Late for the Sky

We sat on the steps of Sharon's brownstone waiting for Maggie. We were driving up to Tanglewood for a concert, Jackson Browne. Sharon squinted into the sun, then put her forehead on her knees and sighed. “We're gonna be late,” she said.

I knew she was right. It was my idea to ask Maggie and her boyfriend. Partly because she had an old Delta 88 circa '74 which would afford us plenty of room for the three-hour drive to the Berkshires. But mainly because I had lost my address book with all my contacts. So Maggie and Jim it was, by default.

Maggie, Sharon and me were friends at work. We worked for the government at steady, well-paying, soul-sucking jobs. Maggie was what we called “obsessive.” She was constantly second-guessing herself. She'd make a decision, say, to have tuna on rye for lunch. But when the waiter stood at the table, having taken everyone's order, she'd change to tuna on a roll, then a meatball sub, then back to tuna on rye again. So it was kind of a given that she'd be late.

I had been living with Sharon for the past six months. She wasn't charging me anything. The goal was to save up enough money to take a year off of work to make a film. But somehow my last day of work kept on getting pushed off. I am a bit of a procrastinator. Also, without my address book, not only were friends' numbers gone, but so were professional contacts and potential investors.

We were supposed to get on the road at 10 am, early enough to avoid weekend traffic. It was now half-past noon.

“Should I go back upstairs and call?” Sharon asked me.

“No, if they didn't leave yet, that'll just slow them down.”

“Dave, I wish we had just rented a car.”

“Well, it's too late for that now,” I said, putting my arm around her and drawing her close. Sharon put her head on my shoulder. “Let's do a Jackson Brownie medley,” she said, pronouncing the last “e” in his name. It was a running joke. Then she sat up straight and started in on “Take it Easy.” We sang it over and over and over, Sharon lifting her head and singing her heart out and me playing air guitar.

At ten minutes to three the big green boat of a car rounded the corner. “Such a fine sight to see!” we both sang and burst out laughing. Tied to the roof of the car were a tent, four folding chairs, two coolers, an umbrella, blankets, pillows and an inflatable raft, fully inflated.

“We were getting worried about you guys,” I lied. Neither Maggie nor Jim offered any explanation. The atmosphere in the car was thick with tension and we drove away in silence.

***

It was a hot, humid day. The AC was broken and so we had all the windows rolled down. The radio was set to WINS so that we could hear the traffic report for whatever that was worth. Basically, there was only one route to take. The NY State Thruway to the Massachusetts Turnpike.

Sharon had her arm out the window, playing catch with the hot air.

“Can we get some music?” she called to Maggie.

“Right after this next traffic report. I think there's some tapes in the glove compartment,” she answered.

Jim popped the glove compartment.

“Nothing,” he commented.

About two hours into the drive the Thruway became a parking lot. We had come to a complete standstill. We decided to pull in at the next rest stop since we weren't making any progress anyway. We ordered burgers, fries and cokes, Maggie then changing her order to the NY State Thruway version of pizza to a tuna melt and then back to a burger and fries.

“Damn it, Maggie,” said Jim. “Why don't you just order everything and decide what to eat later?”

I thought that was a bit harsh. Apparently what Sharon and I had come to see as a lovable quirk was really getting on his nerves.

Sharon and I got up from the table to go to the restrooms. We both were wearing Tanglewood T-shirts. We stopped in front of a mirror.

“Look. Our T-shirts say “bowelgnat,” I remarked.

It was 6:30 when we got back to the table. The concert was scheduled for 7:30 and we still had about 80 miles to go. We divvied up the bill and got ready to pay. As Sharon reached to get her wallet some of the things in her bag fell out on the table – tissues, a makeup kit, and a little black book. It was held closed with a black elastic tie and had a black ribbon bookmark.

It didn't register at first. But then Sharon's eyes met mine and I knew. It was my address book.

“Is that - ”

She turned a deep red. I almost felt sorry for her. But I was too angry.

“Why, Sharon? Why?” Now she couldn't look at me.

We piled back into the car. I was now sitting up front with Maggie. Sharon and Jim were in the back. Traffic had cleared. Maggie was speeding now. I leaned over to see the speedometer; the needle was pushing 90. Then it happened. It sounded like a fire cracker. One of the tires had blown. The car spun crazily and stopped facing oncoming traffic. I heard the screech of brakes, and then felt the impact. There was the sound of glass shattering and then everything went black.

***

We never did make it to that concert. Maggie, Jim and Sharon were treated for minor injuries at Fairview Hospital. I was not so lucky. I had a concussion, a broken nose and a fractured pelvis. But I was lucky in another way. Maggie's insurance company settled my claim for $20,000.

It's been six months now. I moved out of Sharon's apartment and back in with my parents. At first it was hard to get around. I went to physical therapy, first daily, then three times a week and then twice a week. I still have a slight limp but it's hardly noticeable.

My film is on hold. Can something be on hold if it was never started? I keep waiting for inspiration. The days are short now and sometimes in the late afternoon I look outside and see the sun going down behind the trees. I've got my little black address book but I just can't seem to make any calls. What am I waiting for?