But then, like one of my dreams, one important foot is rendered immobile by a gloved hand from under the table. I seem to teeter in the air, deciding in which direction to go, my leg gently arabesquing behind me.
And then I am decidedly on the ground, whacking my hip on one of the supports for the table. It hurts, and for a moment there is dull navy blue pain, and I almost forget to keep my eyes open. But I keep them trained on the man, who slides like a kitten out from under the table and bounds out the door to the street. His coat fills with air for a moment, and then contracts, and I see that he is skinnier than most concentration camp survivors.
Strange.
I gather the laundry up and shut and lock the door. Not that I think it will do anything, but you never know what tiny measures will keep men in black raincoats from standing on your folding tables. Suddenly calm, I carry the laundry up to Jon, who is reading my journal. Out of habit, I snatch it, and, caught in an organizational whirl, begin putting away my clean clothes. Jon is surprised, but I don�t mind this. Not really.
I continue to clean my room, and Jon sits on my bed (contentedly, with my journal) and watches. I�m folding up a blanket I found at the bottom of my closet when he asks about my little episode this morning. I had, in all truth, forgotten about it, but I�ve found through the years that firmly assuring him that I�m fine seems to work, regardless of the incident. So I do so, but I guess he�s upset because he had to flip the mattress, and he keeps at it. I�d say that maybe this time he�s actually concerned, but I know him too well.
�Please,� he says. �What is going on in your life that you have to do this?� He sounds like a stoned Dr. Phil. �Why do you react this way to conflict?� he asks tremulously, tremendously.
Suddenly I�m fed up with this adult-baby-talk. I slam my toes into my boots and head out the door, grabbing at whatever I can reach. Whatever I can reach turns out to be a large blue vase. It was the first thing I made after learning how to blow glass. I stop, take aim, and throw it at Jon�s head.
I don�t stick around to see if it hits him or not. I�m out�this is ridiculous�I can�t stand it�no more for me�please stop for me here, please, no don�t, stop going. Out.
Wind in my face, angry feet and Metallica in my ears, even though I don�t have any music with me and if I did it certainly wouldn�t be Metallica. My best friend in high school was a huge fan, but he was slightly less out of his head than I. I can�t deal with Metallica, actually. It�s too much�I don�t even know. Too much stuff cluttering up what should be music. It upsets me.
It actually makes me laugh, because so many people think of Metallica as this stupid, simple metal, but the supposedly complex Debussy is miles easier on my battered brain. Metal is just so alien to me�so strange and distant. I can�t tell the difference between the bass and the singer�s death threats sometimes, and that�s troubling to me. I like to know what�s going on in my music, and how it was made. Metal is a foreign object.
I notice that I�m at the bus station. I buy a ticket, and after 45 minutes I get on a bus.