I used to have this friend named Sky. I met Sky when I tried to pick him up at a bowling alley and was embarrassingly shotdown. This was a long time ago when I was a rosy cheeked teenager and the height of sophistication was having a fake ID and not being afraid to use it. Years later, when we had both gotten over ourselves, we became friends and later still- ran into each other when we were out barhopping one night. Unfortunately that night ended with the pair of us sitting in Babette, chain-smoking cigarettes trying to figure out what to do after my idiot sobercab dropped us off at my car in the middle of *nowhere*. The next thing I remember is my platonic friend bellowing- ‘Oh my GOD Kell! Your crotch is on FIRE!!!’ Then to my disbelief, he leaned over and with the flat of his hand- proceeded to beat the offending area until the last of the embers went out. See- wha’ha’happened was: in my drunken stupor I tried to flick a butt out the closed window and it ricocheted off and landed between my legs. I assumed the warmth was just the car's heater starting to work. I am convinced I will never be able to have children because of this event.
About a week ago, I was sitting in my car at the airport- unabashedly sobbing. I suppose the short-term parking ramp, with its own rumble underfoot and the roar of planes overhead is probably one of the best places to do this. Having Babette back is most fortunate for someone of my affliction- the inability to say goodbye. I can’t tell you how many times (it seems) I’ve sat in this particular car with nowhere to go. Sometimes you know there isn’t going to be a particularly brilliant flash of insight to redeem a situation, sometimes you know no one is coming to save you- to make everything ok, sometimes you just know this is how it feels when something *ends*. And your mind goes dumb with that knowing and you just sit there- waiting for nothing.
As I was waiting, tracing my finger along the circular burn in the driver’s seat- I realized that I had no idea how I had become this person. I didn’t much like her- especially after the past week. I tried to remember when I had last felt like myself and thought... Amanda. She saved me that night, you know- the pants-on-fire night. She knew something was up and managed to convince some casual acquaintances of hers to drive her all the way across the state line to come look for me. She didn’t complain when she had to drive me back to my car in the morning... or when I realized I locked my keys in the car and we had to go back for a spare... or after that when I unlocked the door and found the battery dead and the beast out of gas because I had left it *running*. She just laughed. She was my best friend. Her daughter Kyrie is my goddaughter and I haven’t spoken to either of them in well over a year.
I had a reason for this but even at the time- I knew it wasn’t a very good one. Sitting at the airport, thinking back over the years- many people have sat next to me in that very passenger seat. It’s all very symbolic and in that spirit, I wonder who I’d have co-piloting my next destination. Quick, before I can talk myself out of this, I hastily wipe my hand across my eyes as I reach for my phone. I dial Bobby’s number and listen to it ring. In my head a mantra repeats over and over: Answer the phone, please answer the phone. I don’t know what I’ll say if she does. I’m beginning to doubt she will when all of a sudden I can hear Manda’s smile in an equally doubtful ‘Hello?’ Ha! I laugh or mumble and stumble over broken greetings but she doesn’t mind. She simply says (when I finally give her the chance), ‘It’s about time you came home.’
And I think- yeah, it is.
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