Tripping on Tears (3 page)

Is there a God?

Good question. And, you know what; I can’t say definitively one way or another. I believe there is, as I believe there is a grand design regarding life and someone or something must be behind that grand design. Let me use an example that isn’t personal to me, but I believe illustrates my point.

Wilmer McLean.

You probably have never heard of him. In 1861, he and his family owned a farm near Manassas Junction along the banks of the Bull Run River. It was in his front yard that the first battle of the American Civil War was fought—a war that claimed the lives of 620,000 Americans. It was in 1865 in the remote hamlet of Appomattox, a town in which Wilmer had moved his family to escape the horrors of the war, having bought the Appomattox Court House, that Confederate General Robert E. Lee surrendered his Army of Virginia to Union General Ulysses S. Grant, thus ending the conflict. You could say the war started in Wilmer McLean’s front yard and ended in his front parlor. All of this could be coincidence, but throughout history there have been many such events that can’t help but make you think that somebody is up there pulling the strings and having a little fun with us. The symmetry of it all is amazing.

No, I wasn’t writing a book about the American Civil War, but bring this up, as the topic I did choose surprisingly reflected some of the issues that soon affected my life and turned me down the road to hatred. The book dealt with faith and beliefs and the arguments of both of those from opposing sides. It encompassed the relationship between two of the 19
th
and 20
th
Centuries most famous men,
but more on that later
. It’s a subject I researched exhaustively and one I could go on and on and on about indefinitely, but it only plays a small part in the narrative of my downfall. Let’s instead get to her and how she changed my life.

CHAPTER
Four

WHOEVER
Placed
solitaire on laptops was a genius. I’d been showing up at the cafe Koffee Krisp every day for two weeks; not because I loved coffee that much, although I did, but because of her. I don’t know what it was about her that captivated me; I didn’t need to know. All I knew was that I wanted to meet her, talk to her; what I also knew was that I was also a social coward. I wasn’t smooth; I wasn’t even close to smooth. I knew guys who could just sidle up to her and start a conversation and all would go well for them. I hated those guys. I had, as they say, no game. All I had was time on my hands, a laptop and an ability to consume an inordinate amount of coffee.

So every day, instead of staying home, organizing my research, and properly starting my new book, I traveled to Koffee Krisp, ordered my brew, sat down, opened my laptop and looked like I was consumed by whatever was on the screen, while all the while, sneaking furtive glances in her direction, and taking in her essence. That, in itself was a chore, as once I had her in my sights, I desperately wanted to hold her in my gaze, drinking in her beauty, but if I looked too long, she might notice and be a little disturbed or creeped out. I had to take quick looks, which just weren’t long enough to satisfy my desire to just watch her move around in our little caffeinated world.

Yes, while I tried to perfect being the best coffee shop Peeping Tom I could be—would Dad be proud?—I also had to look busy. There’s no point in pulling out the laptop unless I was going to look busy and engrossed with it. I mean it was the ultimate cliché, pulling out a laptop in a coffee shop and writing, but being a living cliché was what I was willing to become just to be near her. At least a cliché until I worked up the nerve to speak with her, if that ever happened. Despite the task ahead of me, and a deadline, I did very little writing. I used their Wi-Fi to check my email and surf the Internet; when I looked like I was typing or actually writing, I was generally composing my grocery list or a ‘To Do’ list, not actually writing anything of any substance. I’m sure from a distance, however, I looked good and thoughtful as I did so. I was pathetic, but that wasn’t what I was going for, and so long as no one could see the computer screen, that was my little secret.

Despite my desire to observe her, from time to time I did get caught up with my laptop and forget everything else. So, I didn’t see her approach the table beside me and start wiping it down, shortly after the young couple, who had been trying to have a quiet disagreement with one another, left. When I next looked up she was standing there, practically beside me, cleaning the table and looking in my direction, a big smile on her face. I was tongue-tied.

“You look deep in thought,” she said, still smiling.

“Huh?”

Yes, that was the best I was able to come up with. What a Player, right?

“You were looking rather intently at your screen. Something interesting?”

I did my best to recover and channel my smooth. If there was a betting line in Vegas, it was safe money I was going down in flames.

“Just writing,” I offered.

“Really? Book or screenplay?”

She knew the cliché. “Neither. Just my thoughts of the day. That sort of thing.”

Did that sound cool? I don’t know.

“Thoughts? You’re a philosopher.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“Well, what’s your thought of the day?”

Talk about being put on the spot. I’d actually been playing solitaire and concentrating a little too intently on the game; I was tired of losing.

“The penny,” I finally managed.

She looked puzzled. I don’t blame her.

“They’re phasing out the penny as currency. Money,” I said.

Jesus, where the hell was I going with this?

“And?” she asked.

Think, THINK, you bastard.

“They say it costs more than a penny to actually make a penny. So they have to phase it out.”

Again, she just looked at me. I don’t think I was wowing her. Actually, the word ‘boring’ came readily to mind.

“Well, what about a penny for your thoughts?” I finally added.

Her puzzled expression suddenly turned into a small smile.

“What is it now? A nickel for your thoughts? I mean, you talk about inflation. The cost of someone’s thoughts has risen five hundred percent, just like that. Now I’ve offered people a penny for their thoughts, and when they told them to me, I have to admit, I felt a little ripped off. I’d wanted a refund. Now, if I have to pay a nickel, my expectations are that much higher. I’m looking for value for my money.”

Surprisingly, her small smile turned into a bigger more engaging smile. It lit up her face.

“This is what you worry about?” she asked.

“Sure. What if someone offers me a penny for my thoughts? That’s not so bad, but a nickel for my thoughts, that’s a lot of pressure. They’re going to expect me to come up with something significant, thoughtful, and meaningful. What if the only thing going through my mind at the time is, ‘How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?’”

CRAP
. I was trying to engage this beautiful woman with observations about the penny and rambling incoherently about woodchucks. If that was channeling smooth, I was definitely going to die alone. Surprisingly, she laughed.

“You understand my dilemma.”

“Not really,” she said, playfully, “although, based on what you just told me, I would be looking for a refund on my nickel.”

She smiled broadly and moved away, heading back to the counter.

Me?

I was smitten.

The lines of communication were open, and while that would be enough for many men, it was going to take a little bit more before I could actually work up the nerve to ask her out, which I guess makes me more than a little pathetic, or does it? When you think about it, meeting that one person with whom you’re hoping you’ll spend the rest of your life, shouldn’t be so easy. Those guys who can talk easily to a million women, they’re just playing a numbers game, and if they get lucky they find that one woman. They’re not actually putting any thought into it. In actual fact, for the most part, they’re really just looking for a one night stand; a sexual partner and, I guess, in doing so it sometimes turns into something more. Finding true love, well, it shouldn’t be easy; it should be damned hard. When you think you’ve finally met that woman – THE woman – it should knock you back on your feet like a boxer who failed to block an incoming blow to the head. It should be intimidating and frightening. Why? Because it’s a once in a lifetime occurrence - at least hopefully it is. This woman should take your breath away. You should be living in fear of saying or doing something that would get in the way of the two of you developing a relationship. As much as you yearn for the relationship to develop, you should have a healthy fear of it slipping through your grasp.

That was how I felt sitting there pathetically in the coffee shop. My first thoughts, of course, were that she must all ready be in a relationship. Someone as stunningly beautiful as her must be. A stupid and simplistic assumption, I know, but one I was sure was right. Secondly, even if she wasn’t in a relationship, why would she want to go out with me? My parents were very supportive of me as a youth growing up, I was fairly popular in high school, so I didn’t suffer from an inferiority complex or anything like that, I just couldn’t see someone as exquisite as her wanting to have anything to do with me. Hell, after our brief exchange about the penny, my first opportunity to discover more about her than just how she looked, my fear that she wouldn’t want anything to do with me only increased. She was well spoken, engaging and had a sense of humor. That’s what I got out of our brief conversation. What did she get? The knowledge that I might be a really cheap person and that I knew too much about woodchucks?

Things changed after our brief encounter - for the better. I no longer had to sit silently in the coffee shop, sneaking furtive glances at her. Now, when I entered Koffee Krisp, she looked in my direction, smiled and greeted me with a cheerful, “Hello.” We were on a talking basis. It was wonderful, although, I knew, in the long run, not enough.

I continued my daily journey to the coffee shop, each day promising myself that today would be the day that I finally officially asked her out. And, you know what, on many of those days I actually came close to doing so. In my brief lifetime, I’ve watched many a movie where a character has been beating around the bush, trying to say something to another character, but just not able to get the words out. Always, in my mind, I’m screaming, ‘Why don’t you just say it, stupid. Just say what you want to say. How hard can it be?” It always seemed so simple; but now, in real life, I found myself unable to say what I wanted to really say. We engaged in some pleasantries and the conversation would be going well; I’d even manage to make her laugh from time to time, but when it came time to turn the conversation towards a date, the words always got stuck in my throat. I just couldn’t turn that corner, and I’d kick myself all the way home for being such a coward; for not having the balls to do what needed to be done.

Now I’m being hard on myself, but you also have to look at it from my perspective. First off, rejection is never fun, and by officially asking her out I was potentially inviting it into my life; if I asked her out and she said, “No,” then our present relationship, as tenuous as it was, would also change, and not for the better. My asking her out would always be out there; a point of tension between the two of us. On the other hand, we were now communicating and it was fun. I enjoyed our little talks, even though they were superficial in nature. I loved the sound of her voice; her little laugh, and her bigger laugh, when I finally managed to be wittier than I thought I could be. All of this was great, and I got to enjoy it every day, or at least every day when she was working. The more I continued to put off asking her out, the longer I got to enjoy those
moments
. I’d heard there was a study done on gamblers, and it was revealed that the real high they received from gambling was not in the winning, but in that
moment
, seconds before a card was turned over to reveal either victory or defeat - that was the real high. My conversations with her were my high; that was the
moment
before reality set in, when I asked her out and waited for any answer, which could possibly be, thanks but no thanks. If I did ask her out, I’d get an answer, and if I didn’t like it, the high would be gone. As long as I procrastinated on that front, the high still existed; the possibility in my mind that she would say yes. That was my high, and while I knew I couldn’t ride it forever, it was what was sustaining me through my cowardness.

I should also mention that having spoken with her and had the ice broken, I now got serious about my work. Rather than writing out lists and playing solitaire, I now set about the business of actually writing in the coffee shop.

“So, are you actually writing something, or still just working on your thought of the day?”

She took me by surprise. I’d been lost in my research notes and hadn’t noticed that she had moved close and was wiping down the table next to mine; our usual little dance.

“Huh?” I said, looking up from my laptop. I needed to get a better opening line; she’s going to think I’m an idiot.

Things were quiet in the coffee shop that morning. Unlike our past conversations that only lasted a few seconds, a minute if I was lucky, this time she seemed intent on talking longer, or at least I guess she did as she sat down in the chair across from me. She was looking at me intently. She was beautiful.

“You wouldn’t believe how many people come in here order a coffee and open up their laptops. Are there that many writers in the world? What is everyone doing, writing about?”

“Probably surfing porn,” I said.

That’s right, it always impresses a girl to bring up the subject of pornography. It didn’t matter whether or not she thought I was an idiot, I knew I was an idiot.

“Coffee and porn. An interesting combination,” she said, smiling. “So what is it you’re doing? Why is it you don’t have a day job?”

“This is my day job.”

“Really?”

“I’m writing a book. My second book actually.” It all came out sounding a little too rushed; not as cool and confident as I would have hoped.

“Your second book? You’ve written a book? An actual published book?”

“
The Sinful Delusion
,” I said.

She just looked at me blankly. The book had sold extremely well for my first effort; enough to get me a healthy advance on this second book, and enough to turn me into a full time writer, so I was hoping that maybe she had heard of it. I mean, that’s the only cache you’re going to get with a woman as a writer; the hope that she has either heard of the book you wrote or, if the Gods are smiling on you, has read the book you wrote and loved it. That’s our only hope for a rock star moment as writers. Based on the look on her face, I knew this was not one of those moments. Instead of feeling like a Rolling Stone I felt like a Bay City Roller.

“I’m a journalist, or at least I was, full time.
The Sinful Delusion
is my first book; a look at, well...”