Best Choice

They say that being indecisive is hell on earth, for the pain of being put on a crossroad is, perhaps, greater than the pain of losing an opportunity. With that said, let’s venture inside Ann’s mind. Growing up, Ann had her fair share of moments when she felt like two tiny copies of herself would dispute the century’s tug of war, but she not for once saw an end to that. Her little versions of herself would pull and pull for as long as her mind continued to function. The consequence of which was, undoubtedly, exhaustion. Her mind was a forest of conflicts that grew on the shadows of each other, and as they grew, they fed those that grew beneath them.

The door of her teenage years was a heavy load to push open and closed. As for the few friends of her youth, fewer were left to be counted, and regarding an interest in boys, the sudden realization that she couldn’t have it, therefore, she didn’t want it, had taken by storm any chance of a first kiss before she reached fifteen. ‘You are just too indecisive.’ Some would daresay. ‘You will die a regretful virgin.’ Someone else would tease. Not that the latter hadn’t crossed her mind. As a matter of fact, almost everything had crossed her mind.

When she finally reached adulthood, as incredible as that seemed to her rather doubtful mind, she had to face questionings far more serious and, perhaps, one might say, even more dreadful prospects than kissing a boy or whether or not to ask for a raise on her allowance as is the instinctive feature of youngling’s. Although, admittedly she found little to no interest in attaining these things anyway. Maybe, she would just not know what to do with the money. She ought to decide her path through life now, that was the focus, not to be a bum at the expense of her parents.

She was eighteen when she was brought home by one of her mother’s friends. The poor woman had seen Ann in a supermarket aisle, said hello, but heard nothing in response from the young lady holding cans of what appeared to be beans in each hand, seemingly comparing the caloric contents of each product. She mustn’t have heard. The friend then continued on her journey pushing her cart. Fifteen minutes later, the woman passed perpendicularly, and now Ann was sitting on the floor, still staring at the cans. She lingered, watching the odd scene for some minutes before deciding to go and take a closer look at the girl. ‘Is everything ok, darling?’ still no response. ‘Ann?’ The young woman looked up and exposed her round brown eyes brimming with water. ‘The brown ones are more nutritious, but I don’t really like them. The black ones are tastier, but mom says I need to eat better.’ Ann returned her stare to the cans. The woman behind the cart looked even more baffled, but after some seconds of hesitation, she was compelled to say something. ‘Darling, as far as I know, there’s little difference between them; if you like the black beans, you take them.’ ‘But they are more expensive.’ ‘Didn’t you bring enough money? Don’t you worry, you can put them in my cart.’ ‘But they seem lighter.’ She stood up and handed the two cans to the woman in front of her. ‘Check, please.’ The woman was disturbed by this situation, however, clearly far less disturbed than Ann was. ‘Feel them. Which is heavier?’ The tears fell silently from her eyes, splashing on the supermarket floor. When her mother opened the door to her friend and saw the woman embracing a tired-looking Ann, with her head hanging low, obviously the first question was what had happened, which the girl answered quietly and ashamedly; ‘I couldn’t. I am sorry.’ Her mother took them both in, hugged her daughter and sent her to her room while she spoke with her friend. Later that night, Ann would receive her mother in her room to hear the good news, as if anyone could call it that.

What followed the ‘supermarket incident’ was two years of weekly sessions with a woman who, undoubtably, forced her way into lines way too often to be qualified in advising someone who had to go through insufferable long distances in mind to reach any decision. The oddly timed one hour and fifteen-minute sessions would normally go, after the common introductions and greetings, on a path of overly repeated questions and answers that would often bring more chaos to Ann’s mind, as to which, she repeatedly used the only shield she ever learned to be efficient; ‘I don’t know.’ Then the woman would circle back to where she had started, and Ann would sigh with exhaustion. In her mind, she at least had the comfort of knowing that her being there, had been the result of someone else’s choice. It was only by the beginning of the second year that both questioner and questionee felt that the payoff could be seen appearing on the horizon, at least for the latter. Although her decision making was still slow, and the very existence of any struggle she had to go through was still evidence of her now ‘slow decent into madness’, as she would say, the fact was that things were slightly easier for her now. Perhaps, the improvement was due to the same condition that provides with everything the opportunity to improve; time. She didn’t know for sure, but it felt as though her mind could finally breath. Although it was a short and insufficient inhalation of air, it was still life giving.

She was 25 by the time she made up her mind that she was ready to leave the nest. Curiously, for the past months, she had been more afraid of the outcome of everyday decisions and what they may bring than of what the future might hold in store. For the prospect of renting an apartment of her own, which by her own standards would be an incredible achievement, did not make her fear the future more than she already did, however, it was the little everyday decisions that made her mind boil under pressure to the point of overflowing. Should she buy a lamp for her nights of unlikely reading of books she would likely never buy? Should she have frozen lasagna for her fist meal by herself? That night she ate plain crackers and read nothing.

Few people knew of her struggle within. This was in itself, irrefutably connected to the very fact that deciding whether to tell someone or not was already such a struggle. The ones who had the patience required to listen to her story, would often tell her that routine makes things comfortable and less scaring. So, it was based on that advice/belief that she acted; taking the very same way to work each day, just a turn and a start from another end now. And she kept the route for some time, often thanking any invisible entity, which might be waiting to grab her gratitude from the air, for the fact that her apartment and workplace were not inhumanly far from each other. One afternoon though, as she crossed the threshold of her workplace, a hand grabbed her purse and yanked it strongly, causing her to have a face-first encounter with the ground. She shook her head to scare away the feeling of disorientation, and hands pushed her back to her feet. The image of a man running soon formed in her eyes, a man running with her bag and every document she possessed, the keys to the apartment, and whatever money she had. The information was sent instantaneously to her brain, and two Anns of different colors quickly took up their positions, four hands pulling the same rope in opposite directions… and they were all gone when her legs started moving, awkwardly at first as a result of the fall, consequently, they would get the hang of running. The bandit was already turning right at the corner, pushing and dodging bodies, while she ran behind; yelling at him to stop. In her mind, sarcasm would be delighting itself, watching things through the screen of her eyes as she yelled; ‘Stop.’ Bursting with laughter. ‘Sure, he will stop on your say-so. That’s how these things work.’

She chased the man as he crossed the street and entered a park, before vanishing amongst the green of the trees, the red of the Frisbees being thrown, and the gray of the pigeons that took up every unoccupied inch of space. By the time she reached the entrance, he could have been anyone there now. She scanned the scene before her, but it helped her none, for now, panting and tired, sweaty and frustrated, tears made things even more difficult; her eyes quickly filling like small glasses of water. She took a deep breath and walked to the nearest empty bench, for everyone knows that crying standing is both weird and uncomfortable. Not that the bench would be any great adjective or synonym for comfortability. Once she was finally sitting on the hard cold concrete of July, she let her eyes do whatever they wanted. Obviously, they decided to give in, and the tears started falling.

One could say that, in these big cities, the sight of someone crying is quite commonplace. Perhaps, the presence of a young woman with red eyes sitting on a bench, untied hair, and disappointed shoulders was just as remarkable as witnessing a car crash; people stop, look, spare two seconds of thought, and keep walking. It’s not their problem. It never has been. But life has a way of surprising those who think they have it all figured out. Life’s first envoy was an old lady, curved and slow. She sat beside the crying girl, and with trembling hands she offered a gesture that belonged to the few still fighting against the ‘natural order’ of such large human centers. Ann felt, through a single touch on her shoulder, more empathy and care than she had ever felt from anyone other than her own parents. She looked at the old woman, who had a smile aptly paired with closed eyes. ‘Things will be ok, my darling.’ ‘I lost everything.’ The old woman never asked what everything consisted of, perhaps, the girl was speaking of money, or a house, a car. ‘Everything’ to that old woman, meant something else entirely. ‘And everything will come to you again.’ Her tone never changed; it was as reassuring as it was sweet. ‘How can you be sure?’ ‘I am old, darling. And just as it is unnatural to die young, it is unnatural to die old without learning from life’s lessons.’ Ann still felt outraged at the events of the day, but she also felt happy that, even without a single cry for help, this old lady gladly sat by her side and provided her with some enigmatic comfort.

The old woman eventually had to move on, something about having to be somewhere, Ann heard. She thanked her and stayed there on the bench. Her face was still red, but the tears had ceased. The sky had that orange and blue versus black look, indicating the end of yet another day. It was time to go home. She instinctively placed her hand on the side of her hips to reach for the purse. She heard her common sense mocking her. How would she get home now? No money, no phone, and no keys. She thought. Just when her eyes were about to resume their wailing, another person sat down awkwardly by her side; a woman, perhaps, the same age as her. ‘I am sorry, but I’ve been on the bench over there for some time and saw what happened to you. I think I saw the guy go by me.’ She said as she pointed to a bench on the other side of the narrow path that would lead to the entrance of the park. ‘I couldn’t help you then, but maybe there is something I can do for you now.’ Ann likened the woman beside her now and the old lady to two pimples on the face of a city that was constantly trying to squeeze them, so it could get back to normality. More tears accompanied her words ‘I wanna go home.’ ‘I know dear.’ The unfamiliar woman, and here we can only speculate, out of pity, solidarity or sorority, kissed her cheek, put an arm behind her and asked: ‘You know your address, right?’ ‘Yes.’ Ann laughed through tears. ‘Or we could go to the police?’ ‘No, I just wanna go home.’ ‘Ok, so let’s go.’ She grabbed Ann by the waist and helped her out of the park. A taxi stopped right in front of them, Ann stepped inside and sought comfort at the end of the back seat. When she looked to her side, her savior had a bill worth two rides to her home at the end of her fingers. Ann looked in her eyes as if asking for something else, and the woman quickly understood and climbed in beside her.

When the two women arrived at the apartment building, still inside the car, Ann turned to her savior, and with her eyes drowning said: ‘I can’t thank you enough.’ ‘You can.’ The woman put her hand inside her coat and handed Ann a card. ‘When you have things resolved, give me a call. Something tells me we should keep in touch.’ ‘Yes.’ Ann thanked her again, and hugged her yet unidentified princess on a white horse. She put the card inside her pocket, watched the car go straight ahead and disappear. She entered the building, was greeted by a familiar face at the counter and soon there was a man there to help her enter her own home.

Later, after a hot shower, she laid on the sofa. I should have kept running after him, I should have left earlier, I should have called the police. Many ‘should haves’ she thought. While she was still struggling with what to do the next day, police station or work in the morning, whether she would eat later or not, what to watch to help her relax, whether she would even be able to relax or not, she grabbed her coat that was resting on the arm of the sofa. She read the card: Best Choice Operations. Below that, a sentence she wished she’d heard before. Making your life easier. She couldn’t help but laugh. Fate was a trickster and she knew that now. She sat, grabbed her landline phone, and dialed the numbers on the back of the card. ‘Hello, Christine?’. While she talked to the stranger that seemed to be already something of a friend, her mind still struggled with simple choices, but in her heart, she knew something new now; she was simply indecisive, and that was more than alright.