July 6th, 2009-
I suppose I could say that this Independence Day weekend was filled with the kind of fireworks that only figuratively explode in the human body. I was sitting at work on Friday, waiting and calling for Justin to wake up from his, "I stayed up way too last last night" coma, pump some caffeine in his veins and go to visit me. He showed, eventually, making 3 hours late fashionable as he has the habit of doing. He sat next to me and rubbed my shoulders as I worked until my shift was done. It was the first time that a back rub hasn't made me laugh hysterically from tickling so badly. Now I know what all the fuss is about.
He followed me back to my house in his Ford Taurus infected with some kind of paint-job melanoma. I liked it, though. The fading and clearing of color on the body looked like the clouds passing overhead.
At my house, my sister was waiting with a chicken pot pie just coming out of the oven. She has no job, so she cooks to pass the time. I guess the economic recession, while tragic in most every other way, makes for some delicious food when I get home. We enjoyed dinner and I showed Justin what the upstairs of my house looked like. We journeyed back downstairs and played Rock Band long into the evening. He drummed out the pulse and I sang the poetry. After a few rounds playing songs like, "Battery" and "Painkiller", we found ourselves battered and in need of the latter. We retired to bed, where we spent some time reading the braille on each others bodies. My sister knocked for a moment to tell us to keep it down. My bad; I didn't know I was reading aloud.
I almost thought I was dreaming when I woke up next to him, his blue-green eyes an open window on a summer day, and we bathed in the light of our smiles for awhile.
After sitting at home for a bit, talking to my mother about a range of different subjects, Justin and I left for the Indian Head Village Green to try and do the impossible; get parents to shell out 200 dollars so a 19 year-old can teach them that keeping their imagination alive is actually a good thing. After spending about 5 hours at this, we visited my non-biological, dick younger brother, Ronnie (who, ironically, is older than me) and his fiance. She's a brave woman, and will be good for him, I'm sure. After bidding our so longs, we headed on our pilgrimage to Glenn Burnie...or so we thought...
It was on this journey that my opinion that the names of streets should be created by poets was enforced. Who knew that there would be two streets, miles apart from one another, with the exact same name. But, being a firm believer in the journey being the best part, I named it adventure. When the sun was still awake, we went to a Taco Bell to have lunch. While there, we convinced a probably-drunk man and his girlfriend that I was from England and that Justin found me on a boat, which was amusing. However, the food I ate there proved to be my downfall.
As soon as a few minutes after we pulled away from the restaurant, I could feel the seeds of a gastric Anti-Christ germinating in my belly. I attempted to ignore the contractions, thinking it would pass soon enough, but as they got closer and closer together and we got farther and farther from the road-that-had-a-tree-for-a-name we were supposed to be on, I quickly came to the realization that a trip to a porcelain delivery room was in order. I'll never forgive the state of Maryland for not requiring a public bathroom in every public place as long as I live. Give me the petition for that, and I'll sign it without hesitation.
Justin handled the situation in the sweet, gentlemanly way he does, holding my hand as he sped to find somewhere that would allow me to sit on a throne for twenty minutes or so. He spoke words that formed a blanket around my body and made the pains more bearable. Finally, after what felt like forever, the Anti-Christ was born in a Burger King bathroom somewhere in the Twilight Zone. I could've sworn my system was detoxifying itself of every pain in my past as I felt my insides explode into the poor, unfortunate toilet. When the torment subsided, I walked out of that place looking as though I had just run a marathon, my arms lifted in the air in victory. I got back in the car and gave Justin the most thankful kiss my weakened body could muster. He made me put the seat back and rest until we finally made it to the location of the get-together, four hours after it had begun.
My stomach didn't fully recover until around four in the morning, so I drank very little that night. Much to my disappointment, all I could manage to stomach was a little beer before the wheezing in my gut told me to stop. The evening was not lost, however. I watched a few of Justin's coworkers throw large fireworks into a burn pit and make the backyard look like a shooting star. I made a wish. Some of the group decided to go streaking across the large field behind the fence. Of course, one of the few people who still remained clothed besides myself, stole their clothing and hid it somewhere. After laughing at their drunken confusion and leaving a few hand-shaped ass bruises, their clothes returned and the party continued. We sat around Justin's phone and sang songs by The Lonely Island until all had left or gone to sleep except me, Justin, and a co-worker of his. We lost ourselves in conversation until finally, at 4am, we decided to return to the dormitory on the Air Force Base Justin is forced to call home. After going out to the Shopette, a charming military 7-11, and watching the sun rise, we finally fell asleep in each other's arms at 6am.
I realized, before passing out from exhaustion, that this was the first 4 of July I'd had in years where it never rained. I smiled.
We awoke Sunday at around one in the afternoon and spent much of the day laying in bed. I'll probably write more about this later, because it was the most celestial lazy afternoon I'd ever had, and could probably only be done justice in poetry, but I will say this much; love is a war, ladies and gentlemen, and we left with purple hearts kissed onto our shoulders.
On our way out, Justin introduced me to his friend Phil, who I swore was something straight out of John Lennon's journal. He described himself as a "law-abiding anarchist" and was one of the rarest people I've yet to meet. He walked with a cane and spoke with the rasp of a smoker prophet. He showed me his journal (and I was honored to look at it, as I knew showing one's journal was akin to showing one's heart), which looked like the poetry of a man with the soul of an EKG machine. The pulse was thready, low and high, and beautiful. The smoke from my last clove cigarette wound around my lips and faded into the daylight. Phil expressed his envy of how cute Justin and I looked together. I only wish I could've expressed the envy I had of his writing mind, but the words just wouldn't come. After listening to him for a couple hours, and getting the most amusing driving tour I think I've ever had (complete with a beautiful sunset), we departed the Base. I knew I'd be seeing that place, and Phil, again soon.
I hadn't eaten anything since the Anti-Christ left my bowels the night before, and Justin was hungry, so we decided to stop for food. It was around 9pm on a Sunday, so needless to say, organized religion left nothing open. Knowing I liked sushi, Justin decided we would get pre-made sushi at the Safeway and eat it at his work (where he had to take care of some things anyway). It was the best date idea ever.
We got to his work at the Davidsonville Transmitter Site, watched Family Guy and ate. While there, I met a few people he worked with, and even ran into someone from the party the night before. He showed me around and tried to explain what everything did, which I didn't really pick up that well, because my mind runs on poetry at night. As he drove me home, we had one of those in-depth conversations people always talk about, but rarely experience, where we revealed a bit of our pasts and focused on the desire to be in each other's future.
It has never been more bittersweet to arrive at my house at 1 in the morning before. I didn't want him to leave, of course, but he was going home to New Jersey for a week to see family and get his car fixed, and leaving as soon as he dropped me off, so we said our long goodbyes, as is typical of us, and kissed more times than Hendrix kissed the sky. As I put on the A-shirt he had left for me and retired to a dreamless sleep before returning to reality the next day, I thought only one thing to myself; "What on earth did I do to get so lucky?" I thanked Destiny and any God that may be in the sky and drifted to sleep, knowing this weekend would make a great story.
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lonely