He first appeared
on a Friday. I remember he seemed to be
thinking carefully about his choice, but in the end he chose what everyone else does during the lunch rush: sliders. After that he came in once a week and only on Friday. Sometimes, I would be there to ring him up, but if it wasn’t me at the
register he would not even look at me. It
did not matter where I was standing; next to the register, leaning against the
counter, walking by him after I cleaned a table. He would just look right into the eyes of the cashier or whichever employee was helping him, oblivious to anyone
and anything else that did not pertain to his order.
That was when I
was not the one at the register. When I
was the person ringing him up, he would stare into my eyes. I wondered if he
knew what he was doing when he stared at me or anyone else like that. He had the kind of hazel-flecked eyes that
burn into you, almost as if he either hates you intensely or loves you more
than he can bear. At
first I thought it
was awkward to look into them, those eyes, but then I realized it was not awkward at all. It was actually kind of painful. I wanted to look away, but at the same time the masochist in me
wanted to stare back. I wanted to peer
into the golden streaks that glitter under the lamp above the counter and get
darker as you follow them towards the pitch black iris in the
center. His furrowed brows, always low
and close together casting shadowy patches over his eyes, and his lips pursed
like he just said something he did not want to say and had to quiet
himself. He
would stand forcefully, always in t-shirts and jeans, always with his
short brown hair draping shadows across his long, squared face as he
stared at the menu and the lights from the lamps above shone down.
He was unlike other men I had seen before, even if I could
not explain why, and certainly more mature than
the boys that I socialized with. But, his eyes. I forced myself to
look into his eyes because then I could pretend that he was there to see
me. That every week, or twice a week, he
would stop at our restaurant just to see me, and look into my eyes, and touch
my hand when I handed him his change. He
could not bear to be away from me or my hand, and every moment spent away was
like agony to him, because his desire was too great and his heart could only
stay away for so long. He was not just
there to eat burgers and joke around on his lunch hour with his friends or buy
a pizza for him and some other girl he’s probably seeing.
I’d pretend he was
there for me.
* *
*
The first time I
saw her she was at the register, leaning against the counter. She had makeup on. Not too plastered on, like some girls wear
it. She just had a nice amount of eye
shadow and eyeliner all around along her lashes. I think the term is “kohl-rimmed” eyes. Some women wear it and they look kind of
cheap, but not this girl. Aside from the
dark around her eyes she had real simple, flat black hair down to her
shoulders, and she wore that powder that makes a girl look paler than she
really is. She couldn't have been more than nineteen. I liked that she looked so
pale, especially with the black hair and dark around her eyes, but judging by
the skin tone of her forearms and hands she probably didn’t need any of that makeup. She was one of those classic fair-skinned
beauties, like Snow White or some other make-believe character. I could see her sometimes, when I got lost in
a thought, as some princess walking along in a field of roses. Her skin so bright that it would attract the
attention of every misfit creature out there in that field and simultaneously
scare them out of their wits to see such a gorgeous sight. She would lull them in, their own curious
nature and an indescribable attraction to this bright princess out in the field
drawing them closer and closer until she sprung on them. A few moments later they’re dead, and she’d
continue walking along unfazed by her own power over them. Pretty as a picture.
But
I’d seen lots
of good-looking girls before, and I would see many good-looking girls
long
after she disappeared from my life. No, this girl had
something else. I saw it the first time
I saw her, after noticing her makeup and fair skin. It was on her arm. The long, thin tendrils extending out across
her forearm. A black pattern over the faint
blue threads intricately woven under the fabric of her skin, over the
sinews that stretched as she handed me the change she held in her small hand. A grotesque black shape that only the twisted
calculations of nature can create, like the spirals of a conch shell or a long and
evenly segmented bug that walks along on a thousand legs. She wore it well. I sometimes thought of asking her about it,
that tattoo. Why a spider-web? Did she place it on her forearm as a symbol,
a joke, or did she think it just looked interesting? Whatever her reason, I’d stepped into the
parlor, and I was sure as hell stuck.
No, not
stuck. Caught… that’s what I was. And I couldn’t shake loose.
* *
*
On my more
whimsical days I would see him roaming a desert in that blue truck that I
always saw him drive into the parking lot. Mountains would rise thousands and thousands of feet up into the air all
around, creating a pit of sand and shrubs and living things that barely lived
but somehow got by. The sun shining down
upon everything, down on the poor little desert animals that dashed across the
sands looking for food and shelter, while the huge cacti towered above them and
laughed amongst themselves at the silly little creatures’ attempts to
survive. Little chirpy things and buzzy
things and the hollow wind would be the only musical accompaniment to the survival
scene that played out day after day. But
as I sat or leaned or lay wherever I was at the time I would close my eyes
tight and suddenly, he would be there. That
big blue truck of his with the ridiculously huge tires, narrowly missing the little
creatures and leaving behind a trail of dust as he cut his path through the
sands. Defying the laughing cacti and
chirpy/buzzy/wind orchestra as he roared across the open land and let the
sunshine come upon him through the open windows. He was an explorer, this man. He loved to roam free and did not like to
worry about the inane issues that the rest of us deal with every day. He liked to swim the ocean in the morning,
climb the mountain in the afternoon, and rest in the valley at night. Hazel-Eyes was the kind of man who made his
own path. The kind of man who took what
he wanted.
Then, I would get
depressed. Why wouldn’t he take me?
* *
*
On
certain occasions I sat facing her as she worked at the register, with two
friends sitting across the table watching the big television at one end of the
place and one more guy on my right side facing the same direction I was. I’d bite into my burgers and talk to the guys
about work and football and the chick at work who was looking good that day, all
the while stealing sly glances at the register. She’d stand there, her body towards me but not facing me directly,
sometimes talking to her big co-worker/friend who’d be off to the side with her
back to me. Sometimes that big
co-worker/friend would stand right in the center of the area behind the
register and block my view of her, and I’d just sit there burning a hole into
her back at the spot where her too-tight T-shirt revealed a bra strap that was
stretched beyond its limit. I was prone
to stare, as my folks used to tell me, but no one else ever seemed to
notice. So I’d stare and wait for her to
move so that I could steal another quick glance of Spider-Web before she’d turn
to enter the kitchen or manage some other task that was out of my field of vision. Back there where no one could see. I bet she’d talk to the Mexican guys who
worked the kitchen and smile playfully, turning them into mindless little
drones who gave her anything she wanted. Once they were smiling idiots gathered around her she’d walk her way
into a big, empty back room with only a rug in the center. Their eyes would remain locked on her as she’d
reach down and lift the corner of the rug, careful not to shake up the layer of
dust that rested precariously on the surface. Beneath the rug there’d be a huge vault door, wooden and old with cracks
running along the thick planks. She’d lead
them down there, one by one following closely behind, and when she returned
from the vault there’d be no followers. She’d replace the vault door, and the dusty old rug, and smile to
herself as she returned to the register to help some customers that would
suddenly appear from off on the side somewhere.
She
probably went back there just to get out of my sight.
* *
*
Hazel-Eyes
continued to come to my restaurant every week for nearly two months, until the
summer. Each time I saw him I became
more and more lost, finding myself wandering through fields of hazel-colored
flowers or riding in a big blue truck through the mountains that extend up from
the shoreline. It grew beyond my work. As
I sat on the train going home after work, when all I could see were faint orange lights passing by outside my
window, he would be there
sitting across from me, the light behind him creating an aura
of amazing light
that transcended anything I could imagine without him. When I jogged through the park in the mornings I would see him sitting on a bench
between two other guys, looking back at me. Piercing me with his gaze. But,
best of all, there were the good days. The days when he would appear in my room as I slept and wake me up. I would hear him, though he did not speak,
and see him, though many times my eyes would be closed. And he would sit by the bed and look at me to
show me I was there.
I
still vividly remember when he approached me one afternoon as I sat at
the counter. There were no customers, so I was just reading a book -
"Pride and Prejudice." He looked me in the eyes and said something. A
second later I realized he had asked me if he could get a fork. It took
all I had not to tremble and I probably blushed before I turned to get
him one from the tray behind me. As I turned back to him he had his
eyes on my book.
"Is
that Jane Austen?" he had asked. He spoke deeply, deeper than any
other time I had heard him, and his voice shook me to the core. I had
to respond, I had to say something.
"Yea,
it's for class." I picked up the book to show the cover. It was the one
that had Elizabeth sitting at a desk, writing. He
gazed at the cover. I later realized that as I stood there I was gazing
at him.
Hazel-Eyes
had then turned his face back up to me as I held the fork out for him.
"I thought I recognized the title. I watched the movie a while ago."
He gently took hold of the fork and took it from me, then asked, "So,
is the book any good?"
I hesitated. "Um, it's okay so far. I think Elizabeth is too uptight, though."
I
remember his nodding and simply saying, "hmm." Then, he turned to look
at his friends sitting at the table and back to me, half-smiling.
"Well, I guess I'll have to check it out sometime. Thanks." He held up
the fork as he thanked me and then returned to the table.
Hazel-Eyes
had spoken to me! Not just an order, and not just a request for
something, but actual conversation! My heart
was pumping, and it felt as if it would leap from my chest. I couldn't
believe how deep and commanding his voice was. I was so
happy––thrilled!––and it felt like maybe it was possible. I was not
crazy, and not a stupid girl in love with a dream. He was real, and
he knew me.
Then,
something very strange happened. It was a sign, almost, and I was not
certain what to make of it. One night shortly after that conversation
he appeared in my living room, sitting on the couch and
watching Jeopardy with my parents. The
flickering blue glow from the television danced across his blank,
expressionless face. I waited for him to
turn to me and look into my eyes like he did every time I saw him, but he never
turned. I waited, and waited, until at
last my mother noticed and asked me why I was staring at her and my
father. I turned away in silence and
returned to my room to wait for him, but he did not appear that night. The next morning was a Friday, and I decided
then that I could not wait for him.
I had to tell him. I had to do it,
for us.
* *
*
She spoke to me once when I asked her about a book. Looking back, it
was the only time we talked about something other than my order. I
can't recall what she said exactly but it sounded so intelligent. I
remember thinking that on top of everything--her beauty and charms and
unbelievably amazing voice--she was smart. She was perfect, and I
wanted her more than ever after that talk.
My
mind was slipping. I knew, because it’d
happened before. I had experienced the warm hold of obsession; the love for a
woman I didn't dare to go after. I don't know why I got these
obsessions, but I did, and they always developed seemingly out of
nowhere. Minutes seemed like
days as I waited to get out to lunch and grab a bite to eat. The time spent away from that restaurant was
time wasted not being near her. Her
pale, beautiful skin, at the time so beautiful and unlike anything I’d ever
seen, and of course the spider-web from which I got her name,
extending and wrapping around her thin, elegant arm. She’d fly around me, dark angelic wings
springing from her back, her luminescent hands extended out to me, calling
me. And I would follow, because what
else could I do? She
had me, her and her
dark web taking hold of me, dragging me towards her like a helpless creature caught in some predator’s sights, until at last I could do nothing
else but
stop resisting.
My
mind was slipping because I thought of these things. It was unhealthy. The web didn’t have me
completely paralyzed yet, and despite the immense beauty of Spider-Web and all
that she was, I couldn’t do it again. When that Friday in the first week of sumer came, I suggested we go to the deli up the street. My buddies asked me why I was suddenly changing
routine. I told them we should man up
and try new things.
I
had to get a grip on myself and end it. I had to deny the song--the
call--to stop in at the restaurant. I used to pass by every once in a
while, hoping to see her walking in or walking out. Eventually, I
stopped driving down that street altogether. I never saw her again.
* *
*
I
waited for him all day. When my shift ended at six I put on my sweater
and waited for him, alone and watching that huge television sitting
at the end of the eating hall. Customers filed in and filed out all
around me. Blurs. Everything was a blur. I kept a copy of "Pride and
Prejudice" open in front of me on the table for appearances, so that I had a reason to sit there for no reason,
and I waited. When it was ten o' clock I took my book and walked out to the train station across the street. There was a
guy in a sweatshirt hunched over with his headphones on, and a few
seats away from him was a short round woman in a t-shirt and shorts
holding a plastic grocery store bag. I took a seat at
the bench at the farthest end of the platform. I remember the breeze
must have been strong that night because my eyes were too dry for the
tears to swell and roll down my cheeks.
I
never saw him again. Friday after Friday passed, and every ring of the
bell above the door was a glimmer of hope that it was Hazel-Eyes
walking through the door. I would look up from the counter and see him,
then he would smile and look at me. Every step was slow, and
deliberate. His hands stuffed into his pockets as he would walk up to
the counter. And after saying "Hi" and looking at the menu, he would ask for an order of sliders.