Tuesday - A date with death, part 1
May. 16th, 2006 02:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ninanevermoreToday on my drive into work, The Carney blew me a kiss as I drove past him. The flirtatious gesture bothered me a little more than usual, because I didn't want him to read more into the weekend than he should. You see, after more than a year of interaction, on Saturday I decided to talk to him face to face for the first time ever. We went to a local bar for drinks. I hope he doesn't think that it was a date date, since I'm a married woman, and he is the Angel of Death. But I had some things that I've always wanted to ask him, so I figured that we could discuss these things over a couple of beers.
The logistics of it weren't as complicated as you might think. Since I am the only one who sees him, I only had to approach him in my mind's eye. On Saturday night, after I put my son down to bed around 8 o'clock, I sat on my couch, closed my eyes and I pictured myself in the field where the Ferris Wheel runs. The Carney's back was facing me as I walked toward him, his hand on the lever that operates the ride. He watched the wheel turning in it's gigantic arch. I was surprised at how quiet it was. There was no hum of a generator or creak of the machinery. The Wheel of life and death operates in complete silence.
When I got up to him, he said, "I was expecting you," but he still didn't look at me. I asked him if he wanted to grab a couple of beers, and he agreed. That's when he finally turned to me and smiled. His face is weathered, and he looks like he could be anywhere between the ages of 35 and 55. His eyes are older than that. They are like looking at the sky over the desert at sunset; once you look into them they seem to go on and on and on, drowning out the horizon in hues that defy the palette of words that I have to describe them with.
We went to a honky-tonk that is not too far from The Wheel, just half a mile down the road off of the state highway. The Angel of Death rode shotgun in my Elantra to get there. I asked him to put on his seat belt, and then felt stupid when he laughed softly as he did it.
When we got to the honky-tonk, we went inside and sat at the bar. The Carney, who told me I could call him Jim, ordered a Budweiser. I ordered a Corona Extra with lime. I'm not much of a beer drinker, but I like almost anything that can be drank with lime.
"So," The Carney, or Jim, said, "What's on your mind?"
There I was, faced with Death (though under friendlier circumstances than most people will ever meet with him), and I couldn't think of a thing to ask. When you have a thousand and one questions, it's hard to pick just one.
"I can't tell you when anyone is going to die, or when you're going to die, or anything like that," he said helpfully. "Stick to general questions. You know, philosophical ones. I got insight into that kind of thing. No gory details, though. Even I don't usually know that stuff until just before it happens."
I thought for a moment. "Why 'Jim?'" I asked.
He shrugged. "Someone once told me that I look like a Jim, and it stuck."
"Oh." I felt like a dork. I took a swig of my beer to make myself look too busy to talk. I got to thinking about drinking from longneck bottles of beer, and how back in college I liked to stick my thumb over an open bottle, shake it up a bit, let the foam run down the bottle and lick it off just to watch my cousin's boyfriend forget to breath and look like he was going to faint. Back then, I still looked like a wide-eyed innocent and I could claim a partial ignorance about the effect that this had on the poor guy (I just thought it was funny at the time). At my age now, if I were to do this trick the person watching would expect me to have the life experience to make good on the promise. Because I am a responsible and respectable married woman, I have to drink my beer in a lady-like way. I wouldn't want Death to get the wrong idea about me. In a honky-tonk like this one, it was safer to not let anyone get the wrong idea about me.
Jim started chuckling to himself. I wondered if he could see what I had been thinking about, and I felt myself blush. He finished his beer and said, "Come on, let's dance."
I shook my head. "No can do. I can't dance. I suck at it."
He took my hand and led me to the dance floor. "Not tonight, you don't. Just relax and let me lead. Close your eyes."
So I closed my eyes and let Death put one hand on my waist while he held my hand with his other.
"Close your eyes," he murmured, "Let me lead. You're doing fine."
I tend over think when dancing with a partner, and I always forget to let him lead. I'm no good at letting another person lead me in general and I neglect to make an exception on the dance floor. But Jim has been dancing since the first notes of music were invented, and he has been doing the Texas Two Step since long before Hank Williams had his first hit. He is a skilled partner, and I let him twirl me around the floor to the strains of some country and western song that I didn't recognize. As long as I kept my eyes shut and didn't try to look down at my feet, as long as I let him guide me where to go, then no one could tell that I am probably the second worst dancer to ever walk the earth (my husband is the all time worst, yet another reason we are so compatible). If I have to be on a dance floor, I love it to be with someone like Jim, who is so good that he makes me look good. We danced for two songs before we sat back down. I went to work on the half a beer I had left, and Jim ordered a second one for himself.
Finally, as the alcohol started to relax me and I felt more at ease, we started to talk.
Later, I'll tell you about what we discussed.
* * *
The logistics of it weren't as complicated as you might think. Since I am the only one who sees him, I only had to approach him in my mind's eye. On Saturday night, after I put my son down to bed around 8 o'clock, I sat on my couch, closed my eyes and I pictured myself in the field where the Ferris Wheel runs. The Carney's back was facing me as I walked toward him, his hand on the lever that operates the ride. He watched the wheel turning in it's gigantic arch. I was surprised at how quiet it was. There was no hum of a generator or creak of the machinery. The Wheel of life and death operates in complete silence.
When I got up to him, he said, "I was expecting you," but he still didn't look at me. I asked him if he wanted to grab a couple of beers, and he agreed. That's when he finally turned to me and smiled. His face is weathered, and he looks like he could be anywhere between the ages of 35 and 55. His eyes are older than that. They are like looking at the sky over the desert at sunset; once you look into them they seem to go on and on and on, drowning out the horizon in hues that defy the palette of words that I have to describe them with.
We went to a honky-tonk that is not too far from The Wheel, just half a mile down the road off of the state highway. The Angel of Death rode shotgun in my Elantra to get there. I asked him to put on his seat belt, and then felt stupid when he laughed softly as he did it.
When we got to the honky-tonk, we went inside and sat at the bar. The Carney, who told me I could call him Jim, ordered a Budweiser. I ordered a Corona Extra with lime. I'm not much of a beer drinker, but I like almost anything that can be drank with lime.
"So," The Carney, or Jim, said, "What's on your mind?"
There I was, faced with Death (though under friendlier circumstances than most people will ever meet with him), and I couldn't think of a thing to ask. When you have a thousand and one questions, it's hard to pick just one.
"I can't tell you when anyone is going to die, or when you're going to die, or anything like that," he said helpfully. "Stick to general questions. You know, philosophical ones. I got insight into that kind of thing. No gory details, though. Even I don't usually know that stuff until just before it happens."
I thought for a moment. "Why 'Jim?'" I asked.
He shrugged. "Someone once told me that I look like a Jim, and it stuck."
"Oh." I felt like a dork. I took a swig of my beer to make myself look too busy to talk. I got to thinking about drinking from longneck bottles of beer, and how back in college I liked to stick my thumb over an open bottle, shake it up a bit, let the foam run down the bottle and lick it off just to watch my cousin's boyfriend forget to breath and look like he was going to faint. Back then, I still looked like a wide-eyed innocent and I could claim a partial ignorance about the effect that this had on the poor guy (I just thought it was funny at the time). At my age now, if I were to do this trick the person watching would expect me to have the life experience to make good on the promise. Because I am a responsible and respectable married woman, I have to drink my beer in a lady-like way. I wouldn't want Death to get the wrong idea about me. In a honky-tonk like this one, it was safer to not let anyone get the wrong idea about me.
Jim started chuckling to himself. I wondered if he could see what I had been thinking about, and I felt myself blush. He finished his beer and said, "Come on, let's dance."
I shook my head. "No can do. I can't dance. I suck at it."
He took my hand and led me to the dance floor. "Not tonight, you don't. Just relax and let me lead. Close your eyes."
So I closed my eyes and let Death put one hand on my waist while he held my hand with his other.
"Close your eyes," he murmured, "Let me lead. You're doing fine."
I tend over think when dancing with a partner, and I always forget to let him lead. I'm no good at letting another person lead me in general and I neglect to make an exception on the dance floor. But Jim has been dancing since the first notes of music were invented, and he has been doing the Texas Two Step since long before Hank Williams had his first hit. He is a skilled partner, and I let him twirl me around the floor to the strains of some country and western song that I didn't recognize. As long as I kept my eyes shut and didn't try to look down at my feet, as long as I let him guide me where to go, then no one could tell that I am probably the second worst dancer to ever walk the earth (my husband is the all time worst, yet another reason we are so compatible). If I have to be on a dance floor, I love it to be with someone like Jim, who is so good that he makes me look good. We danced for two songs before we sat back down. I went to work on the half a beer I had left, and Jim ordered a second one for himself.
Finally, as the alcohol started to relax me and I felt more at ease, we started to talk.
Later, I'll tell you about what we discussed.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
when dancing with a partner
Date: 2006-05-16 07:34 pm (UTC)Re: when dancing with a partner
Date: 2006-05-16 07:38 pm (UTC)a little intimidated
Date: 2006-05-16 08:00 pm (UTC)Re: a little intimidated
Date: 2006-05-16 09:35 pm (UTC)Re: when dancing with a partner
Date: 2006-05-16 11:05 pm (UTC)