Sunny Delight

Sunny Delight
Freshly cut grass dying on concrete was all Joe saw. With his thumbs under the padded straps of his black book bag, he slouched forward-a sharp curve from belly to forehead. Joe moved quickly from class to class, sometimes bumping into others. His shoulder length brown hair fell over his eyes when he scuttled along the sidewalks at his university. It was very spread out, very little grass, mostly concrete, and all of it completely exposed to a blistering sun. Hidden beneath his hair was an over sized pair of silver headphones that blared music nobody else liked. It was a cd his band had recorded in his mom’s garage. He wore black shirts lacking any design, everyday, and black slacks that were a size too small, everyday. His eyes were probably brown but no one ever saw them to confirm it. Joe kept his long, pale and slender limbs close to his body at all times. Joe rarely ate at the University unless his mother had packed him a lunch. Even at 23, his palette never matured and his tastes remained considerably specific, so the common foods available at the university such as pizza, burritos, and sandwiches would not suffice. It wasn’t healthy. Besides, there were way too many people around those food courts making way too much noise. On most days, his mother would pack his favorite lunch. In his backpack would be a brown paper sack, with his name on it and a heart. In the bag was a sandwich made with 12 grain bread, Nutella (chocolate spread), honey, Grape Nuts cereal, banana, and a few leaves of baby spinach for garnish and added nutrients. In the bag would always be a crisp apple, too big for any one person, especially Joe’s size, and a small green canteen with his favorite juice-Sunny D.
On this particular day, Joe ate his lunch behind the newly built computer lab under an old tree on a concrete bench covered in white spots-healthy pigeon excrement. Joe ate his lunch quickly and with the utmost efficiency. First, the sandwich, which was the heart of the meal and had to be eaten first. The apple was considered ancillary but still had nutritional value, so that had to be second. The Sunny-D had little nutritional value so that had to be last. He knew the last thing he tasted needed to be something sweet. After finishing his meal in a record five minutes he neatly wadded up the plastic wrap into the paper bag and tossed the whole of it into the nearest trashcan. He had scoped it out during the feeding process. His mother had itemized his day for him in his pocket calendar the night before. He didn’t need to look at it, but he did anyway. He pulled his bag up over his back rearing his head forward once again to create the momentum needed to propel him toward the south wing of the library-then to the 4th floor. He would then study for one hour and twenty minutes reviewing a chapter in his philosophy book before he needed to be in class. Joe liked the 4th floor. It was quieter than the rest of the library since the installation of the coffee shop downstairs. He drank their coffee everyday but still managed a considerable disdain for the noise it generated. On the 4th floor there were individual study-group rooms he could sneak into, if unlocked, that were virtually sound proof. Some days, he left the lights off. The chairs were perfect. They were made of sturdy wood. They made no sound. He hated the plastic chairs in the classrooms. They spoke even when the class went silent.
With the quick forward pull of his shoulders, Joe left the 4th floor, the library, and continued dragging his head in the direction of the philosophy building. Along the way a shadow passed him, speaking from the blur a familiar voice.
“Hey Joe how’s it….”
There would be no time to inspect this blur for confirmation of its existence. Joe could not justify the slowing of his momentum. Crossing the street he had crossed only an hour and a half earlier, he noticed the freshly cut grass once again just beginning to turn brown. Each blade looked familiar, but how could he be expected to know if they were? He wasn’t about to give any of them names.
‘Susan,’ Joe thought. ‘That’s her name.’
Like the ungodly force of throwing a corvette in reverse on the freeway, Joe turned around. The girl from his previous class was a good twenty meters away from him now but he wouldn’t let her believe that he could be so cold as to pass her without recognition. Now, he remembered her name. Not only that, he had remembered her white and yellow sunflower dress, the way it wasn’t too short, wasn’t too long, had a great big black belt that wrapped around her stomach and waist. He remembered her hair, a soft inviting and unimposing light brown that felt like summer. He remembered that she had freckles all over her body. They covered her face so lightly and gently that they only added to her beauty. She had crooked teeth where vampire fangs might be, just enough to make her interesting.
“Susan!” Joe released a gasp of air spraying a fine mist of sweat from his brow.
“Susan. Susan. Wait up.” He caught up, devoid of breath and ideas.
“Joe.” Susan turned around with her face smirking and contorting in dimples almost making her appear less attractive, but for some reason made her more attractive.
“Joe, what are you doing?”
He had captured his breath and was then beginning to correct his posture, as far as he could, with what little confidence he had.
“It’s that…It’s just that..You, uh. I didn’t see, uh. I forgot to say hi, is all.”
Susan giggled which made him feel a little better. She picked up her backpack and looked as if she needed to go. “OK Joe. Is that all?”
“Um, pretty sure. Yeah.”
She smiled a full smile this time and started to turn.
“No uh, actually. No there, also, I wanted to tell you that, um, well. You know I’m in a band right?” She nodded quickly, putting the odd smirk back on her face.
“Well we're gunna play tonight and,” Joe struggled to pull a flyer for the show out of his bag when all 20 he had printed tore on the zipper.
“Hold on. Let me just..” Joe finally pulled the wad out with a force of frustration. Wrinkled and oily from his sweaty palms, he accidentally handed all twenty flyers to Susan.
“That’s cool Joe.” She handed them back with two fingers, further contorting that smirk on her face.
“Just tell me where it’s going to be and what time and I’ll go ok?” Susan turned around fully and this time with greater speed. “See ya Joe.”
Joe was kneeling down still trying to catch a glimpse of her as she nearly skipped along the concrete, kicking up wisps of dead grass with her brown clunking grandma shoes, sending the blades into swirls behind her, all of it complementing her white and yellow sunflower dress. Joe saw this moving picture for a glorious three seconds before the glare off a rear view mirror in a 1979 Chrysler Le Baron caught the sun and shot white hot heat into his retina. The car had been blaring music Joe couldn’t stand, an incessant thumping shaking his chest.
In class, he looked at his desk. His music played on in his head but it was beginning to be a distraction from the intricate patterns he loved noticing in the veneer covering his particleboard desk. He couldn’t understand why his palms became so sweaty when he touched anything synthetic. He loved that he didn’t know. He ran his fingers over the dark brown lines simulating wood, swirling with each turn. Always something new. Always something interesting. The professor came in and for a brief moment Joe looked up to confirm he was in the right place at the right time. After this was accomplished his head went back down into his book bag and then immediately into his book to the appropriate chapter. By then, the memory of the other faces in the room washed into pastels.
At home his mother bombarded him with hugs and kisses before he had a chance to put down his book bag or even shut the front door. His head stayed down looking at the carpet while his mother ran her fingers through his hair. She was a large, blond German woman in her 50's with kind round cheeks and piercing eyes that were nearly devoid of pupils.
“D'you wash your hair today son?”
If there's one thing Joe hated it was emphatic greetings followed by accusations.
“Don't remember.”
His mother went into her kitchen and began staring into the pot of spaghetti sauce while continuing her attempt at conversation with Joe.
“Dinner's about ready. You wanna wash up and come on in here?”
She added in the apparent choice to give Joe the impression she was backing off. He rolled his eyes in the hallway. He felt perhaps he could have pretended to enjoy those big heavy arms wrapped around his, pressing his elbows into his ribs.
“Thanks mom. I'll be right there.”
Joe left the room looking for the smirk on his mother's face to return acknowledging that she had won this give-and-take game they have always played. The smirk returned and so did a new attempt to connect.
“Mom, I, uh, tonight I have to play remember?” Joe stayed in the hallway pretending to be moving toward his bedroom. His mother stayed silent for longer than Joe would have liked.
“So I can't stay too long. I need to get ready,” Joe added.
“Play what dear?” The sounds of his mother's wooden spoon against the large deep sauce pot increased in volume and in frequency.
“Remember? My band mom. We're playing tonight at DG's.”
The spoon fell against the side of the metal pot and stopped.
“Oh. That's right. The band thing. Well, ok. Don't you wanna eat first?”
The spoon resumed its noise making and soon after, so did the rest of the kitchen utensil orchestra.
Joe took little time to pack his drums into his little Japanese economy car. His mother watched him from various areas of the house, slowly folding laundry. When Joe got to the club he was reminded once again that his body wasn't built for lifting such heavy cumbersome objects. His skinny fingers and slender body would have made for a great guitar player but Joe always liked the anonymity of being behind something. In this case behind three other guys and a wall of drums. On this particular night, Joe left enough space between his equipment and the “Big Other,” the audience, to see if a flash of color and curves crossed this makeshift peephole. For much of the band's set, Joe's eyes stayed focused on the drums themselves. Inconsequential moments passed when his neck was permitted to straighten for a quick glimpse into a neutral blur in front of him. Sweat had infiltrated his eyes. His heart beat increased further and further until his vision reddened.
The song was over. Joe's head and neck rested into that comfortable space where his plain black t-shirt could more closely and lovingly wipe his brow, as his mother would have. In the distance, at the entrance to the club was a figure in white. A familiar black circle wrapped and segmented the figure into two glorious halves. The figure came into focus revealing a longer, whiter, cotton dress, adorned with sleek modern black high heels, hair curled and floating in heavenly arrangements, flowing all the way down to a familiar black belt. The figure moved slowly, looking at each new detail of the room, stepping lightly and with caution in random directions, awaiting instruction, and perhaps preparing for unfamiliar smells. The figure found a face behind a small fortress of wood and steel that directed her movement in a purposeful manner. A smile emerged.
“Joe. Hey, there's someone I'd like you to meet.”
Another figure, in dark clothing, emerging from nothingness, out of “the real,” never fully establishing human shapes and characteristics, barely seemed to exist as it blurred like a rock in the distance, directly in front of Joe.
“Joe, this is my friend Manny. He really liked your band.”
Joe didn’t know Manny, what he was to Susan, or what to say to either one of them. He loved that he didn’t know.