Insignificance

Thursday night. I sat in the Arsaga’s coffee shop. Thoughts running wild and eyes wandering. Maybe I had too much caffeine. The girls at the table in front of me spoke loudly discussing every aspect of their lives through the eyes of God.

Girl 1: “I wanted to go on a date with this guy. So I prayed about it. And he asked me out on a date yesterday!”

Girl 2: “God always delivers!”

A solid hour of listening to this bullshit was killing me. Especially while trying to analyze “Ave Maria” by Bach and Gounod.

Maybe I was being too critical of them.

I’m used to being the only atheist in the room.

I needed a cigarette.

I was a waitress at a retirement community for two years. An old woman once told me that I reminded her of her favorite granddaughter. I wonder if she’d think that if she really knew me.

I’m bad at accepting compliments. Just awkward. When someone tells me I look nice I blush. Hang my head. Say “Thank You.” And run away. Awkward. My friend, Alexandra, does this thing where she’ll insult me and then give me a compliment. Or she’ll insult herself while trying to give me a compliment. It’s uncomfortable. It makes me feel bad. But I mean she’s about to get married and I’ll probably be single forever.

I sang at a memorial service once. Harry Vandergriff had passed away. He was such a great man. When his daughters asked me to sing at the service I couldn’t say no. It was a huge honor. I stood in front of over a hundred people. Choking back tears. One of the hardest things I had ever done.

I don’t like to be vulnerable. It’s a sign of weakness. Probably why I’m incapable of having any sort of relationship.

Harry and Anne Vandergriff were my favorite couple at Butterfield Trail Village. When they would walk into a room their love radiated. They had been together since high school. Harry was now in his 90’s and Anne was in her late 80’s. Seeing how they looked at each other every single day after years and years. It was admirable. I yearn for a love like that.

I’m always attracted to the unattainable. That’s my problem.

I’m not one for rules.

Thursday night at Arsaga’s. I forgot my lighter at home. Stressful day. Pack of cigarettes. No lighter. Shit. Thankfully someone I knew showed up and invited me to smoke a cigarette with him and one of the dishwashers. The nice thing about the music scene is that you can know people without actually knowing them. They were both in a band I’d seen play quite a few times. When Zach walked into the room I was sitting in at Arsaga’s of course we spoke. It’s only polite. When he invited me out for a smoke break all I could think was, “yes. A light.” It’s the little victories that count.

David always watches for me from the Music Building Office every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. I always walk by around 9 am before my 9:40 Counterpoint class. He smiles and waves excitedly. I manage to put on somewhat of a smile, nod, and give a slight wave.

In high school I always lectured my friends on the “dangers” of smoking cigarettes. I’d try hard to get them to quit. Being a vocalist I knew all of the things that smoking could do to you. I had been warned since I was very young. Might as well share my knowledge of all the harmful effects of smoking cigarettes with my friends.

I miss Wanda and Luther Freeman. They were always such a sweet couple. Mr. Freeman would sing to me and call me “sweet baby” whenever he saw me at Butterfield. Mrs. Freeman and I would discuss music. She was a pianist. A very good one. She had a lot of trouble with her wrists though. Whenever she would play piano too often they would hurt her and she would have to wear little braces on them. One time Mrs. Freeman fell and broke her hip. She was never the same after that. Her daughter said to me one day, “I don’t understand why people want to get old. It’s not as great as it seems. It’s a lot of pain.” We watched her mother’s feeble body struggle with her walker.

I never want to get old.

If you make them breakfast it makes you seem inviting. A sign of intimacy. I never make them breakfast. At most they get coffee.

No cream. No sugar. Black.

Thursday night choir concert. The ladies all wore long black dresses, black panty-hose, black heels, and painted red lips. The men looked dapper in their tuxedos. Uniform.

David told me on multiple occasions that evening that I looked nice. Okay.

Jacob said he just couldn’t miss me singing with the Women’s Chorus, so of course he was going to stand in the back and watch. Whatever.

Dallas sent me a text after the concert saying he’d forgotten to mention how beautiful I looked. What?

James just can’t wait to hang out with me. No...

I like to sit in the back of the room behind the tallest person.

I tried being Christian a couple of times. As an unbeliever, even as a child, I searched for peace in wooden pews. Then and now, those old hymns sang to me. I just don’t believe a word. There is no amazing grace gracing me with an unknown, omniscient presence. Even if my mind is plagued with prayers.

Black suits me much better than white.

I blame Riede and James for my forming habit. Smoking used to be a social thing while I drank. I’d have a couple glasses of whiskey and then go out to smoke a cigarette. But now band practice consists of constant breaks where we find ourselves on the porch discussing the meaning of life over cancer sticks. Especially when we’re having bad days. February 7th is one of those days. It’s now considered a holiday in the band. We practice, smoke, complain, smoke, practice, drink, smoke, complain, drink, smoke, smoke, drink, smoke.

One time I saw someone die. I was working, serving food. As I was looking up from a table a woman was falling. She hit her head on a giant flowerpot that held a fake tree. She then proceeded to hit her head on the green tile floor. It happened in an instant, but when it replays in my head it happens so slowly. Her husband was there so fast. And then nurses. He was crying. The silence brought a ringing to my ears. She was already not doing so great. Her old age and dementia were causing her to deteriorate. That fall was the end. I watched her die. A couple of weeks after it happened I saw Mr. Bales. Asked how he was doing. He sobbed on my shoulder. Mrs. Bales had written him a letter before her dementia had gotten the best of her. She thanked him for all of his love and patience. She was sorry for losing her mind and she was sorry for him to have to read the letter.

I like tattoos. I have four and I plan on getting more. They all mean something to me though. My elephant is a symbol for wisdom, patience, and family. Three things in my life that I hope to one day obtain and maintain.

The triangle on my arm is a symbol for change. The three sides represent the past, present, and future. Who I was, how I’ve changed, how I will change. And continue to grow as a person.

On my shoulder blade: “Resist much, Obey little.”- Walt Whitman. One of my favorite quotes. Never conform.

The poppy is my favorite. I got it for my dad. It reminds me of him at a better time. A better state of mind.

I like tattoos because I like the pain. A socially acceptable pain. One that I can wear on my sleeve… or ribs, or arm, or shoulder.

I hate my dad.

Girls’ night: We sit around drinking beer and discuss the meaning of life, love, and literature. The only reason we have beer is because I won a bet. Corey lost her virginity in the time frame I said she would. I got a six-pack out of it. I’ll take beer over a booming love life any day.

The first time I ever drank an alcoholic beverage was right after I turned sixteen. I was at a friend’s house, her parents were gone, we had a bottle of tequila. I did it out of spite of my father. I was always told never to drink or do drugs or there would be some awful consequences.

I used to be so obedient.

One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor.

Mrs. Lajune used to hound me in the dining room about religion and church and such. She would corner me in the coffee room with her walker and ask me, “Kayla, have you accepted the Lord Jesus Christ as your savior? Have you been saved?” I never directly answered her. She answered my silence with pamphlets and bibles. She said she was going to pray for my salvation.

How many atheists does it take to screw in a light bulb?

I don’t like when people stay the night at my apartment. I don’t want to see them when I wake up. If it were acceptable for me to leave my own apartment when people were over, I would. I always wake up first. The other day a friend crashed on my couch. Too drunk to drive home. I woke up at 8 am. He slept until 10:30. I made coffee, did some reading, and started on my homework.

I did not make breakfast.

I stood in front of a crowd, guitar in hand, singing hymns. Witnessing the words of Jesus Christ. Black lace. Thigh highs. Judas Kiss the audience.

I often wonder if that old woman at Butterfield Trail Village would think I reminded her of her favorite granddaughter if she saw me outside of that work place.

There’s much more to a petite body, young face, and a pretty smile.

I like to partake in a cigarette on my front porch regularly.

Bask in the ambiance of this façade.