Louisiana Rain Read online

Daydream (or Pivotal Moment)

  Supper was nothing special, another sandwich, soda and Doritos. Eating was the last thing on my mind because I still wanted to meet more people at the hostel. I sat on a plastic porch chair and ate my food hoping to strike up a conversation with someone or just people watch.

  A couple of girls were talking about themselves and smoking cigarettes while loitering on the nearby stairs. From their discussion I surmised that they were a punker from Detroit, Oregon and a hippie from Flagstaff Arizona who had hooked up sometime last week at a Greyhound bus terminal in Atlanta, Georgia and were now traveling together.

  The rougher looking of the two was stocky but not fat, had small perky breasts, stood about five foot tall and faded orange hair with a bob style cut. Her eyes were green and she wore Buddy Holly horned rimmed glasses. She was wearing a tan tank top, with no bra underneath, jeans with holes worn into both knees and hiking boots. Both of her ears were pierced multiple times and a silver loop hung between her nostrils. Several multi-colored dancing bear tattoos covered her left forearm, a blue gnome with a Mohawk on her right shoulder and a green Celtic knot above her upper right breast.

  Her voice was poised and hypnotic. The structure of her sentences felt like she considered the gravity of every word she spoke before saying them. I had a feeling that she was manipulative and taking advantage of her travel companion.

  The other girl was real skinny and easily over six foot tall. She had almost no chest to speak of, long dirty blond hair with messy dreadlocks that hung down several inches past her shoulders and an enchanting smile that pulled at both my heart and loin strings. I wondered if she was anorexic or did heroin.

  Her skin was pristine. I couldn’t see a single freckle, mole or pimple; it was lightly tanned from being outside in the sun.

  The fine hair on her legs and arm pits was nearly as long as mine. Her downiness didn’t detract me. It had the opposite effect, complimenting her natural beauty making her seem exotic and interesting.

  She wore a flowing, pink tie dye skirt that hung an inch or so blow her knees with a Che Guevara t-shirt. The smell of vanilla surrounded her.

  The pair were considering the idea of renting a car and driving to Austin, Texas or maybe Mexico for something to do tomorrow. Marti Gras was over and all the action was winding down here.

  The gruffer of the two was doing most of the talking while the other listened intently with a blank look on her face. I was not sure if she was stoned or thinking about her cohorts proposition.

  I was quickly drawn into their conversation when they noticed I was listening.

  It occurred to me that I was now in a position where I could change the whole course of my future and become another person. Little did I know at the time but it was one of those pivotal moments that life randomly throws at us, in which the choices we make determine our Fate.

  In those few seconds of contemplation I saw myself forswearing everything back in Rochester, New York and driving to Mexico City with two seemingly smart and beautiful young women. What fool would turn down that once in a lifetime opportunity?

  My mind began flirting with Possibility.

  We would spend a few weeks partying in Mexico City with a guy I met over the internet through a writers group. He’d let us crash at his place for a while and then we’d figure out what to do or where to go from there.

  Perhaps moving further south, exploring all the ruins, rainforests, people and cultures; spending some time in Honduras , Belize or Nicaragua before working our way through Central America with money earned from whatever work we could find then onward to Equator, Peru, Brazil and maybe even Argentina or Chile eventually.

  I then imagined the three of us getting an apartment, learning Spanish from our neighbors and finding jobs to support ourselves because it turned out that the acquaintance I knew lied and did not live in Mexico City. He really lived in Lansing, Michigan in his parents’ basement.

  After a few months things change and the erotic love triangle is broken. The mood of my daydream plays out like an unwritten Harry Chapin song.

  The punker chick’s true colors begin to show. She becomes loud and judgmental.

  Initially she gets pissed off at the other girl because she no longer wants to be part of an open relationship and then at me because I have a halfway decent job working for a Fortune 500 American company that makes us all too comfortable and materialistic.

  Eventually she storms off one night because she can’t deal with our boring Bourgeois lifestyle anymore, never to be heard or seen again.

  Feelings between the hippy girl and I also shift to an intimacy beyond sex and going places together. As it turned out she was not anorexic and did not care for drugs in general. Her metabolism made her so skinny and she loved to cook and eat. She eventually gave up smoking when she saw how it affected my allergies.

  Familiarity causes us become closer, more open and honest with each other than we initially imagined would happen.

  I translate Octavio Paz poems and recite the verses to her afterward. She teaches herself classical guitar on an instrument she bought from a street vendor and practices for hours at night on the apartment balcony.

  After a few years of living together abroad she gradually decides that the free spirit act is too much work to uphold and not necessary around me. She begins to shave her legs and becomes more conventional.

  The desire to get married and raise a family is revealed. The feeling is mutual.

  She gets pregnant, has a miscarriage then wants us to move to Flagstaff to be closer to her family. I agree and apply for a company transfer.

  We get married in a suburban protestant church, buy a house, have three kids and eventually get bored of each other after all our children leave home after finding lives of their own. Our love remains and keeps us together but we don’t know what else to do with ourselves beside drink top shelf scotch on the rocks and watch TV to avoid talking.

  We miss the passion of our past but don’t remember how to evoke its magic anymore or have the energy to try harder.

  She still smells like vanilla after all the years.

  Then there is always the possibility that the three of us never make it to Mexico City because our car is commandeered off the highway by a gang of bandits who work for a regional drug cartel.

  The thugs take us to their boss who immediately sells the girls to a Columbian pimp and takes me prisoner; giving me a choice to work for him to have my head lopped off by one of his lackeys with a dull machete.

  It’s was an easy choice.

  My new employer eventually lightens up when he learns that I’m an experienced technician. He decides to spare my life and hires me to support the sophisticated computer systems that are installed throughout his organization.

  I live comfortably for several years until the government storms a compound I’m working at in a raid. I get killed in the crossfire.

  So in my head I’m thinking, “Is a rollercoaster drama worth all the stress to end up dead or living a similar life if I just say no and go home?”

  I thanked them and elaborated, “The offer sounds exciting. Unfortunately I don't have enough money, time off from work or school to do the side trip.

  Also my current girlfriend back North would probably hunt me down to the ends of the Earth and put me on notice for eternity for not inviting her along too.”

  They thought that my response was funny and said that they understood.

  The girls then changed the subject and ask me where I was from up North and how long it took me to drive here. I told them I was from Rochester, New York. One immediately inquired “How close to New York City is that?”

  Before I could answer their question, from inside the open window behind me, someone suddenly interrupts us by saying, "Hi I'm Hipergausimic. I'll be out in a minute to talk. I just need to finish warming up my dinner."

  It appea
red to me that the two girls outside that I was chatting with had already met the person overhearing our conversation from the kitchen. I heard the Hippie chick quietly mumble the name ‘Jackie’ and saw both of them roll their eyes in annoyance before the Hippie said that she needed to go check something in her dorm room.

  The punk girl muttered that she spent enough time yesterday around Jackie then announced that she was going for a walk, leaving me alone.