For More From Guy Jacobs
I looked at my watch. It was 5:16pm. There was no need to rush. There were still ten minutes or so until the train was scheduled to arrive. I walked up the station’s platform careful not to spill any of the coffee on my shoes. There were only a dozen or so people waiting there. Most undergraduates tended to wait until the last minute before they showed up for the train or did anything else. I parked myself on a wooden bench where a blind woman sat. She held on to a painted stick and hummed a familiar song.
“How are you today?” I politely asked.
“I am doing just fine, thank you very much. Now, tell me Mr. do you happen to know when the next train into the city will be arriving?”
“It should be arriving here in about ten minutes or so, but you know how late these trains tend to run. The train schedule is not all that dependable.”
“Nothing in this world ever is.” She said and kept on humming that same familiar tune. Somehow it put me at ease.
I turned to Chapter five of the book that I was reading and lost myself with in its pages. Wrapped in stillness and a fluid breeze that flowed through the rain station’s corridor, I somehow managed to forget all about everything that bothered me, if only for a comfortable moment.
This peaceful moment was crushed just as soon as she arrived
“Hey, do any of you happen to have a bottle opener?” she asked.
I studied her with a slide of the head. Holding on to the bottle and a mischievous smile uncommon to a woman her age, she was the ruin of all men.
I pretended not to be interested but she knew better. She was a seasoned warrior. It would take much more than my pretty blue eyes to withstand her resolve. Before I said a single word, she was fully cognisant of just how lonely I have become.
I reached back into my deep pocket and pulled out my keychain. On its outer edge was a cheap plastic beer bottle opener.
“Here you go,” I offered, “but first, you must tell me where that gorgeous accent is from.”
“Well, why don’t you try and take a guess.” She offered.
“Well, I am no expert, but I would guess that you are from United Kingdom, England, I would say. Somewhere in London, but then again, it could be anywhere.”
She repositioned her body as she leaned in my direction, “Well, you are not entirely wrong. I do live in London at the moment but I was actually born and raised in the beautiful island of Jamaica.”
“Jamaica, no shit?”
“No shit,”
Her pale white skin seemed as Jamaican as a piece of Gefilte fish. But then again, I did once hear about the fact that Jamaica was home to many ethnicities such as Indians, Chinese, Arabs and whites.
“And where in London do you live?” I asked as if I knew anything about London. True, I did visit the place on many occasions but that was mostly for academic conferences and such. I was not that familiar with the place.
“I live in Shepherd's Bush, do you know where that is?” she asked.
“No, not really.” I smiled. In an attempt to disguise my overall ignorance of London’s geography, I tried to impress using an alternative approach.
“And so, what is your soccer team?”
“My soccer team? I can only assume that you are referring to football?”
“English football. Here we call it soccer.”
“Sorry, but it was football in the rest of the world way before you guys came around.”
“Whatever you say,” I smiled, “so what is your team? Arsenal? Manchester United? Liverpool?”
“None of the above. I am not all that into sports but if I had to choose, I would say Tottenham Hotspur, have you ever heard of that team?”
I did not. Strike Two.
“So what brings you to this little Podunk town?”
“Podunk?” she asked.
“You know, small, tiny, insignificant little town.
“Oh yea? It did not look all that bad.”
“It is not that bad, it is just small, really small. Don’t get me wrong, I like this place. It must pale in comparison to London. Am I right?”
She nodded her head in agreement. “I actually came out here for a fashion shoot.”
“A fashion shoot? You must be shitting me. Where would you possibly go for a fashion shoot around these parts?”
“We shot out by the creek early this morning and then again in the afternoon. God, I almost froze my tits out there.” She smiled.
Once again, I carefully surveyed her body, trying not to look too obvious. She was pretty enough all right but did not seem like the model type. She had a bit more meat on her than the average model that one may see in a magazine. Nevertheless, there was something about the way in which she carried herself. She seemed comfortable within her skin. She exploded with the milk of life.
I tried to make her out but my attempts at physical assessment were hindered by the overcoat that she wore. I could not tell what kind of a body she was hiding under it.
“So tell me more about this fashion shoot that you were involved in. What are you, the photographer?”
“No, I am a model. Why? Do I look like a photographer?” she asked.
“Well, I am not sure, what does a photographer look like anyways?”
“Well, they don’t look like anything but they don’t look like models now do they?”
“I don’t know, I can only guess that some do.” I tried to dig myself out of the hole that I dug.
But this one did not care, she was just busting my balls. She had a good sense to her this woman. She almost seemed as casual as an old friend.
“So what do you do around these parts?” She asked.
“Me? I teach at the university. I am an American literature professor.”
“Not bad,” she smiled, “I love to read. Not necessary American literature, I most prefer the Europeans, but you guys had some descent writers.”
“Oh yea, which American readers do you like?”
“You know, all of the basics, Mark Twain, Hemingway, Thoreau, Henry James, Jack London.”
Stunned, I turned in her direction. This woman must have been just as young as any of my students and seemed to have a better grasp of any of them combined.
“Are you kidding me?” I asked, “are you a model or are you a student of literature. How the hell do you know about all of these writers?”
“Why are you so surprised? I mean doesn’t everyone know these writers here in America?”
“No one under the age of thirty is any. Not anyone who was born after 1981.”
Her sarcastic smile soon appeared, “Well, I was actually born in 1984, if you must know.”
“Well dear girl, I am impressed. Most of my undergraduate students are about your age and most of them never ever heard of F. Scott Fitzgerald. Most of them think that This Side of Paradise is a daytime soap opera.”
“Well, I never read that one.” She slid her tongue across her healthy lip. “And how about you professor, who do you like to read?”
“That all depends,” I smiled, “Are we talking American, European, world authors? What?”
“Let’s start with Americans.”
“Well, I wrote my dissertation about Henry Miller. Have you ever heard of him?”
“Of course I have,” she protested.
“Not Arthur Miller,” I clarified, “We are not talking about the guy who wrote The Death of A Salesman.”
“Yea, I know, Henry Miller, Tropic of Cancer Henry Miller, Henry and June Henry Miller.”
“Well, you know. Henry and June is actually based on the writings of Anais Nin, Henry’s lover.”
“Yea, I know. I love Anais Nin, you know A Spy in the House of Love is one of my favorites.”
Where has this woman come from and how could it be? I wondered. So many years have gone by. So many students have come and gone fro my writing workshops and seminars and none seemed as bright as this white skinned, Aryan Jamaican girl who claimed to have lived in London and be a fashion model. Life was always so much stranger than fiction. I tried to hide my enthusiasm. By now the very thought of a quick one night stand with her was replaced with thoughts about three children, a large house in the Hamptons and a dog. But I had to be careful. This one was as clever as she was young. She was as sophisticated as she was tender. I pondered my next move as the train slowly made its way into the station. We both knew that this conversation is to be continued on the train although there was no reason for such assumptions other than the fact that we were both still smiling at one another.
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