Immersion

It was one of the freshest dates in my mind, those specific instances which always creep up to the front of your mental filing cabinet. These could be easily retrieved by a pause in your life, an example being your body sitting in a recliner, physically motionless, as your conscience is moving its wheels and clicking systematically, exploring new ideas, memories, etc.

Then, as soon as it comes unexpectedly, it presents you with an inkling of your previous actions or witnesses in life. The categories ranged from regretful to triumphant, and it just so happened to be in the former. I had examined every millisecond of the remembrance; every body movement, every cloud in sight, every thought at the time, but it does nothing but upset me. I think I'm always reminded as a sort of sadistic motivation from myself.

A small push towards the greater.
The quiet voice cheering me on by occasional informing me, once again, of my mistakes.

I still couldn't decide if I actually liked that voice or not, if it was the one always making me feel guilty for my own actions. Maybe it was for a good cause, maybe it wasn't, but I knew for a fact that whenever the flashback of my perfect opportunity to talk to Adeline arrived, it had me wanting to rip my hair out...

...

Just a little fact about Oliver Scott Sykes: never depend on him for being on a cordial time schedule that includes you. It's irrelevant who you are -a stranger or his best damn friend in the world- he will always leave you tapping your foot against the pavement outside of where you just exited.

You see, this is my brother, I know him extremely well, the most by a long shot. I can tell you that even though he looks as though he's got most of his shit together in a loosely and lazily knit package, just enough to actually pull through with whatever task the two of you had agreed on, in reality, it is a red flag.

He's not going to accomplish it on time.
He's going to leave you standing there as he styles his "elegantly disheveled" hair. Even as he's still snoring deeply on his queen sized bed as you're calling for him to hurry up.

He had done this to me every time it was arranged for him to pick me up. Every time. I can't remember a single one where the clock read 4 and he was pulling up to the school campus.
Not even 4:15 at the least.
My blood was always tardy.

So naturally, I had acquired different strategies over time that would help with making the minute hand speed faster until Oli got his grungy body into his car and on his way. This included, the obvious one, photography. It was my greatest past time to begin with, so of course I would use it as a distractor.

After being typically disappointed that my older brother was going to be truant once again, I would shrug my shoulders, mildly bummed, and then take a walk. In what direction I would begin was barely considered a choice: to the left was a continuation of sidewalk, and then the parking lot, to the right: digging deeper to the core of the school.

The latter was the course always taking precedence. The parking lot would, obviously, take me off school grounds, and then Oli wouldn't be able to find me, deciding that I wasn't worth the trouble, and make me drag my dumb ass back home. Even though walking was always a viable option (and I had done it on several occasions by choice), sometimes I just wasn't in the mood to move my limbs so repeatedly.

The industrial scenic walk was sometimes the best option, and often had me sending a mental "thank you" note to Oli; those were the days when the weather was attractive or I didn't feel like being transported back home. With my Pentax or Canon or Nikon bouncing gently around the base of my neck, I would attempt to trigger into my not-so-automatic sense of creativity and find an intriguing focal point, or even some kind of perfect placement and timing of a bird or squirrel munching on an acorn or just sitting still on a thin branch.

This was life as a photographer: doing the best I could to witness fascinating beauty of the ordinary through substantial proof. That's all it's really about, to put a subject in front of a camera based on your own personal style, and the inevitable factor of timing.

Timing is everything, you know.

It is what the majority of subjects absolutely depend on, for the moment you click on that little button in the right corner could either make or break your photo. The difference between a snapshot being incredible or another waste of film. There could be a skater pulling off all these complicated tricks and daring jumps and flying from rail to rail, and just as he's midair; gripping the edge of his board with one hand and his other out to his side, your finger is late and instead you have a shot of him already hitting the ground.
Unflattering and blurry.

I cannot even try to recount all of my efforts to catch something phenomenal happening, and in the end, I only receive a tardy shot. It was quite frustrating at times; one of the hardships of photography, but when I would finally achieve the pristine mid-action shot, all that anger was worth it. I would possess the largest grin on my face as my film was developed and in my hands, staring me back in its glorious, precise, fucking beautiful nature.

Some of my all-time favorites include one of a crow perched on the branch of the tree in my front yard, ready to take off with its wings in succession and heaved back. Another included was one of a BMX biker nearby at an empty neighborhood pool, barely coming up the edge of the outline to complete a flip and fall back.

The last was a candid shot of a little girl knocking a boy around the same age's ice cream cone down to the asphalt, the dessert falling steadily through the air as his face held utter shock and her's consuming delight. It wasn't until a second after the cone hit the ground that the boy began sobbing.
I remember it vividly due to the morbid and sickening feeling that resided in the pit of my stomach at the witnessing of that girl's pleasure, at such a young age, to hurt him. It was my own private premonition, I knew in that moment that that "precious child" was going to become a psychotic spouse to some weak-minded husband that is so easy to manipulate, and with a smack of her hand, he'd be back in order as quickly as he smuggled out.

I felt bad for that boy on the playground with his melting vanilla scoop painting a patch of sidewalk, and acquired nothing but squeamish disdain towards the twisted instigator. I couldn't hate her anymore though, for an amazing window to fleeting reality was given to me and in full proof through laminate. His temporary sadness came at a price, along with her defective pleasure meter.

It was the element of lucky, yet unfortunate timeliness. Since it was never a complying friend of mine, I embraced its every appearance.

It arrived again on a cold day in November, with me clad in a solid black hoodie and loose skinny jeans (because there is such a thing), and rotating back to the subject of Oli late on arrival.
Who was I to expect any more from him anyway? So, in the midst of the low temperature, I waited.
But instead of looking like a dip shit just standing there or sitting on the steps, I casually walked around like I usually did. I walked away from the front of the building that I was at, and went over to its side where there was a decent sized concrete sea that connected the vicinity and the main campus. Sort of a crossing ground for people who would rather briskly walk around outside as opposed to the cramped main halls between classes.

I liked that passing, for I could receive a small intermission from all the kids I had seen for years all together and be alone somewhere that was deemed to be swamped with bodies. It was here where I took my pictures, and also served as a plateau for anything somewhat nature-like for about a half a mile or so. A sniper's tower for the picture taker.

Who was up on that tower with me though?
You already know, don't you?

She was radiating in all her attractive feminine glory just below the mid-day sun beating down on such a dull town. Her back was turned away from mine which gave me a perfect opportunity to stay planted to the walk as though I were nailed in place. I could even salivate if permitted and necessary.
Our distance apart was pretty hefty, but it was just far enough to where I could get a hazy outline and a 90% effective hypothesis that it was indeed her in front of me, not some other flawless girl with a white cotton dress on. I had seen that article of clothing many times on her, and to my knowledge, it must have been from either a thrift store or other untraceable place due to the fact that she was the only one to acquire it.

It barely reached the top of her knees, and honestly, I wouldn't have given a shit if it went past the ground and beyond. She was stunning. There could be a ridiculous rainbow hat with a propeller perched upon her curls with the goofy makeup included and I would continue to be grateful for every step she took. She would always be a beautiful observation.
My heart raced as I watched her, and dared to sneak even closer towards her unnerving frame. If only she knew about my presence or my desired intentions, but that was something I would keep locked forever and ever.

Until my fucking skin was wet paper.

I traced every inch of her from 20 feet away, from her chestnut hair that swirled down to the quarter of her back, to her hourglass figure, and lastly to the slender legs that had her reaching so far.

She seemed to be waiting for something, just like I was.
Maybe her friend.
Maybe for the sun to fall.
Maybe for a retarded, tasteless brother.

I had no idea what her temporary plot of her story was, but all I knew was that she was there, and I was too, and maybe it was in reference to something even bigger. It could have been a strong, clear force pushing me to talk to someone of her caliber, even though I felt inadequate.

I felt too creepy for her.
Too passionate that if something were to happen, I would treat it with too many strong emotions that would scare her off. God forbid she ever see my photos with her face etched in all of them.

She was all alone there against the railing by the edge of the walkway that looked out towards the parking lot, vastly vacant, then to the road where a church was on the other side, and a neighborhood. If she lived there was a mystery to me that was soon fleeting because if she did live there, she probably would have walked home by the time.

Her composure, after all, held some sort of relaxed impatience that I knew too well because that was my stance almost everyday as I waited for Oli. She encompassed mannerisms of leaning her weight from one foot to the other every minute or so, her head tilting at different angles as she viewed everything before her eyes, adjusting the strap of her bag higher onto her shoulder to maintain comfort- I could see it all.

There was no hiding her slight frustration.
She was definitely waiting for someone.
Again, so was I, but who really knew when either party would actually arrive. If her driver was anything like mine, it would be another 15 or so minutes once he finally finished fixing his hair and got to the turn to enter the drop off/pick up drive through.

We had plenty of time.
The perfect time.

Imagine how easy it would have been to casually walk up and make a joke about how we were both stuck in that horrid place after hours even though we hadn't done any wrong, to which she would have chuckled at my either attempt or success to introduce a witty personality trait, but laughing irregardless. She would then scoot over a little to the right, even though there was enough space from me for dozens of people, but as a gesture that I was welcome to stay there with her.

Then things would be flowing.
There would be more laughs.
New interactions.
A new relationship, no matter how cordial.

I would prefer to be an acquaintance more than a viewer from afar.

Part of me just said to walk over and stop being scared; it was only small talk anyway, it wasn't as if it was a fucking marriage proposal. I just had to be friendly, and then the rest would fall into place in due time. Who was opposed to making new friends anyway? She wouldn't have shot me down if it was clear that I had platonic intentions. It was too bad that I didn't, but she wouldn't need to find out about that until later when the right time would arise.

What if she was one of those friends who held hands with you?
Gave you tight hugs when you did something nice for her?
Kiss you on the cheek as you reveal news that is great for you?
What if she was the most caring individual I'd ever meet?
What if she wanted to hang out on the weekends with me?
What if she just liked talking late and sharing intellect?
What if she could have been the best thing to happen to me?

All of these possibilities and more were bouncing off of each other at an out-of-control pace, and not knowing that I had reached the stage of 'auto-pilot', I was steadily making my way towards her, even if they were baby steps.
More like shuffling; hypnotized.

It was when I was possibly 5 feet away that a car horn hit my eardrums and I was struck completely still; shaken by the sudden hit of normalcy. Then, snapping out of it right away again, Adeline was already strolling away and towards a beaten pick up truck; a girl driving.

Good.

Even as I felt better about her not entering a vehicle that had testosterone present, it was clouded with a pang of guilt and shame for missing my chance to make contact with her. I was so close, closer than I had ever been before, and I blew it.
I probably wouldn't get another chance.

The chipped, minty truck was already near the exit, and I could only mentally kick myself as every car had passed and it could finally pull out of the turn in and drive off home. It was then that I felt truly alone once again, perhaps more than ever in the day.
Of course, it was ruined when another automobile horn sounded, and through the windshield I could see Oli give a small wave and gesture for me to go over.

I wish he had, for once, been on time.