Who Am I Kidding?

Who Am I Kidding?

I’m here again.  Why can’t I stop this habit?  Sure, I’m not hurting anyone.  The sun set not too long ago and the street lights are just coming on.  A stray cat sniffs around the dumpster behind El Guapo’s restaurant.  I check my side mirrors, making sure no one is around.  A fine dust starts to glitter in my headlights.  Another check of the mirror and I catch myself looking in the rear view mirror. 

“I know, I know”, I answer the eyes in the mirror.  “Just one more time. I promise this is the last.”

“You said that last time.  And the time before that.  And the time before that,” the face in the mirror answers backs.   “You said you weren’t’ going to do this again.  What if this time someone sees you?  How are you going to explain being in an alley after dark?” 

I raise a single eyebrow at my reflection in the rear-view mirror.  It’s the same conversation every time.  I ask myself the same questions each time.

 “What would people think?  What would your kids say?  Your grandkids?  What about your Sunday school class, what would they say?  When you’re serving coffee after service, do you think they know your little secret?  What about your quilt guild?  Everyone would laugh at you.”

Two quick blinks.  A quick look around, making sure no one is around.  I look at my hands gripping the steering wheel.  There’s still time to leave.  But I know I’m not going anywhere.

” You’re an English teacher.  You get students to love Thoreau, Whitman, Morrison and Cisneros. Do you think your coworkers would understand?  They would be aghast.  They would think you’ve lost your sense of good literature.  Your department head would take away your sweet schedule for sure.”

I imagine what my coworkers would say.  They would judge me so harshly.  They, most of all, must never find out what I’m doing tonight.  I can’t imagine even the teachers I consider my friends able to comprehend my obsession.   They would be hard pressed to stand up for me. 

“You sit on the Friends of the Library Board.  Your husband is a County Court Judge.   You’re President of the Funeral Luncheon Committee, for Christ’s sake,” the face in the mirror yells at me.

They don’t understand.  They don’t see my need for this. I’ve been doing this since I was twelve and started making my own money.  We have this same argument every time I’m sitting in the dark, behind this particular strip mall off of Belt Line Road.  I’m a grown ass woman and still I can’t let people know about this.  I have to keep it hidden.

“I’m very careful. No one knows but you and me.” And I wink at myself.  And I giggle.  My nervousness is starting to show.  I check my watch.  Of course I’m early for my pick up. “But I need this, you know that.  I have to have them.  You’ve been with me all this time.”  I start to make my usual promise to myself, but I know I’m lying.  The face in the mirror knows I’m lying. 

“Yep,” she says.  “I know all about the empty promises…”

“Shush, he’s coming.” 

The back door on the shop opens up.  The young man knows the drill.  I stare straight ahead as if I’m sitting at a traffic light.  He walks around the car to the passenger side window.  I open it just enough for the package to slip through and land on the seat.  And he returns to the shop.  No eye contact, no conversation.  I drive slowly down the alley way and out the far exit.  Across the street I park on the side of the Quik Trip, away from other customers and not visible by traffic.  And I sigh, a sense of relief.  No one knows.  No one saw me.  I reach across the console and pick up my package.  I hold it to my chest.  Another set to add to my collection.  I open the brown paper bag and take a big sniff.  They smell so new.

“You can’t keep this up forever,” my mirror face says.  “Eventually you’re going to need help.”

“Shush, you.  I’m enjoying this.”  Another big whiff.

I put the car in reverse and leave the Quik Trip.  It’s only a twenty-minute drive to the storage unit two suburbs over my husband and family know nothing about.  I pull in at the gate, punch in the code and drive to my secret hidey hole.  I park in front of the door, get out of my car and leave the promises I made to myself in the mirror.  I roll the door up and turn on the light.  “Hello my friends. I’ve missed you.”  I stare at the shelves all along the walls.  Tubs and tubs of well-preserved packages.  Each shelf is a different collection.  The Avengers.  The Uncanny X-Men.  The Justice League.  The Teen Titans.  And all their different variations and off shoots.  They’ve been my friends, my confidants, my heroes forever.  How can I give them up?  They were with me during college when I was homesick.  Through broken hearts and first lovers.  No, my family and friends and congregation wouldn’t understand.  And I’m not going to try to make them.  I look at the mirror in the car and tell the voice to go to hell. 

In the middle of the unit is the leather recliner that belonged to my father that I told my husband I had sold.  Beside it is a battery powered lamp on an old end table someone threw out.  I carry in my package of new editions and an ice chest of Coke Zero.  I told the family I was going on quilt retreat this weekend.  There’s enough breeze coming in through the door and I settle down for the evening.

I pull out the five comic books I pre-ordered and press them to my face one at a time.  Like rubbing the soft belly of a kitten and listening to it purr.  I can feel my blood pressure reducing, the muscles in my neck and back relaxing.  I admire their beautiful pristine covers with their bright colors.  My lifeline I call them, my escape.  My sweet addiction.  I turn the first few pages and breath in the new ink and feel the glossy pages between my fingers.  Even the different fonts on the pages make me smile. I lay them in my lap and fan them out. Each one makes me smile as much as the last one.  “Look guys” I address the bins around me, “I’ve brought new friends to live with y’all.”

I close my eyes, shut out the voice I left in the car, and pick the first one my finger touches.  Mmmmmm, page one.