catch 22 (m.c. au)

one ; weird colored hair

"Mommy, please can we go to the park? Look, I finished all of my carrots!" My daughter pleaded, tugging on the bottom of my sweater.

    "James, you're in your pajamas still. Let's get you changed first and then we can go to the park. Not for too long though, okay? Auntie Gemma's coming over later to stay with you while Mommy goes to work." I couldn't even finish my sentence as my rambunctious four-year-old yanked me by the arm. James could not sit still while I was picking out her clothes, I swear it's like this kid is on a constant sugar high, and I don't even give her that much sugar. Then again, she does love the park. It's the cutest thing watching her play make-believe by herself, obviously catching the attention of other toddlers, and next thing you know, the whole park has joined her. It wasn't majorly cold today, the thing that I love about Portland's autumn season, so I decided on putting her in a precious little pastel pink peplum long sleeve, light denim jeans, and her (okay, more like my) favorite brown booties. I was originally thinking about putting her in a dress and some tights, but then I remembered that last time she wore that attire to the park she ended up with dirt stained tights covered in holes. Jeans, it is. Two quick little ponytails later, James was practically sprinting down the stairs.

   

    Once we arrived to our park, James instantly let go of my hand and started chasing butterflies to the playground. I couldn't help but chuckle, she was truly a one-of-a-kind kid. I sat on a bench not too far away from the playground so that I could keep an eye on James. It was a wooden bench with iron fixtures, black paint peeling off the edges. There was a fragile elder lady sitting to the right of me. She softly smiled at me before diving back into the tattered book she was holding, Pride and Prejudice. Ah, a classic.

    I was lost in the guilt-ridden world of Instagram and photo editing apps. VSCO Cam? 10/10 would recommend. I was in the middle of picking a filter for a picture of James that I took today before she decided to become an Olympic runner when I heard a toddler-sized "Ouch!" and a toddler giggle. Out of instinct, I rose and scanned the playground area for my James. She was standing in a pile of autumn colored leaves, tracing her small finger along a man's arm. I immediately rushed over, hopefully before she blurts out something embarrassing or causes this man any trouble. As I was inching closer, I was able to distinguish their conversation.

    "Are you sure you're okay?" The man said to her, brushing the dirt off her knee. Oh boy, she fell.

    "Mommy says not to talk to men with lots of drawings on their arms and weird colored hair," She started poking at the toothpaste colored strands of hair peeking out from under his beanie. JAMES. STOP.

    "Oh my god, I am so sorry. She's quite the social butterfly and talks anyone and everyone she has a chance to talk to." I bent down to James' height, "James, what happened? I heard an 'ouch' and a giggle. Which one belonged to you?"

    "This little boy was running and he ran into me and I fell down onto the ground! He was so rude, Mommy! He didn't even say sorry!" James shouted all in one breath, resting pout face following shortly after. "But Michael came along and helped me up. He seems really nice Mommy, even though he has lots of pictures on his arms and blue hair."

    A little boy James' age with lilac colored hair and checkered vans came running towards us. "That's him Mommy! That's the little rascal that pushed me down and didn't apol-jize!"

    "Do you wanna come play race cars with me?" The little rascal smiled at James and grabbed her hand. She looked up at me, asking for permission. I laughed and nodded my head. Well at least now I know that James won't hold too long of a grudge.

    "Cedar, hey. This is James, earlier you accidentally pushed her down while you were running. Obviously James is a nice girl and isn't mad at you anymore. Quit being a little rascal, okay bud?" So-called Michael quickly pecked the top of the toddler's lilac mop before ruffling it up. He nodded and intertwined his fingers with James and they ran off together back to the playground.

    "Michael, right? Hey, thanks for helping my daugh-"

    He cut me off mid-sentence, "You know, you really shouldn't be teaching your daughter to be so judgmental."

    O-kay, well he is asking for it. He knows me for, what, six seconds? And he's telling me how to raise my daughter? "And that's coming from the guy who's ruining his son's hair."

    "Ahem. Godson slash nephew. Cedar's my best friend's kid. And I'm not ruining his hair, I'm letting him be unique and the most badass four-year-old." Michael replied with given snootiness in his tone. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his mildly distressed black jeans. "So, you have a name, Mystery Mom?"

    "I'm Aren." I followed as Michael started walking to the bench that I had previously been sitting on. The old lady was gone though. "Hmm.. what are you.. A-A-R-O-N or E-R-I-N?"

    "A-R-E-N, actually. My mother wanted to name me Wren and my father wanted to name me Arielle. So they compromised." I pulled the ends of my sleeves over my palms, warming them up from the breeze but also hiding the clamminess they started to have. Why did James have to bump into such a cute stranger?

    "Wouldn't it be pronounced AH-ren, then? Y'know, because of AH-rielle?" He laughed and I caught a very small accent in his voice when he said wouldn't, I can't figure out what it is though.

    "Yes, Michael, because AH-ren sounds so much more pleasing than AIR-en," my eyes rolled back as Michael was still in fits of laughter.

    An hour has past since I met Michael, and I have learned so much about him already. First off, he's got no filter and will talk about anything just to keep the conversation going, hence why I know so much about him in such little time. He's Australian and grew up there until he was six and he and his family moved to good ol' Oregon, so he's lost majority of his accent but it still shows up here and there. He's twenty-three and owns his own record store, Catch 22. He's an Oregon State University dropout, however he was Music and Business major. Oh! And he dyes his hair every few months because he believes he's a "nonconformist," and is "making Thoreau and Emerson proud." In conclusion, Michael Parker is definitely an...er, acquired taste. 

    "Michael, I really enjoyed this, but I have to get James home and get ready for work." I started to stand but he tugged my arm.

    "Wait, where do you work? C'mon, I told you mine." He looked up at me with his olive colored eyes.

    I let out a sigh, "Oxford Coffee. There, can I leave now?"

    He smugly smiled and let go of my forearm, "Later, AH-ren."