In high school Dan and Ben used to skateboard together. When I starting dating Dan we were in college and I was intrigued by his motley group of buddies. They were a group of roughly 9 who would drink Mountain Dew by the case and stay up all night becoming rouge skaters in canvas shoes and trench coats violating cement walls and steps all over the city with their skate boards. They were like brothers and yet easily accepted me into the bunch. If Dan loved me then I must be ok. In college, they no longer skated; instead we would hang out at Ben’s discussing philosophy and politics late into the night with his parents Bob and Barbara. We would drink coffee and wine and playing spades while we discussed the finer points of socialized medicine and talk about our dreams and ambitions until 3 or 4 in the morning. Sometimes around a bonfire and sometimes around the kitchen table, it was empowering to have a debate with someone you regarded as sophisticated and worldly. After all Ben’s parents had marched in the 60s, lived in two different countries, raised two obstinate children and they were talented in art of conversation.
One particular evening of discussion seared our connection forever. We were discussing the worst thing that had ever happened in our lives. I had just left photography class to meet Dan at Ben’s house and had a fresh set of photos of my dear cousin’s grave in my car. So naturally, I told my audience about how I had lost my best friend and cousin, Christine, to a drunk driver. She was only 14 and I miss her every day. I talked about how awful the news was when I had heard it and how I had collapsed on the stairs with the phone in my hand not wanting to believe a word. I was tearing up as I told the story.
Ben’s mother, Barbara, began to tell a similar story about how she and Bob were driving along one night and encountered a lone little girl in the middle street who’d been hit by a car. Barbara had jumped out of the car and sat down on the cement and held the girl in her arms, soothing her and crying while she died. Ben’s Dad went to call for help while cars just drove on by. Then Barbara proceeded to name the exact date and street where my Christine had been killed. The whole room went silent as we both realized it was the same story. We continued to verify details… the name of the lady that hit her, what she was wearing that night, what the paper said about it the next day, and finally her name. We sobbed and hugged while the rest of the company looked at us in disbelief. I can still hardly believe it, but it happened and now I know.
So let me have it folks – I want to hear your “The Universe is Stalking Me” story and I in turn, promise that if the sun comes out tomorrow I will be back posting something short and funny.
