Tightrope

(from "Postcards" series)

"Lonesome got me bad," he moaned.  

"Why are you lonesome?" I asked. 

"I don't know.  Man, I was doing fine, then summer came and I walked by a Williams and Sonoma window displaying all that summer picnic stuff, wicker baskets and blue umbrellas and ice cream makers, you know?"  

"Yea, I've seen it."  

"Shit, you can't picnic alone."  

"Sure you can." 

"No, its not the same," he said, and he was right of course, but I was trying to cheer him up.

"I just keep listening to Bob Dylan singing 'Blue Moon' over and over.  I broke down crying when Sinatra came on the radio station singing 'Fly Me to the Moon.'"

"What station are you listening to that plays 'Fly Me to the Moon?'"

"It was one of my Pandora stations." 

"Oh.  Listen, though, I've felt like that even when I've been in a relationship."  

But when lonesome gets hold of you, its a hard one to shake.

*     *     *     *     *

She leaned her body up against me pinning me to the side of the car.  I could feel the warmth of her coming through her clothing.  She was from Venezuela and dated the most popular guy in our group.  He had long hair and looked like the singer Leon Russell.  This was his party.  We were at his house.  He was inside.  She had followed me out as I was leaving.  I hadn't been romantic with a girl for a long time, so when she kissed me, my head began to twirl.  I could smell the beer on her breath sweet and sour, but I couldn't taste it.  Her tongue was big, I thought, and soft.  She had a big, soft tongue that she pushed farther into the back of my mouth than seemed right and my head was spinning.  When she slowly withdrew her big tongue, she left her lips against mine and smiled.  Jesus Christ, I thought, she was like a movie star.  She pressed her forehead into my neck and softly giggled.  Suddenly, I was aware that I was breathing deeply, a little too rapidly and maybe audibly as well.  I wondered with embarrassment if she had heard.  Of course she had, I thought.  That is why she giggled.  

Some people form the party walked by, and I remembered Leon inside.  Everybody knew she was his girl.  I tried to get suspiciously small.  

"What's the matter?" she asked.  

"Nothing.  There were just some people walking by."  

She pulled back and stood up straight and looked at me.  

"You're not very tall, are you,"  she said.  It was not a question.

"I'm five-ten," I said matter-of-factly.  She had to be at least six feet tall. 

"OK," she said.  I didn't know if that was an agreement with my statement or a change of direction.  I wanted her to kiss me again.  

She was scrummaging around in her purse and pulled out a piece of paper.  She looked at it for a moment and then scrummaged some more. Cursing, she pulled out a mascara pencil.  

"Do you have something to write with?" she asked.  

I thought that from this point forward in my life, I probably would. 

"No," I said.

She wrote something on the paper in mascara there in the dark and handed it to me.  

"Here's my number," she said.  "Call me."  

And then she kissed me briefly and turned toward the house.  I watched her walk away on those long, long legs.  I didn't want to move.  

Driving home in the night with the windows down, I put on a tape by Leon Russell, driving and singing along with "Tight Rope."  Man oh man, I thought.  And that was about all.  Man oh man.  She was from Venezuela.  She was beautiful and she had the best boy in school.  And she had kissed me.  

Wind, moon, and sky.  

About halfway home, though, something else occurred to me.  I'd never thought about not being tall before.  

*    *   *

"Tight Rope" by Leon Russell