Lisa

Last night I had a dream that Lisa and I were going to drink alcohol and smoke cigarettes besides an old well (the latter detail clearly being the result of watching "Lawrence of Arabia" last night.) I was very excited we are going to do this, in a drinking bourbon in Chuck Kinder's house kind of a way. Meaning, I wanted to do it for the the thrill of drinking and smoking with my former war correspondent academic adviser. In my dream, she understood this, and thought it was silly, but we were going to do it anyhow. Sadly, I think we never got there. My subconscious got sidetracked by alcohol selection and other dream things.

The point of this is, I was sad when I woke up and remembered that Lisa is leaving very soon. She is a true Not Friend. I have known here for two years and taken four classes from her. That's one class every semester I have been at school. I have what they call a friend crush on her. I am platonically smitten with her. She fascinates me in every way, including her perfect little outfits. The kind I strike to have, especially once I have a career. Usually fairly functional, not too girly, good boots, accented with scarves and earrings. Something you could go to a fine dinner or a war in.

I first appreciated Lisa as a character (the idea of her, tall, thin, scarves, Tienanmen Square) and a bad-ass, for all the things she's done. Later, I began to realize what a wonderful person she is, but the latter might not have happened without the former. and It began with her war stories in International Journalism -- Tienanmen Square (for THE events, yes), Jakarta, Beijing, Afghanistan, Iraq... I asked questions, she was annoyingly modest about her interesting life. Eventually she turned into someone whose sense of humor I really liked. And me, with all my school difficulties, all my near-dropping out, and my late, nervous registration, she never lost patience. She never even was 11 feet tall like my old adviser. She just helped me and consoled me and encouraged me. Her personality made me feel better, and the fact of her being on campus tended to make the place seem just a little more exciting -- especially on those days when it feels like routine might just kill me.

Lisa, a true Not Friend, though I wish it were different. She means more to me than any old person on the street. But our relationship does not justify keeping in touch, and her awkwardness makes it unlikely. She has no idea how important she has been to me, and how she has helped. And she'll never quite get it.

All I can do is say, half-joking, that when I am a famous correspondent for Atlantic Monthly in 7 or 15 years, Lisa you must have a drink with me.

Gentleman

I was walking down the Cloud Factory road in Oakland. It was about five o'clock and busy. I had a low-level kind of a bad day, the kind that isn't bad for any tangible reason, but you there is nothing special in the whole world to spark your interest. I walked down the road, trying not to get run over by the cars. I walked in the dirt and the trash, beside the pokeberries and general weeds. I love that road, because the Cloud Factory is literary and eye-catching and beautiful in its way. And I love that the railroad tracks are right there. Sometimes there are extra cars for coal and I go look at them and think about how I like trains. There's the romantic itch about trains that may not be based in any real world...

I walked by all of this and I felt a little better. Then a boy passed me on a bike. He was skinny and maybe vaguely punkish, but friendly in his dress. I actually can't picture him now, and this happened just a few weeks ago. Nevertheless, I glanced at him, and he looked at me and nodded firmly and politely. It was a sincere nod, but also a business-like, required nod, a gentlemanly nod at a lady as you both travel a muddy, dangerous industrial road. And I felt much better after that nod.

Montana Wheat

I feel like I should rewrite this specifically for the blog, but in the meantime, Matt the Farmer is a definite Not Friend. I met him on a trip to Montana with my parents in Summer '07.

2/20/08
We sit high above the endless wheat and Matt wants to know why I think it’s so strange that he’s only 22.

The combine we ride in is a handsome, intimidating machine. It seems to move light and easy, but the long line of teeth that separate and pick up the good parts of the wheat suggest a monster I don’t want to mess with. It might belong to any old farm you pass by, but in the inside cabin where Mom and I squeeze together beside Matt, there is AC and a computer that tells him about bushels and acres.

I don’t know how big this field is, but the road that brought us here is a distant strip. We are lost in wheat and I am delighted. The moment my parents and I stepped out of the farmer’s truck, and found ourselves sweltering under miles of no shade, I felt deliciously out of place. There is nothing more American than farmers but that doesn’t mean the workings of them are anything familiar to me.

Dad rides with the old man, asking questions about how this operation works. The old man looks exactly like an ancient farmer should, stout, strong and white-haired -- even dressed in overalls.

Matt, who might be good-looking somewhere under his ball-cap and sunglasses isn’t quite laconic, but fittingly is no chatterbox. Dependable Mom starts him off with questions about working here at Montana Wheat, and eventually we move to true conversation. There’s something about this man’s North-Western accent that is desperately charming. He seems to enjoy my attempts at witty remark, and I realize with satisfaction that he is one of those people whose laughter is rewarding to cause. He seems charmingly surprised by some of the things I say – so usual that I can’t remember what it was now, but I am glad the novelty here is mutual

I am going to be in love with him for the next few days, like I was with the friendly redheaded girl in the century-old soda-shop in Lewistown. These are people I will never see again and I wish there was something to make us smitten with one another, or at least friends. But our interactions are nothing more than passing interest, not based on any deep connection.

I still halfway regret being here with my parents, squished childishly close to my mother. I wish I was some lone traveler who met Matt in a more spontaneous fashion than my dad’s journalistic curiosity about the wheat business. I wish I was more beautiful and much tougher – like the West.

Everything sounds so easy as Matt controls this monstrous, graceful machine hungrily gathering wheat. He works 15 hours a day at the peak of harvest season. He graduated from college in something scientific and fit for farming. And then there’s his land a few miles from here. He has his own thousand acres for his own crops. The promise of way out West says that a man has to own land. Matt thinks nothing of it, and is politely amused by my incredulousness at his youth.

I’m here with my parents, three days drive from the East. We spend our evenings exhausted from staying indoors, zoned out in front of movies. I’ve come on this family vacation and I am two years younger than Matt. It hurts me to sit in this wheat field and feel so firmly tied to loving apron strings. Because a decade ago, I assumed I would be brilliant, bold, and brave. The moment I turned 18, I would kiss my attachments goodbye, and head in some new direction towards my own life.