Part 8 (1/2)

My phone buzzed-an instant message. I rarely checked my phone when we were together but did this time. It was from Brian: Vicki and I love Jessie!

I showed it to her. ”Can I reply?” she asked.

”Of course.”

I opened the keypad for her.

”Thank you,” she wrote. ”I really like you and Vicki, too.” She inserted a smiley face at the end.

After the meal, I paid the check and she excused herself to the restroom. While she was away, I said h.e.l.lo to the older couple. The woman said, ”Your girlfriend is beautiful. Just gorgeous.”

My smile stood on its ends. ”Thank you. She's as beautiful on the inside as she is on the out.”

Jessie reappeared and took my hand. We said goodbye to the couple and walked the few blocks to the car. ”What were you all talking about?” she asked.

”She told me my girlfriend was gorgeous.”

”Oh, really? What did you say?”

”I said, 'Yeah, she's pretty hot.'”

”No, you didn't. What did you really say?”

”That you are lovely on the inside and out.”

She leaned over and gave me a kiss. ”That's for your answer.”

We decided to drive downtown to MOMA, The Museum of Modern Art. Upon arriving, we learned the museum was under construction and only one of its wings was open. However, admission was free as a result. We saw every exhibit we could, saving the photography exhibit for last. We separated briefly when we entered, though she soon called me over.

”Look. It's your hometown.”

”What?”

A quick aside: the population of my hometown is 18,000. It was 18,000 when I was growing up and it's 18,000 today. It's never been in the news, save for shootings or crooked politicians, and has never seen any great art come from it.

”Are you sure?” I asked.

”It says, 'Dyersburg, Tennessee.'”

It was no mistake. I'd recognize the barren landscape, the stripped branches of kudzu trees anywhere. Two-thousand miles away in a modern art museum was a picture of a cotton field in my hometown. The world can seem a shrunken place at times.

Leaving the museum, we ordered fruit drinks from the outside deli and sat under a portico to rest. We needed to be at Jason's by 6:00 but had a couple hours to kill. As it was raining heavily, we decided to go back to my place and do a crossword puzzle.

She revealed she hadn't slept well the first night there, disturbed by the movie we'd seen. I'd been thinking about it, too, and realized why it affected me. I don't mind dark subject matter. I often gravitate toward it. The book I was finis.h.i.+ng was about a serial killer on a final murder spree, which should bear testimony to the fact. But even when writing a dark, somewhat troubling story about a killer, I tried to interject hope into the pages, no matter how slight. It's one thing to look at the world in all its ugliness and gripe about it. But what purpose does that serve? Anyone with breath and a brain can see what a broken and fallen world ours is. There's a movement I see in art that wants to be dark and edgy but has nothing to say, no optimism toward which to point. Though the goal of an artist may be to point a mirror at the world-with all its folly and handicaps-it should also be to inspire. Fatalism leaves weary those longing for hope. That was my problem with the movie. Jessie's, as well. We were of the same mind in that regard.

We spent the next hour working the puzzle and left for Jason's.

I moved to Seattle in June of 1995. I didn't know anyone. I had two goals: to sing in a rock band and become involved in high school ministry. At the time, I was undergoing a spiritual awakening, conversion or whatever one wants to call it. I'd grown up in the church but it never meant anything. The only G.o.d I saw being wors.h.i.+pped was a back-pocket G.o.d, one called upon in times of emergency. I wasn't interested in that G.o.d. I went to college and fell off the deep end, transferring in and out of different schools, angry and proud. After graduation, I traveled around the country for several months with everything I owned packed into my Celica, reading too much Kerouac, visiting friends from high school and college. It was during that time I finally came to understand what the Gospel meant.

I drove into Seattle fueled by excitement and faith, going wherever my desire took me, knowing I was walking with G.o.d now, that He was taking care of me and doing something miraculous in my life. After three weeks in town, I'd already interviewed and signed on to be a Young Life leader at Roosevelt High School (The Roughriders). My mother started Young Life in my hometown when I was young, and I'd been active in it during high school. I wanted to be an encouragement to the kids at Roosevelt.

The second part-the band. I'd never sung before. Didn't know how to, really. I'd started writing songs a year before and had written lyrics and poetry for as long as I could remember. What I lacked in talent I made up for in confidence and enthusiasm. I answered an ad posted in The Rocket, Seattle's weekly music newspaper. Some guy was looking for a Christian singer to play in a band. He listed U2, Smas.h.i.+ng Pumpkins and The Posies as his influences. Was he kidding? Those were three of my favorite bands. I'd spent high school trying to dress and grow my hair like Bono's. I think that's why the princ.i.p.als couldn't stand me.

I called him from my hotel room. I had decided to go by a stage name and decided on the name ”Micah.” I thought it unique, and also I wouldn't have to completely abandon my given Christian name. However, I had no experience with stage names. Did I introduce myself by my stage name upon first meeting, or did I work it in slowly? If I told him my name was Michael, was I allowed to change it to a cooler stage name later?

”My name is Micah,” I told the voice on the other end.

It only got worse from there. I told him I had sung in bands during college. I figured if I told him I had no singing experience he'd never want to meet me.

I expected him to grill me over the number of shows I had played, whether or not I could play guitar, or what was my vocal training. But it seemed secondary to this guy. He asked mostly about my faith, that's what I remember the most. He wanted to know where I stood on the issue of G.o.d, and with that I didn't have a reason to make up silly names or anecdotes. It was the pa.s.sion of my life, the driving force within me. I could talk about it all the time and with anyone. I bled to talk about my faith and told the guy on the phone, Jason whatever-his-last-name-was, everything related to the last few months of my life. The Screwtape Letters, seedy hotels, traveling the country.

He wanted to meet me.

I agreed, and we set a time.

A foreign city: I'd come to its door without a plan or a friend. Within a month and a half, I'd signed on to be a Young Life leader and was the singer in a rock band. G.o.d's hand was wrapped around the details in those days. Probably in every day, I just hadn't been looking.

I was slightly nervous about Jessie meeting Jason's family. With me, this is what you get. You get my friends. And these are my oldest and dearest friends, whose kids own a large chunk of my affection. I wanted them to like her and for her to feel the same way about them, which is why I was somewhat glum to notice Abby being shy. Eli, as well. Abby gets that way around strangers. She warms up once she feels a certain amount of familiarity, but it sometimes takes a while. Eli is more social, however. I didn't expect him to be hiding in his room playing video games.

”What are you doing, buddy?” I asked. ”I want you to talk to my friend Jessie.”

”I'm in the middle of a game.”

”Will you come out and talk to us when you're done?”

”I guess.”

Jason's sister and her family live near San Jose, so there was common ground on which to talk, but soon everyone felt comfortable enough. Jason cooked tri-tip and roasted garlic, while Sherrill told stories of me wearing vinyl pants and long hair. Jason threatened to bring out a demo tape we recorded ages ago. (My voice was grossly out of tune for every song.) I threatened revenge if he did. Soon, the kids warmed up to Jessie. She won Abby over immediately when she asked if she could draw in crayons with her. Soon, Bella was fighting for her interest and Jessie was the center of the kids' attention. I smiled.

After the meal, Jason and Sherrill got the kids ready for bed. I helped brush their teeth (Bella was in Jessie's lap by this point). I asked if we could put Abby to bed, and Jessie and I followed her to the room. She climbed to the top bunk and picked out a book for Jessie to read. ”Click, Clack, Moo: Cows That Type.” Jessie stood beside her and read, while I sat on the top bunk with Abby. I'm sure we both enjoyed hearing her moos. After she finished, I came down and prayed for Abby.

”Thank you, Jesus, for Abby, my best friend in the whole world. Please help her in school tomorrow. Let her have a fun day. Thank you for Eli and Bella and their mom and dad. We love you, G.o.d. Amen.”

I dimmed the lights, took Jessie's hand and returned to the living room. The four of us talked quietly for another hour, but it was getting late (at least for them) and we said our goodbyes. Sherrill gave Jessie a hug. ”It's great to finally meet you,” she said. Jessie thanked them for a wonderful evening and we left.

Culver City is one of the few neighborhoods in Los Angeles where a parent can feel comfortable raising a family. There's more of a small town feel to it: quiet streets and several parks. There was one nearby and we walked there. For a moment, it felt like we'd left Los Angeles, or perhaps escaped to its calmer, more domesticated twin city.

”Were you nervous?” I asked.

”A lot. I know how much they mean to you. I wanted them to like me.”

I've always heard it's not the destination that's important, but the journey. It sounds trite, hearing it so many times, but cliches often have foundations in truth. It's not the park I remember. It's the slow walk getting there.

That Tuesday, it was still raining. We'd long since sc.r.a.pped the Ferris wheel idea; there's only so much one can do given inclement weather and higher-ranked priorities. Perhaps another time. I left work early, picked up Jessie and drove downtown to meet Sonia at a deli near her office. The meal was nice; it was good to catch up. I didn't want Sonia to walk back in the rain and gave her a ride to the office. Checklist complete.

With the strict security at LAX, I knew there would be no long goodbyes. I kissed her and told her I'd miss her. She said the same. I pulled away from the terminal. Halfway around the airport, I noticed she'd left her sungla.s.ses on the seat. I called and told her I'd found something she might miss, and said I would bring them to her. I pulled to the curb, hopped out of the car and hugged her again-gla.s.ses in hand, of course.