silverfae9 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
silverfae9) wrote2003-10-07 10:37 pm
silverfae9) wrote2003-10-07 10:37 pm
in at elbows
I'm supposed to be going to sleep, but Toby just called my cell phone because evidently it was really important that I read his answer to that post a few down. Since I'm here and have Tobes on the brain, I'm going to paste some more of our fake Vegas adventure. Well, I'm sure I'll go to Vegas -eventually-...
It’s nearly 2 a.m. and Toby and I are speeding through the desert not too far out of Vegas. I feel a bit like a gangster, stopping for gas in the middle of the night and blowing a few bucks on the slots just to feel the arm of the machine in my fingers. I believe that the arms of slot machines are enchanted. Every single person that touches them is full of hopes that this will be the lucky time, that they’ll finally win their ticket out of whatever situation they’re on the way to Vegas to avoid. I like that hope, and I like to think that I can feel it running in currents under my fingers. I also like to think of Vegas as a place for desperate people, folks on the lam and full of murderous and profane thoughts. I like to think of Vegas.
**insert a bit I posted weeks ago here.**
“Where’s your sense of adventure, you jerk?”
“What, driving to Vegas in the middle of the night isn’t adventure enough for you? What are you doing over there, anyway?”
What I’m doing is lighting, one by one, a packet of matches that I found on the floor at my feet. “Al’s Oasis,” they say. From some bar in upper Nevada. I’ve opened the window a crack, and I’m tossing the lighted matches out. They flare quickly and then die right by the rear door, killed by the rushing desert air.
“Hey mouse…”
“Hm?” Mouse is what Toby has called me as long as I’ve known him. I had long brown hair then, and a habit of hiding behind it if I was feeling insecure. Even though I sit up straighter now and have short red hair, he still calls me mouse. It feels good, comfortable: an old nickname from an old friend.
“Do you remember how we first met?”
“No, not really. Well. Vaguely, I guess.” I’m lying. I remember exactly how we met, but I have a feeling that there’s a reason Toby has asked this question, and I won’t get behind the reason if I answer it. I know how his brain works; I know that he has to work around his point, tell stories, come at what he has to say from an angle. As long as I’ve known him, he’s never said anything directly. He’d be a wonderful politician if only he weren’t so honest.
“I do. I remember it exactly. You were at the playground in the park. It was September, near the end of the month, and fall was almost in the air. I had gone to the park that day to be alone and think dark thoughts. It’s hard to be depressed on a blue and white day in September, but I was prepared to try. I remember I hadn’t been feeling much lately, just numb. I figured being depressed would at least be a step up, that I’d be feeling something again. You were on the swings. I saw you from far away and thought you were a child; you were so tiny and you were swinging so hard. I figured, well, I’ll go over to the playground and watch you and remember what fun it was to be a kid. But when I got over there, I realized you weren’t a child. You were wearing too big jeans and a tank top and I noticed that your collarbone, the nubs of your shoulders, even your arms, were delicate and birdlike. The skin stretched over them was thin and white like paper, and I thought that if I pressed on it hard enough I could tear through it.” He looks over at me now and smiles. “It’s still like that, you know. I don’t care how tough you pretend to be; your skin tells all your secrets.
“Anyway, like I said, you were swinging as hard as you could. Your shoes were off and each one of your toenails was painted a different color. You noticed me standing there, took one hand off the swing’s chain, and waved. The movement made you wobble a little bit, like you might fall off, and I gasped and moved foreword to catch you. At the height of your swinging arc you would kick your feet and giggle. ‘What are you doing?’ I called up to you. ‘I’m kicking clouds,’ you answered, like kicking clouds was the most normal thing in the world to be doing. I sat down on the swing next to you and looked up and I swear that when you kicked, they really did move. Those clouds. Man. So you finally slowed down your swing and came to a rest, and you tucked your feet up under you in a way that I still can’t figure out. I looked at you and I wanted to take your shoulders in my hands and crush them, squeeze whatever it was that you had inside of you out so that I could drink it.” He looks at me again. “That sounds kinda crazy. I meant it in the nicest way possible.”
“Yes Tobe, I’m sure you did.” This is a new way of telling this story, and I’m curious to find out what happens next.
“So you looked at me and said ‘what’s your name, anyway?’ and I said ‘Toby’ and you said ‘hi, Toby, I’m samantha’ and you smiled at me. I could feel, I don’t know, life, coming off you in waves, crackling like electricity, and I wanted to crawl inside your smile and live there. You took my hand and pulled me off the swing and we went for a walk. You asked about my day then, and I told you. I told you all the things I hadn’t been telling anyone, not even myself, and you nodded as though you understood. You’ve never stopped understanding, and you’ve never stopped smiling at me.” Toby’s hands are still caressing the steering wheel, petting it softly.
I smile secretly, glad for the darkness so that Toby can’t see that I’m smiling at him. I remember that day too. I remember being dumped by a boy I had sworn not to go back to in the first place, remember feeling hurt and betrayed and consumed by a blackness that threatened to swallow me whole. I had run to the park, to the swings, in an attempt to fling myself into the blue sky, to throw myself open to the beauty of September and allow myself to be rearranged by whatever hand found me. And then up walked this boy who looked as alone as I felt, who looked like he needed a hand to pull him up from the same depths that I was trying to escape. So I offered my hand and he took it, and we walked into the park like Hansel and Gretel.
Toby seems to have disappeared back inside his brain, and he still hasn’t gotten to the point of this story. I reach over and poke him in the arm. “Hello? Earth to Toby. I’m glad you remember little old messed up me so fondly and all, but is there a reason we’re traveling back in time this morning?”
“Oh right, yeah. Sorry. It was the adventure thing that got me to thinking. Life with you has always been an adventure, mouse. I used to wish that I could fall in love with you. Did I ever tell you that? I tried and tried. I wanted to fall in love with you and be there like you’re always there for me. You know, I’ve never seen you unload your problems on anyone. You always tell me that they’re not important enough for that, that we should be talking about me instead. And I wanted to be in love with you because I know that I wouldn’t hurt you the way those other guys did. But I couldn’t be in love with you, and I wonder if that means that I can’t be in love with anyone. I mean, if anyone deserves it, it’s you. I think that not being in love with you has made me more fucked up than being in love with you would have.”
I lean over and kiss Toby lightly on the cheek. “Hey babe, you don’t really want to be in love with me. I’m a total pain in the ass.” I want to keep this conversation light in the hopes that it will float away and not drag us down. “You don’t want to be in love with anything but Vegas tonight, because Vegas is where love is.” He smiles and I can see his shoulders relax a little. I think about how funny love is, especially when it doesn’t happen. I light another match and watch it flare brightly and travel towards my fingers as we drive fast into the shiny desert night.
And now, I'm going to sleep. Maybe someday I'll make up a story about the rest of you, too.
Threats, aren't they?
It’s nearly 2 a.m. and Toby and I are speeding through the desert not too far out of Vegas. I feel a bit like a gangster, stopping for gas in the middle of the night and blowing a few bucks on the slots just to feel the arm of the machine in my fingers. I believe that the arms of slot machines are enchanted. Every single person that touches them is full of hopes that this will be the lucky time, that they’ll finally win their ticket out of whatever situation they’re on the way to Vegas to avoid. I like that hope, and I like to think that I can feel it running in currents under my fingers. I also like to think of Vegas as a place for desperate people, folks on the lam and full of murderous and profane thoughts. I like to think of Vegas.
**insert a bit I posted weeks ago here.**
“Where’s your sense of adventure, you jerk?”
“What, driving to Vegas in the middle of the night isn’t adventure enough for you? What are you doing over there, anyway?”
What I’m doing is lighting, one by one, a packet of matches that I found on the floor at my feet. “Al’s Oasis,” they say. From some bar in upper Nevada. I’ve opened the window a crack, and I’m tossing the lighted matches out. They flare quickly and then die right by the rear door, killed by the rushing desert air.
“Hey mouse…”
“Hm?” Mouse is what Toby has called me as long as I’ve known him. I had long brown hair then, and a habit of hiding behind it if I was feeling insecure. Even though I sit up straighter now and have short red hair, he still calls me mouse. It feels good, comfortable: an old nickname from an old friend.
“Do you remember how we first met?”
“No, not really. Well. Vaguely, I guess.” I’m lying. I remember exactly how we met, but I have a feeling that there’s a reason Toby has asked this question, and I won’t get behind the reason if I answer it. I know how his brain works; I know that he has to work around his point, tell stories, come at what he has to say from an angle. As long as I’ve known him, he’s never said anything directly. He’d be a wonderful politician if only he weren’t so honest.
“I do. I remember it exactly. You were at the playground in the park. It was September, near the end of the month, and fall was almost in the air. I had gone to the park that day to be alone and think dark thoughts. It’s hard to be depressed on a blue and white day in September, but I was prepared to try. I remember I hadn’t been feeling much lately, just numb. I figured being depressed would at least be a step up, that I’d be feeling something again. You were on the swings. I saw you from far away and thought you were a child; you were so tiny and you were swinging so hard. I figured, well, I’ll go over to the playground and watch you and remember what fun it was to be a kid. But when I got over there, I realized you weren’t a child. You were wearing too big jeans and a tank top and I noticed that your collarbone, the nubs of your shoulders, even your arms, were delicate and birdlike. The skin stretched over them was thin and white like paper, and I thought that if I pressed on it hard enough I could tear through it.” He looks over at me now and smiles. “It’s still like that, you know. I don’t care how tough you pretend to be; your skin tells all your secrets.
“Anyway, like I said, you were swinging as hard as you could. Your shoes were off and each one of your toenails was painted a different color. You noticed me standing there, took one hand off the swing’s chain, and waved. The movement made you wobble a little bit, like you might fall off, and I gasped and moved foreword to catch you. At the height of your swinging arc you would kick your feet and giggle. ‘What are you doing?’ I called up to you. ‘I’m kicking clouds,’ you answered, like kicking clouds was the most normal thing in the world to be doing. I sat down on the swing next to you and looked up and I swear that when you kicked, they really did move. Those clouds. Man. So you finally slowed down your swing and came to a rest, and you tucked your feet up under you in a way that I still can’t figure out. I looked at you and I wanted to take your shoulders in my hands and crush them, squeeze whatever it was that you had inside of you out so that I could drink it.” He looks at me again. “That sounds kinda crazy. I meant it in the nicest way possible.”
“Yes Tobe, I’m sure you did.” This is a new way of telling this story, and I’m curious to find out what happens next.
“So you looked at me and said ‘what’s your name, anyway?’ and I said ‘Toby’ and you said ‘hi, Toby, I’m samantha’ and you smiled at me. I could feel, I don’t know, life, coming off you in waves, crackling like electricity, and I wanted to crawl inside your smile and live there. You took my hand and pulled me off the swing and we went for a walk. You asked about my day then, and I told you. I told you all the things I hadn’t been telling anyone, not even myself, and you nodded as though you understood. You’ve never stopped understanding, and you’ve never stopped smiling at me.” Toby’s hands are still caressing the steering wheel, petting it softly.
I smile secretly, glad for the darkness so that Toby can’t see that I’m smiling at him. I remember that day too. I remember being dumped by a boy I had sworn not to go back to in the first place, remember feeling hurt and betrayed and consumed by a blackness that threatened to swallow me whole. I had run to the park, to the swings, in an attempt to fling myself into the blue sky, to throw myself open to the beauty of September and allow myself to be rearranged by whatever hand found me. And then up walked this boy who looked as alone as I felt, who looked like he needed a hand to pull him up from the same depths that I was trying to escape. So I offered my hand and he took it, and we walked into the park like Hansel and Gretel.
Toby seems to have disappeared back inside his brain, and he still hasn’t gotten to the point of this story. I reach over and poke him in the arm. “Hello? Earth to Toby. I’m glad you remember little old messed up me so fondly and all, but is there a reason we’re traveling back in time this morning?”
“Oh right, yeah. Sorry. It was the adventure thing that got me to thinking. Life with you has always been an adventure, mouse. I used to wish that I could fall in love with you. Did I ever tell you that? I tried and tried. I wanted to fall in love with you and be there like you’re always there for me. You know, I’ve never seen you unload your problems on anyone. You always tell me that they’re not important enough for that, that we should be talking about me instead. And I wanted to be in love with you because I know that I wouldn’t hurt you the way those other guys did. But I couldn’t be in love with you, and I wonder if that means that I can’t be in love with anyone. I mean, if anyone deserves it, it’s you. I think that not being in love with you has made me more fucked up than being in love with you would have.”
I lean over and kiss Toby lightly on the cheek. “Hey babe, you don’t really want to be in love with me. I’m a total pain in the ass.” I want to keep this conversation light in the hopes that it will float away and not drag us down. “You don’t want to be in love with anything but Vegas tonight, because Vegas is where love is.” He smiles and I can see his shoulders relax a little. I think about how funny love is, especially when it doesn’t happen. I light another match and watch it flare brightly and travel towards my fingers as we drive fast into the shiny desert night.
And now, I'm going to sleep. Maybe someday I'll make up a story about the rest of you, too.
Threats, aren't they?