Thursday, June 28, 2012 chained... (1)

The first time Rodnee and I met, we weren’t looking at each other. She was sitting in my spot on the park bench that I visit on my lunch break during the week. I wasn’t bothered by the intrusion, our thighs were pressed together and she smelled nice enough. Our eyes were on someone far more interesting than either of us, a man chained to a tree across the park. I only knew her name from glancing at the ‘Hello, My Name Is’ sticker pressed to her Jimi Hendrix shirt, over her left breast, over her heart. Bold isn’t a word that has ever been used to describe my style, especially concerning my approach to women, but something about the setting and the look on the man’s face inspired me to ask, “Where were you that your name needed to be displayed?” Our eyes met momentarily before returning to our suffering subject. It took her a moment to understand exactly what I was asking. “Oh, this. Nowhere. I just wear it, you know, I figure guys are gonna look at my chest anyways, right? Might as well learn something about me.” I had never met anyone with that name and it’s in my nature to be cynical, so with all the confidence a guy on a park bench could find, I asked her, “What’s your real name?” I couldn’t see her, but I felt her temperature rise for a second, “What?  It’s…” but I cut in, “No, it’s not. We’ve lied and been lied to enough, haven’t we?” This might have been taken as rude, had Rodnee been more sensitive and had she not noticed my smile. “Well, my real name is Boring.” Her thigh broke away from mine and she sighed, “This is his third day here, I’ve been watching him since Saturday, he hasn’t moved.” There’s a description of this man, we’d all have a way of painting his picture, but he’d be there for a while and in this moment I’d rather describe my bench partner, although this story really has nothing to do with her.  

Most would describe me as a whole, definitive being beginning with a ball of light in the center and working outwards in a male form, adding elements like clothing and a hairstyle to give you and I the illusion of individuality. Rodnee, however, was a compilation of details, tiny fragments of style and personality woven together into a female’s form. If you asked me, I’d say Rodnee was borne from musical chords, not two people slamming their parts together. There was some sort of ancient understanding between us on that bench that seemed beyond us on our own but made perfect sense when sitting this close to one another. She wore patched jeans, barefoot, with a thick braid for her hair. Lip ring, scar on her forehead, earphones blasting some lost rock tune into her head. I see all of these details out of the corner of my eye, because she really wasn’t the most interesting character on that day. The moment I was going to attempt to press my thigh back to hers, she slid off the bench and with her back to me, staring at the man. She asked “You’ll be here tomorrow?” and I realized that I really had nowhere else to go. No way was I going to spend lunch break under a roof with my co-workers when this stubborn man was here in this park. “Yeah, I will. This bench, every day, Monday through Friday.”  She glanced at me over her shoulder, but I was looking at the Cream patch on her ass, though I assumed she was pointing at the man when she said “That tree, every day, Saturday through to the rest of his life. See you tomorrow, I’ll bring you an ice cream cone.  Chocolate?” Before I could reply she flicked the volume up on her Discman and left my line of sight, which landed on the man chained to the tree. She didn’t ask my name, which I actually appreciated.

(End of Part 1)

This is original writing and copyright and all that fine print kind of stuff. Please credit this to Chessterr Hollowberry. Thanks!

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