by BT Urruela
“Ah, Christian Slater fan, I take it? Ever seen Pump Up the Volume?”
“Of course… Pretty much anything anti-authority, public unrest based and I’m in,” I say, grinning.
She nods her head slowly, her lips pursed and brows lifted. “Oh, so you’re one of those mischievous guys… the rule breaker type.”
I think back to elementary school, middle school, shit, even high school, and all I can remember is trying my best to disrupt the monotony of the day. I’m not proud of it, but class disruption was at the top of that list. Putting my pointer and thumb up with little space between them, and an eye closed, I say, “Maybe just a little.” I return my hand to my side and laugh. “Yeah, total degenerate. I can’t help it. It’s fun to go against the grain.”
“I genuinely wouldn’t know anything about that,” she says with a timid giggle. “Small-town girl, remember? I was definitely the straight edge type growing up. I guess I never really grew out of it.”
“Nothing wrong with that. Where’s the fun in all of us being the same? I do have to ask, though…” I hesitate for a moment, wondering if I’ll be crossing the line with this, but I continue anyway. “What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done.”
Her eyes fall to her feet, a nervous smile on her face. “I don’t even know,” she responds, shaking her head and looking back up at me. “I haven’t done much in the way of that.”
I draw back, passing her a look of doubt. “Come on now. There has to be something.”
She hesitates for a moment, her gaze drifting out to nothing, as if she’s thinking and then she shrugs. “I went cow tipping with my high school boyfriend once… I mean, I didn’t actually partake, but I watched him and his friends do it. I felt terrible afterward,” she says, a slight red taking up her porcelain cheeks.
“No way. That’s not the craziest,” I say, shaking my head. “I don’t buy it.”
“I swear,” she says, her face getting redder. “I just… I don’t know… I’ve always been school-oriented. And I didn’t want to ever disappoint my parents. And now, with the job…” Her voice trails and eyes wander to the passing people.
“Hey…” I put my hands up in retreat. “No judgment here at all. I haven’t really done a whole lot in mine either. Outside of some fistfights and maybe a bit of property damage,” I mutter with a grin and she shoots me a curious look.
“Well then, I guess it’d be time for me to ask what your craziest experience has been,” she says and I abruptly laugh.
“What did I get myself into?” I ask, and she just shrugs with a cute little smirk on her face.
“Yeah, how does it feel being on the other end?” she asks, leaning in a bit.
“I mean, I think my experience may out-crazy yours just a little.” I laugh, my focus shifting to the marble silhouette before us. “When I was in high school… senior year… I was dating this girl. First real girlfriend I ever had. She was a super miserable person, but I was blinded by those first love feelings. All that usual high school nonsense.” I roll my eyes and shrug. “You know what I mean?”
“Oh yeah. I think it happens to the best of us,” she replies, a look of intrigue on her face. “And…”
“And so, she used to get completely fucked… I mean, belligerent drunk… without me, and most of the time, beyond a few bruises the next morning and tangents the night of, she’d wind up in bed without much consequence. That wasn’t the case this particular night. She called me up while I was still working—some shit fast food job—and she’s bawling her eyes out. I can barely make out what she’s saying. She hangs up on me and I call her back, and we go through this cycle a few times before I’m able to get out of her that she had been assaulted.” I pause, and she’s leaning in completely now. “I guess she was at her friend’s trailer, whose boyfriend was hanging with them. They all got shit-canned and he followed her into the bathroom… forced himself on her… touched her, but luckily her yelling scared him and got him off her before anything else could happen.” I stop for a moment, feeling a rush of paranoia washing over me. “I’m probably sharing too much, huh?” I ask, followed by a nervous laugh.
She immediately shakes her head. “Not one bit. I’m intrigued. Now you have to finish,” she says with a sweet little giggle I admire for a moment.
“Well, remember, I got all this information over about five phone calls and having to decipher it from drunk speak. All while I’m trying to finish up my shift at work. So, I’m frustrated as all hell. I end up leaving work early and driving to her house, where her friend had dropped her off. Once I got there, she was sprawled out on her bed, shoes still on, and snoring.” I chuckle, shaking my head as I remember the complete pile of shit that night really was. “I manage to wake her up, and she’s at least sobered up enough to give me the gist of the story and the address.” I hesitate, clearing my throat and knowing full well the rest of the story should probably not be shared. Fuck it. We’re already this far. “I called up some of my harder friends and we brought bats with us to the trailer, hidden in our pants. He answers the door, and I talk our way in. The three of us pretty much sat him down and questioned him for a while. Bats in our hands at that point…” My voice trails as I notice her eyes have widened and her mouth gapes a bit.
“And…” she says.
“Impatient, much?” I ask, and she just shrugs.
“You started it, remember?”
I smile, nodding with acceptance, and say, “I just beat him up real good. We didn’t use the bats for anything other than intimidation purposes, nor did I have any intention to. The other guys, I’m not so sure. I didn’t let them jump in though, even with them raring to go, but I gave him something to remember me by.”
“How bad?” she asks, hardly hiding her morbid curiosity.
I chuckle, shaking my head slowly before continuing. “At one point, we made him do push-ups. He got a few of them done before anger took over. I could only think of her, backed into the bathroom counter, drunk and fighting off his advances… it consumed me. So… I—I ended up kind of soccer-kicking him in the face.”
She puts her hands to her mouth, pulling back a bit. “Holy crap! Did you kill him?” she questions, her hands still blocking her mouth.
The hot trail of anxiety sweeps over my shoulders again, and a tightness sits in my gut. “No… No… Nothing like that. She didn’t really talk to her friend much after that, but I guess he was just pretty, um, unrecognizable for a couple weeks, but nothing lasting. I’m not proud of it. But I’m not so sure I’d take it back either.”
She drops her hands and some of the shock leaves her face. “No, I mean, I can’t say he didn’t deserve it. Rape…” Her voice trails and she makes a look of disgust. “Just reprehensible… I just can’t believe that’s a real story and not from some movie,” she adds.
“No movie. Very real. And very nerve-rattling waiting to see if there would be any repercussions, either out of vengeance or law enforcement intervention. Nothing ever came of it though. And she and I didn’t last much longer after that. We graduated and thankfully drifted apart.”
There’s a momentary stillness between us that stirs the anxiety inside me more. I motion toward the next gallery. “You want to keep exploring?”
“Yeah,” she says, smiling, and standing slowly. “I swear I’m not judging.”
I stand too and we walk through to the next corridor. “It’s okay, really. I told you… I try to be transparent with people. And I did walk myself right into that,” I say, grinning, and she laughs. I admire the length of her neck as she does, the way it moves as she laughs, the smooth, flawless complexion of her face.
“That you did, sir,” she says. “So, I was obviously right about the bad boy vibes.”
“No way,” I respond, shaking my head. “I was a nerd growing up. The 80’s movies, rock music, reading… that was my life. I just grew up not putting up with shit and it carried over a bit into adulthood. Hasn’t been like that in ages though. I avoid the crowd
and shoot for low key, hole in the wall type spots these days.”
“I don’t think I’ve been to a bar in at least two months. And that was for maybe about forty-five minutes for a family event. I mostly do stuff like this with the little bit of free time I do have,” she says, motioning to the Ancient Egyptian pieces that now surround us.
“We are so incredibly different,” I blurt out, shaking my head. “You know that?”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Not bad, just… funny.”
“Being carbon copies of each other in a relationship isn’t always ideal. You need to have a little spice.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa… talking relationships already,” I say with my hands up, and dramatically taking a few steps back.
She darts her eyes to me, a furrow in her brow and she scoffs. “Oh please. Don’t get ahead of yourself, Mr. Hemingway. I’m generally speaking.”
“Of course. It is funny seeing the different couples, the interactions… I’m a people watcher, so I pick up on a lot.”
“In my time outside the classroom, I’m the same way, but inside, I’m dealing with a combination of arrogance, organized disruption, and a ridiculous lack of discipline. So, I try and keep all that out of my headspace while I’m there.”
“Sounds like I would’ve fit right in,” I jest with a sly smile.
“If you’re anywhere close to their level, we may need to cut this date short,” she says, chuckling.
“Don’t worry… I’m a reformed delinquent,” I reply and her laugh that follows echoes throughout the Great Hall as we pass back through on our way to the elevators.
Stepping off the lift on the second floor, we walk together into the early European painting corridor lined with Monets, Van Goghs, and Rembrandts.
“Oooo, my favorite,” she exclaims, bringing her hands together. “What’s yours?”
“I’m actually not really an art guy.”
She shoots me a judgmental look and rolls her eyes. “How can an author not appreciate art?” she asks, continuing along the outside wall. “Aren’t they kind of in the same category?”
“It’s not that I don’t appreciate it,” I say defensively. “It’s just… a lot of things people consider art, I consider shit.”
“Couldn’t the same be said about the book world?”
“Certainly. There’s plenty of shit in the book world too.”
“And you don’t think any of your readers may have thought the same about your own books?” she asks, her face warm and innocent, but her words sting like sweat in the eyes.
“Well shit, I guess so… Though that’s not really on the same level. This stuff…” I motion to the walls. “And a lot of what we’ve seen today, I would certainly consider to be art. I’m talking more this new era of ‘art.’ I’m talking the beat to shit couch somebody pulled out of the dumpster, titled it, and sold it as art.”
“That’s not a thing. No way.” She shakes her head.
“Oh, it most certainly is. Read an article about it. That’s just the beginning. It’s happening like crazy now. The term art is generously used at this point.”
“Come on. You don’t want someone’s old couch hanging on your wall?” she asks with a giggle.
“I’d prefer a loveseat, but I guess a couch will do. I just don’t know how I’ll fit it with all the other couches in there.”
“Ohhh, a couch collector, are we? I’ve heard about you guys. What’s your most prized one? The one you just can’t live without?”
“You know. I was at this auction in Hoboken and they had this beautiful lime green piece that Marlon Brando once shit on. I couldn’t resist.”
She laughs, putting her hands to her mouth to catch herself, as it’s loud enough for most of the second floor to hear.
“Was that a snort?” I ask. She shakes her head with a wide smile as she drops her hands back to her sides.
“No sir, you must be hearing things,” she says, poking her tongue out at me.
“And here I was thinking the doctors got rid of the voices,” I muse and she laughs out loud again.
She raises her wrist as if she has a watch on, and says, “Will you look at the time… I better be going.” She drops her hand and smiles as we cross over into the American Wing. The brilliant historical portraits catch my eye, and I can feel her approach me from the side.
“So, you don’t hate all art, then?” she asks and I look over at her.
“I’m a history nerd,” I respond, looking back toward the painting of George Washington set in a flaked gold frame.
“Favorite era?” she asks. “I’m kind of a history nerd myself. More specifically, women’s role in the Civil War.”
Looking from the painting to her while continuing to walk, I say, “Civil War is definitely up there on my list. American history in general, really. Of course, I was the kid who studied American history textbooks during my summers.” I laugh and she flashes that gorgeous smile I wouldn’t mind seeing more of. “But I think World War II is my number one. The thing those guys went through. The fear they must have felt charging into some of those situations… it just baffles me. I’ve always had a lot of respect for that era. And my grandparents were in the heat of it, so I’m sure that’s a big part of it.”
“That’s amazing,” she says, her tone genuine. She looks off as if in thought and then continues, “I thought about becoming a high school history teacher. Before I chose special education, I mean.”
“Do you wish you had?” I ask as she looks back toward me.
“Sometimes,” she mutters.
“I always wanted to be a soldier… like my grandpa. It’s all I ever wanted to be. I thought it would make him proud. That, and I didn’t have a whole lot going for me back in Chicago.”
She stops, turning to me with a wrinkle in her brow. “Why didn’t you?”
“I had some bad leg injuries that kept me out,” I reply, shrugging. “Sometimes greater things are on the horizon waiting to be discovered. Though I often doubt it these days, in my heart, I know I was meant to be a writer. If I had become a soldier, and deployed… who knows if I would’ve ever had the chance to.”
“Very true,” she says, nodding, and beginning to walk again, now back toward the elevators.
“What you’re doing is great, you know? Not many people could do it,” I say, and a look of doubt passes over her face.
She forces a slight smile and shrugs as she presses the elevator’s down button and sets her back against the wall.
“I guess so. It’s just hard right now. I think they know I’m in over my head. And they take advantage of it.”
The elevator doors open and I put a hand out for her to go first. She nods before entering the elevator and I follow in after.
“I can only imagine every single experienced special ed teacher in the world has felt exactly what you’re feeling right now at some point or another.”
“Yeah, probably,” she says with a weak smile.
A vibration in my pocket pulls my attention as the doors open for the first floor. I retrieve my phone as we pass through the Great Hall.
Bobby: I’m heading to your house with a six-pack. Not a request.
I pocket my phone and lengthen my stride a bit to catch Sami before she reaches the door.
“Hey, you might want your jacket,” I say, holding it out for her, and she accepts it with gratitude.
“Yeah, I would’ve lasted maybe five seconds out there.” She giggles, slipping her jacket on and circling the scarf around her neck. I throw my own coat on and then walk outside, holding the door open for her. As she walks out, a gust of wind whips past the entryway, blowing her ponytail into wild spins. “See what I mean?” she asks, trapping her thick hair under the scarf.
“I know. And winter’s coming soon,” I groan, my face wrinkling in disgust.
She clears her throat and flashes a nervous smile as we slowly scale the massive set of stairs.
“I know i
t’s been a bit already, but what do you think about grabbing a drink or something somewhere?” she asks, her voice lower than it has been all day. It’s fucking adorable.
“Shit! I actually just got a text from my best friend and he’s unexpectedly stopping by my place. Long story, but I kinda have to meet up with him, otherwise I would love to,” I say as genuinely as I can, but I can tell by her face she thinks it’s an excuse. A slight look of embarrassment crosses her face, and I put a hand up as we reach the last step.
“No, seriously. How about a rain check?” I ask as we stand in the middle of the sidewalk, her arms crossed and eyes flitting everywhere but on me.
“Yeah, for sure,” she says, her eyes still away from mine.
“Hey, trust me. I’m the worst liar ever.” She looks back toward me and I pass her a warm smile. “You would tell instantly. And though it sounds like a shitty excuse, I really do gotta meet up with him. We had a little argument last night I need to apologize for,” I say, rolling my eyes.
She smiles, and her expression softens. “Uh oh. What did you do? And sorry, by the way, I didn’t mean to come off like some crazy person. You just never know with people on these apps. What their intentions are. Or where their interest lies.”
“No, I one hundred percent understand. My last few dates have been pretty brutal. Definitely not what their profiles led me to believe. As for Bobby…” My voice trails and I shrug. “I’m just a stubborn shit sometimes.”
“Let me guess, you’re a Scorpio?” she asks, a cute little grin taking up her face, now shades of pink from the cold.
“October 31st, actually. How’d you guess?”
“Halloween?” she asks, her eyes wide with excitement. “You lucky dog. That must make for a good time. And my last boyfriend was a Scorpio… I know how hard-headed you guys can be.” She smiles and shrugs, her eyes trailing down the sidewalk. “Well, Mr. Myers, I guess I’d be willing to see you again, though you may have to keep that stubborn business stifled.”
