boy meets girl

Right On Time

~ Solo Chick Traveler ~ 3 Comments

A wizard is never late, nor is he early. He arrives precisely when he means to. ~Gandalf 

“Why’d you come at the end!?” My friend and fellow writer, Arida, exclaimed a couple days ago, at an event honoring Black History Month with readings of poems by Black poets.

I got there late but not at the end, she just hadn’t seen me. We cleared it up, and the whole interaction cued up the scene of Gandalf responding to Frodo’s similar accusation. I often get accused of being late and this quote eases my mind every time. 

I’m arriving at another event, Arida launching her own book of poetry, and I appear to be late again. She’s not reading though, so it’s all good. It’s on the rooftop terrace of the Studios of Key West.

“Going up?” I say to the guy at the elevator doors. 

He smiles a gentle smile and nods.

I quickly laugh, “I guess there’s nowhere to go but up!” trying to shrug off my awkwardness. The awkwardness I often have when half my brain is still on whatever I was writing before, as I try once again to merge back into social traffic. Adding a bit of random information pushes the gas pedal down a little more. “No one has a basement in Key West. We’re at sea level.” 

We step into the elevator. He asks how long I’ve lived here and I ask how long he’s visiting for. He’s from northern Illinois. I’m originally from Madison, Wisconsin.

His eyes light up, “I’ve been to Madison. Loved it!” Of course he did, I think, Madison is amazing. Mentally, I put up two points on the scoreboard my subconscious has suddenly erected. 

We step out onto the fourth floor: Hugh’s View. Giving a 360 degree angle of this island beloved by so many. The bar greets us to the left, “Can I get you something?” He asks. A couple more points go up.

You might be wondering, ‘Is it that easy to impress you, Jen? Been to your hometown and loved it, offers to buy you a drink.’

Yes. Yes it is. 

Turning from the bar, I see there’s a mic and a chair onstage. As we turn further, towards Arida’s table, I hope she doesn’t do her exclamation again. I’m in the bubble of pseudo-perfection that a new, chance meeting creates and I’d like it to not burst quite yet. 

“Arida, meet…” I motion to my companion, “I don’t know who this is.” Then I look in his eyes and laugh, “Who are you?” 

“Will.” He says to me. “I’m Will.” He says to her. 

He leans in, watching intently the mutual admiration flow between Arida and I. “You are such an incredible writer, Jen.” Then to Will, “This chick’s poetry is so profound, I had to read it twice.”

I praise the animated way she delivers her material. The confidence she exuded when she read at the launch for the guild’s hot off the press anthology a few days ago. “You inspire me. I took mental notes.”

His eyes are wide with engagement and he nods along, showing belief in everything we’re saying. Tipping his head down to the table, he asks,“Well then, which book should I buy?” Breaking his wallet out again.

Arida could’ve promoted one of her own books, but she directs him to the anthology. “You’ll probably like this one the best. It’s got a bit of everything.”

A warmth climbs my neck–my poem and story are both erotica. That’s a heck of a first impression. “Every poem and story inspired by and set in The Keys,” I chime in.

“That’s what I like, the slice of life kind of stuff.” And now he’s using my line. 

He asks us both to sign it. I add to mine, ‘thanks for the wine!’

He and I move over the the edge. He shares about the radio show he had in college on the campus radio station, based on the experiences he and his co-workers had delivering pizza. “To the middle of a football field. To a strip club and getting tipped in a stack of ones. Once I had to help rescue a lost cat.”  

His voice sounds sexier to me as I imagine it caressing the airwaves with his slice of life stories. Pizza slices of life. 

We point to things from the rooftop–church steeples, the haunted Artist’s House B&B, sailboats bobbing on the Gulf. He’s open, inviting. Present. Truly interested. He travels like I travel–totally immersing ourselves into someplace new, becoming intimate with the unknown. He makes some jokes and keeps putting up points.

The rooftop portion closes and we go down to the second floor where the theater is. Like many places in Key West, it’s said to be haunted. It was once a masonic lodge, the chairs with members’ names, numbers and various decals still remain. In trying to decipher their meaning, I guess the double eagle with a ‘32’ is the highest rank. “Eagles are regal,” I reason.

“Thirty-three is the highest number in Masonry, so, yeah.” He says it like he’s saying ‘The sun sets in the west.’

Seriously, who is this guy? 

Walking to my bike, the regret of missing Arida’s reading tugs at my heart. It’s followed by the replay of running into Will at the elevator. Would I still have ran into him if I’d arrived earlier? Maybe. But one little change sends out ripples. Swap out one of the puzzle pieces and the big picture won’t come together the same way.

I settle once again into the comfort of Gandalf’s quote. I had arrived precisely when I meant to. 

That First Spark

~ Solo Chick Traveler ~ 1 Comment

What attracts us to someone? Their beauty? Their eyes? Their lips? Their laugh? Their touch?. . .

I met a good friend out for a drink and a listen to live music. I didn’t really want to. Having been out late the night before I was looking forward to catching up on sleep after a quick stop at the grocery store. I’m running this plan through my brain, sighing a little at the thought of my soft bamboo sheets, as I lock up my bike outside the dispensary, when I hear “Juniper!”

Only Pat calls me that. Uses my middle name as my first. I sashay over in my rainbow for Pride lit up tutu and say it’s between bands at the amphitheater. They’re biking around in the spontaneous gear of see-what’s-happening that’s so easy to do in Key West, especially on Duval Street. We go our separate ways but say we’ll stay in touch.

Once back at the amphitheater, dancing and writing in my head for a couple songs, something inside me start to drift. My mind’s casting about for alternatives and though I’ve just returned, I leave out the gates again. Pat’s texted me “At the tuna (Smokin’ Tuna) watching Marshall Morlock.” It’s a bar I’m not fond of and a band that’s been on my To-See list for half a year. I bike on over.

His friend Rob gives up his stool, but the crazy good cover of Message In a Bottle demands booty shaking, head banging, and fist pumping. Marshall Morlock’s guitar prowess continues and my “Just for one drink” quickly becomes a “Do I really need to stop at the store?” And after he strums the first notes of Purple Rain, turns to a declaration, “Sleep! Who needs sleep!?!” My mind scoffs.

The attraction to Rob begins when the night is ending. Already ended — it’s after midnight. He goes to high-five me goodbye and I feel something when our palms touch that makes me thread my fingers through his and curl them over his knuckles. Our hands separate after an instant, then for some reason we do it again. As a test? That feeling increases. It’s an inner smile somewhere behind my solar plexus, a warmth on an already steamy hot night. He follows my lead, folding his fingers the same way, latching us in, but holding me loosely enough so I don’t feel bound by it. He’s holding me, but I’m free to go.

A delicious, delicate, balance.

His skin’s dry roughness makes my soft skin even softer. I’m aware I don’t want to let go this time. So I don’t. Slowly dancing away, I raise our outstretched arms and twirl underneath them until they can stretch no further; swinging my hips and dancing myself out the door. I climb onto the seat of my bike wondering, What was that? The only answer is, Whatever it was, I like it. And I’d like more.