Short Story Collection

Graceland

When he thought of summer, he thought of that one, seemingly endless summer when they were caught between child- and adulthood. He saw it before him like an old video recording, or as if he was looking through one of those glasses that filtered out the blue in the world. He thought of her in the passenger's side, with the window rolled down because she didn't give a fuck about the dust that whirled in. He could hear the playlist she made specifically for this road trip: full of Simon and Garfunkel and Kansas and John Denver because she said their songs 'just gave off this dusty Mid-West sound vibe'. He didn't complain: just sang along to Graceland when it came on.

///

They traded in the ocean for the Sequoia National Park and marveled at the ginormous trees. They had taken pictures of each other as they tried to hug a trunk, but their arms didn't even go halfway around. She had bounded up to another couple and asked them if they would take some pictures of them together, and promised to return the favor. When they reached around the trunk together, their fingertips just touched. It had sent jolts up spine and sparks through his blood.

///

In the mental film his mind had created from the footage of that road trip, he saw her laughing as she flicked her not-quite-brown, not-quite-blonde braid over her shoulder. The faded colors of her tie-dye tank top that she dyed herself. He thought of her dancing in her seat when her favorite song came on, or that one time he pulled the car aside in the middle of a desert because it had started the rain and she insisted on blasting her playlist and dancing in the rain, and he couldn't deny her anything. How she hadn't seemed even slightly bothered by the extreme temperatures as they drove through Death Valley because she wasn't impressed by much. He remembered wondering that if not even the vast emptiness and cracked earth of Death Valley could impress her, how could he? How they had lied side by side in the cargo hold of his pickup truck at the edge of the desert that same night, as she pointed out constellations to him and he could remember asking her if she thought there was other life out there. She had laughed and said that of course there was, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. They had made a stop with the sole purpose of climbing one of the hills the next day, and then they had both been awestruck because in the distance, the hills had snow on them.

///

She had taught him how to play Texas Hold 'Em in Amarillo, which wasn't exactly easy considering it was just the two of them, and it somehow escalated to some strip poker that left him in nothing but his underwear and socks, while she only had to take off her shirt and casually played on in her bra –her logic was that a bra was pretty much like a bikini. He tried not to blush too hard about the absence of their clothes but he was sure that when she laughed, it was over his embarrassment. He didn't mind, because he knew she wasn't laughing because his awkwardness amused her, but because she had known him since they were six and she found it adorable that she could still get him to blush.

///

Oklahoma was endless plains only interrupted by wooden poles with electricity wires strung between them, and the occasional farm. It was making fun of weird names some of the towns had –like Corn and Bessie- and she was hoping they might see a tornado while they were in Tornado Alley. Unfortunately for her, but much to his relief, they didn't. She sulked about it for an hour or two and then got excited about seeing a tree.

///

Arkansas had trees. Not grand forests –not that they saw, at least, but it definitely had more trees than Oklahoma. Arkansas also had lakes, which was amazing because they hadn't seen a natural body of water since leaving San Jose. She asked him to pull over, had stripped to her undergarments and leaped into one of the lakes. He wasn't sure if swimming there was allowed, but he pulled off his clothes until he was in his boxers and jumped in after her. They swam until the sun started to set and then laid down in the back of his truck to dry up.

///

Tennessee was where they had been headed. Memphis, to be precise. The entire hour before they reached the city, she had been singing Walking In Memphis. They walked by the pier and visited Graceland, and as they took a tour through Elvis Presley's Meditation Garden, she told him of the conspiracy theory that Elvis was secretly alive and living it up in Brazil. They had both burst out in laughter over her exaggeratedly serious voice, and her obvious wink, and earned themselves some angry looks from other tourists. When they had gotten back into the car after two days in Memphis, she had asked: "Why don't we just keep driving? We could kick it to the Big Apple. Hell, we could go all the way to Maine."

He suspected his eyes had been a little incredulous when he asked: "What about college?"

"College can wait another year," she'd replied. "We're young and stupid now."

"We can go to New York next year," he had said. "We'll still be young and stupid then." Then he had nudged her gently with his elbow and added: "You'll certainly be."

She had bitten down on her lip and turned her head to look out the window, a tell-tale sign that she was upset, and for a moment he wondered if he had insulted her. Until she suddenly said: "You'll be young and stupid next year. I won't be. I won't be here at all next year."

"Why? Are you moving to Europe or something?" he had asked, unable to keep the irritation out of his voice: she was always so straightforward, and the way she seemed to be stalling was making him anxious.

Upon hearing his annoyance, she whipped her head back, her green eyes burning furiously. She snapped: "Because next year, I'll be dead!"

A terrible silence had fallen between them and seemed to stretch out for hours, despite only thirty seconds passing. She repeated it, calmer now, and more as if she was trying to convince herself. "Because next year, I'll be dead. Brain tumor. Six months at most. So, yay for me, I guess."

He had haphazardly stumbled out of the door and threw up on the sidewalk. She had scrambled out of the car and knelt beside him, her hand on his back. "Oh no. No, it's okay. It's alright, I'm not afraid."

He could hear she was crying and it made him feel even more miserable because he should be comforting her, not the other way around. But how the hell was he supposed to comfort her when his own tears were falling onto the pavement?

///

Half a year was an overestimation. She died not even three months later. She had texted him all the videos and photos she'd made during their road trip before she passed away, but he hadn't looked at any of them yet. He wasn't sure he could without collapsing again, and he didn't want to risk that: he had already wasted two precious months of his life on being absolutely shattered by her death, and he knew she would've slapped him for it if she had still been alive. But if the photos were torture, the videos were hell: because at least in the photos, he couldn't see the shadows of streetlights flit across her face for the briefest of moments, or hear her laugh. He wanted nothing more than to hear that laugh one more time, but he also knew that right now, it would only hurt him more. So he settled for the mental movie, and decided it wasn't half bad. She would've agreed.

Title taken from Graceland by Paul Simon.