Rita

Not Rita

I leave the hotel room slamming the door in a reverberated thud. I am leaving. I am getting away. I am being like Mark and going AWOL throwing myself into the orchestral sway of traffic outside the hotel.

 I am leaving.

I am outta here.

I share the elevator with four Young Columbus’ I have not met presumably from Bus #3 thinking that it is impossible to meet everyone on this trip in such a finite frame of time. There are two girls I vaguely know from Greta and Tamera’s group. The furthest I have traveled without the aegis of the Big Ten in London was yesterday when Harmony and I skirted the contours of the hotel. As I get off the elevator I see Liz Madigan. For some reason she has been addressing me as Hair. When we are not touring there is always at least 10-15 mainly older kids lolling around the contours of the lobby.

Liz smiles. I remember how she gave Heather a hug yesterday morning at breakfast when I snapped at the Polite Boy from Alabama for not realizing that what the United States did at Waco constituted tyranny. I like Liz. She is middle-age and sexy. I can’t imagine what her apartment must look like in New York.

“Having a good day young man?”

I smile back. I dig how the chief coordinator of this voyage addresses me as Young man. I like how she told me that I look like that dude off of Blossom when we were attending the display of traditional British dancing in Stratford.

 I tell Liz Madigan yes. Again, as if perfunctory every time I see Liz or any of the conductors of this trip I jut out my right hand and shake it.

“We just got back from Harrods. I really enjoyed browsing through all the culinary finest.  It was grandiose. I mean, it felt like I was in a higher tax bracket just walking throughout the store.”

Liz smiles she then tilts her head confused.  I wonder if it is something that I said. I continue to speak, giving her a synopsis of my day.

“I also really enjoyed St. Pauls. I mean, this is crazy but when I was on the top of St. Pauls, the absolute pinnacle there was this really old British man who looked like Clark Kent’s father or something. Anyway, I told him how much I admired the view and he smiled and we got to talking and it tuned out that he went to college in my hometown.”

Liz is smiling. She is still holding my hand as if it is a gas pump and she is trying to kink out a final squeeze. She is shaking it up and down longer than should be the normal allocated frame of time.

Liz pauses. She looks at me with a befuddled staunch sunken in her lips.

“What about the interview?”

I am confused.

“Did you enjoy meeting British teens with Lynn Minton?”

Liz states that only the crème-de la crème of Young Columbusians were asked to participate in the Q & A s. 

She adds that she is sure that I had quite a bit to contribute since she always finds our conversations quite insightful.

I am shocked. As if dealing with Jennifer Flood wasn’t bad enough. It is like she is sprinkling flecks of iodized salt in whatever blood is left in my chest.

Liz Madigan tilts her head again. For a minute I think that maybe there was a snafu. That maybe Harmony meant to tell me the time and then forgot. I think about Jennifer Flood going off against me on the phone.  I think about how she called me Harry then that dude off of Blossom then informed me that I never really knew the time signature of my name.

“Why did you miss the interview with Lynn Minton?”

“Oh, I mean, I wasn’t invited?”

Liz Madigan tilts her head. Her lips looks like an errant piece of a jigsaw puzzle. I need to change the conversation.

“It’s okay though, I mean. I really enjoyed St. Paul’s and I really enjoyed Harrods. I just wouldn’t have missed 

St. Pauls or Harrods for anything.”

Liz is smiling at me. She is headed into the doors where we congregate daily for either lunch or dinner. She is waltzing through the doors where the talent show was held last night. Surely Liz got confused. Surely Harmony would have asked me to participate. I am still seething over Jennifer Flood’s tirade. I am still pissed that I never feel that I a good enough to fit into any social enclave.

I really wish Mark in his crazy shorts was somehow around.

I wonder why Harmony didn’t extend the invitation.

I wonder if she is embarrassed to be seen next to me.

As I walk past the Gift store I see Baker, yet again inside purchasing legal British porn.

“I thought you already bought all of them.”

I tell him that I thought Trevor and Sir Charles made him take down all the smut off  he was using as wall paper down off his hotel room walls.

Jim asks me why the hell do I care. I tell him that I don’t.

“I’m buying souvenirs, nutbrain.  You won’t believe how much I can get for these on the Junior high market back home.”

He asks me where do I think I am going. I ignore him. I wonder how Mark snuck out when he went to Sloane Square. I wonder if he went out a side door or casually stepped off when his group got off the bus when the bus dropped everyone off at the porte cochere. I am out of here. After last night Jennifer Flood still has to fuck with me.

The nearest tube station is four blocks away.

I have no clue how to take the subway. I just want to be alone.

I wonder if I was on the list and Harmony thought that it would constitute some errant form of nepotism if she invited me.

Perhaps Harmony just didn’t care.

In the lobby I see the bald headed concierge who handed Vinny his envelope yesterday morning behind the desk ringing up a bevy of oriental tourists. There seems to be a paucity of red coats. I can see Justin telling the Big Ten that I went AWOL. I am twenty feet from the shushing wisp of the automatic doors.  I am twenty feel from autonomy and freedom.  Ahead of me the automatic doors appear to be biting. I think about Baker and Dimas stealing a bottle of port and about being nonchalant. If anyone asks me where I am going I take a hard-military right and march into the direction of the Bus, stating that I left my glasses on the bus. I am out of here. I am experiencing the inner-city breath of London on my own without Nat Pflederer always making me feel like shit. 

Without Harmony making me feel like I am somehow never good enough.

I am leaving.

. Even with my glasses doffed as I can see my reflection surfing into view. Finally I am going to experience London sans the BIG TEN. Sans Jim Baker. Finally I am going to experience London on my own. I have enough pounds for a pair of Doc Marten’s.

I am leaving.

I am being like Mark.

I am feeling that I am independent.

I am ditching this bitch. The moment I am walking out there is a voice

I am leaving. I am watching the translucent outline of my body swallowed into the opening door when behind me there is a glint of light followed by what sounds like the dulcet echo of an angel.

She is wearing a black dress that is to kill. She is by herself. She looks alone.

“Hey!!!”

                                                                   

It is Rita.

It is her.  Rita who hails from Kenosha Wisconsin. Rita who is more brilliant than Harmony. Rita who has lavishing black hair and a forehead that looks like pristine snow on a Holiday postcard.

 We always seems to have sutured conversations. We always just seem to somehow just miss each other. Now when I least expect it, it is her. It is Rita. 

We are all alone.

Her dress is so hot someone could light a cigarette off it.

Rita, I say her name slowly.

Rita whom I met in the hallway at the Moat House when I was looking for Harmony. Rita who every time we hang out we seem to get rather fortuitously interrupted.  Rita who was smiling the night when I asked for her phone number at the George and then I stood her up because one of the members of the BIG TEN jumped on my back and pummeled me to death coercing me to lose the paper on which her digits were scrawled.

I respond back simply by stating hey. I respond back by smiling.  Almost as if by magnetism I am being reeled in her direction. I am reeled in by the wheel of her smile. I want to say something poetic. I want to evince the time signature of my chest I want to apologize for losing her number the night I was sanctioned to call.

Rita doesn’t appear irked in the slightest. She is seated on the couch next to the statue of the gilded 

stag. Light ricochets in a scattered rosary bead of ovals. Light is hitting the antlers on the top of the gilded stag forming orbs, forming a tiara above Rita’s head.

“You look really nice.”

Rita smiles back

“The last time I saw you you were on stage and had cosmetics splattered across your body.” I say, alluding to her award winning skit from the night before.

Rita smiles.

I tell her that she cleans up well. Rita smiles again.

She looks down. She is blushing.

“It’s our last night here in England so I decided to get dressed up.”

Rita is ravishing.

“ I mean, you look amazing .I wish I had a  star so I could put you on top of the Christmas tree of your forehead You look like an angel.”

Rita smiles. It is the first time she has really smiled at me since she gave me her number three nights and another world ago.

                                                                                            

               not Rita (ibid)

I romantically iterate to Rita that she looks amazing again and then I tell her that she always looks amazing but that she especially looks amazing. The only person I have seen get dressed up like this was Wendy Cummings on the Thames.

“Is this the dress you bought at Harrods today?

Rita looks at me with her lips half-jilted.

“I mean I saw you were in Harrod’s and that you were holding out a dress.

“I saw you. I mean, saw you from a distance.”

I begin to tell Rita how I was being commandeered by both Longhorn and Dimas in an effort so that they could filch a bottle of Port only I refrain. Rita tells me that she already had this dress.

That she brought this dress from home.

“I wore it to the Sadie Hawkins day dance. “

I have no clue who Sadie Hawkins is. I wonder if Sadie Hawkins is like Guy Fawkes who blows everything up.

I ask her what she is doing down here alone. She tells me that she is waiting to meet someone.

She doesn’t specify the gender.

Before I can inquire further she asks me why I am down here alone.

“I’m actually planning on sneaking out.”

She looks at me as if I am confused.

“Yeah, you know my friend Mark, the one who is really cool in the older group. He snuck out yesterday and bought this sweet-ass pair of Doc Martens.”

Rita is smiling.  

I can’t stop looking at Rita. I can’t stop telling her just how pure riveting she looks.

“Yeah, I just got sick of everything upstairs. My group is crazy—“

I stop I say hey. She smiles. I tell her that she really looks nice again,

“So you’re going AWOL?”

“What?”

“You are ditching the group. You are leaving the niceties of the group to spelunker around London independently…”

Several of the older members of Bus #4 strut through the lobby headed for the dining area for reasons I can’t even fathom. From what I was able to glean from Harmony I was under the impression that everyone was meeting with the British youth in the dining area.

I look at Rita. Because the manner in which the light is flouncing off the Gilded Stag it looks like she is hula-hooped in a halo of light.  I am talking with Rita when it happens. I realize that I am happy. I realize that I can’t help but smile every time I am around her. That I am lost in the dome stage of her forehead.  

She is smiling. She is flirting. She is being coquettish. She is laughing. She is bathing in my verbal adulation.

“Hey, I know this sounds crazy but why don’t you come with me?”

Rita blushes and looks down. She asks me where I am going. I tell her I don’t know.

“Mark mentioned something about taking the subway to Sloane Square so I venture that’s where I will go. It could be just the two of us. You already look radiating. We could just bash around London for a couple hours independently and then I promise you that we’ll be back in time for the medieval banquet. I promise no one will find out about us. I promise, let’s just go.”

Rita is smiling She laughs.  Suddenly there is no Harmony. Suddenly there is no feeling of ever feeling good enough, of being in a lower group, of not feeling smart enough, of not knowing what to do when Jennifer flood makes a sexual witticism taxed at my expense.

Suddenly there is only Rita.

“What about that one girl?” She suggests. I ask who.

“I always see you with that one girl with the really poetic fragrant name. Ebony?”

I tell her that her name is Harmony. Rita says yeah. It is an awkward conversation. I don’t want to talk about the creature I have purportedly pledged the narrative of my trip to in front of Rita.

“You guys are always together.” Rita says.  Rita asks the always awkward query of what are you guys like boyfriend and girlfriend or something?"

I tell her no. I tell her that I am not exactly sure what we are. Rita asks if don’t I think my girlfriend will get like envious if we sneak out together and hit the town. I say good. She smiles.

For the first time during our conversation I wonder who she is waiting for.

“So, if  I were to sneak out with you, where would you take me?”

“I don’t know. Heaven.” She is still smiling. I am lost at the light ricocheting off the golden stag in the center of the room.  I am trying to be witty. I am trying to be romantic. I ask her if it is too late to perhaps charter a plane to Paris.

Rita smiles again. There is Michael Bolton musak emanating in the lobby.

“The thing is, we don’t have much time. I mean, if we have to go we have to go like now. If we want to experience London independently we have to like motor.

There is a pause. Rita looks down and smile. There is the sound of the elevator blinging open accompanied by British voices at the check in desk.

 “I don’t know, I mean, every time I think we have a chance to hang out something happens. I mean. I was hoping you would call me that night. I was really disappointed when you didn’t call.”

I want to say yeah. I want to say that I wasn’t wearing my glasses and had your digits in my pocket when Jim Baker decided to piggy back on my spine. I want to tell her how elated I was when I asked if I could call her the night at the George.

Rita pauses for a second. She looks down.

“I would love to but, I am waiting for someone.”

I say yeah. I can’t stop looking at the hue in which the light touches the side of Rita’s face.

“Look, I’m sorry. I mean it’s complicated. It really is. The truth is, somehow after we left dinner that night a member of my tribe pummeled me on my back. I had my glasses in my pocket and your number as well.  I mean, the slip of paper that you write it on just dissipated and baby, I was beyond devastated. I was despondent. I actually tried to go outside that night thinking that I dropped it near the buses only I couldn’t find it. It just depleted me. “

Rita looks at me. She looks like an angel adorned inside Madmae Tussuads. Her face has a concentrated look.

“I mean I was devastated. Really I was. I really wanted to hang out with you on the phone that night.”

There is another pause. The doors to the dining room area open. I see Sheila’s waterfall spume of tresses walking next to Greta, who always has a smile on her face.  There are several kids who are older wearing ties. I see Ginny who I got into an argument with the other morning.

I see Wendy Cummings who inexplicable knows my last name as if she has already read a book about my genealogy.

I am trying not to look for Harmony. Several of the Boys from Bus four who were invited to participate in the lecture are wearing khakis and ties.  My glasses are off. I wonder if Harmony is walking next to that guy that Chris said was flirting with her earlier in the day. In a way I want Harmony to see me with Rita.

 In a way I want to make her envious.

In a way I want to show Harmony that I have merit.

 “I waited by the phone the whole night. I mean, I had the phone in the bed with me and then I fell asleep.

I was really hoping you would call.

I look around again. Even with my glasses doffed and cached in my side pocket I can make out Lynn Minton and Liz Madigan exit the front doors with the lights off, appearing to be the last to leave.

I still don’t see Harmony.

A quick glance around the lobby shows that all the Young Columbuses are pressing numerical digits outside the elevators milling. This is my chance to sneak out. This is my chance to leave.

“So, whaddya say. Just the two of us. Just a brief jaunt around London. We’re not far from Hyde Park. We can easily walk though Hyde park and be back in less than an hour before anyone realizing that we are gone.”

Rita blushes again.  She looks down. She has the whitest fair-forehead I have ever seen. It looks like medieval parchment awaiting an indelible strokes of a sonnet.   I try not to think how I have let her down time and time again. I try not picture her waiting by the phone the night I garnered her number and said I would call.

Her lips are the shape of an Olive. It looks like she is going to say the word okay. She blinks. She tilts her head. She then points.

There is a slight scuffle in the lobby.

I am making motions with Rita to come ‘on. Rita is paying with one strand of her hair.

Rita says look at that girl over there. It’s like she’s trying to be incognito. 

A skinny waif is pushing an oversized suitcase with both hands. She is swearing thick sunglasses. She has a scarf wrapped over her head. It is comically incognito.  She is wearing a cream-colored trench coat tightly wrapped around the tip-rail of her anemic waist.

When she looks in our direction she immediately swivels her head as if she is trying not to be noticed.

Rita says that that girl looks familiar.

I can’t see her hair. She has almost albino white forehead. In a way she looks familiar. Rita says that she looks kind of like a sufi.

She is lugging her suitcase headed for the shushing door.  She looks back several times and then walks out.

Then it hits me.

“Wait. I know that girl. It’s Daisy!!!”

Without asking her permission I grasp Rita’s hand. We walk out of the aureole of afternoon light hitting the top of the gilded stag. It feels different having Rita’s hand in mine. 

It is gentle.

A prayer.

We rise up as one and head towards the window next to the doors. I  can see Daisy’s makeshift Hajib. Daisy is crossing the road. She is lugging her suitcase.Something is going on. Daisy is acting like she doesn’t want anyone to see her. 



Rita says the word Daisy as if she is identifying a botanical specimen.

“ Yeah Daisy.  She’s on my bus.The Big Ten have been literally tormenting her this entire trip. I mean, they have this thing on our bus called the Daisy Train where they just berate her incessantly for no reason.  She was really sad after we left Harrod’s. I mean she was like crying on the bus ride home. “

I turn to Rita. I am still holding her hand. We are looking out the window with an awed expression sewed into our lips as if watching a fireworks.

“I think she’s going.”

I repeat the word going. Rita says no.

“I mean, I think she’s jetting. I think she is running away.”

I stop for a second. In the window I can see my reflection still holding Rita’s hand.

I am holding the hand of a beautiful dark-haired girl in a sexy dress who is brilliant and lives only four hours away.

Rita points with her hand.

“Look, she’s a block away. She’s like really moving.”

Rita asks me do you think she should notify her counselor. I think about poor Simone.

Somehow I know what I need to do.

“No. It’s all good. Let me go after her. She’s probably just irked and needs some fresh air.

Rita notes again about the suitcase. I say yeah.

"Let e talk to her real quick. I can run after her. See what's going on."

Let me talk to Daisy. She’s only in 8^th grade. If she is in fact running away the trip is literally gonna be on pause until she is found. I mean, she’s from rural Michigan. She’s not city smarts at all.”

Rita has a concerned look on her face. She asks me if she sure that she shouldn’t contact Liz Madigan. I tell her no.

“Let me just run after her I can stop her. Just promise me one thing. I want to keep talking with you. Promise me that when I return you’ll be seated on the couch next to the golden stag and we can continue our conversation where we left off.”

Rita smiles. Her eyes seem to be giving me a look insinuating that every time we have a few culled seconds together something like this happens.

"Just wait here. I can't imagine what would happen for the Young Columbus program as a whole if it were to be reported that a 13 year old girl ran away."

There is a pause. I am still holding Rita's hand. Our reflection appears to be winking at us. Outside traffic hushes past in droves. 

“Okay.” Rita says again.

Her voice dulcet and smooth.

I tell Rita kay. 

Without thinking I kiss the top of her forehead.

.

As I rush out the front entrance of the hotel Gloucester into the mouth of metropolitan London it feels like she is still squeezing my hand.