Killing Time in Crystal City

DEPARTURE

I
came for the name.

I should probably be embarrassed to admit making a big decision based on such lameness. But I figure if you are aiming for a place to do a total reboot on your whole entire self, then you aim for a place with a name like Crystal City.

It's a name that calls you to come. As soon as you see it on a map, or on a bus schedule, or if you hear somebody mention it, the impulse is to think, yup, that's the place. It wants me and I want it. It conjures immediately
The
Crystal City, the very home of clarity and radiance and shimmering promise. I can't be the only one to have noticed that. I know. So it has to attract lots of people, peoples, types. Lots of people who are looking for stuff. Looking for what I'm looking for.

Whatever that turns out to be.

More than anything, it needs to
not
be the place I am leaving behind. Ass Bucket is the name of my town. Not really. But, really.

I might well find out what I
am
looking for just by going. Maybe somebody there will even tell me.

Or, possibly, I don't have to wait that long.

•   •   •

She gets on the bus at our one stopover, the midpoint between Ass Bucket and Crystal City. I wouldn't have noticed her, since I have the premium, top-deck, front-seat position, except that she bangs her way up the stairs and down the aisle with the kind of stomp and thump that just forces you to turn and look.

So I turn and look.

She throws her backpack onto the window seat and takes the aisle seat, second from rear, left. I become aware of my staring only when she stares back, with an exaggerated head tilt and a dropped open mouth that are not meant to flatter me.

She has
noticed
me. Already, right there, my life has changed beyond all recognition.

She has a cast on her left arm. I have a cast on my right. If you do not answer when the universe calls out to you as clearly as that then you, pal, are a shitbag and you deserve to be a shitbag and live the loser life that comes with it.

I turn away and look at the road ahead, because she intimidated me and forced me to. But every real part of me wants to do the opposite, wants to do what I would never do. Before, anyway. I would never make that long and scary walk down that aisle separating me from her. Before.

Now, however, I can't stop thinking about doing exactly that. The road and the cars and the landscape ahead, so mesmerizing up till now, are suddenly nothing, and the girl behind me means everything. If I can't do this now, when everything tells me this is the this and now is the now, then I might as well just slither out the bus window and walk all the way back to Ass Bucket to resume my former life as a shitbag.

That thought propels me out of my seat, onto my feet, backpack in tow, to my new best seat in the house. Aisle seat, second from rear, right.

I sit for ten silent minutes, which is not really that long of a silence unless every one of those six hundred seconds is spent on my agonizing over coming up with an opening,
the
opening, that will launch the conversation and the future and all the incredible betters and bests waiting for me in that future, and an eleventh minute waterlogged in the realization that the reason I am speechless is that I have just put
all
that lifetime of pressure on this one small opening jab of communication.

Just
spe
ak, ya dope.

“We have something in common,” I say, shocked at the sound of my own voice but not as shocked as I am at the sight and sensation of reaching boldly across the aisle and tapping her cast with mine. I draw my arm rapidly back to my territory and savor the sad and thrilling reverberation of that instant of human contact, and plaster be damned because human contact it was.

She turns her head slowly in my direction, the kind of slowly that suggests I'm either getting attitude already or maybe her neck was also injured in whatever accident did her arm harm. I'm hoping the universe doesn't hold it against me that I am wishing her neck pain over attitude.

The long turn of her head takes a little detour to look at the spot where I touched her—like I left a stain or something—then continues up to engage my actual face.

“What?” she says. Could she possibly know of the torture that went into the first run of my clever line, never mind the rerun?

“I said, we have something in common,” I say, and watch with fascination as this arm, which apparently belongs to me but could just as easily be the mechanical grabber on one of those carnival claw machines, reaches over and taps hers again.

“Well, it wouldn't be
proper
boundaries
, because
I
have them. I also have pepper spray, a knife, and steel-toed boots I like to call the ‘testicle testers.'”

This is not how it's supposed to go. The new and wider and bolder world is supposed to be friendlier and appreciate gestures like this. I am supposed to get things
right
this time. And the new and wider and bolder me cannot just accept this kind of failure if things are going to improve, and they
have to improve, they have to improve.

“I'm sorry,” I say, leaning in a slightly unnatural way in the opposite direction from her. And I place my left hand on top of my casted right forearm, as if I can hide the shameful thing.

I cannot possibly hold this pitiful and awkward posture for the rest of the ride, but I fear I am going to attempt it, shitbag that I am.

Fortunately, I don't have to put it to the test because after about two minutes, she speaks to me.

“Hey,” she says, and I turn cautiously to see her expression not quite the hard thing it was. Her face shows what I might possibly recognize as pity, which I am more than happy to accept.

“What?” I say. I try to match the disinterested tone she used when she asked me that same question, because I think that acting the way this cool person does is a pretty good step to start on whatever it is I'm starting on. She doesn't seem to notice.

“How'd you get yours?” she asks, pointing from within her proper boundary area at my cast.

Oh. Oh right. What kind of feeb am I, that I thought I could initiate an arm-cast discussion that wouldn't come fairly quickly to this question, which I do not want to answer? Which I really, really, do not want to answer.

“My dad did it.” The words burst out of me like the stream from one of those pump-action water guns.

“Oh,” she says, but an unstartled “oh.” “You poor kid.”

She doesn't follow it up for any elaboration, which is a surprise and a relief.

“How about you?” I say, pointing from an appropriate distance because already I'm learning these rules of the road I'll need to live by.

“What? I don't even know you. I'm not telling you something like that.”

What? That was an option? Opting out was an option?

“I didn't know that was an option. Just refusing to answer the question? Especially after you just . . . that's an option?”

She tilts her head again, befuddled by my befuddlement. We've only just met but this is already an unfortunate recurring motif in our relationship. She knows I'm a dolt before she knows my name.

“Everything is an option. Nobody has to say or not say anything they don't want to. Don't you know even that much?”

“Of course I do. I was just . . . I was going by what you . . . I'm trying to work out the way things are done. . . .” The trailing off at the end is the most intelligent part of my response.

“Did the spaceship forget to come back for you?”

“Hnn. Yeah. Very funny. Actually, I'm just out, seeing the world.”

She's underimpressed. “Right, well maybe you should think about going back home,” she says with a drop of kindness that unsettles me. “I'd worry that you're going to struggle at this.”

Home. Where is that?
What
is that? I'm happy to go there, but all I know for sure is that whatever home is, for me it's not
back
anywhere, it's someplace out forward.

“What
this
is it that I'm going to struggle at?” I ask, still undecided about what percentage impressed/offended I am at what she's thinking she's knowing about me.

“Running away,” she says with a dollop of
duh
in her voice.

“I'm not running away from anything,” I say. I hope I sound more like an appalled man than a cornered six-year-old, but I wouldn't bet money on it.

“Okay,” she says, shrugging. “But I'd still be worried that maybe the street could be an unkinder place to an innocent somebody than home. Even a home with an arm-breaking father in it. What does your mother think about it all?”

I am trying to work out how she does this, slipping multiple provocations into such brief strings of sentences. What would be the
it all
that this
mother
would have an opinion on?
Innocent somebody
, by the way?
The street?
What and where is this street, and what does it have to do with me at all?

“Why would I tell you that?” I say. “I don't even know you. I don't have to answer that.”

She laughs, deep and rich like a hot hearty soup, and I notice her left eyetooth is missing. “Okay,” she says, “so it's possible that you are capable of learning some things as you go along. You might not be quite hopeless.”

Now we're getting someplace. She's already easier for me to talk to. So I go for it.

“You're coming on to me now, aren't you.”

She tilts her head this time at such an unfeasible angle it could possibly twist right off.

“Right, well, I knew this was your first time running away, but I didn't realize it was your first
time
ever
leaving
the
house.”

“It's not,” I blurt far too quickly in my desperation to quash the idea.

She laughs harder this time. “You actually responded to that. That is so cute.”

“It isn't,” I say, tragically persevering.

She turns away from me, from my overwhelming cute imbecility that might be contagious. She looks like she's addressing me in my original seat way up there at the front and the top of the bus, back in that time when the only fully developed idea I had about proceeding to better things was that the top and the front of everything were what you should always shoot for.

“You're giving me a real dilemma here, funny boy. I should throw you back like the little fish you are, except that you've already amused me more than anybody has amused me in a long time.”

The fact that I have been inadvertently amusing does not have to be a problem for anybody.

“You're welcome.”

“And what little conscience I still have is nagging at me not to let you go out there and get savaged by all the big fish waiting just for you.”

She's doing it again with the provocations.

“Hey,” I snap, or nearly snap anyway, but do enunciate clearly and with vigor. “Who asked you to do anything? I don't think I at any point suggested that I needed you to
let
me or not let me go
out there
, even if such a place as
out
there
actually existed or represented a challenge that I was unprepared to meet.”

She hesitates several seconds, continuing to stare ahead, composing herself, then turns to me, smiling broadly. “Oh, it does. And you are. And you're doing it again, being kind of adorable and I think I just might be in love.”

I have my righteous scolding finger already poised, and my mouth open to retort when her words themselves finish the long journey to my brain and I jam to a halt.

“Oh,” she says, pointing at my face. “First thing, right away, you're going to have to lose that blushing thing or you are dead meat out there. And God, boy, if that means you took the love thing literally, then man oh man do we have our work cut out for us.”

Ah, crap.

“I'll take the rapid blinking to mean, unfortunately, yes.”

“Grrr,” I say, punching my own thigh with my cast. “How can I possibly have the option not to answer something if my face keeps answering for me?”

“No doubt about it, you've got a conundrum there. A poker face is probably one of those things that you have to grow, over time, like a beard. Hey, maybe grow a beard.”

“Yeah, thanks, but if you look closely I think you'll agree that beard-growing is another thing you could probably do better than me.”

It appears I have said something wrong.

“What?” I say. “What? I was talking about my
inability
to grow a beard, not your
ability
to. Come on, you don't have a beard.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you don't.”

“Yes, I do, and thank you for pointing it out, zithead.”

“Ah, so it's my skin now. Very nice. Feels like I'm talking to my sister.”

“So, you have a sister, then.”

“Grrrr. No, I don't.”

“Does she have a beard? Is she in the circus?”

“Can we start over again?” I say, with prayer-hands for emphasis.

“Why? This was just getting fun.”

“Fun is overrated.”

“That's extremely sad,” she says in an extremely sad tone. “Just how bad was your father?”

This one's easy. “I don't want to talk about that.”

“Okay. Then how 'bout, what's your name?” She extends her healthy right hand to me across the aisle.

I happily extend my less-healthy one across to her. Finally, a question I am not only anxious to answer, but one I have prepped for.

“Kiki Vandeweghe.” Because why not, right?

She splutters a laugh right in my face, but still shakes my hand.

“Your name is Kiki Vandeweghe.”