If You Were Wondering - Chapter Five

Chapter 5

I held my breath when I saw the sign; Oneonta: Next Exit. The memories kept flooding back, and I started to feel dizzy again. I took the exit onto Main Street and slowed down. I rolled down the windows so I could clear my head, and the cool autumn wind blew gently in, harmonizing with the new car smell.

Main Street still looked the same, even after five years. The old buildings still looked like they belonged in New York City. The LED lights in the streetlamps shined and made the street look like a movie set. Some old shops had closed, and some new ones had opened, but my favorites were still there; The Green Toad and the Latte Lounge, the bookstore and coffee shop connected to each other, Shakedown Street, the thrift shop across the street that always had the sweet smell of incense, The Yellow Deli, the organic restaurant on the corner.

I took a left next to the Deli and parked my rental on the top floor of the parking garage. The wind had picked up a little, and I buttoned up the top of my coat. Even though it was October, it was already starting to get cold. I took my box of cigarettes and lit one up. It was a bad habit, I know, but I’d picked it up on the road at a hard time in my life. It almost seemed sacred. Could I really give something like that up?

I took a drag as I entered the walkway onto the street. Technically it was Christmas shopping season, and the sidewalks were bustling with people. I kept my head down as I passed them, hoping that they weren’t former classmates. I wasn’t there for them anyway.

I made my way down the street towards the Clinton Plaza, where the barlights buzzed neon all around me. Every St. Patrick’s Day, this is where the Pub Crawl would take place. On Main Street you have the Autumn Café, Red Caboose, Old Spanish Tavern, and the Novelty Lounge (only if you’re either extra daring or extra drunk), but around here, this is where the real bars were; Stormy Monday’s Saloon, The Copper Fox, Legends Sports Bar, Jimmy T’s Cocktail Lounge, Rail Benders. I set my sights on The Copper Fox. If I was going to walk down Memory Lane, I’d need a drink first.

 

Country music was playing on the speakers when I walked in. All the TVs were set on one sports channel or another. A group was gathered around the pool table, watching eagerly as two men squared off against each other. I smiled when I saw the old moose head in the corner, its antlers covered in bras. That moose was a local legend; the ultimate wingman.

I took a seat at the bar and ordered whatever was on tap. The bar smelled of smoke and sweat, like any dive bar would. I glanced quietly around the room, hoping no one would notice who I was, but everyone was busy with their drink. The bartender plopped a beer down in front of me, and I handed him a couple bills.  He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week, his features grimy and aged. His eyes said he hadn’t taken a day off in years.

I sat and drank in silence, until I heard the crash coming from behind. A waitress had tripped over someone’s foot and spilled beer on an obviously drunk patron.

“What the hell?” he cried.

He sprang up from his chair and stood over the waitress.

“Wha’s wrong with you, ya clumsy b***h?”

The words sent a shiver down my spine, and for a moment, I thought I saw Hugh sitting on a stool at the end of the bar.

The waitress started to apologize, but the drunk wasn’t listening. He flipped over the table and started screaming.

“I came here for quality service, an’ this is what I get! I’ll learn you, s**t!”

I felt my blood boiling as I heard the impact of his hand on her face. My heart stopped as I heard her stumble to the ground. I started to tremble when I heard the man chuckle at himself as he went to do it again. And then I left my body.

At this point, it’s become an instinct to get involved. Whenever I see something like this happen, some fuse is lit in the back of my skull, and I’m there in the middle, ready to defend. Sometimes I don’t even know that I’m doing it until someone pulls me away or someone hits back. Right then, I came back when I saw the drunk on the ground, his nose bleeding and a gash on his head from where I hit him with the empty beer mug, now shattered, in my hand. Everyone was silent, but no one was looking at me. I got the feeling that this has happened before.

The drunk on the ground looked up at me, his eyes hazy. He managed to get out “Jesus Christ” before I grabbed him by his coat, kicked open the door, and dropped him on the ground next to a street lamp. I bent down and stared him right in the eyes.

“Is that any way to treat a lady?”

I punched him square in the jaw, and he let out a yelp.

“You can go back in when you’ve learned some manners. Got it?”

He was already out by the time I finished. I got back up and walked into the bar. Everyone was staring at me now, and the waitress had gotten up. She had a bruise on her face, and there was a spot of blood on her apron. I couldn’t tell if it was hers or the drunk’s. She was looking at me with wide eyes. I saw something familiar in them, but I didn’t know what it was.

“Are you alright, m�"“
                There they were. Her eyes. They were a deep blueish-green, like the ocean. The kind someone could get lost in.

She struggled to find the right words. All she managed to choke out was, “M…Michael?”

I took a deep breath. “Hello, Amy.”

                I thought she was going to faint.  Her eyes were wider than I’d ever seen them before, and she was shaking. She looked so fragile, that I was surprised when she stormed up to me and slapped me in the face, her eyes now filled with anger. A couple people at the bar chuckled, and someone let out a small gasp, but everyone else was silent, only staring at me and wondering what I was going to do.

                I gathered my bearings, managed a smile, and said, “I guess I deserved that.”

                Amy’s face went from bright red to pale, and she started to tear up. She held up her hands, and I thought she was going to slap me again, but she hugged me. Maybe those aren’t the right words; it felt like she was holding on for dear life. And I started to feel whole again.

 

                We sat on the curb outside the bar; Amy with a bag of ice on her jaw, and me with a cigarette in my hand. We’d been sitting out there for fifteen minutes in complete silence, because we couldn’t find the right words to say, and somehow that felt right. Five years of catching up to do, and we didn’t know where to start.

                “I didn’t know you smoked.” Amy said.

                Her voice startled me, and I jumped. She looked away, like she was hiding a smile.

                “Yeah,” I said, “I guess I do now.”

                “When did that happen?” she asked.

                I studied the cigarette in my hand, the tip orange and smoldering. “A while ago. I don’t remember.”

                “Oh.” she said. “I thought you were the president of S.A.D.D your junior year?”

                I’d completely forgotten about that.” I said, and Amy laughed. I laughed too, because I didn’t know what else to do.

                We watched the cars pass, their headlights blending in with the neon on the buildings, and I wondered where they were going. And I knew that Amy was wondering where they’d been.

                Finally, she asked the inevitable, “Where were you?” It sounded like a plea more than a question, and I couldn’t help but get a lump in my throat.

                I didn’t know how to answer that. Ever since I was on the plane, I’d been running this scenario through my head, thinking of a way to make it sound like it was no big deal. Like it was all a joke. I imagined telling her, and she would just smile and tell me it was alright, like she’d do when I’d miss a day of school. But I knew it was never going to be like that.

                “I just went.” I said. “I didn’t pay attention where, I just was.” It wasn’t a satisfying answer, even to me.

                “Okay, but where’d you end up? What happened in between those five years?”

                I swallowed the lump in the back of my throat. “I ended up out west. In Portland, with my dad.”
                A bunch of drunk college girls were stumbling to the bus station, their flip flops clapping on the ground almost as loud as their laughter. Amy sat up and took the ice away from her face.

                “You found him?” she asked, her eyes getting wide again.”

                “It’s a long story.” I said.

                Amy stood up and took off her apron. “We’ve got time.” she said. “Just wait here.” She ran back inside. One of the college girls tripped on a curb, and the whole group burst into another laughing fit. She had mud all over her legs, and I thought I heard her ask, “Am I still hot?”, which made everyone laugh even harder.

A couple minutes later, she was out again, this time in street clothes; black Converse sneakers, skinny jeans, and a white blouse covered up by a leather jacket.

                “My apartments a couple blocks away. Walk me to my door?” She held out her arm like a lady. I smiled and wrapped my arm around hers. “I’d love to.” I said, as we walked from The Copper Fox into the night, following the headlights, but going our own way.

 

. . .

                Hitchhiking never works, I don’t care what the movies say. I walked along the highway for days, my thumb out as far as it would go, and not a single car even slowed to see who I was. Sometimes I’d see other hitchhikers along the road, and they’d look at me with tired eyes as if to say, “Not so easy, is it?”

                When it got dark, I’d find a ditch to lay in and try to sleep, although it usually didn’t work. It snowed one night, and I stayed up until I saw the sun, shivering like an animal. The warmest thing I had on was my winter coat, and even that was rather thin. This continued for a week.

                I finally ended up in Downsville, a small town just outside of Walton. I’d never even heard of it, but it was there, so I stopped. There was a diner in town, and I was lucky enough to have some money on me, so I went.

                The diner looked almost as sad as the town itself. The paint was chipping on the walls, the waitresses looked tired and faded, and I could smell the grease coming from the kitchen. I sat at a table, and a waitress came to me with a menu. Her nametag drooping on her shirt read “Lucy.”

                “What can I get you?” she asked. Her voice was raspy, like she’d just gotten off her smoke break.

                “Could I just get a burger?”

                Lucy went to the back without answering. I studied the room around me: the place was almost empty, the lunch rush either past or coming. Whoever was there looked almost like the waitresses; tired and empty. Oldies music played on the radio. A spoon clattered to the ground, and an old woman bent to pick it up.

                The screeching of tires came from outside, and I looked out the window. An old station wagon pulled up to the building, and three people, two men and a woman, climbed out. One of the men carried a guitar case with lots of stickers on it.  He had dirty blonde hair that fell to his shoulders, an unkempt goatee, and jeans that looked like they hadn’t been washed in months. His leather jacket covered up a t-shirt that said, This is a designer t-shirt.

                The other two dressed like him; dirty jeans and t-shirts. But the other man had on a denim jacket and cowboy boots, and the girl wore a beanie on her head, flowers in her hair, and Converse on her feet. They looked like three totally different people, a group of misfits. The Hippy, the Cowboy, and the Flower Child. And they looked like they couldn’t care less.

                They burst into the diner, and immediately, a new life breathed in to the building. They smelled like cigarettes and pot, and their voices sounded light. They plopped down at a table near mine and waited for a waitress.

                Lucy came out with my burger and set it out in front of me. She put a glass of water next to it and went to take orders from the Misfits. I looked down at my burger; it looked sad and old, just like everything else in the diner. I sensed a recurring theme.

                The Misfits ordered their food, and when Lucy left, the Hippy lit a cigarette. One of the waitresses behind the counter gave him a dirty look, but he just smiled politely and kept on smoking. Something in him said he didn’t care if you told him no. If he wanted to do it, then there was no way you were going to stop him.

                He must have seen me looking at him, because he called over to me from his table. “You wanna cigarette, kid?” The Cowboy and the Flower Child were staring too. I looked around, thinking maybe he was talking to someone else, and they laughed. “You’re the only kid in here, aren’t you?” he said. I could feel my cheeks burning red.

                “No thank you.” I said.

                The Hippy shrugged, and went back to smoking with the others. I took a bite of my burger and set it aside. It was greasy and tasted like s**t.  The water wasn’t much better; it tasted metallic, and I could see particles of dirt floating around in the glass. I pushed the plate away and waited for my check.

                If the Misfits’ food was the same as mine, they didn’t show it. They kept talking and laughing, even when they were eating their meal. The Cowboy got the same burger as I did, and he ate it in two bites. The other patrons clearly weren’t impressed, but these Misfits astounded me. I never thought it was possible to live in a place so dismal and faded as this, and yet be happy just being there. That was the first of many things the Misfits taught me.

                I waited for them in the parking lot. It started to snow again; only lightly this time, but that didn’t stop me from shivering. By the time they came bounding down the stairs, I was as cold as I’d ever been. They went towards their car, and I knew that was my chance. I walked toward their car, took a deep breath and said, “Excuse me.”

                The Hippy loaded his guitar in the back seat and turned around. I couldn’t see the Flower Child in the back, but the Cowboy was staring at me from the passenger’s seat.

                “Uhh… where are you guys headed?” I asked.

                The Hippy gave me a toothy grin and said, “We’re on our way to San Francisco.”

                “Oh.” I said. I almost turned around and left, but I forced myself to stay. “I was wondering. Do you, uh, maybe have room for one more?”

                The Hippy looked in the backseat and nodded. I think he was talking to the girl. He took a quick glance at the Cowboy and said, “Why not?” He grabbed his guitar case, threw it in the trunk, and I slid in the station wagon. The Flower Child gave me a warm smile as I buckled my seat belt, and I drew my eyes to the floor. I could feel myself starting to blush. The engine sputtered as the Hippy cruised out of the parking lot.

                “You got a name, kid?” he asked.

                “My name’s Michael, sir.” I said.

                The toothy smile reappeared in the rear-view mirror. “Sir,” he said, as if tasting it for the first time, “I like that.” He let out a laugh. “The name’s Neil. My man in the front here is Costello, and this pretty lady in the back is Aberdeen.” He turned to me and winked. “Welcome to the family.”

 

. . .

            Amy’s apartment was on Market Street, next to the old Italian restaurant, and we could see the streetlights of Main Street from her balcony. The view would’ve been better if they hadn’t built a hotel right in between while I was gone, but it was all we had, and she didn’t mind.

                We walked inside and Amy asked, “What do you think?” I looked around. The living room and kitchenette were connected to each other, and there was a bathroom and bedroom down the hall. There was one lone couch in the living room, along with a small desk, a lamp, and a couple of lounge chairs in the corner. Picture frames were scattered on the walls, and a giant bookcase stared me in the face.

                The apartment itself was small, but the bookcase that lined the wall made it seem much bigger. The shelves were full of different novels, some I recognized, but others that were completely new to me.

                “You were always a big reader.” I said, “Even in school.”

                Amy smiled. “Reading’s something I never got over.”

                I looked at the pictures along the walls. Amy with her parents at graduation, Amy sitting on the swings in Newah Park. Amy with her roommate in their college dorm playing a guitar. One frame held a diploma for English Education from SUNY Geneseo.

                “You went to college.” I said.

                “Yeah.” She said, smiling, as she took the diploma down and looked at it. “Remember I didn’t know what I wanted to do? I still had no idea until I went to college. I saw my professor up at his podium, and you would’ve thought that he was in the books, the way he was talking about them. He looked so… at peace. Happy. I want to feel like that.”  

                Her eyes were sparkling like they used to, and that made me feel warm. “So you want to be a teacher?” I asked.

                “High school English.” Amy said. “Maybe I’ll focus more on poetry.”

                It made sense. She loved books, and she would always explain the books we read in class to me down to the simplest points. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before, but now it was obvious. I guess I could say that this is what Amy Foster was born to do.
                But something still didn’t make sense. “Then why are you working at a bar?” I asked.

                She put the diploma back on the wall. “Because everyone wants to be an English teacher, I guess.” She went over to the kitchen and took two beers out of the fridge. “I have an interview for a job in Morris next week, but there are a lot of people looking for that job too. I’ll keep my fingers crossed.”

                Amy handed me the beer, and I accepted. “You’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it.”

                Amy smiled. “You used to tell me that all the time.”

                “I don’t think it worked.” I said, and she laughed.

                “No, it did.” she said, looking into me. “It always worked.”

                Right then and there, it felt like everything was normal again. Like we were back in school, walking to class together, and we were just talking about anything we could think of, because we could tell each other anything. We had closed the five-year gap, and I felt the weight fall off my shoulders.

“So, you’re back.” Amy said.

                “I’m back.” I said.

                “Why?”

                I felt the weight pile back onto my shoulders. I didn’t answer because I couldn’t. Not yet.