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Blind to Love at First Sight by Rebecca Uhlhorn
For a while I thought of tunnel vision as something that plagued holiday shoppers. That inability to see anyone around them, much less another shopper about to cross their path and make a dive for the gift wrap line, was a self-centered disability that I despised. Then I got a day job. As the receptionist, I was paid to greet everyone who came through the front door. I enjoyed chatting with couriers and clients but I quickly learned that too much eye contact with other employees lead to extra work. Staring at my screen with a slight scowl was the way to have a peaceful workday of only answering the phones. When my tunnel vision worked and I was left with little to do but look busy and watch the construction workers across First Street, I happily turned to the Internet for entertainment. Entertainment is all an online personals’ website is supposed to be for a girl just out of an eight-year relationship and not ready for serious dating. In my casualness, it was like catalog shopping before going to the store for a new pair of jeans. Except his e-mail wasn’t like the others. I know that’s cliché, but after almost two weeks of badly phrased offers for free sex; intellectual conversation and career advice thinly veiling offers for sex; and too many to count desperately confident and pompously approachable e-mail pick-ups it was true. His sense of humor, somehow catching sight of my sarcasm within the glossed-over tripe that filled my profile, asked my sense of humor out for coffee. He suggested we sit and laugh at the world for a while, share in a little schaudenfraude, and see if we got along. I was going to resist and continue my browsing. The whole free-after-nearly-a-decade aspect was inspiring some me-time even if there was an intriguing guy out there. Only his writing was a masterful mix of easy-going conversation, charm, and persistence, so when he asked if I wanted to “just dive in” I was ready to test the waters. In the weird way the world has of being small, we had friends in common. Our paths might have crossed a dozen times in the past but we had never met. Which brings me back to tunnel vision. I know for a fact we had been in the same room together years ago. It was a concert that I remember well, I was working at, and had spent some of that night talking with his good friends. I can recollect the entire room and the other people, but I can’t picture his face. Somehow I didn’t see him. It seemed I was destined not to see him on that first Friday either. My wavering will to make our meeting anything but a date bent the evening into a strange outing. I was going to see a movie with my friend, and then we’d swing by and pick him up. From there the three of us would head downtown where my friend was meeting someone from another online website. It was in the car, slipping into the avenue traffic heading downtown that I first realized I didn’t know what he looked like. After an awkward handshake outside his building, where my eyes only saw our hands meet, he had climbed into the backseat. I’m sure I smiled at him, and my eyes automatically swept across his face but single self-preservation blurred the details. Dark hair was my first vague impression. Flashing streetlights weren’t letting me get a glimpse of him in the car’s side mirror and then we were walking side by side towards the bar. A heavy oak door, the late-night happy hour crowd, and a harried bartender all met my eye. Alex was behind me, a gentleman tall enough to order a drink over my head. We sat down at a small, round table and he sat next to me on the bench giving my friend the seat across from us. I saw the sleeve of a striped dress shirt reach for his beer, cloudy Guinness dark next to my pale lager. Another sip and I was building up my courage to turn to him and talk face to face, but a man at the table next to us dropped his pants in a drunken pantomime proving some point. Conversation was non-stop, animated, and interesting and it was now a date. Admitting that alluring fact jangled my nerves even more, and nervousness shut down my peripheral vision in a desperate attempt to concentrate on not doing anything nightmarish like spill my drink. My friend left us sitting side by side to find her date but I still wasn’t able to blink the shyness out of my eyes. I saw headlights sweeping by the window behind us, his bright smile and stubbled chin; the loud table next to us still going strong though now fully clothed; the slightly unstable table in front of us; and the constant carousel of people whirling by. We decided to go somewhere smaller; I suggested a peanut bar where I knew the booths were narrow but high-backed. There I’d sit across from him and really see him. Outside I raised my hand and, by a mediocre miracle, a cab pulled to the curb with its door already swinging open. Inside was a career cabbie with a list of complaints and enough conversation to take us all the way to the next venue without a word. Nodding to the diatribe-filled driver in the rearview mirror kept me from covertly glancing at my date. Unseen, our hands met in the middle of the seats. He kept my hand all the way out of the cab, across the corner, only to let it go and open the door for me. We sat down in the small booths but my determined gaze was drawn to the apparition of a different friend waving as she approached. She grinned wickedly and led the group with her to the booth directly behind my date. Silly faces, waggling eyebrows, winking eyes, and thumbs-up signs kept me from a straight face and a good long look at this guy who was suddenly more than a blind date. Finally it was late and we left. He walked me home under the drifting halos of streetlamps and the shadows of the neighborhood side streets. I was irritated at my self and quickly doing inventory. Dark hair, five o’clock shadow, quick smile, softly smiling eyes, broad shoulders, big hands, why hadn’t I seen the complete man? I’d seen him in parts and kept him separated because I knew as a whole he was too tempting. I’d love him. It was that sudden insight that cured my blindness. I saw him turn to kiss me and I kept my eyes open as he leaned in. Finally looking at him, I heard a voice inside me shouting out “this one!” I closed my eyes, our lips met, and I knew I was falling in love at first sight. ~~~ Rebecca Uhlhorn lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota where she spends her days surviving a desk job, her evenings battling procrastination, and all the time in between writing. |
Early Education by J. Blake Gordon
Two weeks into kindergarten, I decided I was through with school. My mother and I had recently moved to Chicago from Pittsburgh, and the adjustment was difficult for me. It was difficult for both of us. I was not making things easy by telling my mother that I didn't want to be in school anymore. But I just couldn't stand the thought of going back. My teacher was mean and horrible, and I had no interest in befriending any of my classmates. Well, I didn't mind so much about my classmates, but I had no doubt that Miss Linda was a mean and horrible person. (And she did lose her job at the end of the year, but that's another story.) To give you an example of her wickedness, after one of our first outdoor recess periods, Miss Linda was to lead my class into the school library for an orientation session. (Maybe it was for story-time - I don't remember). After she had lined us up on the playground, I informed her that I needed to use the bathroom. It was my understanding that we (my classmates and I) were all to have a bathroom break after recess. This had been clearly explained on the first day of school. I really had to go this time, though, and I wanted to make sure she knew. Miss Linda replied that we were late for the library, and there wasn't time for everyone to use the bathrooms, so no-one would be allowed to stop. But I really had to go, I told her. And she became cross, and said we all took too long to line up after recess, and losing bathroom privileges was our punishment. She told me I'd have to hold it. (I was four, by the way.) I said nothing and proceeded inside with the others, right past the boy's room, up the stairs and down the hall to the library. Once situated as a group on the floor, we were instructed to remain silent and pay attention to the librarian (or whoever was about to speak). But all I could pay attention to was my near-bursting bladder, and about halfway through the reading/lecture/I-don't-care, I just couldn't hold it anymore. So I soaked my corduroys and tried to hide the stain with my arms for the rest of the period. I was so ashamed of myself. When Miss Linda saw me afterward, she rolled her eyes and asked me why I couldn't hold it. And I apologized. I apologized. To that evil woman! Anyway, after the first two weeks, after several other degrading experiences, I began protesting having to return to kindergarten every way I knew how. My mother walked me to school in the morning, before catching her bus to work, and I complained the entire way. For most of my childhood, I suffered from anxiety-related stomach pains, and I think they started after those first few days of dealing with Miss Linda. As soon as we'd leave our building, I'd tell my mother that I felt sick, that I needed to stay home, that I wouldn't be able to make it through the day. And of course the pains grew worse the nearer we drew to the school building. By the time we reached the front doors, I was in tears, clinging to my mother's arm or leg, begging her not to leave me. My hysterical sobbing continued, despite her words of comfort and encouragement, as we descended the school's main stairwell. Then, when my classroom door appeared before us, I started screaming. For many days I did this. My poor mother tried every method of reassurance she knew, but I was beside myself with unhappiness. Miss Linda would inevitably hear my approaching fit and emerge from the classroom. She'd tell me I had nothing to worry about, that my classmates were waiting for me, that we were going to have a great day. (Lies!) But after I repeated this performance a few times, her consoling tone cooled, and she eventually told my mother, "If you can't get this under control, we're not going to be able to keep him". I didn't want to cause trouble, and I gradually understood that it was just as hard for my mother to leave as it was for me to be left. I knew I had to be brave; I knew I had to stay. So I stayed. And I learned. But saying that final goodbye each day was the worst. It was the worst feeling. The worst. And the best? Seeing her again at the end of the day.
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J. Blake Gordon is a poet and songwriter who lives in Evanston, Illinois with his cat. Blake went to Hobart and William Smith College in Geneva, New York, earning a bachelor's degree in English, and The Charles H. prize for Creative Writing, in 1997. Several of his poems have been featured in literary magazines/journals such as Rockhurst Review, Chase Park, Wavelength, Curbside Review, New Rag Rising, Joey And The Black Boots and The Better Drink. Blake has been creating and recording songs (at home, mostly with his guitar and his voice) for almost ten years. Blake is also an amateur photographer, preferring to shoot on black and white film, utilizing skills taught to him by the late John Almquist.
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