Charlie Magdaleno: Blog

  I sat quietly in the characterless hallway, waiting for her return.  I stared down at my feet; gently tapping the cold, scuffed linoleum as the drone of the white lights above buzzed throughout the space.  As I began getting lost in the "zig" and "zag" of my laces, the thunderous echo of a door handle turning brought me out of the trance.  I looked to my right and saw her trudging listlessly towards me from down the hall.  I stood and met her with an eager and hopeful smile.

  "So, what happened?"

  "I don't know.  They said it's being processed.  Not much I can do about it now, I guess.  They said it could come tomorrow, it could come in two weeks," she shrugged.

  My hopeful smile shrank a little into one of commiseration as I took her hand in mine with a gentle squeeze, and walked with her out of the building.

  As we made our way, her eyes and feet were forward, but I could see that her mind was scrambling in all directions.  What was she going to do?  What could she do?  Her courses and books were paid for, but on a card that was now $3.86 cents from its limit; and that was only because she had already used the $243 she had been saving up for the new work skirt and shoes she needed, and that weekend getaway to San Diego she needed even more, to help pay for the new brakes and power-steering unit that proved to be more pressing -though only slightly.  She didn't know if she'd ever have an answer; and she certainly didn't have it then.

  That night, as we brushed our teeth; locked the doors; and lay down to sleep, I kept wondering to myself, "What could I do?"  I didn't have much more than a penny to my own name, and even if I did, she had too much pride to ever take it from me.  I didn't have any options, and any words of comfort I could have managed to express were simply just not going to make this go away.  Had this been some isolated incident, perhaps I could have said something, or done something.  

  The thing is, it wasn't.  This was the norm for her.  Every time she would get close to the surface, to some breathing room, to getting something she had the slightest nerve to want for herself, chaos forced its unkind hand and moved it that much further out of reach.  Life was constantly asking so much of her, and giving so little in return.  Even in the dark, amongst the quiet, amongst the stillness, life couldn't seem to find it in itself to spare her a few hours without the questions of "Why," "How," and "When."  That night, we both lay awake until our hearts and our minds gave out.

  The next morning started with more of the same.  She had missed all three of her alarms and, in effect, missed the first run of the new exercise regiment she was trying to employ for herself.  She had loved running when she was younger, but had to give it up due to a bum ankle.  While she had hopes that her ankle had healed itself by now, she wasn't going to find out today; she just didn't have the time.  

  At that point, she hadn't just missed her workout, she was running late for work; so the luxury and somewhat restorative qualities of a hot shower against her back were out of the question as well.  She hurriedly threw a work shirt and her one good skirt in the dryer to get the wrinkles out, and advanced to the make-up-applying process.

  She made her way to the bathroom sink and, for a moment that seemed like forever, stopped and stared herself straight in the eyes.  She always had the most beautiful eyes.  Her irises were a bold and rich brown, like the first drops of coffee falling from the filter and splashing at the bottom of the pot.  The way they looked at you in the dim of the soft light, with the outer edges tilted slightly upward, would simultaneously tear you down and build you back up.  My heart would break every time I looked into her eyes.  I could see every dream that hadn't come true, every disappointment.  Yet at the same time, I could see undeniable promise; I could see hope. I could see every ounce of love she was ready and willing to give; and all she wanted in return was just someone, something to believe in.  And I always knew, as anyone would know looking into her eyes, I wanted to be that someone.  I never wanted anything more in my entire life.  Looking into her eyes was the sort of thing that gives rise to the hero that resides inside every 10 year-old boy that sees a 10 year-old girl in pain.  Her eyes were sobering.  They were inspiring.  

  But now, they were tired.  Puffy and red, the rims of her eyelids began to tremble.  There were no tears, but her eyes, her heart, were crying all the same.  She shook her head, and shook things off, and purposefully began applying her make-up.

  I approached her and leaned against the doorway with my well-meaning but universally-disheveled self.

  "Hey, you okay?  You need anything?"

  "I need to get out of here."

  While she could have been referring to running late for work, I knew she wasn't.  She didn't say it like she was.  She turned to me, having finished putting on her make-up, with a nervous smile.

  "I look so gross today.  More gross than usual, I mean.  Does my make-up look okay?"

  I got up from the wall, moved towards her, and framed her cheeks with my hands.  My eyes smiled into hers, and I gave her a single kiss on her forehead.

  "You look beautiful."

  She blushed a little.  Quite frankly, even with everything that was going on, it was nice to know that even after nearly five years, I could still make her blush.  It made me feel like perhaps all was not lost - not yet, anyway.

  We pulled up to the restaurant, and as she reached for the handle to let herself out of the car, she looked at me with a sigh and a smile.  She opened the door but was stopped by my hand in hers.  She looked down at our intertwined fingers, my thumb grazing the outside of her hand, and back to me.

  "It's gonna be alright," I promised.

  "I love you," she promised in return.  She gave my hand a gentle squeeze this time, and made her way out and around the front of the car.  I rolled down the window and yelled out to her as she hurried to the lobby doors.

  "Hey!"  She stopped and turned to me.  "I love you."  She turned back, and took those words to work with her.  I prayed they'd be enough to get her through.

  As I drove back over to the restaurant later that day to pick her up, I saw her standing outside from a distance, waiting for me.  As she began growing in the windshield, I couldn't quite make out the expression on her face.  It wasn't anger, and it certainly wasn't happiness.  It wasn't even sadness, really.  It was something worse.

  Once I had reached her position, I stopped, and she made her way around the front of the car to the passenger door - eyes down the entire time.  She got in and buckled up, and I began rolling through the parking lot.  I approached her with caution.

  "Hey, sweetheart."

  "Hi."

  "How was work?"

  She took both a moment and a deep breath.  "Fine," she said.

  "You hungry?"

  "No.  I just want to go home."

  We were still in the parking lot, so I pulled into the first available spot and turned off the car.  I turned to her, took her hand, and said, "Talk to me."  She grasped my hand in return, tightly, as her breathing became increasingly shallow.

  "I'm just so tired."

  "Tired...of what?"

  "Of everything!  I'm tired of all of this money crap! I'm tired of this stupid job!  I'm tired of standing at that stupid desk and waiting for hours at a time for some old jerk to show up and treat me like an idiot because he has to wait more than 45 seconds to be seated!  I'm tired of not being able to get my old hours back, but being scheduled on Christmas Eve!  I'm tired of having half of my paycheck go to pay rent on a place that has termites and a hole in the ceiling!  I'm tired of having BOTH of my credit cards maxed out!  I'm tired of having to pay for cars that can't go a week without ending up in the shop!  I'm tired of always having to get what I want last!  I'm tired of feeling guilty about being tired about always having to get what I want last!  I'm tired of being so exhausted, I can't sleep!  I'm tired of stressing out about money, about school, about work!  I'm tired of spending so much time and so much energy on everything and having nothing to show for it!  I'm just...I'm just so tired."

  We sat in silence for what seemed like ages, the heat of the falling sun weighing heavy on us.  Though joined at the hand, there were fewer times I felt further from her.  As much as I wanted to comfort her in some way, any way, I couldn't help but be consumed by my own anger, my own frustration.  The way she was feeling in that moment- she didn't deserve it, not in the least.  Everyday, this young woman was giving everything she had, practically literally, to her family; her friends; and to me.  She was always the first one to sacrifice, to make concessions.  She was always getting let down by the prospect that tomorrow was going to be better, that tomorrow was going to be worth it.  She was always taking life on the chin, and pressing forward because it's what she needed to do for herself and for the people she loved.  And what did she get for all of her struggle, for all of her sacrifice, for all of her love?  What did she get for being as wonderful and holistically beautiful as she was?  Debt, a job she hates, a school she has no distinguishable desire or need for, and a boyfriend who, in her time of need, though she never asks anything of him, couldn't even muster a single sentence of consolation outside of "I'm sorry."

  "I'm sorry," I let out.  I was so disappointed in myself, in everything, my stomach was sick.  She looked up and followed the dust that made its way in front of her.

  "Don't be.  It's not your fault.  I'M sorry."

  "For what?"

  "For complaining about all of this.  It's so stupid.  I'm so lame."

  "You're not lame."

  "I guess.  I haven't even asked you - how was your day?"

  With everything going on in her head and in her heart, she was asking me how my day was.  I could have married her right then and there.

  "It was okay."

  "Just okay?"

  "It was good.  Look, I haven't eaten yet today, have you?"

  "I ordered a burger from the kitchen, but it came out "medium."  I tried eating it, but it just made me sick."

  For my sanity's sake, I pretended not to hear that.

  "Well, why don't we get some food, go home, eat, relax, and then we can talk, and try to figure all of this out, okay?"

  She looked at me, and the way she raised her eyebrows and nodded, I could tell she knew I was grasping at straws.

  "Okay," she said.

  We came home, fast food in hand, to a full house.  Her two sisters, her kid brother, and baby niece were all sitting in the living room, blasting some show on Nickelodeon while the little one threw every LEGO piece known to man around the room and on the floor.  For privacy, but mostly for some quiet, we settled down in a small room in the alcove to the left of the living room.  There were chairs and a table, but she elected to sit on the floor.  I opened the white, paper bag, and a combination of piping hot air and the fragrance of salt on deep-fried potato filled the space.  I began feeling almost ravenous - not so much for the food, but for the comfort the food would bring to me and, more importantly, to her.  I peered down and saw two orders of fries,  a cheeseburger, and a chicken sandwich - perfection.  I pulled out the sandwich and handed it over to her.  She made no haste, and unassumingly opened its brown, cardboard box.  As I began removing the other items from the bag, I looked to her and caught a glimpse of disappointment in her face.

  "What's wrong?" I asked, stopping what I was doing.

  "Nothing."

  "No, c'mon, what's the matter?"

  "They put mayonnaise on it."

  "What?"

  "I guess they didn't hear you or something.  There's mayonnaise on it."

  I couldn't believe it.  I was going to kill another human being over a chicken sandwich.  I could not believe that life would not let her enjoy a God-damned chicken sandwich the way she ordered it.

  "Are you serious?" I exclaimed.  "I'll be back." I started to get up.

  "No, it's okay.  Don't worry about."

  "No! I specifically asked...I'm just going to ask them to fix it..."

  "It's really okay..."

  "No it's not! It's not okay!  I'm going over-"  

  She grabbed my hand.

  "Just stay with me. Please?"

  I was breathing hard, but I was trying to calm down for her.  Just then, her little brother stepped into the doorway.

  "Did you guys get food?" He asked, diffidently.

  "Mhm," she replied.

  "...Did you get me anything?"

  She looked to me with a guilty glance.  "Um...," she started as she looked down into the bag, and pulled out one of the orders of fries.  "Here!  We got you fries."  He quietly, but appreciatively, took them from her hand.  "What do you say?"

  "Thank you," he managed, in between crunches as he left the room.  I looked at her frustrated, but she just shrugged.

  "I'm not really hungry anyway.  Besides, we can share, yeah?"  

  My teeth were clenched so hard I could feel a pain in my neck.  In the whole scheme of things, the sandwich, the fries, none of it really mattered; but the fact that she could have the misfortune that she had always had, and still be as unbelievable as she had just been killed me.  I didn't understand why things had to be so bad for someone so wonderful.  I didn't want to understand why.  It didn't matter.  It was unfair, unjust, and that was enough to make me want to scream; to make me want to cry.  She deserved so much better.  She deserved more than the world would give, and more than I could give.  There was nothing I could do to make things right, and I knew in that moment that making things right for her was the only reason I existed.

  "Of course," I devoted to her, with the most earnest smile I could muster.

  We heard the front door open and close in the other room, and heard her mother greeting and being greeted by her brother and sisters.  She came around to the alcove, and saw us sitting in the room on the floor.

  "Hey guys," she said, looking only slightly puzzled.

  "Hi."

  "Hey, mom."

  "Just wanted to let you know, you got something in the mail."

  Her mother pulled out an envelope from her purse, handed it to her, and went on her way.  She looked down and saw her school address in the top, left corner.  She turned the envelope around, gently opened the seal, and pulled out the white, three-fold paper.  She read a few lines, and looked up at me, as I hovered over her shoulder.  She handed it over to me so I could see for myself.  It had come in.  Her financial aid check had come in.  Right then, I took her in my arms and held her tightly with her head against my chest, against my heart; as she wrapped her arms firmly around my waist.  We stayed like that for a minute, gently swaying in each other's embrace, and then I looked down at her, and she, up at me.  She was crying.  Then, she smiled.

  The thing was, as much happiness as that one little letter brought us, it didn't stand to change much.  It didn't offer her a new job, or the address of a new home to live in.  It wasn't going to make the cars any more dependable, or the customers any less rude.  Financially, it wasn't even going to put her back at zero.  Still, it was something; and she desperately needed something.

  Truth be told, her happiness had little to do with the actual money.  She needed to win one.  She deserved to win one.  And with that little victory, she didn't find an answer; but she found some hope.

  In this world and in this life, with the big ones so few and far between, it's the little victories that sustain us.  It's the little victories that heal us, like a bandage for the soul.  It's the little victories that decorate our histories, and remind us that the war is far from over, and is still within our grasp.  

  And because of her, and seeing how much a moment like that could do for a heart like hers, it's the little victories that I hold so dear.