Thank you. Come again.

It made my soul shudder to see that neighborhood again last week in the same way that the smell of the cologne my mother bought me for my twentieth Christmas does. The debauchery that went on every Friday and Saturday night in that first apartment; the bags and bags of empty cans and bottles; the beautiful young sacks of skin and bone, sans heart and dignity, leaving in the piercing morning light: it's not a time that makes any of us present proud. That doesn't mean it didn't happen. That doesn't let it escape this dreaded keyboard. You live, you learn, and you try to stop hurting-- yourself and others-- or you don't and the cycle continues. It's a conscious choice, much like the one I made to stop at the gas station at the light where I used to refuel and buy smokes.

This creature of habit parked in the same spot where he did six years ago, only this time in a nicer vehicle. I walked into the store in search of a refreshing drink to quench the thirst of a nine-hour day of working on a ladder in itchy, fibrous insulation. The Indian woman who owns the convenience store instantly recognized me after all that time. Her eyes lit up making her coffee-colored skin look darker. The smile that followed was the only greeting I needed to spark a conversation.

"You remember me after all these years?" I asked, my hoarse voice unabashedly surprised.

"Of course I do. My husband and I always wondered what ever happened to you." I refrained from telling her that I wondered the same.

An image of the man shot into my head. He was the same diminutive height as his wife with a similar complexion and jet black hair. A thin moustache perched above his lip as if to counteract his soft features and define his masculinity. His voice was pleasantly melodic, even when he was speaking on the telephone with some relative or friend in his native tongue while scooping my change from the register. Part of me was sad that he wasn't there alongside his wife whom I answered with a brief "I moved across town." I didn't go into detail. I didn't say how or why. She looked at me and nodded, telling me that my reply had sufficed. I turned and walked back towards the wall of refrigerated glass doors.

A bottle of red grapefruit juice called my name from the beverage cooler. I plucked it from the rack and returned to the counter where my Indian woman was waiting to ring me up. The phone was tucked between her neck and her ear this time, though. We wouldn't be continuing our discussion. I wanted to ask how her daughter was. She must be big by now, I thought. The pony-tailed pre-schooler used to follow her parents around the store every day and mimick their movements. Training for the next generation. Eastern cultures have us beat when it comes to keeping a business in the family. I admire that.

The door swung open and a middle-aged woman hurried in carrying her purse as if there was a small animal inside of it that had to come out for air. I swung my hand forward in a gesture that beckoned her to go before me. "Chivalry isn't dead," never left her lips as she urgently handed the shopkeeper a bill from her wallet, but it didn't bother me any. I was trying to stall to see if the Indian woman would end her telephone conversation so we could chat some more. I wanted to ask about her daughter, her husband, if they'd had any more kids. I wanted to tell her I'd switched to light cigarettes and then cut back to the "only when I drink" routine. I'm not sure why, but I wanted to tell her a lot of things. She knew me back then and she knew me now, but she didn't know that I'd changed in some ways. I don't wear that cologne anymore. I don't have to change the sheets quite as often. The bottles have slowed down, the cans disappeared altogether. And I'm learning what it is to sift the wheat from the chaff.

That confessional never came to be, however. She dropped a few coins into my cupped hand and winked at me as she squawked something mysteriously foreign into the mouthpiece of the telephone. That's life, I thought. No memory's perfect-- not even when typed in size-ten Arial to reflect upon in the comfort of an air-conditioned room.



Currently reading:
"Inside Delta Force" by Eric L. Haney.