The Memorial Rainbow

Coming Home, Part III
a really really really creative nonfiction

I don't know what attracted me to it. I just...I just know it's supposed to be important. ( Read more... )

Waterworks
a really really really creative nonfiction

    She's standing behind the microphone when he enters the room, blue guitar in hand, boom stand placed firm and center. A bit boho chic, but feathers in her hair, and the happiest blue eyes he's seen in a long time. She's comfortable, confident; he hasn't seen a lot of people like her before. A sound engineer sits behind her at the board, and a bunch of hip-hop artists and aficionados sit in the audience, every eye on the white girl on stage in this small cafe.
    Her words meld with her guitar as she plays, the open mic night continuing as he finds a seat in the back.

    Irony strikes in the form of lightning
    God's tears fall across my face
    Keep the bittersweet memories spinning
    I can't forget this place

    The song ends. Five seconds later, he realizes he forgot how to breathe.
    Her outgoing personality keeps him in the corner as she catches up with everybody in the building, chats with the barista, gives the owner a quick hug. She constantly steps back to the sound board engineer, and he catches something in her eye. So that's it, he knows, but he doesn't at all.
    It's only a matter of time before she finds him. "Haven't seen you here before," she says, extending her hand.
    He shrugs it away, explains that he just got to New York City for his first year of college. "Tell me more," she says, so he does, though he doesn't know why. He tells her of his upbringing in upstate New York, how he just got to the city for college, how he's at a coffeeshop on a Thursday night and not a bar because of his age, how he's just a normal kid in the big city.
    "Don't be ashamed of your age," she tells him with a smile. "I'm only nineteen myself. And I'd be in school if I wasn't pursuing music so hard." She crosses her legs, accepts a water from the barista she knows so well, makes herself at home. "I'm originally from the Midwest, actually. Born in Indiana, raised in Ohio. I've always loved music, though. When I was eleven, I raised money for Hurricane Katrina victims by releasing a single in my hometown. Since then, I knew I wanted to perform, but everybody at home kept trying to put me into a mold. It took forever to convince my parents for me to come here by myself."
    She laughs, her blue eyes still bright. "Yeah, I'm here by myself! Took me a while to figure out how I was going to do this, but I got in touch with some people and I'm crashing on their couch in Washington Heights for a while. It's way different than Ohio was, that's for sure. I've been doing that for a year now. My poor parents didn't know what to do with me. They're more used to my older sister; she's more grounded, more athletic, everything I'm not." She chuckles. "Prettier, too, I think. She's my hero."
    The engineer stops by her, says he's leaving; she smiles at him as he goes. "He has no clue," she says, her speech straight as a pin. "Whatever. The love of his life is upstate. Maybe you've met her in passing and you don't even know it." She laughs, but this time, he senses the bitterness. "You know how they say that you are your own worst critic?"
    He nods, explains he's trying to be a writer, a photographer, but it's harder than it looks. There's a difference between taking pictures with a smartphone and freelancing Photoshop work. "I understand," she tells him, pointing at the feathers in her long braided hair, her blue tunic and long tan skirt. "You see this outfit? I designed it myself. I'd love to be a fashion designer, maybe after I hit it big as a singer. Though I might try to play something other than guitar. I've always wanted to play piano. Do you know anybody who plays piano -- wait, you wouldn't. You just moved here." She laughs. "Sorry."
    The barista delivers a water and two cookies to them both. "He's cool," she explains. "He's been here forever. You know how the word 'hipster' is like really big right now? This seems like that type of place. Don't you think so?"
    He nods, says he's quite the hipster himself, with the carefree dark hair, the beanie cap, the glasses, the light flannel and skinny jeans and Converse. The expensive camera around his neck may try to throw off the image somewhat, but it still works.
    "I'm kind of a hipster," she says, looking into his brown eyes. "But I think I'm just me. What's your name again? I don't know if I ever got it."
    Again, he forgets to breathe, not sure why, but he spits it out in between bites of cookie.
    She giggles. "I'm Emily. Nice to meet you."

I couldn't get it into my head --
the rhythm of goodbye.

March 28, 2008, approx. 10:00 PM.

He stops walking.
The hustle and bustle of the city surrounds him, cars blazing past, people talking, horns blaring, noise upon noise upon noise. And yet...and yet he swears he just heard his name called. Like somebody is looking for him.
He looks to his right, then his left; nobody looks familiar. This area doesn't look familiar. When did he get to Herald Square? The only way he's able to tell is because the Macy's signs are still lit up, and the M34 bus still runs at this time of night.
At this time of night -- he thought he was back in Washington Heights. How did he get all the way down here?
"Well, don't you look lost."
He jumps and turns toward the voice. Nobody there. He adjusts his hat and heavy jacket; it's cold, even in March. New York rivals Chicago for windy, dark days. Life near Lake Erie has prepared him for this, though.
He's more concerned about where that voice is coming from.
"Over here." This time, with a chuckle. He follows the voice and ducks under the Empire State Building's entrance, an overhang regally lit. There are two guards, and plenty of tourists, but still nobody else. It's late. His ears are playing tricks on him. He shoves his hands into his pockets and looks at his reflection in the window -- short stature, skinny build, coat's too big for him. Stringy black hair kept short, blue -- wait.
His eyes are brown.
"Gotcha."
He jumps a foot away from the glass, then turns -- and there he is. Tall, formidable, in a white uniform with blue stripes. A police officer with snow white hair and piercing blue eyes that are so blue, he thinks they're green. They probably are green.
The man with the white hair speaks again. "Nice night for a walk in Herald Square, am I right?"
The boy holds his distance. Strangers usually don't talk to him. He's quiet enough that he can slip by somebody unnoticed. He doesn't want to be noticed. But he's done this college stint in New York City since September, and he can handle anything...right?
He puts up his fists. "Stand back."
"Oh, I have no intention of hurting you. It's just that you looked so familiar." Snow White looks deep in thought. "Am I right, Aki-chan?"
HIs now blue eyes widen. Before he knows it, his memories take him back -- to the girl with braids in her long brown hair and starry blue eyes, the girl who drew in her spare time and apparently created music, though he had never bothered to listen to it. The way she listened to him. The way he had played with her, sat next to her...kissed her. The times he stayed up until two in the morning. The fights they had, the lies he told, the feelings of rejection. He had felt justified back then. She was wrong. He was sure of it. If she couldn't handle it, she could leave.
But there is a man here, in Herald Square, right in front of him, with white hair and a commanding presence about him, and he had just called him Aki-chan. A name only she knew. A name she had given him.
It couldn't be.
"You're not one of...them, are you?"
The white haired man laughs. "You deduce well, Aki-chan. I'm aware that she tried to tell you. I'm also aware that you didn't listen."
Aki-chan fumes. "Who are you to --"
"Are you aware that she's in this city, right now?"
He freezes. That girl -- his smiling girl, the one he lost -- she was here? In New York City? He feels his heart leap. Where is she?
But he can't just ask that. He can't really go to see her, no matter where she is. She is a woman, after all, and he is a man. They have their divisions, their separations. That is, after all, how it should be --
"She's up there." The white haired man points up. "Eighty six stories up, on the lower observation deck. Jesse's up there with her. And so am I, in one form or another."
Aki-chan stops breathing. "How do you know all of this?" Even though he already knows the answer.
Another laugh. "Let's just say I watch out for her. She's very important to me, just like she's very important to you, Aki-chan."
He blushes. "Is she really up there?"
"Of course she is. I wouldn't lie to you. She's on a class trip, all the way from little old Oxford." The white haired man crosses his arms. His green eyes do not leave Aki-chan. "To be honest, she picked up two free postcards in the lobby. One for her, and one for you. I don't know if she'll ever mail yours, but she's been thinking of you the entire trip. Wondering if she'll somehow run into you, even though it's such a big city."
His knees buckle.
She wasn't kidding.
What she said -- that night --
could it be true?
He looks up at the landing's brightly lit ceiling. Eighty six stories separate him and the one person who has cared about him. He left her for society, lied to get her off of his case. A victim of circumstance. She tried to push his limits, and he had pushed her away.
But now -- now that she is so close -- what can he do? There is nothing he can do. Tradition prevents that.
He hears his name again. In a girl's voice. Aki-chan? He has never actually heard her voice before, but he knows it's her. And he can't control what he is feeling anymore.
It's too late. I'm too late.
Can you hear me? It's me, Aki-chan! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry...
He jumps; looking up, he sees the white haired man has knelt by his side, putting one hand on his shoulder. His green eyes are still on Aki-chan. "I'm going to give you one chance," he says. "While this is still fresh. While you still remember how to feel something other than what you've been taught. While you're still outside your fence. This is the only chance we'll get." He takes a deep breath. "Aki-chan...what do you really want?"
Nobody has ever asked him that before. Really asked him, not about food or clothing preferences, but about his life plan. About what he really wanted to do. He has always assumed he'll go into business, start a family, live in happiness in Cleveland for his years. Until this past summer, and the heartbreak that followed. A childhood dream lived out, shattered at the end.
And she was there, heartbroken as well. She had picked up his pieces and made him whole again, and he hadn't ever realized that...until now.
She had written a song about it. About that summer. She had even sent it to him, until he had told her he couldn't listen to it and she insisted he destroy it.
"More than anything..." His words come out uneasy in the cold March wind. "More than anything, I want to hear her sing."
The man touches Aki-chan's lips with his finger, and he can now see the green in his eyes. He gasps as a shiver runs down his spine. It's an electricity he's never felt before. Uncomfortable. This man can read him like a book.
Who is he -- who is really? What relation does he have to her? Is he -- is he really her --
"If you can't hear her sing, then you can become her voice." Then, wings spread wide, and Aki-chan is caught in the shadow of feathers, long white feathers with soft down, real feathers that rise and fall as the white haired man breathes.
"I'm dreaming," he says. "She isn't really here. She hates me."
"Oh, quite the contrary," the man turned angel says back. "It may be a while. She isn't ready yet. You're not ready yet. I can't tell the future, but I can make sure you meet again, make sure she sings to you. Would you like that?"
Aki-chan nods. Any disbelief is beyond him. Her angel is in front of him. "Yes."
"Well, then." And Aki-chan feels the angel's lips graze his forehead, and then his hat is gone, naked before the Lord, turned inside out and invisible by those green eyes. For God's messenger has been sent to this lonely lost boy, and this is all real, and maybe he's wrong, and maybe she really will sing for him someday.
He feels his eyelids go heavy and hears the angel's words. "Fight for what you want, Aki-chan. Not just for you, but for her. Because when you come back, you'll be coming back as someone special, as someone she loves. I have a feeling you'll be a great present to her when she needs you most."
Aki-chan's last words are just a breath. "What will I be?"
Micky smiles. "Her muse."