8 high school girls. A bride and groom to be.
Four cities, three hotels. One month and six days.
Somehow, it just happened.
I hadn't heard much from Miss P since my freshman year. The summer prior to my first year here at UCI, Nadia and I had received an Evite inviting us to Miss P's baby shower right here in Irvine, off of University and Culver. I remember how weird it was being not only two under 21-not even 18-year olds there, but more so the only two students in a house full of teachers and principals who were slowly becoming drunk off wine. And I remember how surprised off my ass I was when they suddenly announced their surprise wedding that same day. And I remember the unforgettable car ride with our tipsy teachers in the back seat on the way to Seal Beach. And I remember the coldest ocean breeze, the most beautiful sunset, and the happiest couple in the world. We'd kept in contact for about a year and a half after that what with the birth of her baby boy, Oliver. She had sent me an email to congratulate America for a historic election, she herself being half African-American half French, and to send us pictures of her ever-growing son. His birthday in the park and his first visit to the Louvre and to the gardens at Versailles. It was so bittersweet because it made me miss her and France and everything about the place so so much.
I was cleaning out some word files and documents and came across a backup for an old blog of mine about that Summer in France.
It's been more than one year since I boarded that plane and never looked back. But I have... many times. I can still smell the River Seine, see the young couples picnicing along its banks, see the eyes of the gypsy children begging to see your hands. I can still feel the broken down cot and the breeze that blew in every so often to ease the spells of heat that slowed life down. I can still hear Jessica yelling across the way,
'Ben! Ben Kruse! Are you coming down?'
I can still remember stepping onto that compact balcony and how cold the cement floor felt, leaning over to see who was yelling. I remember nobody being there except for him...Ben... And I remember staring at him as he stared up at me, and I rememer how startled I was when the half-naked Parisian lady in the room two doors down from me opened up her double-door balcony, screamed
'Shut zee fakoop!' and flicked me off.
I gasped, attempted to explain that it was not I who had yelled, then gave up as she disappeared into her room once more. I remember looking up into the room across the way, and finding the group of teens from Madrid still watching my room, in the dark, with only the light of their tv to prove their presence. I remember Nadia asking me what had happened, and I remember Maxine's angry face. I remember telling them, excitedly, that his name was Ben Kruse, that the girls in the room above us smoked, and the Madrid boys were still watching our room. At that very moment, one of them called into our room, and I stepped onto the cold balcony once more to answer, though I know not why for I did not speak Spanish nor understand it well. One of the Madrid boys asked to speak to Nadia, and I muttered an 'Une momento' not sure if I had said it correctly or not. I stepped inside and informed Nadia of their request; she rolled her eyes and dictated to me what to reply. I nodded, unsure and nervous, afraid that I'd shame their native language and that they would laugh at my frail attempt to do it justice. I stepped outside, clad only in my overly huge teal sleeping shirt, and whispered,
'Nadia esta dormido' to which a voice asked,
'Dormido?' and I automatically replied,
'Si!'
The boys disappeared into their room and I remember relief... and I remember a cool wind blowing, cigarette smoke floating down from above, as I stood there, the hair on my arms and neck beginning to rise. And I remember looking down as the same female voice called,
'Benjamin Kruse!'... and I looked down to see who the hell was going to get me in trouble again, and was met by two faces staring up at me. I stepped back, taken...
It's been one year since I met someone like me: a small town person, who'd never really been out so he spent his days in a flurry of destruction, waiting for the day when he'd be able to leave. This was just one place, and he was eager to see more. So was I. I still am... He was an avid terrible dancer... But he didn't care whether or not he was a bad dancer and liked that we were walking examples of messed-up-stereotypes: he, a white farm boy from Iowa, dressed in A&F clothes (where he worked), who listened to Urban music, liked Art and Architecture, yet played football-- but was an intellectual guy who wished to become a civil engineer. I miss that put-together clash and awkward mix.He said I (and the Ramona group as well) was a strange one; his whole group had preconceived notions and expectations as to what 'SoCali' girls would look and act like-- and we met none of them, gladly.
I miss his great mix cds and how I thought Lil Jon's 'Get Low' and the Black Eyed Peas' 'Where Is The Love?' were the greatest songs.. ever... and I remember thinking 'You are so cool' because he had all the songs that weren't popular yet. And then there was waking up to his room-to-room phone calls, and hearing his sad attempts at pretending to be somebody else-- it was a different person, different accent each time. I remember having to call their room to wake them up and knowing he'd always answer because 'Luke sleeps like the damn baby that he is' and won't/wouldn't wake up for anything. And yes, they were always late.
There are pictures and pieces and moments, flashes of...I can only remember... that night...the group of teens, strangers, friends... those songs...that manager who dedicated his night to teaching us American teenagers how to 'really dance'... when he paired us all up and I was with him... And I recall fleeting moments of joy and surprise, accompanied by flashes of adoration simply watching his expressions cruise from amused to confused to serious to annoyed to carefree to.... me. And we danced, as silly as it was, in the open cafe at 2AM on a Monday morning to a French 'American Idol' CD... laughing... simply laughing away into the wee hours of the morning, never to remember too much... yet never being able to ever forget the feeling. I don't know where they are now, how they are, if they're alive, if they're ok, whether or not they're the same and whether or not they think much about those carefree nights. But I know that I do...
And it's times like these, in the early hours of the morning, alone and left to think about days gone by and people and places that have come to pass...that I wonder if I'll ever feel the way I felt in that... that world, far far away... ever again. And maybe it's not so much him, alone, that I miss, but the life I lived when I was there with him. But in either case the life is missed, and tomorrow (or today) all thoughts and feelings of longing for it shall be diminished, if not gone. I will have other things to do, other places to be. I will let go. Life will go on.
Right now, I miss it more than ever :(
BUT my friends, Barack Hussein Obama is the new President and my little sis, Marissa, is one of the happiest people alive and I am happy for her, for America, but not for fucking California. Oh well. "One step forward, two steps back." No shit.
If you have time and are somehow able to get tickets (as far as I know, all shows are sold out), go see my little in UCI's Titus Andronicus. She's the only undergrad in it-- she's also the only African-American in it, as well. Yayayay! Ok, I'm out.
G'day, America.
1 comment:
<3 u sister
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