Story Time

My life is lived in a statistical nightmare. In that one second; one half second at best is my life. Maybe I should explain.

I had once said to a friend of mine that I am candle that is burning at both ends and I fear I won’t survive the night. And, that is still true; there is only the problem of this night having no end! Rather, I have the chaotic seconds in which I live. Those little moments of mathematical anomaly that occurs at any gathering of any number of people a every second of every day! You know what I am talking about; you have never noticed it before.

Imagine you are at a cocktail party of some self important prick that wants to show off his new shinny whatever. You are standing there minding your own business and then it happens; my statistical nightmare. In that ever so brief a moment I excel, I live, I invade your thoughts.

That moment is empty. No conversation, noise, my playground. It happens all the time. For no reason everyone at the exact same moment stops what ever they are doing to make noise – there I am. That brief moment when silence reigns. It happens at every party, every gathering. No matter where you are, it happens.

It comes along with the theory of empty space and emptiness. You can’t tie them together readily, and they seem to have nothing in common, but they co-exist. And that is what I am. You still don’t know, do you?

See, here is the empty space theory. Democritus argued that nothingness (i.e. empty space) does indeed exist. This empty space provides ground for the motion of all things based down to the atom itself. I personally do not agree with the theory of "nothingness." Emptiness would mean an area exists where no matter of a physical sense exists, including atoms. This is a paradox theory because it goes beyond the human ability of conception. Everything in existence is composed of physical matter of some sort or another, hence if empty space did exists, it must be some sort of physical composure. This physical composure is unidentifiable by the human mind, because by leaving out any identifiable matter that may nullify the argument of empty space, it leaves us with nothing. Ignoring my previous argument of empty space having an identifiable physical composure, the argument of actual "nothingness" is left. This theory too is a paradox theory, because it defies all natural laws of existence. Everything in existence, as I mentioned before, has a physical composure. Each item in existence contributes to the active purpose of another and so on and so forth. This idea follow the theory that "all things are one" as many Ionian philosophers believed in, where all things come from one source. Emptiness, considering that it defies all natural laws of existence, cannot come from the same source of the rest of existence

Now that you know I am insane and should be locked away somewhere, let me tell you my story. It is not a only one, as it only began a day or two ago.

Chapter two:

I resolved to buy a notebook in the morning and start the
unattractive tale of my love life. No punches held, no facts
softened, no editing of the unattractive. Only the one hundred
percent truth, nothing less. I laid my head onto my pillow and let
the satisfaction of my decision lulled my overactive brain into a
drowsy stupor. I fell asleep quickly and soundly, that is until I was
unlucky enough to roll over onto Mr. Whiskers at 2:34 this morning.

It's still up in the air, who is more unfortunate, my usually
affectionate feline roommate (who seems unharmed, save his ego) or
myself, who now has three long scratches on my back and a pretty deep
tooth puncture on my left arm. We both have our own opinions on the
matter.

After all the excitement of the unexpected rollover, I opted
to rummage through my desk drawers searching for an elusive journal.

I remembered something that might just be the ticket. I put on my
robe and ambled out of my apartment, onto the elevator and down to
the storage area. Most tenants get uncomfortable out by the storage
facility. Small fenced areas, that look like tall dog kennels, with
apartment numbers spray painted to plywood boards bolted to the door
of each space.

The shadowy peace of the cement walls cooled my burning arm and
slowed my brain, which was racing again – placing the blame no doubt
where Mr. Whiskers had – on me. My bare feet silently padded to my
kennel, 242. The padlock was icy in my grip as I turned the key, and
heard the metallic pop of it submitting to the key. The door opened
with a squeak and I stepped inside.

I turned my full attention to the boxes, stacked carelessly. Each
marked with a number or a name. I was looking for one name in
particular, Alex. Alex was a writer, if there were anything
resembling a journal, it would be in that box. I shoved past Billy
and Patrick, number 17 and finally found Alex trying to hide from my
hand behind Chris.

Perhaps it was the lack of sleep, or maybe I was still reeling from
being awakened by the squashed yowl of the cat, but Alex's box seemed
to have taken on some of his lesser characteristics. A rumpled, dusty
cereal box out of place along side sturdier liquor boxes. I touched
the dusty cardboard lightly and thought better of it. It wouldn't be
too long until the stores opened. I could wait a few short hours. NO,
I scolded myself. It was my first day of turning over this leaf. I
wasn't going to shirk from it. I nodded my head resolutely in
agreement with myself, which I do from time to time. I fear it's from
spending too much time with just myself, but I think it is more
likely to be a nervous tick that evolved into self-assurance.
I blushed, in the low light of the storage level. I must look like a
fool. Down here at three in the morning, having conversations with
myself whether to open a box or not. Sheesh! Just get it upstairs and
then go through it, I scolded myself. I brushed off most of the dust
and propped it under one arm. It started to dig into my hip as I
turned to close and lock the padlock.

For such a small box, it was heavy. Maybe not heavy but awkward, it
dug into the fleshy part of my abdomen on the ride back up to my
floor. I'm not sure if it was all the ice cream I had eaten or if it
was the unfinished business I was about to go through just for some
stupid notebook. When I reached my door the weight was unbearable.
Christ, what did he leave here that weighed so much?

I dropped the box on the table with an unusually light thud. I caught
the glance of Mr. Whiskers. He eyed the box and turned around,
shaking his back paw as he walked out of the kitchen.

"Fine, be pissed off." I told him. "I'm the one who feeds you. You
can't hold out forever."

I turned my attention to the box. I needed a notebook, or a pad of
paper. I opened it quickly, like ripping off a bandage. It wouldn't
help the hurt I knew the box held, but it couldn't harm doing it
quick. The box opened in a billow of dust and cobwebs. I peered in
and immediately wished I hadn't.

There lay a stack of letters and postcards wrapped up in a blue
ribbon. Alex was a very odd fellow. Sweet, very sensitive and
extremely odd. He'd write me letters, which in itself, wasn't out of
the ordinary. The thing is, the letters were the only way he
communicated anything important. I knew there was a bombshell to be
dropped if he walked in and went directly to his desk. I could still
see him, taking the last walk to his desk he ever took in our
apartment. I lifted the bundle and undid the ribbon. Everything was
there, our first hello to the crumpled and ripped sheet of stationary
that read, `I made a mistake loving you. I'll be moved out by
tomorrow afternoon.'

My eyes filled with tears as my fingers traced his scrawled writing.
It had been a good eight years since Alex wrote that. It still hurt
just as much as the day it was written. I set the letters aside and
started to dig deeper. Pictures of us, one of his Calvin Klein
shirts, pens, papers, the stuffed crab he had won me at the county
fair, but no notebooks.

I removed the shirt from the box and put it on. It didn't smell like
him anymore, but it felt like him. I felt like I used to feel when I
was with him. I had met him the summer before college, while I was
working at the local photo-mart. He never said hello, but I could
tell he wanted to. He must have gone through five hundred rolls of
film that summer. I never got the exact number from him, but it was
quite a lot. The last week of my employment that the photo-mart, I
found a note card slipped under the front door when I opened.

I picked up the card he had carefully written. Maybe it was just my
nerves, but I swear I could still feel the tension that was in him
when he wrote the note. It was very diplomatic and worded so it
couldn't be taken as an invitation for a date. I looked at the words
he wrote again, "Shannon, I noticed you will be leaving to attend
college soon. I will be going to the 9 o'clock movie tonight, I think
it may be one you might appreciate. Regards, Alex"

I laughed; it should have been my first clue to what type of animal
he turned out to be. I thought it was shy and a little intriguing. I
showed up at the 9 o'clock showing of Love's labors lost. We were the
only two in the theatre; there aren't too many Shakespeare fans in my
little hometown. I later found out he had rented the theatre and the
film operator owed him a favor. Somehow he procured the film, and had
waited hoping that I would understand the subtlety.

His communication quirk wasn't all that bad, mostly. He always
thought things through before bringing them to my attention. There
was no room for misinterpretation, and our whole relationship was
there in my hand. His declaration of love, our first date, our first
kiss, his insecurities, his dreams, his jealousies – all tied up
neatly in a blue bow. I love him for it, as much as I hate him, for
keeping the wound fresh as the day he left.

I set down the notes and began to dig around in the box again. I
found his pen, and small leather bound book. The cover was embossed
with my initials, gilded letters that were chipping off, revealing
the black leather below. The coolness of the book made my hands feel
at ease. It had been my last birthday gift from Alex. I opened the
cover and the leather creaked a weak objection. Inside was an
inscription from him. It read, `Shannon, this book may not mean much
right now, but it was meant to hold your dreams and your fears. In
this book, you will build the life you write.'

I don't recall the inscription being there when it was given to me. I
could have sworn that I threw it out long ago. No matter, I found
what I needed to write. And write I shall.
I clicked the pen and wrote the first line I've ever written that
hasn't been because of some necessity.

The losers, lovers and life of Shannon Thomas

I thought about underlining it, but it made me feel depressed enough
coming to the conclusion that putting all my antics – most
humiliating at worst and unflattering at best – was bad enough. Why
should I emphasize it? I tapped the pen against the top of the page.
How do I go about this? Do I just start writing?

I tried to recall how Alex went through the process of writing. He
would open the blinds in the apartment, turn on the stereo and select
a CD that fit his mood. He would then walk towards his desk, pull out
the chair. Circle it once, turn the chair so the back was facing the
desk and sit down so the back of the chair was resting against his
chest. I used to stifle a giggle when I watched him. It was so
mechanical, and precise. If it was not performed perfectly, he
wouldn't be able to write. I chalked it up to his eccentricity, until
one day I burst out laughing at him. He had forgotten to circle the
chair before sitting down and fell off the chair. I had never seen
him so angry. He was unable to write for a week. I learned that it
was to get into the gear of writing, just as an actor needs time to
get into character, a writer needed a ritual so to speak. I stood up,
book and pen in hand.

Alex's desk still sat between the two windows looking down onto Main
Street. I walked towards it, fearing it would send an electric jolt
of pain if I touched it. I set down my journal and pen on the worn
wooden desk. I opened the left blind, pulled out the chair, circled
it once clockwise and walked to the right blind. I pulled that one
and circled the chair once more, but counterclockwise this time. I
felt idiotic and childish but Alex was my only reference when it came
to writing. If it was good enough for him, it was damn well good
enough for me. I continued my path to the radio, selected a mix tape
and started the music. I took two steps backwards, spun with the
music and walked back to the chair. I sat down, grabbed my Yankees
cap and pulled my hair up under it.

All at once, I felt I could do this. Writing wasn't so hard. People
do it all the time. This is going to be a cakewalk.

Chapter Three:

I woke with a start at about twenty minutes past ten. For a
moment, I really wondered if I had crept out of my bed in a fit of
sleep walking. That fancy deflated as soon as I swiveled around in
the desk chair and saw the disemboweled box named Alex dead on my
kitchen table. I groaned as I stood. My rear was numb and my feet
felt like they had been stolen during the early morning and replaced
with splintered stilts. I staggered into the bathroom, accidentally
stepping on Mr. Whiskers' tail along the way. Two for two, if I keep
this up I'll find a surprise in my favorite black shoes. I feebly
tossed him an apology as I entered the bathroom and rested
momentarily against the sink. The split second after I pressed my
forearms onto the cold porcelain, I let out a small yelp. Forgot
about that damn cat bite. I was considering hissing back at the cat
when my reflection put a chokehold on my attention.

My Yankees cap was askew to the left, hiding the left side of
my forehead and a portion of my cheek. The portion showing was
definitely the wrong shade. Blue. Deep, inky blue. It started
creeping up from my left corner of my mouth up to my cheekbone only
to drool back towards my ear and down my neck. The pen, Alex's
fountain pen. I grabbed for a towel and started to scrub at my face
with a vengeance. After an hours work, my face was a strange
combination of overly scrubbed skin and pale blue Rorshack tattoo
that was approximately the size of an inverted large pear. How could
I go into work like this?

Most women would have just fished a bottle of foundation out
of their makeup bag and done restorative measures. Unfortunately, I
am not most women. Foundation to me is the basement of a building and
my brain does not recognize the term, make-up bag. I looked at the
clock. 11:30 A.M. The only saving grace was the fact I scheduled half
a personal day for this morning. I would have just enough time to get
into my car and fly to work. I threw my clothes on and tried to style
my hair so my psych test face wouldn't be as noticeable.

It took three attempts to leave my apartment. The first time,
I realized that I had forgotten to feed the cat. The second try I
forgot my purse. The last time, I had to go back and grab that damn
journal. Ugh! I hate new resolutions. Once I was seated in my car and
cruising down the highway, it was ten minutes to noon. I put my foot
down on the gas and got into the passing lane. Everything would have
been fine and I would have been to work on time if it hadn't been for
the Minnesota State Officer, who incidentally clocked me going a
little over 90 in a 45-mph speed zone. At least I have my ID, I
thought to myself as I reached for my purse. I fished out the small
card and had it ready to hand the officer, when I noticed two things.
The lesser one was my license was two months expired. The larger
problem presented itself as I rolled down the window of my car and
peered up at the man in uniform.

"Billy?" I was glad I was sitting down. This wasn't going to
be an easy day.

"Well, hello there, Shannon. It's been some time since I saw
you." Billy's smile slowly poured onto his face, like honey.

Billy Lang is one of my very few weaknesses. I don't know if
it's his voice, or his ability to drive me from my inhibitions faster
than I had been driving. He grew up in Georgia, and there was still
something about him that emanated warmth. His voice made me blush as
I recalled some of the conversations we had shared.

"You were going pretty fast back there." The evenness of his
voice cleared my head. My face crimsoned.

"I was running late for work." I told my steering wheel.

"License and registration, Shannon?" He asked.

I handed him my expired card and reached into the glove box
for the registration.

"This is a nice picture of you." He softened his tone. His
thumb was covering the expiration date.

"Thank you." I stammered. I craned my head to look at
him. "Billy, I tried to call –"

"Wouldn't have done any good. I changed my number after,
well, you were there." He seemed embarrassed to recall the memory of
why we ended our short fling.

"Yes, I was. So was Alex, `cept he wasn't exactly invited."

"He wasn't all that happy about it. That's why I had to
change my number. He kept calling, sounded like he was reading a
script. I wish things would have been different." He shook his head.
You could have called me. If you were interested." I said
flatly. "However, that's not how life works, does it? It waits to
throw this on you, the morning after quite possibly the worst night
you have ever had. By the time you know what's happening, you're
pulled over by an ex on the way to quite possibly the most important
meeting you could have and then that's the moment it hits you. BAM!"
I slammed my hand down on the horn, making Billy nearly jump out of
his shoes.

I continued, "You would chew off an appendage to get away
without letting on you haven't brushed your teeth, and you have a
mark on your face that would rival Gorbechev's birthmark any day of
the year, `cept yours is the most delicate shade of robin's egg blue
and complements of the Bickford Pen Company. And all this is because
you had the bright idea to try to outwit fate by making yourself a
cheat sheet!" I slumped forward in my seat and let my head drop onto
the wheel.

"Umm." Billy shifted from one foot to the other.

"By the way, the license expired two months ago." I mumbled
into the horn.

"I know. You should get over to the DMV to get it re-upped."
Billy said quietly, "So who was he?"

"Sorry?" I perked my head up and looked at him.

"It's not my first day on the job, I know there are only
three reasons why a person is as prone to a rambling fit, like the
one you just had. It's a) guilt, b) nerves or c) bad break up the
night before. You are too open to be guilty about anything, so that
counts out a). You and I have nothing left to be nervous about and so
it's not b). So, I assumed it was c) bad break up. That and you are
still wearing your bedroom slippers." Billy pointed to my feet. I
looked down and there they were, in all their fuzzy glory, my purple
and black Holstein print slippers. I wanted to die, literally self-
combust or melt into a pool of goo.

"Of all the days-" I whispered.

Chapter four:

Half a chocolate crème pie, three pots of coffee and three
hours later, Billy and I were sitting across from each other at a
hole in the wall diner.

"Is this kosher?" I asked him.

"What? The pie?" Billy cracked, "I didn't know became Jewish."

"No, not the pie. This," I grinned and motioned to the dingy
establishment, "Us. You're on duty."

"Damn! I knew I was forgetting something." He turned and
called after our waitress, "Miss, I think you cleared away my walkie-
talkie and pistol along with our plates."

"Are you ever serious?" I threw my napkin at him, laughing.

"Not if I can help it." He winked at me. "I finished a twelve
hour shift just about ten minutes before you sped by. I was wrapping
up some paperwork, but your car caught my attention. I have to say,
Shannon, I am very glad I decided to pinch you. Do you think it's
possible we could try starting over with us?"

"I don't normally drive like that. It's just-" Here I was
with a very attractive man, in uniform (what a plus!), explaining my
driving behaviors to him after he asked me to pick up where we had
left off. "Starting over? As in pick me up at seven on Friday,
starting over?" AM I DAFT? Why am I questioning this?

"Well, I work until seven on Friday. Would you accept eight
and a bottle of wine as a consolation? We could discuss this matter
at length." His sticky smile flashed again. He caught me watching his
mouth as I talked. I could feel my face start to redden.

"Um, eight would be fine. I would like that," I sounded like
an idiot, "a lot."

"Good!" He placed his hand on the table; his middle finger
was barely touching mine. I haven't felt that kind of electricity
since the time I accidentally touched the coils in my toaster with a
knife. A crash from the kitchen brought me back to reality, my
meeting!

"Oh my God!" I looked at my wrist. My watch read quarter to
four.

"What?" Billy looked like he had said too much.

"It's not you, I was heading to a meeting. I'm lunchmeat. How
could I have been so stupid!" I kept looking from the booth to my
watch and back again, when I realized when I said. "Oh shit, I didn't
mean you." I reached out and placed my hand on his.

"I know that, Shannon." His eyes dance when his
smiles. "Where do you work?"

"Madison Publishing Company. I used to be the assistant
advertisement director. Why?" I felt sick and dizzy.

"Don't count your unemployment money yet. Let me see what I
can do. This might take a few minutes." Billy got up and walked to
the payphone up front. My eyes followed him nervously. What was he up
to, and why?

I took the opportunity to open my purse and fish for a mint.
I felt the corner press into my palm. The notebook. I retrieved it
and set it in front of me. Its smooth leather cooled my palms. I
opened it to the page I had slept on. I had started making a list of
names, every male who had the unfortunate luck in dating me. I
figured it would be easiest for me to start out with an outline and
fill them in from there. It was numbered in order of occurrence and
neatly written out with a small memory jog placed under it.

1. Kenny – my first boyfriend, age 13 – 34 months
2. Eric – junior prom, age 16 – 3 months
3. Ryan – senior prom, age 17 – 8 months
4. Alex – Photo-mart, age 18 – 18 months
5. Billy – and inky pool covered the rest of this entry.

I had stopped at Billy. I thought it a bit odd I would fall asleep at
such a point, and then run into Billy after almost 9 years of no
contact. I chalked it up coincidence as I saw Billy walking back to
the booth. I shot him a hopeful look.

"Well?" I leaned forward.

"You had everyone so frightened, Ma'am. Don't you know a single woman
should be carrying her cell phone for instances like this?" Billy
winked at me. "A single lady like yourself, should have one
especially when your car broke down." I raised an eyebrow as I
nodded. Your boss told me to relay a message to you."

"Yes?"

"He said, `Tell her that no meeting is worth getting sunstroke over.
I'll catch her up on Monday, when she comes in.'" A smile was growing
on his face.

"Sunstroke?" I shook my head.

"Yes, I stopped because you had been trying to hitch hike after your
engine overheated. It's illegal in the State of Minnesota. I
explained to him, while I was writing out your ticket, you passed out
from what was determined as sunstroke. It's over ninety degrees out
on the highway today. You're lucky I stopped."

"Of all the-" I sat there with my mouth open. I couldn't believe what
I was hearing.

"You should really think about a cell phone. You could have saved us
a lot of worry."

"Monday? It's only Wednesday. Are you sure he said Monday?"

"Well, that was my suggestion to him. Make sure you have time to
recover completely."

"He bought all of this?"

"I'm a state patrol. I will have to write you a warning for hitch
hiking to make it all good, but I'll let you off with a warning this
time. And you have until Monday for that blue thing on your face to
wear off."

"Owe you my first born for saving my butt like that."

"There is a price." Billy touched his index finger to my
thumb and dragged it across my hand.

"And that would be?" I asked cautiously.

"That you move our date up to tonight. Say about 8ish?" Billy
asked hopefully.

"I supposed I could arrange that. Do all officers have such
devotion to all their hitch hikers?" I smiled and grabbed the check.

"Only the ones that wear purple cow slippers." His laugh was
full and I was compelled to join in with him.

Chapter five:

I let out a scream of disbelief and joy as soon as I had
closed the door to my apartment. Billy Forestt! The only man I have
fantasized about for nine years. The only tangeable man that is. I
have my share of fantasies with Harrison Ford and Michael J. Fox, but
they aren't attainable. I can't imagine in my wildest dreams the
oppurtunity to run into Harrison and wind up talking to him for three
hours in a diner. Billy is not only attainable, but seems very
willing to be caught.

I look into the hallway mirror and told the blue stained face
looking back at me with a crazy look in her eyes,

"He wants to cook dinner here. Tonight!" I let out a girlish
squeal and drop my keys on the sideboard underneath the mirror. I
trip out of my slippers as I attempt to take them off while walking
towards the bedroom. The wall catches my fall and I just laugh as I
continue down the hall.

I know exactly what I'm going to wear. Last month, I bought a
little black dress. It was cut a little lower than the comfort level
agreed on, and it clung to all the right places. I had planned on
using it next week, when Thom and I went away for the weekend to
spend our four year anniversary. Those plans had been changed
abruptly, due to the minor fact I caught him and my best friend in
bed together. I have yet to pack up boxes for Thom or Steven. It
would have been bad enough to find Thom in bed with a woman, but
Steve? What a way to come out of the closet.

I laid the dress out on my bed and went back to retrieve my
black shoes. Mr. Whiskers must have gotten over our incident without
much anguish to his fragile psyche, for my shoes were still clean and
dry. It helped to feed him the fancy food this morning. cats always
forgive through their stomachs.

I decided to take advantage of my short break from life. The
first thing I was going to do was take a nice hot, extremely long
bath. Usually, during the week especially, a bath is unheard of. A
five minute shower is a time management necessity. I grinned to
myself as I bent over and brought my faucet alive with a squeaking
twist. What a treat! A mid-week date and the time to actually enjoy
it, it was almost worth the ink stain on my face. Almost.

I checked the water temperature and threw some bath soap in.
I'm going to do this right and enjoy every second of these next four
days. I walked to the bedroom and grabbed a few candles and a
lighter. The clock met me while I was walking back to the bathroom.
It was only quarter to six. Billy wasn't scheduled to arrive until
eight.

My thoughts wandered back to the leather bound book in my
purse as I set the candles down on the counter and lit them. I should
take some time to fulfill my commitment to it. I turned off the
steaming faucet and decided to grab the book. I had never seen Alex
write in the bathtub. His writing ritual didn't get me anywhere but
asleep on his fountain pen. From now on I'd write on my terms, my way.

I grabbed an apple out of the fridge on my way to retrieve
the journal. Baths make me hungry. They always have. A few years
back, Thom walked in on me during one of my sacred baths. He didn't
notice I was there until he was zipping up. I don't know who was more
embarrassed, him reaching for the handle of the toilet or me sitting
in bubbles mid-sandwich.

Afterwards, I found his embarrassment hilarious but
unexplainable. Thom didn't see it as such. I still don't understand.
A man can belch, grab himself, or relieve gas in a crowd and laugh
about it; or worse - complement each other on it. However, when it
comes to unintentionally urinating in front of the woman he's lived
with, and slept with, for the past three years made him blush like a
niaeve school-girl. I laughed out loud, apple in hand. Maybe he was
embarrassed of my eating while bathing.

I grabbed the purse and fished out the book and my trusty
generic black pen. I never appreciated the man who invented the
ballpoint pen before. I have a hunch he fell asleep on his fountain
pen one too many times and was determined to not have it happen
again.

To be continued…..

Story time is on its way!