Inspirations in the form of excerpts, short stories and poetry
In Memoriam
“Gabby Kay?” asked the high school English teacher, with some hesitancy and a smirk on his lips. “I remember her. I caught her laughing in class and thought she was on her phone, but she was reading Bukowski. Do you know if she ever ended up going to Oxford?”
“I heard she starred in a Bollywood film.”
“I heard she works for the finance ministry in the Philippines.”
“I heard she toured to Belfast with Cheryl Crow.”
“She won a hot-dog eating contest in Riverside.”
“Dude… she’s a vegetarian.”
“Of course I remember Miss Gabby. She was only disobedient once. I asked her to pass out papers to the class and she boldly told me NO. I made her to do it anyway. When she stood up everyone laughed at the melted chocolate, or something, on the backside of her khaki shorts.”
“Gabby was on our tennis team, wasn’t she? I saw her smash her racquet on the court once, she was so mad. A piece flew up and hit our coach in the face.”
“It didn’t hit her in the face. But Coach Oliver made her play the next match as punishment when she had the flu. She won but threw up on the grass later that day.”
“Gabby was a history major before she took my 8am philosophy class. She always sat front and center. When everyone else looked dead inside, she watched me with a radiance that I had never seen before. She either was in love with Plato or with me.”
“Never heard of her,” quipped a beach blonde into the HD handy-cam. She chewed uncouthly on pink bubblegum while an All-American boy in a navy baseball cap slid his arm around her delicate waist. “You sure she went to Harbor? She must not have been very popular, then.” The red recording button in the viewfinder of the camera flicked off.
“Gabby asked me once what I thought of her as a student. I told her that philosophy wasn’t something she should pursue as a career. I liked the idea of film school or getting a different advanced degree. I told her to move to China. Instead she asked me for a letter of recommendation.”
“Gabby always tells the same joke. Rene Descartes walks into a bar. The bartender says ‘can I get you a drink’. Descartes says ‘I think not’ then disappears.”
His Bus is Late
I am here now, waiting for him. The plastic tables and chairs are covered in a misty morning dew that soaks into my jeans. No one familiar walks by. Solitary, only I am what remains of our spot. My world is grey in this empty place full of memories. I hear a distant, hopeful burst of echoing laughter, then all is quiet.
It wasn’t long ago that he was with me, sitting at these cheap rickety tables under the California sun, day in and day out, watching our colleagues go by. Friends sometimes stopped to say hello before leaving to meet other responsibilities. Together we watched the hustle and bustle of every day life. The world was in fast forward, with people coming and going, but he and I lived at the normal pace. We were always there — fixtures in time and space.
I can picture him now, across from me, leaning back with crossed legs he struggles to light a Marlboro with his gas station lighter while a cup of tea cools on the table. A creature of habit, he wears his favorite green sweater; the long-sleeve one that hides his secrets. Below his belt, the same blue jeans and his tattered, travelled moccasins. His elbow rests on the arm of the plastic chair, his hand in the air, cigarette nonchalantly between his thin fingers. Every so often he takes a slow drag. The intoxicating chemicals fill his lungs. His smoke, with a mind of its own, approaches me, hoping for a second chance at life. It never really bothered me. It became familiar, in fact. Eternal.
An acquaintance of ours once observed that he looked like Camus, the way he dressed and smoked his cigarettes, sitting beneath the trees and near the fresh ocean breeze. He would lean back, his face pointed toward the sky. I often wondered what he pondered. Perhaps his thoughts came to him in his native tongue, ideas beyond my wildest comprehension. Maybe he simply thought nothing at all. I never bothered to ask him, for it didn’t matter what was rushing through his mind. The thrill was in not knowing, in trying to guess. I was just content to simply observe him.
And so I sit now, in our place, awaiting his return. I can feel his cigarettes in my purse. I haven’t taken them out to reminisce, let alone, dare I say, throw them away. They are mine, though they once belonged to him. As long as they are with me, so is he.
Because he isn’t really gone. He can’t be. Not a world away, in another time, another place. He must be delayed at his usual watering hole — the dark, windowless cave in which he imbibes nightly. He must have overslept in his lonely little apartment, on his messy mattress beneath the dusty windowsill. I am certain his bus is just late.
VIII (Excerpt from a collection of 10 sonnets)
For there never is a sadder time
Than being trapped in your mind
In a place you once knew long ago.
Memories run wild, disobedient children
Control yourselves
And get in line.
Breathe in the rolling hills and salty air
This place becomes you for a moment
Exhale and it’s gone.
Nothing lasts forever.
Breathe in again something new.
Can you feel the heartbeat of the city?
Buildings stretch for the sky
Monuments to the gods or the men who built them
Soak in the view as it shrinks in the distance
Roll back in time
Cows graze contentedly in the pasture
Northern California soothes this desert body
Twisted vines with precious gifts
The land of golden poppies.
Gabriella Kay 