She was there when I needed someone the most.
She was there on that awful stain of a 517 Thursday. A shitty day, full of shitty airplanes, tacked on to the end of another shitty week.
Maybe I was just grouchy; maybe I was just manstruating my way through another shift of maniac, Mittened madness. Maybe I was still hungover from the night before; maybe it was an indecipherable combination of reasons spawning all the suck.
I just knew that I needed to tap the fuck out for a second.
I needed to catch my breath. And to realign my head into a better place. Because I was honestly about thirty seconds away from jumping headfirst into a rotating jet engine.
Figuratively, of course. I’d never do that to my coworkers. The paperwork alone would be monumentally brutal. Nevermind the lasting mental traumas. Or the horror of the resulting cleanup of a meat crayon smear, sprayed at high velocity across the ramp.
So for the first time since I’ve been battling Michigan tin, I passed off the responsibility for kicking out the big jet. And allowed myself the tactical retreat of a momentary temper tantrum.
The clock was ticking; the engines were spooling. I had to get the fuck off the baked tarmac.
Into the cluttered haze of a claustrophobic Old Town night, I made my escape.
She recognized me as soon as I stepped out of a little green car. The one that rudely rolled up like a douche on a warm summer’s eve. At exactly twenty minutes before closing time.
I admittedly possess a shocking number of unflattering attributes. And I have long ago made my peace with those insufficiencies. So it was a bit surprising to find myself in the position of being… memorable.
The brightness of her recognition made me smile. And her willingness to throw me a last call made me want to marry her. Because it was the kindest thing anyone has done for me in a very long time. And I sincerely appreciated the generosity.
The contrast of the scene was impossible to shake.
The way she leaned forward against the black barricade to better chat with the food truck jockeys. Black leather-ish pants. Black T-shirt. Black ball cap, turned around in “rally cap” fashion, affording an unobstructed view of her thoughtful eyes.
It made me feel shockingly out of place in my sweat-soaked, high-viz ridiculousness. The blue collar kit and cloth, reeking of the ramp, despite a few shots of a better scent sprayed. And battered I.D. badges hanging from a neck still gritty and irritated from the unexpected blast of an unwanted 757 taxiing out.
I felt self-conscious.
Especially when she smiled a greeting my way.
After she turned inside to dutifully retrieve my mug from the club, I stealthily opened a deer-battered passenger side door. Because on that seat sat some silly words I had hoped to give her the week before.
But our paths didn’t happen to cross that night. A night I spent alone, feeling kind of down, sitting under the protective canopy of that majestic Old Town oak overlooking the spot where the fish are supposedly laddered up.
The blast of conditioned air made me shiver walking in. It was a staggering transition from the heat and muck into the chilled darkness of a familiar bar room serenity.
She laddered in her own way up to my mug. The one with “Typewriter Fox” engraved on it. And showed me the kindness of a freshly, and properly, poured pint.
In return, I slapped the words I had written on the bar and slid them in her direction. She was momentarily confused until I explained what they were. And the reasons behind sharing them in that unconventional manner.
She said that she was genuinely excited to read them after once having inelegantly experienced a sample. On the very night we first met. That random 517 Sunday when she had unexpectedly picked up a weekend shift.
She found that first glimpse of the writing beautiful; I thought she was the prettiest girl I’ve yet seen in Michigan. But given that she was working at the time, she was unable to continue with that initial reading. And it was important to me that she finish the piece.
Because as with most things I write, it inevitably takes a bit of a hard left turn.
And I wanted her to know the story.
Other, more inebriated, patrons began demanding her attention as she efficiently tackled all the closing chores. I sat quietly on my end of the bar stool and waited out the awkward vibe. Because despite knowing she can quite clearly handle herself, I still didn’t want to leave her alone until I knew for certain that she was safe. Otherwise, that uncertainty would have lingered uncomfortably.
I am left to wonder if she’s read the words. And if she did, her opinion of them.
There are a lot of days, with a lot more airplanes, before I will be afforded the opportunity to see her smile get that review. And probably a lot of nights, with a lot more pints, to help drown out that empty time.
I will just push through the suffocation of another Michigan heatwave; I will just keep kicking uncooperative tin.
But something tells me that I won’t be able to make it to work next Thursday night.
Because there’s someplace more important where I need to be…
