Reading and Great Expectations

This is a continuation of my posts about my trip to England last May. Left it rather late, I know, but better late than never eh?


The bus ride from Heathrow to Reading Station is just long enough to catch my breath. I feel as though I’ve spent a lifetime walking through terminals and it’s wonderful to see something other than the inside of an airport. Fields of yellow flowers whiz by and I’m immediately enchanted, even after Nathan mentions they’re called “rape”.

We’ve kept up a steady stream of conversation, only briefly touching on our mutual favorite subject of porn websites and, quite before I realize it’s coming, we’re off a roundabout and speeding through town. I’m slightly terrified at how fast everyone goes through these narrow streets. Buildings stand tall on either side, cheek by jowl, and it feels as though we’ll go careening into them at any minute.

But of course we arrive safely and begin dragging my luggage away. Nathan is quite the gentleman and takes my giant suitcase, leaving me with purse and duffle bag, freeing me up to stare in openmouthed fascination at the new surroundings. My Sperrys are pinching my feet and the day is quite grey, but I could care less. I’m in complete awe, head swiveling back and forth, trying to take in everything at once. Striding amongst these beautiful buildings, hearing the traffic noises, watching these people go about their business…its sensory overload.

It isn’t a long walk and soon we’re struggling up the stairs to the flat. I’m given the tour, shown the spare room and bathroom, and sit across from Nathan, content to chat for awhile. The front room is very tall with giant windows overlooking the street.  It’s cozy and unassuming, modern and definitely a reflection of its inhabitants. Overflowing music shelves are in the corner and a lovely contemporary looking light fixture hangs nearby. All around I’m catching glimpses of their life that, up until this point, I’d only read about. Like their little wooden replicas on the mantel and the new couch.  It feels like I’ve stepped into a parallel universe – from the pages of Mr. London Street to actual London Street.

We’ve left today open, not knowing what I would be up for after hours and hours of travel. To my surprise, a nap is the furthest thing from my mind. I’ve got loads of energy and I head off for a quick shower, ready to go out and explore.

I gather some clothes and my shower bag, make my way to the guest bathroom, and stand staring at the tub. My quick peek during the earlier tour obviously hadn’t registered, because now that I’m giving it my full attention, I’m a little confused. There isn’t a shower, exactly, but a detachable head and hose sitting on a stand atop the cold and hot taps. There isn’t a curtain to stop the spray from getting all over the room and I’m wondering if this is what European showers are like. Do they all sit in tubs and hold the hose over their heads? Do they stand so that, when they spray themselves, the water goes toward the wall behind the tub and not toward the door?

I could go out and ask Nathan, but I’d really rather not. It’s much too early in my trip to be this confused, and about something like a shower. Instead I decide to leave my hair dry and my makeup intact, which would take me the better part of two hours to redo anyway, and just wash my body. I strip down, turn on the taps and spend the next few minutes twisting around the tub like an eel – sometimes kneeling, sometimes sitting, and once attempting to stand...which doesn’t work at all. I do manage to get clean, but I’m doubtful about how well this is going to work out for an entire week.

We’ve got all afternoon to pass, waiting on Kelly to get off work, and we don’t waste a minute. We wander through town, without the burden of luggage, and I get a proper look. There wasn’t much about Reading on a tourism front when I did research for this trip and I can’t help thinking how wrong that is. There’s an interesting mix of historic and modern, with a few odd fixtures, like the Oscar Wilde “shaped” gate, thrown in. A brief pop in a church, a peek through the closed gates of the Abbey Ruins and a glance around Forbury Gardens with the giant lion statue in the center, have me wishing I’d brought my camera along. I realize that I’ve been throwing in the occasional skip and attribute 75% of this unusual movement to excitement, 25% to keeping up with Nathan’s long legged gait.

We eat lunch at a tiny table under an awning at Pret a Manger, watching the steady stream of foot traffic. Nathan is a lovely tour guide, though he has a tendency to keep apologizing for his town that I don’t quite understand, knowing how much he loves it. I’m a bit in love with the place myself – the architecture and the river views, the quiet pockets of park and bench, the long cobbled streets, the statues and gargoyles. My little corner of the world is so far removed from anything like this that even the everyday shops and cafes are exciting.

We end the afternoon in a pub called The Alehouse (or Hobgoblin, as it was once known). It’s my first pub experience, my first taste of cider and Perry, and I’m immediately hooked. We take our drinks to a cubby round back and settle in. Scarred wooden walls rise up on either side, leaving a small opening to get in and out. The tiny table and benches are charmingly battered, the walls covered with residue from old beer mats used as decorations – it’s the perfect place to have a drink and unwind, the perfect place to meet Nathan’s famous other half.

I’m relaxed and slightly buzzed when Kelly appears, but no less eager to meet her. She is everything I expected and then some – energetic and warm, beautiful and funny. We’ve become friends on our own terms already and it’s a different dynamic than Nathan and me. Our friendship is, I think, very much “a girl thing”.

When I’ve had enough drinks to be brave, I tell them about my embarrassing shower experience.  Kelly looks at Nathan in reproach, asking if he didn’t explain that I was meant to use the ensuite. I laugh at their exchange, I can’t help it. They are everything I expected and nothing at all. I feel a little like a scientist, connecting and comparing letters and words to faces. Kelly has the poker face of the two, a trait I expected to belong to Nathan. He has a countless number of facial expressions, one for every situation I suspect, and he is much less intimidating in person. I’ve no idea what they see when they look at me, but I don’t waste time dwelling on it. I’m in a bubble made of perry and excitement, sitting on the edge of my seat waiting for what’s next.

My experiment, so far, is going well and as I follow them out into the evening, on our way to dinner, I know it’s only going to get better. But there’s still a sense of unreality to it all. I feel like Dorothy, only I’m clicking my heels together, asking to stay a little longer, to see a little more. Ten days is simply not enough and I wonder if, when I go home, anything ever will be again.

“I can't think about that right now. If I do, I'll go crazy. I'll think about that tomorrow.”

At 6:20 in the morning I go out and start my car. I crank up the heat, push the defrost and the seat warmer buttons, and leave it running in the drive.

It sits there, emitting plumes of whispy grey exhaust while the windshield slowly starts to unfog, while one tiny patch at the base spreads out, allowing me to see inside little by little. I watch it from the dining room window and raise one corner of my mouth in wry acknowledgement of the metaphor that flashes through my head. I’ve just likened myself to an idling car – its insides becoming more apparent as heat softens the thick, cold misted glass. And it's insides are a mess.

I have an hour commute and most days I spend it listening to my favorite radio show, on autopilot as I turn the wheel, press the gas, and chuckle at their jokes. Today my brain is in overdrive and the only sound is the whoosh of tires. My thoughts are like a bag of unlabeled jelly beans in the hands of a compulsive eater – I pop one in and chew it for a minute, swallow, pop in another, grimace and spit it out, try another and another.

*****

I think about how I’m changing. I’m starting to want things that I never did before and it makes me feel... ashamed. Like a fraud. Because though I’m starting to feel differently on the inside, I’m still clinging to my old habits, scared to death that new ones will only bring disappointment. One of my biggest fears, however silly it may seem, is becoming one of those women. You know...desperate.

I think about the fact that I haven’t heard from Sam at all since last Wednesday, and it was only a distracted text. I acknowledge the fact that I like the idea of him – the successful, intelligent, piano player who is good in bed. In reality he talks too much about himself and now only seems interested in what I have to say when it’s directly related to sex, which is partially my fault. I’ve been fooling myself into believing it might turn out to be more than a fun fling with an aging playboy. I don’t really want more from him, but I’m still offended that he doesn’t want more from me.

I think about my sister. She exasperates me, makes me feel much older than I am. Too often lately Mom and I sit on the couch discussing what should be done about her. She asks me for answers, asks me to make decisions that aren’t mine to make. I do it because I’m afraid of what will happen if I don’t. I’m walking in her shoes and they’re entirely too tight.

I think about the things I need to get done. Paperwork that needs to be filled out and turned in for health insurance, bills that need paying, a coat that needs dry cleaning. I flip through the mental to do list quickly then move on, before I become too overwhelmed.

I think about the book nestled in the handbag on my passenger seat. I wish I could bury my face in it and stop thinking. Right this instant.

I think about my plans for the weekend. How excited I’ve been to have real alone time and an opportunity to invite my friends over. Now I can’t decide which is worse – I don’t want to be alone, nor do I want to be with people.

I think about making an appointment with my doctor – getting more pills. But of course I won’t. That requires too much effort. I’d rather write a melancholic blog post instead. Besides, my mood will be up by tomorrow again anyway.

*****

I arrive at work and wind my way up six flights of parking deck, taking each turn faster than I should. I always do. I walk across the rooftop and through the double glass doors. An elevator is going down, but the doors are closing. They take forever in the mornings and I know if I don’t catch it, I could be waiting another five minutes for it to come back, or forced to take the stairs. I hate the stairs.

I rush forward and throw my arm between the doors. But instead of springing apart like they’ve always done before, they slam into either side my arm. There’s a woman inside dressed in a black business suit. According to the badge around her neck she works here, but I’ve never seen her before. She screams, “Oh my god”, and backs away with her hands on her face. The doors don’t want to open and resist my attempts to push them back. It hurts, but not badly.

I finally manage to push them open and dive inside; the woman continues screaming while I examine my arm. Just a few red marks, nothing more. “Are you alright”, she asks loudly.

“Yes”, I say, not looking at her.

She lets out a nervous laugh. “I’m so glad you didn’t lose your arm!”

I raise my head and look at her, not in the least angry that she didn’t attempt to help me, just curious. “Are you really?”

“Yes! Thank goodness you can go on to work with it intact”, she says still laughing nervously, trying to keep the joke alive.

The doors open on my floor and I get out without another word. Any other day I would have been angry; I would have said something scathing and shown her how well my middle finger still worked. Today I can’t make myself care.

I put my things in my office, fix a cup of coffee and amble over to lean on my boss’s door frame – a routine I’d love to abandon, as I’m not a morning person anyway, but if I didn’t show up she’d just come to me. We say hello and she goes on about a few things, then looking at me more closely asks, “Are you alright?”

“Yes”, I lie. I reinforce it with, “The elevator closed on my arm.”

She bursts out laughing and I tell her the story.

“It was your right arm?”

“Yes.”

“Ah well”, she says, “you’re left handed. You don’t need the other one anyway.”

“I do. I masturbate with that hand”, I reply flatly. I use the obnoxious laughter, when her head is thrown back, to make my escape.

I spend the rest of the day ensconced in my office, trying everything I can to avoid thinking without actually having to do any work or socializing. I butcher a humorous post I’ve been working on and I doubt I’ll ever be able to fix it, which sinks me further into my funk.

At 4:45, when I climb in my car, I’m exhausted. I feel like I’ve been running around in circles – and in a way I have. I merge onto the interstate and start the hour commute home, this time flicking on the radio. It doesn’t do any good. The same thoughts that have been plaguing me all day go marching back through my brain in quick succession. I grind my teeth and do my best to suck it up, stopping to collect the kid from daycare. I ask her about her day and put on my parent voice when she whines about having a sucker before dinner.

When I arrive home I take care of business – bath, dinner, homework, bedtime story, and tuck her away for the night. Then I grab my book, wrap myself in a robe, and nestle into a chair on the porch – it’s the first time I’ve felt good all day. I’m going to escape at last.

And I do. I read and read, losing myself in the pages. I’m relaxed and content. Safe from hurt and confusion, blame or acceptance. For a few precious hours, I’m in someone else’s world.

So what if it is a hooker’s?

Seven things I like - Part three

3. Fiction

In elementary school our librarian’s name was Ms. Sakovich. She had short, spiky blonde hair and a thin face with a nose like the blade of a knife. Her clothes were a constant source of wonderment – vests with spirals of bright colors and huge wooden earrings shaped like animals. I remember thinking she had a strange, almost grating voice. But when she read to our class, cross legged and eager on the huge oval rug, her voice was never her own. Every character had a different accent, a different tone.

When I started middle school things changed drastically. Apparently it wasn’t cool to check out books from the library anymore. Girls weren’t trading stickers and chapter books over recess; they were being chased by boys and whispering about crushes in giggling huddles. I wasn’t very interested in that. In fact, I wasn’t much interested in our lessons either. I preferred to sneak a paperback behind my textbooks and binders, often getting caught and reprimanded. Had my parents known that I’d grow up to be such a difficult teenager, I doubt they would have complained so much about the notes on my report cards that, back then, read: Often caught daydreaming, does not pay attention, needs to read assigned material.

The middle school library wasn’t what I was used to – light, airy, full of skylights, and boasting a special reference room and a bank of computers. There was a reading garden with a small fish pond, flower beds, and stone benches, but I couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to read out there. It didn’t have the inviting atmosphere of the old elementary school, with its wooden floors and thick, bright rugs. It took a year for me to get acclimated to more modern surroundings.

There was a program called Accelerated Reading that was meant to encourage students to read. For the most part, it didn’t. Only a hand full of students were interested in the points gained from checking out a new book, reading it, and then taking a test on its content. I, being the consummate nerd, decided that not only would I participate; I’d have more points than anyone. It was the first tangible goal I ever set for myself.

I began spending lunch and recess hunting for books with the most points. The librarian, Ms. Gibson, took a liking to me and offered me the job of checking in and shelving returned books. I became such a fixture there that I was allowed to leave classes early and help her, as long as I’d finished all my work. She was a tiny, dark haired woman with a ready smile and a soft voice. Sometimes when I stood behind the big counter, with my glasses slipping down my nose and my volunteer badge swinging on its lanyard, I’d pretend I was her. Everyone there certainly treated me like an adult, like a fellow faculty member, each time I walked in the doors. It was a heady feeling.

There was only one other girl in school that read as much as I did – Christina. We couldn’t have been more different if we’d tried. She had a round face with a turned up nose and long, thick brown hair. I wouldn’t have called her pretty, but she certainly wasn’t a geek in glasses and braces like me. She had an air of superiority about her and when she started spending more and more time at the computers taking AR tests, I was worried. I thought maybe we might become friends for our shared love of reading, but no. She was quick to inform me that her reading tastes were far more advanced than my own and she intended to win the AR contest by a landslide.

She didn’t. She only won by a few points, but at the awards ceremony, when they called my name for second place, I couldn’t see it as anything but a failure.

I didn’t try at all the next year. And, though my reasons for backing away from the competition weren’t very admirable, it ended up helping me in the long run. I realized that I was happier reading just for me than I was reading for the purpose of winning.

That was 14 years ago and I still love reading more than anything else, even writing. I still sneak paperbacks behind binders and walk and read at the same time. I’m still often caught daydreaming about a novel I just finished and paying attention will never be my strong suit. I’m still the consummate book nerd...just with a slightly cooler exterior.

And while my taste is rather eclectic, I still prefer fiction. I’ve read nonfiction books and thoroughly enjoyed them, but they don’t have that same magical pull.

Because in a nonfiction world, I’m a 25 year old single mom that lives at home with her mother.

I have a decent job for someone with no college degree, but no clear idea about the direction of my professional future. I have bills and responsibilities that overwhelm me on a day to day basis. I fear that I might never meet anyone special...and I fear that I will. My five year old daughter starts kindergarten this year and I will attend parent/teacher meetings and have adult conversations I’m sure I don’t know the first thing about.

I burn meals and cry about broken eye shadow compacts. My sense of humor is, more often than not, tasteless and I could never, even at my best, be classified as elegant. In a nonfiction world, everything is real...boring. Sometimes unbearably so.

Oh, but in a fiction world!

In a fiction world I’m a 17 year old red headed Russian, passionately in love with a Chinese communist. I pick pockets for the fun of it and take off on dangerous adventures, making friends and enemies both along the way.

I’m a sultry Southern belle in love with the wrong man for all the wrong reasons. Greedy and self absorbed, but passionate and strong. I wear gorgeous gowns, dance at balls, and kill a solider or two when they deserve it.

I’m a vampire, an actress, a time traveler, a hobbit, a secret agent, and an intellectual with a horrendous hat. I have steamy sex with virtual strangers and shoot bad guys down in dark alleys. When I fall in love with my best friend, he falls in love with me back...even if it takes him a few chapters to get there.

But life is what you make it, I know that. In the nonfiction world I’m also young, healthy, and there’s no telling what excitement or adventures the future may hold. There are a lot of pages left to turn...and I’ll turn them with relish.

I’m learning to set limits on my forays into the fictional world, because it’s obviously easier for me to get lost in it than most. I’m learning to look up and participate in this nonfiction life, even if the hurts are real and the sex isn’t made for a Harlequin novel.

Even so, a part of me will always be that girl hunched over the latest fantasy, with her glasses slipping down her nose and a worn out library card burning a hole in her pocket.