“Winged Youth in Valiant Flight”

“Winged Youth in Valiant Flight” by Ben Tripp

I wish I there was a better mirror in my room; I need to know how I look. This one is wavy and stuck to the wall. I don’t want to be vain, but I like looking at myself when I’m trying to get all cranked up. Gotta practice my smile, too. Your smile, it has to look sincere when it’s not, and fake when it’s real. Being an actor like that is a good skill to have – on a date or not. Your smile has to match your laugh, too. I have had some very unpleasant experiences when I smiled at the wrong time or laughed too much without smiling.

The hour before a big date is excruciating. It feels like either too much time or not enough; like the seconds go by too fast or they crawl by! I keep looking at the clock. I keep picturing Lesia in my head. Lesia and I have met several times before and I thought I felt a chemistry there. Unfortunately, I don’t think I made a good enough impression for her to actually consider me boyfriend material. Really hoping today will be different. Keeping it really simple, just an early, light dinner, that’s it. Nothing after. Probably nothing after. Maybe something after.

I keep thinking about a story a friend told me recently about a little beetle that lived in a rug in a palace. It was the most beautiful rug in the entire kingdom, in the most powerful palace in the world. Unfortunately, the little beetle didn’t know that because all he saw were the fibers of the rug. They were nothing but obstacles for him to crawl around and through and over all his life. If he could have seen the bigger picture he would have known his life was incredibly blessed and he was the most beautiful and powerful beetle in the world.

Looking around my room I really wish I had a beautiful Persian rug like in that story. Still forty minutes to the date.

I’m using a lot of cologne today because I know it’s important to smell good. I’ve put some in the sink where I’m standing, and I decided to mix it with water so it’s not too strong. I’ve been told that people do not like it when I wear strong cologne. On the other hand, I do smoke so it’s definitely for the best that I put on a little extra cologne today. And on the way out the door today I’m going to get my monogrammed silver lighter and my silver cigarette case. The lighter is special, engraved with some words about Kumsong; the case is just a cheap one I bought there. I don’t like reading the lighter, but it looks good.

Having fancy stuff to flash around when you’re out with a girl is a great idea. Look like Steve McQueen in “The War Lover.” The girl might not be a smoker, but if you have stuff to flash around it always looks good. I’ll only smoke a little today. Have to be ready for the kiss at the end. There usually is one, and I hope to hell she doesn’t try to bring a girlfriend. Actually, that’d be OK. I have to remind myself not to get too ahead of myself. We’ve only ever seen each other standing outside the dining room, so having dinner together is already a big step.

This time the clock is going really slowly. 35 minutes to go.

I force myself to sit on the bed and plan out some conversation strategies. Seems like a good conversation is all about remembering and I have such a hard time with that. People’s words sometimes seem to flow over my head and the next thing I know I’m asking a question for the third time. Did she say she had a dog? What was its name? Do I have a dog? Have I ever had a dog? Have you ever shot a dog? So what have you shot at? “Are you writing a book,” she’ll ask!

My trouble with remembering is a problem. I don’t want to bring my little notebook. I’d feel like some kinda candy ass. 30 minutes left.

What will we talk about?? Most girls don’t dig sports much. The newspapers are no good. No no no no that’s nowhere. No news talk. She reads books, though. Paperbacks with cartoons on the cover; like ones with nurses kissing doctors and all kinds of Mickey Mouse stuff like that. Sure don’t know much about the romantic-type books like that. We’ll talk about TV; I can do that. Maybe if she likes those cartoony books she likes The Flintstones or The Jetsons. Maybe she flips over The Untouchables and Gunsmoke like all the guys. Probably she watches the family shows.

I stand and feel like I’m going apeshit. Want to bash the wall in. Clock shows twenty minutes before it’s time. Breathe, think of the bug. Think of the pattern. Got to remind myself of the bug story. Problems are just a part of the pattern of life. Gotta keep pushing through those obstacles. Just shove into them and don’t let them hold you back. They’re just fibers, anyhow. They can be pushed aside.

Wish I had money for flowers. Chicks like those, everyone knows it. It’s like the smell, or something, that gets to them. Like the cologne. Sure, some scents make you want to vomit. Diesel, jet fuel, mud. But a nice lilac or rose smell, that gets things moving. That’s key. But no flowers, no money, no good conversation material. Those are problems. Fibers. Just gotta see it from above, like in the poem. I grab the book off the desk and read:

You get a gods-eye view of things…up there,

A different world…a world, vast, clean and fair.

No, not a different world; a different view

And all accustomed things seem strange and new.

Still fifteen minutes to go, but it’s time to go, early or not.

Tossing the book on the bed, crossing the room, handle of the door, now opening.

My friend Arnie is in the hallway walking past and he stops.

I tell him about meeting Lesia for dinner.

No.

I give him my practiced smile.

No.

Big Tom comes over because Arnie waved at him. I waved at him too.

No.

I look at the floor for a moment. Waxy and shiny. Hard and white with speckles. Bare feet. Can’t feel any fibers, but they are there. The pattern is easy to see now. Just have to push past. I push.

No! No, Nickie, calm down!

I’m a bug but I can get past the fibers if I push harder! push! struggle! the pattern! Lesia! my lighter! give me my lighter!

Nickie are you covered in piss? Goddamn it! Stop fighting!

give me my lighter!

Get his feet.

The fibers are pushing down on me. I’m getting buried in the rug. I’m facing the pattern in the white speckled floor. I want my book. I don’t want my lighter anymore. The lighter makes me sick, makes me vomit.

Here! Give him this. Nickie, relax!

I’m not getting anything. I’m getting another shot. I can feel it in my backside. All I can do now is see the pattern in the floor. Where did the rug go?

The petty things are less than grains of dust,

While wars are only transient stains of rust

That tarnish the great shield. The cleansing years

Will wash away the “blood and sweat and tears.