After a long walk in the rain, I am standing at the door talking to Eric about finals. My last two dollars had been in my wallet before the after-class gathering at the diner. Kreaux had asked me to stop by when I could:
“If you can, stop by tonight… We’d all appreciate you bringing that smile and good cheer when you do.” It was a sweet text; our friendship has been mixing over words and downtime.
I am in a great mood, even deep into finals. “I will come by. But I am unable to drink… And I will certainly bring a smile.”
He had said to let him know when I was on my way. He has a special non-alcoholic beverage for me. What can one expect but juice and a splash of soda.So, I stand by the door talking, unaware that Kreaux is excited by his surprise… “You’re drink is at the end of the bar,” he had told me. A few minutes pass. Then Kreaux comes back.
The glass is frothing: the creamy mound of icecream over that familiar coffee-colored glass of rootbeer. It makes me forget entirely the pounding rain squishing in my socks or the cold outside. We sit at the bar and chat, sipping on childhood. Then the comic books and the Baudelaire he loves and promised to lend me come out.
Generosity of things is a generosity of heart. And I can feel in each little spoonful the warm New Orleans sun that soaked into his heart growing up. I can feel the words of the other day: “I think you’re beautiful. Not in a physical way…” It makes me feel beautiful, this little show of affection. It makes me feel the way children bring you paper cards and triumphantly pull you into their room. “These are my toys.”
We share toys: floats and philosophy, poetry and lazy shoulders.
Then it is back into the rain again. The gutters flood. Quickly, I scurry toward the station. I am happy. Everyone I passed is halo-ed with hoods drawn tight.
At the station, I sit on a bench. The chill is setting in. A woman on my left keeps looking around her dishwater hair to peek at me. Smiling at her, she burries her head back into the book. Two more people slip in on the bench. Then there are four of us reading together in the concrete cave of the platform.
“Do you mind if I ask what you are all reading,” The woman asks.
On my left, she is reading Lao Tzu. Furthest right, Foerester. And next to my Nietzsche is Schopenhauer. The rest of the time is a dialogue: philosophy and humor.
All in all, it is an unexpected night.
We get onto the train, each picking a different spot. The dialogue stops. We steal glances of each other, going as far as we can and returning to reading: now in company. The woman, Brooke, and I continue up the stairs on the other side. We rise into the outside world of concrete and bodegas. Everything is silver with rain.
“That was nice.” I say.
“Well, we were all reading and it ended up to be a great conversation.” She muses. I feel included.
The rain hits my head as we emerge. “This weather,” I comment, “What I wouldn’t do for a cognac and a fireplace.”
“If you had that, we could all go there and read together.” Brook laughs. It seems natural that we would do exactly that.
We came together and now separate in the rain.
Pneumatic Devotion 