The Open Matt Project

Ellie Naturally

God it's hot out. Where to go now? Just forward, I guess, just forward and don't eye the Bay Bridge that way. Jupiter? Oh Christ, these people again.

I'm walking down California St. towards BART, alternatively fighting tears back and being washed in waves of exhausted apathy, and I see the canvassers. Pretty, honest, young women with clipboards and backbacks and an earnest glow that may not be for sale, but is certainly on display. It feels like stomping through a flowerbed sometimes, to pass them by. I don't give myself the chance.

Oh, it's her, that one from the other day. God what's her name? Alice? Ann? Apples? Say Hi.

Hey, it's you again!

Shit she's talking to you. Now you're locked in. She's going to give you the whole pitch and you're going to stand here like a microphone stand letting her pour the entire thing right down to your wallet. You know you can't afford whatever it is. This is just like being at the strip club. No money, no purpose, you're wasting her time.

She talks and I explain that I don't want any. I know it's a good cause, and I know it's not that much money. Her friend says or asks something about the quality of my life and I tell her - my girlfriend left me, my father is unwell, and I'm up to my eyeballs in crushing debt.

"Well at least you have your health!" She attempts.

No, I'm sick with a sinus infection. What do you give to the man who has everything? Probably the same thing you take from the man who has nothing.

Anyway, the girl talks at me. She says her name is Ellie. She. Is. Beautiful. I realize she is definitely not the one I thought she was. She's talking and I'm scouring her face for anything that's not perfect and failing and failing. She gives me a piece of gum, despite my absolute refusal to take it, and suggests I give it to someone else.

What is this gum? Trident? Flashbacks to the 80s and dentists recommending it. She probably wasn't even born in the 80s. Maybe I'll just pop it in my mouth. Watermelon flavored, ugh. The one flavor that science has only successfully managed to persistently mangle. I should give this to someone else? Who would take it? I have no pack it's coming out of, and it's a single piece of gum loosely wrapped in paper. What's that they say about Candy From Strangers?

She suggests I do something spontaneous so I ask her to the movies this weekend. The effect on her face would not have been different had I asked in Farsi. Despite being off-balance she notes that we do not know each other at all and I take this as probably the widest opening I've ever encountered from someone who has zero interest in me.

God it's hot. You're going to stand here and listen to her as long as she's going to talk. Just look at her. Amazing. What the? Oh. Shit. There's sweat running down my back, tickling me. You are going to smell like hell later. You shouldn't have asked her out. At least I'm losing water weight. Is that guy looking at me?

There's a man nearby who she clearly is acquainted with by merit of their both being street hustlers. I look at him, he looks at me, we stop looking, I sense in mutual embarrassment.

What is that accent? Definitely East Coast. Her mouth reminds me of Julianne Moore. She's absolutely murdering her vowels. Boston. She's from Boston.

She says no, she's from Virginia. East Coast, at least, I lamely respond.

I realize that she is absolutely fascinating somewhere in the middle of a story about an old woman who simply couldn't see anything positive in her life. I envision this encounter and I have to laugh, which I do. She asks what I'm laughing about, more curious than offended, and I struggle for words to describe it.

Optimistic? Upbeat? Positive? Good-natured? Aggressively happy. Aggressively optimistic. Aggressive isn't strong enough.

"You're violently optimistic."

And it's true. The more she talks the more I realize she is in all ways everything I am not, in perfect arrangement. Immediately I feel protective and humiliated and enthralled. I ask what she's connected to and when she responds with confusion I point at her heart and repeat myself. Whatever she said is missed as I realize I'm only asking for the answer so I can question how she'd feel if that thing was torn from her so she'd understand my cavernous ache - and how small and possibly evil that made me.

She really believes what she's saying.

She believes in Everything Good. She's no hippie, no feel-good drifter, no lazy shifter, no nose-thumb to her parents. No, she's good in a way that is inexorable. It flows out of her as an untouched spring and I feel dirty by mere proximity. Her explanations are exploratory while simultaneously being incantations and imperatives.

Ask her out again. You want to see her again. Do it. Why? She enjoys everything you do not. She's concerts and beaches and you are TV shows and alcoholism. It's perfect. No, it's not, it's perverse. You love perverse. Yes, but you cannot buy this with your currency; your money is no good here. She's a sun rider, a light flier, and you are a stone cave under the moon.

She hints that time is running out, as she is on the clock and I don't even have one. I can feel the end coming and moving under a nearby tree to the shade it's also an allegory. I realize I will be signing her papers and my ruined credit card will be getting some sun. The switch to business is jarring.

What are you doing? You cannot afford this. You will likely have to cancel this. Just for the girl? Really? Tell her you don't care. Get up and walk away. Jesus, you're pathetic. Oh ok, fucking fine, do something good. You'll probably just "forget" about this monthly expense and end up accidentally helping some girl a thousand miles away. Pat on your sweaty back, Angel.

During this process, I get her email address and full name. Naturally I cannot share them here, so I will improvise something similar to convey at least the flavor. EMAIL ADDRESS: poolsoffortune at gmail dot com. Last name? Bright.

Naturally.

Posted by Matt at August 19, 2010 05:58 PM

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