four MARGARET part 6
I loaded the things I wanted to keep and walked through the apartment one last time. Checked the status of my flight out of Eugene and went to get Melanie from class.
She insisted on driving. We stopped for gas on the way to the airport and I paid for the fill-up with Vincent’s cash. Felt the oddly changed energy now, seated on the passenger side looking at Melanie, unable to find a good station on the radio. She was dragging ass, exhausted after staying up all night finalizing administrative details with me and then riding the Loop Bus to class.
You’re super quiet, I said.
Melanie shrugged, signaled. Pulled south onto 99. Her gorgeous hair was strangled with a scrunchy and haystacked in a sprung shitbun on top of her head.
I’m excited for you, she said. And I’m honestly really goddamned worried.
Mel. Don’t worry. Please. I did my homework today, you made cookies. I thought you were good with this.
She turned and looked at me. Deeply and for real, like she definitely knew.
We had discussed this the night before, so I said again what I’d said then. I said it firmly now, maybe a little too loud but I needed to remind myself, and I wanted to establish one specific fact just for Melanie’s information:
I will not take him back. This is business.
Melanie’s eyes returned to the road.
I took ten deep breaths and remembered who I was talking to. Carefully reset my personal volume and said:
Thank you.
She nodded again.
Melanie. Hey.
What?
Thank you, okay? For everything. None of this would be happening if you hadn’t. You know. Opened this crazy fucking door for me.
She tilted her head, sort of shrugged again and I wondered: Why is this so hard?
You’re welcome, Melanie said. Thank you for the amp. All the books and stuff.
We’re gonna be in touch Mel. Ten percent. Right?
Melanie hung onto the steering wheel, elbows out, face slack. Cheeto’s tires scuffed the curb in front of the terminal.
Well. I guess, be careful. Don’t forget to breathe.
The pressure inside the pickup cab dropped as a vast distance opened between us. I took the envelope from my purse and put it on the dashboard.
What’s this?
Open it, I said.
What is it?
It’s a thank-you card.
You just thanked me like, twice.
Yeah but this is a card. A proper thank-you card. I’m formally saying thanks for your hospitality, all your fucking generosity. And for agreeing to manage Citizen Samurai. I signed it love and everything. So check it out.
I stepped out of Cheeto, hoisted my bag and my microKORG in its touring case to the curb. Melanie ragged the envelope open with one thumb and read the card. I poked my head into the cab.
Oral hygiene and thank-you cards are the only things that separate us from the animals Mel.
She rolled her eyes and pitched my card onto the empty passenger seat. I held my breath, shut the door and put up a hand. Said a hushed goodbye to my new band manager.
Melanie pulled away from the terminal and her physical subtraction from me was complete. I felt like a three-stage rocket dropping its first booster now, truly awake and aware of being human. Hungry, picking up speed. Worthy of taking up my own space and going for this thing I wanted. Desperately ready to make something real happen.
©2017 J.R. Schaefers — all rights reserved.