For our anniversary my girl got
me a pair of diamond studs, watch, and new jacket. I was anxiously
awaiting for today’s surprise. It seemed
every day there was something new coming from her. While she worked, I was at home. For years I’d been the struggling
musician. She’d had her hard years on
the streets as well but it was because of these lows that we found each
other.
I still struggled to find solid work but on certain days I felt
good. On these days where the job lead
might pan out to something more; I’d find myself returning to the apartment,
picking up my ukulele, and starting my composition of the ultimate ballad. I didn’t have much but I did have my music. So every day I worked on her song. The verse I knew -
Mixes with the tears from your eyes
I know my girl weeps
I’ve heard her story
And for all her worries
My soul is hers to keep
Those lines stayed with me. Whenever I sang them I felt the pitter patter
of my heart go from steady to rapid.
Even the quiet lull of the rain couldn’t calm the feeling that thoughts
of her spurred. So when the sky turned
to dusk and the dusk changed to night I worried. My girl hadn’t come home. She worked until six every day and she wasn’t
the type to not call. I’d never tried
calling her at work especially since my phone had been shut off recently. I now regretted not letting her pay it. Instead I headed across the hall to the
neighbors door. The creaky floors
probably announcing me before my first knock.
Mrs. Ray was a sweet lady. I couldn’t tell how old she was and sometimes
when she caught me staring she’d give a good lashing with her tongue by saying “Boy,
didn’t anybody tell you? Black don’t crack,
now move along my story on.” And with
Mrs. Ray no matter what time of the day it was, her ‘stories’ were always
on.
She swung her door open
immediately, “What chall want t’day?”
I smile and try to fight back
the nervous foot to foot shuffle, “May I use your phone please?”
Her brow raises, “My phone? My lil old corded thing? Ain’t you kidz all about having the screens
that walk and talk with ya? Why you need
my outdated reliable cord?”
Mrs. Ray might lead you to
believe she wasn’t hip to the technology but I’d seen her with a smartphone so
I knew she possessed one. Why she felt
the need to make point of my ‘youth’ was one of those default characteristics
of an aging population that always needed to make you feel inferior for your
inherit stupidity for being your age. No
doubt. I could have been the founder of some
huge start up knocking at her door to offer her a free gadget and she’d still
give me a good dose of her anecdotal lashings, ‘Boy you still wet behind the
ear. Move along now, my story bout to
come on.’
Disregarding my want to point
out her usage of technology I instead inform her of the current situation. She listens with intent but I can tell part
of her mind is wondering what she might be missing in her story. Her patience is being tested. “I’ll be quick,” I tell her, “it’ll only be
but a second to phone her office.”
“Wait now,” she says her
attention full on me. “How long you say
she been gone now?”
“Since she left for work this
morning?”
“What time migh’ dat a been?”
“Sometime after 8, why does it
matter?”
Mrs. Ray rocks back on her heels
and tsks, “Boy, that chil’ ain’t been going to no work. Seems to me she been up to no good. Police were here bout dat time. Saw them cuffin’ someone and loading them on
the bus. Yeah she went to work alright.”
I open my mouth but no words
come out. I’m torn between telling Mrs.
Ray about her human worth and attempt to defend my girl in the same breath when
I’m hit with a look. Mrs. Ray, for all
her talk, is no nonsense and she’s telling me with that look alone I know better.
And I do. Which is why it hurts so much. Mrs. Ray lets me in but instead of calling
the number I had written on the back of a card I call the downtown police
station because I have it memorized. Me
and my girl, her more than me, has had it rough. Her years on the street were plagued with her
constant thievery looking for that next score.
But my girl wasn’t a thief. She’s
an opportunist. Before then she was an
artist and before that someone’s daughter.
That stuff still haunts her. How
quick people will turn on you, to throw you away as if you were a thing meant
to be discarded.
It’s my own denial too. Me and her we’ve come a long way so when someone
confirms she was booked and the things she’s stolen I don’t hesitate. I pack them with me. As I walk in the rain I compose her
song. I’ll work on it until the day I
die. When it feels right. Until we’re right. Until the day comes our past stop negating
the choices of our future selves. I’ll
continue to make this walk. She’s my
girl and even in all her imperfections, my soul is still hers to keep.
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