Monarch Moments

It all started on a Tuesday. There’s nothing ever spectacular about Tuesdays, except Fat Tuesday; but this was just a regular one. In fact, most of my days are regular. I’m a Louisiana girl, born and raised in a small town of about 6,000 people. Everyone works in the plants and goes to the same church, or the one across the street. Everyone knows everybody. We’re all intertwined into each other’s story, in good ways and in bad. I always said I’d get out of here, but people rarely do. My parents and their parents and their parents all stayed. I sort of feel like a scratched vinyl; stuck on the same sound. The only thing that ever changes is my hopes of hearing the rest of the song. I get up and go to work to pay my bills and do it again.

Nobody talks too much of dreaming around here. That’s for the naive, and the naive get taken advantage of. So, I keep mine quiet for the most part. I work two jobs. One to keep frozen dinners in the fridge; one to save up to record some demos. I love music. I have been told it is not a viable job option, but it keeps me sane to hold onto a little of my naivety.

I found my passion late in life. Some would say too late, but to find a passion at all belongs to the lucky ones. I picked up a guitar my senior year of college and that was it. When I found it, it was a wildfire. Now it’s who I am; I can’t help but do it. Kinda like the monarchs know where to fly in the winter. They don’t think about it, they just find their wings dancing right on to where they are supposed to be to stay alive. I take comfort in the monarchs cos’ they don’t have to think too hard to end up in the right place. I think my wings are my singing. I do it in the shower, the car, at work, basically when I’m not eating or taking a customer's order.

Mom says I was singing my own songs before I was potty trained. I don’t recall, but I’m glad she does. That dream got lost somewhere in grade school, buried so deep that it died or nearly did. But in my town, we believe in the resurrection.

I guess we choose our life path for the most part. And I chose the less traveled one; and yes, I did use that quote in my senior valedictorian speech. I had the choice to either pursue music or go to grad school. I knew if there was a plan B that’s what I’d end up living with til death did us part. So here I am, mid-twenties living halfway on a dream and halfway on crappy tips. If there is a middle ground between adventure and certainty, I haven’t found it.

Back to medium sized Tuesday; I woke up at 12:34 AM after Lizzo’s “Good as Hell '' went off at least three times. I work the night shift. Does anyone feel good as hell about that? I threw on what I believed to be a clean pair of jeans and some non-slips, cranked my cream PT Cruiser and was off to the races. I pull up to the diner 5 minutes late, per usual, to pour my regulars some beer and sub- par coffee. But this Tuesday, to my surprise, there was a fresh face.

It’s not anyone I’d ever seen around here. This is a “pass through to get gas” kinda town. Not a “stop in and sit a while” kinda town. He had on snakeskin boots, extra pointy. I woulda thought they were for women- except the size. He had a ring on every finger. His eyes were deep and brown and looked like they held secrets better than the church choir. His brows were manicured better than a hometown beauty queen. He smelled like old leather.

Of course, I was intrigued. I greeted him, but he was busy writing. Writing lots and writing quickly. I cleared my throat and spoke up a bit louder. “Excuse me mister. Welcome to Aunt Bee’s Famous Diner, can I get you started with som——“ when I realized my words were ricocheting off the wall behind him I stopped. He just kept writing. My father is quite the same; he can tune out just about any frequency except the sports channel and occasionally Days of our Lives. So, I’ve learned to make myself known. I slapped my chipped purple nails over the pages. “Hey there, Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

He dropped the pen and looked up. Not sure if it was my nails or my audacity, but I got his attention. Those deep eyes looked a bit deeper. His voice was deeper than his eyes. It rattled the air between us. “I’d like a cup of decaf.” He sounded like a smoker. I imagined he smoked American Spirits.

Decaf? What’s up with this dude and his fancy shoes. “We don’t have decaf, but I’m happy to pour you some regular.” He begrudgingly accepted, and never touched it. We did have decaf, but I wasn’t about to make it. I noticed he would write vigorously for lines and lines and then stop for minutes. I was curious. He seemed to be drawing as well as writing. Making arrows. I tried to be discreet with my peaking between customers, but his pen was loud. I’ve never seen anyone so deep in thought. Especially not in Aunt Bee’s. People come here to play pool and gossip. He would hum a little, such soulful melodies, scribble a little, cross stuff out, then hum quietly a bit more. It was like no one else was in the room. He’d bite his nail, grab his beard, then stare into space. He finally put his pen down. After a few minutes or hours, what felt like days of the staring and furrowing his beautiful brow, he got up and walked outside. I was right about being a smoker. I knew he’d be gone for at least five minutes.

Ok, the curiosity was actually killing me. I began writing stories in my head about who he was and what he was writing. Some of the stories got a little weird. I’ve watched too many crime documentaries. After a minute, the curiosity moved my hands right over the book and swiped it onto the floor behind the bar. It was a monarch moment. I didn’t hold myself responsible, though my heart was beating quickly. I felt like I was about to steal my big sister’s diary and she could walk in at any moment. Naturally, I did it anyway. I opened it up. And began to read.

It was pages and pages of poetry; the kind of poetry that makes you feel naked. Line after line pulled me in. The passion, the struggle, the tension, the truth. Suddenly his story became mine and oh how I longed for one in this safe, boring life I lived.

I got lost in that little black notebook; he didn’t feel quite like a stranger anymore. He felt like a neighbor who shopped online for his clothes. I had his humming melodies stuck in my head, and before I knew it, I had the pen in hand adding words above the places he scratched out. I needed to know the ending. It was too beautiful to leave unfinished. I had to fill in the space. And it poured out of me. Like I’m sure my four -year- old self would have written. All the stops were pulled out. There was no judgement filter turned on. I got off the throne of my mind for just a moment. It was monarchs migrating for winter kind of writing. I didn’t have to dig.

Ain’t no way it was American Spirits cos’ it took him about 3.5 minutes before he was heading back in the door. I quickly finished the last sentence and closed the book. I walked away before there was any eye contact. With my heart still racing, but a sense of joy, I went humming to the register to print the check and couldn’t help but quietly sing the words from the book. I sat the check down over the book and walked away. I felt good because though my record was stuck on some god-awful sound on this regular Tuesday, maybe I moved him past a scratch in his record. I had a sense of accomplishment resting over me that I hadn’t felt in quite some time. Maybe he’d throw out every line. But the story was finished in my head.

That feeling came crashing quickly. “Um Ma’am, could I have my pen back?” My brain began to repeat every four-letter word it could think up. He wanted me to know that he knew I had opened his book. “Oh so sorry, must have picked it up by accident.” I sat the pen down on the bar. A cold “no worries” was his reply. Then he walked out. I didn’t watch, but I heard the boots. He didn’t leave a tip. Guess I deserved that. He did leave a lingering scent of smoke, leather, and poetry.

I didn’t think too much more about it, til’ Wednesday rolled in. And there he was again at the bar. I tried to turn around and go to the kitchen, but my feet were like cement. “Hey ma’am, I forgot to leave you a tip yesterday. I don’t have cash, but I’d love to write you a check. What’s your name?” Ok...not what I was expecting. I tell him my name. He begins to write the check. He thanked me and put the check down inside a new little black book and with a cunning wink, he slid it across the counter. “Ma’am I took the liberty of getting you your own.” Before I could even thank him, he was out the door. Didn’t even hear the boots that time. I opened the book to see the check. The memo read “for finishing part of my story, now go finish yours.” The amount was 20, but the 20 had three zeros after it. My jaw hit the floor. It was actually the amount I was trying to save for my album. I really couldn’t believe it. I’ve always believed in something “bigger;” like who tells the monarchs where to fly, but I actually saw the “bigger” that day. I didn’t understand until a couple months later when I heard a deep smoky voice singing those lines I wrote in that little black notebook on the radio.

I finished his story and he started mine. And I have a feeling our stories may intertwine again.

I guess this small town isn’t so bad. It’s just where my wings had me for the time being. I left Aunt Bee’s to record my album. I don’t know what the future holds, butI have a feeling it will be beautifully uncertain and adventurous.. Let’s see where the wings take me.