Silence, Part I

We’re on the way to a quiet destination and carrying another one with us. We’re not talking. I don’t remember how it started (“I remember, I think you just pretend not to remember” Maybe I just can’t believe that something so small could’ve set us off like this. “It looks like one small thing, but maybe it’s one more small thing.” Well, I’m glad we’ve gotten past it. “You might still say you’re sorry.” I am sorry, I’ve said it already. You might apologize for your part in it. “You say you, ‘said it already’, but when are you going to mean it?” I do mean it, haven’t I shown that? “Fine” Yeah, fine.), but now it’s become a contest of wills – a dare. Try to see who needs to talk first. Who will break down and break the silence?
We’ve just passed the last of anything like a big town we’d be passing through, and 70 is veering north to keep from dropping us either on Carrot Island or in the water (Carrot Island, that reminds me of the left turn we shoulda took at Albuquerque. “Yeah, yeah, you’re such a rascally rabbit, but I’m not laughing.” Nyah, what’s up doc? “Still not laughing, you might as well keep on driving. We’ve only got about an hour and a half until our reservation.”)
The radio’s no help – it just plays one neutral song after another. The classical station’s playing an opera today, not one I’ve heard before. Hard to believe everyone could have so much to say that they repeatedly burst out into song about it. I can’t think of any of the CD’s in the visor I’d want to play, so I leave the opera on – that dude sounds like he’s having a bad day, I wonder what he’s actually saying.
You start to roll your window up. It is getting hot isn’t it? Or is it just me? Anyway, I put my window up too and click on the A/C. That’s not enough. I’d better turn up the fan too. I reach over to put the center vent on you, but you put your hand up and wave it off. Two vents are enough I guess. A few stray hairs catch the flow and try to blow across your face. I glance over to try and catch your eye as you turn towards me to brush them back into place, but you’re not having it – eyes closed.
After the car’s cooled off, you’ve fallen into a nap in the sun coming in through your side window. In your sleep you draw your arms in close as the hairs rise on them, catching a chill from the vents even there in the morning sun. I better turn the fan back down. Glance further up the road – all clear – gives me an opportunity to stab at my sweatshirt in the back seat. Not quite. Second try: there, got it. Now if I can get it to spread out as I toss it over… Argh, disaster. It’s just bunched up between you and the door: only the sleeve stayed on you. Maybe if I pull carefully enough it will drape back over without waking you. Wow, it’s working. Didn’t really think I could manage it. It’s almost perfect, just a bit more,… when a somnambulant hand grabs the shoulder and wraps it and the hood up close. That sigh of contentment eases my tension a bit. Or was that resignation? Exasperation?
(“You should have trusted your first impression. You usually get it right.”
So how’d I get us in this predicament?
“Maybe sometimes it’s just the something said at the wrong time. Or maybe you create tension out of nothing just to carry a story, like contentment becomes resignation becomes exasperation – I don’t always have to be like that.”
Almost sounds like you might forgive me yet.
“Don’t be stupid; it just hasn’t happened yet. Why don’t you get back to focusing on your driving? This place up ahead looks promising…)
The signs have been showing up in intervals of about every tenth of a mile. Each one shaped like a produce item with a pun in a speech balloon to grab your attention. Corn – ‘Ear’s the place to go’, his smaller buddy is blushing ‘Aw, shucks.’ Watermelon – ‘Water you waiting for?’ Apples – ‘Giving you in-cider information.’ Pears – ‘If you thought one was good, try a pear.’ Onion – ‘You’ll cry if you don’t cut in here.’ Tomato – ‘Everything is the vinest.’ Peach – ‘It’s just peachy here.’ Lettuce – ‘Lettuce fill you up with natural goodness.’ Beets – ‘Beets all the other stands.’ Carrots and Potatoes – ‘We’ve been rooting for you.’ Beans – ‘We’ve bean waiting to serve you.’ Peas – ‘At least stop in to take a pea.’ You spot the final sign first and point to it. It’s shaped like a wine bottle and says, ‘You didn’t think we wrote these sober did you?’
(“Who wrote them?”
Listen, let’s be careful not to disrupt too many of the illusions…
“I just want to know, are these drawn from life, or did you come up with them? Sober?”
Hmm, yeah, that sounds good. Answer A – drawn from life, final answer.
“Still, something seems fishy…”
Nope, no seafood sign for the purposes of this one.)
You reach into the back seat and flip up the lid of the cooler – empty except for the tuna steaks: you weren’t sleeping that soundly. The only other thing we’ve brought is the beer in the trunk. This might be our best chance to get supplies. The entrance is coming up quickly. You look over at me and notice my pretending not to notice. Getting closer. I’m fiddling with the turn signal lever, waiting. A few moments away. You open your mouth and take a breath in, but I’m already slowing down and starting to turn in with a smirk. (Thought you were going to say something there. “You did, did you? Why didn’t you wait for it then?” ‘Cause it’s started to turn into something else and I didn’t want to spoil it. “Still, the smirk was a bit much, don’t you think?” I just thought it was getting funny is all. “Well, I was still mad.” Oh, come on, not entirely. “You’re impossible.”)
The car vibrates and drifts as it moves over the gravel parking lot. I’m heading for a spot close in to the building door, but the wheel turns away to the right, following the sweeping gesture you make with your open palm across the dashboard to indicate the shaded spot opening up under the tree there. (I’ve been meaning to ask you – you ever get any formal training or professional work as a spokesmodel? Well? Oh, I see, I’m back to the silent treatment… “Let’s just say that I know how to be convincing when it matters.” I’ll vouch for that.)
I turn my window the rest of the way down before getting out. You’ve got your hand on the handle of your window, and lean your head forward so’s I can see you raise your eyebrows at me. I wave off your worry with a quick flick. You roll your window down too, but before you get out you pick my notebook up from where I left it on the seat. With a crook of my head and a thumb I ask you to stash it in the back, ‘cause it would be a drag to lose that again. It’s got like three projects in various states of coming into being. (“Really? Let me just peek?...” Come on, put it back, maybe you can look later.) You stash it behind my seat and jump out of the car. I wait for you to come around so we can walk together to the door. Once inside, we split up to consider the possibilities.
Seems like it must’ve been a good year around here. Every bin and bushel is chock-full, and every item looks premier in the locally-grown section. Let’s see what we might make a meal out of. Big salad seems natural. I start to pick up a head of lettuce, when you appear at my side to wave it off, and point me to the leaf lettuce, and to drop some cukes and carrots in the basket. Then you’re off again. Okay, you were right about the lettuce. I know I can pick out tomatoes on my own though. You’re back with celery, and with a get-a-move-on look, tapping at my watch with your nail. 8:45, 75 minutes left. Yeah, don’t want to miss the ferry and have to get in late in the afternoon. I catch your wrist as you withdraw from my watch. You start to step in, but are stopped by my turning your palm up and hand you a tomato to double-check. I place them one by one in your hand, you check them with a squeeze, then drop each into a paper bag that I hold ready. Only one veto: you turn it over to show me the soft spot – yeah, okay – I grab a substitute and offer it – into the bag it goes, and then you push off my arm to head around to the other side of the table. I hold up broccoli and cauliflower, waiting for your nod before putting them in the basket. You turn away to investigate jars on the shelf, so, unable to get your attention, I pick up just a half pint of mushrooms to go with two pints of snap peas. You turn back towards me holding an acorn squash. I shrug and nod, that should be good. You knock on it and listen with a question in your eyes. Don’t look at me, sounds fine I think.
I squat down to organize the basket, and your shoes appear beside me. I look up and check out the two jars in your hand held out in my face: strawberry jam and raspberry-apple butter. I purse my lips and glance up apologetically – those look good, but I forgot to bring any bread. Your other hand comes from behind your back with two bagged loaves of bread. I guess they have baked goods here? You point to the counter under the shelf. Oh yeah, well then, they’ve gotta have… You’ve got a basket now, and you tip it forward to show me the pumpkin bread; yes!
We circle the next table, to the table full of apple bushels. We’re at opposite sides of the table. You hold two up. They look good; I shrug why not? You draw your arm back with mischief in your eye. I look at your face, then back at your arm, then back to your eyes, and let out a grin, and you throw. I’m just able to stab that one out of the air when you throw the other to my other side. I drop the first into the basket as I reach across it to grab the second. You’re trying to stifle your laughter, but it sneaks through as little puffs out your nose. Well, if you want to play, maybe you’d like a pear – I lead you with it, and you leave your basket on the table for the full arms’ reach catch. You straighten up, pretend to spike it, and go into your touchdown dance. Okay then, I’ll lead you with the next one too – one handed fingertip grab, then, nothing. I put my hands on my hips and pout about the lack of dancing. You pick up two Ambrosia apples next and toss the first one high up. I short-arm it at the peak of it’s arc with an expression of anxiety on my face as I flail that one arm overhead, taking a half step back – and you hear the slap of an apple landing, and I wait a beat before showing it in the hand from behind my back (“No way, in a million years, did you really think you were gonna catch that.” I almost didn’t, it hit my hand before I expected and I mostly trapped it against my back. “Bet you couldn’t do that again.” Well, we don’t have to find out, ‘cause you have a different idea…). You were fooled for a second, but squint at me with an ‘Oh Yeah’ look in your eyes. I shoot an ‘I dare you’ look back at you, accenting it with the eyebrow. You wind up and let it loose, flying far over my head. I turn, almost plowing into the table behind me, side-step, accelerate, big step, bigger step, leap, reach,… and catch it right under the nose of another customer. I look at them sheepishly, then turn and show you the apple triumphantly (“You didn’t do your touchdown dance. I really got cheated.” I already made a spectacle of myself with the catch, I didn’t want to then make a nuisance of myself. “Always Mr. Respectable – nobody was even looking: the kid at the register’s too busy listening to his earphones. You coulda done a little dance for me.” Maybe I don’t know how to do a little dance.).
Approaching the register, you remind me – touching the side of your finger to your lips. I nod in agreement. The kid at the register seems well suited to playing the game with us, like he already knows it. He doesn’t even make eye contact as he wordlessly rings us up, then holds his palm out for the total. Wow, that’s more than I thought. I open my wallet, empty it, start counting the ones,… close, I wonder how much change I’ve got… I’m reaching into my pocket for it when you step in front of me and snap a twenty in my face. Oh, great – I hand you what I’ve got, and you hand the bills to the kid. He drops the change on the counter for you to pick up. I pick up the boxes and as I turn away from the register I flash my eyes at you with a quick glance back towards the kid. You bring a hand to your mouth just in time to stop the laugh from coming out.
You hurry ahead to get the door for me, and I tip my head down as a thank you. At the car, I put the boxes down on the trunk and turn to you with my arms down, palms forward, repentant look on my face. I take a deep breath in, weighing my words. You step in quickly to put your hand over my mouth, shaking your head. When you take your hand away, there’s a smile on my mouth that is mirrored by yours as both grow into grins.
I remember meeting you at the Metro: the random man there, yelling things at passers by, he receiving no response and needing none. He teaches us how easily spoken words can lose their value, how volume and quantity alone can’t make understanding, how they are perhaps irrelevant to understanding, that at times the words only make explicit an understanding that preceded them. Right as I get to that thought, you touch my forearm, bringing my eyes into present focus to see you nod to me and wink. I knew you’d understand (“Wait, did we talk about that?” Talk about what? “Words. The value of words.” No, we’re not talking about anything. “I was just saying something like that today.” Of course, that’s how it is with us, snappy.).
I disappear into the trunk, shifting some things around to fit the boxes in. I’ve just about got it worked out when your cell phone rings. You reach into your purse and fish around for it with your hand, after the third ring you stop it without looking. I look up at you and you shrug with a tip of your head to the side. Reaching up to close the trunk sets off an involuntary stretch and yawn from me which I use as cover to rub my eyes and forehead and grab at the base of my head (“Don’t you ever sleep?” I’m an adherent to the W. Zevon school of thought related to that – there’ll be time later. “I think it might be time now.” In a bit, let me finish this, it’s only going to keep me up anyway. “Well you should at least try to catch a nap.” Alright, can you help me out with that? “I’ll think of something…”). You’re leaning against my door when I get there (“Your door? You might want to rethink that.” Oh, okay, thanks). You’re leaning against the driver’s side door when I get there, and don’t move except to hold your hand out. I’m puzzled, but you clarify by mimicking the stretch/yawn I just had, then holding your hand out again. I nod, give you the keys, and walk around to the other side to get in. I take my sweatshirt off the seat and pull it on, pulling the hood down over my eyes as I sit. Your hand reaches in to pull the left side back far enough to peek in and see me. I give you a sleepy half-lidded look and smile and a long sigh, and you tug the hood back down over my eyes. I leave it down and point in the direction we should be going as you start the car and put it into gear. (Make sure you head North on 12 right before you get to Sealevel. “I know how to get there, this was my idea remember?” Right, but still, make sure you… “Hush, you’re supposed to be asleep now.” Oh, okay then…) By the time we’re out of the lot, I’ve fallen asleep...