Wet in Black and Guava
Girl Walks into an Ice Cream Shop
Photo by Priscilla Du Preez on Unsplash
I’m halfway through a second draft edit. I hate writing that because there’s a strong possibility I’m still in the same spot I was the last time and said the same thing so now we’re sitting at the same awkward meal where we’re catching up, but nothing has truly changed.
In circumstances like this, I take time to reflect. I look at things that have happened and try to make sense of it. After writing my review of the Magic Mike trilogy over on Medium, I started thinking about my own life.
I started by examining open water swimming. It’s really cold outside right now and with the wind, that brings the water temperature even further down. If I can’t walk outside without a sweater, how could I possibly even think about getting into the water. Then I think of simply hopping in the jacuzzi, but maintenance in my building is working on the jets right now so that’s out of the picture as well. Which puts me back on dry land.
What it does bring to mind is a moment not too long ago where I was standing out in the open in a black dress soaking wet, just mad at the world. How I arrived at that field in that dress isn’t important right now. Situations, like life land us in unusual places and we have to roll with the punches. What I do have the ability to reflect on is what I did immediately afterwards. I went for ice cream.
Once you’ve thrown a tantrum in front of almost strangers and the dust settles and the sun starts to peak its way out from behind the clouds, you forget the anger. The blood pressure subsides. You no longer hold on to the blinding hot rage and so there really is no explanation for the sunshine on your face while your outfit is soaking wet. Ice cream is thrown out as a suggestion to mask an awkward moment that can’t be righted.
There has never been a greater level of professionalism shown than the young man that took my order when I walked into that ice cream shop. He didn’t bat an eye as I said hello and looked at the ice cream flavors as if there wasn’t an untold story in the air. The cotton poplin was like a second skin and my sandals made a squeaking sound when I walked across the tiled floor. For a split second I did wonder if I would have been asked to leave if it were in America, but then I realized that the arrogance in my voice and my height allow me a level of forgiveness that I shouldn’t be granted. I probably could have gotten away with it in Toluca Lake too.
I ordered 5 ice cream cones for my party and debated whether I should sit on the bar stool or go outside. My dress was no longer dripping. The only one I could hurt at this point was myself and in the heat and muggy weather, I doubted my level of dampness was too far off from the other patrons. I sat on the wooden stool and ate my chocolate ice cream cone without a care in the world.
My glasses were foggy and I had to remove them to wipe with my wet dress a few times so that I could see. There’s always an asshole in the group and one in my party asked for a picture. This moment has been immortalized, but thankfully only in my phone. Five people thrown together by circumstance. Four are dry for the most part and smiling with their ice cream cones, then to the very left is me, smiling with my ice cream, no explanation whatsoever in the picture as to why I’m the only one standing in an ice cream shop in a wet dress with her hair matted to her scalp wearing foggy glasses. The curls in the front with the bit of rain were still perfect.
I remembered that black dress this past week as I was biting into a burrito in a Tiki bar. Meeting with a writing group at a bar in North Hollywood seems like a great get together. I timed it just right. I ordered my burrito right after the rush, so by the time I finished my burrito, I could say my goodbyes and head home. I can be part of a group setting, if you don’t expect me to participate in any way and aren’t offended if I don’t engage with you before I grab my bag to leave. Trust me, I enjoyed myself, I’m just better on paper sometimes.
The conversation with the waitress is the stuff of comedy:
“What is your best drink?” I ask.
“It depends on what you’re in the mood for,” she replies.
“Well, I didn’t know you were serving food, and I planned on getting your large punch, but now I prefer something that would complement my carne asada burrito.”
She gives me a few options.
“Yes, the last one. I love that, just hold all the alcohol because I’m really excited about the burrito, I have an hour drive ahead of me and I’m not sure if I want to drink, you know?”
“So, just a guava juice?” Never had it seemed like I had just made a spectacular drink sound so uneventful.
I think about the ice cream cone and the wet dress. People are conversing around me. I am able to make out the words and string them into a conversation. Blah Blah - someone mentions my manuscript, like a narcissist I’m all ears now. The topic turns to something else and so does my attention.
Drinking my guava juice and biting into my burrito, I’m happy that I ordered that ice cream cone. It’s a memory, like the Tiki bar will be a memory. A place of spirits. A place where I put a coherent thought together that would develop into a story that I would write. It was worth the crowd and the small talk, and the mingling with fellow writers. What I enjoy about this tribe is my asshole antics are understood. They get me and everyone is fine when I make my goodbyes.
I chat with my friend on the phone during the drive home.
“Walking to the car, I’m leaving a bar,” I answer.
“Finally, a good Friday story.”
Twenty minutes later she reiterates that it could only be a Sabrina story. I thought it was a good Friday story. What I really take away from all of this - from the ice cream to the guava is that I believe I might be the constant in the story. Not merely the observer, but the constant one in the story. I wonder if that affects the writing in any way.