The Old Gray Sedan with the Tragic Blue Door…

Posted: April 25, 2008 in creative nonfiction, Morgantown, Sarah Einstein
Tags: , ,

It’s summer weather today, though there may be snow by Monday.  I am thinking a lot about love and nostalgia and seasons passing this morning, which probably means that I shouldn’t have had that second martini last night.  A slight hangover is indistinguishable from melancholy.

It was this time last year that I first met Mot.  I was still reeling from the attempted rape in the hallway of Friendship Room and my horrified surprise that, rather than rallying around me, the participants became increasingly violent towards me.  After the attack, they knew how to keep me from getting my footing again and that meant a kind of freedom for them, I suppose.  But what a miracle it was, amid the threats and violence, to suddenly have this kind and sheltering friend.  A gentleman, maybe of a kind we won’t see again when his generation is gone.   Someone who recited poetry and talked about sitting on the beach in France flirting with the pretty young girls who brought him wine and books in English.  Someone who came by on a Sunday to help scrub the floors instead knocking over a coffee cup and leaving the spill for me to find later. 

I watched on the news today as a homeless man robbed a young soldier who was having a seizure.  Only moment before, the soldier had given this man money from his own pocket.  The newscaster said, “I hope everyone realizes this is just an isolated incident.  I hope this won’t stop anyone from helping the next homeless person who asks for assistance.”  I do, too, but only because you never know whether the person asking is Mot or some street junkie.  It’s hard to tell the two apart, and too easy to assume one or the other, depending on your bent.

It’s more than strange to me to know that Mot is afraid of me now, thinks I’m in league with the voices in his head, and that he can’t even tolerate receiving emails from me.  Crazy fights hard and it doesn’t fight fair.  The sun is out and there is a breeze from the west.  All I want to do is hop in the car and head for Texas.  But he and the old gray sedan with the tragic blue door aren’t there any more.  I don’t know where he is now, and probably never will again.  The car was abandoned near an a reservation in Oklahoma, the keys given to a kid at the auto parts store who probably sold it for scrap.

Whatever kind of love this is, it is more constant than I would have imagined, and some days, more so than I can bear. 

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Comments
  1. inktarsia says:

    Beautifully rendered, this summary of the past year. It reads like prayer, though that’s not your chosen genre. It’s terribly important work to hold someone in the light of the peace candle with such constancy. You are such a champion for Mot.

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