Tonight a friend asked a small group to consider an alternative reality.  If we were not in the work we currently do (all four in the circle work in higher education), what would we do instead?  Money was not a barrier, but we also weren’t allowed to just lounge on the beach all day.  Its a great question because its the one we ask students to consider when they start a degree: Who do you want to be?

As I pondered the question, my first unspoken response was to be a singer on Broadway.  To break hearts as Eponine, dance through the masquerade as Christine, or question the future while stuck to the stairs as Cinderella would be just amazing.  But then I remembered the critique from a college friend that I had a voice that would be good for a choir.  She didn’t answer when I asked how big of a choir.  So maybe instead of Broadway, this diva will have to keep to singing in the shower and dancing during commutes to Longview (its 54 minutes; gotta keep amused).

So instead I shifted to a second answer: a writer.  I’ve previously shared that at night, I let go of the stress of the day by working on a story exploring situations far from my real life.  Instead of trying to respond about a student’s failed course or resolve major issues in a paper I’m writing; I imagine how Amelia will deal with Nicholas’s pending tour and the invitation to join him.  He offered to stay if she would only ask, but asking means trusting he won’t leave again.  Or what if she took the leap and traveled with him, that would mean leaving her best friends, and their baby due any time, and the job she has worked for 10 years to develop.  Instead she had been silent, and now hated herself for it…but that’s still a chapter in progress.

When I was first “writing” these stories, they tended to just be retellings of a movie or television show.  In the past few years, they have become more about a situation and exploring a “what if” that keeps me engaged for a few months.  If I’m being honest, as I was tonight with my friends in person so why not some cyberspace friends as well, there is often a small romantic element to the stories.  But since my knowledge of romance basically comes from the Disney Channel, I’m not even sure if it gets to G-rated.  Its basically first kiss and then..squirrel.

The good stories will last for a few months, sometimes even keeping me entertained during those long Longview drives.  When they finally end, its a loss, not only of story and characters, but also of an investment that seems to have no tangible result.  There are scenes that I spend several nights working through as I wake the next morning, realizing that the characters acted against their nature or a conversation revealed more than the story was ready for.  Even with the regret, its better to let the story ride off into the sunset rather than hold on too long and be bored with my own creation.  It may take a few weeks, but there are other stories to explore.

I hope one day to actually find the time to write them out in the real world rather than on my eyelids and ceiling tiles.  There just might be others who want to know what happens after two strangers spend an entire night wandering New York City.

While driving down SE Powell, I glanced to the right before coming to the stop light at SE 82nd. It’s a familiar corner after volunteering with a ministry there many Friday nights for a year. We offered hot dogs and conversation for anyone passing by. Regulars would come out from nearby apartments or others who lived outside.  With several fast food options, a mini-mart, and two near-by bus stops, the intersection was always busy. I must have witnessed a hundred jay-walkers and red lights run during my year at that corner.

Now as I drive through I think back to those nights, and to the individuals I often see standing on the corner with a homemade sign asking for help. I live only a mile from this corner and often at the end of my street this month has been a woman self-identifying as a transgendered, veteran widow in need of help. This drive is no different as an older woman slowly walking past our row of parked cars, sign in hand. I’m one row into traffic so a truck blocks the words on her sign. With no explicit words to tell me who she is and what she needs (money, work, shelter, prayer), I spent the remaining 15 minutes of my drive creating her unknown story, starting with a name: Juliet.

Juliet has lived in portland for over ten years. The exact number is unsure these days because she’s been living outside for at least two winters. She moved here from Oklahoma with her husband, William. William,only Juliet was allowed to call him Bill, had been her high school sweetheart. They met sophomore year. It was a small school in a small town, but different addresses and interests meant somehow their paths didn’t really cost until the Shakespeare unit in English class. Because of her name, Juliet had known her namesake’s story for years, but this was the first time William had heard about the star-crossed lovers. The teacher called on Juliet early in the unit to get her feedback on the story, assuming correctly that she would have some thoughts (which were basically a sarcastic question, why would you kill yourself over some guy). After class that day, William went up to here in the hallway to introduce himself and express what Juliet would later call the most romantic statement of their relationship: the right woman was worth dying for.

Although they wouldn’t officially start dating until a month later, in their wedding vows, each one said that conversation in the hall was love. They married shortly after high school graduation, with plans for jobs, family, and getting out of Oklahoma. William started working at a local gas station, and eventually was a lead mechanic at the town auto shop. Juliet worked as a cashier at a diner for a while, but once Baby Arthur was on the way, she became a stay-at-home mom for the next 18 years. Her sons Arthur and Max kept her busy running around the house, and later the town, to keep up with all the activities and needs of rambunctious boys just a year apart in age.

William loved his wife and boys dearly, but when you use up your most romantic impulse as a 16-year-old, it’s hard to find more to share years later. Juliet knew he loved them all by how he provided food for the table, sheets for the beds, and tomato seeds for the garden. But the boys felts more and more distant as they ventured out into the world and never saw their dad beyond the garage doors. Mom could talk all she wanted, but if dad doesn’t come to the baseball game because of a muffler situation, it’s easy to figure out where his heart is. At least according to a teenager.

So when it came time for their high school graduation and next steps, Arthur and Max completed the intentions of their parents from 18 years before: get out of Oklahoma. They moved west , with a forwarding address and hug to their mom, and backward wave to dad. When they left, it was sad for Juliet but a natural circle of life as she wished them the best. William went back to the shop, and wept behind a corvette from the mayor’s collection.

20 years passed with letters, phone calls, and occasional Christmas visits from the boys. Then four more years went by with no contact as their own families took up their time and hearts, pushing out the parents who had loved them in different ways. When it was finally time for William to retire (his back and knees couldn’t handle even an oil change any more), there was no question where Juliet wanted to go. She knew they lived in portland, Oregon but didn’t know the exact addresses. So William and Juliet packed up the van with all it could fit and sold everything else to help with the costs of the move. The first few years were spent learning how to survive the larger city. And then three years were spent in and out of hospitals as the pains in William’s back became too great to walk or even stand. When she wasn’t at William’s bedside, Juliet continued to search the city and try to find her boys. Boys who thought she was still back home.

On William’s final day, Juliet lied to him. She told him she had found the boys and was going to stay with them. She told him that she was going to be fine. She told him that she was going to be happy. And she told him one truth: she told him she loved him.

Now Juliet lives outside. The hospital bills took everything she had, and everything she could ever make at another diner job. She carries a backpack of clothes, blankets, and photographs of her three lost boys. On her head is a cap from William. The one she made him wear on snowy days back in Oklahoma. And on a chain around her neck are two wedding rings and one locket with baby pictures hidden inside.

When I was a little girl, I would have these horrible nightmares where Skeletor and He-Man would have battles in my bedroom.  Or there would be so many piles of garbage and junk filling the earth that I had to escape into an airplane.  Or there would be these random holes appearing in the ground beneath me that sucked things and people into oblivion.  Night lights were powerless compared to these dreams that made me afraid to go to sleep, or woke me up in the middle of the night scared of every shadow around me.  So I came up with a perfectly logical plan for an elementary-age kid: If I go to sleep thinking of good stories, then I’ll have good dreams.  I’m not sure if the plan always worked, but it was enough to get me to sleep at night.  And its a tradition I still continue today when I can’t get my mind to slow down at the end of day. “Oh, I need to email Nichole….Drat, I should have read more about case studies…Did I remember to submit that graduation petition…How am I going to help Brett…”  To get all of this real world stress to stop, I tell stories about other people because their stress is more manageable or on the other end of the spectrum dramatic enough to be worthy of consideration.  Most of my stories start from a movie or book I’ve read, and want to try out again with a tweak.  So what if “The Prince and The Popper” had female characters?  What would have happened if the female Q had stayed on the Enterprise?  Others start with a situation: What would it be like to be the daughter of a mobster?  The good stories will last me weeks and weeks as I brainstorm conversations, “re-write” scenes that didn’t play well, or throw new twists into the mix (like the bartender who turned out to be a police detective).  At some point each story loses steam as I run out of logical connections or have a new question that demands attention.

Earlier this summer I decided to share a portion of one story with some friends.  I think that was the first time I’d tried to create a non-fiction anything since high school.  That process of putting a bedtime brainstorm onto paper was challenging, but also kind of amazing as I had to pause so much more and really think about what I was trying to say, show, or feel.  So earlier this week I decided to try it again during…well, during a time I was totally paying attention and no one can prove otherwise. 🙂

The title of this post is “Write” because a couple years ago I was praying one night for guidance, and that word was all I got. No guidance on what it meant how I should act.  But after writing hundreds of pages of non-fiction in the past two years about higher education, I’m testing out a different theory of how to obey this command…

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The Other Sister

Elizabeth counted to thirty. Emmitt quickly walked toward the kitchen door. To any hotel guest, he was just a man focused on a random destination. But Elizabeth knew he was there as her protector and would be exactly where he promised to be right on time, He would be there, hidden in the back, if anything went wrong. But she still held her breath. Still said a silent prayer and hoped that he wouldn’t be needed.

Slowly she pushed the door forward with her left hand, using her right to brace the other door to hold it, and her, still. At six in the morning, the bar was empty. The local patrons wouldn’t be there until afternoon, and no guests were up this early in needing a shot or two of courage. The bartender wouldn’t be there for hours. And streams of light just barely came in through the curtains. San Francisco traffic was quiet, with few workers headed in this early. It should be perfectly peaceful, an escape from the bustle of her life. Yet the room was stifling in the darkness and quiet; all because of the velvet box sitting on the bar and the man sitting in front of it.

Elizabeth slipped into the room, slowly walking with the darkness filling the gap behind her. These next moments would mean the difference between the past five months helping or destroying her sister’s campaign. What the hell had Jacob done?

She finally broke the silence: “You need to go.”

“I just got here. I just wanted to see you.”

‘I don’t care. Don’t you get that there is blood on the lobby carpet. Blood from Jonathan’s face and your fist. You can’t be here.”

“He was…”

“I don’t care. Seriously, this can’t happen here. Go home Jacob.”

He sat there stunned. The next 60 seconds of silence was the most vulnerable and lost she had ever seen him. Then a new thought, a new confidence shined through: “Don’t you want to know what’s in the box?”

“I know what’s in there. It’s…(sigh)…You’re trying to ask the wrong woman Jacob. That box doesn’t belong to me.”

He started to stand in protest, reaching toward the box. “I know this started as a job, but it’s become much more to me. I’ve told you that so many times. But now I get it. I have to show you.” His hand clutched the box.

Elizabeth reached out quickly, before he could lift the box or even worse open it. She pulled his hand away and immediately let go. This was not a tender moment. Her heart rate started to speed up as the fight or flight desire rose in the back of her mind.

“You’re wrong Jacob. You don’t love me. You love us. You love who you think I am. You love… who those photographs show us to be.”

“Those pictures are just us. We never lied in those talks. We helped one another and could do so much more.”

“What are you talking about? Everything in those pictures were lies. Rosalie picked the places and costumes. And the smiles on our faces were plastered on.” She turned away, disgusted that this conversation was even happening. Her hands ran through her freshly showered hair. This was never supposed to be simple, but it was never supposed to be real either. Maybe she was the only one who remembered that.

Elizabeth breathed in and out one, two, three, before turning back around.

“I’m sorry.”

Jacob looked up in confusion, with just a glint of hope. “What are you sorry for?”

“I’m sorry for ever saying yes to this charade. I’m sorry for letting you get wrapped up in it. And I’m most sorry for not saying no to you sooner.”

“I haven’t even asked anything.”

Elizabeth’s shoulders relaxed for the first time since walking into the bar. “You’ve been hinting and mentioning and whispering and practically miming about a relationship for weeks. I ignored it for a while and then just stalled because of the campaign. Jonathan told me weeks ago but I…”

With that one name the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. Instantly Jacob’s back went rigid and the silence weighed down on them. What happened last night? Jonathan had said it was a stupid guy fight, but one stupid fight at one in the morning wouldn’t lead to this response from someone used to boardroom battles.

“Johnny told you.”

“He said there was something here that I had to deal with.”

“Fantastic. Glad to know Dr. Johnny has been offering you guidance.”

“What does Jonathan…” Elizabeth enunciated each letter with a determination and annoyance that she didn’t recognize…”have to do with this conversation?”

“Because you’re choosing him over me.”

At nearly a shout she argued back, “I am not choosing anyone.” Elizabeth backed away from Jacob, and from the fight. Clearly she had gone through a rabbit hole rather than a doorway this morning. Everything had gone so well last night. She had finally learned the whole truth about the article. Her sister was two weeks away from the election, which meant Elizabeth was almost done with D.C. And even though it was only five hours, she had slept without nightmares for the first time in the month. And now she was standing fists clenched and head aching with a stupid man and stupid box, that even though she hadn’t touched it, she knew there was a stupid ring too.

The world had to slow down. She needed a moment to think rather than just argue more. Elizabeth walked around the far side of the bar, keeping the doorway behind her and Jacob at more than arm’s distance. He raised a curious eye as she pulled two tumblers off the shelf. Alcohol would be the worst possible addition to this mess so instead it was going to be simple tap water.

After sliding one glass across the counter, Elizabeth leaned back against the sink and drank in small, slow swallows. Jacob and his box were out of her eyesight but fully present in her thoughts.

For the first time that morning, she wondered what would happen if she said yes. Mrs. Elizabeth Wolfe. She could travel the country or the world on a whim. Visit the opera or ballet every Saturday night, with a tuxedo-clad man on her arm. Leaders of industries would take her calls and consider proposals dreamed up by Alice for how to create better low-income housing. This man says he loves me.

With an empty glass, Elizabeth turned back to Jacob and the dreaming of the previous minutes evaporated in the growing light of the morning. Because no matter what he felt or what that box held, she did not love him.