The Silver-Studded Hello
She had walked in with that no-nonsense gait and her usual lip-buzzing sigh.
"Hello!" I'd said, completely unsure as to why I had said it. I believe that my tongue was forced to move by the secret powers hidden within its new painfully acquired piercing.
She'd just stared. Well, why shouldn't she have stared? Here was the strange Dungeons and Dragons guy who came into her workplace, the Starbucks closest to campus, every day and never spoke suddenly saying hello with a slight lisp due to a new metal ball that he sported with uncool pride. Hell, I'd stare at that, and I am someone who cannot make eye contact for more than five seconds.
“Mary.” That was what the indents of the white plastic rectangle pinned over her pert bosom told me of her. The rest, I inferred myself. I inferred that she was exactly the kind of woman with whom I'd want to take a long walk. I also inferred that she'd rather die.
Every day since I'd seen her for the first time four months ago, I'd found my table in the back of the shop and watched her to learn more. Some days she would chat endlessly with customers, usually ones older than her, about philosophy, the weather, Charlie Chaplin, anything really. Some days she'd almost rudely shun anyone who tried to spark a conversation.
The more I'd watched her, the more I'd been haunted by the mystery of her mouth. I'm not saying I'd never thought about what it might be like to kiss that mouth, but the mystery of which I speak is the fact that those red-painted lips never curled in a smile. Ever.
I don't know what I had been thinking when I got the piercing. From the first time I saw her long black and purple hair flick across her shoulder as she handed me my vanilla-hazelnut steamer, all I knew was that I had to do something. I couldn't just continue my cowardly existence. Luckily, one of her co-workers, Darryl, noticed me at the rear-corner table and took interest in my newest troll miniature. After explaining to him the premise of my campaign and consequently impressing him, I asked him about her.
“Mary? She's a strange one. Bipolar or something. We started out as friends, but she randomly shut me out one day and hasn't talked to me since. She's like that with most people from what I've gathered. It's like she's completely set on disconnecting with life.”
I asked if she had a boyfriend. He laughed.
“Hardly! I'm pretty sure she'd bite anyone who got near. Good luck if you want to go for her. I doubt you'd stand a chance, anyway; I'm pretty sure she only likes punk guys.”
So, the next thing I knew I walked into an inappropriately dark and smokey shop and signed a release waiver saying essentially that if I died, it wouldn't be their fault. Shortly thereafter, a big, surly, grey-bearded man with arms covered in naked-mermaid tattoos was strutting out and saying in a gruff voice, "I hear you're wanting a piercing!" His smile mocked me. Here goes something, I thought. I followed him into a back room which appeared to be sound-proofed and sat in a leather chair, pondering whether or not this man's tattoos were acquired in prison. "Stick'er out!" tat-man ordered. I obeyed and too-late closed my eyes after catching a glimpse of a needle thick enough to give Shamu his shots. Her shots? I don't know. Why was I even thinking about a stupid whale when I was about to be skewered by Dog the Bounty Hunter?
Sweating waterfalls, I'm sure, I whimpered, "Is it too late to back out?"
"Son, I've had one fella' back out of this chair in my thirty years of doing this, and he was nine."
That wasn't exactly encouraging, but I began to struggle for a means of courage. So, shivering, I thought to myself, what would Sephiroth do? Needless to say, I stuck my tongue out again, closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and with a squishy jolt of pain, became a warrior with a hidden power: a warrior with one mission, to say “Hello” to Mary. Besides, I only cried for ten minutes.
Still, once I'd actually verbally connected with the girl, there was only that blank stare from those cool blue eyes.
"Uh, that's all I got," I'd explained pathetically.
Dejectedly, I had been about to book it out of there before those gorgeous eyes shot lasers through my heart, when the most miraculous thing I could have ever asked for occurred.
There it was! Her lip slowly began to curve! In that magical moment, what only I could recognize as a smile was born across those angelic lips.
It was fleeting, gone in a moment, and replaced by her usual blank mien, and then the lips parted to say, "My shift hasn't started yet, but I'll get your usual once I get behind the counter," with the same intonation she would have used had she said, "I'll scrape the bunions from that elephant as soon as I'm done shoveling dog crap," and she turned away.
Then, however, that shiny hair had flown from one shoulder to the other as she once again turned her face to me.
"Oh," she had said with an almost-smirk, "and hi."
Three days later, I stood outside the door, waiting. I knew she was coming. Her shift ended at this time every day, and she never stayed late. I leaned my elbow casually against the wall. I knew this was how to show I was “hanging out.” As far as anyone watching was concerned, I was just passing time there. As far as she was concerned, well, I won't dare to hope that she didn't find me pathetic.
It had been three days because that's how long it took me to get up the nerve to go near her again. I didn't know why I was there, didn't know what I would say once her shift ended, when she would walk out of those doors looking like a fallen angel with a stone face. All I knew was that there wasn't anywhere else for me to be. I mean, I still had a few unresolved quests on Dragon Age, and it'd been a while since I'd re-watched Firefly, but what I mean was that I felt I needed to be leaning against this brick wall and that if I were to do anything else, I wouldn't be able to focus. Being here meant that I would see her. Unfortunately, that also meant that she would see me.
Every once in a while I would see that purple-black hair through the window for just a moment, and my epiglottis would heave.
I heard her before I saw her; the clomp-clomp of her feet clad more in buckles than in actual black boots. The boots grounded a slender body clad in every garish color I knew existed. Never before her had I seen so many colors on one person, yet they were all perfectly in place and still shrouded in darkness by her leather jacket and black jolly roger tattoo.
I started thinking about what I knew about this girl. Didn't that whole “rebel-without-a-cause” thing end with high school? Why did she still feel compelled to dress like a Norwegian rock star? Did she play an instrument? Did she like coffee? Why was she working? On what did she spend her earnings? Was she a student? I'd never seen her around campus. Was she actually a lot older than she looked behind that thick makeup? Had she graduated? Why then, would she be working in a coffee shop?
I saw her step out. The door swung behind her, her hot pink skirt swung in front of it, and her vision swung to me. My mouth went dry.
“You again?” She almost showed surprise.
“Uhh...yeah.” I replied.
She started to walk toward the parking lot.
I reached toward her hand, then thought better, pulled it back and said, “Wait.”
She turned around as though she already knew what was going to happen next. Her expectation stimulated the magic metal ball in my mouth to move. “I want to take you on a walk sometime,” I stated plainly.
Cringing, I waited for the worst.
“Oh?” She said.
I nodded helplessly.
“Okay.”
“Okay?” I was so stunned that I forgot to be afraid of the awkward pause that followed.
“So...call me,” she said, pulling a pen from her pocket and scribbling 657-2898 on my arm in helvetica script.
I waited two and a half days after that to call her as cooldate.com suggested. I had to dial a wrong number first, as I'd showered and couldn't tell if the fourth number was a 2 or a 6.
She answered as though she'd done nothing but answer the phone all day.
“Hello, this is Mary.”
Only then did I realize that I hadn't told her my name. What was I supposed to say? Hi, this is the creeper you scribbled your digits on, the one who wants to make you smile every day and wonders what your hair smells like?
“Um...hi,” I said. I could feel her reaching for the end-call button. “You said you'd take a walk with me. My name is Cole.”
“Oh, yeah. Tongue-ring guy.” I couldn't help but grin.
I was surprised, on the night of our meeting, that she was on time. When I got to the light post at the end of Campus Avenue, she was already standing there, slumped against it and looking in the opposite direction as me.
“Hi,” I said.
“Yo.”
We didn't say anything after that, but began walking. Two blocks later we were still walking in total silence. If I didn't break it soon, I'd have blown it for good. Her eyes kept shifting from the sky to the ground and back again. They went to the birds in the air, to the buds on the bushes, to the cracks in the sidewalk, anywhere but onto me. Desperately, I searched our surroundings for anything to talk about. The only thing in sight was a small playground, completely deserted for the night by all the kids who where in bed by now.
“Do you ever wish you could just be a kid again?” I asked.
She rolled her eyes onto me. “Sure...?”
“I really miss swinging,” I said, and her empty stare made my “fight or flight” response switch to “flight”. Hands spread out like a bad cartoon airplane, I ran to the swing set and uncomfortably squeezed into the seat. I didn't look back so as not to lose my nerve. Instead, I began to pump my legs. The world blew by for a second and I felt like the speed of my heartbeat could make me take off, like I could fly away from being so embarrassed. I knew I was acting insanely, but I also knew that she wouldn't be here if I'd not acted insanely in the first place.
Suddenly, I heard something rattle beside me. I looked over to see a blur of black and purple, and heard a strange, diaphragm-rich laugh. All at once it was both the last thing I expected and exactly the right and only thing that could have happened.
She threw her head back and let that hair drag on the ground when she went down; when she went up her boots flew on their own to brush the trees wildly.
Once she started laughing, it was as though the dam over her inner life had broken and she seemed physically unable to stop. This was quite possibly the strangest and most beautiful moment I'd ever experienced.
Her swing stopped, her body doubled over as the laughter poured forth. Her arms crossed over her stomach and she quivered in a sequence of odd convulsions.
After a time, she finally regained composure and looked at me, puzzled. Without a word, she then got up to continue walking.
Questions I asked her then, oh so many questions, as we walked below the grey night sky. She had always wanted to work in a coffee shop, but Starbucks was her last resort, due to her distaste for the flavor of their espresso beans. She was a sophomore business major, and she had no idea why, because she didn't plan on finishing college. She lived in a studio with her two gerbils named Rosencrantz and Guildenstern and ate mainly rice and pasta, though when she had extra cash she was a sucker for macaroons. She used to sing in a band before their drummer, her best friend, moved away to Reno and became a prostitute. She grew up in her parent's house two hours from campus. She liked aquariums. She knit.
Finally, she broke up my questions with one of her own. This is what I was afraid of, but since girls can smell fear, she started me off with a basic one. “What do you do for fun?” Easy enough.
I began to ramble. “Well, I really spend most of my time working on stories for my D&D – er - Dungeons and Dragons campaign. I'm the DM – er – dungeon master. That means I come up with the stories and scenarios that everyone plays through. I control the characters that aren't being played. I decide what monsters they fight. I design the dungeons for them to get lost in. I hide the treasure.”
“You like having the control?”
Her question threw me off. “Uh, I guess so. Mostly I like knowing all the cards. A story is more fun when you already know what's going to happen. It's like Superman; you know he's going to save the day, so you can just sit back and enjoy.
“You don't like bad to happen?”
“Not quite. I mean, it's the same for a zombie thriller. You already know everyone's going to die, so you don't get attached to them.”
Her eyes turned dark.
“So not like real life,” she stated.
“Huh?”
“In reality nobody knows who's going to leave or when. People get pulled along, and anyone or everything could be destroyed in a matter of moments with no warning. We can never just sit back and enjoy without fear of the next tragedy. So, you're an escapist.”
“Uh...I guess so. Why live in reality when you don't have to?”
“That's a damn good question.” She paused a moment, as if deciding something. “I like you,” she stated matter-of-factually. “You're interesting.”
I would have responded, but we were walking up to a small studio complex and she said “That one's mine,” so I walked her to her door.
“I still can't believe tonight just happened,” I admitted. “I've never had such a good time with anyone!” I meant, it, too.
Suddenly, the light in her eyes started to change. The entire density of the air warped and thickened. The fun, the joy, and the restraint simultaneously drained from her face and was replaced with a beautiful and terrible expression that I had never seen anywhere before.
Before I knew what was happening, she was kissing me. It was unbelievable, and by unbelievable, I mean I still can't believe it occurred. I mean, sure, I'd kissed before. Awkward times in high school my lips had curled over braces to create the then-beautiful moments that disgusted underpaid hall monitors. After senior prom, I'd gotten a look down Peggy Shriton's green taffeta gown before she'd tipped up my chin with her home-manicured hand and let me smell her mom's perfume mingled with department store makeup before gracing me with a glossy smooch that was over far too fast for my hormone-frenzied pubescent mind to process. This, however, was something I never dreamed I'd feel. When she braced that magnificent chest against mine with her firm hands and pressed her face so close to mine, when her heavy boots nudged my sneakers so encouragingly, when those once expressionless lips expressed such passion against mine, when I thought the kiss to be over and pulled away and she pressed in again, and when I moved my hand up her back and she let out the smallest whimper, the extreme reality of the moment couldn't convince me that it was real. It was simply impossible. The magic silver pulled my tongue between her lips, and when it clicked against the back of her teeth, her body shuddered and her hands clutched my body the way a baby's hands first clutch it's mother's fingers. She let a deeper moan escape, and her hands got lost in my hair. It was magic tenth level wizards only dreamed about.
Then, just as suddenly as it had started, it stopped. When she looked at me this time, however, her smile was nowhere to be found.
“That was nice,” she said.
“See you later?” I asked.
“Sure,” she said flatly, and she went inside, and she shut the door.
She wasn't at work on Monday. Calling her phone number warranted only a “We're sorry; the number you are trying to reach has been disconnected. Please hang up and try your call again.” I didn't know where she went, why she hadn't told me she was leaving, or why I couldn't contact her. All I knew was that she was gone without a trace.
I waited, always praying that she was somewhere attempting to reach me somehow. I fabricated all kinds of ideas, from her having a flight of fancy and eloping with her next-door neighbor to her being kidnapped by ninjas. After just a few days, it was becoming hard for me to believe that she'd even been real. She had vanished as if she were a very strange dream.
After a week, I asked Darryl if she had quit. His eyes softened, and he said, “Mary? She died late last Friday night. Killed herself. I'm so sorry.”
I would have thrown up, but there seemed to be a C-clamp secured around my esophagus. The room slanted to a dutch tilt and my existence fled for a moment before I could muster out a “thank you.”
I made my way home in a daze and turned on my computer. When I typed her name in the search bar, the first result was her obituary from last week's newspaper. With the words chosen for her, she could have been anybody. Only the face was familiar in the black-and-white high school senior pic of her with a copy of Lord of the Flies resting in her crossed arms on her chest. “Mary Jean McCauly. 1989-2012. Well loved by her family and friends. Great student. Beautiful smile. She will be dearly missed.” A block of ice settled into my stomach, and I'm working on how to melt it to this day.
For all I know, nobody knows that she even knew me. For all I know, the time she spent with me didn't make any difference to her whatsoever. All I know is that I'll never forget how I made that girl smile, and that if I had waited one more week to say “Hello,” I'd never have known that I could. I'm keeping this metal in my mouth to remind me of this, and to give me the courage to someday say “hello” again.
