Meeting Melinda

Meeting Melinda



The entire ordeal began in insanity, but it was a different time then and my life was rife with insanity. It was after two in the morning when I first met Melinda. The bars had closed. I had killed a few beers and was feeling just pretty good with myself. I was making my careful way home and as I drove under an overpass I thought I heard someone scream at me. Being curious by nature and having nowhere special to be, I pulled a u-turn to investigate. As I parked my car at the shoulder of the road I caught her in my headlights.

Her white sundress reflected in the harsh glare and I caught the impression of her slim figure. Not super model perfect, but nice enough to hold my interest. Her face was turned away from me, so all I could see above her shoulders was the cascade of shocking red curls. As I turned off my headlights I noticed she was barefoot and wondered if she might not be an escapee from a mental hospital. I switched off my engine and stepped out, willing to take my chances.

I was greeted by the most beautiful voice I had ever witnessed. She was singing “Tomorrow” from Annie. I shyly walked up to her, suddenly quite self conscious that she would think I was the loony.

“Mind if I join in?” I asked.

She stopped singing just long enough to mutter, “What do I care.”

It wasn’t exactly the warm welcome I had hoped for, but I sat beside her, at a respectful distance of course, and joined in. My voice was nowhere near as sweet as hers, but my tenor matched well with her alto and found the harmony more often than not. We sat like that for quite some time, jumping from one show tune to the next without a word between us.

We had exhausted my show tune knowledge and had launched into “My Way”, she singing the Elvis version, I singing the Sid Vicious, when a police cruiser drove by, turned around and trapped us in its spotlight. I risked a quick glace at her face which had been hidden in darkness.

Dark blue eyes sparkled about plump freckled cheeks. Her lips were full, perhaps too much so, and glossed a deep red. And then there was that pink scar that ran from the left corner of her mouth up to her ear. Deep burn scars covered her chin, neck and chest. Those same scars engulfed her right arm as well. I quickly looked away, embarrassed, but if she noticed she gave no sign.

“Okay you two pigeons, come on down from there.” The officer had come to the edge of the underpass but was apparently uninterested in climbing up the concrete to join us as a power trio.

I stood up, brushed the gravel from my butt and offered her my hand. Her touch was cool and soft and she rose effortlessly to her feet. She took my arm as we made our way carefully down the embankment.

“Let’s see some I.D.” the officer asked, his voice full of boredom.

I handed over my license, thinking of how quiet it must have been patrolling this part of town, this early in the morning. He checked the picture on my license and then blinded me with his flashlight to check the likeness.

“You had anything to drink tonight, Mr. Monroe?” It was more of a statement than a question but I figured he was expecting some sort of answer. Several lines sprang to mind but none seemed as clever as I wished for.

“I can not tell a lie,” I confessed, “I had a few beers earlier tonight.”

“Would you mind taking a little test for me then?” he asked, pointing me toward his cruiser. Once again, I got the impression that this was not a question that really required an answer.

“Not at all.” I replied anyway, “I feel as sober as the pope.” I added before wondering if maybe this officer was Catholic and if such a reference to the pontiff was disrespectful.

It turned out not to matter in the end since I blew a 0.03 which even surprised me a little. He handed my license back to me and turned toward her.

“And how about your’s, miss?” he said with his hand out.

She stood at the side of the road, looking at her feet as if they might be doing something vaguely interesting, suddenly so helpless and childlike she whispered, “I don’t have any I.D. I’m no one.” She admitted to her feet.

“I can vouch for her.” I offered. “We’ve been best of friends for as long as I can remember.”

“Okay Mr. Monroe, does your childhood friend here have a name?” he asked.

“Melinda.” she introduced herself once again to her feet.

“Yes, Melinda.” I agreed, thinking she really didn’t strike me as a Melinda, more of a Star or Moon or some other messed up hippy’s child.

“Well,” he said after some consideration, “I guess there’s nothing felonious I can charge you with, but it’s 4:30. You might want to pack it up and head for home.”

I suggested he could charge us with disturbing the peace.

“Or singing without the proper key.” Melinda quietly added, which actually brought a chuckle from our uniformed friend.

“You kids be careful and don’t cause any trouble.” He said as he retreated back into his cruiser.

We stood side by side and watched as his taillights disappeared around the next corner. I realized that we had just spent two hours together and hadn’t spoken a word to each other. Now, with no song to help us along, we were at a loss for words.

“Well, it is late.” She said, finally breaking the awkward silence.

“Or early, depending upon how you look at it.” I quickly added, trying to say something witty and failing miserably.

“Yeah, I guess so.” she sighed. “Might as well head for home.” And with that she started off down the shoulder of the road.

“Hey, how about I give you a lift?” I offered, hoping to at least get a phone number.

“No thanks,” she said as she bent down to retrieve a pair of sandals from a patch of weeds. “I like the air and I don’t live far.” She sat under a street light to put on her shoes and I fumbled for any reason to spend more time with her.

“Yeah, but the Waffle House is a long walk and I could let you hang your head out the window if you’d like.” It was really lame but it was all I could come up with. I never was any good under pressure. But lame or not, it worked, in a way.

“How do I know you’re not some axe murderer?” she asked as she offered me her hand to help her up.

“Because every time they interview the friends of axe murders they always say they are completely shocked. None of my friends would be shocked, ergo I can not be an axe murderer.” I explained logically as I helped her to her feet. “And besides, an axe murderer would make you pay for your own breakfast.”

“Oh, if you’re paying how can I refuse?” I took her offered arm and escorted her to my car.

I was hoping that we could talk during the ride but she took me up on my offer and hung her head out the window, gazing at the stars, the whole way. By the time I pulled into the parking lot of the Waffle House I was wondering just what I’d gotten myself into. I got out of the car and was halfway to the restaurant before I noticed she wasn’t with me. I ran back to the car and opened the door for her. She took my arm again with a grin at my faux pas and we went into the restaurant.

Walking into the Waffle House at five in the morning is like walking into another dimension. The smell of maple syrup and bacon melds with cigarette smoke and sweat. The diners have all the animation of rejects from a Living Dead casting call and the plastic smiles that the waitresses wore when they came into work have become unnatural grimaces of pain. Fine dining indeed. We took seats at the counter between a long haul trucker who hadn’t bathed since Arizona and a homeless man whispering conspiracy theories into his oatmeal. The awkward silence overtook us again.

Once our orders arrived she looked directly into her waffle and told it, “Car wreck.”

“Excuse me,” I asked, “were you speaking to me or your breakfast? I have a very delicate ego, please don’t tell me I’ve come in second to a waffle.”

This did not bring the mirth I had hoped for, but at least she looked up from her plate. I could see now that she was deadly serious. She held my gaze with those blue eyes and I could see the defenses rise to the surface.

“I’m sure” she began slowly, “you’re wondering about these.” She gestured to her face. “They’re from a car wreck when I was twelve. My mother ran a red light and plowed into another car. I was trapped inside when the vehicles caught fire.” She fell silent but her eyes would not release me. She had made this speech before and now everything rested on my reply.

“It looks terrible.” I finally managed to say. The disappointment flooded her features as the taste of foot mixed with my greasy sausage. “I didn’t mean it that way.” I stammered. “I just meant it must have been terrible for you.”

She sat in silence for a long moment, trying to decide if I was really that big of an ass or just incredibly stupid. I don’t know if she could see into my soul or if it was just because I bought breakfast but she decided I was just stupid.

“ I really don’t remember much, I was unconscious I guess. I only remember being in the hospital and they kept me pretty well drugged up. I remember that it was painful, but I don’t remember the pain, you know? I guess your mind just kinda blocks that out so you don’t go mad.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, as if I had any experience to compare hers to, “it’s probably for the best.”

“Anyhow,” she continued, “I’ve had seven operations and this is the best they can do.”

I was feeling brave and felt as if I had been invited so I studied her face for a good five minutes. Her eyes were possibly the most beautiful I’d ever seen and they studied my face every bit as closely as I studied hers. I gazed deeply into them for along while, watching as their defiance faded away into uncertainty and then flared back again. I caught a glimpse of her soul that night. That was when I realized that nothing, not the burns, not the scars, not even the insanity mattered. I would never be able to deny her anything. I looked her up and down, taking in every square inch of the scars which covered her neck, chest and arm like fine Victorian lace. Then I returned to those enchanting eyes.

“You’re absolutely beautiful.” I don’t think I had ever uttered a more definite truth. And she dismissed me as if I were a stray dog.

“I never knew anyone who could lie that easily.” And with that she went back to her waffle.

We ate in silence for awhile, my anger coming close to the point of boiling over. Finally she spoke, again to her waffle.

“You know, you’re the first person who’s ever done that.”

“Do what?” I asked sharply, my anger slow to give up its grasp.

“To look at me so closely without making me feel like a freak on parade.” Her eyes turned up to me without raising her head. “You have a girlfriend.” It was a statement of fact, not a question, but I answered anyway.

“Yeah, kinda.”

She laughed and it was my turn to stare at my waffle. “Kinda? You mean kinda a friend or kinda a girl?”

I didn’t know exactly how to answer that. I had been seeing this girl for awhile, mostly because it was easier for both of us to just keep going rather than to call it off. I started to stir the syrup around on my plate. I could feel the weight of those blue eyes on the back of my neck and finally, when I could take no more, I looked up and met her gaze. But before I could come up with an explanation she dropped the bomb. “Are you fucking her?”

The trucker looked up from his eggs and awaited my reply like he had money riding on it. The waitress moved as close as she could and pretended to wipe down the counter top with a dirty rag. Apparently the homeless guy was the only one not interested in my sex life.

“Well that’s a bit direct don’t you think?” I squeaked, avoiding any answer to the question.

“Life’s too short to wuss out.” She cocked her head to one side as she studied my face. “And that rosy red creeping up on your cheeks answers my question pretty well. If you’re sleeping with her I would say she’s more than ‘kinda’ a girlfriend. Wouldn’t you?”

“Are you disappointed?” I asked.

“Oh please,” she laughed, “the only thing I want from you is a free breakfast and a ride home. Speaking of which, it’s about time to mosey on.” She stood up and walked to the door. I threw a handful of bills on the counter and raced to take her arm.

She directed me to her house, an apartment not two blocks from the underpass where we meet. I walked her to her door and, not being able to come up with anything better, kissed her hand.

“You really are too much.” she laughed, but the smile was genuine. I felt that I had to make some effort.

“I’d love to call you sometime. Maybe we could catch a bite to eat when the sun is actually up?”

She habitually cocked her head to the side and regarded me for a bit before saying, “Let’s not ruin what we have together. We’ll run into each other again.” She placed a gentle kiss on my cheek and disappeared behind her door.

Three months would pass before I would see her again.

For three weeks after that night at the Waffle House I went out of my way to try to run into her again. I drove by the underpass every other night and by her apartment enough times to qualify as a stalker. I even went by the Waffle House several times hoping that she was feeling nostalgic. I bite the bullet and ended the relationship I was in. I told myself it was long overdue, but deep down I knew I just wanted to be available if I ever found her again. Finally I resolved that it just wasn’t to be and went on with my life. And then, just as I was starting to think she had been a phantom of a dream, she crashed back into my life.

I was at my favorite local bar, dancing and generally enjoying myself. I noticed that several people on the dance floor were looking over my shoulder. I turned and there she was, eyes closed, dancing in half time to the music. She looked absolutely spiritual. She wore a dark blue satin gown, complete with full length gloves. She would have looked at home on any ballroom floor if only she had been wearing shoes.

“Melinda?” I asked, not sure if she had come to see me if this was just another chance meeting. But then she opened those blue eyes and I knew she had come for me. The song stopped and was replaced by some really bad love ballad by some nameless, faceless hair band. I held out my hand to her. She hesitated, unsure of either herself or me, but finally allowed me to draw her close. She rested her head on my shoulder and I led her across the dance floor. Just as the song ended she whispered in my ear, so softly it could have been my imagination, “My mom is dying.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing and neither did she. And so in silence we danced until they pushed us out the door.

We sat there in the parking lot, windows down. We talked about how steamy the weather was for October. Then we talked about the impending death of her mother. We moved seamlessly into a deep discussion on what we were doing for Halloween until she transitioned into a monolog on the dozens of men her mother moved into and out of her life as she grew up. That led to a lively debate on the difference between Led Zeppelin and Who fans which led her to wonder which her “Uncle” Ted was. The same “Uncle” Ted who used to kiss her a little too hard, hug a little too long and would frequently check on her as she was sleeping. This naturally took us to the description of the pony she had ridden, or maybe it was a donkey, it was hard to remember, when she was four. She did remember it was the last time she saw her real father. Her real father who had contacted her out of the blue just days ago from his home in Alaska and who was sending her a rather large sum of cash in hopes that she would come to visit and live near him. It seemed only appropriate at that time to converse on a current television comedy set in Alaska that I was unaware of and that she had never watched. Needless to say that subject of conversation died rather quickly and she asked if I would drive her home. There was no discussion of any kind during the drive to her apartment. She fell into a fitful sleep almost as soon as we turned out onto the street, so I left her to slumber in her thoughts as I was tormented by mine.

I had been waiting for this meeting for so long, but the timing was not exactly what I had hoped for. The best time to confess one’s true feelings for someone is probably not over their mother’s death bed. But I stole a glance at her pale hands folding in her lap as we drove under a street light and felt my heart flail as it plunged into my stomach. And she hadn’t acted as if her mother’s dying was in any way traumatic for her. Still, there would be time enough. I had waited this long, a bit more wouldn’t hurt.

I pulled up in front of her apartment and jumped out. By the time I opened the passenger door she was awake and watching me with a grin.

“I don’t live here anymore, haven‘t for quite some time. But how interesting that you remembered after such a long time, especially after being here only once.”

I was suddenly struck by the strange suspicion that she had never been asleep at all and that she was just testing me. I couldn’t decide if I cared either way so I got back behind the wheel. It didn’t dawn on me until years later that somehow she had known exactly where to find me on that night.

“Yeah, I’ve got a thing about remembering addresses.” I lied.

“Obviously.” She answered with a knowing smile. “Do you know where the extended stay is on 35?”

“We’ll be there in a jiffy.” and we were.

She didn’t invite me to her room, but I did get that affectionate kiss on the cheek. She cocked her head to the side and adverted her eyes.

“Any chance you could be here tomorrow around noon? I have something I need to do. I…” Her voice trailed off and for the first time I saw her at a loss for words. I thought it probably had something to do with her mother so I let it go and jumped in for the save.

“Well, I’m pretty busy with the movie, the album release party and the call from the President, but I think I can pencil you in.”

“Great, don’t be late.” And I got another kiss on the cheek, strangely more arousing than any kiss, anywhere else on my body, had ever been.

She turned and skipped up the steps. As she opened the door she turned back around and shouted, “I have something very important to ask you tomorrow, don’t be scared” And then before I could reply the door was shut and she was gone.

I argued with myself all the way home. There could be only one thing that she wanted to ask me. But she had not so much as hinted at any kind of relationship all night. But still, what else could it be? I didn’t think I would be able to sleep but I crashed hard almost as soon as my head hit the pillow.

Seldom in my life have I remembered a dream, but I still remember the dream I had that night. Melinda and I were together on the porch of some white house on a quiet street. A young red headed boy and girl played in the yard and when they turned to me I saw that both had Melinda’s scars. They smiled wide smiles, both missing a front tooth and I woke up. Even with the scars it was not an unpleasant dream, actually it was quite comforting. Everyone has had those dreams where when you woke up you were sorry that the dream was not reality, this was mine.

\ I was ready and waiting at the door when she came down. She was dressed in sweat pants and a t-shirt, red hair hanging damply around her shoulders. Even in this she was magnificent. I led her to the car and opened the door.

As I slid in I asked impatiently, “So what did you need to ask me?”

“Not now, I need to go to the airport. We can talk about it then.” She seemed even more impatient than I was, and more nervous. It seemed to get worse as we neared the airport. On the walk from the parking garage to the terminal she was absolutely jumpy. She looked as if she might bolt away at any minute. I found that I was not looking forward to whoever it was we were picking up. Fool.

We approached a gate and suddenly she spun around, not to bolt away but to face me. I could see her pulse jumping in her throat and her eyes were darting from my eyes to the gate and back.

“I’m going to Alaska.”

My face must have betrayed my thoughts.

“I’m not crazy.”

“I don’t think you’re crazy.” She was so crazy. “But what about your mother?”

“What can I do for her? Seriously, we’ve talked about her, you know about her, do you think I matter?” She wanted me to talk her out of it, I could feel it, but I was doing a horrible job.

“You don’t even have any clothes?” I knew this one was real thin, but it might buy me some time while I thought of some brilliant argument that would keep her from running away from me again.

“I know you find this hard to believe, but they sell clothes in Alaska.” Her voice was defiant but her eyes were pleading. They knew what I needed to say, even if I didn’t.

And I didn’t. I stood there, slack jawed in silence, waiting for a logical argument to appear. After what seemed like an eternity she hit me with the follow-up to her combo punch.

“Come with me.”

I started to laugh but then saw that she was completely and deadly serious. My heart rate quadrupled. I started to feel light headed, panicky.

“Melinda, I don’t have a ticket.” as if that were the only thing holding me back. She immediately held up two airline tickets and I had the stupidity to be surprised.

“Melinda, I’m flat broke.”

“I have plenty of money. Enough for as good start anyway, or even a ticket back if Alaska doesn’t work out.”

“But my family…”

“Your family’s great, I know, but they’ll understand. I…look, I’d really like for you to come, Okay?”

She wasn’t going to open up anymore than that, I knew that much. A chorus of a thousand voices swelled in my head, each screaming to get on the damned plane. But there was one, quiet voice. The voice that always told me not to jump off the roof with the umbrella, not to touch the hot stove, and today, not to get on that plane even though my heart was ripping in two. I dropped my head to escape her gaze.

“Melinda, I just can’t.”

“Well, maybe next time then.” The desperation was gone from her voice. A decision had been made, but she had let me make it. There was no guilt on her. By the time I raised my head again she was halfway down the hall. I wanted to run after her, but my feet were like lead and I was sure that if I moved the waves of nausea I was feeling would break over me. So I watched until she turned out of sight.

I walked around that airport for hours, thinking that maybe she had come to her senses and not boarded a plane to a frozen wasteland, and away from me. I was so incredibly pissed off. I mean, how do you just drop something like that on someone? I was better off with her as far away from me as possible. She was crazy and making me the same way. But the anger couldn’t dull the fact that I was dying. The pain was so severe it was almost physical. And that chorus of voices in my head had gone silent, leaving only that quiet, cautious voice saying, “But I could be wrong…”

Finally I realized that I wasn’t going to round a corner and run into her. She wasn’t going to tell me how it had all been a test and how she loved me. So I walked back to the car in the dark. I sat there listening to the radio and trying to figure out where I had gone wrong. Why couldn’t I get her to understand logic? And then it hit me so hard it was like God Himself swinging a five pound hammer. She was Melinda. She didn’t want logic. I could have given her a thousand reasons that she shouldn’t go and it would have made no difference. All she had wanted was for me to give her one reason I wanted her to stay. As I left the lot and drove home Love Song by Tesla started playing on the radio. Funny, after all these years and after everything that has passed since that night, I still hate that fucking song.

And so I went back to living my life the way I always had. I went to work, I went to school, I went to sleep, I avoided the Waffle House. Friends were nice enough to start setting me up on dates with beautiful, shallow, totally uninteresting women. A year came and went and with it most of the pain. I reached the point where I could actually think back fondly on the memories. I marveled at her barely controlled insanity and her mallet-like bluntness. I wondered at how under her scars lay such a flawless beauty. Finally I was able to file her away as just one of those interesting things that had happened to me in my life. And then, as if she had been watching and waiting, she walked in and destroyed me once again.

I was sitting after closing in the guitar shop, day dreaming with the guys in my going nowhere band. We had just decided to rename the band “Free Beer and the Tittie Dancers” when the bell on the door rang as someone walked in. We all glanced up at once and were shocked into silence. She was stunning, standing there dressed completely in virginal white, covered in lace, her red hair alive with fire. She looked like some goddess returned from epic battle. I couldn’t speak. Neither Mike nor Chris knew her or our history, they had come into my life after the fact and I never made a point of laying my failed relationships on them. But Mike picked up on something, maybe in my actions, maybe in her demeanor. He pulled Chris to his feet and made a hasty exit.

She stood for awhile in silence as if waiting for me to invite her in, then walked quietly and suddenly meekly to sit in the chair before me. She didn’t look at me, instead she reached over and absently stroked the strings of an out of tune dulcimer. It sounded like the soundtrack from some Fellini film, strangely appropriate I suppose now. Finally, when she had decided I had lost the ability of speech she broke the silence.

“So how are things?” still not looking at me, rather over my shoulder as if speaking to the wall of guitars.

“Can’t complain,” I managed. I was being horribly torn between a puppy who was dancing at the sight of her and a raging demon, still hurt from the way she had left. “How’s Alaska?”

“Turns out it’s really cold and bland. Kind of potato-like.” she said, as if that made perfect sense to anyone except her.

“Yeah, they should mention that in the brochure. ‘Come to Alaska, for the potato lover in you’. What are you doing here?” I didn’t mean it to be as confrontational as it came out but I saw her recoil from the force of the words. I suddenly felt like a total ass but before I could apologize she recovered.

“I came to see a movie, you want to go with?” And she finally looked at me, those blue eyes captured mine and began searching for something. I wanted to say no. I wanted to tell her to get the hell out of my life and go back to the asylum she crawled out of. I wanted to scream that she was demon spawn who had ripped my soul to shreds and danced on my heart with her cloven hooves. I wanted to let her know she was the queen of the harpies and had feasted upon my spirit for the last time. I wanted popcorn when we got to the movie.

The move was bad, some independent film about a killer who was murdering women who had vampire fantasies. I wasn’t paying that much attention any way. The puppy was growing larger and the demon was loosing his rage and I was left just sitting beside her in a daze wondering what would come next. Slowly people started to give up on the movie ever having a point and they would sneak out with a whispered apology. By the time the credits started to roll we were the last people in the theater. Without a word she stood up and started out with myself and my dancing puppy quick to follow.

We left the greasy smelling neon lit lobby and stepped into a world of white magic. The temperature had been in the 50’s when we entered the theater without a cloud to be seen. Sometime during the movie a freak snow storm had moved in and covered the world with a half foot of clean pure snow. Neither of us were dressed for the snow so we both broke into a run for the car. I unlocked her door but before I could open it I was surprised as a handful of powdered snow was thrust down the back of my shirt. I spun around to be greeted by a second handful to the face. And so it began.

We were running around the car like children in our first snow, immune now to the numbing snow and hateful wind. Snow flew in all directions as we scooped up handfuls and assaulted each other. In our madness we bumped hard into each other and tumbled into the snow. Oblivious to the cold we struggled on, pushing snow in each other’s face, laughing. And suddenly the laughter stopped.

Somehow I had ended up straddling her, my arms wrapped around her shoulders. I could feel her hands quivering on my back, not from the cold but from something almost frightening. A huge snowflake fell upon her throat and was consumed by the heat.

Even after all these years I don’t know if she lifted her face to mine or if I dropped to hers but suddenly our lips met. I could taste her breath, earthy and primal. I drew back and her eyes were baring into me. Fire sparkled behind the blue. And I met that blaze with all my courage.

“I love you.” I whispered. And the fire died.

“I know.” she answered. Now there was nothing more than sorrow, or perhaps pity behind the blue.

She had come back just to see if a feeling, a connection was there. And for her, it wasn’t. I wonder if it ever was. I had never before, and never since, felt something come to an end so definitely. There was nothing to discuss, no pleading would sway her, no explanation was needed.

I stood and offered her my hand. As I pulled her to her feet I asked her what was next and she said she could use a ride to the bus station. On the ride we talked about the snow. We talked about how bad the movie and been and about movies we had enjoyed. We talked about everything except us and somehow that was for the best. We arrived at the bus station and she jumped out before I could get to her door. We stood for awhile in the bitter wind.

“So where to now?” I asked.

“ I hear Spain is nice.” she replied and I’m still not sure if she was joking.

“Makes for a long bus ride.” I said, watching the snow fall around the street lights.

“I’ll grab a magazine.”

“You want me to wait with you?” I asked, not sure if I could stand to be near her for much longer.

“No, I’ve wasted enough of your time.” I don’t know if she meant that day or in my lifetime. She reached out and brushed some snow from my shoulder.

“You really are special, you know?” She said with a grin.

“Yeah,” I admitted, “just like potatoes.”

She looked at my face for a bit then cocked her head to one side. “No, not potatoes.” And with that she gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. It was the kind of kiss she would have given a distant family member at a funeral, I wish she hadn’t bothered. She turned, walked into the depot and bought her ticket to Spain.