Friday's Whims of the Time Traveler 14.0: February 19th, 2008

To Be

by Belinda Roddie

It's one o'clock in the morning and the air is cool but heavy on my shoulders. That's the way summer nights linger on a person who lives in this town. It only seems that when I attempt to submit to my subconscious that my mind is pierced with heat and I find myself staring at the ceiling. Not like I'm able to fall asleep, anyway, what with all my aspects of the world spinning in crystalline webs across my mind, each thought biting at me. Questions, concepts, dreams, the list doesn't end. Tonight, I decide that I won't attempt to sleep. Ironically, it takes more effort than staying awake.

I'm sitting on the stone steps outside of my house, my black coat a comforting weight on my back as I gaze at the horizon. These days, the stars don't look so white anymore; they seem to be graying with age, wispy and fine like dust, like ashes. It's always amused me that we wish upon these weary balls of flame for our whims and fancies, but I, too, have found myself staring at the sky and thinking that the stars have much more power than we gather. I have my own wishes, such as the wish to escape and the wish to be like so many others that I've read about - breaking free of my brazen cage and entering the vibrant color of the real world.

The chill air begins to nip at my nose, and I reach into my pocket for a pack of cigarettes, drawing one out with my thumb and index finger. It's been a sporadic year for me in smoking; every week I buy a new brand, as if the one I enjoyed before fails to please my palate anymore. Last week it was Camel; this week, it's Marlboro.  I love changes in my routine. It's like not anything else changes here, so I have to improvise.

I strike a match and light up. Immediately my shoulders relax and I am lost in the smoke, literally and figuratively. I don't focus on the sky, or the street that extends like paper into the inkiness of the night. Instead, I close my eyes and my ears take over for them, and I hear the crickets and the faint whistle of a passing truck. I let my eyes readjust to the darkness, and I begin to further observe the outlines of the pavement and the street lamps. Observing is one of my few pastimes besides smoking and dreaming.

For twenty years, I have lived in this town that relies on headlines about as little as guns never fired and the oh-so-exciting Fourth of July parade. More exciting things happen in my head, my own stories that slowly seem to become close to reality as I stroll down the railroad tracks or toward the highway. I remember so many others who grew up here and departed after college graduation, never to be seen again except for the holidays.

I never found my way out. I'm thirty-two years old and paying rent in order to stay at my parents' house. All I've got is a nine-dollar-an-hour paycheck from Target every once in a while, my collections of CDs, my scrapbooks, and my best friends Simon and Tony. Sometimes I'll walk to the grocery store where Simon works, and we'll head to Peet's and have a smoke with the other washed-up citizens of Novato. But that's about it; there's nothing else and I don't try too hard to leave an impression here. I merely exist.

The air grows still as I smoke; even the crickets have lost their voices in the night. I know that my parents are sound asleep on the top floor of my house, but my dad will probably notice the smell of tobacco on my clothes and throw a fit. He's pre-diabetic and is a nut about health. There's not much I can do to please him now but to go to bed myself and let my mind race. But I know I can't sleep, so I remain outside and dream.

It's only a matter of time before those dreams evolve into my reality.

The work you see here has only been slightly modified for mechanics and errors since February 19th, 2008.