Swept Away

PSYCH OF AGRESSION TURNED OUT to be my favorite class at the end of the week when I had sat through the other five classes I was taking, received the syllabi, and realized that they were all boring and the same. Psych of Aggression was like a breath of fresh air in my heavily focused classes of photography and sections of art history. Don’t get me wrong, Art and the history of it was my passion, but there was something about this class, something about the idea of finding out why people killed each other or fought with one another was absolutely fascinating.

Aside from the topics we would be discussing and learning about in class, Professor Collins may have been one of the most brilliant, attractive, and nicest men that I had ever met. During the class, he spared us on the horrible introductions and simply asked us questions about our favorite colors and sports, what cigarettes we liked to smoke, and in return we were able to ask him any question we wanted.

In that, I had gathered five major facts about the man who had bummed a cigarette off of me the first night of the semester:

One; his full name was Riley Collins- his mother believed that with a name like that, he did not need one in the middle.

Two; his favorite color was Pantone 3035, a beautiful dark blue-green that resembled the depths of the ocean.

Three; he majored in Psychology at Stanford University, he received his Bachelors and Masters from that school. He was planning on going back to get his doctorate degree eventually.

Four; he was not married, nor seeing anyone but his dog Broca, which was in fact named after the part of the brain that was known for speech control. He reasoned that the first day he took her home, all she did was bark, which leads to her name.

Five; he was thirty-two.

The last fact was the one that hit me the hardest. In the grand delusion of my brain, I couldn’t believe that I had such strong feelings for someone that was nearly twelve years older than me. His life was on track, he was out of college, and probably living in a beautiful apartment in New York, drinking coffee and reading books on the psychoanalysis of serial killers with his dog, while I was living at home with my drunk father, secretly smoking American Spirit cigarettes out of my window while I watched tiny people walk through the streets, read books of poems, and snapped photos of whoever and whatever I wanted.

I was a girl who spent days reading books and writing poems, I was a girl who was destined to be alone.

“Harp, dinner is ready.” My father called through my door, his fist lightly pounding against the white wash wooden barrier between us. “I got you a Greek salad from-“

“I’m not hungry right now.” I called to him, my eyes focused on the herds of people moving below my window. As I listened to the soft mumble from behind the door, a sigh escaped my parted lips. Pressing my forehead against the window pane, my eyes fluttered shut, letting the cold from the window run through my body.

It had been two years, seven months, and twenty days since I had lost my mother. Ever since that day, that day where my father had given up on her, we had not had much of a father-daughter relationship. In all honesty, we did not have a relationship at all.

William Snow was one of the most important CEO’s in some big business that ran out of Manhattan. He was paid generously, praised by all of his coworkers, and adored by all of the women that he bossed around. On top of being the exact image of someone that I had grown up to hate, he was also a lush inside of his own home, and if the moon was right, and my actions plucked the right nerves inside of him, he was abusive both mentally and verbally.

Before my mother had got into the accident, my father was the sweetest man in the world. But horrible accidents find ways to embed themselves under your skin, burrow deep into your brain and start to change things. The accident had managed to change my father, for the worst.

Pushing my window open, I pressed my elbows against the ledge just on the other side and let my eyes flutter shut as a cool night breeze blew into my room, sending the bright auburn locks to fly back passed my shoulders. Inhaling the cool, heavily polluted air of the city, a small smile found its way onto my face.

Until a loud pound on my door caused every muscle in my body to start shaking. I had heard this pound before. It was something of a warning signal, a sign that let me know that a storm was coming, a horrible disaster that would render me bleeding or bruised, my mind being thrown back and forth as I yet again was reminded of how I was nothing but a burden.

“I don’t know what else you want me to do, Harper!” My father screamed into my bedroom door, his strong fist beating against the wooden panels between every word. “I have been trying, I have been trying to get my daughter back for two fucking years! Why can’t you forgive me, Harper? Why can’t you understand?”

I cringed as his words sliced through me, instantaneously filling my body with a sickening poison. As his fist started to pound at my door again, and the crystal doorknob that adorned the middle far left side of my door jiggled, adrenaline started to wildly pump through my veins.

“You’re a fucking burden on my life, Harper. I would be so much happier if you weren’t here. I would be so much richer if you weren’t around. If you would have died instead of your mother.” Squeezing my eyes shut, I leaned back into my room and pulled my knees to my chest, hot tears dripping from the corners of my eyes as the pound on my door started to get rougher and rougher, to the point where I thought the wooden door would break from its hinges.

After five more minutes, the pounding stopped. Heavy footsteps faded down the hall, and in this moment of silence, I knew it was my only time to escape. Heart beat filling my head, I parted my lips and sucked in a huge breath as I quickly pulled a sweatshirt I had lying on the floor over my head, slipped into my moccasins, grabbed my wallet and a random book from my desk, then my cell phone and a key to get back into the apartment late tonight.

Without double checking to make sure I had everything, I quickly undid the lock and chain on my door, and holding my breath, now coming out in uneven gasps, I tiptoed down the hall toward the front door, my heart beating so loud in my chest I was convinced that its fast-paced rhythmic beating would give me emergence from my room away.

Hand reaching out to the handle on the front door, I listened as heavy footsteps started to draw near. Limbs shaking, I pulled the front door open and quickly walked into the hallway, listening as my fathers slurred words shot after me. As he spoke, the words would jumble onto one another creating an indefinable heap of drunken nonsense.

Jogging further down the hallway, the slurs grew faint and eventually, there was a small light thud of the door shutting. As soon as it reverberated in my head, my legs stopped their fast pace and I froze, in the middle of the hallway, and shut my eyes, leaning my tired body against the floral wallpaper covered walls.

Adrenaline wearing off, my eyelids grew heavy and my heart went back to its normal slow beat. Inhaling deeply a few times, my fingers started to drum against my thigh as I headed back down the hallway towards the elevator. Fingertips pressing deeper and deeper into my thigh, a small puff of air left my mouth as I realized I had managed to grab everything but my pack of cigarettes- the one thing I needed the most.



The Hungarian Pastry Shop was my absolute favorite place to go when my father pulled these stunts on me in the later hours of the night when most of the other primarily coffee-based Shoppe’s were closed. They had delicious fresh backed pastries, and a list of coffee and other caffeinated beverages infused with sugary flavorings than I could imagine. The best part though, was the little patio-type seats they had set up on the side of the building. A long string of bright white lights hung from a few trees and crisscrossed above the small rectangle on the side of the building where four little tables that sat two people were set up.

Pulling the front door open, my senses were greeted with the sweet smell of sugar and the mesmerizing aroma of coffee. Letting the smell fill my head, I slowly walked over to the counter and watched as the younger boy looked up from his textbook and sent me a small smile.

“How can I help you tonight?”

“A large Russian Coffee, please, for here.” I added the last part quickly and watched as the boy’s hand went from hovering over a plastic cup to the set of large mugs across the counter. With a nod and a small smile, the boy started to press buttons and move glasses and containers around. After he had placed a stainless steal pitcher of milk under some contraption, I turned my eyes to the side of the building where the small door that leads to the patio area was wide open and calling my name.

Two minutes later, the boy placed the large mug in front of me, the mound of whip cream on the top of the brown liquid sending the ends of my lips upward. Whispering a small thank you, and handing the boy a five-dollar bill, I poured the two dollars and change into the tip jar, grabbed my things and quickly headed over to the outside tables.

Not three steps into the small patio area, I heard the screeching of the iron cast chair legs rubbing against the cement. Cringing, I turned my attention to the other person who was sitting out here, and instantly felt my grip loosen on my things. If I had not wanted to drink the coffee I had just ordered so badly, everything in my hands would have fallen to the floor in complete disbelief.

“Ms. Snow.” The smooth voice from earlier in the week tickled my ears, causing all of the blood in my body to rush to my cheeks.

“Good Evening, Professor Collins.” I breathed, my chest tightening as his names fell off of my lips. Conjuring the courage to look up at him, I watched intently as he pulled the cigarette from between his lips, held it off to the side, flicked off some of the ashes, and then placed it right back between his plump lips.

A laugh filled the tranquil space, sending shivers up and down my spine. “Please, call me Riley outside of campus, Harper.” The way he said my name made my heart ache. “What brings you to a coffee shop at eight thirty in the evening.” Wide blue eyes on me, the chair across from him was pushed out from its space snug to the table.

Nodding a little, I slowly walked over to the chair and sat down, watching his foot move away from the chair, and disappearing under the table. Once he straightened his back and pressed the butt of his cigarette into the ashtray on the edge of the table, the huge blue orbs that rendered even the most confident women silent barreled into mine, awaiting my answer.

“Just wanted to go for a walk, I suppose.” I whispered, my fingers tracing over the title of the book I had picked up from my desk, ‘Howl and Other Poems by Allen Ginsberg’. Smiling a little, I pulled the book closer to me and pulled the cover over to the side, quickly flipping through the pages until I found the page I had marked off what felt like centuries ago when my mother gave me the book.

The man sitting across fro me shifted in his seat, his body leaning over the table as his eyes scanned over the cover of the book I was holding. Once I had found the page I was looking for, I looked over at the man, our eyes locking in a stare.

Clearing his throat, Riley smiled warmly at me and nodded a little, his large hand grabbing his mug of coffee and bringing it to his lips. “I didn’t read you as much of a poet.”

“Quite the fan to be honest”, I whispered as I pulled my mug over to me and lifted it to my lips, letting the hot liquid flow past my lips and trail down my throat, warming ever inch of my body. “I am an Art major after all.”

“Art?” He barked, his words loud and smothered with confusion.

“Photography to be exact.” I lifted my eyes to his, as I wiped off some whip cream from my nose. “Minoring in Art History.” I trailed on, almost positive that he really didn’t care what major or minor I was affiliated with. Many professors had always asked what majors and minors their students were in, but the next class they couldn’t remember who was in what classes and eventually gave up even trying.

When Riley excused us from the awkward introductions, I concluded that he didn’t give a rats ass who was studying what.

“Not to offend you in any way, shape, or form, but why are you in advanced Psychology class?” His eyes barrowed in on mine, turning into little slits with shimmering blue orbs peering out from them. As he studied me, his eyebrow lifting in question, I shrugged my right shoulder and dropped my eyes back down to the page I had opened to. It was the start of the poem ‘Sunflower Sutra’, and it had been my favorite poem for a good two years before I branched out into the other greats lie Robert Frost, Anne Sexton, and Poe.

Taking another long sip from my coffee, I started to read the poem in my head and sighed a little. “I thought it would be a fun class to take. It seemed interesting.”

“Fun?” He was amazed by my words.

Instead of speaking again, I simply nodded and let out a small sigh as I reached the end of the poem, my favorite jumble of words that my mother would read to me when we would sit on the bench in central park, staring off at the group of sunflowers dancing in the bright sunrays with the help of soft breezes rolling in through the trees. It was a common occurrence, and a memory that I had cherished, and cherished even more so now.

“Read me some lines.” Riley insisted as he placed his mug down on the table and looked over at me, his large blue eyes running over my mug of coffee and the book that was now flat against the cast iron table we were sitting at. Once my eyes drifted up to him, staring at me with a soft smile, I shook my head a little and listened as he laughed, an adorable, heart felt, genuine laugh. It was so intoxicating that I would have taken his laughter over the nicotine of a cigarette any day. “Please, just some lines, I never focused much on Allen Ginsberg’s work. Let me see if he’s worth checking out.”

Rolling my eyes, I watched as a playful smirk rose to Riley’s lips as his bright blue orbs urged me to read the words that had been printed on the now yellowing paper of the book under my fingertips. Nibbling on my bottom lip, I sucked in a deep breath and thought back to when my mother would recite the last verse in Central Park, her hand in mine as we watched the sunflowers.

Just as Riley was about to speak again, I cleared my throat and watched as he leaned back in his seat, the cotton tee shirt that hung from his shoulders pulling tight against his strong frame, making my cheeks grow warm.

We're not our skin of grime, we're not our dread
bleak dusty imageless locomotive, we're all
beautiful golden sunflowers inside, we're blessed
by our own seed & golden hairy naked
accomplishment-bodies growing into mad black
formal sunflowers in the sunset, spied on by our
eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive
riverbank sunset Frisco hilly tincan evening
sit-down vision.

When I looked up, the man across from me had his eyes shut, his features defined by the moonlight mixed with the little white lights hanging above us. As he realized I had stopped speaking, he opened his eyes, and looked up at me, his lips forming a small smile. “Ms. Snow, you are a very peculiar girl.”

Nodding once, a small smile formed on my lips as I carefully shut the old paperback book and pulled my mug of coffee closer to me, letting the small lines of steam dissipate into the air right under my nose. “I know.” I answered, pulling the mug to my lips. As I peered over the rim of my mug, I watched as the man across from me smiled.

Smiling back at him, I felt my shoulder relax as well as every muscle in my body. There was something about sitting with Riley that made me feel like maybe, I wasn’t such a bad luck charm. That maybe, just maybe, my life wasn’t as bleak, cursed, and meaningless as I had sought it out to be.