facing me, ignoring Ema. “Do I look like I’m in the mood for poetry or this kind of shit?” She asked, rolling her eyes with her hand on her hip. She went on, “it will be crowded and hot – are you sure you are up for that?”

  Her answer didn’t surprise me. I tried to explain the Festival was more than poetry, trying to sell the experience.

  That got her attention “Will there will be alcohol involved?”

  “Of course. Whatever makes you happy, my dear friend.” I smiled.

  “You know what would make me happy, right now? An above-average size penis. You know what I mean. Not a scary-looking, crazy, veiny monster penis. And trimmed balls. I love fresh-shaved balls.”

  Ema and I couldn’t help but burst into laughter.

  Vera seemed affronted that we weren’t taking her seriously. “What? Don’t tell me you like hairy balls. They smell. And they make the penis look shorter.”

  “No, we don’t like hairy balls. We agree, don’t we, Ema?” I asked, still giggling. If to two girls can bond over dick
jokes – maybe there is hope that Ema and Vera can get along.

  Ema nodded and generously smirked at Vera. “You’re right. We don’t like smelly, hairy balls,” Ema admitted.

  “Damn, talking about balls, I am in the mood for an ice cream,” Vera exclaimed loudly.

  How in heaven could men’s balls be associated with ice cream?Never mind, I didn’t want to know.

  “Girls, I have the feeling we will have a lot of fun,” Vera declared as we linked arms and left the house.

  As we walked onto the festival grounds, I looked around. “Damn, we’re too late. There are no seats in the shade available.” I was trying to find Alin in the big crowd.

  “I told you so,” Vera said with a pointed look.

  We approached the Obelisk statue, and we tried to get through the people gathered around it. The scene was occupied by some folk dancers, and I heard the traditional folk music. I hated folk music. My mother’s favorite music. The music was beautiful but overused.

  “Mona, I won’t sit in the sun and get burned,” Vera poked me and muttered.

  Ema had already made her way to the front of the stage. George T. was there, acting as MC for the festival; I saw the moment he recognized her. I saw him hesitate. She stood in front of him, defying him to ignore her. He quickly stood up and said something in Sorin’s ear, who was sitting next to him. Sorin stood up and disappeared. George T. invited her to join him. While we were approaching, Vera whispered in my ear, “So many hot guys.”

  I got to return the favor. “I told you so,” I repeated her words, grinning.

  I still couldn’t see anyone from the group. Suddenly, Geta saw me and called my name. She had two chairs reserved close to her. I turned around to Ema and told her, “Go ahead, stay with him, but stay cool. Don’t engage with him. Vera and I will sit with Geta.”

  “And tell him if he needs nothing, you are there for him,” Vera added.