03
…and also mute, apparently. Or at least, the naked little bastard isn’t explaining himself to me.
It always amazes me that love has the power to elevate us, to inspire in us the courage to be a much better person than we ever thought we could be. A far happier one. A more forgiving one. A profoundly stronger one.
It is equally amazing to me how the heartache that comes with the loss of such love can, with a precision to be envied by our laser-guided military, wipe out what it has wrought. Not permanently perhaps, but it never quite feels temporary when you’re in the midst of it all.
Don’t worry, folks, this isn’t going to be one of those love-lorn, “woe is me” posts. I write with a certain sense of humor about all of this. It’s hard not to. I had an experience yesterday that really highlighted the absurdity of it all. The sort of ridiculous extremities that love can manufacture.
Yesterday found me at Panera Bread, cozy in my faux leather armchair, working diligently on the script. As I reached over for my coffee, I happened to catch a glimpse of the parking lot through the window. Making her way into the store was my ex-girlfriend’s sister. Normally, this would have been just fine. She’s a really sweet girl. I like her quite a bit, but as of late just about anything that is connected with my ex is emotionally radioactive. It’s a rather recent and still very open wound. Anyone that knows me knows how true that particular statement is.
I’m a pretty composed guy. I like to believe that I think pretty well on my feet. Usually I conduct myself with a reasonable amount of grace under pressure. Not so here. I’m not sure if I can convey properly the guttural sense of panic that washed over me.
Fortunately for me, I was positioned behind the warm and soothing fireplace, and was not visible from the door. Nonetheless, I scrambled for some way to conceal myself. I didn’t want to find myself in a horribly awkward, and what certainly would have been painful, conversation in which I wanted to know everything, but didn’t want to know anything, but wanted to know everything, ya know? My solution? The incredibly low-tech dropping of the head and placing my hand across my brow to hood my eyes and as much of my face as possible. In my mind, in this moment, I’m imagining how awkward and borderline insane I must look. I’m sure it wasn’t anywhere near as bad in actuality as I was convinced it was. I don’t know. Maybe it was. Perhaps there’s a whole group of Panera patrons that are now avoiding a return visit for fear of a run-in with the twitchy, possibly schizo guy by the fireplace…
Anyway, she walked passed toward the counter and, for a moment, crisis was averted. The real trouble was that I was just preparing to peel myself out of my seat for a pee (and hopefully another stroke of brilliance for the writing) and a smoke when I saw my potential doom making her way across the parking lot.
So, now I’m stuck in the improvised fallout shelter that is my hand positioning with a full bladder and a nicotine craving that has just been quadrupled in the last thirty seconds. I notice she has ordered a coffee and for a moment, I’m relieved. “Ah, good”, I think, “she’ll just get her coffee and be on her way”. Of course not. She walks over to the coffee station, and from what I can gather, discovers that the kind she wants is out. I watch, with teeth clenched, as she walks back to the counter, and then - toward my chair. She hasn’t seen me. At least I don’t think. She shuffles through a pile of newspapers on a table. I watch her with the attentiveness of a stalker (”Happy Birthday. I’m gonna kill you.”)
The threat has now intensified. I frantically begin to search for another layer of protection. Another shield. My solution? The slightly higher-tech move of “getting on your cell phone”. I wait until her back is turned and reach into my pocket for my phone. Who do I know that would be available right now? Dylan! I call Dylan and begin to mumble into the phone. “Just stay on the phone with me”.
Dylan questions the efficacy of my plan. She says that she’s not very well versed in phone etiquette. I tell her that there is a kind of body language conversation that takes place in situations like this. The person makes eye contact with you and smiles. This is where you are presented with a choice. You can either smile and wave, and continue the eye contact, which conveys “come on over”, or you can smile, wave and look away as quickly as possible, communicating “I can’t be disturbed right now”. That’s usually how these things go. I’ve still got my face buried as deeply behind my hand as possible and Dylan’s asking me if I’m prepared to just smile and look away. I realize that I’m not sure. I think it may be rude. This etiquette thing is tricky.
By this point, the coffee has been replenished, and I’m thinking that it’s almost over, but now she’s talking to one of the employees. She’s chatting away, and God, I need a smoke. I consider using my coffee cup as a makeshift toilet, but I’m pretty certain it would draw some unwanted attention.
I watch as she disappears again, somewhere toward the other side of the store, and I realize that this is my chance to make a break for it. As I’m hurriedly packing up my laptop, my phone held up against my ear with my shoulder, it occurs to me how this situation, these feelings, my grief, have rendered me completely incompetent. I’m now solving my problems with the adeptness of a drunk fifteen-year-old.
I assure you, if there had been a potted plant anywhere in sight, I would have employed it as some kind of desperate disguise. I’m sure a plant bouncing it’s way toward the door would have been a bit conspicuous, but at least I wouldn’t have been identifiable as anything other than a mass of green. It would have worked - and I would have felt like an idiot about it later.
Unfortunately, or perhaps luckily, there were no plants at my disposal. After a quick peek around the corner of the fireplace, my ear burning from the phone pressed tightly against it, I was satisfied that the coast was clear. I took a deep breath and made for the door. Don’t walk too fast. Don’t look like you’re running away. Just get there as quickly as possible.
And then I’m outside. I’ve made it to safety. I let out the breath I forgot to exhale ten seconds ago and head for my car.
Once I was in my car, I took a deep breath and let the relief flow over me. I laughed at myself for a moment and started my car. Now, if the ending of Fatal Attraction has taught us anything, it’s that you should never let your guard down until you’re absolutely sure you’re out of harm’s way. You know when he drowns the crazy Glen Close character in the bathtub and she’s just there, submerged, eyes wide open? He relaxes. He turns around and sits on the floor, leaning his back against the tub. “Is that it?” we think. “Huh. Well, okay”. But that wasn’t it. She comes back. She comes back with a vengeance, and so did my ex-girlfriend’s sister.
As I’m driving through the parking lot to get to the street, I have to pass by her parked car. I look past the car and suddenly the panic sets in all over again. She’s ten feet away! There’s no way she isn’t going to see me.
With my newly retarded coping skills, my hand - that stupid hand - shoots back up to my brow and I’m pressing on the accelerator with way too much force. I’m in first gear and the engine is wailing. The car hops awkwardly, betraying me. I zoom onto the street, trying to resist the urge to look back to see if she’s seen me.
I don’t know if she did or not. I don’t know why it would have mattered if she did. I was in my car and moving. What kind of conversation could have possibly taken place? I don’t know. Is there car etiquette? These things are so damn tricky. It’s all so damn tricky.
Ah, the crippling effects of Love.
7:59 pm
Kudos for that, and here’s hoping for no more such encounters!
Mar 03 2008
…I hope the script is this entertaining