#personal narration

Listen. I've been on this binge of watching Brothers & Sisters. You know, that old show from ABC? I guess it's not really old at this point, but it probably started in the early 2000s. ANYWAY, What is it about these shows that sucks me in? Quite dramatic. I suppose I don't have any drama in my life, though. Not really. Once your parents are divorced for 10+ years, things start to shake out and you find a weird, new normal. Things aren't quite as crazy as they used to be.

I didn't anticipate on this being a narration on divorce, but here it is. I was 13-years-old when my parents separated and eventually divorced. The road that we travelled was one of those Class B roads, the ones that have all this rough gravel and cause probably a hundred accidents a year. I remember wishing that my parents would be like those ones you see in movies who split (fairly) amicably and can maintain a decent conversation when they drop off the kids at each other's places. 

That wasn't how it was for us. My parents barely spoke to each other. At one point I was convinced that if I got in an accident, the one wouldn't call the other to tell them I was laying in a pool of blood. The entire situation forced me to grow up so much faster than I would have hoped. I took care of my parents in ways I imagine most teenagers don't. I witnessed drunken rages. I heard words laced with poison spit from my mom and dad's mouths. Words directed toward the ex-spouse, missiles aimed to blow up my relationship with the other. 

I don't miss that drama. I'm entirely too happy to be out of the thick of things, to not tiptoe around feelings.

I sit, perfectly positioned, in my Starbucks. I have the right to call it mine. Not only is it the only one on the whole island, but I also work here. I’m cozily cuddled into the corner of the single booth that conceals me from my closing co-workers, but allows me to look onto the other patrons lounging in the cafe and out onto the drowsy highway. The rain is still falling, but much less than it was earlier in the day. I’m lazily sipping at my grande white mocha, what I get when I have no idea what I REALLY want.

One of our regulars sits a few feet away from me in one of the two soft, brown leather arm chairs we have. He keeps glancing over at me, trying to decide whether he actually knows me or I just look a little too familiar. That’s the problem with working at Starbucks; customers rarely recognize you out of uniform. Especially mine. They can’t believe their eyes when they see their usual Dallas without her ponytail and some lipgloss thrown on haphazardly.

“Oh goodness I never realized how pretty you are!” They’ll exclaim.

“Yep. Hard to believe I have a life outside of here.” I’d like to sarcastically remark.

You have to understand that I’m not a writer. I don’t put things down on paper to make a difference in other people’s lives. I do it to make a difference in mine, so I remember important (but mostly not important) things later when it’s usefull. Almost like building an intellectual arsenal. Things I hope to live by, or repeat in an attempt to stimulate my mind; make me think.

I love thinking. When most people see me with some far off look in my eye, they assume the worst. That I’m dull, not very bright. Dim witted and rather stupid. That’s not the case. I’m far brighter than anyone knows. I was looked down on by others for being too smart, and tossed aside for not being smart enough. In my 18 years I’ve learned to keep my wild ideas and thoughts to myself. No one appreciates them as much as I do. Sometimes I think they’re just jealous that they didn’t think of it themselves.

Ashley, the closing shift, sits down in the stand alone chair opposite of me.

“Watcha writing about?”

“The constellation Capricornus.” I lie. I don’t write. That’s Brandy’s hobby.

“Oh. Ugh I’m so tempted to turn that damn sign off. The last few days…”

She drones on, I’m not really listening. Too busy typing away at this computer that’s too small for my aggressive typing.

“Going out for a cig. Ladies care to join?” Lee, the scruffy 30 something year old Jesus look alike asks us.

“Ew. No.” Ashley and I say in unison.

“To each his own.” He chirps on his way out the door.

By now, about twenty minutes have passed and two young men have walked in, placed their orders, and are now sitting at the table closest to me. They were talking of girls and different social events for quite a few minutes; but now their chatter has stopped. I can feel their gazes moving from my face to my typing hands, back to my face again. They stay silent for a minute or so, before I break the trance by switching from keyboard to phone. Their small talk is forced now, and shorter each time they recollect after staring. They talk of different exercise plans, how ‘ripped’ they are now. How many different ways can women say that they don’t care for such trivial matters?

Shit. The computer is about to die. Let me change my position…..ooooh. This feels weird.

As I move, I feel their eyes following every move. If their swiveling heads weren’t indication enough, they have fallen dead silent. Once I’ve taken my seat again, they hopelessly fail at keeping up small talk. I feel their hot stares burrowing into the back of my head and hands.

I’m not vain by any means. Sure, I may seem that way to those closest in my tiny circle of relationships, but that’s only so they don’t try to break apart the war I have ragging inside myself. Everyone I encounter says I’m quite gorgeous; mom often remarks on the stares she catches, the first words out my grandmother’s friends are almost always “Oh Wendy she’s absolutely beautiful.” It makes me uncomfortable.

Hunger pains are growing on my left side. All the tourists came through this morning and wiped our pastry case clean. I have dinner to make at home, but I need the closeness of other humans right now. I’ll be confined to that giant, empty house tomorrow, actually writing my Astronomy essay on the constellation Capricornus. As much as I loathe social interactions, being surrounded by others is nice. Plus, I know I won’t write when I get home. I’ll scroll down tumblr for hours and rewatch all of season 1 of ‘Hannibal’.

My ex boyfriend (if that’s what you can call a guy you dated for 3 weeks) just texted me, letting me know how drunk he is. It’s 8 o’clock. And a Sunday. Who the hell is he getting wastey pants with? His friends don’t do that kind of shit. They still battle fucking pokemon cards and play with their Nintendo DSs for fuck’s sake. At least I wait until 9:30 to crack open the grapey. Speaking of which, I have a lovely bottle of Cab beckoning me. He’s so fucking weird, I get awkward chills just thinking about it.

This is fun. If writing was more like narrating, I could do it more often.

Change is brewing in my soul, and I welcome it with open arms.

On my trip to Ajmer in India 7 years ago, my family met this man who took us around the Mosque and helped us with our prayers and warned me as I was about step on a black plastic bag that was apparently cursed. He gave us his phone number and told us to call him when we came back. This is just some normal dude on the street.

7 years later my parents return and had forgetting his phone number back in Sydney and were like Oh shit, guess we're going to have to figure it out ourselves this time. Their driver decided to take a smaller road instead of the main road cause traffic, and they stopped to ask a random man on the street for directions. It was the exact same man. He was like "oh my god it's you. where are your children? why did you never call me." HE REMEMBERED AFTER 7 YEARS HOLY SHIT HE MEETS HUNDREDS OF FAMILIES LIKE US EACH YEAR. 

He then took them into the Mosque. This is like a crazy busy Mosque, there are thousands of people visiting and he just happened to be waiting on that smaller street. Anyways he took them into the Mosque, and he whipped out this huge golden key from his pocket. Turns out he is the great-great grandson of the saint who is buried there. And he allowed my parents to visit his tomb and place a large cloth over it and make a prayer. 

I am just in awe and so envious of my parents. And what are the chances of the same man being in that exact place 7 years later. And he remembers us. And he let my parents visit the tomb. I just can't even deal with this.