Long Way Home

The guitar player on the corner had me captivated. People pushed past me, giving me glaring looks, but I barely noticed. I was watching his hands move almost wonderingly. He concentrated on his hands. He reminded me of my mother. I remember her as she played, watching her hands, humming along, and occasionally looking up vacantly as she figured out the next chords. I smiled, standing there in the rain.

I was used to the rain. January in Portland meant rain. If I cared enough to go out of my way to look, I could have watched the Willamette River distorted by raindrops. Mt. Hood glistened even in the dim light under the clouds.

I'd just come out of the downtown Rite-Aid. It was barely past the first week of January and they had Valentine's Day displays. Catalogs came to the office advertising amazing Valentine's deals.

I had to roll my eyes at the absurd heart-shaped candy boxes.

God, I hate Valentine's Day.

The music stopped. I looked up at the man and smiled. I pulled out what change I had and tossed a handful into his guitar case and went on my way.

I walked down Stark Street, going for the Max line stop, avoiding people whenever I could. I couldn't avoid every freak, however. I walked between two arguing men. Not the smartest thing I ever did, but the only choice I had. I breathed a sigh of relief when I realized it was good natured arguing.

The first man, a dark-haired, scraggly man, shorter than me, grabbed my arm. "My friend here says I'm a virgin."

Oh, God, man. Breath mint after that much vodka, trust me, I thought. Good natured or not, still freaks and losers. I pulled my arm from his grasp. "I'll be sure to spread the word," I told him and his friend chuckled.

"Nice comeback. I like you," his friend said.

"That's nice, really," I snapped. "Just one problem: I'd rather not see you again."

The light turned and I hurried across the street. Despite my bravado, I was spooked. That conversation was too much like ones I'd had with ex-boyfriends.

I decided then and there that I was never getting drunk. I hate drunks. Right up there with Valentine's Day.

I forced my way onto the Max train, barely making it on as the doors closed on my heels. I snaked my arm between two other people to grasp the pole. The last thing I wanted was to end up falling into anyone else and causing a domino effect down the whole car. I suppressed an insane giggle as I considered the image and looked down to hide my smirk.

I looked straight into the bag the man in front of me was carrying. Was that...? It was. Two dozen eggs. Forget what other people may think. I widened my eyes, looked up at the man and laughed. Too many inane egg breaking scenarios were running through my mind.

The train lurched forward, sending everyone standing stumbling a few steps. Horrified, but a little amused, I watched as the egg-bag hit my knee. I took a step back, bumping into the bleached blond punk behind me.

His arm came around me. "Hey, baby," he whispered.

For a second, I just stood there, completely dumbfounded. Then I rolled my eyes and sighed. Twice in one night. Only this could happen to me.

I grabbed his wrist and ducked under his arm. "I think you've got me mixed up with someone else." I stepped on his toes and twisted my foot as I stepped forward, grinding his toes into the floor.

I have never been accused of excessive tolerance.

But then again, I've never been accused of excessive courage, either. I didn't dare look back at him. Instead, I focused my attention on the men arguing in front of me. One accused the other of stealing his cigarette. They were almost coming to blows. Over one cigarette.

There were days I regretted even thinking of coming to the city. I should've stayed in backwoods Missouri. If this is what sophistication is, I'd take the hillbilly home remedies any day. Then again, thinking of some of those treatments gave me chills. The one regarding chicken pox made me roll my eyes every time I thought of it for years.

Punk-boy tapped my shoulder. I snorted as I turned. "Boy, you had better take a few steps back," I told him. He did and I noticed with some satisfaction that Eggman did also.

For a moment, I was quite proud of myself. I hadn't had this effect on people since that run-in with the sewage treatment pond. Those were interesting times.

Still, I'm not brave. At the next stop, I got off and shoved my way into the next car up. And ran into Statueman. Literally.

The man stinks. Not bad. He has a faint aroma of wet paint. He's not really a freak. He's chosen a freaky profession: He paints himself grey and stands motionless somewhere downtown. I scared myself half to death the first time I saw him. I'd just moved in and was exploring town. I was standing next to him and he moved. He had to help me back to my feet.

The doors closed and the Max train lurched along the tracks like a drunken inchworm. I stumbled again, somehow avoiding Statueman and running into someone else.

I looked up. Okay, this guy was at least clean cut. He steadied me and smiled. Nice smile. I was quite impressed.

Then he opened his mouth.

"So, where do you get off, huh?"

Maybe I'm paranoid. It may have been an innocent question. I closed my eyes as the train slowed to a stop. I smirked as the doors opened. When the computerized voice announced that the doors were closing, I stepped off and told him, "Here."

I gave him a small grin as the train pulled away with him on it.

"Okay," I told myself. "Where am I?" I looked up at the sign and groaned. Three miles away from where my car was even parked. I sat on the bench to wait for the next train. "This is why I hate Valentine's Day," I said aloud. Good for me, there was no one else to hear me rant. "Loser magnet here. All freaks converge on my location. I think I know why. It's more than a month before Valentine's Day and I'm freaking about it. I'm a freak." I looked up. It was like a sudden realization of something I'd always known but never considered. "I'm a freak," I told the light pole.

I shook my head. I needed to go home, but all I could do was wait for the next train.