waiting - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
I am waiting for my "way-ting," some guidance of a direction to move in. I guess that's what I had to learn, that for all the chance-making I needed to do, there comes a time to show trust and an ability to pause. It's okay though, kinda calm really, a chance to breathe after such an intense storm.
I have always thought of these steps as something static. I have passed them so often, my black shoes making a gentle pitter patter on the stone-flecked grey. Today as I sit here waiting for Danny they are anything but; the wind moves dried leaves to pile up against them and the rain changes the hue one drop at a time. They sing with hundreds of footfalls in a single hour, and steal a fraction of heat from every one of them. Waiting does this, I guess. It gives one time to examine the ordinary and ask questions of things they simply take for granted. For a moment I wonder if it's like that with Danny, if he's become a part of my life I take for granted and view as something unchanging. He must change over his lifetime as must I. Isn't change the only constant we're all guaranteed?
As the allotted time draws near the steady summer heat becomes far less bearable. I want the air conditioning of the mall, not the filthy downtown sidewalk. I can't sit on the burning tarmac so the best I can do is prop myself up against the lamppost, letting my eyes move over the scars in the paintwork. I run my hand over the rough paint and feel my insides squirm in a way they haven't done since the last job interview I went to. I wonder what this Joel will be like, all he said was he was going my way and he was asking for fifty percent gas money. I don't know his age, what he drives or whether he likes the kind of music that makes my ears bleed. I can feel my bangs stick to the perspiration on my face, I must be as beaded as the dawn grass. My hand begins to shake in a way I can't control, all I can do is loop my thumbs into my jean shorts pocket and hope to look casual.
In this heat I an barely formulate a thought. There is no cooling breeze or cloud to block the high August sun. I curl my fingers around the thin fabric of my top, waving it in and out to create just a little air flow, but it's not enough, like an ice cube into hot soup. He's late, whoever this Joel is, I'm just praying he's not a creep. Perhaps he's some irritating "man on a mission" ready to fill my head with information I never wanted to know. But whoever he is we'll be locked in a tin box together all the way to Phoenix, and that road is longer than one of Grandpa's war tales. Just when I think I'll have to go inside an old Chevy pulls up, like that Mater out of the Cars movie. It's blocking my view of the street and suddenly I can't sit, what if he drives right past? I'll never get there, never see Mike again. I jump up like I'm sitting on a wasp and throw an angry glance at the man getting out of the heap. "Lucy?" I stop and force my face into something more pleasant.
My mind is so much like the ocean I watch for the incoming ship, calm on the surface with so many deep under currents, all of them with their own purpose. Being a "watcher" is the perfect job for a daydreamer like me and if I must suffer cold feet and numb fingers through the winter months it's a price worth paying.
They think I'm a fool to wait like I do every chance I get: eyes set to the horizon, arms resting on the cold metal rail. But the way I see it they're missing the greatest mysteries of life as they chase the mundane and trip over the details of existence. Waiting here gives me time to let my mind escape the boundaries of the ordinary, to think beyond the offerings of modern media. I ponder the threads that bind one person to another and the wounds that separate. I think about the origins of goodness and what "humanity" really is. Waiting here while others do important things is such a gift, a blessing of time. I would give up an eternity of tedium to simply solve a great mystery, to think as the masters of antiquity once did.
Wait. Wait. Sounds easy, right? Full bladder. Thirsty. Hungry. Cold. Aching muscles. Bored. I'm supposed to wait here until Gabriel comes and I'm already so wound up I'll probably just punch him when he gets here.
Waiting is easier for me than Anna. I've had all the practice in my fishing days. To her a day is a long time, a week even more. My concept of time is so different, I sit, let my mind empty and enjoy the peace. She comes up with a million different "we're screwed" scenarios and needs feedback on every single one. Waiting on my own is simple, with her in tow it's exhausting just lying on my back.
You've seen it in the movies, sniper in the prone position ready to fire. I've been set in place for nearly an hour and my neck muscles are fit to spasm. It feels like my elbow has melded to the damp blacktop roof and my legs won't work when it's time to pack up and ship out. Once the guy is down I'm gonna have to haul ass to get out before the place swarms with cops. This job sounded exciting, the reality is hours of tedium and pain followed by an adrenaline filled escape that lasts all of ten minutes or less.
The bench is black metal, painted of course, and it catches the morning sun in a way that reminds me of my father's old car - the one he kept so polished. I turn to see from where Simon will come, knowing that it's too early. The traffic moves from the lights, a procession of colours yet with only grey faces inside regardless of skin tone. I wonder what is on each radio, what information each person chooses to let into their lives. Then I turn to see the houses, brick and uniform, gardens taking on the earthy hues of autumn. I turn again, and he's there, walking with that casual gait, face just the way I love it - without the beaming smile he gives other friends, just natural, relaxed, perfect.
There is a kind of waiting that feels like gentle onshore breezes kissing salty stones. It isn't warm but there is a sense of calm, of nature, of things expected. Then there is the kind that feels like the head of a medieval mace is loose in my guts and my head has taken a beating with a hefty plank of wood. As I wait to see if Cory's lights come down the lane, it is the latter. I stare so hard my mind almost conjures some to please me but I won't let it. Tonight I have to stay in reality, for Cory, not depart into the fantasy life that demands my attention at all the worst moments.