VIN (a.k.a. "Untitled") Pt 2

What do you do after an exit like that? Nothing much. I continue scribbling and decide that the handsome Spaniard doesn’t have to be as tall as I originally pictured him. Average height is okay for the Spaniard. He is handsome after all. I sip on my coffee for a bit and wonder what a woman does with a handsome Spaniard. Is finding oneself alone with a handsome Spaniard any different than finding oneself alone with an action hero, a prince, or the funny, sweet man that lives down the block? Yes. Adventure...there has to be an adventure when one meets a Spaniard.

“What are you doing today?” Kelly asks. She’s standing in the kitchen entry as she puts on her coat.

“There’s a new exhibit at the museum that I was going to check out. Paintings, windmills, I think.”

Kelly nods but does not respond. She doesn’t get my fondness for a good art exhibit but she respects it. There’s a knock on the door.

“I’m late.” She says as she hands me her empty mug. “Pizza and binge watching later?” She asks.

“That was our plan.”

It was our last Saturday night binge. Next Saturday she’d be cuddled up with Tulio, his kids, and the latest from Walt Disney.

“Feed Don Quixote for me?” She asks.

I nod. There’s more knocking, urgent this time.

“In a minute.” Kelly calls. “No “Masterpiece Theater” this time.” She says, looking at me.

“That’s what you get for your “Call The Midwife” marathon.” I respond with a grin.

“‘Call The Midwife’ is an excellent show.”

“Not for anyone who’s planning on breeding anytime soon.”

“What are we watching?” She asks.

“I haven’t decided yet.” It isn’t a lie. I haven’t decided yet. It’s a toss up between an old series about Henry VIII’s wives that explores each individual marriage. One hour per marriage and the most in- depth documentary to date on Vincent Van Gogh with special emphasis on the events leading up to as well as including the ear incident. It’s a little bit mean, I know, but that’s what she gets for abandoning me to lead the life that everyone is supposed to be working towards. Home, family, dog in the yard, white picket fence. Dog poop kind of stinks. I hope she knows that. If she doesn’t know it, Tulio’s in for a really bad day.

One last burst of knocking.

“I’m coming! Keep your shirt on.” Kelly calls. “I’ll see you by eight? Bye.” She says as she opens the door.

“Okay bye.”

I hear Kelly as she enters the hallway. “Tulio, what are you doing? Put that back on.”

“I thought that you said to get undressed, you were ready for me.”

“Why would I say that? You know that I don’t do those things in public places.”

“There’s a first time for everything?” He offers.

“Put your shirt on!”

Have fun Tulio. You picked her.

It’s Saturday. It’s supposed to be an easy day. Today is one of the most difficult Saturdays that I have had in a long time. The pending loss of my roommate and my therapy cat, my inability to get a raise that would cover the rest of the rent so that I could keep the apartment on my own...did I mention that? Now, the empty day before me...it all feels like too much. I’ve worked so hard to do all of the right things. It’s not fair!

“It’s not fair!” rings through the diner. Did I mention that I’m in a diner now? I left the apartment and walked four blocks to my favorite diner while I was rattling on about my problems.

“Whoever told you that life was fair?” A tallish man asks a dark-haired boy sitting on the stool nearest the cash register. He looks to be about ten. The kid, not the man. For a moment I’m irritated. The man is being mean.

Mean Man hands the waitress cash, looks down at the kid, and says, “Life says ‘no’ to you now, so it can say ‘yes’ to you later. The ‘yes’ you get later is usually better than whatever you lost the chance to have to begin with.”

The kid looks up at the man who’s accepting his change from the waitress, he looks down at his comic book before the man notices.

Mean Man leans down and whispers something to the dark-haired boy. I can’t hear what it is, it must have been funny because the kid, the Not-Necessarily Mean Man, and the waitress all smile and laugh. For a moment, I wish that I could have heard him too. I spend most of my time shutting other sounds out, not letting them in. I smile at their happiness in spite of myself. I’m hoping that I’m giving the usual non-committal ‘you can’t tell if I’m smiling or not’ half-smile; I must have slipped and smiled more because the man turns his head, looks right at me, and smiles back. That was an accident right? Yes, an accident. It’s just a piece of the smile remaining from the moment that came before.

I look down and begin writing something. Anything. Quickly. V-I-N.

“Vin.” Not-Necessarily Mean Man’s voice reads from behind me. “What’s Vin?”

He’s looking at my notebook, he’s talking to me? What the hell? Okay, it’s fine. Breathe deep and answer calmly.

“Vin is my name.”

VIN (a.k.a. "Untitled")

  True confession: I am a dreamer. A hard core dreamer. When life gets to be too painful, overwhelming, scary, difficult; when I can’t understand why something is the way that it is...whatever you want to call it. I dream. I write elaborate narratives with my imagination to make things more...palatable. For a time, it got me into a little bit of trouble.

  There are one or two people who will never speak to me again. There is a year or two that I don’t remember very well. You might say that I have coping issues. My coping mechanism wasn’t, healthy? I don’t know. I do know that like alcohol, drugs, or sleeping around, every time that life got difficult I would imagine a different life. Not just wish for it. But imagine it, down to the last detail. One where the career of my dreams, the adventure of a lifetime, or the man who I decided was the one to complete me would sweep in and make it all better. Or at least make me feel like it was all better. When the going got tough I spent every spare moment that I could dreaming of something better.

  Was I delusional? Yes and no. My roommate’s ex says that I am...was...am? Who listens to that ya-hoo anyway. The dipshit sleeps around. My roommate insists that I’m not. She says that I kept myself from becoming delusional and that I should be proud of it. I want to believe her but, to be honest, she has her own issues. She may or may not stalk her ex by reading his books and then reading all of the books that he references in his books while she’s practically engaged to somebody else. Apparently good mental health is hard to come by these days. If you have it, cherish it.

  Back to my point, in an effort to pull myself out of this pattern of this delusional/borderline delusional behavior, I began to weave stories. Ones that others could read. Ones that weren’t so centered on what I was hoping for. I love it. It is an endeavor that propels me through life. When times are at their toughest, I know that I can always pull out pen and paper. I can write about other dream worlds. Much healthier ones.

  During the hard times, just like the urge for a shot or a cigarette. Just one...to take the edge off, my need for other options pulls at me fiercely.

Today is one of those days.

  My words stare at me from the page, messy and frantically scribbled: what it, what if, what if...my...no... a tall handsome man…no a Spaniard...

“What are you writing?” My roommate Kelly asks as she enters the kitchen.

“Nothing.” I answer. I cover the words with one hand and lift my mug of coffee with the other.

Kelly doesn’t look alarmed or ask questions. She removes a clean mug from the cabinet and pours herself some coffee. She’s wearing one of her “Saturday Out With My Man” outfits. I can always tell what Kelly is doing on any given day by her outfit. I like that in a roommate. I know what to expect before I even talk to her.

“Tulio and I are going to look at dining sets.” She announces.

“Why?”

“With me moving in soon and his kids having their long summer visit, even longer if Maria goes through with her wedding...the table at his house doesn’t seat six.”

“He has three kids. That’s five people.”

“Dining sets are typically built to seat even numbered groups of people. The dining table should seat six. At least.”

“It’s official, you should dump him.”

“I thought that you liked Tulio.”

“I do.” I say. “But, that man is moving way too fast with all of this ‘longer dining table’ business. He needs to let you get used to kids’ meals in the mini-van before moving on to the dining table.”

“You just don’t want me to leave.” Kelly says with a grin.

“I don’t. I’ll be living alone. I suck at living alone.”

“No you don’t. You won’t be living alone. You’ll need to get another roommate in order to cover the rent.”

Which is the exact moment that Don Quixote jumps on to the table and demands attention. The calico cat looks at me with his calico eyes (one green and one blue) and meows. I pet him, he collapses on to my notebook purring loudly.

“I choose, Don Quixote.” I announce looking at the cat who in return looks at me adoringly. “I will be expecting his half of the rent a week before the end of every month.”

“The Don is coming with me.” She says.

“Don Quixote is my therapy cat.”

“We’ll get you your own therapy cat.”

“I already have Don Quixote.” I counter. Don Quixote looks at Kelly and meows.

Her phone vibrates on the table. The display reads: Tulio.

“It’s Brutus.” I announce.

Kelly rolls her eyes, picks up the phone, and leaves the kitchen with my therapy cat on her heels. Traitor.