The Hidden River of My Life

The world consists of dark red wine, dizzy servers, and a constant humming of “Would you like some more?” “I really shouldn’t!” And then the clattering of cutlery and glassware as they do in fact take some more of whatever is being offered. A rather round gentleman lets out a bellowing laugh, and a petite brunette titters next to him. Her hat is made of fur and I had a vague feeling that it was not faux. 

At least, I should say, this is what my world has consisted of for the past five minutes. 

Someone should write a book called “The Outside of Expensive Yet Charming Restaurants is Much More Alluring Than the Inside.” So much noise, so much brightness and dimness in one small area of the world it makes my head spin. I spot a monstrous chandelier sparkling in the center of the large room. I wonder what it would look like if its chain snapped and it instead sparkled and plummeted to the floor. 

Waiting in the restaurant’s foyer was the perfect place to see the tempting streets outside. Buses, automobiles, and flashing lights reminding me of a much preferred restaurant---my tiny kitchen in my tiny one bedroom apartment. However, I could perfectly see the main room where tray-handling servers danced in and out between the tables as well as the city bustling outside. This did not remind me of my apartment. It did remind me though of what a handsome mistake I had made by giving a guy who greased his hair back and wore sunglasses at 11:00 p.m. my phone number. In my defense I had been a bit toasted. The air had been warm and citrusy, and his mouth had had a charming curve to it. Now that I was completely sober, his mouth will most likely hold no interest. My even bigger mistake was typing out “Okay” to his text that had merely said, “Me. You. Tonight.” 

I check my watch. 7:19. I couldn’t believe I was about to be stood up by a guy who asked girls out over i-message. Sighing, I lean back. The world sways above me. The ceiling went up up up. It was too high to be a ceiling. It should have been a sky or something more reasonable. No one needed this much space if they were already condemning themselves to a night in a place like this. There were too many people. Too many different aromas. Far too many sounds. The other people waiting in the foyer all wore bored or annoyed expressions. Two blonde teenagers sat across from me. Their legs were both crossed and they had equal expressions of anger glued to their faces. They whispered back and forth between each other. One of them held a jewel encrusted handbag, so tiny that I was sure it could only fit a pack of gum. They both glanced up at me and continued whispering even harder.

I stare even harder at the ceiling. Why did so many people want a seat at this place? Why was I one of them?

The fancy doors swoosh, signaling that someone else has entered. A gust of cold night air dances inside of the room. I pull my coat a little tighter around my shoulders, but don’t take my eyes off the ornate black and gold ceiling. 

The clicking of heels gets closer and closer. I stare at the ceiling. 

A little bit closer. Were they actually going to sit by me?

The footsteps stop by the seat right next to mine. Oh God. 

As the stranger settles into one of the overstuffed seats, several different fragrances hit my senses at once. The strongest was wild night air. It smelled cold and refreshing. I wanted to dip my head inside of it. The second was a very pepperminty aroma, strangely soft, like it had been dipped into vanilla and packaged with clove. The very last was the simple fragrance of oranges. Several thoughts popped into my head.

This person was most likely a snobby socialite.

This person didn’t smell like a snobby socialite.

My neck is sore. 

I finally look back down into a face that is both eerily alien and soothingly angelic. 

She’s wearing a bright red overcoat. I note that it has rather deep pockets as both her hands seem sunken quite deep into it. Her eyes are round and dark and wide set. Her cheekbones are stunningly sharp. Her smile is shockingly soft. 

I realize I’ve been staring. She continues to smile at me though as my eyes falter and trip around the room. 

“Are you waiting for a seat?” A velvety voice asks. I realize that it’s Red Coat’s voice. A second later I realize she’s asking me. My eyes stumble back to hers.

I manage a slight smile. “Yes, of course. Aren’t you.”

She doesn't reply for a minute. Strangely though, she continues to look at me. She laughs and the sound is raspy and angelic and warm. “I suppose I am. I guess when you’ve been waiting your whole life for things, you start to forget which part you’re waiting on.” 

This seems like a weirdly deep thing to say to someone you don’t know, but she says it with such ease like she’s implying it’s everyday small talk. I decide to go along with it. 

“What sort of things would someone like yourself be waiting on?”

“Oh, you know, trains, planes, seats at cliche restaurants.” She pauses and then puts her pointer finger straight into the air like she’s just remembered something. “Oh, yes, and love, magic, something to believe in. You know” 

“Magic?”

“Have you seen it?” Her eyes somehow get a tiny bit wider. “That’s the one I sort’ve gave up on. It’s very rare.”

I shake my head. “No, of course not. Magic isn’t rare at all. It’s just not real.” She doesn’t say anything. She just looks at me with a puzzled expression. “Why are you waiting on magic?” I ask.

I hear jazz music playing gently from somewhere in the main room. Voices buzzing and the sound of tinkling dishes and glasses mix noisily in with it. It suddenly sounds like very pleasant background music.  

“I wait on a lot of things. Phone Calls that’ll never come. People, who will always dance on the other side of the room. I just want a seat now.” She continues. “Did you know that when you’re with a group of people, your friends, your colleagues, whoever it is, when you’re all laughing, you’re going to instinctively look at the person who you care most about. It’s science or some sort of psychology. Maybe they’re the same thing.” She looks puzzled again. She continues. "I’ve laughed with a hundred different groups, cared about a thousand different people. No one’s ever looked at me. I wonder who I am to them.”

“You’re probably just another person joining in on a mindless joke.”

She chews on the inside of her cheek. I check the time. 7:30.

She goes on. “When I was seventeen, I thought about love all the time. I remember I was driving down the interstate and I saw a sign that said ‘What do you know about love?’ And I realized I didn’t know anything. I never stopped thinking about it after that.” 

“Love is a waste of time.”

“Love is all I think about.”

I stare at her. “Well that’s a waste of energy.”

“My mom thought so too. Her and my dad were the strangest creatures when they got together. They would stare at each other all starry-eyed for a while. It’s like they were in awe of each other’s existence. But then, their spell would break. The next day there would be bruises painted on her skin. And he would look angry and happy and ready to explode all at once.” 

I glance at her.

“What was he like?”

“Oh, he was everything. He was bright blue autumn skies and hard rain on your skin. I used to tell myself, ‘One day, you'll leave this old man behind. You'll leave every foggy awful memory you have’ I did and it didn’t help.” She sighs. “He calls me sometimes in the middle of the night and tells me he’s real lonesome and when I say I’m never coming back, he screams at me until I hang up.”

“Magic is more real than love.”

She turns to look at me.

“I thought you didn’t believe in magic.”

“I don’t believe in love either.”

She studies me for a minute. “Why are you here?”

“I’m waiting for a seat and for a man.”

“So you don’t believe in love but you’re on a date?”

I shrug my shoulders. “Love and date don’t equal each other.”

“But a date might lead to love.”

“It won’t. It never does.” She doesn’t say anything so I ask, “What happened to your mom?”

“She scratched my dad’s face. It left scars. And then she left. I think it made him overflow.”

“She just left you with him?”

It’s her turn to shrug her shoulders. “They were both terrible people just in different ways.”

“You don’t feel bad for her?”

“I feel bad for everyone who met my dad.”

“When did you leave home?”

“Two weeks after I started thinking about love. When you’re seventeen, everything is strange, and muted, and bright. I wanted love. I wanted to disappear. I wanted to start a band. I wanted to die. It was all the same thing just in different word forms. So I just drove away from everything I was supposed to be. From everything I wanted to be.”

“And your dad? He didn’t care?”

“Not at first.”

We’re silent for a bit. People flow in and out of the foyer. The blonde teenagers get seated.

I finally ask, “What else are you waiting on?”

Her eyes get thinner, sharper than I’ve seen them before. I wait. She finally speaks. “The future.” The jazz music melts right into her voice as she goes on. “I’m afraid that I ache of the past. I’m tired of speaking of it in revered tones as if it was lovely or holy. I spoke so much of what did happen, I’m afraid I will not happen again.”

“Then stop talking about it.”

“It’s all I have.”

“You have a future.”

“I’m still waiting on it.”

“You don’t have to wait on everything. Just make something happen.”

She just looks at me sadly.

The hostess asks if we’re together. There’s a table available. At the same time that I say “No,” Red Coat says, “Yes.” I stare at her and she stares right back at me.

The hostess looks confused. “So, together or not? If not,” she points at me now, “Then I’ll just take you.”

I check my watch. 7:45. He was still not here. What was I waiting on?

“We’re not together.” I follow the hostess and don’t look back at Red Coat. 

“I’m waiting on someone.” I tell the hostess when we arrive at a small circular table with a candelabra and small collection of elegant posies. She just nods her head and gives me a tight-lipped smile. 

He doesn’t arrive and I don’t expect him to. If it’s one thing I know, it’s that it doesn’t matter if love and magic exist or not, neither of them will happen to me.

The servers scurry around me as I walk back to the foyer. It’s empty except for the hostess who is rapidly speaking to a waitress. The door swooshes as I walk outside. Everything is soft and dark and velvety. I check my watch. 8:47. Somehow I’d managed to wait an hour in that restaurant with people running to and fro and conversations humming and buzzing and music trickling in the background. I’d ordered something with alcohol and something with butter. 

I wait for a cab to stop. They all zoom past me with lights flashing and radios blaring. The night is silent except for that. The air feels pregnant with potential. Across the street, a lone man sits sipping coffee in a small shop. The window is large and clear. Lights reflect off of it. Buildings reflect off of it. People in scarlet red coats reflect off of it. 

There she is. Leaning against a light pole. I didn’t realize until then that I had been looking for her. In the dim lighting, her face looks sharper than before. But her mouth looks softer. She grins cheekily at me.

I walk across the street. Cars honk at me. I realize I’m holding up traffic so I run across the street. They still honk.

She’s smiling when I arrive on the other side. Her hands are deep deep deep in her pockets. I want to unravel everything inside of me.

I catch my breath. “Why are you here?”

She repeats, “Why are you here?”

I blink. “Because. Because I don’t think magic is real. And I don’t think love is real. But I think there’s a lot that can be said about waiting for something to believe in.”

I can tell I’ve surprised her.

“You never explained why you’re waiting on that one. What do you want to believe in?”

“A lot of things aren’t worth waiting on.”

I feel deflated. “That’s the only one you need to wait on.”

She smiles. “I don’t need to.”

“Why?”

She finally pulls her hand out of her pocket. Her fingers are long and delicate. She checks her watch. “It’s 8:57." Her spindly fingers reach toward mine.