Joel McReynolds (Bio)
“I’m sorry, Sir. I’m afraid you missed your connecting train. You’ll have to wait for the next one.” Michael Williams let out a sigh. It wasn’t a rude sigh, just a sigh to let the world know that he was disappointed.
It wasn’t a big deal. They’d let him hop on the next one in a few hours and he’d make it to Ottawa with plenty of time before tomorrow’s conference. As he walked away from the counter, he questioned why he decided to take a train instead of flying, which would’ve been cheaper and faster. It had something to do with a notion in his head that trains were a strange art lost in a bygone age. There was nostalgia mixed with romanticism somewhere near his heart, although he couldn’t pinpoint it.
Perhaps it was geography and time. Trains seemed to be used rarely these days in the United States. Sure, he took the “L” every day to work in Chicago, but that’s not what he meant by trains. He meant train trains, not metro, public transit trains. When he thought about trains he thought about other countries. When he thought about other countries he thought about strange and wonderful cultures, beauty, and excitement. Other countries were the antithesis of the Midwest. They were full of life, and trains carried you to and through other countries. There was something beautiful about that, but with a tinge of melancholy.
There was also the time aspect. Trains made Michael feel like he was traveling back in time, to a “simpler” age. When romance wasn’t clouded with texts, calls, or camera phones. If you liked someone you had to write them a letter. To visit you had to travel for days. You couldn’t exactly send Young Lady Victoria a dick pic in the post. Romance was better then, he felt.
And so when he found out he was heading to Ottawa for a conference he had the idea to take a train from the grey Midwest on a hopeful, romantic journey that awaited him in the exotic foreign land of Canada. Unfortunately, while Michael’s mind was busy wandering his legs weren’t, so he missed his connecting train and was stuck in Toronto for the next few hours.
Remembering the reasoning that led to his current predicament, Michael suddenly cheered up. If it was romantic ideals that led to his taking the train, what more perfect scenario is there than to be unwillingly stuck in a new city. He knew from novels that when the protagonist is the least willing, or rather the least expecting, is when the adventure always began. When the male lead was least looking for love is when it’d land right under his nose. This was his moment.
But, doesn’t thinking about it ruin the premise? I mean, I really am looking for love. But perhaps if I pretend like I am not it will be good enough?
Michael wasn’t sure. He felt himself spiraling down a never-ending logical loop. So, naturally, he distracted himself by walking outside the depot and down the street. He didn’t pay much attention to where he went, just began to explore.
Michael wished he was in Quebec instead of Toronto. Well, really he wished he was in France. But Quebec was the next best thing in proximity to Chicago. At least they spoke a different language. And they had an attitude about it.
So, really more French-like than they’d care to admit.
He smiled to himself. Michael was the kind of guy who laughed at his own jokes. Well, not that intense. Michael was the kind of guy who would smirk at his own jokes.
Michael was thirty-eight, as of last month. He had celebrated with his mother, brother, brother’s wife and their two little children. It wasn’t so much of a birthday party as a dinner party that Michael just happened to be invited to. Michael didn’t have many friends. He had a few good friends from his college days scattered throughout the hemisphere. It was as if on the day of graduation they took turns throwing darts at a map. Michael’s dart landed on where he grew up and where he went to college. What an adventure.
But here, right now, he was on an adventure. Sure, he wasn’t crossing an ocean or going somewhere vastly different. But it was still an adventure, being in a new place and seeing new things.
Michael rounded a corner and came upon a short cobblestone road. It was a back alley for a couple tight houses. He walked down the alley paying careful attention to the misshapen stones that formed the road.
I’ve always liked cobblestone roads. I like how the different stones all fit together. It’s not so sterile and functional as asphalt or cement. It feels more organic. There’s a lesson to be learned too. Taking a bunch of things that don’t seem to quite fit together and turning them into a cohesive whole. There’s a keynote speech in there somewhere.
He followed the cobblestone path to a park with ample seating room. He decided to sit down on a bench that was near the playground, but not too close. He didn’t want anyone thinking he was a creeper.
On his way over he passed a woman sitting on a bench. She had dark, red hair; auburn. She looked pretty to Michael. Nothing extraordinary, but she had a beauty to her that was easily recognized. As he passed her, she looked at him and they made eye contact.
Now this was already over the line as far as Michael was concerned. Eye contact? With a stranger? Unbearable.
She smiled at him and said, “Hello.” Talking to a stranger? Now that was really beyond his comfort. Yet, miraculously, he managed a gentle head nod with an awkward “hi.”
He could feel the warmth on his face as it quickly turned red. Luckily, he was beyond the woman now so she couldn’t see. By the time he completed his mission and reached the bench his burning cheeks had returned to their natural color. He sat down and casually moved his eyes in the direction of the woman.
She sat on her bench, he sat on his, and that was it. That was the end of the “event,” if you’d even call it that. Nothing magical happened. For a hopeless romantic like Michael, looking at a woman’s ring finger was a common occurrence. He happened to notice that the woman he passed by had no wedding ring. Her slender finger, highlighted by bright blue nail polish, was bare. Which made the lack of anything magical all the more disappointing.
If my life was a romantic movie something amazing would’ve just happened. It’s a beautiful day and the sun is out. I’m at a park. And there is a beautiful, potentially single woman sitting right over there. I even said hi to her. Man, what a set up.
A push from the wind reverberated through the park, and the leaves of the oak trees rustled in a sacred dance. Michael wondered if they were they willingly joining the wind’s dance or trying to avoid it.
The leaves, that could’ve been romantic. I enter the park, the sun is shining, and the wind blows. I look up and follow a leaf slowly falling from its once-home. It’s tickled by the wind and drifts over and lands gently on the shoulder of a beautiful woman who is sitting on a bench. She looks up as she brushes the leaf off and our eyes meet. Instant love.
Michael’s thoughts drifted into the realm of plant physiology for a short while. He spent several minutes struggling to remember what the dark cycle in photosynthesis was. He quickly gave up and thought about the woman’s blue nail polish instead.
I bet her favorite color is blue. It reminds her of the sky, which she loves, but more importantly of the ocean. She’s loved the ocean ever since she visited her great-grandmother in Georgia. She was very young, and could barely remember details other than what’s been recounted to her since. Her great-grandmother was dying and she had never met her, so her mother and grandma and her took a road trip down to the small city on the Georgia coast.
There are only a few memories she has from that trip. Mostly sounds. Some smells. The smell of antiseptic in the hospital. The sound of stiff blankets moving over a plastic-lined mattress. The smell of the flowers they brought to her great-grandmother. The sounds the insects and birds made, calls she wasn’t used to.
And then there was the ocean. She had a lot more memories of the ocean. The smell of the sea, the taste of the dried salt on her lips, the feel of the sand sticking to the back of her calves, the sound of the waves rhythmically rolling into the shore. They were good memories. Memories she went to when she needed them. When it was dark and stormy outside, and her lights began to flicker, she would sprint to the attic in her head and throw open the door, and there was the ocean. Blue. Her favorite color. The color of her nails.
She wore blue nail polish with any outfit. She didn’t care if it didn’t match what she was wearing. It made her happy, to glance down at her fingertips and be reminded of the sea, that big blue basin that could swallow her up.
Michael started to feel a weird warmth towards this woman, this stranger. He knew his made up history wasn’t real. He knew she probably just picked blue because it was the first color she saw. But he still felt oddly connected to her. It felt like she had just told him all about her great-grandmother and her love of the ocean. She looked more beautiful now, as well. He remembered her smile and “hello” having been very friendly. Perhaps she was looking for him. Perhaps they were looking for each other.
We’d go on our first date, right now. To some cute coffee place. We’d chat about life. She’d tell me about her schooling, and her dream: to own a business. No, orphans. Something with orphans. She wants to run an orphanage. So she went to school for counseling and management. I’d ask her why she was drawn to that, and she’d tell me about the trip she took in 8th grade to Central America. During the trip she spent some time at an orphanage, and it broke her heart. I’d think “Wow, what a woman.”
Or maybe she’s a doctor. She had a younger sister who died from cancer. So she set out to become a doctor and try to help other people’s little sisters. It was a lonely life, because she poured out her heart and soul for the job. But now she was ready for something different, now she was ready to take a moment and meet a guy. Maybe a guy who was traveling by train through the city for a conference.
Michael thought about every moment of that first date. The stories he’d share to woo her, the details he’d leave out to give off just an ounce of mystery. He even thought about what he’d order. He wouldn’t want anything too messy or presumptuous. He also didn’t want anything too small or she’d think he’s cheap. He’d buy her drink, of course. Right? That was the proper thing to do in this type of thing. In the end, he decided he’d get a medium caramel latte, but with no whipped cream. He didn’t want an embarrassing cream moustache during the first date.
After their date they’d keep up the relationship long-distance. Michael would be thrilled and tell everyone he knew that he was dating a woman from a foreign country. He’d try his best not to let the name of said country slip, though. They could visit each other every now and then, but it was a good thing the internet existed. She’d talk about her work at the hospital-orphanage and he’d do everything he could to make his life sound interesting.
After several months they would take the rough frontier trail and move into “I love you” territory. A few more months and they’d get engaged. Within a year they’d be married. Blissfully so. So blissful there would be bliss dripping out of their ears. Disgusting.
We’d have two kids: one girl and one boy. They’d be perfect, just like the rest of our life. They’d be brilliant in school, go to the Ivy League on full-ride scholarships, and then become entrepreneurs, or lawyers, or doctors like their mom. They’d be successful and incredibly well-behaved and loving towards their parents.
After years of saving thousands of children at the hospital-orphanage we’d retire and live in the Bahamas. The ocean there is a much prettier blue than Georgia.
Michael stretched his legs out in front of him and looked at the sky. There was a white cloud passing right above him. He followed it with his eyes for a few moments, then closed them and let the thoughts of his future life sink in. He knew it was fake, he really did. Probably. It was probably fake. But either way, it would never happen unless he went to talk to her right now and had that first date over coffee.
Although shy and awkward, Michael knew that this moment needed to happen if even 1% of his imaginary future would come to pass. He took a few deep breaths and bobbed his head up and down three times. He was psyching himself up to get subbed into the game.
He stood up and started walking towards the woman’s bench, but stopped as soon as his eyes came up from staring at his shoes. She was gone. She wasn’t there. The bench was empty. At some point during his ridiculous fictitious meanderings she had gotten up and walked away. And that was that. The moment really was over. His chance really was gone.
He would never get to hear about blue being her favorite color, or about all the orphans she looked after. They’d never fall in love. They’d never have any children. They’d never move to the Bahamas. Michael really wanted to move to the Bahamas.
As embarrassing as it was to admit to himself, it felt like a part of Michael’s heart had been ripped from him. Like an entire lifetime spent with someone else had been erased. It had never even started, and perhaps that was the worst part. At least if he had asked her to get coffee and she said no it would’ve been a firm denial of his imaginings. But now, who knew? Maybe he really could’ve married her. Maybe they really could’ve had kids. But now he’d never know if there was even a chance.
He looked at his watch and decided it was time to head back to the train depot. He might as well get out of this city. This city that he entered with hope and left with the same sinking feeling he’d encountered so many times before. Michael was used to this; getting his hopes up and then getting them dashed.
He walked back the way he came, back over the cobblestones and crossing the busy streets.
He wouldn’t have had time to go on a date anyway, he told himself. So nothing would’ve worked out. Even if she were interested, he would’ve realized he had to catch his train before they had a chance to talk. That made him feel slightly better. As he passed people on the sidewalk another thought occurred to him: expectations.
Let’s be realistic. There is no way she ever would’ve matched the stupid thoughts I had in my head. Even if she was everything I imagined, I’d get disappointed as soon as I found out her favorite color wasn’t blue. That’s what’s wrong with me. I build up these impossible hopes and expectations, and then I feel crushed when people don’t meet them. It’s what ruined my relationships in the past, and what ruins my imagination-only pseudo-relationships.
It’s probably for the best that I didn’t talk to her. For her sake. Even if she was the most incredible, beautiful person in the world I’d still find something wrong with her. Or I’d tell myself the relationship is supposed to be like “this”—like it’s supposed to meet my bizarre expectations. No matter what someone would get hurt in the end.
By the time he arrived at the train station he had decided to become a celibate monk and live a life of singleness for the sake of the world. A life goal he had made several times before. He began to brush off the ideas of the woman from the park. Overall, it had only been a blip in his life’s line graph. He could move on, he would move on. He’d let go of expectations.
Sure, if someone fell right in front of him he’d look them in the eyes, but he didn’t need to go searching the non-romantic streets of non-romantic cities to find his perfect soul mate. He resigned himself to the life that had been dealt him. For the first time in a long time, Michael truly could say that he wasn’t looking for love. He wasn’t the hero of a romance, he was the background character in the recorded minutes of a meeting. If he could just accept that and move on with his life he’d be happy maybe, instead of always hoping something beautiful and strange would happen to him. Instead of always hoping to meet eyes with someone and see the universe’s reflection staring back at him, he’d look to people’s eyes and expect to see grey.
He sat down in his seat and took out the latest library book he was reading. Some stupid romance, an escape into a world where coincidences had hidden agendas and the world always felt more fantastic than it was. A few passengers shuffled past him as he flipped to his bookmark. Near him he heard a surprised “Oh” and then a “hello, again” and looked up. Across from him sat the woman from the park, holding a cup of coffee.