J.C. Geiger

Appropriately, I was fishing when the subject came up. The sun was bleeding out into the water, rippling red and orange against our canoe, signaling the final moments before the Minnesotan mosquito hordes swarmed from the brush to reclaim the lake. I was with my buddy CJ, who habitually launched his most probing, philosophical quandaries with a built-in timer: during last call, the end of a long drive--this time, mosquitoes would end it.

"Tell me about the one that got away," CJ said, breaking the silence.

"I can't fish worth a damn," I grumbled, eyeing the empty bucket. "They all get away."

"No," he said, evoking his most somber tone. "The girl. Tell me about the girl who got away."

"What the hell do you mean?" I asked, buying time. I knew exactly what he meant, and the answer came like a reflex. Tara Stiles. Sitting in the canoe, I conjured her face and mannerisms with a guilty ease, as if she were family or a close friend. Merely by asking the question, CJ had forced me to acknowledge the shrine I'd maintained for her in my mind: photos, posters, even a little marble statuette of Tara in a frozen dance pose.

My discovery of this well-kept shrine was more shameful in contrast to the relative wreckage of my mental memory chest, overflowing with disordered and misrembered events. Entire years were missing: summer vacations, weddings, minor relatives--gone--buried beneath heaps of mundane afternoons and bar talk.

I managed to remember most women in my life, though ex-girlfriends had not been treated kindly in the photo albums of my mind. They were mostly faded or moustached--their unseemly, goateed faces routinely clipped from group photos and my favorite memories. Not Tara. She'd been enshrined. I noted with interest she even had her own album, separate from the others... .

"You know what I'm asking," CJ interrupted, slapping the first mosquito on his arm. "And you don't even have to tell me. I know who it is."

"Then why'd you ask?" I snapped. Acting mortally offended, I retreated into my mind to explore Tara's special album. I marveled at its cover: a generous, heart-framed shot of the two of us kissing in her backyard.

That, specifically, was the moment that never happened.

Opening the book, my breath caught in my chest. This album contained our entire hypothetical future, all resulting from a kiss that never was. There's us together on graduation day. Oh, and me saying goodbye when she left for college. My birthday. Our weekend at the coast. Her folks and mine. The Big Day. I was stunned. I'd done this; I'd authored an entire non-existent future for us, so much cleaner and brighter than the images of my actual memory.

"Tara Stiles!" CJ exclaimed suddenly, casting. Hearing her name shouted aloud shocked me back into the boat. My startled expression made him grin.

"Whatever," I said. Now found out, I eyed the slim red ribbon of light over the lake. Vibrating pockets of mosquitoes hummed above the water like heat over a charcoal grill, and I prayed for the onslaught that would drive us back to shore. The little bastards hovered contentedly where they were, just within earshot.

"You know," CJ said wistfully, "you had your chance that night."

Like in a wounded athlete's flashback, I was suddenly back in the big game--1996. It was a stolen summer night in early October. It smelled like freshly clipped grass, not a cloud in the sky. I was 16 years old and sitting beside Tara in her backyard. The friend who'd arranged for us to meet quietly excused himself.

This part I saw in slow motion: Our arms touched, I felt a nervous young electricity between us as we made eye contact and whispered words I can't remember. A smile dawned slowly on her beautiful face--my invitation. I froze. I froze, and as quickly as the moment came, it went. She looked away. My friend returned, and in that narrow instant, the book of our potential future was authored: the moment Tara Stiles changed from a long-term infatuation into the one who got away.

I felt a sharp pinch on my back, then my forearm. Reeling in, I looked CJ in the eye and loudly slapped at the bugs, hoping he'd get the point.

"You know she's a model now?" CJ asked, apparently undisturbed.

"I heard that," I said, dropping my fishing rod with a clatter into the canoe. The sun had gone, and cottage lights sparked on around the lake's dimming plate of water.

"Yeah," he mused. "Milan. New York City." He raised his eyebrows. "I'm pretty sure she was in a Wendy's commercial."

"Great." I grabbed my paddle and stuck it in the water. CJ reeled in his final cast and made a small clucking sound with his tongue.

"You know... I ran into her a few weeks ago," he said, setting down his rod. "I'm sure she'd like to see you." Rocking the canoe, he reached into his back pocket, withdrew his wallet, plucked out a small piece of folded paper and handed it to me.

"What's this?" I asked, turning it in my hands. It was a girl's handwriting.

"Her number." CJ smirked, turned and started to paddle. I fell into rhythm behind him and we slid quickly across the water, plowing through gathering clouds of insects. It was too risky to open our mouths.

All the way to shore, I was acutely aware of the small paper folded in my pocket. Something about the handwriting and its shape reminded me of something one might find in a scrapbook, like a memento, a token to place at the foot of a marble statuette. But not yet. For the moment, my mosquito-infested August felt almost like a cloudless October night, like Tara's arm touching mine--something just short of a second chance.

(2007-02-06)

Also by J.C. Geiger

Closing Time
Since my twenty-first birthday, I'd always wanted to be a regular: the guy everyone stops mid-drink to greet, seated at the first open table, comped countless beers
(2006-11-14)

The Golden Goose
Since the first night Greg Hall stole a Stroh´s from his father's fridge, he's always wanted more
(2006-05-16)

Singular Sensation
It's unlike anything you've ever seen, heard or tasted before
(2005-05-10)

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