Window Seat

                              I
     
     “Farmer grows world’s largest turnip”
     Real catchy headline.  
     And who the hell decides to name their town “Pinotuck” anyway?
     I looked up from my brand new copy of The Pinotuck Gazetteer to glance
at the semi-truck that was passing us.  I suppose some people think it’s
weird that I look at every single semi-truck that comes by, then jot down
the “How Am I Driving?” number.  Then again, maybe no one ever notices me
looking in the first place.  Sometimes I wave to the driver to, just in
case.  I’m sure someone has noticed that.  Then again, it’s not like I make
a production out of it.  “Lights, camera, action and...... WAVE!!!!!!!!!”  
     The truck that was passing us had a huge red cab in front, with the
words “Truck your worries away, call Global Tuck today!” written in faded
white letters.  The driver was kinda handsome, at least for a trucker. 
Thick wavy blonde hair on top of his head, small amount of prickly stubble
on his cheeks, chapped lips loosely holding a cigarette, oblivious to ashes
falling on his tight jeans (In my mind they were tight.  What sort of
trucker wears baggy jeans?), scar on his left cheek that was almost buried
under scruffy sideburns.  I coiled a lock of my own wheat colored hair
around my finger.  It wasn’t wavy like the truck drivers, but maybe.....    
 
     The bus hit a bump in the road.  A small cup of cheap soda flew out of
the hands of the six year old who’d been holding it.  It spilled all over my
jeans, soaking through to my skin, with a light misty spray of it touching
my cheeks.  The little girl started to cry, her mass of black curly hair
sticking to her face and small bubbles of mucus coming out of her nose,
which annoyed me even more.  I hate the way shit comes out of your nose when
you cry.  It runs down that pointless little groove between your nose and
your mouth, making your upper lip cold and moist, and then of course you
have to lick it off.  So not only are you crying, you’re also sipping on
your own snot.  I let my hair form a curtain between myself and the
sniveling little creature beside me.  It seemed a dramatic thing to do. 
Plus it meant I didn’t have to look at that trickle going into her mouth.   

     “Goddamnit.”  I muttered, trying to sop up the mess on my leg with my
forgotten newspaper.  The jeans were brand new, and my only pair.
     “Be careful!” I growled at her.  The girl whimpered, and drew away from
me, red eyes growing wide.  I scooted over closer to the window.  
     I hadn’t gotten the number for the red Global Truck, but the bus was
pulling up close to it again.  I grabbed a small notebook out of my tiny
purse, and hastily scribbled the phone number on it, along with the letters
G.T.  The paper was full of numbers like that.  Numbers I’d call when we’d
stop for gas, or at the bus terminal.  I don’t even know why I call them.  I
think I just need to put my dad in a place, you know?  It could be a fancy
apartment, or a taxi, or a damp and musty cave, as long as it was a place. 
And I think there’s something romantic about being a trucker.  Something
smoky and grungy, full of black coffee and a thousand new sights every day. 
You have to have a certain mindset to be a trucker.  You can’t form
attachments, because tomorrow you’ll be two and a half worlds away from
whatever you’ve found.  You’d have to love yourself, because you wouldn’t,
you can’t, have anyone else.  Taking care of a kid by yourself wouldn’t fit
in with that.  You can’t raise a kid on slow country music and sharp cold
nights.
     I pressed my hand down on my jeans, squeezing more water out of them
and onto the cheap gray coverings of the bus seat.  The little kid had
forgotten about her spilled coke and was now busy with the remnants of a
snickers bar.  My stomach gave a little sigh of longing at the sights of a
long string of caramel stretched loosely from her lips to the wrapper.  I
kicked my feet around until my foot caught a loop on the brand new black
backpack, which I then lifted up to my seat.  The tag was still on it, $50. 
Who the hell would spend fifty dollars on a backpack?  Inside was a gross
display of candy bars and un-opened cans of sprite.  Snickers, Twix, Reece’s
cups, M&Ms and Kit Kat’s caressed my fingers, sliding their plastic skin
over mine, begging to be chosen.  My fingers closed on a bag of M&Ms and I
ripped a corner off it with my teeth.  I love the taste of plastic in my
mouth.  It’s slick and smooth, and your first impulse is to spew it out
distastefully.  But if you hold it in there long enough you begin to
appreciate its smooth tastelessness, its waxy sexiness.  I peeled the
detached corner off my tongue and wiped it on the underside of my seat and
feasted.
     The bus was pulling into the station.  I didn’t bother to look at the
name of the town.  Just some one room bus station with a bathroom and a coke
machine and a little guy selling tickets.  This was the third time I’d
stopped at a bus station since I left Nellie’s, and each time was by far the
best moment of the trip.  The bus I was on would depart again in thirty
minutes.  Two other buses were ready for departure in about ten or fifteen
minutes.  Big white letter proclaimed their romantic destinations: Chicago
and Nashville.    
     I could go either way, or change my mind halfway there and head back. 
It didn’t matter.  Nellie’s credit card in the small inside pocket of my
backpack insured that I could get anywhere I needed to.  She’d never know it
was missing, just like the little dick of a store clerk would never notice
thirty candy bars and a fifty dollar backpack missing from the dusty shelves
of his store.  No one ever noticed anything in the town I’d grown up in, at
least, they didn’t notice it if it was something that was too unpleasant to
be noticed.  
     Well, that was most people’s case at least.  Nellie just didn’t notice
anything period.  Or remember anything, or understand anything, or, well,
you get the idea.  She was slightly mental.  Well.  Not slightly.  In fact
she was far beyond slightly.
     I closed my eyes for a minute after stepping onto the sidewalk and
leaning up against the wall of the bus station.  Chicago had a nice sound to
it.  I unzipped the backpack and pulled out my credit card.
     I think I must have been five steps away from the ticket office when I
heard the pay phone ring.  How often do you hear a payphone ring, especially
in a small undistinguished town like the one I was in now?  I clutched at my
backpack instinctively.  I may be a country girl, but I know enough not to
let my shit get stolen by some guy playing tricks by calling up payphones. 
Or whatever the hell was going on.  
     No one else picked it up.  Like I said, people tend not to notice
things that are unpleasant, or too odd to be noticed.  I just......stared at
it.  Whoever it was, they weren’t giving up easily.  The damn thing rang for
nearly two minutes before I walked over and tentatively pulled it close to
my ear.
     “Hello?”  I yanked my backpack in front of me and rested it on the
little ledge the give you in those payphone booths.  No fucking thief was
going to get my shit.
     “I want to understand you.”
     It was a male voice.  Not low, not high, just somewhere in the middle,
smooth like candy wrappers on my tongue.  I remained silent.
     The voice said it again.  “I want to understand you.”
     I slammed the receiver down.
     It didn’t ring again.  I grabbed the credit card out of my backpack and
ran over to the ticket office.  “Chicago” I said, thrusting Nellie’s
driver’s license at them.  The pay phone started ringing again.  The guy
behind the counter had tiny eyes, and tiny teeth, and tiny white hands with
blue veins.  I couldn’t tell you any more about him, because I fucking hate
veins standing out on peoples hands.  That dark blue color, right next to
that pale skin makes you see how weak they are. You cut open those blue
lines and their blood comes out, red mingling with blue on white and they
die.  So easily destroyed.  Slice apart a spider-web.
     I picked up the ticket.  The phone was still ringing, and I felt
scared.  The vein-guy behind the counter noticed it somehow.  For once,
someone was noticing.
     “It’s happened before.”  said the vein-guy in a voice that seemed to
have lost interest in this particular subject a long time ago.  “That phone
rings.  Sometimes someone will pick it up.  Sometimes they won’t.  Sometimes
the person will sit there for hours talking to whoever called, sometimes
they just walk away.  What did they say?  I haven’t gotten a person yet to
tell me.”
     I ignored him, swiping up my ticket and running to the bus.  I couldn’t
hear the phone anymore, but I knew it was still ringing.  No one else saw
it.  The man behind the counter looked at it, and then glanced toward my
bus.  I dug out some fingernail polish; dark purple, like red blood and blue
veins mixed and swirled together.  I’ve never been good at painting my
nails.  

                                II

     The red duffel bad was nearly as inviting to me as raspberry flavored
chap stick.  No, even more inviting then that.  The girl at whose feet it
resided was around my height, straight dark brown hair with too much mascara
and an elegantly bulky navy blue sweatshirt reading “GAP”.  Her skinny
thighs were incased in khaki’s, fucking khaki’s on a bus! with big pockets
down by her knees.  I nearly smiled, because she’d never know those pockets
were for slipping a candy bar into, so you could walk out of the store with
an object you obtained without the help of anyone, except the fashion
industry and yourself.  I needed another pair of pants.  
     This bus wasn’t as crowded as the last one, so I had the luxury of the
whole seat to myself.  The bus driver was the only other person awake, or at
least, I hoped he was.  I edged my way to the aisle seat, guiding myself by
the dim running lights that flickered inconsistently as the bus hit bumps in
the interstate.  The dark eyed sleeping beauty across from me had left her
bright red duffel bag unzipped for me, layers of freshly pressed clothes
peeking out from its cavernous depths.  My fingers were as white as a
freshly polished toilet seat against the brilliant coke-bottle red of the
duffel bag, so I quickly slid my hand deep inside it with a gentle thrust. 
The contents of the bag molded around my hand like grains of sand.  I had
this brief pulse deep inside my stomach, and in my minds eye I could feel
those layers of clothes surrounding every inch of my body, holding and
supporting me as I melted into them, simultaneously being and embracing
them.
     I was selective.  That fabric was too rough, that one too smooth.  My
freshly painted nails caught on a small tear in that one.  After a few
moments of searching, I settled on an article as soft as cashmere, and
something that felt like a pair of jeans.  The bus lifted slightly as I
liberated my new possessions, and my hand nearly brushed the leg of the dark
eyed girl.  Her lashes didn’t even flutter, and I drew back to the hidden
world of my seat.  Without looking at my new possessions, I placed them in
the black backpack, which had already acquired the kind of softness a thing
can only achieve from constant use.  The clothes nestled in among candy
bars, sleeping soundly in their new home.  
     I gazed over once more at the girl across from me.  Her hair fell in
limp strands across her face, blowing away from her mottled and sticky red
lips with every breath she drew.  Concealer badly covered up a small pimple
that had breached her nose, and mingled with rose pink blush that skittered
under her eyes, far above where her cheekbones sat.  I followed the line of
blush over to her hairline with my eyes, and my attention was placed on her
ears.  My heart was instantly won over by them, small and white as a peony
with a perfect symmetry to their multitude of soft curves.  They weren’t
pierced either, which surprised and delighted me.  No hole marred their
perfection.  Not a freckle or mole, or odd tint of red dared interrupt the
smooth flow of them, down to the perfectly oval lobe which looked soft as a
flower petal.  The tiny light emanating from above my seat cast a yellowish
shadow on it, illuminating the ear, and leaving her hair and face in a dark
shadow.  
     I touched it.  My dark purple, roughly cut nail lightly placed itself
on the lobe of her ear without my knowledge, as though my finger itself
could not stand to be less close to such perfection then it had to be.   My
breath caught in my throat and I closed my eyes momentarily, allowing
nothing to pass through my mind but that minute contact between the edge of
my fingertip and perfection.  She did not stir and I retreated, my finger
burning with passion.      
     I curved my neck around to fit the awkward molding of my seat and dug
my fingers under my hair to provide a semblance of comfort.  This act made
me contemplate weather it might not be worth it to stay in a hotel tomorrow
night and take a shower.

                                 III

     I woke up in the morning with the full conviction that I was a
lesbian.
     I mean, come on, how many normal teen age girls get a gut twisting
sensation from touching another girls ear lobe?  I mean, she was asleep too.
 That makes me not only a lesbian, but a creepy pedophilic lesbian on top of
it.  Like, Bob Saget.
     My stomach felt slightly distended, so I wandered drunkenly to the back
of the bus and into the bathroom.  Well, I suppose it’s not really a
“bathroom”, since it’s just a toilet and a sink.  A toilet room.  I think
people just call them “bathrooms” because they believe toilet is a bad word
anyway.  I mean, what do you use the room for more, taking baths, or taking
a piss?
     In any case, this room was damn hot.  It felt like I was sitting on an
irregularly shaped Bunsen burner instead of a toilet.  My entire body sagged
with relief as I opened up the floodgates and when my bladder was
sufficiently emptied, I zipped up my jeans with a fresh new energy that’s
hard to come by when you’ve spent the last three or four days on a bus.  I
liked the way I looked in the wavy mirror above the metallic sink.  Sweat
plastered my hair to cheeks that emitted a sallow flush and were endlessly
beaded with sweat.  The look of a creepy-pedophilic-thieving-lesbian.    
     The bus had stopped again.  I slipped into my seat and fiddled idly
with my backpack, watching mascara girl and her father out of the corner of
my eye.  The two of them seemed to have no inclination to leave the bus, so
I slung the backpack over my shoulder and sauntered out into the station.  I
tried to catch a glimpse of her ear once more, but her dark hair had been
carefully combed over it with a zigzag part down the center of her skull. 
Very pretty.  Too bad she didn’t realize what she was covering up.
     My feet instantly led me clear away from the payphones, and I let my
mind wander away from them too.  My hair and body demanded a long rest in a
place that was not mobile, and included a shower.
     I shed my lilac purple jacket as I walked away from the bus station and
wriggled my shoulders as the unfamiliar sticky hot wind poked and prodded
them with curious gusts.  It might have been wiser of me to at least leave
home in a tee shirt, but mine had been soaking outside in Nellie’s washtub
when I left—henceforth I was stuck with a loose fitting cotton tank top that
I’d cut out of a pillowcase last year.  Winter was still five months away,
and by that time I’d be able to find something warmer.
     You know you’ve found someplace cheap to sleep when a flashing red sign
reading “Vacancy” rests itself directly below the name “Sweet Dreams Motel”.
 
     I checked in with the small Pakistani woman at the front desk, and
wandered over cracked-green painted concrete until I found room 50.  Small
TV with bunny ears, painting of five ducks startled out of a marsh in dull
browns and greens, and stiff flower printed sheets.  I dumped my backpack
next to a red chair which clashed with the color scheme of the room, and
fell face down on the bed, clutching a flat and rough coated pillow to my
stomach.  I figured I’d zone out and watch some TV, eat in a few hours,
catch up on some sleep, and get a new bus ticket tomorrow morning.  I
grabbed at the TV remote.   
     The phone rang.
     And rang once more.
     I grabbed it quickly and pressed it too my ear, breathing shallowly.
     “Don’t hang up on me Winter” said a voice that wrapped around me like a
thousand folds of clothes.  A voice as smooth as candy wrappers.
     “Shit.” I whispered, and dropped the phone.  I stared at it blankly,
dangling down by the plastic desk, and then quickly put it back on the
receiver.       
     Before I could catch my breath, it rang again.  Instinctively, I
grabbed it, and then dropped it back on the receiver as soon as I had.
     Shit.
     I picked it back up before the guy had a chance to call me back and
left it off the receiver.  After a few minutes it started doing that
annoying beeping thing, so I wadded up my sheets and placed them on top of
it.
     I pulled my backpack over to me and pulled out the clothes I’d stolen
from mascara girl the night before.  A dull green shirt that looked
incredibly warm, but was as thin as my motel sheets, and a pair of tight
fitting bell bottom jeans.  They fit snugly into the crook of my elbow,
accompanying me into the cramped bathroom.  
     I love hotel showers.  At Nellie’s I had to bathe in a cracked claw
footed tub with boiling water I’d spend thirty minutes hauling in from the
stove.  Hotel showers had actual showerheads with pressure that was
unbelievable.  I turned the faucet all the way to the right, and hummed a
nameless tune as scalding water boiled off all the dirt and sweat I’d
accumulated in the past few days.  Mascara girls shirt fit around my
shoulders loosely, and her jeans fit comfortably around my narrow hips.  I
combed my wet hair with my fingers, and flung myself back on the bed. 
Imagining I was safe, I dumped the sheets back on the bed, and placed the
phone back on the receiver.  It rang again instantly.
     “What the hell do you want?” I growled at the receiver.  “I’m gonna
call the fucking cops if you don’t leave me the fuck alone.”    
     “I want you to tell me a story Winter.” Said the voice calmly.
     “How do you know my name?” I said, making care to keep the shakiness
out of my voice.  “How the fuck did you know where to call for me?”
     The man didn’t miss a beat.  “Tell me a story.  About anything you
like.  And I will answer one question.”
     I contemplated this.  “Any question?”
     “Any question.”
     I nodded, as if he could see me.  I shifted to a more comfortable
position on the bed, stomach down, chin in elbows and feet drifting lazily
back and forth in the air.  My eyes were drawn to the picture of ducks
flying over a marsh that hung above my bed.  A story formed in my mind.  
 
                                   IV
 
    “I’m sitting in a motel room.” My lips were pressed against the phone
leaving slick smears of raspberry chap-stik.  “I could tell you it’s a
normal motel room; and I might be right.  There are all the signs of
normalcy here: A thin brown-green carpet with stains badly scrubbed out, a
small dresser made of wood that shines like plastic, one chair in the corner
with minimal padding—it’s all soft curves so you can’t hurt yourself if you
bump it in the night.  The bed is stiff, with starchy sheets that smell
clean, like dish soap, and thin white pillows.  There’s a small TV across
from me covered in outdated flyers, and a white tiled bathroom whose water
comes out boiling hot.  Above my bed is a painting of ducks, and that’s what
makes this motel room different.”
     The phone switched to my left hand, and my right carefully stripped off
still damp strands of hair from my face.  The man on the other end remained
silent, and I continued.     
     “It’s not a very good painting, really.” I murmured, awkwardly hooking
a leg through my backpack and painfully hauling it up beside me. “I can see
five mottled green and brown birds in a wheat brown marsh, flying against a
yellow sky and a few poorly sketched deer.  Whoever painted this saw some
form of beauty in it, something in it that was perfect.  What I love about
this painting…….”
     I paused, rolling over onto my butt and then sitting up hunched over my
knees.  I yanked a Snickers bar out of the backpack and then worked my way
back to the painting.
     “If you look near the bottom, right below the marsh, you can see a
single smudge.  It’s not very big at all, about the size of my baby toe. 
When you look closely at it, you can see that it’s a child’s fingerprint,
made in caramel.”  
     The tip of my index finger and thumb met to peel the plastic off my
tongue, and I threw the broken Snickers wrapper to the floor.  My hands
wrapped around both ends of the soft-smooth candy bar and broke it cleanly
in two.  Caramel oozed out, trailing down to my bed along with crumbled
pieces of chocolate and nougat.  My fingers grasped one trailing strand of
it, and my thumb and index finger worked it into a tiny ball.  Almost
coldly, I smashed the ball, and smoothed its broken form over the pad of my
index finger.  It remained golden and warm on top of my white cold skin, and
I admired the contrast.  The difference between raw cookie dough and freshly
baked cookies.  
     “It’s so unique,” I murmured, not entirely just to the man on the
phone.  “Every curve, every spiral, and so unintentional.  A fingerprint
leaves you with so many questions.  I couldn’t even comprehend them all too
even ask a single one.”  
     The index finger on my right hand pressed slowly against the painting
next to its muse, now tiny and worn looking in comparison.    
     “I leave this as a path.  One that anyone with open eyes may walk down.
 This is as simple as I can be; this is as unadorned and naked as I can show
myself.  You could spend a lifetime following a fingerprint on a painting.”
     The Snickers bar was re-wrapped and thrown back into the backpack.
     The man gave a heavy sigh, almost as if he was sad to hear me stop. 
And I, I set the phone down slowly.  That night I dreamt of someone with
whom it would be worth spending a lifetime tracing the spirals on their
fingertips.