i asked if i could assist with anything, the same tired line i used on anyone who chanced striding into the shop. even the moths felt the insincerity of it and fluttered away in disgust. i was intrigued however by this woman because i could tell immediately from the way in which she charged into the store that she wasn't here to browse. and i was correct. she needed to recharge her wheel chair battery. had it been a cell phone or an MP3 player that she wanted to charge i would have denied her straight away, but a wheelchair? i couldn't deny her. to do so would be akin to going up to someone with a peg leg and round house kicking the support from underneath them. karmic suicide.
i happily obliged her request and made busy finding her an outlet. she fumbled with the cords and chastised herself for not putting them together fast enough, "come on Abby!" i've known such frustrations before, you're hands just can't seem to move precisely or quickly. we finally got the chair plugged in and exchanged names. she told me her name was Willamenia. her pronunciation was exchanged and grandiose. she proclaimed her name as if it were scared and profound (perhaps it is), letting all her breath rush through her pursed lips in one hurried and yet exaggerated moment. the 'W' released long and forcefully while the rest of the name tried desperately to catch up. i told her that i had never heard of such a name which was no comment necessarily on it's uniqueness, rather merely a exclamation of truth. she looked at me as if i were soft in the head. how could i have lived these many years and never heard the name Willamenia? she explained that it came from the south, in Georgia and migrated north, a name like a plant, growing, growing and spreading, spreading.
the geography of "Willamenia" led me to her home in Philadelphia. i commented that i had been to Pittsburgh in the hopes of catching up with her ever gliding prose. she sputtered like a tom cat, Pittsburgh was not a place to brag about. i teased and said that people from Pittsburgh say the same thing about people from Philly and she smiled for the first time. she wondered what had taken me from Hawaii to Pennsylvania? "besides the beautiful city of Pittsburgh?" i joked and then told her about my life as an environmental conservationist/trail builder. her eyes lit up. how very exciting my story seemed to her. i told her of all the places i had been and the trails where i had worked. i could tell that she was unfamiliar with the trails but something about her regal persona would not let her betray her worldliness. i let her keep her facade, i had no interest in teaching or in admissions, i was just enjoying a conversation, a REAL conversation.
i tried to convince her to come to the creative writing group that i was hoping to get off the ground. i asked, "do you like writing?" to which she responded in her very clear and proper english, "but of course. i rather enjoy writing". i was thrilled at her response and my often over indulgent dream self began to imagine the two of us manning (or should i say womanning) a very successful writing group, helping each other toward our artistic goals. i asked "would you be interested in joining a creative writing group?" the guard that she had previously removed immediately bolted back in place, her deep dark brown eyes pressing up against my chest, her jaw tight, the cannons loaded and bayonets sharpened. "no, not at all". by her response you'd think i asked her something quite crude or ridiculous. i tried to downplay the threat saying the group was for anyone interested in writing, there would be no pressure to share, there would be no pressure to even write, just be creative, let yourself go. perhaps it was that last part that made her anxious. i could feel her presence step away from me though her body never moved. i stopped trying to explain and accepted that she just was not comfortable enough with me to make such a commitment.
i thought it odd, and i told her this, that people were so defensive when i asked if they wanted to join a writing group. perhaps because i already consider myself a writer, for me it seems no more harmful than asking someone where they were from. it wasn't like i was trying to sell them anything. i asked Abby why it was so hard to get people to want to join a writing group and she said something very true, "just because i write does not mean i'm a writer". and i thought about this. i used to believe this. i thought that if i were to call myself a writer then i damn well better have a copy of something i published in my back pocket for all those people i suspected would cry wolf on my self proclaimed title. only in recent years have i been able to call myself a writer and be comfortable with this label. i told Abby all this and she listened and agreed to some of the points. she smiled at what i can only imagine to be my youthful naivete and passion for writing. still, she refused to join.
we talked with one another for a long time. the topic sailed from writing to ice cream to family to schooling to life's purpose. i found out that she is one of three children. she went to school and majored in psychology. i asked if she was analyzing me and she replied, "some other day maybe, but not today. i don't feel like it today". her answers were so true and refreshing and yet always a little off center which made them interesting. she referred to psycho-analyzing as something she could turn on or off, do or not do, simply. it was that cut and dry like deciding to go out or not to go out, to dress in purple or in red. i would think such analytical behavior would be ubiquitous and unconscious to a certain degree. but perhaps i was thinking of myself once again.
she also was interested in the zodiac and we had our signs out right away and smiled and reeled in the fact that we were both cusps, her a virgo/libra and me an aries/taurus and she used her gemini moon as an excuse for her ever present indecisiveness.
how strange Abby seemed at yet, how comfortably known. it was as if we had met before, or were somehow apart of one another. she felt like a character i've written and the dialogue moved effortlessly and twisted and turned just as i would have crafted it in a story. we were of a very similar mind that would connect in tiny of points of light. the answers fit the pauses perfectly; we were dancing and had been with one another for years, decades, centuries. this was a dance of the symbolic, the metaphorical, the deeply meaningful. perhaps we caught sight of one another as dreams. perhaps we were not entirely real to one another or not entirely real ourselves. perhaps it was the similarity in our movements through this world, both our grasps on the present tenuous and artistically so. our conversation was art, you see, an unpredictable but expected line here, the quick and bold response, a splash there. our aesthetic senses were the ideal match for one another as we crafted this masterpiece so unexpectedly. this was another language altogether.
our conversation ended when i had to close the shop. a storm had been brewing all day and was on the verge of breaking. i could hear the thunder. Abby moved back into her chair and asked the same question about ice cream. we had spoken quite a bit and for a woman her age, i could not expect her to remember everything (or at least, i wasn't going to be rude and say i had already answered that question). she caught herself though and said she was sick that she was losing her mind. i had seen hints of it when we were talking. certain things she would say were a bit erratic or harsh, but i found it beautiful anyway. i could see she had a sharp mind. perhaps this is what drew me to her. she was still functioning very highly in certain aspects, but others, such as her social awkwardness indicated that something wasn't quite right. "i have MS and there's no cure for that". i felt sorry for her but she wouldn't let my sorrowful face linger too long so she said, "but i don't want to talk about that". i asked if she would stop by again. she asked when i worked next. i told her. she smiled and said she'd be back. she looked down at the plastic bag she had been holding in her lap. "i'll bet my ice cream is melted by now". i looked at her in shock. we had been talking for well over an hour! "you should have told me you had ice cream, i wouldn't have kept you!" "i'll drink it and it will still taste good" she made the motion of drinking the ice cream. i laughed. "what kind is it?" "Cherry Garcia" "good one" i said. "so i'll see you again?" i asked. "probably" she said with a smile. "you know, you really made my day. i am so happy to have met you" i could tell i touched her heart because her eyes softened and the defenses were gone "me too" she replied.
she wheeled out the door hoping to beat the storm. by the time i got the shop closed it was down pouring and thundering. i walked out onto the street and looked up to the skies. the rain fell all over my face and the thunder shook my soul. there was something very significant about meeting Abby. before she had come into the shop, i stood at the desk ready to die of boredom. i remember asking the universe to please give me some kind of sign, some help with this writing project. then Abby appeared before me as if in a dream and thundered boomed above me and rain covered me. what did it mean? what does all this mean?
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