God on a Harley Page 5

  I began to see a whole new world evolve before my very eyes. A robin’s nest in the tree outside my apartment prompted me to buy a bird feeder and hang it from the roof of my balcony. I even began to cook once in a while instead of dashing out the door for a fast-food burger. I sometimes rose early enough to witness the sun send its first flame-colored tip above the ocean’s edge, and, try as I might, I never did glimpse the green flash that is rumored to appear just seconds before sunrise. It seemed that all of my senses were becoming more acute, and though I lived in a large apartment complex with modern-day conveniences including tennis courts, a dry cleaner, and a chlorinated swimming pool, it was the scent of lilacs growing within this cement jungle that I noticed most.

  I studied simple things like my fingers and toes and marveled at their dexterity and the functions they served. I became very observant of all my bodily systems, respiratory, circulatory, cardiac, digestive, and I was awestruck at the efficiency of our human organs. How could I ever have taken them so for granted? How could anyone? It was like being a multi-millionaire and not realizing that you were rich. I thought about less tangible things like sleep cycles, dreams, and animal hibernation and was filled with a newfound reverence for all living things.

  I took time at work to notice and appreciate the healing powers of my patients and I was humbled by it. Dressing changes on my postoperative patients were no longer routine or boring. It filled me with a sense of awe that an abdomen could be sliced open with a scalpel one day and, by the next, the skin would have already closed over the wound. I began to see these recoveries as small miracles instead of as a dull grind for me, and I felt privileged to be a part of it. Above all, I began to marvel at and appreciate my own good health and well-being.

  My priorities were changing at an alarming rate. It was hard to believe that until this new enlightenment had struck, I had spent most of my free time browsing through shopping malls and fantasizing about all the lovely material things that I wanted. Now it was becoming unfathomable to me that I had overlooked all the “free” miracles and beauty that surrounded my everyday life.

  Occasionally, I caught myself wishing Joe would call so that I could share my discoveries with him, but I quickly reminded myself of my second commandment and began living in the moment again, making it as lovely a moment as possible. Sometimes that meant smelling the fresh flowers that had now become a permanent fixture both on my grocery list and on the kitchen table. Sometimes it meant putting my feet up and reading a magazine or taking a shower with scented soap or writing poetry. Not that my life was perfect by any stretch of the imagination. I was still less than thrilled with my job, my nonexistent love life, and my weight, but my potential for happiness grew and developed every day and so did the pleasure-seeking mechanisms in my brain. I became more and more creative and found that it was entirely possible to routinely have a glorious day. If I ran out of ideas, I simply sat still for a moment (a miracle in itself), closed my eyes, and asked myself what it was I really would like to do right now.

  Come to think of it, what I really wanted right now was a chocolate ice cream cone . . . dipped in that warm chocolate that hardens on the ice cream. Oh, yes, that was it. I slipped my feet into well worn flip-flops and stuffed two dollars into the pocket of my favorite white summer shorts. Normally, I would have had chocolate ice cream in the freezer, but not anymore. Normally, I would have driven six blocks to the nearest Dairy Queen, but not anymore. Now I realized what a lonely and compulsive thing it would be to sit in my apartment gobbling down what would inevitably turn out to be a quart of ice cream, not even tasting it, just trying to fill the emptiness in my life. I’m not sure why, but I wasn’t feeling empty, just hungry for chocolate ice cream. Now I would enjoy the walk as much as I would enjoy the ice cream cone.

  A blast of cool air swirled around me as I opened the door to enter the Dairy Queen. I mentally added to my list how good that first blast of air-conditioning feels on a sultry, summer night. I bought my cone and licked the milky drippings as I scouted out a seat for myself.

  That’s when I spotted him.

  Joe was sitting in the far corner, an untouched banana split before him, grinning at me as if he’d been politely waiting for me to join him.

  “You’re getting pretty good at this,” he remarked as I slid into the cold metal chair across from him. I smiled. He continued. “So far you’re an excellent student, Christine.”

  “Thanks,” I murmured, truly more interested in chocolate ice cream than I was in compliments.

  Without skipping a beat, Joe continued. “You know those plants in your apartment that you had to repot?”

  I nodded, still licking the escaping drops of ice cream that tried to slide down the side of my cone. It didn’t occur to me to ask how he knew I’d just repotted several of my rapidly growing plants. I guess I was beginning to take his miracles for granted.

  “Well, you’re a lot like them,” he went on. “Pretty soon we’re going to have to repot you. You’re really growing at a much faster rate than I expected.”

  “Repot me?” I managed to ask. “What do you mean? Make me move to a bigger city? Really, Joe, I’m not ready for that. I’m really quite happy here and . . .”

  “I would never make you do anything,” he interrupted, “but don’t kid yourself. You’re not all that happy where you are.”

  “What are you saying then? That I should move or ‘repot’ myself somewhere else, right?”

  “Relax.” He laughed as he covered my unoccupied hand with his large, warm one. “You never have to do anything you really don’t want to do.” He scooped some whipped cream into his mouth and added, “Besides, that’s not what I meant.”

  “Well what did you mean, Joe? Honestly, sometimes I have a hard time following you.”

  He rolled a piece of ice-cream-drenched banana around in his mouth, savoring the flavor and the tongue-numbing cold before letting it slide down his throat. I couldn’t help but think that he was practicing the second commandment he had given me, the one about living in the moment and enjoying everything. Little did he know I had just about mastered that one.

  He smiled a closed-mouth smile, and I knew he was reading my thoughts again. I knew better than to interrupt the moment and I waited.

  “You’ve been doing your homework,” he finally noted.

  “Yes, but what’s this stuff about ‘repotting’ me? You’re making me nervous.” I was being impatient and I knew it, but the thought of uprooting myself was very threatening to me. I had a feeling he was deliberately prolonging his answer in order to teach me patience, so I waited.

  “You need to learn some patience,” he said kindly, with no trace of chastisement. “But maybe it is time for your third commandment, even though you’re a little bit ahead of schedule.”

  I said nothing and concentrated instead on pushing the last of my ice cream down into the cone with my tongue, so I could bite the bottom and suck it out, all cold and soft, the way I remembered doing child. I knew Joe would teach me my next lesson in his own good time. There was no need to prod him.

  I was just finishing the last of my gooey mess when Joe’s voice seemed to fill the room in an almost mystical way. “Take care of yourself first and foremost. For you are me and I am you, and when you take care of yourself, you take care of me. Together, we take care of one another.”

  I was a little embarrassed as I noticed the man at the next table cast a strange look in our direction. Joe’s voice could be soft as the rustle of a summer breeze or sonorous as the takeoff of the Concorde, and every range in between. It was apparent that the man at the next table had heard our conversation, but Joe paid him no mind. “Don’t worry about him.” He smiled. “He’s one of the ones I haven’t reached yet. I don’t have him scheduled until five years from now.”

  “Okay, so I’m supposed to take good care of myself,” I recapped, knowing that I would be quizzed on what he had just said.

  “First and foremost,” Joe added.r />
  “Well, don’t you think I do that? I mean I jog and I try to eat right and I don’t smoke and . . .”

  “And you spend forty hours a week at a job you think you hate, and you spend the remainder of your waking hours lamenting over how imperfect you think your body is and how lonely you are without a man in your life.”

  “Oh.” I had no rebuttal. He was absolutely right. “Well, how do I fix any of that?” I asked a little self-righteously. “Besides, I don’t think I hate my job, I do hate my job. You try working night shifts and weekends and putting up with doctors’ egos and let me know how you like it!”

  His smile was kind and knowing and ever-patient . . . and it really ticked me off. “You love your job,” he said in his rustling, summer breeze of a voice.

  “I hate it!” I retorted.

  “It is part of your ultimate purpose here on earth. That’s not to say it doesn’t get tiresome or frustrating, but essentially, you love it.”

  “I hate it.”

  “You love it. But you do it in excess. You need to cut back a little.”

  “Cut back my hours, you mean?” I was incredulous that anyone would suggest such a thing, though I don’t know why it seemed such a foreign idea.

  “Precisely.”

  “How do you propose I pay the bills then? Unless, of course, you’ve come up with a way to survive that doesn’t include food or shelter.”

  “Think about what you just said.”

  “About surviving?”

  “No. About paying bills. What kinds of bills? Think about where most of your money is really spent.”

  I was getting irritated and it showed. “Well, there’s the frivolous matter of paying the rent each month.” My tone was sarcastic and I intended it to be.

  “And is it really necessary for you to live in that giant cement jungle of an apartment complex?” he countered.

  “It offers a lot,” I answered a bit defensively. “It has a pool and tennis courts and a dry cleaning service.”

  “Try to be really honest, Christine.” His velvety brown eyes held my complete attention, and if I’d still been holding an ice cream cone, surely it would have melted in my hand from the warmth that emanated from him. “What is the real reason you live there? What was the first thing that really attracted you to that complex?”

  I had to think. What was he getting at? What was so terrible about living in a nice apartment complex? Didn’t I deserve at least that much in life? Was Joe going to tell me that I didn’t deserve to come home to a comfortable and convenient apartment after a hard day at work? Well, if he was, I was ready to part company with him right here and now.

  “Your mind is wandering, Christine. Try to remember the reason you chose that complex in the first place.”

  “To meet single guys,” I admitted.

  “Why?”

  “So I can fall in love and marry one, if you must know.”

  “What else?” he asked, ignoring my growing irritability.

  “And maybe have an easier life, you know, not have to pay so many bills by myself.” That answer surprised me more than it surprised him.

  “Honesty at last,” Joe said with a look of relief. “Don’t you see, Christine, that you’re not taking care of yourself by doing that? Your life would be far more fulfilling if you would eliminate your obligation to things that don’t serve you.”

  “Well, I happen to think that having a roof over my head, serves me quite well.”

  “When’s the last time you used the tennis court?” he asked evenly.

  I was afraid he’d ask that. “Never played,” I muttered.

  “When’s the last time you swam in the pool?” He was merciless.

  “Well, ummm . . . I like to swim but . . .”

  “But you don’t like to get your hair wet,” he finished for me. “Especially with the chlorine and all. It might make those fifty-two dollar blond highlights turn orange, right? And then there’s the matter of being seen without makeup.”

  “Well, what do you expect? There are guys around,” I answered weakly.

  “So?”

  “So I don’t want them to see me like that.”

  “Why not?”

  I hesitated. This was not only embarrassing, but painful. Joe studied me with encouraging eyes and I finally found the courage to answer honestly. “Because they might not think I’m pretty . . . and then they won’t ask me out . . . and I’ll just be a lonely old lady.”

  He waited a moment and then added, “. . . who never goes swimming or does any of the things she wants to do, because men might not approve of the way she looks while doing them.”

  I couldn’t have said it better myself. I lowered my eyes and nodded my head in agreement. Joe reached over and gently lifted my chin with two long fingers, forcing me to look into that magnificent face as he added the bombshell. “And then you’ll go around blaming men for your unhappiness because they are so shallow.”

  I knew he was right, but I still had some thirty-odd years of conditioning on my side and I wouldn’t go down without a fight. “Wait a minute,” I shot back. “Okay, so I pay fifty-two dollars every now and then to put blond highlights in my hair, but I do it because I like it. And if men happen to like it too, that’s fine. But I do it because it makes me feel pretty and I like that.”

  “Do you like sitting around the pool sweating? Trying to get the perfect tan so you can attract a man?” He was playing hardball now.

  “I don’t mind,” I said, not too convincingly. “Yeah. Maybe I even like it,” I added for emphasis. It was no use. We both knew I was rationalizing.

  “Yeah, maybe,” he answered noncommittally. “Then again, maybe you’d like walking along the beach with the sun warming your bare shoulders. And maybe the salty surf swirling around your ankles might feel just a little bit better than the chlorinated, chemically treated, pool water that you never go in. Maybe you’d even enjoy diving through a wave and bodysurfing to shore in the white, salty foam and breathing in the clean ocean air that only the seagulls seem to appreciate anymore. Maybe, just maybe, you’d like that.”

  Joe shook his head in a gesture of defeat, and suddenly I couldn’t bear to see him without his annoyingly optimistic outlook. He looked like a little boy who had bought somebody a wonderful birthday present and then found out they didn’t appreciate it. The world had been rejecting his gifts, gifts that he thought were precious. I knew I had wounded him by choosing artificial, man-made pleasures over the wonderful smorgasbord of delights he had laid at my feet. How could I have been so insensitive?

  “Joe, it’s not that I wouldn’t like to live on the beach,” I tried to explain. “I simply can’t afford it.”

  “Not in the style you’re accustomed to, maybe.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “That’s for you to figure out.” I must have looked confused because he added, “But I’ll give you a hint. Ready?”

  I was glad to see the return of his old sparkle. Torturing me with riddles seemed to do wonders for his sagging spirit. “A hint?” I said. “A hint about what? Repotting me, I assume?”

  “B-ll,” he said, as though this would make some kind of sense to me.

  “B-ll? What kind of hint is that? B-ll? What is it, some kind of airplane? Or machine gun or something? What?”

  He just laughed and finished up the last of his banana split. He gestured to his Harley parked outside the window next to our table and said he’d offer me a ride home on it, but it was probably better for me to walk so I could think about all we’d just discussed.

  All the way home, I could think of nothing else. Maybe I really could cut back on my hours at work. Who came up with the idea of a forty-hour work week in the first place? Where was it written in stone? Just because forty hours is the standard, that didn’t mean I had to abide by it. I thought about all of the things in my life that I had always believed were necessities, like blond highlights in my hair, and I decided it might cost a whole lot less t
o live with my honest self. Yeah, I was going to cut back all right. I supposed it could be done easily enough, yet I couldn’t help but notice the guilt I felt at the thought of not working “full-time.” Maybe Joe was right. He usually was. Maybe I could learn to enjoy my job if I didn’t let it take over my entire life. The time had come to start taking really good care of myself.

  By the time I reached the “cement jungle,” I’d decided I didn’t really need blond highlights or tennis courts or swimming pools. What I needed was me, the real me.

  The evening newspaper was sitting on my doorstep as I approached my apartment. I tossed it onto the sofa as I headed for the bathroom. When I came back, it had fallen onto the floor but the classified section had remained on the sofa. I thumbed through it and an ad in the rental section caught my eye.

  1 bdrm, 1 bath, beachfront cottage.

  Vry affordable.

  Must rent immediately. Call 555-7987

  I looked at the page number and gasped.

  B-ll.

  6

  NO ONE WAS VERY HAPPY with me at work when I handed in my request to change my status to part-time. Everyone asked if I had started another job somewhere else or if I was going back to school. It seemed preposterous for someone to simply want more time to enjoy life. After all, they all still thought the only way to enjoy life was to make as much money as you possibly could and how could you do that working part-time? Joe certainly had his work cut out for him around here. They even tried to lay guilt trips on me, but I did my best not to let it bother me. I was bound and determined to take care of myself first and foremost.

  The way I figured it, I could work two twelve-hour shifts and one eight-hour shift a week and still manage my bills—if I cut back on some of my expenses. I was more than willing to cut back a little if it meant more time to explore all the new aspects of my life.