The images and sounds of the bus depot would stick with her. No matter how much she tried to stay positive, she always ended up feeling defeated before the battle even began.
All the faces of despair and poverty; the ugliness stared back at her without seeing her. They appeared to be looking through her into the vacant space of nothingness. She was Rhiannon, and she was waiting for her life to be over one day at a time. She lived for the moment, tomorrow was another day. Another day of empty stares, another day of meaningless hellos, and even more meaningless farewells.
Rhiannon pictured a treadmill at the local women’s fitness club. That was her life, one foot stepping in front of the other, alternating, using up time. Rhiannon knew that not everyone felt this way. Her mother’s voice over the phone dripped with urgency, and emotion. She was a powder keg of anxiety waiting to blow up in some poor guy’s face.
Rhiannon felt detached. She didn’t feel sorry for the fate of the victim, nor for her mother the ticking time bomb. That was the problem with Rhiannon. She felt absolutely nothing at all.
“Hey, Rhee, whatcha thinking about?” Her cool blue eyes shifted from the vacant people who lived and died on mass transit, toward the plain yet persistent Annie. Rhiannon had yet to find a way to get rid of Annie, who was oblivious to the blankness and detachment evident in Rhiannon’s eyes. “Well?” Annie hated gaps in a conversation. Conversations were like little books to her; they consisted of a definite beginning, middle, and conclusion. Emptiness was something that Annie didn’t like.
“Look at the people on the bus there. My life is much the same. We’re all slaves to an endless routine which is slowly poisoning us.”
“Rhee, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was thinking, maybe we could rent some movies. Have a girls night in, you know.”
“Annie, isn’t that what we always do? I know I haven’t felt well lately. I know I’ve been a hermit. But that doesn’t mean you have to be one too. It is okay for you to have a life. You’re allowed, I hereby give you my permission.” Rhiannon knew her words stung Annie because she was quiet, something of a rarity when it comes to Annie. Rhiannon watched her nod, and wave. Annie sighed, got in her little white car, an old Datsun, and backed out while another equally small car honked disharmoniously at her.
Was it such a crime to want to be alone? Rhiannon had no car. She used to have one. It wasn’t expensive, although her parents bought it for her. Her brother wrecked it after a wild night of bar hopping. She wasn’t there when it happened. She had stayed home, painting. Painting had once been her true love. Now? She wasn’t so sure. She walked to her apartment despite it being eight miles away. She liked walking. She liked people watching. What was going on in the mind of the old lady walking her mini daschund? Or the fat man taking out his trash?
Annie would be home stewing, her door shut, waiting for an apology. Rhiannon knew that Annie simply wanted someone to take care of, to care for. Rhiannon also knew that Annie was extremely shy. Not in the same way as Rhiannon, not through a lack of caring, but due to a pervading fear of rejection. Loners tend to seek out other loners, and they met and had been friends since high school. Annie had the misfortune of being the new girl, fresh in from someplace in Massachusetts. Rhiannon on the other hand grew up rarely stirring from the same small town. To by shy and to start over from scratch, not once but many times sounded like torture.
Annie’s father was some kind of business man, although what he did exactly was unknown to Rhiannon. It started in school, art class. “There are four of you to a table for a reason. Your final will be a group project. If you don’t participate, you fail the class. That’s it, pure and simple, folks. Many take this class thinking “Easy A”, but I am here to dismiss that myth.” That’s right, Rhiannon’s most enduring friendship was from a teacher’s random seating chart.
Rhiannon tiredly unlocked the door, and pushed herself into the small two bedroom apartment. There was no one set of decor, it was a hodge podge of styles. Her mother would be horrified if she ever visited. Half the place was covered in Rhiannon’s drawings or paintings, the other half had those prints one buys at Michael’s combined with a couple well chosen family pictures. That was Annie’s contribution.
Rhiannon’s photos remained in several scrapbooks kept hidden under lock and key. She only revisited them if she thought she was completely alone, and even then only rarely. To Rhiannon her mother was the shrill concerned voice on the other end of the telephone. That was all. Sometimes she had dreams of the phone ringing, and ringing, but the line would always be dead before she picked it up. She often wondered what the dream meant. Somewhere deep down in the core of her being, perhaps she missed her mom? Or perhaps it meant nothing.
She shut the door lazily, neither slamming it, nor taking care to be gentle.
“Your mom called. She left a message. I think you should call her back.” Annie’s voice was clipped and precise. It was an attempt to project coldness and impersonal lack of feeling. It was a failure. Rhiannon knew Annie was hurt. She even understood why. She simply couldn’t bring herself to care.
“Okay.” Rhiannon briefly glanced at the TV. Annie was pretending to be absorbed by an old episode of Sex in the City. Rhiannon shrugged. She approached the old black answering machine with trepidation. She knew she should return her Mom’s call. What she didn’t understand is why she didn’t want to. Rhiannon’s mother wasn’t perfect, but she was far from an evil uncaring child abuser. She’d always been there when Rhiannon needed her, and she was not unkind. But she did expect success. Success with a capital “S.” The kind that entailed wealth, kids, and a college degree. Perhaps she was simply praying for one of the above.
Rhiannon sighs, and plays back the messages. Three are from her mom, each one getting more frantic then the last. Two are from Michael. He must be back from college. One is a random person calling for a Melinda Richards who once must have possessed this number. They get her calls a lot, mostly solicitations for money. Rhiannon’s opinion of Melinda was mixed. The charity work was not bad, but the old debtors got annoying. Rhiannon wondered how someone obviously in financial difficulties would continuously give money away. Rhiannon’s imagination would conjure possibilities as varied as a simple divorce, to a death in the family. Maybe it was something more extreme; someone addicted to losing money over the phone.
She listened to her Mom’s message again. “Darling, please return my call. I’ve also spoken with your room mate. She seems like a nice girl, so there is no way you can avoid this message. I love you dear. Are you coming to Nathalie’s baby shower? Let me know, okay?”
“Who is Michael?” asks Annie, pretending disinterest and failing.
“Michael is an old friend. You don’t remember?”
“That Michael? From way back then? You were more than friends, if I remember correctly.”
“Yes, well, that was then. I need to call my Mom. Apparently my brother is having a kid.”
“If you’d check your messages you would have known that months ago.” Rhiannon dialed the number, ignoring Annie.
The Infamous Jennisfora Strikes Again...or something like that 