Oranges and Yellows

I imagine my future a lot; what it could've been if I made different decisions than I have, than I know I will. I imagine that more than sticking to the reality of what it really will be, because I don't want to upset myself prematurely. I'll save that for my death bed.

I imagine another version of myself; a thinner, more humbled body containing the melancholy, introspective, stoic, and minimalist parts of my personality. I imagine that body engulfed in a raggedy orange sweater, so worn it's brown, and a big bag holding the essentials: a typewriter, some face powder, a pack of Marlboro, and an iPod nano. I imagine this body aching under Chicago winter drafts, the weight of all my anxieties, and all the crap in the bag. Chicago. The street shelters me in between the sandy, crumbling walls of the share houses and the black, broken streets, shimmering from the rain's bedazzling and decoration. I feel safe in the yellows, the oranges of the lamplights. They bid me farewell as I transition into his neighborhood.

I imagine crossing over from my warm, honey glazed streets into dark, fenced off front yards of houses, moated off by voluptuous gardens, nursed with hours and hours of time that could've very easily been spent on writing a book, raising a kid, or starting up a business and making enough money to pull the whole city of Chicago out of bankruptcy. But no, those green, overfed sprouts tremble in anticipation to lick at my denim coated ankles as I make my way toward one of the houses, wading through the miniature caricature of a jungle, with only the glowing window to guide me. Finally I make it, and, restoring air into my destroyed lungs, rap on the door. I imagine him, having swung the door open after confirming my identity from my exhausted smile, pulling me inside and, just as cautiously, closing it.

"Here, let me help you with that.”

I imagine him rocking me aside with his shoulder while trying to swipe the bag off mine. Immediately, I am met with an invitation onto his couch. I am reunited with my seat, reserved by my daily imprinting into the leather. I ask how his day has been, elbowing myself free from the barricade of empty whiskey bottles and pizza boxes. He sits opposite me, picking at melted candle wax stuck to the coffee table.

"Same old. You?"

I imagine getting up and fetching my bag. I pull out the typewriter, telling him that it's my grandmothers, making up stories from my childhood that have never happened, that I might've witnessed in the making, that I've wished took place. I imagine him nodding, smiling at the degree of passion I funnel into my lies. He knows it's all bullshit. He listens anyway. I imagine that that is why we get along so well.

We take to the kitchen, which is more dingy than the living room. But somehow, it's perfect for capturing our self destruction. From the cigarette smoke, to the volatile fits of laughter, we illustrate a synthesis of two polar opposites, two complete strangers whose relationship is built on broken memories, and knowledge of fragmented details of stories told over bottles of Hennessy and countless pots of black coffee.

Soon, the kitchen's fluorescence fades, and our hands and minds get too unstable/shaky to continue to even attempt writing. We shove our utilities aside; he, my lanky typewriter, I, his fountain pen. I imagine him brushing his hair out of his face, his hands like rakes against his oil soaked scalp. I quickly repossess his fingers and grip them within mine:

"I think it's time you bought me a real drink."

We race toward our shoes. I locate my jumper and bag, for I have been stripped of them both upon arrival. We waddle into the streets, fearless and exposed, hats, scarves, sweaters put on backwards and inside out, shoes pulled onto the wrong feet. I imagine making it to a pub right before closing time, and the owner refusing to let us in.

"This is bullshit." I yell.

"Fucking bullshit." He agrees, setting me down on the curb before I get violent. He then reaches for my arm, the one farthest away from him, and tucks me in toward him. I feel safe, sheltered in between his shoulder and jacket, my storming body taking in his warmth. We sit like that for a few minutes, pasted together. Then, I break loose and spring onto my feet, belting out the chorus to some Killers song.

I imagine using what's left of my energy to thrust myself around a traffic column, expecting not to get hurt. I break my nose and slip down the column, wheezing. He catches and scolds me. We drag past the traitorous pub, and into the direction of my molding, sudsy neighborhood, howling makeshift lyrics in faux English accents.

My legs give out multiple times. I imagine the liquor bubbling in my veins as if my blood were on a stove top, searing off my composition like molten plastic. He slings me over his shoulder. We submit into the warmth of my subdivision, of my oranges and yellows, of my glistening street.

I beg him to put me down, but he dares not to until we arrive to my door. I reach for his bearded face and try to smother him with what's left of my smeared lipstick, but he beats me to it. His eyes are closed, so I can keep mine open, and I do so in order to capture the kaleidoscopic show playing out in front of me.

Soon, I take my turn to shut my eyes and pull away from the beastly man. With an exchange of clothing, bags, and cigarette packs, we reciprocate our goodbyes and usher back into our individual personas. I imagine shaking the key into my shabby apartment door, and finally cracking it open. With every step forward, I feel gravity's pull more and more, until soon, I find myself naked in my bedroom, staring at my lamp. It's one of those Himalayan salt lamps, the orange and yellow and salmon pink ones. I imagine keeping it on the nightstand, next to my pipe and pills and hydroponic weed. I hear a plane zooming overhead. The sky yawns. I yawn with it, and land my head, stuffed with all these flying colors, into the pillow, lamp still burning, body, thinner and more humbled than mine, still reeking of ethanol and tobacco.

I imagine my future a lot, and now I think I know why. Because if my future has a chance of being anything like this, maybe life would be worth living after all.