SWEET NECTAR AND THE HEADPHONED APPARITION

Ha! I wrote this a few years ago in a class. I never finished editing it. Lots of work to do. I just found it on a disk, thought it was lost. :)

SWEET NECTAR AND THE HEADPHONED APPARITION
a bill wetzel joint

She is lovely, soft and lithe with piceous hair falling downward just beneath her shoulders. Her eyes the color of almonds; her skin a brown, beige mauve, and siena conglomeration of ambiguous exotica.
In an attempt to determine her ethnicity, my resolve fell on Indian-from India not the American Indian version from which I am a descendant- but she may emerge in aura as Columbian or Indonesian for all that it matters. Her pageantry rests in sweeping femininity rather than exuding in raw sexuality.
Walking towards a bench, she flows to a standstill then fastens a pair of headphones over her ears.
“My God,” I exhale, “She is so beautiful it almost hurts to look at her.”
These were my initial thoughts of her as I wait for the bus number fifteen on the University of Arizona campus.
This is my introduction to an apparition which would since come only to be known as the Headphone Girl.
***
Coffee. For a moment, my mind departs and ponders if the world revolves around coffee. How millions painfully rise every morning only to enact life in tour de force fashion once they swill their first cup of coffee. Emerging from fatigue, refreshed to battle the world all on account of ingesting a pleasant morning beverage.
Happier than a Hindu cow.
Where I am at would be Seattle, Washington, lounging on the floor in my friend Cliff’s apartment, as he and another friend, Dan, drone on about something I’m not paying attention to or particularly give a shit about.
What I am doing would be reading a self-help book for shy people which was scattered, hidden in a pile of novels, dvds and assorted papers, lingering for someone bored like myself to inevitably snatch it from the floor. Inside there is a chapter informing on the intricacies of being a “Successful, Shy Lover.”
Within minutes this chapter holds me ensconced in a spell, inquiring onto myself the questions that are posed. Could I be a successful, shy lover? Am I even shy? Maybe. Maybe not. Shyness is not precisely a diaphanous application when labeled to my personality.
Never have I had trouble making friends. I am constantly quick to crack a joke, even make a total fool out of myself in front of others for a lark. Laid back at times, perhaps, but definitely not shy. Right? In fact, I told myself, I know many girls. A fair share of these delightful creatures are friends of mine.
Wait a minute.
The operative word in that sentence was “friends.”
Nothing more.
So with this realization renewing value into the “Successful, Shy Lover” chapter, my eyes begin plodding forward, engorging information, configuring every word and sentence together until they all took on some semblance of form.
This chapter just might be the link to my evolution into a player, mackdaddy or- Heaven may grant- a pimp.
***
Seven in the morning. A light mist hovers in the air, the remnant from a smattering of aurora rain: cars, trucks, suburban utility vehicles, and school buses speed like worker bees past the bus stop near the Roger and Campbell intersection in Tucson, Arizona.
“Hey big man, how’s it going?”
I yawn a hello back to a middle-aged black man, whose name forever escapes my tongue, then amble toward a large, rainbow colored whale that is swimming to a stop in front of a congregation of morning commuters. These are my fifteen minute friends. Everyday we board the same bus at the same time, then travel as a group to mostly separate destinations. My typical riding time before arriving at the university is around fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes with strangers who all distinguish each other with polite reciprocal nods. Lurching in ennui has never held so much desperation.
I take my last step onto the bus, the driver smiles a manufactured hello, her hands white-knuckle gripped on the steering wheel. In a single motion, I nod, swipe my pass, turn and pull a healthy swig of coffee out of my favorite Arizona Wildcat mug.
For an instant an image of a Hindu cow flashes to mind.
Shaking off sleep, I rip blindly down the aisle, in emulation of a shaken, punch drunk prize fighter then seize a seat to my right and near the back door.
The machine is an overwhelming sight, brim-filled with people, stuffed with every character imaginable. A melting pot microcosm in full effect. Ordinarily, a packed bus is a load of banter, there is a certain appreciation in listening to other people’s conversations. A voyeuristic pleasure in viewing others at work over the course of daily monotony. But, early mornings are often haunted, tinged with golden slumbered memories, sleep winking in passenger’s eyes, their tongues tied from narcotic stupor.
Morning rides are highlighted distinctly by one character and he, thankfully, climbs on at the stop after mine, unknowingly prepared to entertain. Strikingly blonde, with brown rough leather skin and a scrawny, skeleton build, he wears amber framed sunglasses, taped, horribly crooked and minus the lenses. These are perched precariously on the slope of his nose, a sight so humorous that I stifle my laughter for fear of offense.
Despite a lack of proper medical knowledge, my gut instinct deduces that this odd little fellow is suffering from Tourette’s syndrome. I observe as he twitches, talks to himself, yells slurs and throws punches at thin air. I am gleeful as the two women on both sides of him appear scared completely shitless.
“Ah, good times,” I mutter quietly, sipping another taste of coffee.
These are my actions as faint music begins to resonate, crawling deliberately into my ears.
Rotating, my breath in check, I encounter an apparition, an enticing allure etched in the absolute essence of my mind.
Almond eyes.
Piceous hair.
Jamming with her headphones on.
***
“Hey, this shit just might fucking work!” I yell excitedly.
Maybe a bit too excitedly.
Cliff and Dan pause their conversation then shoot disgusted, penetrating bolts at me before looking away and resuming whatever comic book geek drivel they were elaborating back and forth on.
Meanwhile, this shy lover advice is making perfect sense to me. Maybe I don’t make eye contact enough. Maybe I am somewhat self-conscious.
Maybe I, too, can become a successful, shy lover.
So this brings me full circle back to coffee.
See, I was raised on the mean streets of Cut Bank, Montana; my parent’s farm located six miles west of town on the Blackfeet Indian Reservation. A minute city, so bone chillingly cold the civic leaders have erected a penguin statue on the outskirts of town with an inscription that states Cut Bank is, indeed, the coldest spot in the nation.
I hate this statue with a passion in which words cannot bring true justice to the disdain.
More on penguins later.
On days that can reach forty below zero, hot coffee is essentially the sweet nectar of life, the welcome coordinator of endless streams of conversations and visiting sessions. Coffee is a reason to get together. To meet people. Hear the news. Share a laugh.
Back home, coffee is served tar-black with bacon, eggs, hashbrowns and toast drenched in butter- a heart attack special brought to you by a greasy spoon waitress who has known you since before your own recollection.
Then I moved to the Pacific Northwest, which changed my perspective on coffee forever.
Before moving to Seattle, my world did not consist of Italian sodas or biscottis, but was instead ruled by some kind of old school sludge slopped in a stained cup or Town Pump mug. Being an uncultured heathen, my knowledge held nothing of venti, grande, tall or short, but only large, small, and -dare I say?- bottomless sizes. Yes, to put it bluntly, I was a hick.
A naïve, shit-kicking, straight-out-of-the-sticks, Montana hick.
Soon this little reservation farmboy, was sucked up in the fast life and big city ways of mochas, cappuccinos and lattes. Careening downward in an out of control spiral. Despite many attempts to quit, it came upon me that my social coffee drinking had evolved into an addiction. Without the caffeine rush blasting through my veins, my mood became hostile, irritable, some would say, downright pugnacious.
What did not help the situation is that, for a caffeine addict, residing in Seattle is akin to an alcoholic having an apartment next to the refrigeration section of the Anheuser-Busch factory.
Inside my head were visions of myself, panhandling outside Starbuck’s, begging for change all in order to imbibe some of that sweet, hot, precious liquid. Me. The coffee version of a crackhead. The melancholy, pathetic Mochahead. Acting out stupid jokes and trading sexual favors in desperate acts to fuel my demons.
This was not a pretty picture.
So, after being accepted to attend college at the University of Arizona, I vowed to taper off my java intake before it became too late for recovery and there was no turning back.
To be a successful shy lover you must alter your self-destructive ways.
***
My heart has ceased to function. My stomach is churning into knots as my breath shallows into miniscule spasms, not even sucking in enough air for hyperventilations. My Headphone Girl is swaying, ever delicately, with a song, a svelte pendulum pressing back and forth between a bus window and my left arm. Rhythmic. Gorgeously redundant. My greatest consternation is my heart may not last the next ten minutes without the ability to beat.
“If I write this story the only person who will ever believe me will be Gabriel Garcia Marquez," I conjecture.
By now several months has elapsed since the first day my gaze fell upon her beauty. Often, I saw her around campus, the bus stop, or on the same bus, yet never once did I approach. If not for those headphones she would be mine. Perceiving myself as a gentleman for not interrupting the songs that she loved. These are my excuses. This is my out of touch rationale.
Usually, I observe in reticence, solitary, enthralled by the mystique of this apparition, haunted by movements, and I imagine my knowledge of who she is and the life she lives. I think of jokes to tell. Questions to ask. Where are you from? What is your major? Have you ever smacked into a door?
I ask the latter only because klutzy women are among the sexiest on the planet.
She remains a study of perpetual motion, never tranquil even while resting. Always the headphones. Constantly a pendulum. Her effortless walk, gliding as if she were stream water, rolling over a bed of stones. My notion is that she should forever be sliding in slow motion, hair blowing in the wind, those almond eyes piercing toward a movie camera as a director prepared to yell cut, yet never did. Blending grace and beauty like an old time movie star-like Marilyn Monroe-except God does not make women like that anymore.
Although he still does some damn fine work I might add.
For an instant, she glances over at me, which simultaneously breaks my amorous visions and jolts my heart back into palpitations, beating quick and strong, as if they have to make up for lost time.
“I think she likes my cologne.” I guess.
Drakkar Noir. Big pimpin’ it all the way. You would think I just wandered out of a Jay-Z video my confidence is soaring so much. Then, right on cue, the self-doubt creeps into the picture.
“Maybe she thinks I reek."
My mind is racing as I deftly sniff my shirt and find that it was ok.
R-E-L-I-E-F
::Whew::
I recline in the seat telling myself everything that I ever wanted to say to her. I buy her a tattoo, name a star in her honor, give her roses, buy big gulps and carry a briefcase halfway across the country for no other reason than it is for her.
I pull a Lloyd Dobler outside her window, hands straight up in the air holding a ghetto blaster, playing all those songs from her headphones that I never get to hear.
The bottled words I never say.
This is what I am thinking about as she took her headphones off.
***
To be a successful, shy lover you need to engage in normal conversation.
This is easier said than done.
My biggest adversary could be trying too hard. I am like Jim Carrey in “Dumb and Dumber”, bumbling into messes, practicing my words then jumbling them up into a mixed up idiotic montage until there is no hope of a happy ending.
Back in my “drinking, whoring,” days, which consisted of much more drinking then whoring, the liquid courage factor could not be discounted. Not to mention, I was usually hitting on some fence-post, dumb teenybopper, who was easier to get into than Arizona State once she swallowed a few beers. In lieu of my reformed ways this factor is no longer on my side, so normal conversation has its barriers. Walk up to someone you do not know. Come up with small talk. Be funny. Be interesting. Make sure your fly is zipped up. Try not to come off as a leering weirdo.
This all necessitates a tremendous amount of balls.
To be fair in this whole evolutionary process, I must honestly admit precedent and incorporate the asshole factor, as well. Ok, being a former sensitive nice guy a concept came into mind many years ago and I now live by the credo that “Nice guys finish last.”
All of the typical male-female bullshit requires a massive extent of work. So one day an alteration took place to significantly jade my outlook. No more being “so sweet.” No more kissing ass. The problem with all of this was I was not fulfilling my inner pimp potential. Somehow, breaking the ice and working my mojo needed to become attainable. Much like my caffeine addiction, the accomplishment of a fine line between too much and not enough needed to be found. Neither a jaded outlook, nor sweetness could become extreme enough to hinder my cause.
To be a successful, shy lover required finding a happy medium.
***
The time has come where I may have to truly say something. She rummages through her bag, situates those trademark headphones, rapidly sits straight before drifting back against the seat. Unnecessarily, she filters her fingers through strands of hair where the headphones never muss a perfect filament.
Nervously, I snatch quick nips of coffee, searching for all those words on the apex of my tongue only moments earlier. Compliment her outfit. Mention how nice it is outside. A million words go through my mind, but I can not stop on the perfect ones to say. Then this pops into my head:
“You look like somebody just whupped you with a purty stick.”
Oh God no. Horrified, I quietly thank the lord for giving me the wherewithal not to blurt that line out loud. Outside the window, the bus is rolling past stops ever closer to where my journey will end. My fifteen minutes are about up. The cause is looking bleak. Desperation is wrenching in. One more drink of coffee and it hits me. My moment of clarity.
Again those Hindu cows.
Calm. Or at least as calm as a man who has had inordinate amounts of coffee can be. Here I am in a transcendental state as the bus turns into the UA Mall, my eyes close and my power animal comes into focus. A penguin? Briefly, I am in front of a penguin statue proclaiming the frigidness of some small town in Montana. My nemesis appearing at the worst time possible. Reminding me that I am nothing but a tongue-tied hick from the middle of nowhere.
This is highly bizarre. Somehow, I regain my composure and rotate to face my resplendent illusion. Radiant and lovely. And I introduce myself, simple, direct, “Hi I’m Bill I always see you around.” How lame is that. Yet I have done it, only to forget what her name is five seconds later in one of my classic moves of ineptitude. She slices me with those almond eyes, shakes my hand and smiles to end all smiles as the trip occludes and we both get off to continue on with the rest of the day.
She is leaving without saying goodbye, never looking back or thanking me for those torrid fifteen minutes we have just spent together. Graceful. Almond eyes. Piceous hair. Then again you have heard all of this before. She is disappearing into a crowd of people, pulling headphones out of her bag about to listen again to songs I never hear, but love nonetheless. My eyes are holding this fading apparition while I wonder if she would have liked to have had some coffee.
***

Bill Wetzel would like to acknowledge that he had to berate the elderly and kick many dogs in order to make up for writing a sappy romantic story. Much props go to Gabriel Garcia Marquez for writing "Sleeping Beauty and The Airplane," which gave him the idea to intermingle a love story with an ode to self-help books and coffee.