1/24/11

Grace
By John Guy Cole


Grace was prone to make bold, monochromatic statements that left no room for argument. “Sushi is the best after-sex meal. Camel Turkish Silvers are the best cigarettes. The best beer in the world is Steel Reserve.” Even when she was wrong (like her Steel Reserve opinion) she would argue the point to her death. I would call her stubborn as a mule, but that seems hokey and almost archaic. She was stubborn as...George Bush defending the war in Iraq: no matter how often she's proven to be wrong, she can always find evidence that she is right.

I remember her from college, and I remember the day we first met. I'd like to say it held to that standard idea of college that has survived since the 50s and was prevalent all throughout the teen sex comedies of the 90s. You know, 150 people in the quad, a couple barefooted hippies throwing around a frisbee, the sun shining, talks about classes taking place everywhere. No, it was January, cold as fuck, and grayer than a dead tuna. I was wearing a big down jacket that smelled like a chicken farm, jeans with two pairs of thermal underwear and two sweatshirts. My knit cap was pulled over my ears and my scarf was highly ineffective against the wind. I finally made it to my first class of the spring semester, Philosophy 101, at my junior college. Good thing there was only 4 feet of snow on the ground or else it would have been difficult going. Grace was the first thing I saw. Not the teacher, not what was written on the board, not that requisite fucking poster of an obscure 18th century pragmatist or some shit. No, just...her. It probably would have helped if I had seen the desk I promptly walked into. It hurt like hell to take a plank of plywood across my kneecaps.

I could tell right away I was going to marry the girl. Auburn hair down to her waist, tight black jeans, skinny in the somewhat attractive “I'm not anorexic, I just like to look like I am” way. Total punk rock princess with the tattoos and piercings to complete the look. Its funny, but you know that song by the Carpenters, “Close To You”? That shit was on the goddamn CD player. Why our fucking professor was listening to it, I have no idea, but at that point I didn't mind, because I finally knew what all those songs on the radio were about. I can honestly say it was love at first sight. Not for her. She told me later that she found an intense, guilty pleasure in seeing me walk into that desk. Turns out she was a bit of a sadist.

I think what attracted me most to her was the utter confidence she had in herself. She had never, like I said before, even conceived of the notion she might be wrong. Wrong, hell, anything short of fucking awesome. Positive self conviction oozed from her. Needless to say, it took me all of two minutes to open my mouth and say something absolutely retarded. I'm not going to tell you what it was. Just imagine the most embarrassing thing you said to the opposite, or, well, same sex, when you were 19 and you will understand the complete and utter humiliation that I felt. To my credit, though, I stayed where I was and sat it out. After all, if you've already pissed your pants you might as well see the rest of the movie, right?

After the first week, me sitting next to her with my leg going like a piston and pretending to take notes the entire time, she asked if I wanted to come over and study for a test we had on Plato. I could have sworn my heart was going to burst from my chest right there. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth and the first words I spoke to her, outside of the disastrous incident a few days before, were um, uh, and I...I...I, in that order. Not a prodigious start. But, I soldiered through. Took a deep breath and told her “that might be cool” or something equally vague. We made plans for the next Saturday at her house. I got her phone number and address and left the classroom, clutching the paper with her personal information like it was a state fucking secret. I somehow made it on the bus and got home.

Now, I feel I should preface this by telling you a little something about myself at that time. I still hadn't had a drop of alcohol or smoked a single cigarette. This was the first time I had partied with anyone, and it was just me and her. We listened to some great music: Elliot Smith, The Beatles, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Bob Marley, etc. We watched some great movies, including one that was only good because of how bad it was, Zombie Strippers. We ordered pizza and drank beer and smoked. She would laugh, and when she smiled her face would light up. I would attempt to describe it, but there is no way I could do so. Her beauty defies illustration, her presence undeniable. I stayed the night on the couch and left the next morning with a hangover and a pack of Marlboro Red 100s. Grace picked them for me because A) she wasn't going to let me smoke all of hers and B) she said I needed a manly cigarette and they were out of Virginia Slims. She had a great sense of humor. I was enthralled with her.

Things continued much like that until I moved in with her near the middle of the semester. We were still just friends. My comments and the way I acted that first week cemented me in the friend zone for the rest of the time we were together, and she had no problem dating other guys. No matter how often we fell asleep on her bed, arm in arm, watching some movie (American Beauty was a favorite, so was Breakfast at Tiffany's), she was still my friend. My compadre. My accomplice. My partner in crime. By the end of the semester we were kissing friends, friends with benefits, whatever you want to call it. I wanted her heart. I was the Paul Varjak to her Holly Golightly. I was The Knack, she was Sharona.

I will never forget her fingernails across my back, scratching me in the throes of passion. The raw, animalistic longing in her embrace made me feel alive. We would lay in bed for hours afterward, talking about movies, books, music. We would smoke cigarettes and watch the History Channel, completely naked. The zeal she had for life made me embarrassed to even be sharing the same oxygen source as her. I wonder sometimes what it would have been like for the next 20, 30, 40 years, growing old and gray, chasing kids off the sidewalk in front of our house together. To share the twilight of our lives with nothing but love to sustain us would have been a poetic end to our romance. Alas, it was not to be.


Grace made the impossible possible. She showed me that in order to enjoy life once must embrace it and hold it with every ounce of strength, before it slips away into the mists of time.


One of our favorite pastimes was to lay in the bed of her '78 Datsun pickup and look at the stars. She usually had a quilt to lay on instead of the peeling, rust-scarred metal, and I always brought cigarettes. We would put a CD in the boombox she used instead of a radio and listen to the Smiths, Nick Drake, the Cranberries, whatever struck our fancy. The air was always so clear, and the stars seemed to burst from the sky. The sweetness of nothing can never be overestimated, and is usually underrated. I implore you, if you can find a person that can handle 15 minutes of silence without worry, marry them. Sometimes just being together is enough. Staring into that starry sky let us say the most ridiculous things, but made them somehow poignant. Everything was right in the world when she was right beside me.

I remember one time, after a particularly hard breakup of hers, James Taylor was playing at a local theater. We both love him, so I got us a couple tickets. Most of the show seemed to take her mind off things, but then he came out for the encore. When the first chords of “You Can Close Your Eyes” were struck, she put her head in her hands, and her shoulders heaved as she tried to breathe through the tears. I just put my hand on her back. What else could I do? She climbed over the arm rest, and sat in my lap. I held her for the rest of the song, for the rest of the encore, until security told us we had to leave. She cried everything out, I guess, because she fell asleep soon after we got home. After I tucked her in, I climbed into bed with her, and held her some more. Now, I can't sing for shit, but I sang that song 100 times that night, just for her. I wanted to make sure she knew where we would always stand.


A love like that doesn't show up day after day. It is hard, it hurts, but goddamn it, love is always worthwhile. We had a once-in-a-generation romance, and she realized it too late.


I didn't know what to do at all. I was totally out of my league. Never had I interacted with another person like I did her. I learned the lessons of physical, sexual love from her, but never the emotional ones. There was always a wall, a barrier, an impervious chasm from my heart to hers. I was also completely unaware that she was falling in love with me. She put on such a tough exterior and denied me so often that I stopped striving for it and pushing the issue. I was just so angry with her for treating me this way. We have sex, fall asleep in each others' arms, and the next day she's making dates with guys. She meets my parents and has dinner with them as often as I do, and I haven't even talked to hers. All that time, and I didn't know what was going on.

It wasn't until I got home from work one day and she wasn't there, which wasn't strange. She liked to get coffee from a little shop down the street and do the crossword while people watching on the patio. What was out of place was the letter she had left me on the kitchen counter, right next to the pad where we left notes for each other . My cell phone rang before I could even open the envelope. It was a private number, so I didn't think anything of it before I answered.

It was the cops. There was a car accident, and Grace died on February 13th, four days before her 22nd birthday. For some reason I was her only emergency contact. The thought that I was going to be the only person that noticed or cared that she was gone never crossed my mind. I walked through those moments in a fog, completely unaware of what was happening around me. I somehow made it to work, enrolled in school for the fall, took care of all the arrangements. I couldn't wake up without Grace on my mind, but now she was gone and I was haunted.

This lasted about two months before I got around to picking up her things and packing them off to Goodwill. While I was doing it, I saw the envelope with the letter from her. My hand was shaking when I picked it up and opened it.


Benjamin-

I love you. I haven't been able to tell you before today because I didn't know. There are some things I haven't told you. I was living on the streets because my mom died when I was 17. I never knew my dad. I never really had a family, or friends, until I met you. You loved me unconditionally and I never had the guts to accept it until I realized I couldn't imagine you not being in my life. It was when you were cooking breakfast this morning. You slid a plate in front of me, lightly buttered toast and eggs over medium, just the way I like it. You haven't asked how I wanted them in months. I love you, Benjamin. I hope you don't have to find this note, that I'm home before you get there so I can get dinner started for you for a change. If you do read this, though, I'm yours. Yours until you figure out that I'm not worth your love and devotion. I love you, I love you, I love you.


Grace

I was better after that. Not perfect. It'd be years before I could even look at another woman the same way. For her birthday I always bring her some orange lilies, a favorite of hers, and for her deathday I read her a favorite poem. I will never forget that summer, though. In those few stolen moments, we were infinite. That summer of my first cigarette, my first beer, my first love. Every time I watch Breakfast at Tiffany's I think of Grace, and smile softly to myself.


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John Guy Cole wears an awesome hat and enjoys music.