Like Dizzy Gillespie's Cheeks

Seventy

I was motivated. I was pumped. I had no time to make small talk with Springer, Smitty, Marge, or especially Jerry (the drunk, not the talk show host). I had to get home and check out the tapes. Bring on the tears. Send in the clowns. Whatever it took, baby. I just wanted to get on with my life. I felt stuck in neutral—not going anywhere. I was at the stop light of life, waiting for it to turn green. It was the longest fucking light I'd ever been at.

I couldn't tell you what he said, what I said, or what epiphany showed itself, but for some reason having the talk with Andy opened me up. It was as though he opened my chest up, physically reached inside, shook up all my organs, and then stuck his head inside and screamed as loudly as he could. He was a straight shooter. Telling it like it is—not knowing any other way. He was like Ben in that way. Maybe that's what I reacted to, feeling a little of Ben back in my life. Not that I was looking for it, but nonetheless, it was an emotion that I finally didn't mind letting into my life.

There's nothing like frozen tracks, a delayed train, and lots of cranky, hot people squished together to bring me back down to earth. I don't know why I'm so stubborn about cab vs. train. Maybe it's because on the train, I don't have to talk to anyone, and when I take a cab, I feel obligated to talk to the driver. Not saying I do, because as I said before, I just like to give a couple direction pointers, sit back, and leave the driving to him.

Because everyone was jammed on this train like it was Hong Kong at rush hour, the sweat quotient was way up. Not to mention, the heat pouring out of the vents was on the Sahara setting. So here's a train where everyone was sweating, but they were cool about it. We're talking Palm Desert hot, but it didn't matter. No one was complaining, just sweating. Foreheads were glowing; women had jackets open, complete with wet, shiny cleavages, as well as the typical sweat beads falling from the tips of noses.

I was fortunate enough to get a seat, so the bumping and grinding that others were experiencing didn't bother me. But I am convinced, and it's happened to me, where I believe lonely women like to ride on a crowded "L" so they can have some innocent physical contact. Either rubbing their butts or thighs, or if it's crowded enough and the position lends itself, you'll get some frontal rubbing.

The only thing that bothered me about having a seat was what was inscribed by knifepoint into the back of the seat in front of me. Scrawled into the plastic, painstakingly, making sure the capital letters were all in place, were the words, "Would You Still Kill Me?" Someone really had this question? What did it mean, and why was it there? Was it a cry for help or a warning of some sort? Was it the beginning of a poem, or the end of someone's life?

It was too much to think about. I ended up getting off at the next stop and grabbing a cab to my place. The cab driver was listening to, as well as playing loudly, the Bulls on the radio, and seemed fairly content with that scenario. I didn't feel the need to talk and comfort his lonely ass.

Because of Ben, my place was a damn mess. And the trunk being open for so many days had polluted my flat with the smell of mothballs, mildew, and, of course, that hint of mouse bones. I still hadn't cleaned or put stuff away since I excavated the trunk with Kate.

Although the heat was on and it was cold outside, I opened a window. ("Close the window, we're not paying to heat the neighborhood," my father said in my mind's eye.) I carefully started to pile everything but the tapes back into the trunk. There was so much to look at, so much to read, so much to just hold in my hands, that it was difficult not to be distracted by any of it. But I was strong—I figured there would be plenty of time to wade through it all at some point. Maybe I'd even donate the heap to a museum ... maybe.

So with the pictures, clippings, and souvenirs back in place in the trunk, I piled the tape cartons on the piano. Being there were thirty exactly, I piled them in stacks of six. That is until I got to the last pile, and I only came up with five. I got that sinking feeling in my stomach. I felt panicked. I ran to the couch. I looked on the couch, under the couch, between the cushions—where the hell was that last tape? I backtracked to the piano. I looked in the piano, under the piano, near the phone, in the cabinets on the way to the kitchen, in the kitchen—I grabbed a beer, some chips—what would it mean if I couldn't find the last tape. I wasn't sure who or what was on the tape—and at that, I'm not sure it made it any better.