Little Tree

She checked the review mirror and then looked over her shoulder. She didn’t look ahead into her lane, just looked to the mirror again. Then the shoulder once more. Finally, she jerked the wheel, swerving into the left lane. My seatbelt locked up, choking me, before yanking me back into the impression of my body that I’d left in the fabric of my seat.

“Was that absolutely necessary?” I panted, checking the clock on the dashboard. I couldn’t read the digital glow, so I reached out a finger and wiped off the dust. 6:34. Twenty-six minutes to go.

“Of course,” Merry grinned. “It was exhilarating, wasn’t it?” She reached up, without taking her eyes from the road, and stilled the air freshener hung from the mirror.

“Is that what smells?” I asked, leaning forward to whiff at the tree-shaped freshener. The only other objects in the front of car were some textbooks and CDs: the Rent and Wicked soundtracks (which I considered sneaking into my backpack when Merry wasn’t looking), Red Hot Chili Peppers, some country artists, a few mixes, and probably some Fall Out Boy. That’s whose concert we were going to see, so I just assumed she had some of their music in the car, even though I didn’t see one of their CDs. She’d asked me if I wanted to listen to something like them, but we both agreed there would be enough of that at the concert.

“Yeah.”

“It’s black… That seems kind of ominous. Black always me of the Plague, and I don’t think that smelled very good. Rotting flesh and all… That would be a terrifying zombie movie.”

She chuckled and glanced at the black tree. “Well, this one is called ‘Black Ice,’ so maybe they wanted to match the name and the color.”

“… Does black ice smell?”

“You know what, Valerie, I really have no idea.”

We both giggled some more, my stomach aching from clenching from laughter, and from her driving skills.

“I think this smells like deodorant,” I got out a few minutes later.

“Oh my god! Like—”

“Old Spice!” we yelled together. She held out her right hand to high five me. I had to rely on the elbow trick in order to actually hit her hand and not her headrest, or worse her face. It wouldn’t have helped her driving.

“Yeah, I really love the smell,” she grinned, waving a hand at the freshener. “I’ve got a whole pack of them in the glove compartment. It makes my car smell like hot man.”

The tree swayed a little in the echo of our laughter, reminding me of one of those hulu-dancers that sit on the dashboard of cars. I couldn’t help but think about how the person who designed these car fresheners probably had some grander agenda then making a teenage girl’s car smell like an attractive man.

“You know… your car doesn’t smell bad.”

“I know,” Merry replied, lifting her shoulders and letting them plunk back down. “But just in case it starts to… then that Little Tree’ll be there.”

Blog #2: 3:52 am on a Monday Morning

Sweat casts a layered sheen on my face. The wetness does nothing to cool the blood flushing my cheeks. I half-lift a hand to wipe away the moisture and instantly the muscles in my neck twinge in protest. My hand falls back to the mattress with a quiet resounding of the springs. I try kicking at the thin sheet covering my body next, the material catching on my legs so I have to lash out with my feet again and again until the fabric ends up in a twisted bundle on the floor.

I listen for my roommate once the creaking quiets, letting out a puff of air when my ears catch her soft snore from across the room. I sigh again and close my eyes, lying still for several seconds before rolling over onto my stomach.

A full minute bumbles by, then I twist onto my back once more. I press my leg up against the wall, but my skin only steals the cold for only a few seconds before there is none left to gather so I let the limb slide down to the mattress.

With growl, my stomach muscles flex and pull up my jellied spine to a sitting position, which has been liquefied with heat and four hours of needed sleep. The bones slide into pockets of air as I twist my hips, cracking, and I wince as I place my feet on the floor.

Black vision turns red when I stand, and I grip the rail of the bed until there is no more color. Luckily my feet know the seven steps to the window. With a few twists, and a snap, my hair lifts off my shoulders and the sweat chills on my face and body, coolness crawling across the skin like a spider made from an icicle.

It takes fourteen tries to move away from the air source, but my eyes can only blink in five second intervals at this time of night, so I lumber back across the floor and fall with a loud “whamp!” onto the mattress.

Air stirs in the room, the softness of the breeze blowing away the whispers of thought. My mouth opens, the jaw stretching repeatedly to take in the breaths of cold. Then these sensations too… start to… disappe…

The sound of screeching tires fills the room, honking horns, yelling, gasping.

A scream pulses in my throat like a heartbeat, and I want to throw it up, let it fly from my lips and splatter on the ceiling, then let it trickle down the walls in jagged red lines to rot there.

Yet, I press the shriek back down, bury it even deeper, down into my stomach to let it churn, mixing with a different kind of acid, because somehow beneath the screeching in my belly and the screeching on the street I can still hear the sound of snoring.

I roll over again and lift my pillow to press it over my head, but I feel the sweat at the back of my neck, so the pillow remains underneath my cheek. The breeze tickles my bare toes and I kick at it like I kicked off my sheets, but the air does not respond to me. It just echoes the screams within my ears until I do not know which ones are mine, and which ones are not.

My First Cup of Coffee

I think that parents often let their children try coffee at a young age just to stop the seemingly endless whining. While I’d like to think I didn’t complain as a child, I’m not sure what else would have inspired my parents to let me try coffee before I was old enough to need caffeine to function.

I don’t remember exactly how old I was, probably around eight or nine, but do I remember sitting next to my mother on our blue and white checkered couch and begging a sip. I don’t even recall why I wanted to try coffee so much. Probably because it was a forbidden drink that only adults were allowed. So, my child’s mind decided that if I got to try the coffee, then I would be more mature.

Anyway, my mother decided to let me try her drink. Perhaps she figured that I since I was, and still am, such a picky eater that there was no way in hell that I would like it.

And oh, was she right! As soon as that horrid liquid touched my taste buds, I wanted to spit it right back in the mug. I was positive she’d accidentally made her drink with fuel oil instead of coffee. Still, I swallowed the concoction, of which my mother was probably very grateful. Nobody appreciates backwashed coffee, or any other beverage for that matter.

After that gritty experience, I decided to avoid coffee for awhile. My father tried to offer me a taste of his homemade iced mocha instead of the milk and hot coffee my mom had, but I quickly declined after smelling the drink. The brownness of the liquid, diluted with melted ice cubes didn’t smell like what I thought coffee should smell like. Coffee was supposed to be warm. It smelled spicy and exotic, like distant lands that you couldn’t even imagine how to get to since they were so far away. There was supposed to be an imagined residue left on your tongue after someone ground up the beans when you were in the same room. The taste was supposed to hold the memory of resting in the cradle of a paper filter, having hot water pushed through it, and then being percolated into a glass pot. Coffee was supposed to be drunk from a ceramic mug, not a teal plastic cup with a hot pink lid. (And yes, my father still uses these cups for his coffee).

I realized then that it wasn’t the idea of coffee that I liked, but rather the smell. Freshly ground coffee instantly softens a room. The smell relaxes; it makes a place feel more comfortable and homey. This affect is what led me to allow my brother to talk me into tasting his peppermint mocha years later. To my surprise, I actually enjoyed the taste of the coffee this time, and ordered my first whole cup of coffee. Sure, this form of the beverage had been altered with chocolate, milk, and sugary syrups, but it made me realize that a lot of the foods I’d discarded in the past after just one taste might be enjoyable if augmented slightly.

So, I really had two first cups of coffee: one that I tried and discarded, along with the idea of ever liking coffee, and a second that I enjoyed and consumed with the realization that other aspects of life could be also liked if I changed the way in which I received them.