Chasing Chaos

2009

I was working the night shift by myself at the shop because Peter had the whole day off and Ms. D, the shop owner, had put an uncanny amount of trust in me right away, allowing me to lock the store up by myself. We weren’t quite the busiest of places; one person sufficed to close the store and it was nearly that time. It was half seven and I was to close promptly at eight. It was insufferably boring. But I couldn’t complain because it was easy work.

I was at the counter, picking the silver polish from my fingernails when the bell attached to the door rang, indicating a customer’s entrance. As I always did when this bell chimed, I looked up to greet the person but I became surprised at whom I saw. I was pretty sure Oli was not a frequent bookstore patron.

“O’reight?” I said.

“’Lo." He nodded, looking around as though he’d never seen a book in his life.

“Uh, everythin okay?” Worry flitted over me as I went down a list of reasons he might show up at the Turn.

“Yeah, sure. I were at...” He trailed off before amending his statement with “I were in the area an’ I thought I’d look for a book.”

“Oh, right. Anythin I can help yeh with?” I asked in my most practiced tone.

“No, I can manage,” he stated.

“Let me know ef yeh can’t.” I smiled, strictly professionally, and watched him stroll down an aisle. Non-professionally, I called “Comics are in the far corner.”

He turned back towards me, smirked and then kept walking.

He was in one of those plaid shirts that looked particularly good on guys like him. Peter had a couple such shirts and he looked good in them too. But I mentally noted that Oli looked better. The thought had completely involuntary and I would never admit such a thing out loud. But honestly, as he swaggered through the store, he was still the cutest boy I’d ever seen. It was a strange thing to be thinking about, I knew. Thinking about him in this way, like he was something desirable, was wrong. But hadn’t he always made wrong look like the best thing ever?

“Ow’s the tattoo healin’?” Oli yelled from behind a shelf.

With no chance he could be talking to someone else, as there was no one else in the shop, I responded “’S itchy.”

Still out of my sight, he warned “Don’t scratch it.”

“Oh, yeah, ‘ve been tryin’ not to. ‘S hard though. The guy told me to slap it ef it itched. That’s been workin’ o’reight.”

“Suppose it does.” He would know; he barely had visible skin that wasn’t covered. Again I was reminded of Peter, who had his fair share of ink too, mostly focused on his sleeved arms. The comparisons needed to end. “Will yeh be gettin’ more?” Oli continued.

“I ‘ave to,” I stated. “I’ve this enormous one on my arm; I’ve o'ready committed to the idea.” I figured when you have one, you might as well have tons. “But there are so many other things I want, yeh know? I’m not sure ‘ow to choose wha’s next…”

He appeared in my sight, a book in one hand, though I couldn’t see the title. “’Ow’d yeh pick the one yeh got?”

“Uh, well, I wanted somethin’ that was really jus’ about me. Like, yeh know, really represented me, I guess, maybe. An’ I thought somethin’ I drew, somethin’ I was proud of , would be good for that… Ef that makes sense.”

“It does.” He disappeared once more behind a shelf. “Do yeh still draw a lot?”

The question bothered me more than it should have but I decided that being honest with Oliver couldn’t hurt. “Every day, ‘ere and there. Not nearly as much as I’d like to. Jus’ don’t ‘ave time usually.”

“Yer good at it though…”

“But I can’t make a career out of it.” Bitterness danced with my words. I hated this topic whenever anyone brought it up. And everyone I knew always seemed to bring it up. My roommate Katie, for instance, mentioned it nearly every time she saw any of my doodles. Gracie was the same way. Only Tom knew to keep his (praising) opinions on my art to himself.

“’S not true. Not at all. I pay people to draw t-shirt designs all the time. An’ tattoo artists ‘ave to draw too. Yeh could do either o’ those things.” His tone wasn’t nearly as casual as it had been. It had an urgency about it. Like he really wished I was pursuing my fanciful childhood dream rather than the path I’d been placed on by my parents.

“It’s a bit late now.”

“Is it?”

I didn’t respond. He was pushing again, just like he once had. Pushing me past self-imposed limits. No. He was TRYING to push. But this time, it would be to no avail. He no longer held any sway with me.

I twirled the shop keys around my fingers and stared at the clock. I had fifteen minutes until I could lock up and finish closing. But I knew it was not the time that was making me anxious. There was something supremely unsettling about Oli walking around the place where I worked. There was something about his presence that had always made me hyper-aware of my surroundings. I could hear his footsteps, Vans slide-ons padding across the carpeted floor. I could feel the ceiling fan pushing the store’s thick humid air around past my cheeks. I could smell the old paper scent of the yellowing books. He was doing this, making things vivid. I knew this because thinking of all these specific things kept me from thinking of him, remember him. The sensory things around me were my hopeful distractions.

When I saw him going down another aisle, he had two books in his hand. I wanted to laugh. I was thinking about Oli sitting down and reading. The image was hilarious. Why read a book—Why live a fantasy life through a book—when you could be out living something even more fantastic? Also, how did he have time to read in the middle of being a globe-trotting rockstar?

“Think ‘m good for now,” he said, approaching me at the counter, two books and one comic with him. “This place is cool…”

“Yeah, I like it.” I took the books from his hand, examining his choices. “Nine Stories? Yeh like Salinger?” I turned the used book over in my hands

“O’ course, doesn’ every’un?”

Dumbfounded, I stared at him. In the reddish store light, his eyes were warm. And he wasn’t smirking, though he should have been. Because he was definitely playing a game. I punched in the price on the register and suspiciously said to him “This is one of my favorite books. ‘Pretty Mouth and Green My Eyes’ gets me every time…”

“Oh, aye. ‘Rose my color is and white, pretty mouth and green my eyes’,” he quoted with some finesse. “I like that’un too. I prefer ‘For Esme…” though. ‘S not nearly as depressing.”

With my mouth hanging open, I picked up the second book, a collection of Dylan Thomas poetry. At the moment, I was convinced that he was actually trying to kill me, by doing the most off the wall things he could think of. But if it was just a ploy, I’d expect a cheeky grin on his part. As it was, he was still almost serious looking.

“Thirty-six sixty,” I said. I needed to divert my attention from the fact that he’d quoted from my very favorite short story. So casually, I asked “Was it rainin’ when yeh came in? I’ve to close in a minute and I get to leave…” Was I really talking about the weather?

“In’t o’ways fuckin’ rainin’?”

“Good point.” I put the books and comic in my bag and he handed me forty pounds.

“Yer outta ‘ere soon?” He probed.

“Uh uh.”

“Well… ‘M supposed to meet Kean for a drink in a bit… Yeh should come.”

I avoided narrowing my eyes or choking on air. I calmly looked at him, knowing there was only one answer I could give, should give. “Oh, uh, I can’t.” Sometime between getting to work that morning and this moment, I’d become awkward Anna again.

“Sure, yeh can,” his smirk returned in full force; he would use his charisma until the end of the world. Charm. Game. “Pop on down to the pub with us. I’ll buy,” he offered.

“I’d really like to but I’m goin’ to Peter’s once I leave. I’ve borrowed ‘is car.” I handed him his change with an apologetic smile.

“Oh, Peter, right…” He looked uncomfortable.

And I wanted to comfort him. “I know there’s bad blood with the two o’ yeh but ‘e’s a nice bloke.” Why would I need to justify this to him?

“Suppose ‘e is…” He admitted reluctantly. “In’t ‘e way older than yeh?”

“Not way older, five years… ‘E’s twenty-five. But it jus’ means I’ve to deal with less of the immature bullocks.”

Oli didn’t look convinced. “Don’t ‘e ‘ave a kid?”

“Yeah, Em… She’s sweet.”

“Tha’ don’t bother yeh?”

I shook my head with pursed lips. “No, not really. Every’un has their problems.”

Warmly, he laughed. “Yeh was o’ways one to overlook people’s flaws.”

“Wha’s the point in focusin’ on the bad stuff? Don’t yeh fall in love with the good parts o’ some’un?” I reasoned.

“Aye…”

I pushed the bag of books towards. “There yeh go.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“So, well…” He rubbed the back of his neck.

To alleviate the awkwardness, I pushed forward with the conversation “I’ll see yeh Sunday for Tom’s birthday? I’ve the day off. I’ve o’ready spoke with your Mum ‘bout breakfast.”

“Breakfast?”

“She knew we’d be starting the party early and wanted to ‘ave a sober meal with the birthday boy.”

“She called yeh before she called me?” He frowned.

“I’m more responsible than yeh are,” I teased. “I’ve to get Tommy out of bed and to yer parents’ house. An’ ‘m bringing the champagne.”

“Champagne at breakfast?”

“O’ course.”

“My kinda breakfast.”

--

2005

Oli wasn’t the first boy I’d kissed but was by far the best of them. There had been only a few to compare him to. First, there had been Martin Digby way back in Primary. A sloppy and silly beginner’s kiss. Then there was Lee Wyle when I was fourteen, the first person I kissed several times. Though it was not exactly earth shattering, it was decent for fourteen. Finally there was Chris Carter. With him came the mythical make out. It had been a vast improvement upon the ordinary sort of kissing that Martin and Lee had provided. Kissing Chris has definitely been something I enjoyed; he eventually broke things off to chase after a bird more exciting than I, my first real heartbreak. I’d had many firsts before Oli. But with him, it was the first time kissing was like fire. Consuming, rapid, blistering and impossibly hot.

And like fire, I couldn’t stop it.

It was the first week in July when he came to my window one morning. “Normally people knock on the door,” I said groggily, ignoring completely the fact that my hair was its lovely morning mess.

“Yeh think I’m normal? Yeh gotta a lot to learn about me, love.” He gave me a cheeky smile before leaning in the window and kissing me briefly. This ignited my skin and I reached up for his cheek. But worried that my burning desperate skin would be too clingy for him, I pulled away. “Where yeh goin’?” he asked as I did this. “I weren’t done kissin’ yeh.” He pushed his mouth to mine once more, drawing it out into a slow simmering sort of fire. It only made it better to think that he seemed as desperate as I was.

“So,” I said with my hands on his cheeks. “Are yeh gonna go to the door or climb in the window a la Romeo?”

He instantly grinned, let go of me and put his palms on the window ledge. I took a step back as he hoisted himself up and into the room he’d never seen before. He tumbled less than gracefully to his feet and immediately began inspecting his surroundings. My bedroom was boring to me; I saw it daily. But he looked intently at every inch of it, the walls especially making me rethink the dullness of the room.

Nearly every free bit of wall space was plastered with sheets torn from my sketchpads, forming a wall paper of graphics and graffiti, some colored but many just black ink abysses. Some of the clutter consisted of fashion magazine cut-out collages and even they seemed to fascinate Oli. I anxiously slid onto my bed, curling my knees to my chest and flattening my hair in vain attempts to tame it.

“These are all yers?” He asked of the numerous drawings, turning to look at me.

I nodded. “Guess a few doodles might be Tom’s. ‘E steals my sketchbook sometimes. Well, ‘e used to…” I shrugged. I’d hurt so much over Tom that then the pain was nothing new. I was so used to it that thoughts of him barely stung anymore. “But aye, they’re mine.”

“They’re right good.”

“Oh, uh, thanks.”

“Will yeh draw me somethin’… for a new tattoo?”

“Yer gettin’ more?”

He already had an entire arm nearly covered and the beginnings of the second. “O’ course! Can’t stop now, I’ve still got exposed skin. I’m o’ready committed to the idea.”
I wasn’t sure if he was being serious or not. I couldn’t imagine him totally covered in them. Maybe because sometimes I looked at him and saw thirteen year old Oli, scrawny as hell and hanging around to teasing Tom about having a girlfriend at ten years old.

“So will yeh?”

“Huh? Will I what?”

“Draw me somethin’.”

“Sure, what’d yeh want me to draw? I’m rotten at drawin’ people, so steer clear o’ that stuff.”

“’Ow ‘bout yeh surprise me?”

“Surprise yeh? Then yeh’ll jus’ get it tattooed?” I laughed.

“Sure.”

“Yeh will not.”

“Course I will.” He took a seat on the bed, accidentally sitting on one of my dog-eared books. “Oy.” He pulled the book, a beat up copy of Nine Stories, from under him.

I took it from his hands. “Sorry, I fell asleep reading last night.”

This amused him. “When I dropped yeh off last night, yeh was blazed as fuck…”

“Yeah… I were pretty faded.”

“An’ yeh sat down an’ read a book?”

“It’s one o’ my favorite books,” I tried to reason.

“’S like yer programmed to be a nice well mannered lass… Yeh can’t even get high without doing it quietly. Yeh know wha I did last night when I went home?”

“Dunno., wha’d yeh do?”

“I tripped over Tom’s trainers on the way into the house, made all kinds of noise. Then I went to the kitchen, raided the refrigerator, ate ‘til I were sick and then passed out with my clothes on. Drooled all over my pillow.”

“Mmhmm, tha’ happens.”

“Not to yeh, I guess.”

“Nope, ‘cause I’m like Mary Poppins. Practically perfect in every way.”

“Mary Poppins, eh?” He raised his eyebrows and leaned over towards me. “Then yeh can give me a little bit o’ sugar? It helps the medicine go down, yeh know.”

“Yer goofy,” I stated.

“Does that mean yeh will or yeh won’t give me some sugar?”

I rolled my eyes and closed the distance between us, satisfying him with another short kiss. “There yeh go.”

“Not good enough,” he said as he sprung into action, pushing his body towards mine and unraveling my limbs from their curled positions. His arms circled me, tightening around my back and pressing my chest to his. His mouth was brushing over my cheek and moving towards my neck, lining it with short feathery kisses while my hands gripped the fabric of his shirt. There were flames building in my chest again, low and slow but ardent. His lips grazed the corner of my mouth and I eagerly pulled him to me with a girlish giggle. I kissed him keenly. Taking time to bask in the blaze of it.

He drew himself away from me and swept my tangled hair from my eyes. He was looking at me peculiarly, sort of like the way you look at fireworks, with a confounded reverence. Not sure if I liked this particular look, I nervously asked “What?”

His hand trailed down from my neck past my shoulder to my arm before weaving with my hand. “Yer such a nice girl…” He murmured and by his tone, he had me believing that it was a genuinely good thing to be a nice girl. “Don’t know why yeh’d like me.” The way he said this was troubling. It was half in his cool joking manner but strangled hints of gloom laced through his words.

I raised my eyesbrows. “’Oo said I liked yeh?” I held a very serious expression until Oli’s face fell in surprise.

“Well, I, uh, thought…” He stared at me anxiously.

I pulled a smirk straight from his book. “I’m jus’ kiddin’, love. Relax.” I leaned up and kissed his cheek.

He shook his head, brushing off his worried, and then laid down at my side, pulling me into him so that my cheek pressed against his shoulder. With a not-quite-convincing laugh, he said “Yeh ‘ad me for a minute, Sav…” His troubled tone was still vaguely present.

I wanted to ask him why it even mattered if I actually liked him or not. But being snuggled up next to him was so totally transcendent and I didn’t dare ruin the moment. Because I knew it wouldn’t always be like this for us.