A good way to process anger is to stick it to the earth. I got back to pick-axing.
Damned Hayward, anyway.
To save money Hayward had decided to have work-study students work the Front Desk on Sundays. That Desk was the front lines of the college. Marge had waged war there for years. And now Hayward expected greenhorns to hold down the fort?
But that wasn't why I was angry. Besides Craft Shop personnel, I was the only staff person on campus on Sundays. That meant I'd get stuck training the greenhorns. Well, screw that. I had some front lines of my own. Ya, you Front Deskers, you think your war is tough, try holding down the fort with Mother Nature PMSing on you season in, season out.
I stopped pick-axing, put a fist in the small of my back. Turned out, sticking it to the earth was to stick it to oneself. Especially when your earth was baked to brick.
A good way to process pain is to drink from what fountain-of-youth have you. I envisioned Coral at the drinking fountain. "I prefer heavy," she had said there. Yes, and what kind of heavy was she referring to? I could get heavy--heavy with my words-to-live-by. Of course, some of my better words-to-live-by were: "While passing through, do your best, but don't forget to laugh."
And I would have laughed, too, but Coral's heaviness really weighed on me. Yes, what kind of relationship might a laugh-ready guy have with a girl who had all the levity of concrete? Perhaps I should seek her out, ask her point blank what she meant by heavy.
Without a second thought, I dropped my pick-axe, headed out.
Heading out, I had a second thought: Hayward on the loose of late. I went back, got my wheelbarrow. Went back again, threw a shovel in it.
Wheeling out, I steered out of my way a little. Yes, there was a certain circle now I always went out of my way to step upon.
Exiting the orchard, I gave my eyeless greeting to Simone and Sabina strolling in. My mind on the mysterious strollers, my body went into auto-mode, and before I knew it, my workboots were working those stepping stones like a supermodel works a runway.
I stopped, dropped my wheelbarrow. "You'd best laugh now," I said, throwing a glove down. "You sure won't be laughing when I strike at the hour when you least expect it." Adding feathers to the flame, I threw the stones the bird.
Having searched the campus for Coral, I looked up to have a word with the gods. "Could use a little help down here. Got that heavy girl I need to get to the bottom of. Can't get to said bottom if I can't find her."
The gods had a word or two for me, but I wouldn't have it--hadn't faired all that well the last time I'd gone tit for tat with the bastards.
Having thrown the gods the bird, I took note of a wisp of a cloud in the sky. It looked like a ship towing a big fish.
Omen.
Yes, a clear indicator of Coral and my relationship. I dropped my barrow, quick-drew my pad and pen.
"Oh, sure, it was a struggle for the two, climbing higher than the mounting sexual chemistry that was building between them like the bulge on Mt. St. Helens just before she blew, but, by God, if there ever were a two who could throw their base chakras the bird, fly higher than the nether earth plane they were stuck to, it was Sky Ship Celadon and his heavy fish in tow, Coral Sea Score."
Wheeling down the main walk, my eye pealed for Coral, I spied Hayward coming up--capital, capital capital.
When I was knee-high to a grasshopper, I had this thing where I'd see my dad to the door. At the door I'd see the face he'd put on in preparation for his job down at the plant. His face said, 'Has anyone on this suck planet been more wronged than me?'
Oh, how easy it is for a son to put on the wronged face of his father. I put on that face for Hayward now.
That did the trick. "Anton, fighting the good fight, I see. Good boy. You keep that dripping nose of yours to the grindstone and you might see a cost-of-living raise yet."
I wiped my nose, got back to my search for Coral. Wheeling towards The Center I had another thought: Perhaps Coral's heavy side was caused by some wrong she'd experienced growing up. Then again, Coral was an old soul. Old souls shouldn't allow a wrong or two get them down.
And, yet, I knew wrongs could do just that.
My favorite wronged old soul was Gia Carangi. Gia gave me an idea: No, that's what I'd do; give Coral my Gia biography. Ya, with a note slipped under the cover.
I dropped my wheelbarrow, pulled out my pad and pen, had a grand old time strolling the campus, working on said note.
"Dear Coral--I do not give you this biography to talk you out of becoming a supermodel. Nor do I give you this biography to read. I give you this biography that you might look into the eyes on the cover. Those eyes are your eyes, Coral. Yes, even old souls are capable of taking a wrong turn on account of being wronged. A word to the wise, Coral: Gia took a wrong turn at eleven, wound up dead at twenty-six. In all seriousness, Anton."
Pocketing my pad and pen, I realized I was back in the orchard. How about that; my homing pigeon feet were planted in Coral's circle. I repositioned them to look more hawkish. I looked at my pick lying on the broken earth. Which reminded me; where had I left my wheelbarrow?
This was always happening to me; drifting off in a fit of writing, forgetting where I'd parked my wheelbarrow. No, if there was one thing Hayward hated, it was my unattended wheelbarrow creating a eyesore for all to see.
I headed out in search of my lost barrow.
And there I stood in front of The Center, the blue brace of my barrow giving me pause.
There was this guy in high school we called Red. There was nothing red about the guy, but every little thing made him angry, so we called him Red.
There was this guy in high school no one called Blue. But every one might have; every little thing gave me The Blues.
Blue was what Bob called me--called me when he was having pity on my blue collar. His pity was meant as poison meat, of course, but I--the immune old soul--swallowed the name like game hen.
Anton Blue Celadon.
No, now that I had that Great Work of mine all but off the ground, Blue was just the non de plume to get the book browsers of America reaching for me. I put on the blue face of my father now. No, there was a long photographic history of authors on book jackets--the gravest of faces getting the bulk of readership. Why? Because the degree to which gravity pulled on a face gave a good indication of the gross weight of gray matter piled high on the other side of face.
And there I stood in front of The Center, students come and going, working on the depth of blue-face best suited for the book jacket of my Great Work.
Of course there were other things to work on. I had yet to come up with a title for said great work--say nothing of writing it. Trifles, really, seeing how I had no fear of the blank page.
Confident things were about to take a turn for the better, I put all wrong turns behind me. Which brought to mind the biggest wrong turn of my life; my marriage.
No, it wasn't moving in with Tiandra at twenty that was wrong; it was giving in to the ultimatum Tiandra gave me two years later--marry her or else.
Not that I went the way of marriage without question. Take that journal entry I wrote three months into my marriage: "What monk-in-the-making gets hitched to a girl named Tiandra?"
Or, take what I wrote four months in: "Who'd-a known a woman who keeps changing decor, would want to change her monk as well?"
Or, six months in: "A monk links himself to a drip in a cave, not chains himself to a doghouse."
Seven years in: "Holing up with any woman does not the monk make."
It took nine years to make that wrong turn right. Once right, I vowed, never would I live with a woman again. For sixteen years now I'd been free. Sixteen years I'd driving home smiling, knowing no one was waiting there for me.
It was then that the door to The Center opened, and out came Apolena. I opened my mouth to say, 'Hi.' But I couldn't speak for the strong pull of her eyes. A pull so strong I had to hold onto the open door to keep from getting pulled into her eyes.
"Anton," Apolena said, "you're leaving the garden, going inside?"
"Yes, I, huh . . ." True, I wanted to get pulled into her eyes. "I, huh . . ." But it didn't matter what I wanted. Nor what she wanted. "I, huh . . ." I was a man of my word. The dusty gloves had hit the light table. I had no choice but to follow through with my vow. "I must check my box. I . . . I'm expecting something important in my box."
Before Apolena could say what she was about to say, I shot into The Center. "Talk to you later," I called back.
No, I wasn't expecting anything in my box. But in case Apolena was still on the other side of the glass door, spying on me, I checked my box. In it was a note: "The Sunday student-work-study positions for the Front Desk have been appointed. Jane will work 9:00 to 1:30, and Coral from 1:30 to 5:00."
Cry me a creed! Could it be? Could this be my Coral? Well, it had to be. I mean, how many Corals could there be in a given neck of Eden?
And speaking of green, I could see, now, it was indeed my responsibility to take the greenhorns to school. No, those Sunday work-study students were going to get a thorough going over by me if I had to plant my ass behind the Front Desk, take 'em by the hand.
Saturday, I worked in the orchard as well. But, no, Coral never showed. Oh, I saw her elsewhere a few times, always with her boyfriend, he and her looking down, talking at one another without cheer.
****
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