The Janitor

By: Stamatis Kakleas

“Sweeping floors isn’t rocket science” he thought, as he flipped through job postings in his local newspaper. It was an advertisement was for a full-time position as a janitor at well-known museum in New York City near central park. He was in his early twenties and hadn’t made the best decisions through his life; it was time to get his act together. Growing up he didn’t have that source of inspiration like others seemed to have in their everyday lives. It didn’t necessarily bother him, but without anything to motivate him, he didn’t have that essential “need” to move forward – he wasn’t driven. He’d always dreamt of finding something that inspired him; but for now he just needed a paying job. “Seems legit” he said to himself; so he called to inquire about the position. After the manager of the museum told him more about the role he decided he would give it a try. He was a “clean freak” and a bit of a perfectionist, so keeping a museum clean would practically be second nature to him. “See you tomorrow.” said the manager of the museum to him and he hung up the phone. He paused to contemplate for a moment if this was a good decision. He was applying to be a janitor after all, not the kind of work you would brag about to all your friends and family.

He headed to the museum for his first day. He was nervous when he walked through the main corridor; the museum was flooded with beautiful works of art but he paid little attention to them. The artwork was of no interest to him, he never understood why people would pay outrageous sums of money for paintings; there was “nothing really special about them anyway” he thought. He admired the hard work and talent required to produce a piece of art but he was there to clean, not to observe artwork. In his opinion, it was the patrons of the museum that were the people paying to be there, not the employees.

His first day was just a basic introduction to the museum’s policies and processes and he simply shadowed one of the other janitors during their shift. He was anxious to get started but they didn’t let him get his hands dirty immediately. After two or three days of hands-on training, he was ready to go. Within a few weeks, the person who trained him had left and by his third month he was one of the few janitors left. Without enough time to season properly, he had to assume more shifts and more responsibilities. Even though he hadn’t been there for long and the museum was still somewhat of a maze to him, he tended to his duties immaculately. There wasn’t a speck of dust, fingerprint, or stray piece of garbage to be found anywhere in the museum. A true perfectionist and master in the art of cleaning. He took much pride in his work. All the showcases were always remarkably clear, the floors flawlessly swept, and a single grain never in sight. He was an artist in his very own way.

His art was never admired in the same manner that all of the other works of art were in the museum. Ironically, his “artwork” affected each piece of art in the museum yet he never received any of the glory for it. The museum’s visitors weren’t aware of the fact that without him all the exhibits wouldn’t have been nearly as elegant or appealing as they were without his daily work. He was their caretaker; it was his job to make sure they were in pristine condition and nothing could pose as a potential distraction to the passing observers of these exhibits.

After a few months, the museum finally became a place he liked to call home. The layout of the museum was as familiar as the back of his hand; he could make his way through it backwards and blindfolded. He knew which areas accumulated the most waste, which exhibits collected the most fingerprints, and where to go if he needed a moment to himself. His managers thanked him for his work from time to time, his coworkers felt more like friends than colleagues, and he enjoyed watching all of the spectators that visited the museum on a daily basis. Even though working at the museum was interesting, something was still missing. He pursued perfection in his work but never quite found it; as if there was a void inside him that needed to be filled. Each day he worked harder, hoping someone would notice, but eventually even the compliments of his colleagues and superiors weren’t enough. He was seeking something “more”, something that even he had no understanding or insight as to what it was. He had been working hard, maybe over-working himself, he thought, so he decided to take a short vacation from work and venture to warmer weather. He was starting to feel bored and a week or two of time off would potentially “recharge his batteries”.

Upon his return to the museum, he noticed that they had changed a few of the exhibits around and things weren’t quite where he had left them. As he walked through the halls he felt a sense of excitement fall over him. It was like an adventure, he felt like he was in a different museum all together. He knew all the exhibits were the same but he looked at them just a little bit differently. He made sure to notice little details he hadn’t before; changing the sequence with which he observed the paintings. Then it happened; he felt it like a rush of new blood shooting straight through his veins. From the moment he turned his head he found himself staring motionless at a painting, tingling with an unfamiliar sensation. He was completely captured by its beauty, mesmerized by its elegance, and frozen in disbelief by its sheer existence. He didn’t know how to react; all he was able do was stare and wonder how this whole time he could’ve missed such a beautiful work of art. It was right under his nose the whole time yet he was oblivious to it until this very moment. He almost felt disappointed that he hadn’t noticed before; it seemed to lift him off of his feet. He couldn’t believe how a painting could make him feel this way. Time froze and his body was in a temporary state of paralysis, he couldn’t blink, he couldn’t speak; he couldn’t even compose a single logical thought. The only thing he could feel at that very instant was the sensation that this work of art brought upon him. A blanket of euphoria had been pulled over him. He felt relieved, he felt motivated, and for the first time in a long time….he felt alive. The dwindling fire within him had just been reignited by this painting. He couldn’t explain it, he couldn’t put it in words, he could only embrace the feeling that it gave him.

“Pretty isn’t she” whispered a co-worker who crept up behind him; snapping him out of his trance. He blushed immediately, turning red like a plum tomato. “Just pretty?” he thought to himself. He felt slightly insulted by the person’s comment but could not say anything because he knew it was of good and harmless intent. So he replied with a simple “yes” and his co-worker moved on with his daily routine. “You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen” he whispered to himself. It was a painting of a woman resting her head on a window pane. He could only see the vague reflection of her eyes as she stared outward, but even though she was looking out the window, he felt like her reflection was looking directly at him. He quickly approached the painting to read its description.

Untitled.
Artist: Unknown
Origin: Unknown

That was all there was on the painting’s information panel. It was a mystery and for the rest of the day he couldn’t take his mind off it. He couldn’t believe how much beauty could exist in such a simple object. He let the thoughts of this painting stir through him for the rest of the day; embracing every emotion it made him feel. From the moment his eyes connected with it, work was never the same again.

He began arriving to the museum thirty minutes earlier than required just so that he could spend some time to reflect upon the panting in the mornings before any one else arrived. It intrigued him and he couldn’t understand why he felt so attracted to it. It seemed to absorb his gaze, occupy his every thought, and affect his imagination in ways he never thought possible. Even when he wasn’t standing in front of it he would think about it. It gave him a feeling of purpose; it motivated him. Without incentive he worked harder, without request he did more, without even noticing he was becoming a better man.

Each day he spent at the museum he developed a deeper connection with this painting. He would become disappointed in people who failed to acknowledge its beauty, as if they were insulting him. When spectators stood in front of it he felt as if he was the artist himself and they were admiring his work. If anyone came close to touching it he would shout at them or get angry at the disregard people had for the museum’s rules. He felt like it was his obligation to protect it, as if he was its newfound guardian. He felt a sense of belonging when he was in front of it, just standing and staring. Something was missing though, because whenever he approached it, even if he was alone, he felt separated from it. Standing only inches away, he would look down and see nothing but a thin cable on the floor marking the virtual barrier in between him and his painting. There was nothing stopping him, he could have easily brushed the canvas with his fingers to feel the grain and texture of the paint, he could’ve even kissed it if he wanted to, but he knew not to. He knew that the line on the ground meant that touching the painting was not allowed; so he refrained. Even though he admired the painting’s beauty, he knew he had to obey the museum’s rules and that he was forbidden from touching it.

As the weeks rolled on, the museum became so crowded that he didn’t have many opportunities, other than his mornings, to sit with the painting. He wanted to stare at it alone but he couldn’t; his work and the crowds occupied the time he could have spent with it. He wanted more than just a morning; he wanted as much time as possible. It had made all of the other works of art in the museum obsolete, as if it had drained them of their beauty and kept it for itself. All the other paintings were simply colors, layered on a canvas, while this painting, this simple oil-on-canvas, was an essence of his being.

He eventually realized his increasing need to see the painting and had to plot a way to find more time to spend with it. One day, during his break, he overheard a few colleagues talking about how management was in desperate need for someone to take the night shift. They needed someone to wax the floors because the current guy wasn’t doing a good enough job. He became filled with excitement at the thought except there was one problem; he had never waxed a floor before in his life. He wasn’t going to let that stop him though, so he went to his manager to inquire about the night shift.

“Have you ever even waxed a floor before” asked his manager with a slightly condescending laugh. Being the honest person he was he admittedly said “No, but if you give me three days I’ll wax floors better than anyone you’ve ever seen.” Astonished by the janitor’s proposition and curious to see if he was bluffing, the manager decided to give him three days off of work to fulfill his promise; effective immediately. The janitor smiled and walked away. Before he exited the museum he made one final stop to the painting to say his temporary farewell.

For three days he did all the research he possibly could on waxing floors, he never thought it could be such a science. He would sit in his apartment and work through the motions of handling the floor buffer using his laundry hamper and a computer chair. Occasionally he would stop and stare at an empty space on his wall, wishing that the painting was there. He knew that it was impossible for him to ever have the painting entirely to himself but it is perfectly normal for a man to dream.

When he returned to work in three days he showcased his new skills and his manager couldn’t believe it. In less than seventy-two hours he had become impressively skilled without ever having touched an actual waxing machine. It was a few hours past the museum’s closing time and the manager walked over to him and handed him the key. “Please remember to lock up. The alarm will be set once you shut the door behind you.” He felt a slight jolt of adrenaline when his manager placed the key in his hands. He couldn’t exhibit this sense of excitement because the manager would then realize that the janitor had another motive. A simple “Thank you” was all the janitor said and he reassured the manager that his museum was in good hands.

After the manger left for the evening; the janitor went to go and pay a visit to his painting. He spent fifteen minutes with it and decided it was time to get started with his work. “I’ll be back” he said out loud to the painting “I’ve got some work to do;” and he put his headphones on, plugged them into his smart phone, and started his playlist that was primarily composed of new age tango and other tranquil songs. With the soft and rhythmic beats resonating in his ear drums and the vivid vision of the painting in his head, he waxed all the floors in the museum without realizing how much time had passed. It was only the sunrise, creeping up from the east wing, that gave him a warning that it was only a short matter of time before the other employees started arriving to the museum. He quickly finished the rest of his route, stored all the equipment away, and circled back to his painting.

He stared at the painting like he trying to peel off each layer of paint to see what was hiding behind it. “I want to understand you” he said to the painting. “What for?” he imagined it replied; “So I can better understand myself.” He wanted to learn about its origin, how it came to exist, the journey it traveled, what it had witnessed, and what the artist felt when he painted it; all of these questions flowed through him. Why was this painting so much different than all of the others?

Even though he wasn’t always in front of the painting, its image was seared into his memory. He could not go long periods of time without thinking about it. It occupied his every thought and it was out of his control; he was enchanted. He was entirely focused and completely distracted at the same time. He felt more content with his work, more confident in his step, and higher than any substance could help him achieve. Lack of focus was the least of this poor janitor’s concern; he had a real and powerful source of inspiration for the first time in his life. He was motivated to achieve goals he never knew existed within him. He was no longer interested in impressing his superiors or gaining the respect of others. He knew his work was impressive; he did not need the reassurance of another to know that. After all, being a good janitor doesn’t necessarily qualify someone as an elite member of society, but the confidence that this painting invoked on him made him feel like he could conquer the world. He aspired to be a better version of himself. In an extraordinary way, a simple oil-on-canvas brought out the best man in him. It ignited a powerful set of feelings and emotions within him that were once dormant… It burned him with passion.

On some occasions he would talk about the painting with others; family, friends, coworkers, etc. He was curious to see if they found it as beautiful or interesting as he did. “What would they think if I told them I couldn’t stop dreaming about this painting; that it has the power to motivate me?” He didn’t want anyone to question his mental soundness so he kept the majority of his feelings to himself. How was he supposed to tell others that he was falling in love with a painting? He knew that it was impractical and that some people would likely think he was crazy. He was curious if he was the only person who truly appreciated this painting for everything that it was. Some people liked it, some people didn’t, but most of them couldn’t care less. He was the only person that truly admired everything about it, even the minor flaws that are natural occurrences in all paintings.

When it comes to artwork, it is the small cracks in the paint or flaws made by the artist that give a painting personality, character, and substance. Many talented and gifted artists are capable of creating counterfeits or replicas of great works of art, but it is the cracks and small mistakes in the originals that cannot be replicated. The steady passage of time is what gives a timeless work of art its true beauty. This inherently makes each work of art unique by nature and curators look for these small flaws and cracks to determine the true value of a painting.

Some people even went as far to criticize him for admiring such a painting. They rambled about Monet’s, Picasso’s, and Rafael’s, or more modern pieces and how superior they were to this painting. He even reached the point when he actually began to question his interest in it, moments when he thought “maybe they’re right, maybe I have to focus my attention on more popular works of art.” All of the other paintings in the museum just seemed inanimate though. They were pretty, but they lacked substance; they had no depth to them. To him, they were nothing more than an intricate placement of colors on a stretched canvas medium made popular by a small group of society that had no idea what true beauty was. No other work of art had ever given him the feeling of inspiration that this one did, and for this, he became emotionally attached to it.

As time passed, he became more and more enchanted by it and began to lose sight of its role in his life and where he physically was when he was with it; in the museum. The emotions it stirred within him were akin to being obsessed in love, but how could he fall in love with a painting, a material object? He had spent so much time with it that he failed to realize that there was a whole world outside of the bubble he was living in; a bubble where it was just him and his beautiful painting.

One night, as a special occasion, he decided to bring dinner, and some music to share with his painting. After he had finished waxing the floors for the evening, he plated the fancy meal he had prepared, poured himself a glass of wine, and with the sweet sound of the violin playing from his little radio he began to drink and dine in front of his lovely painting. The more he drank, the more he talked to it, out loud, telling it all of his dreams and aspirations; telling it how much it motivated him and how thankful he was for it. As he got more drunk, his gestures and words were filled with even more passion. In his drunkenness, he rambled on and on, and the more he talked to it, the hotter the urge to touch it burned within him.

He approached the painting and raised his hand slowly towards it. With the back of his index finger he gently caressed the canvas and it was as if his senses had just been awakened. It was exhilarating to him, he had never touched it before, and this just amplified his feelings. He was not only intoxicated by the alcohol, but the emotions he felt running through him were also clouding his judgment. He had stopped eating, his bottle ws empty, and he just stared at it, his body slightly wading from left to right. He was deep in thought and was experiencing internal contradiction of whether he should follow the rules and do what’s right, or follow his heart. “I love you” he said to it, and he opened his arms wide, gently curled his fingers around the wooden frame, and leaned in to hug the painting and rest his head on it.

His eyes shot open and his heart stopped instantly and his face became blush red as if he had suddenly been slapped by the firm hand of reality. He knew at that very moment his dream was over; his wonderful fantasy had come to an abrupt and bitter end. The loud piercing sound of the alarms seemed to be everywhere, drowning out the sweet sounds of the violin. He flashed back through every moment he spent in front of the painting, from the day he first witnessed its beauty until now. He knew the police would be there in less than a minute so he simply stood there and stared at his painting one last time. There was an unpleasant feeling sinking within him; as if he had lost something he never truly had. He knew this would be the last time he would ever rest his eyes on it and the most disheartening thing was that he knew precisely why.

The police barged in through the entrance and he just waited there, staring and  thanking it for what it showed him, what it had opened his eyes to. And just before the police charged into the room, he saw the woman in the reflection shed a tear, “I love you too” she said to him and he cracked a small smile before he was seized. As the police carried him out of the museum, the expression on his face showed that he learned his lesson, but learned it a little too late. If only he didn’t get carried away, if he didn’t let greed and selfishness distort his reality, things would have never progressed to this bitter end. If he only learned sooner to appreciate what little bit he had, he would’ve been able to keep his painting forever, even if it would never truly be his. Even though he was fully aware that he would never rest his eyes on that beautiful painting ever again, he knew in his heart that he would never forget it and what it did to him.

Catching the Sunset

By: Stamatis Kakleas

“It’s getting late. Where are you?” she asked him through the phone. “You said you would be here to watch the sun set with me.” He promised his best friend that he would visit her for Memorial Day weekend at her summerhouse near Greenport on the North Fork of Long Island. He was your typical Brooklyn “badass” and didn’t really have much care for the consequences of his actions and was always getting himself into trouble. He craved attention, whether it was the good kind or the bad kind.  Memorial Day weekend had always been the first weekend to many great summers; the two of them had so many great times there. Since he forgot to keep his promise he was invited to go and stay there the weekend after; it was more of an order from her than it was an invite though. “I will be there in time for the sunset. Don’t worry” he replied to her with a laugh. “How are you getting here? I hope you know that the sun sets around 7:20 and Brooklyn is a two-and-a-half hour drive. You owe me a sunset. You’re such a dick you know that!” He looked at his watch and it was 6:04. “And you’reeeee a bitchass…hold on a sec” he told her as he plugged his headset into his phone, put the ear buds in his ears, and proceeded to put on his helmet. “I’m taking the Ducati. I’ll see you in an hour. Relaaaax!” She was instantly enraged; “Don’t tell me to relax!!! AND IF I SEE YOU HERE IN AN HOUR I WILL KILL YOU!” There was a short pause… “Please drive safely” she said, “I don’t care if you miss the sunset. Just get here and we’ll light a fire instead.” “YES motherrr! By the way… the sun sets around 7:40 today” he said with a mischievous grin on his face, “soooooo I’ll see you in an hour and a half.” “I TOLD YOU THAT IF I SEE Y-.” He hung up the phone before she could yell his ear off anymore.

He put the phone in his breast pocket and zipped up his jacket. He took one good look at his bike and smiled. It was a beautiful shiny red 2003 Ducati Supersport 1000ds. He found it on craigslist a few weeks prior and had blatantly shown it off around his neighborhood every day since then. The original owner seemed like a reliable guy and was willing to take cash in exchange for the vehicle’s title. He had been saving up for it for a while. The owner barely ever rode it and it didn’t have a single scratch on it. He was in love from the moment he first turned the ignition and felt the 1,000 cc engine rumble beneath him. The bike came with carbon fiber silencers and boasted a hefty 85.5 HP and could hit 0-100 mph in a few seconds flat. He couldn’t be happier with his purchase. His Ducati satisfied every craving and thirst for speed he could ever have; except he hadn’t been able to ride it to its fullest potential in the short crowded streets of Brooklyn. Being that this would be his first long trip he decided it was time to see what his baby can do. He felt his phone vibrate. It was probably his friend texting him some mindless nonsense so he decided to ignore it. He stretched a leg over the bike’s saddle, flipped the ignition switch and put the bike in first gear. He peeled away quickly and the only things visible as he zoomed off were his bright tail lights and the letters ‘ICANFLY’ printed on his license plate.

There was traffic on the Belt Parkway going east. It was bumper to bumper for as long as the eye could see but that didn’t matter because all he had to do was weave in between all the cars. Even though he was beating the average speed, he was still going too slowly if he was planning on making it there in time for the sunset. Once the construction zone came to an end he had some more free space so he sped up a little bit more. There were still too many cars on the road to really top out but he was going dangerously fast for the amount of traffic around him. Coming within inches of the cars was such a thrill to him, he felt a jolt of adrenaline flow through his veins every time he had to react to a car that switched lanes too quickly. He was a few exits into the Southern State Parkway by now and only a few more minutes until he reached the Long Island expressway. He knew once he hit the expressway he would be able to speed his way over to his friend’s house in record time but when he finally reached it there were cops everywhere. He had never seen so many police cars and motorcycles on an expressway. He couldn’t afford to speed, there was no way he could outrun those Suffolk county troopers. The last thing he needed was to call his friend from jail because he got arrested. He decided to slow it down until he saw the road clear up ahead of him. He was sixty minutes in and he still had about an hour to go (going the speed limit that is).

Now he was in Riverhead; a shopping area over packed with street lights, pedestrians, and patrol cars. Riverhead was at least forty-five minutes from her house but he was determined to surprise her. He owed her this. He always made empty promises to her and never put her first when it came to anything. He finally made it to the traffic circle in the middle of Riverhead and turned his way up towards Sound Avenue. It was officially a straight shot to Southold beach and it was only twenty miles away. It was finally time to put his motorcycle to the test. Once the light changed he shifted gears and quickly accelerated. Within a few seconds he was topped out at 130 mph. 130 mph doesn’t seem like much when you’re in a car or a plane, but on a motorcycle it’s a completely different experience. It’s just one huge adrenaline rush and he was addicted. He was shooting past cars and intersections at a lightning fast speed and he couldn’t afford to stop. He had to make it there in time to see the sunset with her.

In the distance he saw a street light turn yellow and he had to stop. So he let go of the throttle and pressed the clutch so he could downshift but his clutch was jammed and for some reason when he let go of the throttle the motorcycle didn’t slow down. He tried the clutch again to put the motorcycle into neutral but it wasn’t budging and the motorcycle was still going 130 mph. He blew passed the red light and his heart started racing. Luckily there were no cars coming that could have potentially turned him into feta cheese. He couldn’t hit his breaks because at 130 mph the pads would simply be ripped off and then he would have no way to stop even if he was able to. He began to panic; whether his hand was on the throttle or not he was still going three times the speed limit. He had to focus because he knew there would be more lights ahead of him or worse…oncoming traffic.

After he blew the second red light he realized that there was no slowing down and that he probably would kill himself on this motorcycle. If the slightest thing went wrong he would be dead before he could even blink. He was helpless and had no idea how to stop so he decided to call his friend because he wanted to say his last words to her. He pressed the button on his earpiece and said “redial” into his microphone. The call went straight to voicemail. He shook his head in grief; he was going to have to leave her a message. As he heard the automated system in his ear he thought about how he was going to phrase his final words. He exhaled and just went for it.

*Please leave your message after the tone*

Hey doll…It’s me. I wish I was calling you to tell you that I’m stuck in traffic or that I picked up some giant marshmallows and chocolate graham crackers for our fire tonight…I know chocolate graham crackers are your favorite. I really did try to make it there in time for the sunset and before I continue I just want to say I’m sorry. By the time you get this…Well…I don’t know how to say this…but… this might be… this is probably the last time you’ll ever hear from me. I decided not to listen to you and I tried to make it out here in time for the sunset. I guess you can say that I wanted to surprise you because I haven’t really done anything nice for you lately. It’s too late for this but I think I should’ve listened to you more often in general if you want to know the truth. Anyway, you’re probably wondering why I’m leaving you this message. Long story short; my throttle is locked in place and I’m stuck going 135 mph on Sound Avenue. Assuming I don’t crash, one of two things can happen; I’m either going to run out of gas or I’m going to run out of road. Considering I filled my tank in Brooklyn it’s most likely going to be the latter. I would’ve preferred to hear your voice one last time but I guess this message will have to do. Here goes nothing.

You’re the only person that has tolerated my bullshit all of these years. You’re the only real friend I’ve ever had and even though I don’t say it nearly enough…I’m thankful for you. You keep my head screwed on someone right and if it wasn’t for you I know I would be worse. You are smart, funny, beautiful and a flat-out angel for putting up with me the whole time. I know I can be a shithead and I know that you don’t have to put up with me and I just want to say thank you. Thank you for being there when others weren’t and slapping some sense into me when I needed it. Anyway, I don’t want to spend my last minutes telling you how great you are. I’m calling because I want to tell you something that I’ve been meaning to tell you for a while now.

You know me better than everyone. You know everything there is to know about me except for one thing…something I never told you… the way I truly feel about you…the way I’ve always felt. I’ve always wished there could have been more between us. I just never told you this because I was afraid of making things weird between us. I always sat on the sidelines and jealously watched as other guys gave you their attention. I just pretended not to care because…well… I’m an idiot.  If you ask me, I always knew I could do a better job than them anyway. I’m sorry that I tease you all the time and that I make it seem like I don’t really care. Truthfully, I care more about you than you’ll ever know. You obviously know I’m a risk junky… evidently… I’m stuck going 130 mph on a speeding red rocket. One thing I was never willing to risk though was you and that’s why I never told you. I’d rather have you in my life as a best friend than make things awkward and not have you at all. Anyway, I know this doesn’t do me any good now but I wanted to tell you anyway. Just in case you’re wondering, I made it in time. I just passed Southold beach and your car isn’t there. I guess you decided not to catch the sunset. It’s about to kiss the water and my god that’s the most beautiful sunset I’ve ever seen. You’re really missing out on this one

Anyway I have about five miles to go until I reach Orient Point. I have a few minutes before I get there and if you don’t mind I kind of want them to myself… you know, to think and stuff. Maybe next time around I won’t wait until it’s too late. Take care doll. I love you.

He hung up the phone and continued speeding down Sound Avenue. Suddenly he realized that 85.5 horsepower didn’t matter to him anymore. The “0-100” in a few seconds flat was no longer of interest to him. All the attention he got from obnoxiously driving his bike around Brooklyn now seemed pointless. Memories they shared kept running through his head. She was always bailing him out of trouble; always there for him when others weren’t, and was always the only person who ever truly cared about him. He had spent his days always trying to impress others and now she was the only person he wished he tried to impress. He was about a mile away from the end of the road and he still hadn’t slowed down one bit. He only had a little over thirty seconds left until the end of the road. That’s when he saw her car in the distance; her obnoxious lime-green Volkswagen Beatle. She only went to catch the sunset in Orient point when she was sad or something was really upsetting her. Maybe she went there because of him. Maybe she knew he wouldn’t make it to her in time. Maybe the entire time she expected that he wouldn’t keep his promise. His eyes started to swell and a tear trickled down his cheek until it was absorbed by the fabric inside the helmet. All he wanted to do at that instant was to make everything up to her; fulfill all of those empty promises he had made in the past. It was too late for all of that so he did the only thing he could possibly do; brace himself for the crash ahead that would soon end his life.

“Fuck it” he said as he quickly approached the end of the road, “Let’s see what this baby can do!” He figured if he was going to die anyway, why not try to go faster. At this point his friend turned around because she heard his motorcycle in the distance. He saw her jumping up and down and waving her arms feverishly at him; she probably hadn’t heard the message yet. She had no idea that he was about to crash right before her eyes. By the time she ran over to him there would be nothing left except for scraps of metal the size of a baseball. He jerked his wrist back so he could speed up and the throttle unexpectedly unlocked. To his surprise the motorcycle began to slow down. He shifted the bike into neutral and hit his breaks; he was in the utmost relief. Once the bike was in full stop and turned off he just dropped his arms to the side and his helmet hit the gas tank. With his body still crouched over the motorcycle he laughed and shook his head in disbelief. He was alive! He was so thankful to be alive and breathing.

He swung his right leg over the motorcycle and pulled his helmet off and placed it on the seat. As he walked towards his friend, the sun setting behind her, he could see that she had her phone up to her ear. He knew she was probably listening to the message he left and he slowed his gait to give her time to hear it. He wasn’t sure how she would react and as he watched her listen his heart started to beat faster than the moment he realized he couldn’t slow down. He was about twenty feet from her when she turned around with a confused look on her face. “Why would you leave me a message like this?” she asked him in an irritated tone.

He thought to himself “Is this bitch serious?!?! I just poured my damn heart out for her and this is how she reacts?! Well, that played out much better in my head.” “What do you mean?” he asked her, truly curious as to why she wasn’t crying at the sight of him being in front of her. She handed him the phone and while still holding her gaze he placed it up against his left ear. He let out a chuckle and a stupid grin immediately followed. He couldn’t believe his ears; the only thing he could hear was the loud sound of the motorcycle exhaust. It was a loud piercing ring and you couldn’t make out a single word; “so much for those silencers” he thought. “I can hear you talking…were you trying to say something?” she asked him. He hung up the phone and opened his arms to her for a hug. “I have great news!” he said with a smile as he looked her in her green eyes. “What’s that?” she replied. “I’m never riding a motorcycle again. You’re driving me back in that lame green beetle of yours.” She smiled and simply walked herself into his embrace.

He squeezed her with everything he had and proceeded to give her the biggest kiss on the cheek. He grabbed her by the hand and walked with her towards the shore so they could finally watch the sunset. As they walked through the sand they each pulled away until both their arms stretched out; then he would pull her back into him. He straightened his arm and pulled her close so their sides were touching. Then he swung his right arm around, grabbed her by the waist, and pulled her down with him to the sand. She screamed, he persisted, and they laughed together. With his arms wrapped around her she sat in between his legs and rested her head on his shoulder. The reassuring smell of her hair was more than worth the horrifying trip up there. The sun was setting in front of them and the sky was like a shaded canvas of yellow, orange, red, and purple. It was a timeless moment. “What we’re you saying in the message? I know you were talking” she asked him one last time. He smiled as he stared deep into the horizon, “Don’t worry about it”. She smiled and they proceeded to watch the sunset together. He finally kept his promise.

THE END