The Girl Sitting On The Wall Outside The Fine Arts Building

Had he only spoken to her.  

The girl who, for virtually the entire semester, had been there every day when he left Fine Arts for the short walk to the dining hall.  That girl.  The one who smiled at him - not once, but three times, this year.  He didn't know her name, and neither did his friends.  It was concluded that she must have been a transfer from another college, as she did not look young enough to be a freshman.  She had fair skin and freckles, startling gold-flecked blue eyes, and a smile that seemed to contain a hundred teeth.  Her hair was the kind of fiery red that girls without it would pay a king's ransom to have, and which girls with it seemed to hate.

Most days, she had two or three girlfriends hanging around, but not today.  Today, the second-to-last day of classes, before next week's final exams, she was alone.  She was sitting atop the short brick wall, smoking and tapping her dangling feet to unheard music.  She wore torn jeans (possibly ironically-torn) and a Waterboys t-shirt, which strained slightly to fit itself around her, for she was not one of those stick-figure girls who seemed to ever rule the campus.

Had he spoken to her, he would have tried to open with something about how he liked the Waterboys, and had just bought "Fisherman's Blues," but how he didn't like it nearly as much as their earlier work.  If that failed to send her fleeing in search of someone - anyone - else to talk to, he would have added that his favorite Waterboys song was either "A Church Not Made With Hands," or "A Pagan Place."  Beyond that, he had no plan.

When he saw her, she was already looking at him, and he could have sworn that smile number four was being offered in his direction.  That's it, he thought, I have to talk to this girl, before I graduate and never see her again - or some frat boy swoops in and takes her away in his golden Camaro.  He picked his way through the fast-moving cross-traffic that funneled through this intersection of red-brick campus walkways, mentally reviewing his Waterboys opener.  About halfway across, he looked up to see that a couple of the girl's friends had joined her.  

He swallowed his rehearsed lines, turned right, and headed toward the dining hall, rationalizing that he'd have one more chance before finals.  She peeked around her friends, disappointed.  Again.

Had he only spoken to her, he would have found his insights into that obscure t-shirt band to be a well-received ice-breaker.  He would have learned that her name was Erin.  Each would have quickly learned the other's year, major, residence hall address, hometown etc..  A date would have been efficiently arranged, almost without either party officially asking.  She had been looking forward to this conversation since January, and now there was only going to be one more chance to make it happen.  Apparently, starting it was to be her responsibility.  

Two days later, the girl with the hair like a sunrise wasn't sitting on the short wall outside the Fine Arts building.

Had he only spoken to her, she would not have had to be the first to speak.  She was on the near side of the brick-lined confluence of walkways, smiling directly at him as he emerged into the noonday sun.

"Hey," she said.


This one comes in response to another STUDIO 30-PLUS writing prompt.  This time, my friends chose a fragment of one of my own posts, so I had to reuse "Her hair was the kind of fiery red" in a new post.  Kinda weird, but I enjoyed it.  Hope you did, too!

Dear Stillness

Dear Stillness,

     My name is Joe, and although I very much doubt that you remember me, we have met several times.  To be fair, it's a bit of a stretch to say that we've "met."  Your carriers, I've met.  You, I've only seen.  I've admired you - marveled, actually.  I long for just a sliver of what you have.

The first time I saw you, when I was seventeen, you seemed utterly foreign to me.  You took the form of my best friend's aunt, a retired teacher from the island of St. Thomas.  You were constantly surrounded by activity.  Your husband laughed and joked incessantly, and your brother was - and I presume still is - a whirlwind of noise and adventure.  Yet, somehow, you maintained your serenity.  You had an elegance, a way of gliding through all the chaos with a calm, warm smile.  I'll never know how you did it.

Gossamer Cumulus Fluff Over St. Thomas - 1995

A few years later, I saw you in the person of my sophomore crush in college.  Everyone thought you were an airhead of some sort, so slow to speak up, so blue-eyed and faraway.  I knew you were more than that - smarter than all of us, and full of the same insecurities and nineteen-year old angst that plagued us all.  You were probably just counting to ten before responding or reacting to anything or anyone, but it came across to me as the kind of stillness that usually accompanies one much older than you were.  Even if you were totally faking your serenity, it was a skill that I lacked, and I envied you for possessing it.

[Photo deleted - release not obtained]

Then, you appeared as a fictitious character, portrayed by a young and relatively inexperienced actress.  I must admit that in 1992, I utterly failed to notice that it was you, but a few months ago, when I took a closer look, there was no doubt.  As portrayed by the not-yet-hated-at-the-time Christina Ricci, little Wednesday Addams in the big-screen adaptation of "The Addams Family" showed me a new facet of you.  You weren't just still - you were cool.  It was as if movement of any kind - physical or emotional or otherwise - was simply beneath you.  Ricci was like ten years old when she did that movie - how did you DO that?  I would be thrilled to have just a day of being so committed to motionlessness.

Finally, you might think that I'd been too busy to have noticed, but your presence in my father did not escape me.  Even before his stroke, you had him sitting quietly at the edge of the action.  Not quite a wallflower - he was perfectly willing to participate in a gathering, and when he did so, he was extremely capable.  But, he didn't need to move, to make a sound, to be heard.  He -you- would just as soon observe, note, learn, and be.  He could do small talk, but by that last decade, even I could see that he abhorred speaking in the interest of the avoidance of silence.  This was, to me, one of his greatest gifts and, Dear Stillness, he got it from you.  It made those few words he did venture to say just that much weightier.  

The Man and His Books

I don't regret the fact that I inherited his temper and his sarcasm - but not his stillness.  However, I do both rue and lament it.  Yes, I stole that line. I'm not as clever as he was, either.

Anyway, Stillness.  I like you.  I admire you.  I want what you have.  I don't even have the excuse of a house full of children, or a high-octane career, but for whatever reason I cannot reach you.  I won't stop trying.  

To be still.  To be at peace.  Just for a moment.  Must be nice.

Love, Joe 

Rock Creek Valley Elementary School.  Snow.  Night.  Stillness.