Tuesday morning, Rachel drags me to some rally in front of a construction site. I have no idea what it’s for, but that’s her fault for asking me while she was doing yoga on the floor of her apartment. I’m easily distracted to begin with, but when there’s a beautiful girl contorting two feet in front of me in painted-on workout clothes, it’s amazing I can remember to breathe, let alone know exactly what I’m agreeing to do. Now, on the way to the whatever, I realize her timing probably wasn’t a mistake.
“Thanks again for coming with me. It means a lot.”
She smiles at me from the driver’s seat, then reaches over and rubs my thigh. It’s early, earlier than I’m used to, and a late-night rainstorm has left a lingering overcast sky, painting a gray shadow over everything that whizzes past the plastic windows of her Jeep.
“No problem.”
She gets to the on-ramp, biting her lower lip in concentrated determination as she merges into rush-hour traffic.
“Hey babe, what’s this thing for, again?”
“I told you before. They want to kill this huge oak tree to make room for a parking lot. We’re rallying to save it.”
She emphasizes the word “kill” when she says this--an obvious attempt to inspire outrage. At the seven in the morning, though, it falls flat. The only outrage I feel is at myself for being suckered by an admittedly stunning ass.
“Well, what do you guys hope to gain?”
“What do you mean? We want the tree to stay.”
“What I mean is, what’s the point? It’s just one tree.”
Her jaw drops, and it becomes obvious to both of us that I’m much better at inspiring outrage.
“It’s not just a tree, Brian! It’s a living thing, and it shouldn’t have to die just so some housewife can have a space to park her SUV while she shops for maternity wear! And stop saying ‘you guys.’ You’re a part of this too. See, look, I even made you a sign.”
She reaches back and feels around the empty back seat for a bright yellow poster. Her fingers grip the edge, and she throws it into my lap. Upside-down, in large pink letters, are the words SAVE THE OAK, and, in parenthesis, (TREES BREATHE, TOO). On one side, in colored pencil, is what looks like a green muffin with a brown stump.
“Jesus Christ, Rachel. There is no way in hell I’m holding this.”
She flashes me a look of contempt, causing her to miss our exit.
“Shit!” she yells. “Hold on!” She steers the car across the yellow lines, narrowly missing the guardrail separating the freeway from the off-ramp. Horns blare as she jerks the wheel back the other direction to avoid not one but two cars, and as the tall, narrow Jeep teeters back and forth, and I hold my breath and prepare myself for the ensuing crash to the pavement. Eventually, though, the car balances and comes to a stop on the shoulder. When I look over at Rachel her eyes are closed.
“Next time, I’m driving.”
“It’s your fault, you jackass!”
“My fault? You almost kill us by crossing two lanes of traffic and a median
at 70 miles an hour, and somehow it’s my fault?”
“Yeah, well, if you weren’t so closed-minded, I wouldn’t have missed the exit!”
“Yeah, well, if you weren’t so sexy, I wouldn’t be in the car to begin with.”
She opens her mouth to say something, then closes it again when she realizes what I’ve just said. She stares at me for a moment, then laughs and punches my arm.
“You’re lucky I like you, or you’d be in a neck brace right now.”
No, I’m lucky you can’t tell I’m not kidding.
“Yeah, I guess so. Can we go now, James Dean? We’re blocking part of the ramp.”
She smiles at me, then steers the car back onto the road.
Five miles and ten minutes later, we pull into a parking lot across from the construction site. Yellow signs in hand, we make our way to a fifteen foot oak tree surrounded by a small group of people. I look back at the Jeep wondering how many trees were killed so we could park there, or for that matter, how many trees had to die so we could have something clever to hold over our heads. I consider asking Rachel, but change my mind when I realize I don’t have the energy for another argument I would lose anyway.
When we get to the rally, we’re immediately greeted by a tall, thin man with a full beard, long hair, and flip-flops.
“Sister, brother, welcome.”
“Michael, hi! I didn’t know you’d be here.” Rachel steps forward and hugs him, lingering longer than I was comfortable with. My eyes are trained on his hands, which inch further and further down her back until she pulls away at the last second. “Michael, this is my boyfriend, Brian. Brian, this is Michael. We met in philosophy class last quarter.”
“Of course you did.” I smile and offer him my hand, but he swipes it away.
“We are brothers of the same earth. And brothers do not shake hands. Brothers hug.”
He moves toward me, but I step aside before he gets too close.
“Sorry, but I’m allergic to patchouli oil.”
Rachel jabs me in the side with her elbow, then offers a forced laugh.
“He’s just kidding, Michael.”
“Ah. Well, we’re glad to have your support. Let me introduce you.”
He turns around and claps his hands to get the attention of the others.
“Family, this is Rachel and Brian. They’ve come to help us in our spiritual quest to save this giant being from the horrors of capitalism.”
In unison, the crowd offers a ‘hello.'
“Now, let me show you to your places.”
He lead us to the other side of the tree and tells us to stand wherever feels most natural. When he leaves, I lay my poster on the wet grass and sit on top of it.
“That’s great, Brian. Way to show your support.”
“Rachel, these people are crazy.”
“I know Michael’s a little strange, but he’s a good guy.”
“I’m sure he is, but he’s also fucking crazy. Anyway, he told me to do what feels natural, and I gotta say—I feel at one with mother Earth right here.”
She glares down at me for a moment, then walks away, into the group. I know she wants me to follow her, but I’ve had enough of these people already. She moves in and out of the crowd, making conversation. As I watch her, I catch myself wanting desperately to feel something, anything worth making me stay. As I search for something to cling to, a girl walks up to me and flops down into the grass next to where I’m sitting.
“Here with your girlfriend?”
I pry my eyes of Rachel to look at her. She’s young, probably 18 or 19, with dark brown hair and brilliant blue eyes.
“Yeah, how’d you guess?”
“Well, you’re not wearing sandals, for one.”
I smile for the first time in days.
Who are you?
“How about you?”
“Guilty. That’s my boyfriend.”
She points at a short man with a pony-tail who is talking and waving his hands animatedly, clearly in the midst of an impassioned speech.
“I’m Jennifer.”
“Brian. Shake or hug?”
“Shake. You’re not my brother. I know, because I hate my brother.”
She offers her hand, and I take it. There’s something about her touch that feels warm, genuine.
“Give it time. You’ve only just met me.”
“You don’t believe in hate-at-first-sight, then?”
“I didn’t, but that was before I met Michael.”
She laughs, then nods her head in agreement.
“Yeah, what is his deal, anyway?”
“I dunno. He looks like he was born wearing a hemp poncho and sandals, doesn’t he?”
“Yeah he does.”
We both look at Michael, who is now apparently meditating under the giant oak.
“So, which one’s your girl?”
I search the crowd for Rachel, eventually finding her engaged in conversation with one of the faceless tree-huggers.
“There she is. White Tank, yellow skirt.”
“Wow. Pretty.”
“Yeah. She is.”
“Must drive you crazy.”
“What must?”
“Trying to figure out whether or not you really want to be with her.”
Holy shit.
“Is it that obvious?”
“It was written across your face when I walked up. It's a little pathetic, actually.”
“What, you don’t have trouble discerning love from lust?”
“I don’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ve been in love.”
“And how do you know I haven’t?”
“You wouldn’t be having this problem if you’ve been in love.”
I’m not sure what to say to this. She’s right, of course. But that doesn’t make it easier to deal with.
“Well, what do you think I should do?”
“Don’t have the answer to that one. You don’t have to love someone to be with them. They just have to be worth it.”
“Well what about you? Are you in love?”
“No,” she says, standing up. She offers me a hand, and I take it, standing to face her. She leans in and kisses my cheek, then pulls away. “But he’s worth it.”
“Who was that girl you were talking to?”
Back in the car, Rachel eyes me suspiciously, this time from the passenger seat.
“No one, just some girl.”
“What was her name.”
“Jennifer, why?”
“No reason.”
She rolls down the window and lets her feet hang over the side-view mirror. A few moments pass, and I focus on the road, trying to decide what to say.
“Do you love me?”
The words cut through the cool autumn air like a knife. I look over at her, stunned. Not at the words themselves, but at the fact that they came from her mouth and not mine. She looks back at me, her eyes glistening, the color draining from her face.
No.
"Yes."
