Rot

It’s funny how we find religion. Most people assume that in finding religion, you find some supreme, righteous God. However, I learned that if you look hard enough, you can find God in the most unholy of places.

I found my first God in prime time television. My church was every weeknight, Tuesdays and Wednesdays in particular. My God was Ryan Seacrest.

I started conversations with, "Did you see last nights episode?" and I voted for my favorite singers like it was a tithe. It almost stunned me that people didn't watch shows like I did.

I didn't realize at first how idiotic my addiction really was. Like many people, I was blinded by religion. I was attached to one of the world’s most disgraceful past times. I look at television now and see it as the retrograde of society. The world worked hard to get to the point of literacy that it was at. Throughout the creation of new schools of thought and enlightenment, literacy remained as a spark in the shadows, fueling the fire of revolution.

Now, however, we watch TV. There's no need to read or think, because our information is shown to us through pictures, like flash cards to little children. Adults have been lowered to the standards of kids, yet childhood no longer exists because they no longer need their imaginations. Television is all they need.

Still, I was a devoted follower. I still read, though I read only to take in information. I didn't process a single thing around me. Everything was as it was. In a sense, I was brain dead. I needed someone or something to be my hot coffee. I just needed something big to shake me and wake me up.

That something big came in the form of a small piece of paper.

Because of that little piece of torn notebook paper, I had chosen to risk missing my shows to meet a person I didn't even know.

It was dumb of me, really. I found the piece of paper in my library copy of On the Road, and it simply stated, "This book will change your life," in quick, sloppy, pencil letters.

Below the letters there was an almost illegible phone number, which I squinted at and tilted the paper sideways to read. I didn't know what type of person would leave their phone number in a book for the world, or my whole county, to see, but I was curious nonetheless.

When I finished the book, I took out my scratched up black phone and punched the keys hesitantly, spelling out "This book changed my life," making sure my text was void of chat-speak of any kind. I hated when people didn't take the time to spell out their words, but ever so often I would find a couple of annoying chat words, like "lol" or "lmao" thrown accidentally into the mix.

The person, who very well could have been an old, creepy stalker, texted me back with nothing but the name of a place, a date, and a time.

Now here I was, at the place, date, and time, with a violin concerto vibrating through my headphones, though I would never admit it. Classical music was always a guilty pleasure of mine; it was something that I would listen to loudly in the car by myself, but hide from my friends.

Even then, I knew it was dumb to hide it. I also knew, however, that there was one thing no kid wanted to be, and that was different.

Sure, I knew that there were kids who would say they were unique, but deep down inside they scorned themselves for being so different, always complaining how no one understood them.

People went to obvious lengths to be the same, or to make it seem like they don't care about sameness.

There is no sense in denying it. The world hasn't seen a spark of difference in years.

I saw nothing different about the girl who walked into the small cafe that I was seated nervously in. She was chewing on a small celery stick that she had pulled out of a small plastic bag - it's corner was sticking out of her pocket for me to see.

Her nose and hands were red from the late winter's cold, and her light brown hair hung long and straight down her back. When I saw her eyes, I noticed they were a dark shade of hazel, and they smiled along with her lips when they made contact with me.

She sauntered over toward me with confidence, and my hopes rose a little. She wasn't a creep so far, so that was something that I checked off on my mental list.

Sitting down in front of me with an outstretched hand, she introduced herself as Haley.

“I can’t believe you actually came,” she said, her grin stretching across her face, showing her pearly whites.

“I’m Alex,” I replied shyly. “How did you know it was me?”

“I guessed. My sister runs this café, and they have pretty regular customers. Seeing a girl like you sitting by herself kind of tips me off.”

I wondered momentarily what she meant by saying “a girl like you,” but tried to hide it. It seemed as if she saw right through it, however, because she simply looked at me with a crooked grin and laughed slightly under her breath.

I guessed a girl like me would be knock-offs of name brands, mixed with hair that was done halfway, combined with a make up routine that was a static attempt at the "barely there" look. I was basically the middle class version of the stereotypical rich girl.

“Let me get you something to drink,” she said, the grin still plastered on her face.

“Oh, no,” I said politely, “I couldn’t-“

“Oh, please, it’s not like I have to pay,” she replied, raising her hand slightly in the air as if she were in a classroom.

A bus boy with greasy brown hair walked slowly over to us, balancing a tub of dirty dishes on is hips.

“Chad, this is Alex,” she said with a small gesture of her hand, aimed at me. “I’ll have the usual, and she’ll have the White Caramel Cappuccino.”

“Wait, I-“ I began.

“Don’t worry about it. You’ll love it.”

Her voice and body language was full of confidence, so I didn’t second guess her. I took a little sip of the piping hot drink after Chad the bus boy placed it in front of me with a lazy smile.

Raising my eyebrows in surprise, I blew on the drink, and took another sip.

“Good, right?” she asked.

Her head was placed in her hand, with her elbow sitting on the table. Her eyes were slightly squinted, and her head was cocked to the side, like she knew there was no possibility of being wrong.

I nodded simply, going back for a longer drink.

“It’s weird,” she said while I was drinking. I looked at her over the cup, then put it back down with a questioning look in my eyes.

“What’s weird?”

“The fact that I already know you.” She put her other elbow on the table and clasped her hands together, resting her head on the net they created. Leaning in towards me, like she was gossiping about some secret, she kept her voice low and said, “I think we’re going to be good friends, Alex.”

For some reason, I instantly believed her. I just knew that was the way it was. It was, at the moment, the truth of the world.