Mr. Boy

There was a new cashier at EmCaf today. A boy. Which was already a bit off-putting since all the cashiers are always hardworking Latina women. And the only men there are making the sandwiches (ironic, right?) But today there was a boy there. I mean, he looked about my age, but he had the air of a boy. 

His blue and white, vertical striped shirt made a brash appearance in my color perception which has, since I got to Emerson, been reduced to look-at-me-I'm-being-ironic brown and no-actually-don't-look-at-me-I-was-trying-to-make-a-point salmon. A dreary palette of convolution. But this guy was all stripes. Stripes that were collared on the top and tucked in at the bottom. You're thinking pompous or prissy or some other p-word, yeah? I would've too, until I noticed that slouch. Right before the collar part, the vertical lines gave way to the arch of his upper back. It was an arch that was slightly more than that which was necessary to look at the cash register and fumble around with the buttons. And he was really fumbling. "Cup of New England clam chowder and half a turkey-cheddar" shot right out of my mouth just as quick as my college ID (with my "money" on it) came sliding onto the counter. He was still trying to find the button that would start a new order. (I blame those incredibly efficient Latina women for spoiling me.) 

Despite his obvious confusion, and the line forming behind me, he still seemed to be grinning. Not evilly. Not mockingly. Not creepily. Not stupidly. But just a slight twist up on the corners. His cuffs didn't dangle or choke his wrists - they comfortably followed his hands - one cuff dancing about the screen and one laying with his palm on the counter, highlighting the hand that supported his stance. After the few minutes it took him to sort out my order, he looked up at me briefly and began to verbally and kindly, with a thick Boston accent, guide me to the counter where I could pick up my sandwich...  I must've been to EmCaf to get a sandwich about 200 times in my life. (I actually did some math for that one.) I knew where to pick up my sandwich. Everyone there did. The only people who eat there are Emerson students. Not even the faculty - they're probably too posh for it. So are many of the students, but they don't really have a choice. If you, a student, care at all about what goes into your body, you will at some point eat at EmCaf. Anyway, this clearly hadn't occurred to him yet. I stopped him, as politely as I could muster at that moment, with a nod and a "Yeeaahh..." As he looked up to address me I noticed his head was more circular than most. And his hair, a dark brown and short, might have been somewhat slicked and side-parted - I can't exactly remember. 

He smiled right at me. A winning smile. A smile that lasted while he spoke.

     "So you've been here a couple times, then?"

I smiled right back. A big smile. One that got bigger as I looked at him.

     "Yeah, a lot of times." (Or something stupid like that.)

The blue and white stripes, the collar and the tuck, the comfortable cuffs, the I-didn't-listen-to-my-mother-when-she-told-me-to-sit-up-straight slouch... and that smile... all suddenly made such an impression on me. He was a live Norman Rockwell painting. I was suddenly a 50's gal. I was charmed.

In a moment all the pretension and bureaucracy and social jackassery that I've been buying into for the past four months lifted. This guy looked like he hadn't a care in the world. No number of pushy, snobby, hungry college kids could take the bright out of his stripes.

What a presence, Mr. Boy. Thanks for the moments. (And for taking my order.)

A Piece of New England

Many colleges have denied me, now. Most of them. This has elicited many feelings.

Maybe it's just me attempting to come to terms or truly some guidance of energies, but I feel like I'm being led. Nowhere on the west coast accepted me and New York and Connecticut weren't too fond of me either. But Massachusetts... My top choice for college is there: Boston University. They denied me. But University of Massachusetts: Boston didn't. Right there in the middle of a city I fell in love with from long ago, a train ride away from everyone I love and offering a state-college education that can only bring me further than I am now. Not only do these college decisions make me feel like I'm being led, but a strange, much stronger, sensation has been coming over me that, to be honest, started from much before any university had anything to say about me:

The thought of Massachusetts is starting to feel more and more like home than California. I grew up in California. I was devoted to that piece of land. I swore I'd come back when I got the chance. Well, my senior year ends in May; I could buy my tickets to San Diego now, have my things packed for summer and be completely registered in the southern California community college system for the Fall semester. But I'm not even considering that. I never honestly did. It seems though over these past many months California has become more of an ambiguity in my sentiments. It's been the same intense change of feeling as if I've been a hardcore atheist and am now being saved by the word of God. Or, at least what I would imagine that to be like. So far the word of God, or a team of very intelligent story-tellers, hasn't come to my rescue.

Maybe someday I'll go back- when I'm not so afraid of how my hometown's changed in my absence. I want it to be the same beautiful, glorious, kind, simple, Schwarzenegger state I spent my first decade of life in. But I know it won't be. And the people I knew have changed. Not necessarily for the better, in my opinion, from what I can surmise from Facebook. Maybe I'll go back when it's become something totally new that I won't associate with the fuzzy, sunny memories of my youth.

But for now, home's become something I never really thought it would be: a piece of New England.