that's awasum

Valentine
05.03.04 + 3:42 p.m.

My Valentine friend is a middle-aged drunk who is often wandering the sidewalk when I wait for my evening bus. Singing along with the tunes coming from the dinky Sony boombox he balances on his shoulder, he stumbles towards me and wishes me a Happy Valentine's Day. I return the wishes, and we chat. We get a tad cozier every time we run into each other.

Valentine is a soft man, who could be anywhere from thirty-five to fifty-five. His eyes are large, brown, wet, and gentle. His few remaining teeth have either been worn down to sad, blackbrown nubbins, or have had holes jack-hammered through them by the ravages of tooth decay. He has a sweet, squishy face, greying hair, and a bit of stubble on his chin.

I've never seen him sober, and that, coupled with his dental impairments, makes it nearly impossible to understand most of what he says. I don't know his real name, and he doesn't know mine. I'm just the white girl with the blue coat and the red glasses who waits for the bus at five o'clock, and he's my drunk Valentine friend with the crappy Sony.

I saw Valentine a couple of weeks ago. He was listening to his radio, stagger-danced towards the bus stop when he spotted me, and we exchanged our usual greeting:

"Happy Valentine's Day."

I asked him what he was listening to, and he uttered some incomprehensible, garbled response before turning the dial to a soft rock station airing Phil Collins' "In the Air Tonight." Valentine smiled, and sang along in perfect dissonance until his liquidy words puddled into a pool self-effacing laughter. I laughed with him until he stopped singing and looked at me, slack-jawed.

"You wanna be like me?" he asked.

"What?"

"You wanna be like me? Don't be like me. I wanna be like you. I wanna be like you."

It was almost funny at the time, in a surreal, uncomfortable, inadvertently poignant sort of way. I know what he meant: that he wished there was some way he and I could trade places without my having to live his life.

He paused as my bus pulled up, again wished me a happy Valentine's Day, and wandered away.

Friday evening, I saw Valentine again. I watched out of the corner of my eye as he approached, but I didn't look up right away. (Where I work, it's usually adviseable to keep to yourself as much as you can.) Valentine was not toting the trusty Sony that makes his drunken silhouette so recognizeable from a distance, even in my limited peripheral vision, and I didn't recognize him until he had sidled close enough for me to smell the alcohol on his breath.

"Happy Valentine's Day."

"Oh! Happy Valentine's Day. Where's your radio?"

No answer. He was swaying. I could smell the malt liquor excuding from his pores, and his drifting eyes had taken on hues of slimy red and yellow. I had never seen him so drunk.

"Happy Valentine's."

He then talked at me for a time, sometimes in words, sometimes in laughter. When he was between sentences, his face would fall as if someone had cut strings once attached to his cheek-muscles, and his jaw would drop slightly. He looked so sad when he was quiet.

I tried to listen, but kept focussing on the ugly hole through the front of his right incisor, and thinking how terribly painful it must be when his nerves aren't so dulled. I couldn't understand a damned word he said.

Mid-sentence, he suddenly turned and focussed his eyes of blood and pus on my eyes of blue and grey. He shook his head a little.

"Don't you follow my same path," he said.

"What?"

"Don't you follow my same path."

He turned away again and started singing, as if to distract himself. He'd laugh occasionally, as much as his energy would allow, before stopping to stare, open-mouthed, at his feet.

He kept talking, inadvertently swaying closer and closer to me as I edged further and further away. I didn't feel threatened, but it was a little uncomfortable to be wedged between Valentine and the sign for the #66 bus.

When Valentine started to lean on me, out tromped Mr. Nixon to the rescue.

Mr. Nixon is the oak-strong, Mississippi-bred, 75-year-old security guard who works the night shift at my office building. He is a tall, heavy-stepping, well-dressed gentleman, and is just as sweet as pie. His stride is long and deliberate, and he looks after all of us like a quiet, unimposing father figure.

Mr. Nixon always wears a hat and is always chewing on a toothpick. He also happens to always carry a lead billy club, and I suspect he could easily break your kneecaps if you sneezed at him the wrong way. He's as gentle as a lamb, but I'd bet that Mr. Nixon has seen things that would make my hair fall out. There's something about him that makes me feel safe.

As soon as Mr. Nixon made himself visible, Valentine backed off. Poor Valentine. Before backing away, he looked at me and slurred, "I'd never do a thing to harm you."

"I know," I said.

Valentine drifted back to lean against the brick building behind me, while Mr. Nixon and I chatted about steak houses and waited for my bus.

The #66 arrived, I bade Mr. Nixon good-night, and looked behind me to wave to Valentine. He was looking off to the side. His face had fallen again, and his pink and golden eyes were oozing. Valentine had begun to wail without restraint, as tragic as King Lear's Fool.

~ Last Five Entries ~

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

One-Armed Paper Hanger Earns her Wings - 07.29.05

Sugar & Lemon - 07.28.05

BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.
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words Š luvabeans, 2003 - 2004