Another one from the “high bohemian” archives. This story is where I crossed over to being a “mature” writer. It is quite poetic that it should be a coming of age story. Happy reading!

We grew up in a time when airports served the best coffee. For every drink on earth, there is an appropriate piece of music. For espresso, it’s Bach. Back then, it took an effort to discover new music. But no matter how far I explored, I would always come back to Bach. I listened to it on my Walkman, which I’d bought with the money saved over weeks of labor. I listened to it while waiting for a friend to pick me up.

We should’ve just walked down to his place.

Yeah, well, I shouldn’t have come here in the first place, I told myself.

Come on, let’s go. I’ll call him and ask him not to come.

I’d packed light. A walk wouldn’t be a bad idea. I went to the telephone booth and dropped in two bucks. Jatin picked up after two rings. He made a half-hearted attempt at an apology.

“No, no. You don’t have to do that. I’ll come right away. I was stuck,” and all that jazz.

“Just buy me a beer, and we’re cool,” I said. He seemed to like my suggestion and took me up for it.

It’s true I’d come to this city to find a job and escape my family, but there was something else.

I guess we’re not going to Jatin’s.

Not yet…

Let me ask you something. Do you think in a monologue or a dialogue? When I talk to myself, a benevolent voice talks back. It’s always been that way. It gets weird when I mention it’s a girl’s voice.

It says things like, I’ve always despised the fake graffiti on clean white walls, these feeble wooden frames posing as antiquity, and the broken glow signs. The city looks unnatural. It’s as if the streets are art galleries.

I came across a bridge and unloaded my luggage. What was I doing here?

I took off my earphones and started walking with my back towards the sun that split the leaden clouds. The city snored in the afternoon slumber. Last week, I quit my job. That was my 4th gig this year. A row with my stepfather, and I was out. But why here in particular?

Hey, look, a game shop!

It was a toy store that sold Nesoid cartridges. Shame I’d left my console at home. I went inside to check out the titles anyway. It started to drizzle as I entered the shop. What a happy coincidence…

“Good afternoon, sir,” said the shop owner.

I nodded at him and browsed the rest of the shop. I hadn’t played with toys in ten years, but something drove me to look at the new line of plastic heroes. I still had my old Batman dolls and Lego sets back home. A toy train, two remote-controlled cars, an entire army of G. I. Joes, a couple of Hot Wheels and Pokemon trade cards, mint condition.

A disturbing image flashed before my eyes of my mother throwing my toys away. She always hated it when I stayed shut-in, playing with them. Said I should’ve been out shooting hoops or something. She bought me more every time, regardless. As long as she could leave me alone. But was I ever alone?

The shop had a section for comics. I looked at the shop-owner. He nodded at me as if to say go ahead. I browsed through the latest issues of the local comics. I picked up a familiar cover and turned to page nine to reassure myself that I did the right thing by coming here.

‘The time I lost a staring match with a 5-year-old.” I had thought of that premise a month before it appeared in the comic book as if someone was stealing my thoughts. There was another explanation. I checked the corner, and a tiny scribble signed Alison.

So, I ended up here somehow, in the publisher’s city. I had a dream the night I noticed this pattern. I got up; the dream didn’t end there. It gave me hope. It brought me here. It gave me a purpose. That was the first time I’d dreamt of her. I dreamt of lying in her lap, listening to old tapes with the same earphones.

But that’s as far as dreams go. Now, I was in an unfamiliar city, with enough money for a week’s meals and a couch waiting for me at Jatin’s. I had to get a job. Life happened, leaving me to make sense of it.

Relax. We’ll be fine.

I smiled. Does she know?

Know what?

That I’m here. That I’m looking for her.

Not one of your brilliant ideas, was it.

Yeah, all these counter-culture ideas, hard to digest. Yet I keep having these weird thoughts, and now I’m here because of a few coincidences.

In Jungian psychology, it’s called synchronicity.

I realized I was staring at a Barbie when the daydream broke. Smiling awkwardly at the shopkeeper, I bought the comic and got on my way. I thought I’d check the market and see if there are any job openings. The entire time, I kept thinking of the Greek legend that humans had eight limbs and two heads. Zeus, fearing their power, split them in two so they’d spend their lives looking for their other half.

Don’t get any ideas.

I didn’t get any ideas that day. I didn’t get a job either. I had some coffee and started walking to Jatin’s.

Tea or coffee?

What?

What does she prefer, tea or coffee?

How about whiskey?

Oh, sure…

What? Do you think girls shouldn’t drink?

I never said that.

What, then?

It’s just… girls drinking is kinda sexy. I blushed.

It was already time for high tea when I got to Jatin’s. He thought high tea meant you had to smoke up and have tea. Perhaps he didn’t think so. But that was his routine regardless. I followed suit. When in Rome…

He turned the channel to Cartoon Network. We spent the evening watching reruns of Dexter’s Laboratory.

“So, how about that beer?” he said.

“Nah… I’ll take a shower and rest a little. You go ahead.” I knew he would go out drinking anyway.

He sighed, went up to the refrigerator, and took out a beer can. I let out a whistle. He put it on the television, made a rude gesture with his hand, and left. I took a shower.

I bet she can see through your eyes.

That’s unfair, I thought.

I dried myself up, opened the can of beer, and sunk into the couch. Jatin had black light in his drawing room. Trippy…

I checked the shelves with records lined up against one of the room’s walls. He’d always boasted of having the entire Pink Floyd discography. He was right, no doubt. I put on one of their earlier albums. My mind bounced around with the psychedelic sound. Turn on. Tune in. Drop out.

When I drifted away, I dreamt that I was at a beach. It smelled like the trip I took as a ten-year-old. Days were beaches and dreams, the waves that washed us away.

My heart bloomed. My spirit rejuvenated.

I ran in circles with my arms stretched out when something gripped me, and I fell backward into the sea. I gasped for breath; my mouth flushed with salty ocean water. When I raised my head, I was in a swimming pool somewhere. I was at a party. Wait, I know that place, said a small voice in my head. It was a club I’d checked out on my way to Jatin’s. Help! I heard someone shout. Help!

I got up. Without thinking, I put on my shirt and rushed to the door. I ran half a kilometer to the market. I stood in front of the club, panting. What was wrong with me?

Run.

What?

“Run, you moron,” she shouted as she ran out of the gates. I had no other choice. We ran into the city. The streets grew thinner with every turn.

“But,” I said, “there’s no one following us.”

“Oh.”

She stopped by a dumpster. A couple of wild cats stared at her.

“You’re…” I didn’t know what to say.

She looked up, laughing. Her laugh was more beautiful than I’d imagined.

“I…”

“I know,” she said, putting a hand around my neck and starting to walk.

“What now?” I said.

“Drinks?”

“Tea or coffee?” I said.

“Whiskey. Straight up.”