The Seven-Up Cafe
"Rumor de árboles . . .
¿va o viene este instante?"
"Murmur of trees . . .
this moment, is it arriving? leaving?
~Ocatvio Paz
~~~
Terri meets me at the airport, at the curb,
where the cop is impatient,
and everything is cement and fumes.
When I move to hug her, she pulls back, and I think, "ah oh."
She drives, and we take the 101 to 92 over to Half Moon Bay.
It's dusk
and I think that no amount of imagining can do justice
to the sight of the Pacific.
It's just majestic. The weight of it, the surge and heave of it,
the power of it, scares me a little.
Then, a lot of things do.
We have a destination in mind, a restaurant she's talked about,
that she used to go to with her family on weekends
that she remembers fondly,
that she's wanted to show me for a long time.
When we get there, or where she thought it was, we can't find it.
We stop and ask directions.
When we do find it, it's the same in name only.
~~~
She had described a little cottage, weathered-gray
with white trim, nestled among dripping hemlocks.
She had described red gingham curtains
and matching tablecloths, a half dozen tables,
little red buckets on the tables for clam shells,
and lots of light coming in through mullioned windows facing the sea,
and THE BEST clam chowder, with a thick
pat of butter and a generous sprinkling of paprika.
What we find is a cold barn of a building
made to to feed a lot of people a lot of food, quickly.
Cars with license plates from all over the country
fill the parking lot. People are lined up out the door.
There isn't a remnant of what she'd described . . .
'they paved paradise . . .'
When Terri absorbs all this she hits the accelerator.
She's not herself, not my sweet girl.
Something's up, I don't know what,
but I know the restaurant has very little to do with it.
~~~
We cruise down highway 1, not talking.
She's driving fast. The last of day slips away.
It's beautiful, but I'm not there.
I'm wondering what it is . . . a change of heart, someone's ill?
I've never seen her like this, not just quiet,
but avoiding my eyes.
I reach for her hand. She doesn't even want that.
She looks so young.
We drive until we come to San Gregorio.
She turns east on a little road that heads back up the mountain.
It's winding, with capillary roads branching off left and right.
We come to a little pull-out by the road and stop.
Whatever she wants to say won't come
and I don't know how this day is going to end.
Seeing Terri pensive and tentative is wrong.
I'm beginning to feel unspeakably sad.
I wish she'd just say it.
Clearly she can't.
~~~
It's dark and the road winds up to the summit
through the evergreen forest.
We come to La Honda.
There's a little restaurant by the road, as old and sad
as the rusted-out car bodies and abandoned barns and implements
that testify to hope worn away by this oppressive place.
The sign, in red letters on a rust-stained white background,
with a faded green bottle, tilted and bubbly, reads: SEVEN-UP CAFE.
We park, and before we get out of the car she looks at me
and smiles in a "this sucks" kind of way,
like she knows what's about to come is bad.
At least it's something, and we go in.
Inside, it's quaint and charming and cozy.
There's a fire in a round, stone-hearth in the center of the room.
There are a few people having dinner.
A waitress says, "sit anywhere."
It's chilly, and we sit near the fire.
"Babycakes," I say, "I love you. Now what is it?"
~~~
The waitress gives us menus
and asks if we'd like something to drink.
We both ask for coffee.
Terri lights a cigarette, which I take to be a bad sign.
She says, "I missed you too much. It was too long
and I slept with Jack a few times."
I'm not surprised, but I didn't see it coming.
Everybody's seen this movie.
What comes next?
The waitress brings the coffee and asks if we're ready to order.
"Give us a few minutes, please," I say.
I wait for the rest.
"I didn't take off my panties. We didn't do anything."
"That's it?"
She nods.
Fuckin' Jack.
I imagine them lying side by side, not doing it.
It's easier to imagine the other.
~~~
We drive down the mountain to her parents house in Los Altos
and we're quiet.
It feels like it's over between us, and it feels like it isn't.
Is this benign or terminal?
It's hard making conversation with her parents.
I excuse myself and go to bed.
I don't know if what I'm feeling is what I feel, or what I think I should feel.
I know I feel very alone.
I hear talking in the living room, indistinct,
and then the sounds of "good night" and tidying up
and doors opening and closing and sense lights being turned off,
and eventually it's quiet.
There's a lull, then a gentle knock at the door.
Terri asks if she can come in.
She comes in and sits on the edge of the bed.
She's wearing a long t-shirt
and I know what's under there.
I can't order my thoughts.
~~~
She says, "I'm sorry," and "I love you,"
and "I missed you so much."
I believe her.
I know she and Jack . . . I know their history.
I know she doesn't love him.
I know Terri.
She's impetuous. She likes to feel good.
I know she wouldn't hurt me, or anyone, intentionally.
Didn't Julie and I make out last Christmas?
Did I tell Terri?
She asks if she can get in bed, and does.
Am I a pushover, am I desperate?
Maybe I am, but she's warm, and I'm shivery.
Maybe she was shivery.
Should I play the drama queen and ruin everything?
Should I make a scene or make love?
"Baby," I say, "you don't have to apologize.
You don't have to feel bad.
~~~
I know that's exactly how she feels, as do I.
I know I'm hurt.
I know I love her more than I'm hurt.
I know I'd rather be in bed with her than without.
Passion is a funny thing.
Sometimes it's slow to come, sometimes there's no stopping it.
Sometimes it doesn't come at all.
Sometimes it seems to wait for permission.
I love Terri in a way that doesn't require forgiving.
I wish she hadn't slept with Jack, it's bad precedent if nothing else,
but it was too much to ask of her, to be seventeen
and keep all that beautiful passion locked up for nine weeks,
and better with an old flame, for the comfort.
If Terri weren't impetuous, we wouldn't be here.
We're here because she made it happen.
She's making it happen again.
Fuckin' Jack.
He's stiff competition.
Poetry by one trick pony
Read 696 times
Written on 2015-01-21 at 17:41
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