Bifurcations

They went for breakfast after everyone else on campus had finished lunch. Michael got there first. He liked the Hilltop Café after 2pm. It was quiet without being deserted. A gentle din of silverware and languid chatter. The more empty seats there were, the easier it was to breathe. His eyes no longer followed his own feet.

Michael reached the breakfast bar and grabbed a bowl. He wondered if people could tell that he’d only just rolled out of bed. Probably they weren’t looking at him in the first place, Michael reminded himself. It was an old paranoia he was in the process of trying to shake off.

Just as he placed the bowl under the dispenser, a big hand clapped him on the shoulder. Michael jumped, almost knocking the bowl onto the floor.

“What’s goin’ on, big guy?” Jackson said, grabbing himself a bowl from the stack.

“Christ! You scared me.”

“Are all Brits this jumpy?”

“Just me, I think,” Michael said, filling the bowl with Froot Loops. This was the type of question he had gotten used to by now. Whether you liked it or not, you were an ambassador for your home country when you were abroad. Everything he said or did informed people’s impressions of Britishness.

It amused him to think that if he signed off all his text messages with “Yours Sincerely,” then his new friends would think that’s how all British people operated. But Michael knew by now that it was a two-way process. Each American he met subconsciously became a fresh case study. And Jackson had become his preeminent case study over the past semester. Even the hearty pat on the back that had just startled him felt like an expression of Americanness.

“They got Froot Loops in England?” Jackson asked when they sat down.

“I don’t know, but I’m going to look for them when I get back.”

Michael had chosen one of the long tables by the windows, where you sat side by side on stools and faced the outdoors. From there they could see all the way down the hill to Lower Campus, and the Chippewa River beyond. The snow had stopped falling sometime before they woke up. Now the view of the city from the Hilltop Café was clear and crisp. You could see as far as downtown. Brightness fell from a cloudless sky on the snow-capped campus buildings. So many of the places Michael could see held vivid memories of the past few months. The library, the footbridge, the auditorium, the humanities building, the volleyball courts, the piney woods that hugged the river. By the time the snow finally melted from their tops, he would be back in the United Kingdom at his home university.

Jackson gave him a nudge.

“Hey, it’s too early to be depressed.”

“It’s afternoon. And I’m not.”

“Liar.”

“I was just thinking about…”

“You were dwelling on the fact that you’re flying home next week, weren’t you?” Jackson said over a mouthful of cornflakes.

“Kinda hard not to,” Michael said. “My life back there is shit. Everything important to me is here.”

“It’s too early to get emotional.”

“It’s afternoon,” Michael told him again.

“Yeah, but it feels like the ass-crack of dawn. If you waste your time worrying about things you can’t control, you’ll miss what’s right in front of you- like the probability one of these guys below us will fall on the ice.”

Jackson was eyeing the steep hill below them expectantly as a stream of students made their way between Upper and Lower Campus. Michael looked at them making very considered, shuffling footsteps, sometimes holding their arms out for balance. A week or two ago he could have matched Jackson’s excitement, but now he felt incapable of living in the moment. The present felt as if it was already past.

“Well, won’t you miss your best mate at least?”

“Oh geez,” Jackson said, turning to look at him. “I’ll be fine and so will you. Why don’t you focus on all the fun times we had? You went to America for a semester- how many people are lucky enough to do that?”

“I guess,” Michael said, trying not to sound too sulky. It had been the opportunity of a lifetime after all. Out of the hundreds that had applied for the student exchange program, he had made it. He’d gotten to see Oktoberfest and Thanksgiving. He’d traveled to the Twin Cities with Jackson and the guys to watch an NBA game and eat buffalo wings. He’d gone fishing, tubing, and hiking. He’d gotten to see Bill Clinton and Joe Biden speak on campus during Obama’s reelection campaign. He’d tasted deep-fried cheese curds and root beer floats. And he’d experienced it all with friends; genuine friends around whom he finally felt like himself.

Yet all he could think about were the things he’d missed out on. Even when he did remind himself of the good memories, it was hard not to think about how they almost didn’t happen. Two weeks into the semester, he hadn’t made any friends. He timed his visits to the Hilltop Café at unusual hours so that he didn’t have to approach a table and ask to sit with them, or endure what he was convinced would be a myriad of pitying stares at the fact he was eating alone. But then everything had changed in a small, singular incident-

“Remember when you asked me to sit with you?” Michael said. “It feels like a lifetime ago.”

“I almost didn’t,” Jackson said with a mocking grin.

Michael shuddered at the idea that things could have gone differently. Through Jackson he had met everyone and done everything. If Jackson hadn’t gone out of his way to walk across the cafeteria, tap Michael on the shoulder, and ask if he wanted to come and sit with him, everything would be different. If it wasn’t for that decision, Michael thought, then he wouldn’t be feeling so sad about leaving right now.

Jackson had caused everything. No matter what happened now, Jackson would always be the guy that asked him to sit at his table. Michael couldn’t imagine doing the same thing if the roles were reversed, as much as he liked the image of himself doing that for someone.

“Well, I appreciate it anyway.”

“Can’t we just enjoy the people slipping on the ice?” Jackson said. There was something about the idea of Michael being in a constant state of gratitude for their friendship that made him uneasy. “Look, this fella’s about to go ass over teakettle!”

Jackson held his breath as a guy in a Vikings beanie grabbed the icy railing that ran down the sidewalk at the last possible moment. He appeared to be laughing along with a few passersby at the close call, his cheeks flushed with pink.

“Dang,” Jackson sighed, returning to his cereal.

“Last night was fun, wasn’t it?”

“There you go, big guy. I saw you talking to Alivia for a while. You didn’t look like you needed me at all.”

“Well,” Michael said, clearing his throat. “Nothing happened. I wasn’t sure if I wasted my chance or not. Not exactly often I go to a house party, ya know?”

“Bah!” Jackson made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Don’t worry about what could have happened. You had fun. And from my point of view, you were finally acting the way you do around me with other people.”

“That would be the alcohol.”

“Whatever. My point is: don’t go over-analyzing everything. Dutch Courage or not, you went out and showed people your goofy side for once. Everyone liked you. You’re actually super-funny when you want to be, you know that?”

Michael thought about the previous evening. He’d insisted on drinking before they arrived at the house on Fifth Avenue. Just the thought of entering a house full of people made him dizzy. Even with a couple beers in him, he felt his stomach twisting when they came within sight of the place. Along the porch were discarded red solo cups, the exact kind you saw in American movies. But unlike the movies, the scene inside wasn’t quite so scandalous. For sure it had been loud, but not so loud you couldn’t hear yourself think. There were no douchey-guys that he expected would pressure him into doing things he didn’t want to. Even the guys that looked the type revealed themselves to be sensitive and polite. And everyone had wanted to talk to him. Just by virtue of being a foreigner, every word that Michael said was greeted with enthusiasm. In all his life, he had never felt so interesting.

“I guess it was pretty fun.”

“It was all you, buddy. Can’t credit me for that one,” Jackson said.

“I just wish I could be like that all the time. You know, without the alcohol.”

“You can be,” Jackson said. This time, he turned on his stool to face him. He put down his spoon. “You definitely can be. But it’s up to you to work on yourself.”

“I dunno,” Michael said, unable to hold his stare. He gazed at the Chippewa. It was so much shallower than when they had gone tubing down it in September. He didn’t like it. Something about its dark, ice-encrusted body depressed him.

“Don’t you think I was nervous about that party too?”

Michael scoffed. “You? What would you have to be nervous about?”

“People. Talking. Being interesting. All that stuff. Honestly, if you hadn’t come to America, I would have stayed back in the dorms last night and played Xbox instead.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. You’re the one who introduced me to that group.”

“Yeah, and before you showed up, I turned down their invites most of the time. But I knew that you would probably want to go if you knew about it, so I said yes.”

Michael was silent for a moment. He could only think about the ease with which Jackson had walked over to him that day in the cafeteria and asked him if he wanted to join his table. He’d said the words as though it were the most normal thing in the world, as though he asked people to sit with him every day. It was hard to separate Jackson from that moment. It was the act that not only defined him- in Michael’s mind- but the country itself. It was the proof Michael was looking for- that he’d arrived at the land of extroverts, and that if he stayed here long enough, he would become one too.

“I’m just saying,” Jackson said. “I’m not who you think I am. By American standards I’m pretty shy. A lot of the feelings you’ve told me about- that you think are unique to you- are ones I feel all the time. We just…process them differently I guess.”

They were silent for a while, eating their afternoon breakfast. Jackson got a second bowl of cereal and came back. Michael had never known anyone to consume so much milk. It must be a Wisconsin thing.

“I believe you,” he said at last. “It’s just difficult to imagine is all.”

 Jackson finished his second bowl at the same time Michael finished his first. There were very few people in the cafeteria at this point. Michael dipped his spoon in the leftover milk and brought it carefully to his lips.

“What the hell are ya doing?” Jackson said, watching in horror.

“What do you mean?”

“You drink the milk with a spoon?”

“I guess.”

“Is this a British thing or a Michael thing?”

“I don’t know,” Michael said. He had never thought about it before.

“Watch,” Jackson said, picking up his bowl between the palm and thumb of one hand. “In America we take our milk like a goddam shot!”

With that, he tipped the milk down his throat and drank it all in one go. Michael laughed and followed suit. It sure was easier this way, he thought.

As they descended the stairs from the Hilltop Café, Jackson asked Michael when he was meeting up with his host family that afternoon.

“You’ll enjoy snowmobiling,” he told him.

“I hope so,” Michael said, bracing himself for the cold as they approached the double set of glass doors. “What will you do tonight?”

“I’m gonna see Beth. Probably cook together, watch a movie. There’s meant to be a blizzard I think.”

When they got outside, they stood at the top of the hill. It was still sunny, even though it was freezing cold. If a blizzard was on the way, it would be a while yet. Michael liked the image of a winter storm raging outside while Jackson and Beth cooked together in the warmth of her kitchen. They would drink Spotted Cow and do everything at their own pace. There would be a playlist of early-2000s alt-rock classics. Knowing Beth, she would sing along.

“Oh yeah, she said you’re welcome to come over tomorrow, once you get back from your host family. I’ll be there all day for the Packer game. So just wander over whenever you want.”

“You sure? I won’t be…intruding?”

“She wouldn’t have asked if she didn’t want you to say yes. Can’t turn down Midwestern hospitality now, can ya?”

Michael said he’d come over as soon as he could. Deep down he was delighted to go. He loved seeing them together and listening to their stories from high school.

They nodded at each other and set off on different paths- Jackson down the hill to Lower Campus and Michael toward the dorms.

“Also!” Jackson said, turning back. “I call bullshit on what you said earlier.”

“What’s that?”

“About your life back home being shit. That’s baloney. Just because you were happy here, that doesn’t mean America is the only place you can be happy. It doesn’t work that way. You have the power to be the person you are here back in England. But it’s up to you, bro…”

For the rest of the day, Michael thought about them taking their parallel paths. By the time he was back in his dorm room, he knew that Jackson would still be shuffling along the ice at a slow pace. He took a shower, woke himself up, and got ready. Jackson, meanwhile, worked away in the library. He would still be there when Michael’s host family picked him up and drove him out to Fall Creek. It was almost pitch-dark when Michael changed in the guest room and zipped up his winter coat. Jackson would still be working. He would work until he noticed the snow start to fall against the library windows. As Michael got on the back of the snowmobile and held onto his host dad, Jackson made his way across the footbridge. Both would feel the same shrill wind crashing into them. Michael felt it rushing into his face as his host dad raced around a thicket of hemlock trees. Jackson felt it hitting his side as it blew downriver in a flurry of snow. His teeth chattered and he swore. By the time Jackson made it onto First Avenue and glimpsed the lights of Beth’s house, Michael finally asked if he could drive the snowmobile himself.

Flecks of snow weighed down on his eyelids, and there was only the present.