Chapter Twenty
Rico’s van sat where he’d left it across the street. He scanned the front window as he approached, and found it void of parking tickets. He hadn’t checked the signage when he parked, assuming he’d only be at the porch for a couple minutes. That the van was still there, and un-ticketed, he took as a good omen. He wasn’t sure how many parking tickets he had outstanding, but he knew he didn’t have a current city sticker, the plates expired a month ago, and it was possible his driver’s license needed renewal.
It was his habit to sleep before tackling the drive home, and the beer buzz, fatigue, and lateness of the hour, instinctively led him to the van’s back door. He unlocked the back door and climbed in before he realized it. Of late he’d been sleeping in his van more often. A few weeks ago he’d walked in on his roommate and roommate’s girlfriend chasing each other around the apartment in see through Batman and Robin costumes with a feather duster. “Is nothing sacred?” he asked, telling them to take it to the bedroom. “Damn it!” he shouted as they ran down the hall, “That’s the duster we use on the furniture.”
Inside the van, Rico knew he really should climb over the seats and drive home, but inertia conspired against him and he opened the first of two stacked plastic bins and pulled out a couple of pillows. Next he flipped the order of the bins and pulled out clean sheets, pillowcases, and a blanket. He liked to sleep on clean linen, and had developed a system in which at the end of every couple weeks he switched out the linen in the van for an identical, clean set. On a small shelf behind the driver’s seat sat several books and a toiletries bag. He popped the window open on the side of the van, and brushed his teeth with the mouthwash and toothpaste he kept in the bag. He spat out the window, and then left the window open for fresh air. Lastly, he switched into a track suit he kept in the bin with the linen and lay down.
Sleep was a long time coming. He kept replaying his conversations with Helen, with certain words and phrases echoing, in random order, over and over in his head; “No Dad, I’m not going to do that,”; “Surgery isn’t an option,”; “No, not today, but soon,”; “It’s a fear that you’ll die in your sleep when it’s dark, but the daylight protects you,”; and, “I find more and more I hate to be alone.”
With sleep rolling in, Rico pulled an old acoustic guitar from its case and grabbed a pencil and notebook from the passenger’s seat. He always kept a notebook nearby, as he hated losing random phrases, or ideas, that either blossomed into songs or bettered songs he had underway. Even though the songs he wrote were often met with disinterest, every once in a while he’d pen something above average. “Journey, not destination,” he’d reminded himself, over and over, as he worked at his craft. As he scribbled in his notebook he was overcome with a sense of urgency. What he now had to say was so important it couldn’t wait, and needed to be shared. The exigency of Helen’s situation drove his pen.
As he strummed the guitar he decided to move from standard tuning to an alternate, open G, or, ‘Chicago’ tuning. A sound he could build into a mournful and bluesy song. As he turned the guitar’s tuning pegs, his thoughts circled on the Zeppelin song, That’s the Way, written in like tuning. Stuck in his mind was Plant’s line, “All that lives is born to die.” With the guitar re-tuned he began working on a simple chord progression, in six eighth’s time. The words came easily, and he framed them as a Japanese tanka with the lines of verse comprised of 5, 7, 5, 7 and 7 syllables. He preferred the Japanese forms given they didn’t need to rhyme or adhere to a strict count of metrical feet. He’d sing it closer to a waltz, but he believed the words he’d penned could be easily put to music. He fell asleep working on the first important song he’d ever penned with the guitar’s worn and checkered top illuminated by the moonlight.
Helen woke in the morning, and found herself alone on the couch and thinking of Rico, not her illness. For the first time, in as far as she could remember, she felt refreshed and absent the morning headache that she’d known for so long she assumed pain a natural part of rising. She didn’t remember what time Rico had left, or whether he might even still be in the house. He didn’t seem drunk enough to have to sleep it off, but she wasn’t sure. She rose, yawned, and walked down the hall to find the guest bedroom empty.
In the kitchen, she put on a pot of coffee and pulled out her laptop. Next to the kitchen sink, and testament to not having dreamed last night up, she found three empty beer bottles in a neat line. She sat in her customary chair at the table, and posted a short, concise note to her blog, vaguely explaining how G.O.D.’s effort to get her the correct medication went above and beyond the call of duty. G.O.D. wasn’t off the hook. G.O.D. was zero for two, or one for three, depending on how you counted, but she wanted to give credit where it was due. Looking out her living room window, she saw Rico’s van still parked on the street. “Weird,” she thought, and went outside to investigate.
Rico awoke to a knocking on the back of the van with a guitar lying across him. It wasn’t the first time he’d been awoken with someone pounding on the back of the van, but being startled escalated to a full on panic when he realized it was daylight. His musician’s work ethic had him dancing precariously close to the pink slip. Looking through the sunroof, he found the sun high in the sky. “No, no, no. How did I sleep so late?”
Rico sat up and crawled the few feet to the back door, to figure out who was knocking. Moving the curtains that covered the back window, he peeked out to find Helen standing there. Rico opened the door and was met with Helen’s cheerful, loquacious greeting, “What’s the story morning glory? You know vagrancy is a crime. You can’t just sleep in your van, even if your van is down by the river.” In front of him was Helen, smiling broadly and wearing a Cub’s baseball cap, a ponytail pulled through the back of the hat. It looked like she had on yesterday’s jeans, but now wore a long sleeve, rugby style jersey emblazoned with a Ducati Motorcycles logo. Given the enthusiasm of her greeting, he expected her to say, “Ta da!”
“I know, I know. I’m totally screwed. I missed my morning meeting, and I’ve still got to head home to shower and dress.” Rico stepped from the van, and stretched barefoot in the cool morning air, surprised that it wasn’t much colder. As he did so Helen’s neighbors curtains moved from inside. His sleeping in the van hadn’t gone unnoticed. It was nice outside, bright blue sky as the sun worked its way up, and warm enough that a heavy coat wasn’t warranted - which was rare for early winter in Chicago. “Long live global warming,” Rico proclaimed. Helen looked taller than Rico remembered, but he quickly realized she was wearing cowboy boots.
Helen looked Rico over top to bottom and crossed her arms in mock disgust, “You need to call in sick. You’re wearing a track suit and standing barefoot after having slept in a van. Come on, I’ll make you breakfast. I’ve a pot of coffee on.” In the morning sun her emerald eyes twinkled, and the constellation of freckles that bridged her nose shown devilishly. Her smile radiated life. That she was dying made no sense, and didn’t seem possible.
Rico, like most musicians, wasn’t overly imbued with a Protestant work ethic and agreed to skip work without much fight, “You,” he pointed at Helen, “are going to get me fired.” He then followed Helen up the driveway and through the front door.
Looking at his shoeless feet, Helen asked, “You don’t live in the van do you?”
“No, no. I have an apartment.” From his pocket, he pulled his keys. “Look, the gold key with the tag that says ‘apartment’. I’m looking for a new place. I’ve got a butter defiling super hero roommate, whose unemployment fuels his strangeness. At this point, I’d rather sleep in a van.”
“You’ve got a what?” Helen asked, giggling. “You never told me this story.”
Helen was in hysterics when Rico finished the story.