I hate quarters. They are to the dimes, nickels, and pennies of the world what Bush-loving jocks are to the trumpet-playing Calc nerds – god-awful. Perhaps it’s because I grew up riding the subway from Central Park to Saks like that damn proverbial kid in the candy store – except I was a sixteen-year-old girl who thought idolizing couture would erase my insecurities…it didn’t, obviously. But having to shove those [damn] quarters into slots day in and day out, just for the privilege of sitting in an “eau-de-barf” subway next to Joe-Hobo, really made me start to resent those things.
Luckily, I don’t have to ride the subway anymore, although I kind of miss it and miss going to the Park - the ducks there are to die for – and I miss the pizza in NYC, although I shouldn’t be eating pizza anyway because of my ever-expanding muffin top and… Obviously I failed to inherit my mother’s certain je-ne-sais-quoi, or as she calls it, her “trait magnifique.” What a load of bull, right? I did, however, inherit her penchant for French names, or rather, said penchant was unwillingly forced upon me when I left that creepy enigma otherwise known as the womb. She named me Monet. Yeah, like the painting. Unfortunately, my French mother apparently had a certain something for Jewish men, so my last name is Fritz. Monet Fritz. I am a walking (stumbling), talking (stuttering, and mostly to myself), living (learning) conundrum. Classy but confused. Beautiful but messy. Composed but collapsing. Nearing college graduation but wondering if my illusion will ever morph into something real.
* * * * *
As I’m walking to the downstairs billing office for about the gazilionth time – why they don’t accept appointments is really beyond me – I can’t help but notice a shiny something-or-other on the ground ahead of me. Curious, I quicken my pace, wincing with every click-clack of my blister-inducing ballet flats. Disappointed, I discover said shiny something-or-other is yet another unappreciated penny, unabashedly left for dead by its careless owner. Dutifully, I gather up the penny in my hands, place it in my [super cute] lime-green leather coin purse –too expensive though, so I probably shouldn’t have bought it in the first place … – and, feeling slightly vengeful, remove a quarter. I glare at it. Past the point of no return – at least in terms of hating quarters – I throw it on the ground in front of me, hoping that doing so will both literally and figuratively bring it back down to earth.
Happy about my latest contribution to coin philanthropy, I strut on towards the office, my smile as big as Barack’s. Just as I’m about to descend the stairs, I get that scary/funny/oh-shit-please-no feeling that I’ve come to recognize so well – I’m going to trip. Only this time, I don’t just trip, I tumble. Down the stairs I go, rocking and a-rolling like that kid in gymnastics who never quite got the hang of the proper somersaulting technique. It’s funny – after the infinite tumbles, trips, and klutzy what-have-you my twenty-two years have bestowed upon me, I still don’t know what I’m supposed to do during. Should I clench my muscles and hold on tight or should I go limbs-akimbo, enjoying the catastrophe? Am I supposed to be silent and stupefied or loud and loving it? Usually, I vary my reaction.
I never, however, vary my after-accident attempt at some semblance of composure. At the bottom of the stairs, I whip right up, dusting off my jeans, smoothing down my blondish, brownish, and somewhere-in-between-ish hair, and say, “Shoes will one day be the death of me. That or cute guys.” Luckily, cute guys never see me stumble, except for this time.
“You’ve got a really peculiar scratch on your forehead, there,” he says, his thick voice matching his molasses skin.
“Oh, no, I’m fine,” I maintain, desperate to escape mortification-sans-mirror.
“No, really, it looks pretty bad. Would you like me to take you to the doctor or something?” mystery man asks, his sincerity matching his sexiness point for point.
“No, I’ll just go,” I say, grabbing my things. “I’m used to this – shoes, right! Can’t live with ‘em can’t live without ‘em!”
“Actually you slipped on this quarter,” he quips. “The quarter you threw just a few seconds ago.”
“I’ve got to go,” I mutter, fleeing from his sight but not from my eardrums.
“My name is Amar, by the way; nice to meet you too.”
* * * * *
My final semester starts tomorrow, and I still have yet to figure out how I feel about that. I mean, college graduation is supposed to induce feelings of elation, of relief, of excitement. It is supposed to convey a sense of success, as well as promise ever-escalating success throughout one’s life. In sixteen weeks, my previous four years here in this coastal college town will come to a fruition, and yet, those giggly/cocky/gee-ain’t-I-special feelings have not materialized. I should be happy about this, I really should. I am going to graduate with the maximum number of credits, those fire-hydrant-yellow Honors cords, and receive the same obligatory orchids from my parents that I’ve received every time something seemingly important happens to me. When I graduate, I am supposed to be better attuned to the world around me, more educated as to life’s rights and wrongs, and, as a Communications major, I am supposed to be better in step with exactly how to relate to others. Except I’m not, I’m not any of those things.
Sitting on the ground, legs dangling in the swimming pool as my landlord seemingly-subtly spies on me – he suspects my rambling nature is merely a symptom of a meth addiction – I look down into the water, hoping that maybe, just maybe, the chlorine will reveal what lies beneath my ordinary exterior (and chicken-scratch-scarred forehead – kudos to the quarters!). I wonder what it would be like, what kind of life I would live, what kind of person I would be if certain variables hadn’t fallen into place. Would I be so fraught with insecurities if my dad hadn’t remarked, during that horrendous time otherwise known as puberty, might I add, that my “looks were akin to my smarts?” (I’ve yet to discern the compliment from the insult with that whopper.) Would I have a serious boyfriend if I didn’t feel the need to validate myself by sleeping with the Freddy Frat houses every time that comment comes to mind? Would I have some girlfriends if they didn’t all disrespect me? Would I, would I, would I?
* * * * *
Why is it that alarm clocks never work when you need them to? Of course, the one morning this semester that I need to be on time, my alarm clock fails to deliver more than any of those guys in the Viagra commercials. Forgive me for sounding rather third-grader-ish, but deciding what to wear on the first day of school is something that I always look forward to; so, needless to say, being stressed for time and not being able to partake in such fashion festivities really grinds my gears.
Not nearly as annoying, however, as having to find your classes without looking like a complete and total freshman, map in hand. I race to my first lecture hall, only to discover that my token back-row, left-side aisle seat is taken, along with every other seat, apparently. Heels up, I peer over the room and can see only one visible seat – in the front row, of course.
“Is this seat taken?” I ask the guy sitting next to it.
“No,” he replies, laughing for whatever reason.
“Hello again,” he adds. “Nice scar.”
Turning my head, I realize my neighbor isn’t just some random Chatty Charlie.
“My name’s Amar,” he says. “Would you like to introduce yourself?”
Would I?
