Salt 148

       I was in Drawing counting chairs when I heard, "Hi Anton."
       I turned. Coral was peering in the door I'd propped open to cool down Drawing. "Coral, hi."
       She entered, flashed some yellow. "Thanks for the birthday present."
       "No big deal; just a little book I stumbled upon while dusting."
       Coral pulled up in front of me. "I love old books." She raised the book. "I see this book, Pan, was published way back in '55."
       "Way back?" I checked myself. No, this was not the time to tell the girl I was born in '52. "You think '55's way back, get this: That Pan your smelling was first published in 1894."
       I noticed then, her hand was blue. But then I couldn't see her hand for the face she was making. "Whew," she said. "Why does this book smell like a wet mop?"
       "Oh, that. Well, see, I . . . I bought it used at Owls. Ya, who knows what journey that book's been on. Say, how do you like my set up?" I presented the rows of folding chairs with my gloved hand. "Ya, hotshot Clay artist giving a slide talk tonight. Look. Over here." Removing my gloves, I escorted Coral towards the back. "This is his work." I picked up a pot. "Salt," I said with authority.

       
       I studied the piece as if I was a big fan of Salt. Anything to get Coral's mind off the disgusting dish-sponge I'd used in my failed attempt to clean the red wine stains off the used book I'd given her for--what I deemed to be--her twenty-first or second birthday.

       Coral placed Pan on the table. "Salt?" she said, taking the pot out of my hand.

       Damn, I'd assumed the art and craft student, here, would have known the meaning of Salt. 
       "Damned if I know," I said, coming clean. "Salt was all the artist offered up when I asked him about his work."

       I studied Coral studying the pot's strange markings. How about that; both her hands were blue. I wanted to ask about the blue, but she said, "I'd like to try throwing pots some day." She went on naming all the things in life she hoped to master.

       With Coral listing away, I was struck by her body language. Rare, indeed, the woman who spoke with no affected body language. Oh, if only I was a womanizer, I'd ask her, "Why are you the sexiest girl on campus?" Then I'd answer my own question. "Because you're not trying to be."

       Coral, having pronounced the umpteenth thing in life she hoped to master, made me feel like a hypocrite for nodding her on. I was a man of truth; this dear girl, here, would need to live two hundred years to master all the things she was slating. But I nodded her on anyway. Why? Because a blink of an eye ago I was 22. Yes, a blink of an eye ago, I, too, believed life to be an eternity.

       "That's it then," Coral said, putting the Salt down. "I'm going to sign up for a course in Clay."

       I didn't know Clay, of course, so I touched on what I did know; the earth. That led to planets, which reminded Coral of the meteor shower peaking around midnight tonight. Her and Trent were planning to take it in. She asked if I might take it in.

       "I'd like to," I said. "But, see, midnight's a wee past my bedtime." That wee part was a stretch, for my bedtime was 8 p.m. "But, hey, maybe the stars will still be falling when I get up at 4 a.m."

       "Four?" Coral said. "Why do you have to get up at four?"

       "I don't have to. I choose to. See, 4 a.m. is the best time to create because everyone's asleep. You know, minimal thought waves muddying up the transmitting universe."

       Coral covered her mouth, said, "Sounds like you're a satellite dish."

       Because Coral was trying not to laugh, I hurried up and laughed. "Funny," I said, "dish reminds me of last summer. My nineteen-year-old nephew was coming to visit and I was all concerned, right? I mean, how does one talk to a nineteen-year-old? What's a nineteen-year-old interested in, right?"

       Coral didn't say anything.

       "Well, my nephew came, and he had on all these amulets to ward off this, attract that. And one of them, around his neck, was this little metal dish with crystals set around the rim. And get this: This dish was crafted to capture all the negative man-made radiation that otherwise would go through his body and disrupt his better system, ha, ha."

       Instead of laughing, Coral reached for her neck, pulled a necklace out of her blouse, "This is my birthstone, topaz. I was feeling off today, so I put in on, and . . . I don't know, but I think it helped."

       Having called me a satellite dish, I had assumed Coral wasn't into mysticism. Add to that her Lois Lane outfit--wool skirt, white blouse; the furthest thing from my nephew's hippie attire, well, what else could I have assumed?

       "Oh, no," I said regaling in my mysticism, "Native American stuff, spirituality stuff, I love all that stuff. Birthstone? That's an astrology thing, right?"

       "No. Birthstones are about the calender. Astrology's about the solar system. See, my sun sign is Scorpio, which--"

       "Scorpio?" I said, cutting her off. No, I had to cut her off to make it appear as if this was breaking news to me. Truth was, I'd already looked it up.

       "Yes," Coral said, tucking away her birthstone, "with Sagittarius rising."

       This was breaking news to me. "Hey," I said, slapping my chest, "I got Sagittarius rising."

       "No wonder we relate."

       I wanted to gloat, but first I had to feel myself up.

       
       I'd heard a pop when I'd slapped my chest, and sure enough; time I got me some new reading glasses.

       From the one astrology book I owned, I'd learned Scorpio was the sex sign. From the many women I was always studying in the field I'd learned sex was a conversation killer where women were concerned. So, instead of touching on sex, I thought I'd touch on one of my many old-soul skills.

       "Oh, sure," I said, putting on my gloves, "astrology is revealing and all, but, see, I prefer to read eyes." 

       Coral picked up Pan, took to smelling it again.

       "Ya," I said, "just from a persons eyes I can tell if they are good or bad, dumb or smart, shallow or deep."
       Coral made the face one makes when smelling a wet mop.
       "Take your eyes, Coral. I look into them and I see depth, wisdom. You're an old soul, Coral. You've had many past lives."

       I had expected Coral to gush over my profound declaration. But her expression didn't change. She simply said, "That's what Olga says."

       "Olga?"

       "The old healer woman who served as the midwife at my birth. Soon after I was born, Olga told my parents that. That I was an old soul, so they shouldn't expect me to behave like other children."

       Having failed to move Coral by pinning 'old soul' on her, I thought I might make an impression by dismissing old-souls. "Not that being an old soul is any great blessing. Just means ones life lessons come with harder tests."

       Coral used Pan to wave me off. "Anton. I've been thinking about what you said the other day; that I like reading about the Oregon Trail because I . . ."

       Though I made as if I were listening to Coral confirming her belief in past lives, I was really plotting strategy. Call it childish, but having failed to impress the girl, I was now out to shock her out of her skirt.

       "Sure, Coral, I can see you coming across on a wagon train. But I think you were a man then, driving the team."

       "I can see that."

       OK, man-bitch, shock you want, shock you got. I took off a glove. "Ya," I said, writing in the air with my hand, "and I was a woman, in the back of the wagon, writing in my journal."

       Sure enough, Coral's eyes popped open. And well they should. For what kind of rare man was this? What kind of man stands before a girl and describes himself in terms of a woman?

       I was half expecting Coral to answer, "Superman." Instead, she said, "You think you and I have had past lives together?"

       "Damned straight," I said, setting Superman's mighty fist in motion. 

       But then the universe slowed, and I took note of what appeared to be a writer's fist round-housing towards Coral's left shoulder. Alarmed by what my touch was about to torch, I slammed on the brakes, my fist stopping so close to her shoulder, a knuckle put a dent in the puff of her Lois Lane sleeve.

       I stared at that sleeve, envisioned the round of her shoulder underneath. Had a round of flesh ever played a more pivotal role in the well being of a planet? Imagine, another inch and no Great Work written, no earth's ass saved.

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