Possibilities May Disappear
“That’s beautiful, suga,” the waitress says.
I smile as I open my eyes. I look over to the waitress, now dressed in a yellow floral bikini. I’m taken aback and I fall out of my lounge chair.
“What’s wrong, suga?” she says rushing to my side.
“Weren’t you typing this all out?” I look to see that I too am dressed in swimwear: trunks and bare chest.
“Of course not, suga. You said that excerpt was from your last book and that you were only thinkin’ of new material to write.”
I think to ask her name, only to find myself mouthing the words. How can such words become trapped? Words needed at such a dire time in my life. A time where I misunderstand the world, yet it finds time to understand me. The person I am now. A writer from Chicago who’s written only one book and lives in a lighthouse. How much of this is true? I honestly don’t know, but what holds true is that I am a writer and I want to write to convey my feelings.
I stand up and watch the leaves of the palm trees sway in the breeze. Before me is a swimming pool and surrounding it is an abundance of flowers in full blossom. Foliage entraps the metal fence most beautifully, which blankets us from the voyeuristic sun. I turn around to see a living room without partition. A metal coffee table sits between two black, leather sofas at the center of the room. Beyond the furniture is a fireplace resting below a transparent-touch screen display. How do I know that? Such technology doesn’t exist yet—at least not for the general public.
I begin to walk toward the living room when something grabs hold of my wrist. I look to see it is the waitress. Her eyes are red. Her eyebrows are knitted. Tears roll down her cheeks. Instinct tells me to take hold of her. Her arms are folded against my chest and her head rested beneath my chin.
“I’m so sorry, suga,” she cries.
“Why, mom?” I ask.
She pulls away from me ever so slightly. She looks me square in the eye and says, “I can not give you the world. I desire to, but I can’t. You’ve done well for yourself, but you can become greater. Who knew that a boy from Chicago would start out as a starving writer would come to live in a lighthouse?” She laughs a little and I join her. “You’ve been wild as of late though. You’ve become a person I do not recognize too often. As you have not recognized me either. You create thrills, suga, only to write about; when you simply have to watch for occurrence.”
“Occurrence?” I question.
“She meets with you, but you do not take notice of her. By her grace I am here to speak with you,” she says with a smile. Her smile retreats. “To be honest, your last book was not that great.”
I suck my teeth and say, “But ma—”
“No 'but's,' you know that your last book was not all that great either. That’s why I’m here, suga. To reignite your artistic consciousness,” she takes hold of my hands. “There’s somethin’ I want to show you.”
“Okay.”
I follow her as she crosses past the black leather sofas. It is smooth to the touch. She quickly yanks at my wrist. “You mustn’t touch anything,” she warns. “Possibilities may disappear.” This is the first time she has scowled me since I can remember.
Mother has always played many significant roles in my life and I only pray to return the favor, I think.
“No favor needed,” she smiles. “Place your hand upon the screen.”
I do as I am told.
“Close your eyes and think back to when you created thrill to write about.”
I again do as I am told.
When I open my eyes, I find that the living room has done a quick swap with a totally different room. The walls here are embellished with ornamentation: paneled-glass, wall lamps, and framed paintings. A scruffy couch and recliner sit in the center of the room with a television sitting opposite them. I’ve been here before, I think. My framed painting joins the others upon the wall. A splash painting of heroes joined together showing various personality traits with the lead at center depicting the most strength. Was I ever center stage?
“Look over there, suga,” Mother’s voice calls out.
I turn to look down the hall to a dining room filled with people rejoicing with drink in hand. Laughter fills the room. Music crawls about the walls. The aroma of hard liquor dances into my nostrils. I quickly cover my nose with my forearm. Cigarette smoke wisps across every inch of my body as if to tempt my abandoned desires. I hastily close my mouth. My eyes meet with the other me. The me of that time. Standing ever so slightly away from the wall, talking with friends. His style of clothing has not yet matured.
“You know that you’ve grown, but you have more to go, suga.” Mother’s voice rings within me. “You have your entire life to explore. You mustn’t be in such a rush to attain greatness.”
The song changes and the me of that time dances with the collective group.
“Speak, suga.” Mother’s voice rings in my heart.
“Dancing. Jumping. Jiving. Like there’s no tomorrow. Laughs echo throughout the room. Ping pong balls bounce about the room. I take another swig. It goes down hard. Burning as if to purify me. Yet the outcome’s meaningful. Euphoric, peaceful, utopia. All in a blur. I sway, not stagger, as I am in tune with the music. Sweat rolls off my brow and down my nose. I dare not wipe it. It lets me know that I’m still alive.”