A story.
A few notes you should read before (or after) viewing this story:
1. I wrestled with the idea of posting this story on my blog for a long time. I wrote it initially over a month ago as a sort of catharsis, as a means of exploring my thoughts and feelings and then coming to a meaningful conclusion. Therefore it's intensely personal. But really, the only other reason I could find for not posting it is that I'd be embarrassed by it. But I'm not embarrassed. This is not meant to be a sensual or a gossipy story...it's a sober confession of a series of mistakes I made and how I decieved myself. Maybe others will relate.
2. This story is about 75 percent true and I definately took some poetic license with it, especially the ending...the events of which do not occur whatsoever.
3. Names were changed to protect the innocent.
4. I've never written anything like this story before so it's a little rough and a little cheesy...intermixed with me making jokes because I didn't want it to be cheesy.
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"You're not a cop or anything though, right?" she asked in a
half-dramatic whisper that tickled the left side of my neck.
While she posed this curious question, her long slender fingers deeply
entwined in my hair paused abruptly in mid-stroke. Her breathing also
felt a bit too measured, as if she struggled to remain steady as a
musician's metronome.
I instantly took it as an absurd joke. The closest I've ever come to being a cop was wearing a fake sheriff's badge on my hooded sweatshirt. My initial
outburst of laughter began to subside however when I realized that she still
sat totally frozen and her fingers were tightening ever-so-slightly
around several thick strands of my hair. Perhaps she wasn't joking at
all. It was hard to tell without seeing the expression on her face - a
face currently buried in my shoulder.
"Um, no. What?" is all that I could muster in return. Her deep sigh
sounded partially resigned and more than a little relieved. "I know,
but ya never know. I have to be careful," she laughed nervously.
This time the ridiculous notion of being accused of posing as an
undercover police officer by the girl who just kissed me prompted a
much louder laugh, but this time out of pure incredulousness. Is she
crazy? Or better yet, am I crazy? If I'm not, I will be soon… because
that's probably what I deserve for falling in love with a teenage drug
dealer.
Alright, so maybe that's more than a little bit of a theatrical thing
to say. For one, I didn't actually love this strange girl I had known
all of half a dozen hours - at least not in the true, noble sense of
the word. It was more of a sudden, irrational infatuation born of a
visceral attraction and honed by the isolated loneliness I've felt in
this strange place. Big Lonely New York.
And calling her a drug dealer instantly conjures up images of filthy,
shifty-eyed scoundrels standing on seedy street corners near
boarded-up houses covertly passing baggies to thugs and gangbangers.
She was nothing of that sort. Well, maybe. I was still puzzling out
what sort of type she actually was.
"I could go to jail for a real long time, ya know? For life. And I
don't really want to do that right now," she added slowly.
"You wouldn't go to jail for life," I insisted. "Not for selling pot.
10 to 20 years max."
"New York's different though."
I don't know why I decided to continue to argue this point but I did.
Maybe she truly was of the bad sort and I was delusional in
desperately trying to convince myself of the contrary. She pulled my
head close and kissed me again with those soft, bee-stung lips and I
temporarily forgot all my questions and concerns. All I could think of
was how striking she was.
It's also the initial thing I thought when I saw her for the first time a few hours ago.
Now, admittedly the word striking used as an adjective to describe an
attractive woman's looks is overused, especially by conniving men
trying to flatter said women. Modestly pretty or cute women are often
labeled striking undeservedly. But in my opinion, Solara is striking
in the classic sense.
This effect isn't simply achieved by her tall, lithe six-foot-one inch
frame (which indeed commands attention), but by her exotic wild child
features. Strands of long, dark hair cascade down her shoulders and
frame a face partially tempered by her half East Indian blood,
especially her soft brown eyes. But her skin remains a shade past
milky white.
With her statuesque build, streaming long hair and exotic
looks, Solara looked the part of an Amazonian warrior-princess. But
maybe more singular than her physical presence was the intellect in those deep brown eyes.
During our initial conversation, she spoke in a self-assured and articulate way about architecture, philosophy and religion - something rare for a 19-year old college girl. Now, I didn't particularly agree with some of her opinions but the intelligent manner she presented them in was compelling.
She mocked the "conspicuous consumption" that devours our country, but noted that she was only "slightly disenfranchised" with the U.S. as a whole.
"What do you think about God?" she asked casually in the same way she might ask what I thought about applesauce. I stuttered as I tried to form a coherent thought about this universal question.
Solana didn't believe in God, or at least not anymore. It had been a long time since her Catholic school days. This lack of faith though also apparently extended to herself.
"I have what I call an inferiority/superiority complex," she explained in a dry, academic tone. In other words, Solana continously waivered between believing she was a great and brilliant person and a lazy, wretched and worthless creature. And at the same time, her ambition hadn't quite met up with her genius.
"What do you want out of life?" I asked. It was my turn for the big question. We'd disposed of small talk after about an hour of conversation.
"Marry rich and travel the world," she responded simply. The idea baffled me. Why would a girl like Solana dream about being a trophy wife?
Later came the bigger revelation - she not only was working with a professor on some drug research - mainly marijuana (which led to her smoking copious amounts of the stuff) - but she also recently began selling it as a side project. She was so obsessed with pot, in fact, she admitted she had written freelance articles for "High Times."
To someone who has never been high, and in fact has never tried an illegal drug, and has smoked about as many cigarettes as I have fingers on my hand, this was more than a little startling. In fact, my initial reaction was to joke about it as if it wasn't even real - "So, you're like the suburban soccer-mom drug dealer from "Weeds"?" I queried with a smirk.
"Sort of, but there are a lot of inaccuracies in that show that I have problems with," Umm, of course her "problems" weren't with the acting and casting, they were with the way selling drugs was portrayed. How was I supposed to respond to this?
This "date"... this miniature relationship that we had hurriedly crafted in the wake of the fact that I was moving 3,000 miles from New York to L.A. in a few hours - was beginning to feel less like "Before Sunrise" (in which Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy form an indelible 24-hour romantic bond in France because Hawke must return to America the next day) and more like "Out of Sight" (in which a Federal Agent has a brief torrid love affair with a bank robber she is investigating). And yes, I realize this would make the J-Lo.
Maybe for a person that was raised in a somewhat repressed culture where I was condemned for smoking, drinking or looking the wrong way at the opposite sex, Solana represented an alluring escape for me, the perfect "vacation" from my past and present.
At the same time, I didn't want this to be temporary. I wanted to be the one to rescue her- to take her away to the opposite coast - to help her find God, herself...everything, anything. But she didn't want to be rescued and ultimately she didn't want me. At least not past today.
"Why do you even like me?" she asked breaking a long pause while we laid in each others arms, pondering the strange circumstances of this thing.
"You're beautiful, you're smart...you're unique, there's this strange connection we have..." I was trying to convince myself as much as her.
"Hey. I promise you'll one day have a beautiful, smart, and unique girl...but it won't be me. We won't, we can't work."
My nod was one of simultaneous agreement and denial.
As the light began to peek in through the curtains she slowly stood up to leave. I had to be at the airport in a few hours and she had class. Obligations seemed much more sobering than the bright sun glaring through the windows.
The finality of the situation made parting an awkward thing. The few words we spoke were short banalities about the crappiness of airplane rides and tests. But the internal struggle was apparent on Solana's face, and probably mine too. Several times she kissed me and walked to the door only to leave to turn around and walk back in to kiss or embrace me again. There was only one word left to say to each other.
"Bye."
"Bye."
And with that she spun away and left forever.
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This is a bad idea, I thought. Landing gear hit pavement and the force of the landing forced me to lurch forward. Wheels once again touching New York. It had been a year since I had spoken or seen Solana, yet I found myself here because...I didn't quite know why.
It was too late to go back now, I told myself. I found out from her roommate that Solana was "partying" at a downtown bar tonight, and I thought it would be a grand gesture to show up there and surprise her like a idiot character from a romantic comedy.
A small part of me wondered if Solana actually existed. The night long ago we spent together seemed so ethereal that she might have been conjured up from the mists of some lonely dream.
But as I stepped briskly out of the taxi and glanced into the window of the bar I spotted her indelible face almost immediately. My cheeks began to burn crimson. What was I going to say to her? I'd practiced a few lines in the airplane to say to her to sound witty and charming but they evaporated from my head.
I walked in and sat down at a solitary stool in the corner where I could watch her and gather the nerves to talk to her. I didn't like what I saw.
Laughing loudly, Solana was sprawled haphazardly on the lap of a some tall frat houseish looking guy wearing a white college hat. She clutched a mug of beer in her left hand and a cigar in her right. Her head bobbed up and down with the throbbing bass playing overhead. "God, I love this song!" she yelled to a scantily clad blonde also sitting at the table as she suddenly got up to dance.
I shook my head and and lowered my eyes down to the table. The picture of Solana I had created in my head was one of a quirky but serene intellectual who might spend her Friday nights reading a dusty tome of philosophy while drinking warm tea, or gazing thoughtfully at obscure Renaissance paintings at a museum. Her being a regular college-y party girl was something that didn't and wouldn't register.
I squeezed back the tears of frustration and realization welling up in my eyes and headed to the bathroom. The glaring florescent light from overhead made the face staring back at me in the mirror appear almost ghostly.
Solana had told me this, of course. She had insisted that I had gotten the wrong impression of her, but I denied it. I like to brag about my powers of observation, but with Solana I saw what I wanted to see and what she allowed me to see in a short time period. Then I filled in all the gaps with all of my misbegotten hopes and dreams.
Tossing a paper towel into the wastebasket, I walked out not knowing where to go or what to do. In doing so I nearly walked over Solana, who had been on a path for the ladies room. "Sorry," I mumbled softly. She was still beautiful, still striking but her once clear brown eyes were bloodshot and hazy. Those eyes instantly dismissed me.
"Whatever," she slurred. "Hey, do I know you?"
"No," I said to her as I began to stroll towards the door of the bar that led to the outside world. To the real world. "But more importantly, I don't know you."
And with that I spun around and left forever.
