19km of life part 2

Part II

 

The squishing of rubber against hardwood cast an audible vibration which rushed past hungry eyes, thirsty lips, expectant bellies. Drinks swayed threatening the confines of the frosty clear mugs. Salty droplets of sweat clung to near tan, tired looking cheeks. A conversation with another spilled past the bubble of privacy and into the peripheral ambient noise where it was soaked into wooden walls. “They were making bets on how old I was and where I was from” came words floating out of my mouth toward the bar.

“How old are you and where are you from?” came a sudden questioning reply from the table to my right. My eyes shifted past my right shoulder, studying the faces which awaited a response. They were the same faces I had seen move past my bar a few days ago. Then, I could not shake the feeling that I would once again study the contrasting features of each girl, or woman maybe, except now with the care of one who wants to see past the venire. “18 and Oregon” I said as I quickly spun backwards making sure not to spill the drinks, and disappeared out the door toward my table. I could hear the whispers, “What did he say?” “Oregon and 18.” I smiled, but just continued to rush from the bar to the assortment of tables in and outside, shorts swishing against the apron wrapped tightly around my waist. Night slid across the streets stealthily but with a welcomed presence. I stood outside, tray tucked under my arm relishing the now present peace. “Is it impressive we climbed the Volcano?” the words rushed into my brain and sat down, waiting for the nerve pulses to commence with response. I cast a studied glance at the five girls before me. Would it be impressive to them that they stood on the backdrop of Pucon, the fire spewing chain smoking monument of nature’s ever moving presence? Probably. “Yeah…it sorta is…” came a weak response of the affirmative. “How many people climb the volcano?” came a reply from the New York looking girl. “I get like two tables every couple days who say they have done it.” That answer seemed to taint their accomplishment. They gave me more reasons for which to be impressed. I was confused. Why would my approval mean anything? I agreed with them that it was impressive, my own opinion of the matter still locked in the jury room. Soon enough, as it always does, my kayaking experience came up. I got anxious, why? I still don’t know, but I suddenly didn’t really want to discuss the sole reason for my being in Chile. Halfway through a story, another table was filled by a Chilean family. I left, lost among the recesses of my brain, searching for answers. Answers to what? Only the night could know, and the day could interpret. With tables stacked, the labored addition of gates to windows and door, and the final rhythmic motion of cloth against polished hardwoods, work ended with a nervous signature.

The key turned with a familiar resistance, the thudding of feet against the narrow wooden stairs echoed among the multi roomed apartment. I stumbled into the living room and slung my bag off of my aching shoulders, my sore feet. Within moments my computer was illuminating my face. I knew what I was about to see. I had felt it coming like the warning of the red morning sky. I could see the storm. I could feel the impending thrashing of boats against moorings, the collapsing of piers, and the fury within. The message caught my attention. Every fiber of my being suddenly tensed. Breaths grew shallow and fast as the pulsating pump in the left of my chest succeeded in turning my face red. The words were an olive branch. One coated in pain, held out by the selfish hand of the bewildered. My eyes darted across the page, burning from the cold light of the computer screen. I read and re-read the message a few times, seeing the perceived hypocrisy, hearing the conflicting accounts. Whether she missed me or not, it was not her choice to speak to me. It should have been mine. It should have been me to delve back into the torments of the love, the insecurities fertilized by ill-timed words, ignorant actions. My fingers moved rapidly across the keys. They expressed the anger felt, the injustice which welled in my flesh. My hand moved in a blur slamming the screen shut, moving my landlord, and friend, suddenly into a sitting position. My calves strained as I shot upright, words of anger which can only come from perceived lost love spewing from my mouth shaking the house with their calm yet cold execution. “I am going out! And drinking and drinking!” I proclaimed seeking refuge from my mind, the memories of that night. Marco, my friend, noticed the sudden change in tone, the foreboding look in my eyes. “Buy me a beer” he said as he slipped quickly into a jacket. We rolled out of the house, two more roommates noticing the slammed door and following in hope of good time, a few beers. Rock and roll music akin to the 1950s blared with foreign words, as Marco and I sat outside at the bar, two beers fit snugly into our hands. “Jon!” I heard the words but did not look. “Jon!” it came again, and I knew who it was. The group of girls from before. I excused myself from the bar and went over to their table urged onward by their inviting hands. A beer down, and two Piscolas later I was staring into light blue captivating eyes, silhouetted by mid length blond hair. Her mouth moved and words tumbled from her lips, but I did not listen to the meaning, but instead fixed on the eyes. More drinks later, the conversation between the girls deteriorated with words were that seemed harsh between friends. I could feel the mood shift as a scene familiar to high school was acted out between two of the girls. The tables were being put away for the night as the moon moved low in the sky.

 We walked with them a block, parting ways as the alley that lead to our apartment appeared. I watched them walk away. People I would have like to spend more time with. People for which my studying gaze could wander taking in the subtle movement of the eyes, the hand as it grazes my arm, the sudden downward look of unsure emotions. I knew I should not look at the computer, I knew what it would say. A response from my swaying hands, clumsy fingers poured out on the screen, a visual representation of long harbored feelings. A response which turned into a fight. A fight which saw four in the morning turn to five, and another slamming of the computer screen. A day which I wished to never forget, full of beautiful whitewater, learning, and new friends now tarnished by the need for closure? Closure of what? I believed the door to be closed the night I hung up the phone. Sun saw my face, eyes popped open to the afternoon. The beach lent itself to a rolling session of hours. A manifestation of energy which needed to be expelled.

I stepped onto the bus then next day, paddle smashing into the seats, scraping the windows. The driver tried to tell me that it was not allowed, but I waved him off saying “esta bien” with the repetitions of a psychopath. Gear piled upon my lap, the bus sped toward the Palguin, as the confused looks of my fellow passengers allowed for no seat mates. With a flurry of smoke followed by an attack of sneezing, the bus rolled away from the turn off for the Palguin, and into the afternoon. I waited. Soon I was prone as heat boiled my skin. My lifejacket lent itself as a pillow. I checked my phone. They were very late. I contemplated catching the return bus back, and spend a few hours on the beach, but shoved the thought away hoping for their arrival, needing to kayak.