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Willow, After My Favorite Movie


On the rooftop of Whole Foods last night, here in Austin, the Whole Foods marketing team plays a free showing of Amélie.

Not necessarily stone cold sober, but sober nonetheless, I ride my bike there and lock it up outside in the parking lot.

Rarely am I a man with purpose, but tonight I have a vision in mind: walk straight to the beer freezer in the center of Whole Foods, find my Dogfish Head for two bucks, and head up to the rooftop to claim a chair among the gathering of moviegoers.

Everything works out perfectly, that is, until I reach the dregs of my 12-ounce bottle of beer before the movie even begins.

I want another, so I ask the girls behind me to watch my backpack, which I use to save my seat.

“Ok,” they say. They say, “No problem.”

I hurry downstairs so as not to miss the beginning of the movie and beeline to the beer freezer for a second time.

While Dogfish Head tempts me again, I go with a big beer, Steel Reserve, the better to last me through the night.

In the self-checkout lane, the girl asks for my ID. I’m about to show it to her, but I get caught up and instead say, “Do you have a bottle opener?”

My question distracts her from her purpose. She says, “Yea,” and she opens my bottle of beer before I complete my transaction.

“Thanks,” I say.

“No problem,” she says.

“You saved my teeth,” I say, and I bare my grill.

She laughs at my lame joke.

Back on the rooftop, I thank the girls for watching my backpack and sit down with my big beer and watch the opening sequence of Amélie.

This is the first time I see it with a gathering of people. I look at Audrey Tautou when she turns to face the camera as an adult. There she is with that haircut: the girl who skips rocks.

I may or may not notice new details on this viewing, like how the blue bag matches the blue arrows, either way, I leave thirty minutes early. The night is cooling down fast and I don’t have my Mr. Rogers sweater in tow.

I unlock my bike and begin the ride home.

Yes, I am drunk and probably shouldn’t be riding a bike without a helmet at night, especially one with only reflectors, but the thrill of wind nipping at my cheeks is too much to forgo in the name of safety.

When I hit Townlake Trail it is exceedingly dark. Pitch black even. I derail off course and have to brake hard in gravel. I laugh to myself. No one is around. My nostrils drink unsettled dirt.

I turn my bike around and find the trail. The sound of my laughter makes me think I have little to no regard for my well-being, and possibly I don’t. Possibly I’m crazy.

Farther along, streetlights illuminate the way. I cut through a park.

Ahead is a Willow tree.

I want to ride straight through its limp branches, like something romantic.

At night I can’t sense anything that seems substantial inside its willowy spread, so I say, “Fuck it,” and I pedal hard, duck down to become more aerodynamic, and brace myself for a pass-through that will, I’m hoping, inject a dosage of human adrenaline into my bloodstream, make me howl.

The leaves wisp against my ears.

The leaves whip against my face.

The leaves rope around my neck and begin to strangle me.

The leaves lance my upper lip.

The leaves tug at my mole.

The leaves aren’t willowy at all, at least not at this speed.

I feel my bike seat getting away from me. The mess of willowy branches is stubborn. It won’t let go of my throat.

I gag.

When I break through to the other side I immediately touch my lips and see a smidgeon of blood.

“Shit,” I say. I say, “Fuck.”

I douse my face with water from the drinking fountain. I douse my neck with water. I shake my head and spit, amazed at how dangerous I am to myself. This is not something new or shocking to me. This is yet another episode in my life that begs me to wonder how everything is going to end.

The rest of the ride home a few cars pass me, and the drivers stare at what must be a psychotic facial expression.

“It’s just a face,” I say. I say, “Just a face.”

And I pedal home uphill, pedal at an astounding rate. My upper lip swells to twice its size. I hiss through clenched teeth. The skin around my neck is on fire.

When I look at myself in the bathroom mirror, the smile staring back at me sounds like the opening rim shot to Like A Rolling Stone.

November 18, 2012 1:11 am

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