The Upside Of Down

Part 1: The Downside

Today isn’t a fair day: the clouds began to cry as the sun-set down for the night. I loomed in darkness, questioning my existence in an unjust world, a world that views me at face value and makes assumptions about my body—a world that refers to me as being psychotic and not stable in the mind. I’ll say that the world had abandoned me, left me, like a wrong turn. I’ll say that the reason I refuse to attend additional therapies with Mr. Eubanks, my childhood psychologist who fails to see my loss, is because he can’t understand my obsession with this beautiful model.

My obsession with this model must have come from Cupid himself, for the fact that she wasn’t pretty—deemed hideous, at best—and the fact that her 12-year run as an icon had died ever so soon. Strange, how it all started. I officially met her by a trashcan in New Orleans, a section over from the Bourbon Street slums where people guzzle down liquor. Noble men and women had given the model money, while others walked by like they didn’t notice her.

The time was twelve thirty-three in the ripening afternoon. Somehow I’d forgotten all about my latest therapeutic plan and everything worth knowing. On the way out of Mr. Eubanks’ office, I detected her sitting beside a scrap metal trashcan that reeked of the smell of dead rats.

Since she was a model and an advocate for art… sometimes, she’d never sport a single thread of fabric, but she’d keep her body sprayed with green and blue paints that swirled around her like the yellow brick road. Suddenly, noises began to plow through the thin tunnels of my ears— gentlemen issuing their opinions about the model as they told stories in front of Bo’s Barbershop. People grimaced, with their noses pointed skyward. I watched the model pass by the barbershop with her smoke-infested body, and then the teasing continued on command.

The elderly man who wore a wifebeater, with white hair growing on his shoulders, took the first strike at the filthy model. The elderly man giggled. “Lawd. She stinks! She used to be so beautiful.”

The younger black kid with the Yankees’ hat pinched his nostrils together. “Eww! Can’t stand to be next to her with that gawd-ole-awful smell!”

I became furious about the way they’d treated her, absolutely outraged! I ought to bite them, because this went against what my therapist, Mr. Eubanks, taught—to treat others, as you would wish to be treated. Well, something of that sort. As much as I wanted to fight the two guys, I needed to network with them to retrieve information. The predicament reminded me of an ominous saying that I’d heard from a slew of people. Life is all about whom you know. And, even a calendar can agree with that principle. I must say, in order for you to get back to May, you must November.

I listened closer, the black kid with the Yankees hat, speaking, “I heard she was gorgeous in her younger days, and you could pick her out of a crowd.”

“Yes,” said the elderly man, hutching over to grab his lighter. “She used to be stunning, a natural display of art pacing the city.”

The old man caught me eavesdropping as his eyes contacted mine.

“And I’ll give her credit,” said the elderly man wearing the wifebeater. “She’s still athletic, and runs, despite her modeling career being on the ropes.”

For some reason, I admired her. I just imagined how beautiful she looked 12 years ago, the way her naked body maneuvered around the block, the guys whistling at her to stop and turn their way, and the desperate chasing her from behind. Never judge a book by its cover may have been her latest illustration to the public. I believed the model clouded herself in filth for artistic purposes, and I never understood why.

On the loneliest day, I stiffened on the bench and waited for the model to run past me. She often excelled in long-distance running and had been the toughest spirit I’d encountered. At times, she’d stop for a moment before dashing through busy intersections, and then continue her run when cars were held at their lights. This day, the model stalled for a good while, seizing her break beside the bench where I usually sat —so close, till I desperately wanted to fake a phone conversation. Then anxiety painted me red. And my feet, inch by inch, slid closer her way. Sunlight had sliced a beautiful path through the clouds, hitting the bench. Right off the bat, I’d pocketed my cell phone before noticing something demeaning about the model— she beginning to take off.

The next day rolled in swifter than the balls at bowling alleys. Noises dampened behind me whilst I sat on the bench pretending to text. My nerves manufactured an array of jitters. I had to approach her before her career withered away. There was a chance that I may never see her again, so summoning up the guts to slay my mental demons became essential.

Good, grief; I shivered without control. I waited for her to reach the bench again where she’d usually take her break. The entire time, I kept my ears opened to her frequencies—the sound of her propelling my way. My top lip chapped from licking it obsessively, and my heart pounded a void into my chest.

When I heard her returning, again, I looked up, and saw her running with the bald guy. He had direct access to the model’s inner self because apparently, she had opened up to him. Enmeshed in his red tank top and shorts riding his quadriceps, I believed he had issues with perception; and believed I could frighten him to the nearest gym.

With rust on my tongue, I said, “Your titties are drooping low.”

The guy growled at me, his tank top squeezing tightly against his muscled pecks. “What the fuck you just say?” said the bald-headed, ripped guy. “Say it to my face. Creep!”

I stood at the bench in flames, taking two tough swallows. Poor fucking me. I tiptoed away from the place, defeated, and mad that another meeting with the model had failed miserably—the model had left me wondering if I’d ever know why she devalued herself.

On the day of reckoning, I had the wrath of hell thrown in my direction. Crazy. I only wanted to walk to the usual spot and wait for the model, but this woman distracted me; her long, red hair dangling as she spoke. She rambled on about some house party and asked if I wanted to go; and I said, “No, I don’t.” She conjured up random conversations about the weather, her dog, her family, and her job, then offered me a meal back at Ben’s Café.

I pondered, “Hmm.”

Then she pleaded, “C’mon, let’s hang for a little while longer. I don’t have anybody to hang with. Everything’s on me, of course.”

“Interesting,” I said. “But I really need to be back before six.” I had finally surrendered completely to the redhead. At the moment, it wasn’t near the model’s arrival time, and I felt a sense of easiness because Ben’s Café was only two blocks down.

We began to walk deep into the café where TV screens flashed soccer on the local channel. We headed for the barstools in the heart of the building. As the waitress tarried behind us with a round face that glowed in greeting, we attuned to the bar. The waitress extended an arm and pointed to the fruity beverages on the checkerboard menu.

Since I craved sweet tonics, I had chosen a small Coke, and yet, I also needed to weight-watch because I hated navel fat.

I checked my watch once more, temporarily holding my breath; a platter of chicken and waffles sat in front of us. I released, huffing out air after seeing the time—about two hours left.

Alarmed, I ate reservedly, not saying a word to the redhead who’d offered me food, because I was anxious I would miss the model again if I indulged in further conversation with her. For those reasons, I became silent, and munched in a reclusive state of mind. Coincidentally, this redheaded woman had mentioned the novel I’d cherished most.

I recalled the time being well in hand before our conversation had begun. The red-headed woman and I discussed the novel The Da Vinci Code, which was ingenious and worthy of an intellectual conversation. For a moment, I reached a state of euphoria, jawing more than I had since I’d visited Municipal Park years ago with a bowlegged friend. Now that the redhead and I were beginning to make a connection inside Ben’s Café, the model I desired most momentarily drifted from my thoughts.

***

After eating, and after we’d made our way back to the bench, silence overcame us. A thought seeped from my skull and into the air, whispering, Damn that watch....

I gulped. And as I glanced at my watch, I felt warm blood drain from my face— it showed 6:09. I looked up and saw my model running away. “Fucking redhead! I wouldn’t have missed her if I had been alone.”

Then I fell to my knees, punching the cement with my oblivious knuckles. In tears, I pinched the redheaded woman’s leg who’d offered me food, and I screamed in the model’s direction, “I need you! I need to know more about you!” The model couldn’t hear me. She never looked back. She was too far gone.

Sometimes, love comes and goes, and that’s why I feared she wasn’t coming my way again. And sure enough, she’d retire soon and stop running and showing up at the bench. I feared that I’d never get another chance to sit on her lovely seats. I feared that I’d never ride around town inside of her. This model was the old one—my favorite version of the city-line bus.

Part 2: The Upside

This model was the old one—my favorite version of the city-line bus. I feared that I’d never ride around town inside of her. I feared that I’d never get another chance to sit on her lovely seats. And sure enough, she’d retire soon and stop running and showing up at the bench. Sometimes, love comes and goes, and that’s why I feared she wasn’t coming my way again.

She was too far gone. She never looked back. The model couldn’t hear me. “I need you! I need to know more about you!” In tears, I pinched the red-headed woman’s leg who’d offered me food, and I screamed in the model’s direction. Then I fell to my knees, punching the cement with my oblivious knuckles.

“Fucking redhead! I wouldn’t have missed her if I had been alone.” I looked up and saw my model running away. And as I glanced at my watch, I felt warm blood drain from my face—it showed 6:09. I gulped.

A thought seeped from my skull and into the air, whispering, Damn that watch…. After eating, and after we’d made our way back to the bench, silence overcame us.

***

Now that the redhead and I were beginning to make a connection inside Ben’s Café’, the model I desired most momentarily drifted from my thoughts. For the moment, I reached a state of euphoria, jawing more than I had since I’d visited Municipal Park years ago with a bowlegged friend. The red-headed woman and I discussed the novel The Da Vinci Code, which was ingenious and worthy of an intellectual conversation. I recalled the time being well in hand before our conversation had begun.

Coincidentally, this red headed woman had mentioned the novel I’d cherished most. For those reasons, I became silent, and munched in a reclusive state of mind. Alarmed, I ate reservedly, not saying a word to the redhead who’d offered me food, because I was anxious I would miss the model again if I indulged in further conversation with her.

I released, huffing out air after seeing the time—about two hours left. I checked my watch once more, temporarily holding my breath; a platter of chicken and waffles sat in front of us.

Since I craved sweet tonics, I had chosen a small Coke, and yet, I also needed to weight-watch because I hated navel fat.

The waitress extended an arm and pointed to the fruity beverages on the checkerboard menu. As the waitress tarried behind us with a round face that glowed in greeting, we attuned to the bar. We headed for the barstools in the heart of the building. We began to walk deep into the café where TV screens flashed soccer on the local channel.

At the moment, it wasn’t near the model’s arrival time, and I felt a sense of easiness because Ben’s Café was only two blocks down. I had finally surrendered completely to the redhead. “Interesting,” I said. “But I really need to be back before six.”

Then she pleaded, “C’mon, let’s hang for a little while longer. I don’t have anybody to hang with. Everything’s on me, of course.”

I pondered, “Hmm.”

She had conjured up random conversations about the weather, her dog, her family, and her job, then offered me a meal back at Ben’s Café. She rambled on about some house party and asked if I wanted to go, and I said, “No, I don’t.” I only wanted to walk to the usual spot and wait for the model, but this woman distracted me; her long, red hair dangling as she spoke. Crazy. On the day of reckoning, I had the wrath of hell thrown in my direction.

I tiptoed away from the place, defeated, and mad that another meeting with the model had failed miserably—the model had left me wondering if I’d ever know why she devalued herself. Poor fucking me. I stood at the bench in flames, taking two tough swallows.

“What the fuck you just say?” said the bald-headed, ripped guy. “Say it to my face. Creep!” The guy growled at me, his tank top squeezing tightly against his muscled pecks.

With rust on my tongue, I said, “Your titties are drooping low.”

Enmeshed in his red tank top and shorts riding his quadriceps, I believed he had issues with perception; and I believed I could frighten him to the nearest gym. He had direct access to the model’s inner self because apparently, she had opened up to him. When I heard her returning, again, I looked up, and saw her running with the bald guy.

My top lip chapped from licking it obsessively, and my heart pounded a void into my chest. The entire time, I kept my ears opened to her frequencies—the sound of her propelling my way. I waited for her to reach the bench again where she’d usually take her break. Good, grief; I shivered without control.

There was a chance that I may never see her again, so summoning up the guts to slay my mental demons became essential. I had to approach her before her career withered away. My nerves manufactured an array of jitters. Noises dampened behind me on the bench whilst I pretended to text. The next day rolled in swifter than the balls at bowling alleys.

Right off the bat, I’d pocketed my cell phone before noticing something demeaning about the model—she beginning to take off. Sunlight had sliced a beautiful path through the clouds, hitting the bench. And my feet, inch by inch, slid closer her way. Then anxiety painted me red. This day, the model stalled for a good while, seizing her break beside the bench where I usually sat—so close, till I desperately wanted to fake a phone conversation. At times, she’d stop for a moment before dashing through busy intersections, and then continue her run when cars were held at their lights. She often excelled in long-distance running and had been the toughest spirit I’d encountered. On the loneliest day, I stiffened on the bench and waited for the model to run past me.

I believed the model clouded herself in filth for artistic purposes, and I never understood why. Never judge a book by its cover may have been her latest illustration to the public. I just imagined how beautiful she looked 12 years ago, the way her naked body maneuvered around the block, the guys whistling at her to stop and turn their way, and the desperate chasing her from behind. For some reason, I admired her.

“And I’ll give her credit,” said the elderly man wearing a wifebeater. “She’s still athletic, and runs, despite her modeling career being on the ropes.”

The old man caught me eavesdropping as his eyes contacted mine.

“Yes,” said the elderly man, hutching over to grab his lighter. “She used to be stunning, a natural display of art pacing down the city.”

I listened closer, the black kid with the Yankees hat, speaking, “I heard she was gorgeous in her younger days, and you could pick her out of a crowd.”

I must say, in order for you to get back to May, you must November. And, even a calendar can agree with that principle. Life is all about whom you know. The predicament reminded me of an ominous saying that I’d heard from a slew of people. As much as I wanted to fight the two guys, I needed to network with them to retrieve information. Well, something of that sort. I ought to bite them, because this went against what my therapist, Mr. Eubanks, taught—to treat others, as you would wish to be treated. I became furious about the way they’d treated her, absolutely outraged!

The younger black kid with the Yankee’s hat pinched his nostrils together. “Eww! Can’t stand to be next to her with that gawd-ole-awful smell!”

The elderly man giggled. “Lawd. She stinks! She used to be so beautiful.” The elderly man who wore a wife beater, with white hair growing on his shoulders, took the first strike at the filthy model.

I watched the model pass by the barbershop with her smoke-infested body, and then the teasing continued on command. People grimaced, with their noses pointed skyward. Suddenly, noises began to plow through the thin tunnels of my ears—gentlemen issuing their opinion about the model as they told stories in front of Bo’s Barbershop. Since she was a model and an advocate for art… sometimes, she’d never sport a single thread of fabric, but she’d keep her body sprayed with green and blue paints that swirled around her like the yellow brick road.

On the way out of Mr. Eubanks’ office, I detected her sitting beside a scrap metal trashcan that reeked of the smell of dead rats. Somehow I’d forgotten all about my lastest therapeutic plan and everything worth knowing. The time was twelve thirty-three in the ripening afternoon.

Noble men and women had given the model money, while others walked by like they didn’t notice her. I officially met her by a trashcan in New Orleans, a section over from the Bourbon Street slums where people guzzle down liquor. Strange, how it all started. My obsession with this model must have come from Cupid himself, for the fact that she wasn’t pretty—deemed hideous, at best—and the fact that her 12-year run as an icon had died ever so soon.

I’ll say that the reason I refused to attend additional therapies with Mr. Eubanks, my childhood psychologist who fails to see my loss, is because he can’t understand my obsession with this beautiful model. I’ll say that the world had abandoned me, left me, like a wrong turn. I loomed in darkness, questioning my existence in an unjust world, a world that views me at face value and makes assumptions about my body—a world that refers to me as being psychotic and not stable in the mind. Today isn’t a fair day: the clouds began to cry as the sun-set down for the night.

5 MDs-

gape 50

HO Tiffin Tide