Up the Stream

I felt the stream rush from the pool of my deeply sunken eyes. The tears rolled down the sides of my face and wet my ears. My head being immobilized by a neck brace left me to use only my peripheral vision to see the bright flashes of her white smile against her dark skin. I went back to a time when I was that excited for life.

           The smells of saffron and wild mushrooms filled my dimly lit studio. I left the window open…I was waiting on the train to arrive to begin setting the table. I looked at the clock on the wall, it was a quarter after 6. The sound of metal scraping the train tracks washed over the sounds of “Jailhouse Rock” and children’s playful screams that just a moment before were seeping in from outside. I shut the window just as I heard the train slowing into the station.

Setting the table was my favorite part.

I carefully sculpted the potatoes, leaving a hollow center where I placed neatly sliced chicken breast. I covered it with one line of gravy and garnished it with parsley. I sat down and grabbed the letter, ready to share my acceptance into culinary school with the love of my life. A few minutes passed and I didn’t hear her footsteps. One hour. And then three.

She called me from the pay phone just outside her job during her lunch. Everything was fine. I gripped a glass of water and sat in the sill of the window. I jolted from my spot as I heard the knock at the door and my cup fell from the grips of my fingers crashing against the floor leaving the water streaming through all the crevices of old wood that lined the floor. I opened the door.

The first thing I saw was his black shoes. My eyes flowed up the legs of his blue pants to his round belly, covered by his hand empathetically gripping his police hat. I watched his mouth move, only hearing the words struck, car, unfortunately, and sorry. I closed the door and turned only slightly to stare out the window. With each train that passed, my memories of Naomi grew fonder.

           I watched the sun rise over Naomi’s plate of food and the folded letter of the life I once knew. I trudged down the steps to the trash filled streets and walked for miles until I landed at our favorite diner where the sun set over a plate of stale fries and an oversalted fried chicken breast. We came here every Saturday and I used to scarf down this meal before the waitress could come back to check on us a few minutes later. Now, the meal seemed to taunt me, leaving me scared to take a bite.

I walked out into the street and sat on the curb of the sidewalk. After a few hours, I stood up and turned to face oncoming traffic. I had to do something; I couldn’t be here anymore. I inched closer to the edge of the sidewalk and slowly, I lifted my arm and stuck out my thumb. I got into the first semi that passed and made my way across the country to some place named Madison in the middle of Wisconsin.

           He said he was dropping me off downtown, but the tallest building here was only a few stories high. The streets were spilling with students smoking cigarettes and talking about the war. My eyes scanned the sidewalks, trees, brick walls, and everything else until they landed on a help wanted sign for Mickie’s Dairy Bar.

I was greeted by the aroma of applewood smoked bacon and the rhythmic hums of conversations going on between families sitting at the booths that lined the walls. I claimed the last open seat at the bar and eaves dropped on the old men sitting next to me debriefing about some college football game. The machinery like movement of the wait staff and cooks catapulted me to the life I once knew. The familiar view that once gave me life, left me feeling void and empty.

           My first few days of work were hard. I was a cook, but I felt like an imposter. Without Naomi, I didn’t have the same fire for food. The sounds of the kitchen lost the melody that once made it music. The vibrancy that once lived in the color of the foods had faded. And the only smells that lived in my nostrils belonged to burnt bacon. Months went by and I was demoted to a busboy. I found it hard to do just about any and everything, especially going to work. The only thing that kept me going was the bar down the street from my apartment.

One night at the bar, I met a couple that proposed a business plan: buy old computers and sell the parts to large tech companies. It sounded ridiculous, but I didn’t have much else to live for. I agreed to join them in their work, and I never showed up to Mickie’s again.

When I bargained my first computer purchase, I felt powerful. I felt even better when I talked the tech company into purchasing the parts for a much higher price than what I paid for them. Deal after deal, I grew the fiery passion for life that I once had.

I moved from downtown to a quiet suburb and bought a car. Our business grew. We survived Y2k, 9/11, and the Bush administration. But then, 2008 came and people were losing their jobs, the tech companies were closing, my house was foreclosed, and I found myself sitting on the curb again. Lost. Unsure about life. I needed to leave again.

I reached in my bag and shuffled around until I found it. I poured them all out into my hand. I put them in my mouth, all at once. I washed every pill down with a swish of cognac. My eyelids stopped fighting against the force of gravity, my body surrendered, and my face abruptly met the cold wet concrete. My last thoughts in that moment were of Naomi, the highs from a life I once knew, and the sweet smell of my favorite meal.

“Mr. Johnson?” she whispered. I blinked. Sending a single tear streaming down the left side of my face.

I motioned for her to continue with her questions.

“Can you tell me more about what brought you in today?” she said through a gentle smile.

I could only hope that my tears would tell the story my mouth refused to relive.