***
The mental image hadn't faded away. The perfect skin, the cute grin, the bobbing ponytail. All of that stayed with me, as if I didn't already have enough on my mind, from Wheatyard to job-hunting to worrying if I was too hasty in giving up the internship. To all of that, my imagination added Emily. I thought about her for days, not exclusively, but still more than anything else.
Although the Good Earth Café was much more than I could afford by then, it seemed like the best place to go. I had to impress her, but obviously The Grind was out—I had to offer her somewhere nicer than the same place she worked every day—and the fast food joints were too sterile. The café said smart and sensible and healthy, despite being pricier than I'd prefer. But if I spent just right, I thought I could manage, though it meant skipping dinner that night and probably the next.
I sat nervously, hands clasped and clammy atop the table, my stomach somersaulting. I was ten minutes early, knowing I already had enough against me without being tardy. I stared straight ahead, vaguely at nothing in particular, and watched the door only off and on.
"I'm glad you called," a voice suddenly said, just above me.
I started, quietly thrilled to see that grin once again. "Oh, hi," I said, as calmly as I could.
I had called her the day before, at The Grind. At first she seemed cold, unenthusiastic, but after I mentioned Wheatyard her voice warmed. We agreed to meet and then awkwardly said our goodbyes, the few words moving haltingly between us, with none of the effortless ease I had hoped for.
"You left so suddenly the other day."
I felt the heat rush to my face, and hoped I didn't blush. "I had to be somewhere," I forced out, aware that it didn't sound convincing, unable to improvise the nonchalant specifics that might have put it across.
"Mind if I sit?" she said, her smile dimmed but still there.
"Of course," I replied, gesturing with a gentle sweep of my hand toward the opposite chair. I could have, should have been so much smoother, more natural. I was the one who made the invitation, after all. I shouldn't have been so rattled by her appearance, but that's simply how I was back then.
She slid into the other chair as she waved for the waitress. "So, what's your story?"
I passed along the particulars—four years at the bank, then back to school full-time, then graduation and joblessness and the long, hot summer in Champaign.
"The heat never really bothered me very much. Good thing, too—I'm going to Texas this fall."
"Why Texas?"
"Grad school in Austin. Psych. Masters, then maybe a doctorate if everything works out."
The mention of Austin put me off. I had no intention of leaving the Midwest, of ending up any further south than St. Louis, at A.G. Edwards or Boatmen's. My spirit slumped as I sensed the meager possibility slipping even further away. Desperate, I pushed ahead the only way I could think of.
"So you were starting to tell me about Wheatyard." I hoped she had forgiven my rudeness, as if my departure was anything other than my courage dissolving that afternoon at The Grind. "You know, the crush."
"Right, the crush. After a few tries he gave up the small talk. Then one day he ordered coffee and said, out of nowhere, 'You should read Buk.' I didn't quite catch the name, though, and said 'I've read plenty of books.' He made this sweet, patient smile, and said 'No, Buk. Charles Bukowski.' I had never heard of him. I remember a few poets from my English classes, freshman and sophomore year—you know, Wordsworth and Byron and Shelley—but nothing about Bukowski, who I'm sure we never studied. He must have seen from the look on my face that the name meant nothing to me, so he just nodded and gave a little wave, and left for his table."
"It's not surprising he tried to push some 'good writing' on you," I said. "You're just lucky it wasn't any of his."
"I didn't know he was a writer then. Sure, he was always scribbling away in notebooks, but I assumed he was just some boho keeping a journal of deep thoughts. So the next time he came in, before he even ordered, he passed a Bukowski book over the counter. I'll never forget that title: The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over the Hills. What a mouthful!"
"His own writing is really wordy, too."
She nodded and continued. "He didn't say a word, but just pointed to a Post-It on one of the pages, like that was what he wanted me to read. It was called 'Remains'—sort of a love poem about a dead wife, but different than anything I've ever read. Really weird. You know—no moon spoon June."
"I've heard Bukowski is difficult reading."
"That poem sure was. And not at all romantic—if that's what Elmer meant, it's the weirdest love note I've ever gotten. And I've had some strange ones."
Elmer? I thought. With me, his presumed confidante, he called himself Wheatyard or sometimes El. Then again, it wasn't me he had a crush on.
"That night I read the poem several times through before I finally understood it, but even then I had no idea what message Elmer was trying to give me. Next day at work, he came in again and asked what I thought of the poem. I babbled some nonsense, I don't even remember exactly what. I could tell he was disappointed with my response, but he kept chatting anyway."
"Brave man."
"Very brave." She laughed lightly. "He even asked for my phone number, and for some reason I gave it to him. Probably not a smart move, but I did it anyway. I wasn't even attracted to him, not physically. His behavior just seemed a bit off, but in an intriguing way. I guess my interest was more curiosity than anything else—just a Psych major trying to get inside someone's head."
"Did he call?" I asked, anxiously hoping that he hadn't.
"No, never did. I didn't see him here for a few weeks, and then when he finally came in again, he avoided me. Ordered coffee, and left a tip like always, but didn't hang around to chat."
"He's an unpredictable guy."
"Maybe he had second thoughts about a silly girl that didn't 'get' Bukowski," she reflected. "Maybe he was hoping we'd connect over that, and when we didn't he decided I just wasn't worth the trouble."
"His loss," I suggested, but immediately saw that my compliment missed its mark. Her eyes were drawn inward, clearly thinking of Wheatyard and not me.
"I'm sure it wouldn't have gone anywhere, but I was still kind of disappointed. I would have liked to talk to him more, but I was shy and never got up the nerve. I really wish I had, but it's too late now."
It was too late for us, too, as I slowly came to realize. Too late for Emily and me. Though I told her a few anecdotes and impressions about Wheatyard that she seemed to appreciate, our conversation ebbed and we slowly drifted into silence, moving apart even as we continued to sit across from each other. When our order arrived—hot chicken soup for her, despite the withering heat outside, half of a ham sandwich for me—we ate almost without speaking, each of us alone with our own thoughts.
Again I was back to puzzling over Wheatyard. I shook my head and smiled to myself, but only for a moment, wiping my face blank again before she could see.
A Bukowski poem, as a love note. How utterly impossible, outrageous, quixotic. And how perfectly like him.
EIGHT