"PAUL WESTERBERG"-PART ONE "THE BLIZZARD" (second section)

"PAUL WESTERBERG"
PART ONE: THE BLIZZARD

TRACEY

     She gathered her things and sauntered over to me, her smiling, cutely crinkled face behind smart glasses and curls of auburn hair. She’s cute. Really cute. And she’s quick with a quip¼always a draw as most girls I have known are too self-conscious to even think of attempting to be funny. Was she possibly flirting with me? Don’t know. I’ve never been terribly astute when it comes to things like that. I never have been. I just don’t know or understand all of the signals I’m supposed to be reading or the games I’m supposed to be playing and frankly, I really don’t want to. I wish, however, that I did understand those signals and games. I wish that I could carry myself with an edge, a mystery, something that might make the signals and games less relevant because girls would be busy enough trying to crack the enigmatic case that is me! But I’m not enigmatic. Not in the least. I’m just the same chump who hates being late but nonetheless arrived just a few minutes too late. I never heard the rules and no one is terribly anxious to give them to me. And still, this girl is coming over here anyway.

     She set her travel bag on the ground softly, and allowed her backpack to slide from her shoulder, down her arm and settle on the ground next to her travel bag just as softly. With a slight sigh as she peeked out of the window at the snow, she looked at me, smiled again and slid down the wall to the floor, parking herself directly next to me. Whatever confidence I thought I had possessed I could already feel was slipping away from me when she smiled at me (again!), held out her right hand and introduced herself.

     “Heather Harrison,” she said.

     “Um¼hi,” I slowly responded as I took her hand. “I’m Tracey Wolf.”

     And then, we shook.

HEATHER

     I have to say that I was surprised to feel how soft his hand was. It really was a trick in my mind since his grip was so firm. Those two observations were pleasing but not nearly as seeing his brown skin, his just flawless brown skin (not one blemish anywhere that I could tell) up close. Phew!!! Calm down, girl!! Cool it and just talk to him.

     “I like your name.” Ugh!!

     “Thanks,” he said. “I like yours too. ‘Heather Harrison’! That has a certain¼ZING to it¼it almost sounds like you’re a news anchor or an ace reporter for a giant metropolitan newspaper.”

     I laughed heartedly at that remark. Hopefully not over-emphatically as I don’t want to raise any red flags. So¼rebound, rebound! “Umm¼are you from Chicago?”

     “Yes!’ he answered with obvious pride. “The south side—Hyde Park actually. How about you?”

     “Well, shudder to say, I hail from the northern Illinois suburbs, most specifically, Northbrook.”

     “No need to shudder,” Tracey said. “That’s ‘John Hughes Country’!”

     “How astute of you!” I said, very impressed as I happen to be a true devotee and tremendously passionate fan of the work of Mr. Hughes. You know, I wonder if Tracey likes John Hughes too. There’s no need to try and get close if he’s just going to ridicule me. “Do you like John Hughes?” I asked tentatively. He didn’t answer me, which at first made me worry that he was going to shun me publicly over my adoration for the cinematic philosopher of adolescence. But, he then began to reach into his back pack, pulling out a large notebook-presumably what he uses every day in class-and then, I saw it.

     It was a sticker. Slapped dead center in the middle of his notebook cover was a sticker that featured a miniature version of the one-sheet poster for “Some Kind Of Wonderful.” Before I even began to realize it, my face softened even more, eliminating any supposedly sophisticated veneer I thought that I was carrying and showing off. I felt my face completely transform into the warmest gaze and I could not have stop smiling even if I had wanted to.

TRACEY

     If I had known that pulling out a notebook with a “Some Kind Of Wonderful” sticker attached to the cover would’ve made her smile like that, I would have brought it out much sooner!

     “That’s my favorite one!!” she practically gushed.

     “It is?” I asked, honestly surprised and not because I would have expected to hear something like “The Breakfast Club” or “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.” But entirely because “Some Kind Of Wonderful” is my favorite too.

     “Yes, it is my favorite,” she said. “Certainly with no disrespect to Mr. Hughes’ skills as a director because his skills are peerless as far as I’m concerned. But there’s something about how Howard Deutch handled the story that the movie just¼it just really moved me. It felt really soulful, you know? Truth be told, I cried¼and I never cry at the movies.”

     “Me neither,” I admitted truthfully.   

     “Watts is my hero!” Heather gushed again but with a simultaneous seriousness that let me know that she was not the least bit facetious. “Man, do I wish that I could play the drums!”

     “Are you a frustrated drummer?”

     “Absolutely,” she said with a throaty chortle that made my heart bounce a little. “In my mind, I am Elvin Jones. But, in reality¼I’m Shirley Jones.”

     If I had been taking a drink at that moment, I would have spat it out all over myself as I unexpectedly exploded in laughter. The sharpness of that remark, complete with that perfectly timed comedic beat combined with the mental image of Mrs. Partridge desperately trying but miserably failing to play a drum set, flailing all over the place, just floored me. After the initial blast, I quickly quieted myself while looking around to see if the entire Union had been disrupted. Thankfully, it hadn’t but I was happily taken by the sight and sound of Heather’s loud, melodic laughter.

    Watching Heather Harrison laughing is something that I guess could be described as “intoxicating”¼although I’m not entirely certain what something intoxicating would be like. I know that regarding Heather in a state of laughter is something I want to surround myself with. I am taken with the sight of how Heather’s eyes close, how her nose scrunches, and the wideness of her mouth as it is opened in joyfulness. I am enchanted with the motion of her head, complete with that shoulder length auburn hair, and how it moves backwards and upwards while her hands and arms crisscross over her outstretched legs. I have to figure out how to keep this girl laughing.

HEATHER

     God, he’s just staring at me! He’s probably looking for an escape hatch and I am just certain he thinks that I am long overdue for a spell of solitary confinement. But...he’s not leaving. He’s not making any movements that suggest that he wants to leave. All I can see is this–I don’t know–this dreamy, faraway look in his eyes.

TRACEY

     I am about to make what I think is essentially a small movement, the ramifications of which could be considered either emotionally courageous or brazenly stupid. Here goes...  

     “I love your laugh,” I said. “I really love your laugh.”

                                                                     HEATHER

     Oh boy...

                                                                      TRACEY

     She quieted down, relatively quickly as she cleared her throat and demurely smoothed out her clothing from her sleeves to her outwardly stretched legs. She soon became still-unnervingly still–suggesting that my conceived “small movement” did indeed land me into the reject pile of the brazenly stupid. She slowly looked upwards from her hands, which rested softly on her lap, all the way over to me, her green eyes glistening yet piercing a hole in my face. She stared at me with such forcefulness, I dared not to look away for fear that if I broke her gaze something awful would happen–something akin to my head splitting in half. She stared closer, tighter and more seriously than ever, making me fear that I had not only crossed some invisible boundary line of which I did not know its location but that she was dangerously ready to haul off and let me have it and then some.

     The intensity of her stare was discomforting to an extreme. Her sudden silence defiantly jarring, so much so that I began to slowly place my notebook with the “Some Kind Of Wonderful” sticker back into my backpack. If there was ever a non-verbal signal urging me to vacate the premises, then this stare from the hard gaze of Heather Harrison would be the template. And then...she exploded...

                                                                     HEATHER

     I just couldn’t hold it in any longer and I really don’t think that I’ve laughed that hard in too terribly long. “I’m sorry!” I barely choked out between bouts of laughing gasps. “I really had you going! I’m not mad. Really.” Oh no! He’s looking at me as if my face is about to split in half. So, I reached out, touched his arm, just underneath the elbow and gave him a soft squeeze, hopefully signaling to him that I was indeed joking, but most of all, I wanted him to stay.

     “Look, I was really just playing with you,” I said. As tenderly as possible, still attempting to stifle a few stray chuckles that were terribly insistent. So, each one I silenced by smiling, a tactic that seemed to work successfully, based on how his face relaxed and also how he stopped trying to put his notebook away. “It’s just a staring contest I played–I guess I still play it with my brother.” Sensing a lingering scent of skepticism, I continued. “Tracey Wolf, please allow me to offer you a window into my world. You see-when I was little, I was very shy. Now, I don’t mean the standard, run of the mill, everyday style of child shyness. No. I was so shy that it actually worried my parents to the point where they almost had me go see a person that they called, ‘The Feelings Doctor’.”

     “What was going on with you?” asked Tracey, who thankfully latched onto the bait of my story slash explanation.

     “Well...I wasn’t talking.”

     “You weren’t talking?” Tracey repeated as if he was rolling the concept in his mind. “You mean...not at all?”

     “Let me clarify. At home, I was naturally pretty quiet anyway, especially since my brother Paul kept speaking for me all of the time. You know, it’s really funny when I think about it. Well…it’s not funny per se. I mean–it’s just peculiar...odd. Look, I know that this is not making much sense. Let me try it this way. Have you ever given much thought to why we are who we are?”

     “Do you mean like why some people are Type A people or extroverts and things like that?”

     “Absolutely!” I said, perhaps a tad too excitedly. “How astute you are,” I added with a slight purr and from where I do not know because I didn’t know that I had anything like that in me. “Well, anyhow, as I was saying, I really wasn’t talking when I was little. I would squeak out some words from time to time but I essentially said nothing until I was in the 1^st grade.”

     “Really?!” Tracey asked me with latent concern, so sweet, especially since it was in regards to a part of my life long gone and obviously, I survived.

     “It’s true, but it’s not like I had nothing to say. And I guess that this is the strange part because I can vividly remember having thoughts where I was really talking to myself and asking myself questions. Like there was this other voice, this more reasonable, sensible, calmer mature voice engaged in a conversation with me.”

     “So, you’re saying you were a little kid hearing voices,” he dead-panned.

     “Yes, but not quite. It’s one thing to talk to yourself. It’s a whole ‘nother set of psychoanalysis if you answer yourself!”

     “Yes,” said Tracey with a chuckle. “But you said that your parents wanted you to see ‘The Feelings Doctor’?”

     “Yes, but I’m getting to that.”

     “Oh, I’m sorry.”

     “No worries whatsoever. Well...like I said, I was a very sensitive kid. Actually, I suppose I still am based upon my performance earlier. But, when I was really little, like in Kindergarten, I was so...touchy, I suppose. I wasn’t unhappy or anything like that. When I think about it all, I had a happy childhood. I just didn’t talk much at all and I was prone to bursting into tears at the drop of a hat. That’s mostly where that voice inside of my head came from. I can easily remember moments from Kindergarten where one minute, I was fine and then, the next minute, I was inconsolable. And then, that’s when I would hear this serene sound asking me, ‘Why are you crying?’ or ‘Why are you so sad?’ But, as I said before, I never answered myself, so don’t worry,” I concluded, adding a smile to take the weight out of the conversation. “So, everything eventually came to a head in, of all places, McDonald’s.”

     “McDonald’s?” asked Tracey. “What happened? Did you throw a fit? Did you not get a Happy Meal or something?”

     “Oh, I only wish that it was something like that. In fact, it was quite the opposite. It had nothing to do with a Happy Meal. But, it did have to do with a culinary delight that is more of a rarity and therefore, highly coveted. And that object, my new friend, was the Shamrock shake.”

     “Shamrock shakes!” Tracey said, allowing a nearly glazed over, dreamy expression to fall within the deep, succulent brown of his eyes. Whoa! Calm yourself, girl! “May I offer a hair of a digression before you continue with your story? And trust me, I do want to hear your story.”

     “Certainly,” I replied.

     “I don’t know if you are much of a fast food eater but if you are, have you noticed how amazing McDonald’s tastes after having experienced the pseudo gourmet selections of our illustrious dining halls?”

     “YES!!” I practically shrieked. “But, oh my God, McDonald’s is so bad,” I said, sneaking a quick touch of his leg as I laughed.

     “It is and I don’t eat it like I used to. But after a few months of the Shed, McDonald’s is seriously like Five Star Dining,’ he laughed. “Anyhow, Shamrock shakes just take me...back! Nectar Of The Gods, I tell ya. Nectar Of The Gods!”

     “Excelsior!!” I said, raising an imaginary goblet in solidarity and afterwards, I added, “Make Mine Marvel!!”

     “You like comics?”

     “Actually, no. Not really but my younger brother Seth is crazy over them and I would overhear my brother Paul reading them to him all of the time, so I suppose by osmosis Marvel and DC are ingrained into my sub consciousness.”

     “I see. Look, I’m sorry to keep running the train off of the track in regards to your story.”

     “Again, no worries whatsoever. Nothing is derailed. I knew we’d get back here eventually. Shamrock shakes, right?”

     “Right.”

     “OK then. Well...one day, I was out with Seth and my Dad running errands or grocery shopping or something like that–oh, I was six years old, by the way–and on ur way home, my Dad asked us if we wanted to go to McDonald’s. Of course we did! But I remember beginning to feel anxious because Paul wasn’t there to tell the cashier what I wanted. Paul was the best big brother I could ever hope to have and he still is too! I know that he just seemed to be better in tune with me, and he was so patient with me and he never got mad at me. If anyone could make me laugh or even feel the safest–even more than my parents–it was Paul. But, on this day, when we went to McDonald’s, he wasn’t there.

     “So, we get inside and get into the medium sized line of people and I looked up and saw a picture of a Shamrock shake and I just knew then and there that that was all I wanted. Now, as I am most certain that you can imagine, if I am uttering not much more than a peep at home, I am essentially saying nothing in public, especially in restaurants, where I would basically whisper to Paul what I wanted and then, he would order for me. Needless to say, what was barely tolerated by my parents had grown into serious worry for my Mom and more than a little frustration for my Dad. And as we stood in McDonald’s, I could just feel it seething from him.

     “My Dad ordered his food and then, Seth walked right up to the cashier and gave his order. I was so jealous!! Just green!! I could not understand how my little brother could do something like order his own meal in public and I couldn’t. And still, I couldn’t get a word out of myself.

     “When the cashier leaned over the counter a little and asked me what I wanted, I froze. For the life of me, I could not get the words, ‘Shamrock shake’ out of my mouth. I remember that the cashier was very pretty–I mean, really pretty! The kind of pretty that is instantly magnetic and you feel yourself trying to almost study the person–like a person has never been pretty in that specific way before and it is of such exclusivity that you want to burn it into your memory forever. Sigh...Well, to my six year old eyes, this cashier looked like an angel and I still couldn’t speak to her. And that’s when I heard the voice in my head.

     “It–or she, for that matter–sounded so clear and again, so calm and even somehow older. She said to me, ‘Tell her what you want.’ And I just couldn’t. This voice said it one more time, ‘Tell her what you want.’ I tried but I could not get words out to save my life, which was beginning to be a possibility as my Dad’s face was growing redder by the second. He crouched down and began to order me to tell this cashier what I wanted or we would just leave and I wouldn’t have anything. When I still didn’t speak, my Dad told me to hurry because the line was getting longer and that I wouldn’t get anything if I just didn’t say something.

     “And then, I started to cry. Not just any old disappointed kind of cry. Not anything petulant or pouty. It was a ‘hurt child, convulsing, hold your sides while you’re losing your breath and your nose is running’ kind of crying. I was beside myself and I just could not even begin to explain it to myself either. The voice inside of me asked me, ‘Why are you crying?’ And I remember thinking for the longest time, ‘I don’t know!’ And then, I started to say it too...as I was crying!

     “Of course, my Dad had no idea of what I was talking about and as I think about that time right now, especially as I was the kid that I was, I’m certain that my Dad must have been terrified. Hmmm...I should ask him about that. We’ve never talked about that time. I think that may have been a period he wants to forget about. I mean–in the whole grand scheme of things, an essentially non-verbal but otherwise healthy daughter is nothing. I got over it in time and I only really had a couple of sessions with ‘The Feelings Doctor.’ And then, it ended before I could really gather a full opinion of them. All of that being said, my Dad has never spoken about that time and believe it or not, I have never had a Shamrock shake since that day. The mere thought of one just makes me sad.”

     “Why is that?” Tracey asked softly.

     “I guess when I think about it, I hate the thought and image of a little girl being so afraid to speak up for herself that she denies herself the simplest things. No one should ever be that frightened, especially over nothing important.”

                                                                      TRACEY

     Heather Harrison was a storyteller unlike anyone I had ever known. As the snow continued to fall and get deeper and deeper, all the way to the point were the entire surface looked like it was enveloped by the world’s greatest down comforter, I looked at my watch and was surprised to see that two and a half hours had passed! Under normal circumstances, being forced to wait for an exhaustively exorbitant amount of time due to events that are drastically out of my control, there would have been trouble. Now, don’t think that I would have burst through my clothing and the mocha shade of my skin would have transformed to a fluorescent, luminous green. I’m not one to act out. But, what I would’ve done was to fume, stew and seethe in the most repressed manner, possibly all the way to Chicago and if that does not sound like much of anything to you, then you fully underestimate the amount of energy that is expended and how detrimental it is to one’s constitution. Thankfully, and despite the weather, the situation was made into an experience that I was beginning to wish would last, at least twice as long. And it was all because of Heather Harrison.

     We talked about seemingly anything and everything that popped into our heads. Well, almost. It wasn’t as if I told her in a flurry of emotion how attractive I found her to be and how increasingly attracted I was becoming and I just have to say right now that this is precisely the type of game that makes me crazy. Why couldn’t I just tell her what I was feeling? Why is that considered to be a bad thing? Why is that we all try to conceal aspects of ourselves when it all comes out anyway? Even Heather herself has upended a piece of the person she wanted me to see. She first tried to wave away the understandably embarrassing circumstances of our meeting as not being representative of her “personal style,” but then she tells me the story of her non-verbal childhood and subsequent Shamrock shake meltdown—a situation that had to be an essential part of her foundation, let alone any sense of “personal style.”

     I’m no better, by any means. Just look at me, fumbling my way through trying to appear cooler or more attractive than I feel. Or really am. And somehow, does any of this, these games, perceptions and even facades, mean anything when I find myself lost in Heather’s smile, her exquisite laugh or her stories? Maybe they do, as I want to be around her for as long as possible. But, what if I’m trying too hard?

     Excusing herself to go to the bathroom, I promised to keep a close eye on her space and belongings, a gesture she said that she would return. By the time that I returned from the Men’s Room, I saw Heather completely bundled up, packed and obviously ready to brave the elements. I noticed also that she was gathering my belongings together as well.

     “Our chariot has finally arrived,” she said as I approached. Looking out of the Union doors, I could see that our snow entrenched chariot, otherwise known as Greyhound, sat at the Langdon Street crosswalk like a battle scarred warrior returned from the front lines yet ready and armed for more.

     “I hope you don’t mind that I’m moving your stuff,” she said. “The bus just pulled up and I thought I’d get our things together so we could get seats before the mass exodus to the arctic.”

     What? Does she want to sit next to me? Uh…I’d better ask. “Ummm…Heather?” I began, more tentatively than I had hoped to sound. “Um…you know how these long bus rides are—and it’s obvious that this ride is just going to be that much longer, not to mention that it’s also going to be PACKED too…and…um…with so many people riding…I mean—you just never know who just might end up next to…”

     What was wrong with me?! It was like I had never spoken to a girl before or even had a date. Truth be told, I haven’t had the good fortune to have had that many dates but I’ve had my share as well. Furthermore, I am not one of those people that fall in love at the drop of a hat. But, like I’ve told you before, she disarmed me and all I wanted in that moment was to spend as much time as possible with her. I was just afraid that she wanted the opposite and the idea that perhaps I didn’t carry the same appeal that she more than had over me really made me doubt myself.

     In a very small way, I think that I’m beginning to understand what she may have been going through with her Shamrock shake story. The idea of not just coming out and saying what you want. Why couldn’t I just tell her that I like her? Or at least ask her to be my traveling seat mate? It’s just so stupid. Just ask her.

     “Heather, would it be alright if we sat together?”

     She stared at me with a soft, warm gaze and said sweetly, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Copyright 2014 by Scott Collins All rights reserved. No part of this material may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights.

"PAUL WESTERBERG"-PART ONE "THE BLIZZARD" (first section)

"PAUL WESTERBERG"
PART ONE: THE BLIZZARD

TRACEY

     While it all may sound completely unrealistic and perhaps a tad too dramatic or even hyperbolic to some of you, I didn’t think that I would ever make it to Spring Break! The past ten days have been nothing short of relentless with three hefty papers in English, Comp Lit and Philosophy all due within a day of each other and that feat was made all the more difficult as I ran out of ink cartridges for my electric typewriter—the very same ink cartridges University Book Store, either by chance or design or just plain ol’ bad Karma, were completely sold out of! That predicament then forced me to try and find absolutely anyone who quite possibly had access to a car to take me to any local office supply store as I just didn’t have the time or energy to try and decipher the Madison bus schedules—a true disadvantage for me as I am from Chicago. Although, I will more truthfully admit that my sense of direction is considerably weak and dependent upon landmarks instead of street names and the four cardinal directions. Granted, you could not be more surprised than me for actually placing myself out onto the limb by admitting this character failing to you, especially as this is a task mastered by countless individuals throughout the ages. Embarrassing to be true. But this is indeed how I navigate the world.

     Well, back to the story at hand, the “Ink Cartridge Crisis Of 1989” was fully averted. A friend gave me a ride to an office store where I did purchase exactly what was needed. And then, all three papers were written, edited and typed to the best of my college sophomore abilities. In regards to the Philosophy paper, in which I, Tracey Wolf, had to debate nothing less than the verification of existence itself, I finished that one two hours ago and turned it in about one hour ago, giving me just a scant amount of time to pack my bag and grab enough tapes for the long bus ride home.

     I have to also admit to you that I am a guy who prefers to have ample time to ready myself for anything. I hate rushing around for fear that I’ll forget the most necessary item, not to mention the fact that I just find myself more agitated than I feel accustomed to being. But even so, some things are just unavoidable. By the time it took for me to race from Tripp Hall to the Union, the sky turned from sunshine to grey to finally, all snow. As I walked past the line of buses on Langdon street and not seeing my bus at all, I really began to fear that this trip home was not going to bode well. So, I trudged up the Union steps, pounded the building snow off of my shoes and settled myself down by a nearby wall in the front of the lobby. And then, I began the arduous process of waiting.

HEATHER

     The snowflakes looked like Mickey’s Dairy Bar sized pancakes!! The snow was so heavy and wet that every impact landed with a “THWAP” at first soaking the ground and then sticking to everything in sight.  I realize that weather in the Midwest can be unpredictable and that it can still snow to even as late as almost May but this freak storm blindsided me. I checked the news as I raced through Pop’s Club for an orange juice and a hockey puck textured bagel and it just said that it would be cold today. Not one word about snow, let alone what was beginning to look like a blizzard. As I walked through Pop’s, I also glanced at someone’s newspaper and pretty much read the exact same thing. There was no mention whatsoever of snow at all for today and for the next several days at that. But no matter, here it is and I have to meet my Dad at O’Hare in a few hours. However, I think that is more than a little obvious now, that that is not going to happen.

     Once I got myself inside the Union and ensured that none of the buses lined up outside were mine, I walked over to the pay phones to try and call my Dad to tell him that I will most definitely be late. Apparently, everyone else had similar ideas because the phones were all being used. Oh well¼I needed to see how much change I had anyway¼

TRACEY

     OK¼so there’s a three hour delay¼at least that’s according to my Mom who just finished speaking to the good folks at Greyhound. Great! I hung up the pay phone and looked at my watch. 2:15 p.m. That means my 2:30 p.m. scheduled transportation won’t actually happen until around 5:30 p.m. at best, by the looks of things outside. And then, there’s the actual bus ride to deal with. One thing’s for sure, I’d better make sure that I have enough batteries for my headphones.  The worst thing that can happen, on top of being forced to wait and wait for a bus due to a blizzard, is to be unable to have any personal soundtrack at the ready solely due to the misfortune of being saddled with dead batteries.

HEATHER

     Oh shit! This is just what I was afraid of! I don’t have any money! I guess that as I was rushing to get ready and being surprised with the snow and being paranoid about missing my bus and scrambling out of the door, I forgot to go to the Tyme machine to get money for the trip. And, as I think about it now, I think my Tyme card is right where I last saw it¼on the top of my desk in my room because I just used it a couple of days ago to get some quick cash to buy laundry tickets to wash the very clothes I’m taking for this trip. Oh God¼what am I going to do? I mean—I could race back to Witte to get my card but if my bus happens to show up then I’m screwed. But, let’s be real, there is no racing around in a blizzard, even on foot. But if I don’t go, I won’t have any money. OK¼just breathe and don’t freak out¼just breathe and don’t freak out¼just breathe and¼No! Oh no¼just hold it together...Heather, keep it together¼You’re standing in the middle of Memorial Union, just keep it toge¼

     “Um¼excuse me¼are you OK?”

TRACEY

     It’s really not in my nature to interfere in anyone’s private, personal business. I know myself very, very well and despite the most likely good intentions of others, it does, for some reason that I have never been able to identify, bother me tremendously when strangers try to step into my own troubles. I just hate it when people try to pick my brain, possibly hoping to unearth something that is none of their business. If I need help, I’ll ask for it and I’ll gladly tell you. If I don’t say anything, regardless of how I may appear, then I’d prefer that you’d just walk on by. Now, don’t get me wrong. I see myself as someone who is more than affable. I have friends and can always find the space for more if they should come along. I guess it’s just a pet peeve of mine when people try to get themselves involved like I’m some lock they need to pry open with a bobby pin. And so, in return, I tend to leave others alone. So, why in the world did I interfere right now? I guess¼she just¼I don’t know¼spoke to me.

     “Um¼excuse me¼are you OK?” I asked.

     I recognized that look on her face as she regarded me with an expression that floated between confusion and annoyance. I recognized that look because it felt to be the mirror image of the exact look that I have occasionally given to strangers. But, there was one difference. Her face, even behind her glasses, was attempting to hold back crying, even though some tears were beginning to show right at the corners of her eyes.

     “Oh¼,” she began, while trying not to look at me and her voice caught deeply inside some pregnant pause. She raised her eyes to meet mine, the corners red and wet. Instinctively, I reached into my coat pocket for some Kleenex which I tentatively handed to her. The tissue, as well as my right hand seemed to hover in space, completely independent of my arm as I waited for her to either accept or refuse my gesture. I almost expected to see some tiny lines of fishing wire holding it up. Then, she mustered up a hair of composure. She cleaned her throat, her face softened as she finally answered, “¼no.”

     “Do you need anything?”

HEATHER

     God! This guy must find me to be certifiable, crying in the middle of the Union lobby and apparently not able to answer a simple question.

     “Do you need anything?” he asked.

     Another question?! Jesus, what is the matter with me? It’s like there’s this obstruction inside of me that is stopping the words that are forming in my brain from making their way to my mouth. Just say the words. Say. The. Words. Get it together and say the words. Tell him that you don’t have any money and that you need to call your Dad. That’s all there is to it. Nothing more. Nothing complicated. Just look at him and say the words.

     “Um¼yes¼actually," I finally began. “I need to¼make a¼um¼phone call to my¼Dad¼and I don’t¼have any money. I mean—I have money but I don’t have any with me. I forgot my Tyme card in my room because I was just hurrying to get over here and the¼the snow,” I explained, overly so and probably sounding like an unintelligible patient from the local sanitarium. Oddly enough, he doesn’t seem to be looking at me like I’m crazy. In fact, he looks concerned. Honestly concerned.

TRACEY

     I don’t know what came over me to but she disarmed me. It had to have been the tears. Something about seeing this girl crying while trying not to cry just got to me. And having no money. That really sucks. I guess that she’s alone as no one else is paying any attention to her, and no one has even approached her other than me. So, I reached into my coat pocket and I felt around and found an amount of change that would be good enough for a couple of phone calls. “Take this,” I said as I handed her the money.

     “Thank you,” she said, with a few soft sniffles as she accepted the money. Her eyes shifted between my eyes and directly behind me for a moment. “Uh¼a phone¼,” she started, slightly pointing behind me.

     “Oh!” I said as I looked in the direction over my shoulder where she had gazed to see the bank of pay phones. “Yes, uh¼go catch one while they’re free.”

     She returned her eyes to mine for less than a millisecond, flashing the tiniest of smiles to me.  Wonder if I even imagined it as it was so fleeting. And just as fleeting, she walked away from me towards the phones and without another glance or even one solitary word.

HEATHER

     Thank you, whoever you are.

TRACEY

     I returned to my patch of land, as it were, after making a quick trip to the Tyme machine. Looking outside, the snow was falling heavier, faster and getting progressively deeper. From the looks of the situation, my three hour delay was looking like it would be extended into a three week delay. So, by this point, there was really not much else to do but curl up for the duration. I took out my headphones, snapped in some XTC and began to space.

HEATHER

     I hung up the phone with my Dad. He said that he would get himself to O’Hare and wait it out for me. So, all is well. He knows what is happening with the buses and even though I am anxious to just get going, I’m feeling much better. Calmer. Quieter inside. Since I’m going to be here for a while, perhaps I can find that guy and really thank him properly, especially since I waked away from him without saying anything. And if I can find him, preferably I can string together a collection of words to form an actual sentence or two.

TRACEY

     I guess I fell asleep for a little bit. While I don’t even remember ever feeling drowsy, I heard “King For A Day” in my ears one moment and then, “Merely A Man” the next. Maybe thirty minutes or so passed by. My eyes and mouth felt and tasted faintly of sleep and I automatically pulled out a new piece of gum from my coat pocket. Once I began chewing and the mint flavor shot through my synapses, thoroughly waking me up, I looked around the Union to find even more kids setting up camp, presumably all waiting for their buses, everyone thrown off by the blizzard.

     Looking around the room, I spotted her—the girl who needed pay phone money. She was rummaging through her backpack for something or another when she suddenly looked up, caught my gaze and smiled. This time, a full-fledged, wide faced smile. And again, she disarmed me.

     His girl is no one that I had ever expected to see again after she walked away from me and now that I have seen her, I admittedly didn’t think that she would spot me or that I would even want for her to do so. I also have to admit to you that when a girl smiles at me, especially when it is unexpected, I just¼dissolve. This girl is no exception. I’m taken in by how her eyes and nose crinkle behind her glasses as she smiles and I am already wondering if she will smile at me again¼and if I can even get her to smile one more time. 

     Now, please let me assure you that I am typically not that easily swayed, regardless of attractive girls smiling at me. I don’t fall in love at first sight and as I already expressed to you, I’m not one to even engage with strangers, pretty or not. It’s not that I’m anti-social. I really just don’t want to be bothered if I’m alone and I just think that if I give others a wide enough berth, people will afford me the very same courtesy. But yes, she disarmed me. 

     Huh? She’s pointing to her ear. I wonder what she’s¼oh¼she’s making a motion with her hand by her ear¼oh¼she must want me to take my headphones off.

HEATHER

     “Hi!” I said, perhaps a little too loudly after he took off his headphones. “I just wanted to come over and properly thank you for earlier.”

     “No worries,” he responded with a dismissive wave of his hand. His face looks so¼kind. I know that may sound a bit twee or facile but believe me, when you are on a campus this big and with a myriad of testosterone fueled waves blazing through the atmosphere, you tend to take notice of a person who does not immediately fit into a certain profile, or even prejudice, I suppose. It could just be me and the impressions that only carry any significance with my own social world view. But all of that being said, his face seemed to be so kind and before I even knew it, I had responded to him. And if I don’t say something quickly, I’m gonna lose him and I am thinking that I don’t want that to happen just yet.

     “I’m not usually like that,” I lied.

     “Like what?” he asked, with a perplexed look complete with arched eyebrows.

    “Oh¼you know¼,” I started shakily, “A young cosmopolitan woman standing openly distraught in the middle of Memorial Union plagued with unintelligible speech and dissolving into a puddle of tears over something as minuscule as not possessing pocket change for a pay phone. That, I assure you, is not representative of my personal style.” I have to say that when a bout of cleverness arrives, I grab onto it with vigor. Just stay with me.

     “Like I said,” he replied, with arms outstretched amiably. “No worries and with that, no pre-conceived notions or judgments. Just one person helping another. Besides, the snow caught everybody off guard.”

     “I’ll say,” I agreed although to my mind’s ear, it sounded astoundingly lame. Let’s get this train back on the track. “Um¼if you don’t mind me asking, where are you headed?”

     “Chicago.”

     “Really? Me too! Well, O’Hare actually. I’m supposed to meet my Dad. We’re going to Colorado for my Grandmother’s 90^th birthday.”

     “90?!” he exclaimed. “I think that I would give almost anything to make it to 90.” His face then phased from a beam to one that carried a more thoughtful gaze. “I mean—as long as I still had my wits about me. I’d just hate to be hooked up to some machine or anything like that. But, when you consider the alternative¼No thanks!” He next made a grimace and then began to make one grand sweep with his arms across the visa of the Union. “This is all I know, you know? I don’t ever want to think of a time when I won’t know this anymore. When I won’t hear music anymore. Or see the sky or even a freak blizzard.”

TRACEY

     That’s morbid, isn’t it? But hey¼she didn’t run away. She didn’t even take one step backwards. Even so, there was one thing I conveniently omitted. I never, ever want to see a day where I could not be graced by the vision of a pretty girl. I decided to keep that quiet as I was afraid that she would respond to that statement as being nothing more than a pathetic come-on line and just as quickly as she found me again, walk away silently just as she did before. First impressions really are everything as I wanted to make this one as good as it could possibly be.

HEATHER

     Hmm¼this is a guy that just swings for the fences right away, huh? Straight in to the deep conversational topics and we don’t even know each other’s names yet. I have to say that I kinda liked that. “I know what you mean,” I offered with existential solidarity. “As far as I’m concerned, I’m planning to stick around until I’m 300! And even then, a few more lifetimes after that.” He chuckled quietly and displayed a grin. “What’s so funny?” I asked.

     “Oh, I’m just thinking about the dark turn this has all taken and I really don’t want for you to gather the wrong impression about me. I’m not and have never been an official card carrying member of the “Doom And Gloom We Wear Nothing But Black” crowd,” he replied warmly.

     “I hear that their monthly dues are deathly,” I impulsively deadpanned. Ha Ha, by the way. “You know, I’m beginning to think that this is a little awkward.” I said those words with a mock seriousness, which I’m now seeing was not the best choice as his face elicited a hint of disappointment. I had to rebound. “I mean—this,” I explained by moving my hand back and forth, illustrating the physical space between us. “Some shouting over the din of the Union just to be heard.”

     “Oh!” he said, looking relieved.

    “So, in light of this predicament, I offer you a question. Would you mind if I joined you over there?” I asked pointing to his space by the wall, as claimed by his resting baggage.

     You know, I don’t often surprise myself. I know myself too well. This time I surprised myself because this is not at all like me.

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