Satisfied, I exhaled and picked my cup of coffee up from the table.
It was immediately apparent Katelyn had no intent on continuing to attempt anything with me, romantic or otherwise. I had, for whatever reason, become something she found tasteless; and she began to spit me out.
“No future on a romantic level? Romantic? Fucking fine. Just fine,” she barked as she stood from her chair.
“I bet if you fucked me you’d be singing a different song, you rich little prick. You’d be begging me to stay. You don’t know what you’re missing you fucking douche,” she snapped.
Immediately Katelyn turned, walked toward the stairs, and stopped as she gripped the handrail. Standing there, the handrail in one hand and her purse in the other, she turned to face me. Over her left shoulder she stared my direction, as if there was something else she wished to say, but was incapable. Her lip quivered.
And she began to softly cry.
The part of me that felt at least a portion of what she was feeling wanted to stand and comfort her. The sensible part of me told me to remain seated and look through her and not directly at her. As I peered over her shoulder at the light fixtures suspended from the ceiling, I watched her blurry silhouette slowly turn and walk down the stairs.
As I noticed the frame of the front door open and close against the glass storefront, I allowed my eyes to become focused again. Quite some time had passed since Katelyn and I had begun our conversation, and it appeared several people had joined us on the upper platform of the bookstore.
And, seated at the table beside the stairs, where I had stationed myself a few days before, was Victoria – the girl who reportedly doesn’t like people – and talks to no one. Sitting there, amongst an equally tall pile of magazines and a few books, she looked the same as she did the first day I saw her.
Beautiful.
Yet.
Her physical beauty wasn’t her most attractive quality, at least not at this point. Something about her being a bit of a recluse, not talking to anyone, and not liking people made her very interesting to me. It wasn’t that these things made her more attractive, because they really didn’t. They did, however, create wonder on my part. Not knowing who she was and why she chose to be alone made her far more intriguing of a person. This intrigue caused me to stare.
The stare allowed me to become mentally lost in wonder.
And, as I become mentally lost, I began to relax.
Lost in thoughts of Victoria and now in a blissful state of relaxation, I felt something heavy slipping from my right hand.
“Oh shit!” I howled as the coffee cup fell from my hand and bounced on the table top.
As fate would have it, the cup bounced, landing on its side. As it landed, the lid snapped from the top. Immediately, I found out how much of a mess a few ounces of coffee make on a clean table. Frantic, I scanned the upper floor, unsuccessfully, for a condiment bar. With all eyes trained on me – no doubt from my choice to scream expletives in a quiet bookstore – I cupped my hands around the edge of the spill. Looking down at the caramel colored ocean, I took a deep breath and looked up slowly.
Victoria.
“Here, let me help,” she smiled as she dropped a handful of paper napkins into the middle of the spill.
“Thank you,” I sighed.
Sweeping the napkins in a circular motion, I quickly cleaned the mess from the table. Victoria followed behind me as I picked the pile of wet napkins up, wiping the table further with a rag.
“I didn’t see a condiment station up here,” I said as I stood from my chair.
“There isn’t one. I ran downstairs and got these. What happened?” she asked.
“I knocked my cup of coffee over. Not paying attention, I guess,” I shook my head slightly from side to side and stepped toward the trash can.
“It looked to me like you just dropped it,” she chuckled.
“Pardon me?” I said over my shoulder as I released the napkins into the trash.
“Dropped it. As in dropped. You were holding it,” she said, her hand held at arm’s length, cupping her palm into a circle.
“You looked like you were in a daze. Maybe you were in shock from the girl that just dumped you, I don’t know. But the cup just fell out of your hand. I watched it happen. It was in slow mo,” she said jokingly, acting as if she were dropping a cup from her hand as she spoke.
“She didn’t dump me,” I responded as I walked her direction.
“Sure looked to me like it,” she raised her eyebrows as if in wait for an explanation.
“I don’t believe it’s fair to her if I discuss the conversation’s intricacies with you, so I’ll hit he highlights. We went to dinner. She had hopes it would turn into a more in depth relationship. I, on the other hand, had no intention of pursuing anything romantic with her. She explained her hopes. I explained, or at least attempted to explain, my lack of desire,” I smiled, satisfied at having explained the situation delicately.
“Wow. You make it sound like a business transaction,” she said as she placed her hands on her waist.
“Not at all. Or at least it’s not my intent. She was sweet, just not what I desire in a mate. There was no value in continuing. It would not have been fair to her or to her emotions,” I explained as I motioned to the empty chairs.
“Listening to you talk is like reading a textbook,” she said as she turned toward the table where she was previously seated.
“I’ll sit for a while, let me grab my stuff,” she said as she rotated her wrist and looked down at her watch.
In returning with her purse and magazines, she sat down and smiled. Her hair appeared to be more light brown than blonde. With her right side facing the storefront windows, her hair shimmered in the sunlight. Satisfied to be seated with her, but feeling somewhat like a modern day pimp, I crossed my arms in front of my chest.
“I’m not going to attack you, don’t get defensive already,” she said as she pointed to my chest.
“Excuse me?” I responded, with one eyebrow slowly rising.
“Your arms. They’re crossed. It’s a defensive posture. Anyway, I don’t have much time. I just thought we could talk. I won’t bring up the girl or talk any more shit. Promise,” she said as she extended her hand over the top of the table.
“Okay,” I smiled, pleased at her gesture.
I took her hand in mine and shook it, finding the surface of her palm surprisingly rough. Although I preferred holding it to not, I quickly released it from my grasp so as to not make her feel self-conscious regarding her leathery skin. As I began to consider the cause of her rough skin, she smiled and placed her hands in her lap.
“So, I’ve been coming here for years. And in the last week or so, I have seen you here twice. Never previously, but twice in the last week. What gives, Parker? It’s Parker, right?” she asked softly.
“Yes, I’m Parker. You’ve got a good memory,” I hesitated; somewhat frustrated that she wasn’t sure of my name.
“I just graduated college and after becoming employed, moved to the neighborhood. I live here in Old Town. I just found this place a week or so ago, and I like it. It’s a nice place to relax. What’s your fascination with it?” I asked.
“I come here to read. Dream. Relax. Find bits and pieces of myself I’m afraid I may not find elsewhere. Generally, before work,” she raised her right hand from her lap and brushed her hair behind her ear.
“What do you mean? Bits and pieces of yourself?” I asked, intrigued by her statement.
“You know. Well, you probably don’t. I work as a prep cook in El Cajon. I take care of my mother when I am not working. The two consume me. So, the three places one might find me? Here. Work. Or home. That’s it. I come here to read my books, magazines, and dream,” using her right hand, she turned her head slightly and raked her hair behind her left ear.
“You don’t do anything else?” I asked.
“Nope.”
“Ever?” I asked.
“Neve
r.”
“Out to eat? Go to a bar? Hit the beach?” I asked.
“Nope. Nope. Nope.”
“I’m sorry you aren’t able to get out more. And regarding your mother, if I may ask, is she sick?” I asked softly.
“I guess you could say that. She was injured years ago. She suffers from chronic incurable pain. She’s addicted to painkillers, and for the most part, bed ridden,” she responded, raising her left hand from her lap and clenching her fist in her palm.
“I see. Sorry to hear that. Your dreams are?” I asked, my voice trailing off, inviting her to respond .
“To be a chef. To live a normal life. To have a family. Not a husband and kids kind of family, but a father, mother, brother, and sisters. I guess that’s about it,” she responded, rubbing her palms together.
“No siblings? You have no brothers or sisters?”
“I have a mother. That’s it,” she said as she stood from her chair.
“I’d love to stay and talk, I really would. I like talking to you for some reason. But I have to get to work, I’m sorry,” she placed her purse strap over her shoulder and began to gather her magazines.
“I’ll put them away. Go ahead. Thanks for taking time to talk,” I smiled and nodded my head slightly as I stood.
“I’ll get them,” she responded.
“I insist,” I chuckled.
“Fine,” she shook her head and turned toward the steps.
I watched as she began to walk down the steps, filled with gratitude to have seen her again. As she began to gracefully walk away, I recalled Kenton’s remark, which I was now asking myself several times a day.
If this were my last day on this earth, would I do anything different?
“Victoria,” I shouted, quickly making my way to the staircase.
Halfway down the steps, she turned to face me.
“Yes?”
“Your number. I would like to get your number,” I placed my hands on my hip and raised my eyebrows in wait.
She stopped, sighed, and stared at me for a long moment.
“I don’t know why I’m doing this. Fine. Six one nine four four seven one zero three five,” she smiled.
I smiled in return and repeated the number silently until she walked through the front door.
I walked back to the table and began to pick up the magazines she had left. As I straightened them, making note of what she was reading, I noticed a scrap piece of paper that marked one of the pages. As I removed it, I saw something had been written in pen on the other side. Curious, I turned the piece of paper over.
One word, neatly written in block lettering.
My first name.
Parker.
PARKER. Growing up, for me, wasn’t necessarily difficult. Accepting life as it unraveled into my lap, on the other hand, was a different story. My grandmother proved to be instrumental in my ability to understand most things regarding living life.
“Life is hard. No, life is tough,” I complained as I walked into the kitchen.
I may have been eleven or twelve at the time. Frustrated from what had been, in my opinion, a difficult day at school – I had expressed my opinion regarding life and its hardships to my grandmother.
“Parker, life is just that. Life. Living it is easy. It happens while we’re alive, without thought or effort. Even if or when we choose to do nothing, the clock continues to tick. From our feeble beginning, through all of the complications, and to what will certainly be an unscheduled and unwelcome ending, life happens. Life is easy. Live it while you’re alive.”
“Because when you’re gone, Parker, you won’t have an opportunity.”
I wouldn’t have necessarily described my grandmother as an intelligent woman, but I always admired her for being wise. She seemed to have a different outlook on life, and her outlook, for the most part, became mine as time passed.
“What about mom and dad? Why did they have to leave here so soon?” I asked as I placed my books on the table.
“I suppose it was to bring us closer together,” she smiled, opening her arms to hug me.
Slowly and sadly, I walked to her and wrapped my arms around her waist. Her dresses always felt smooth against my skin. I pressed my face against her shoulder and took a slow deep breath.
“And grandpappy?” I asked as my eyes began to fill with tears.
“Again, to bring us even closer,” she responded as she pressed her hands against my back.
“Things happen in life, Parker. Things we may or may not understand, at least not at first. These events, these happenings, they provide us with opportunities. It’s God’s way of opening doors for us. He provides us with opportunities, and we must make choices. If we’re of sound mind and practicing being a good child of God, we’ll generally make good choices,” she placed her hands on my shoulders and slowly broke our embrace.
“Your parents leaving this earth gave your grandfather and me an opportunity to do what we believed to be right, to raise you no differently than we raised your father. We took that opportunity. And you, Parker, are the reward. You’re a fine boy. There’s none finer, if you ask me. Not now or ever,” she looked down into my eyes, her hands still on my shoulders.
“Life is easy. All we have to do to live it is breathe. Making all the right choices regarding life and living it takes some serious thought, though. Try asking yourself this before you make a decision regarding living your life, Parker,” she paused and widened her eyes.
“If I had to tell my grandmother about this, would I still do it? If the answer is yes, it’s probably a good decision. If the answer is no, I wouldn’t suggest doing it,” she smiled and turned toward the kitchen counter.
She removed a platter of cookies from the counter and placed them on the table beside my books.
“Now, let’s sit and have a cookie. Tell me why life is so difficult today,” she smiled as she removed a cookie from the platter and bit it in two.
I pulled the chair away from the table and sat down. As I reached for a cookie, I began to explain my frustration.
“It’s Jessica. She has a boyfriend,” I sighed.
“The little blonde girl in your class?” she asked.
I nodded, still angry about my discovery of Jessica having a boyfriend.
“And how does this change your day from good to bad?” she tilted her head to the side and waited for my response.
“I liked her,” I said sadly.
“Did you ever express your fondness to her?” she asked as she reached for another cookie.
I shook my head.
“So, you liked this little girl, but you never told her so?” she asked as dabbed the crumbs from the corner of her mouth.
“No ma’am,” I looked down at my feet as I responded, knowing one of life’s lessons was headed my way.
“Well, let me see,” she wiped her mouth again and smiled.
“When something in life happens that we take exception to, something we don’t like or wish would have gone differently, we need to take a step backward,” she paused and reached across the table lifting my chin with her index finger.
“And ask ourselves if we had an opportunity to do it all over again, if there is something we would have done differently. So, Parker, knowing now what you know about your feelings for this girl, and your frustrations about her having a boyfriend, would you have done anything differently?” she looked down into my eyes and waited for me to respond.
Embarrassed, I shrugged my shoulders.
“Parker..?” she said slowly, dragging my name along for a good five seconds.
“I suppose I would have told her how I felt,” I responded.
“The good lord gave you an opportunity, Parker. You chose not to take it. And now? Well now he is teaching you a lesson. Learn it. And move on through life a wiser soul. The next time Parker, the next time do things differently.”
“Yes ma’am,” I responded.
My grandmother may not have always been right, but the ad
vice she provided me always made sense at the time she offered it. From the time I was in kindergarten, she spoke to me as if I were an adult. My speech patterns, vocabulary, and manner of expressing myself vocally were either a result of her teachings or my constant absorption of literary works from her library. At an early age she challenged me to read and read often. After a few years, the challenge was unnecessary – I could never read enough to satisfy my desire.
I suspect reading was an avenue of escape for me as a child – a means of becoming a character in the book for a short period of time. If a story was well written, I would often read it multiple times, inevitably enjoying the latter readings fractionally more than the first. I found myself more drawn to fact based fiction and less to the world of fantasy. Fantasy was difficult for me to digest; primarily because I was certain it could or would never happen.
The year before I graduated from high school Jessica and I became intimate. Proudly, we announced our relationship to everyone who cared to listen. I walked the hallways of the school hand in hand with her, pleased to call her my girlfriend. One thing led to another, and not unlike any other seventeen year old high school kids in a relationship, we considered having sex.
I didn’t express my sexual desires to my grandmother, but I didn’t have to. One evening, while eating dinner, she began a conversation about life. Initially, I wasn’t uncomfortable, but as always with my grandmother, where the conversation began and where it ended were two totally different subjects. She had a very effective manner of introducing a topic she wished to discuss.
“If you were able to turn back the clock and change one thing about your life, any one thing, what do you think you’d chose, Parker?” she asked as she pierced another piece of pot roast with her fork.
As she began to chew her food and wait for my response, I thought about her question. The first thing that came to mind was to live a life with my mother and father. Reluctant to blurt out my initial thought, I considered my answer, making certain there was nothing else I wanted to say.
“I would want to have my mother and father in my life,” I responded.