Pink Flamingos

Understanding

Time was nonexistent in my new hometown, right outside and slightly to the left of the epicenter of adventure. Sometimes it felt like days were slipping by when the sun had barely set and it seemed that my time had almost run out – it was time for summer to end, time for school to end, time for love, time for my adventures, then time to die.

Other times, I would keep checking the clock desperately, praying for the minute hand to work faster so that the day could go faster. It was so mind-numbing, and the heat made me languid. Time moved like molasses in water. Sometimes I would shut my eyes in bed and try and dream as vividly as I could as an escape.

I dreamt of futures I felt I would never have, of fantasies I could never fulfil and people I could never be. The images I could conjure and the pictures I could paint were far more interesting than any of my surroundings. If life couldn’t be a dream, I would create my own.

Sometimes, I would sit up and say phrases to myself in the mirror, pretending that I was some character I had seen in a movie, or read about in a book, or even simply a version of myself that was much more exciting. I tucked little lines and quotations from every piece of fiction I consumed away in the recesses of my mind for just those kinds of boring times. When I was far too lazy to write my own stories, I became them instead.

In those times, thoughts of Eddie kept intruding on my psyche. I was ashamed to admit it, but I couldn’t stop him from crossing my mind, no matter how hard I tried to push it out, to barely even consider him. I wanted to be completely indifferent to him.

When I did bother to go out, he spoke to me every time. Sometimes it would be a conversation conducted from two different sides of the path – I would sit in the doorway of my trailer, with a book on my lap but my eyes on him. He would sit in his fold-out chair with his record on in front of his own trailer, his gaze remaining steadily on me.

We talked of menial things. I didn’t want anything more; I didn’t want to hear my voice coming to him from the end of the tunnel, even if it was with Springsteen in the background. We made bad jokes, and spoke of music. We insulted each other and laughed about it. We alluded to problems and personal interests.

He seemed much more open than me. He told me things so easily. Even in casual conversations, he could slip in if he’d fought with his family, or some childhood memory, of if he was feeling down, or especially happy. I envied him for it.

Almost every time I decided to go for a walk around town, he ‘accompanied’ me. It gave me a small sense of pleasure to see him run to catch up to me. Whether or not he decided to tag along, I went about my business casually – but I found myself feeling excited, or maybe even a little relieved, when I heard his voice calling out behind me; and despite myself, I felt a little disappointed when he didn’t walk with me.

At first, I would change my route whenever he tagged along. We would walk all over town – visiting Barbara at the candy store, for a start. I would help him choose records and he would carry the bags when I went grocery shopping for my mothers.

But eventually, I knew I had to take him to where I had been drawn to from the start; we had to walk to the city limits together. I didn’t want to have to avoid it forever simply because of him. I think that part of me just wanted to show him what I was so fascinated and upset by, if only to blame him when he refused to understand it.

The knot in my chest tightened as we neared the edge of town. We walked in complete silence, each lost in our own worlds. I was praying to every god I knew that he wouldn’t ask me to explain myself. I have always been strong-minded but the moment someone questioned me, I withered away like a dead flower.

Occasionally, I couldn’t help but look over at him. I was desperate to know what he was thinking. Did he think I was strange? Interesting? At least I couldn’t imagine him thinking that I was dumb.

“Well,” I sighed, “this is it.”

The desert stretched out before us. Las Vegas glimmered on the horizon like a mirage. It was the oasis of excitement smack bang in the middle of a deprived world.

“You really want to go, don’t you?” He asked softly, gazing off into the distance. I sensed that his mind was far away, and I wanted to be a part of that dreamland.

I shrugged a little, aware that he wasn’t even looking at me. “I feel like everyone would be alive there.”

“People aren’t alive here?”

“I don’t think I am. Are you?”

The question hung in the air. Seconds passed, I waited for him to reply. The answer never came. Instead, I sat down on the ground with crossed legs, half-expecting him to join me.

Time stood still. I was conscious of every one of both his and my own movements. He shifted from foot to foot occasionally, his fingers twitching as he looked out, outside of our small town and far off into the distance. Every time I moved, I felt as though I was disturbing the quiet. Everything was so peaceful and I couldn’t bear to see it ruined. Instead, I looked off at Vegas as well, my mind split in two – half of me dreaming of Vegas, half of me wondering about Eddie, who I seemed to connect with somehow without ever truly saying anything of value at all.

All of a sudden, I felt him standing behind me, his legs pressed against my back. Cautiously, I rested my head against his thigh. He reached down and rested his hands on my shoulders lightly, as if he was testing the limits, seeing how comfortable we could be with each other.

I ignored the millions of terrifying thoughts rushing through my being. In a rare moment of courage, I reached and took his hands, intertwining my fingers with his. I heard him sigh softly above me. Together, we watched the glimmering horizon in silence until the sun sank out of sight and both our legs were going numb.

We walked home in the darkness, still holding hands. Mama Heather commented not in words, but with a knowing smile as she saw me come inside.