“I think your hair was a different color when I met you,” his words sliced through our circle of girls and explained the pensive eyebrows and stealing of glances.
I’d been noticing and ignoring him simultaneously. But now he had my full attention because—synchronicity.
“Probably. I was just wondering which CVS store is still open and what color I’ll buy.”
Truth is, I color my hair all the time, and the other, more subtle truth was that I vaguely remembered meeting him, too. I couldn’t remember where and frankly wasn’t giving it much thought. Too busy grooving on the creative caucus happening with my girl crew. We’re standing on the sidewalk outside the Key West Film Festival party, sipping our rum drinks and having a lively discussion about writing, filming, editing, animation, inspiration.
But synchronicity turned the volume up on the guy. Not because he noticed the nuances of my hair color—that’s nice, but no longer enough to get me going (it’s too easy, and I want a guy who works for it for a change)—but because he voiced the very topic I’d been silently discussing with myself.
Synchronicity not only gets me going, it’s what I live for. Seemingly random little things line up, and turn into a big thing forming a rapidly established connection that surprises and delights the two people it’s bringing together.
Synchronicity comes from someplace big and beyond—God, The Universe, celestial beings—and shines down onto some little, seemingly inconsequential moment a couple of humans are having here on Earth.
Like a little gift, strengthening my belief in (and downright dependence on) divine orchestration.
Synchronicity would strike again between us, and not long after…
I’m biking home from work. I never pay attention to the exact path and I don’t know street names. I flow with my bike, rolling in the general direction of home. I’d worked late, Thanksgiving week, and there were finally people on the island again keen to do watersports.
Crossing Eaton (I know that one because Eaton Bikes sits on the corner) I see a dark horse of a bike coming from my right and wonder if I can get across before him.
And then I recognized him. From two nights ago. On the sidewalk.
“Heyyy,” I call out, making him look up from his phone.
“Hey!”
“What are you up to?” It’s an unusual thing to say, suggesting I maybe want to hang, but I want my home and my bed.
He says he just got done at The Studios and has to be back at 6:30am to set up the Holiday Artisan Market.
It’s 10:30.
“Ahh, the clopen!” I feigned an exhausted look to go with the term that, as far as I know, I invented. “I was thinking of going to that market.”
If he’s amused, he doesn’t let on. “Come early, it’ll be a shit show!!”
I laugh.
“I’ve never done it before and don’t operate well early.”
“Me neither! But I do love a good shit show. You’re selling me.” I slowly start to roll on.
“You better be there!” he calls into what is about to be my dust.
“It better be a shit show!” I turn and yell backward. Smiling all the way home.
It wasn’t just that I was attracted to him. What with the thick, dark hair hitting his shoulders, one group of tendrils separating from the pack, twisting down along his temple. Or his beard with flecks of ginger glinting, also full, and above a black vintage Levi’s Strauss T-shirt taut across his chest. The calm, considerate way he listened reflected in his thoughtful nod and unwavering gaze.
But I was, definitely, attracted.
But to more. The air of adventure rising off him, swirling around me and mixing with mine, forming a threesome with the smell of freshly frying fries. The pairing effect similar to the scent of just baked cookies wafting through a realtor’s Open House. I spotted it right away, his position by the only outlet in the dining room, his two backpacks and dirty fingernails. I know this move. This is my move. I’m a gypsy writer. And I’m always scoping for future places to plunk down, pop open my laptop, and write.
My first words to him, full of curious exploration,“Is that the only outlet?”
“Yeah…but, I have a double plug, if you want to share.” His answer further endears him to me. The misunderstanding makes me smile and his generosity restores my faith in humanity.
I love people who share.
They call my number and I excuse myself. I return to a booth not too far away. After reading and eating, I rise up to go and our eyes connect.
“I like your pants,” he says.
“Thanks,” I say. Because, with their rust-colored, complementary striped bell-bottom style, I like them, too. “I think they make me look like Donna from That 70s Show,” and that’s a good look. They’re one of those things you know you’ll get compliments on when you wear it. We all have them.
“Where did you get ‘em?”
Really? Not only a follow-up question, but the same one I was asking myself as I pulled them on this morning.
Thus begins two hours of talking about adventure and freedom and herbs and the island. About following one’s nose, and one’s calling. And biking the Sunshine-Skyway bridge (him, not me. And not even him, because the cops stopped him at the top). “I had a song all cued up for the long coast downhill.”
I liked how I felt in his presence–comfortable. The longer I was in it, the more comfortable I became. Our initial ease was growing into a warming glow.
He motioned to the other section of his booth, “You’re welcome to join me.”
Like a flower blooming, our conversation was, and I within our conversation. We spoke of where we were from (me Wisconsin, him Michigan), how to properly sleep in a hammock (diagonally), and how old versions are better than the new and improved (countless examples). I liked what was coming out of me. All my best stuff–my words, my perspective, my suggestions (he’d only been here a few weeks) . . . even my hair looked good, judging by its reflection in the big window framing winter’s early darkness.
I was into me, and I was really into how this had all come to be.
Single moments of the evening–seemingly weird and random at the time–were now showing themselves in one fluid movie in my mind. I’d stopped at a Free Little Library to drop off a book. It wasn’t even my regular one. And I have a strict rule of only dropping off, but as I slid mine in, a spine of another caught my eye with its fiery sunset colors and title Heaven and Hurricanes.
Just the back cover, I think because, the rule, and because I was trying to get to the seven o’clock showing of the Whitney Houston movie and had dirty laundry in my back bike basket to wash on the way. But as all good back covers make you do, I was opening the cover and reading the prologue. And then I was tucking it between dirty sheets and detergent and taking off, pushing hard to make up time.
Everyone at the laundromat was on their phone, while I leaned against a folding table and sunk into the superb writing and intriguing plot. As quarters dropped and clanked, an idea dropped into my mind: check the rating on Rotten Tomatoes. They persuaded me to wait and catch it streaming. With clean sheets, I rode off into the night now wide open, sans plans.
Except to read more of this book.
And I was hungry. Nothing at the cafe next to the laundromat had really grabbed me. The tartar on a Filet-O-Fish does, as the golden arches come into view. Suddenly, I can think of nothing better than my feet up in a booth, reading and eating.
The total ringing up to $4.20 at a store in the Madison airport was a checkpoint. One of life’s delights. The ‘I’m on the right track’ message they give to be illustrated by what happens at the next airport…
I’m hanging at the food court passing my three hour layover by snacking and writing. I love when it flows so strongly, my fingers simply taking dictation from the creative ether. I’m also staying aware of the time and the mounting desire for a window seat. Finishing up, my gut says: Go now. Rounding the corner to the gate, the agent is grabbing the intercom to announce the need for volunteers to give up their seats and fly in the morning. For $400 and a free hotel room. Already there, I’m first in line. When no one else volunteers, they bump it up to $600 and an elderly couple steps forward.
I should’ve waited.
“Good thing you didn’t wait!” the agent says after everyone around me has boarded. “We only need one seat and you were first. People wait, but that’s silly. You all get the highest amount no matter when you volunteer.”
I smile as the little you-fucked-it-up voice inside my head sits back down. The guidance I felt moving me in Madison has flown along with me. Turns out, they only need one seat.
Feeling a bit flabby from a day spent mostly sitting down, I decide to resist falling into the crisply made king sized bed, and head to the fitness center. I’m grinning from how beautiful the hotel and room are. Damn, Delta! Inside is a nice looking, nicely built guy lifting weights. Hopping onto the treadmill, my Midwest niceness—still going strong having spent two weeks there—strikes up some small talk. He’s got a nice vibe, so I keep talking and check for a wedding ring.
Our conversation broadens to where we’re visiting from and me mentioning Key West brings the follow-up question of What made you move there? I answer like I always do, because I wanted to be a writer and Key West seemed the best place to make it happen.
“Have I heard of you?” His eyes soften and his smile offers encouragement and hope.
“Not yet, but you will.” This day has brought out a level of confidence I don’t normally speak with.
His eyes light up and his smile says he’s enjoying this.
“Jennifer Juniper. My dad named me after. . . “
“The Donovan song.”
“Yeah, it came out the year I was born.”
He looks to the ceiling and thinks, “1968?”
I often have to explain the singer and no one’s ever offered the year. Who is this guy?
“I’m a bit of a music fanatic.” Words I love to hear, delivered with a glint off the band circling his left ring finger.
The irony.
The night rolls in, darkness pressing up against the windows surrounding us. We talk music, which gets me sharing some fun facts about my father and the music scene in Madison in the 70s while I bounce around to the elliptical, the bike, the weights. The topic of my healing memoir gets broached. I mention Bernie Siegel’s Love, Medicine and Miracles as the kingpin in my long and strong remission from Crohn’s Disease. He’s an engaged listener, sharing he’s a two-time survivor of cancer.
“The first time I was twenty-three. I felt a lump that turned out to be testicular cancer.” He goes on to say he wouldn’t wish chemo on anyone, makes a face still haunted by it. “The second time was a couple years ago–prostate cancer. Go figure.” He attempts half a smile.
“I was young, too, when my disease hit.” Our connection widens and deepens as we talk about how isolated our uniqueness made us. Surrounded by the vibrance and strength of youth, while your body fights against you. And you in turn try to fight back.
“I didn’t tell anyone,” he says.
“Me neither.”
A bond is forming–overcoming similar obstacles locks you in with another person. I stop working out, falling into the warmth developing between us. We talk about the tests of old: drinking barium and watching your insides light up on a monitor above your bed. The need for a sense of humor. Having good doctors, having not so good doctors.
“It changes your whole thought process,” my unplanned workout partner states.
I nod at his all encompassing answer to what having a chronic illness is like.
“I was in an intense career with high performance goals and heavy pressure to meet them, flying all over the place.” The second cancer wrote his resignation letter, giving permission to step into something calmer, lighter. Healthier. Confirming a major tenant in my book. . .
A disease has symptoms, but is also a symptom itself of the life we’re leading. Doctors laser focused on one area miss seeing the person as a whole. Until we look and treat holistically, there’s little hope of true healing. I share how I, too, was living at mach-10 speed with my hair on fire when my broken belly yanked me back and demanded I drop a gear.
Or two.
Then three.
To now, living the life I want and choose because any day, any moment, the rug could get pulled out from under me.
He nods that he relates. “I didn’t think I had the option to wait till I retire, like everyone else.”
“Neither quantity nor quality of life is guaranteed when you have a chronic condition.”
He shares he gets scanned every six months. Instinctively, I hold my breath in empathy of what that must be like. The topic turns to love and inspiration.
“If not for the love of my mother the first time and the love of my wife the second time…” his voice trails off.
I scan my mind’s files for the person I could say the same about. “For me, that was God. You definitely need a power greater than yourself to get you through it. Love is so powerful.”
“I’ve got a friend at my gym back home who told someone my story and it really inspired him. He wants to write my story, but I’m only just starting to talk about it. I’ve kept it pretty private, it’s personal. But the idea someone could be helped by it tugs at me.”
“I look at it like I made withdrawals of others’ stories of strength and miracles to inspire me. Now, it’s my turn to make a deposit.”
He considers this as the streetlights pierce the surrounding darkness. Our topic adding more light. I share how even though my intention was to help others with my story, in writing it I’m reliving it and it’s helping me all over again.
“I bet your mom would want you to write it.”
Not one to be flippant, he mulls it for a moment and smiles, “Yeah. . . she would.”
Laying in bed, I think of two things. How I want to be in a hotel room this nice on my own dime, because of my book. And how I’d like a duplicate of this guy, except single. He was so attentive and easy to be with. The warmth and the connection–that’s what I want. And for a moment, I had it. If that’s what I’m attracting, even for a half hour, then I must be growing. I want to grow more. I want to be in a whole other place personally and professionally by next summer.
“I’m off the market until my book’s ON the market.” That’s what I said, and I meant it. I was drawing a thou shalt not cross line in the sand. I should know better.
The last time I did that was after taking a trip with a guy I’d been dating for a few months. We found a cheap deal to Vegas to escape winter in Wisconsin and thaw out for a while. When we got there he invited his friends in Vegas over and they hung out pretty much the entire four days and three nights smoking pot in our hotel room while I complained about it to my sister on the lobby’s payphone. Had my car starting on fire on the way to the airport been a sign? That’s right, on fire. The brakes locked up, causing friction to build and ignite something under the hood.
I’ve never seen the metaphor as crystal clear as I do in this instant.
By the time we got back the relationship was also in flames. Our break-up was the final straw breaking the camel’s back–the camel’s back being my attempts at having relationships. This break-up, on top of a string of other break-ups, on top of my recent divorce had me assessing my already poor track record with men.
I said to my bestie Renee on our next girls night out, “Thirty days. I’m benching myself for thirty days. No flirting, calling, kissing, hugging or fucking for thirty days.”
The next weekend on our next night out, a tall, dark and handsome (it may be cliche, but it’s also hella accurate) half of a twinset (which made him even more sexy)was buying me drinks and asking for my number. Had to give him the brush off for three weeks, after which I fell madly in bed with him. He was definitely one of the better choices I’d made. Perhaps my brief hiatus had performed some kind of reset to the ‘my type’ presets.
And now, many years later I’m doing the same thing but for different reasons. To continue with the sports allegory, like athletes not having sex before a big game–I doubt Lance Armstrong banged anyone the night before Tour de France–I’m not risking diffusing my energy, either. I’m too easily distracted when I’m attracted.
The I’m-off-the-market-until-my-book’s-on-the-market statement was made a few weeks ago, to much applause from those close to me who know this about me and support my focus. Evidently cuing the Universe: “Let’s send Jen a nice boy.”
Why? I mean, Why now? I’ve been in Key West on and off for four years, and now suddenly my good friend who rarely invites me sailing, invited me to sail with a friend of his who’s just learned how and wants some practice. A captain. Sure, why not. It’s not bad enough he’s cute, funny, helpful and has great lips–he can sail and has a sense of adventure. Am I being tested or something?
This is bad timing. Good guy. . . bad timing. Feels like I’m just hitting my stride with my book writing.
I was going to bike to a free washer and dryer, but the little voice in my head said, “Just go to the laundromat. It’s closer. It’s easier. It costs a whole four dollars.”
I like to listen to that voice. One, because history shows that it knows stuff and two, because what doesn’t get listened to tends to stop talking. It’s taken me on wild and wonderful rides in the past, so I tend to trust it. I scoop the clothes out of my bike basket and as I load the washer I see my bike start to tip in the wind. I catch it before it falls and the guy folding his clean clothes — the only other person in there, surprisingly — remarks, “You caught it, nice job.”
Random comments like that can be rare in Key West, almost as rare as a practically empty laundromat, which makes me pick it up and run with it. Our chit chat turns to the power of positive thinking and we share some of our favorite inspirations. It’s when I mention that I meditate that his face really lights up.
We’re also both gypsies, cheating the seasons. He’s down from Pennsylvania where it’s too cold to work construction, I’m here because of opportunities aligning.
“We should hang out sometime,” he offers.
I’m aware that I don’t respond to his suggestion, but I’m unaware as to why. And now I have two conversations going: the one with him and the one in my head trying to figure out why I didn’t take him up on his offer. He seems cute enough: hair on the longer side, curling up around his ears and where it hits the top of his T-shirt. He smiles a little when he talks, and he talks like a guy who takes responsibility for his life, his thoughts and his choices.
Sometimes you get so used to turning away from what you don’t want that when what you do want faces you full frontal, you wobble. Forget your lines. I’m prone to saying yes easily and effortlessly and I’m not sure it serves me in the romantic realm of my life. Somewhere in me it seems there’s been a decision to take things more slowly.
He mentions he likes to hang out at one of my favorite spots: the state park, Fort Zach. Here’s my chance. I say I love that place and I would totally hang out with him there. He doesn’t grab my offer like a lion coming up on a gazelle in the wild; he casually nods and says when he tends to be there.
It’s the desire to share a YouTube video of inspirational quotes that brings the exchanging of phone numbers to the table.
As we say goodbye, he makes the classy move of saying, “I’d love to take you out to dinner some time.” Nailing the landing, in my book.
Solo Chick Traveler 