A.

While listening to old Against Me! and after reading old Mitch Clem comics, I was reminded of A., my sister's friend. Was she her roommate, briefly? I think so. This fades, and it wasn't even that long ago.

But it was in the middle of no, no, school. I can't go to college. I want to be some bad-ass. Some Christopher McCandless punk. Some runaway trainhopper. I wanted to live with my underage best friend cousin in some terrible squat in Montana. If there is such a thing. I wanted to not do what I was doing then. I wanted my life to be active and creative and bold. It was none of those things. I was frozen. Entirely terrified. Jealous of everyone who seemed powerful or confident in ways I wanted in myself.

So there's A., from Minnesota. She wore no make-up. Her face all sort of blended together. She was not pretty, but I had to focus to remember that. Her accent was her most prominent aesthetic.

She needed surgery. My mother had told her to call if she needed anything. She hadn't had it yet in the day we hung out. I remember being in Squirrel Hill. We were waiting for my sister for some reason. I seem to remember going to a shoe store, and A and I both being bored very quickly.

So A. just talked and talked. She spent 3 months in Brazil alone. She once hitched a ride through the Northern Midwest with Against Me! Her friends and her built a raft to sail down the Mississippi for a while. She had done it all, and she was tired of it already. She eluded to bad things having maybe happened to her. Maybe threats, or close calls, maybe some real, terrible thing. She was sick of her friends who could only talk about their glory days. She wanted stability after all her adventures. That was the part I ignored.

She was perfect. She was who I wanted to be so desperately. She had no interest in being admired. She was friendly to me for that one day, a good talker, but that was all. She had her surgery, I believe it turned out fine. She went back home to Minnesota. She sings in a sweet, pure old time sort of voice and plays the washtub bass.

Fermin

From April 29th to May 13, I was in Belize and Guatemala with Chatham University. We traveled with 23 girls, two professors, and our guide, Fermin.


We were going to make our plane, though that was hard to believe. After squeezing past the overturned citrus truck, which was blocking the one-lane Belizean road, we made our way to the airport as fast as a bus can move on that aforementioned, bumpy road. We made arrived with ten minutes to spare. We stood up, backpacks on, all of us ready to sprint, as the bus parked at the front curb. We ran, Fermin going ahead to make sure the plane would actually wait. We checked our bags to the sounds of the fourth "Final boarding call, Belize to Houston."

Standing in the security line, I realized Fermin was making his goodbyes. I gave him the warmest hug possible, with my one free arm. And I felt surprisingly sad. Fermin had been our guide for the whole two weeks in Belize and Guatemala. He met us at the airport and he was there for everything. He fished me out of the MaCal river, he paddled my canoe into Xibalba, as I sat rigid with claustrophobia. And the days passed, and all the girls fell in love with him just a little bit. Good humored, full of endlessly interesting information, unflappable, and doing every single activity, he always had our backs. He watched out to make sure I didn't get heat stroke, and asked if my ankle was okay. He makes you want to have a Fermin in your own life to watch our for you, amuse you, and teach you about everything in sight. I had no brilliant, soul-bearing conversations with Fermin. We have very little in common, and I was too shy to pry too much. He liked us, but there was a sprinkle of reserve in his manner. Yet, he came to the airport just to hug us all goodbye, because that was tradition. And he approved of my Elvis songs, as we piped by iPod through the van speakers, driving through Guatemala. He is not a friend, there is no brilliant connection, but saying goodbye to Fermin felt like saying goodbye to a friend. I felt the familiar pang of saying goodbye to relatives and friends at an airport. That was a surprise after two weeks. I told him thanks for coming to my rescue when the canoe flipped. Then I waved until the security line moved us out of sight.

I pulled off my shoes, and there I was, running ahead of Drs Lenz and Wister, clutching my hiking boots, sprinting through an airport in Belize, running for the gate (the outside gate. Yes, the classic stairs from the runway was the way to board.) I was glad we made the plane. I wouldn't have minded if we hadn't. Belize is hard to leave behind, even if I wanted to go home sometimes. As Dr Lenz said to Lauren and I, we were now in a cult. Fermin is a part of that. As I said before, you just want Fermin to always be around, coloring the most insignificant moments in life and making them bloom into the unforgettable.