published in Zig Zag Lit Mag, Issue 3.
https://zigzaglitmag.org/
Man and Dog in a Van
His hippie-style
beard was what caught my eye. He looked as if he strummed guitar for a living,
or was on the verge of opening his own health-food store. Each morning on my
way to work, this stranger passed by me in his green-and-white Volkswagen bus.
I was twenty years old.
The first
time I waved, I gave a Native American “how." The next day and from then
on, we waved as if we were engaged in a modern version of a primal dance.
As a Talbot’s/worn-out-jeans-wearing
hybrid, I often felt torn between convention and rebellion. I was a legal
secretary in a historic building surrounded by cobblestones and old-growth
maple trees, yet I loved my progressive rock musicians and blasted their albums whenever I could. I aligned more with the bra
burners than prim college girls, who wore matching sweater sets. I appreciated a person
who showed up every day; but I was an idealist to my core.
One
morning, as our cars passed each other, my friend, instead of waving, turned his
vehicle in a wide arch and began to follow me. Oh, brother, I thought, I asked
for it, didn’t I?
I pretended
I didn’t notice, stealing glances of him in my rearview as he escorted me all
the way to the Stafford post office, where I picked up the office mail.
I
pulled into a spot in the post office parking lot, and he turned in next to me. A total klutz, I summoned all the gracefulness I could muster as I stepped
out of my Chevy sedan. It was time to make a good impression now that I was face-to-face
with my hippie.
I couldn’t help but smile as he extended his
hand. “I’m Fred,” he said, grinning. “I’ve never known anyone so forward
she’d wave hi to a stranger. Whatever made you do that?” he asked.
A head taller than I, tattered
jeans hung on his lean frame. He wore a light Army-surplus jacket. Then, he leaned back against his van.
I
introduced myself to Fred. We talked about our morning drive, where we had gone
to school, and what we’d eaten for breakfast. I had an English muffin. He had
Cheerios; he crinkled his nose and said, “Yeah, I eat them every day, but they
have a weird aftertaste, don’t you think?”
“You
don’t wear gloves. Aren’t your fingers freezing?” he exclaimed.
So he had
been noticing—down to the tips of my fingers.
He
asked me where I worked. I nodded toward Kings Highway, where the prestigious law
office was located. He worked at the Landford Animal Shelter. I typed all day;
he took care of animals. I felt an urge to apologize for my ordinariness. Secretly,
I thought myself a free spirit despite the fact my livelihood was ruled by
daily commerce. Not to mention I was engaged to a young man I had known in high
school—a telephone lineman, hunter, fisherman, and not exactly a devoted animal
lover since it didn’t matter much to him if he shot a deer with his bow and
arrow. He was more concerned with getting the deer.
Nevertheless,
I was impressed by Fred’s line of work. He
takes care of animals, I sighed, so he must be a good person.
*****
As a high school
girl, I fantasized about my future. I would live in New York City in a
Greenwich Village walk-up flat with creaky wooden floors and thick-paned
windows. I would decorate with antiques, hand-me-downs, and soft colors. I would
meet and fall in love with a Paul Simon–type, someone who was sensitive and had
a passion for life and the arts—cute but not too cute. We would walk the park
each afternoon, and I’d accompany him on his music dates where I’d watch and
listen from a table way in the back. Afterward, we would return to my place
where we would talk and make love late into the night.
*****
Fred seemed
as if he might fit into my fantasy. What didn’t fit was me, flirting with him
despite my recent engagement.
If only my girlfriends could have seen me in
that parking lot, they’d have had a fit. “You’re
engaged for God’s sake! How could you?”
they’d cry. I could just see them shaking their heads and clucking their
tongues as if I was the worst sort of Jezebel.
I could
have talked to Fred all day, but I needed to get to work. I wrote my phone
number on a scrap of paper and stuffed it into his hand. I arrived at work and dropped
my bundle of letters on the mail table, cheeks flushed as I tore off my coat
and began sorting the mail. I thought of Fred and hoped I would see him again.
*****
A
few mornings later when I arrived at the post office, Fred was waiting for me
by his van. The back hatch was open, where his Saint Bernard, Wiley, filled the
back of the vehicle. Both dog and man greeted me. I petted Wiley as he
slobbered onto my jacket, but I didn’t mind. Fred seemed so proud to introduce
me to “the family.” I didn’t know what Fred had in mind, but I was glad he had
returned. What if he asks me out? I
probably shouldn’t be talking to him. But do I care? I’m not sure.
Fred
grew quiet. He gazed down at my hands. Then he tapped the diamond on the ring
of my left hand with his index finger.
“I didn’t
see this before. I guess we shouldn’t see each other, should we?”
Please
come see me again. I heard the words in my head, but they didn’t come.
Instead, I stood there for what seemed like fifteen minutes, the same amount of
time as our first meeting.
I wished I could
travel back in time to the day I had gotten engaged. Part of me wanted to undo
the ring, the guy, the married life I was headed into. But this was just a
silly notion, right?
Fred, my
fork in the road; my spirit guide. It took me years before I understood that
the young girl, the one who waved to strangers, had always been free to choose.
