Tyler W. Kurt - Patchouli Lost

Patchouli Lost

Copyright 2019 by Tyler W. Kurt

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations em- bodied in critical articles or reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organiza- tions, places, events and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Book and Cover design by After Dinner Conversation

First Edition: September 2019

Patchouli Lost

After Dinner Conversation Series

Part I

I DONT GET TO SAY HER NAME; thats the rule, right? You dont get to use real names. So, lets call her Patchouli. Not that she smells like patchouli, she doesnt, and frankly she doesnt have dreadlocks or wear tie-dyes, but when I talk to her it reminds me of the way the smell of patchouli makes me feel. I know to most people patchouli smells like dirty hippy, but for me its a comfort smell. Like bare feet on cool tile, white bed sheets on a windy line, and early Beatles. Shes that feeling. Shes Patchouli.

I pick up the phone, kick my feet up on my desk, and call her. Whatcha up to? Want to go for coffee?

Ah ... you wouldnt believe me if I told you.

Are you watching a bear ride a tricycle, because that always amazes me. How do they get their little paws on those peddles? I lean the phone on my shoulder and move my hands in circles. I hear a faint laugh on the other end of the phone and imagine the half-smile that goes with it. Its interrupted by a BANGING in the background. Whats that?

Yeah ... um, that would be my ex-boyfriend. I wait for her to explain. Her tone goes casual, as if to imply shes told this story before. He had a job interview. He asked me to come with him to the mall to go shopping for interview clothes. He showed me a shirt, I told him I didnt think he needed to buy it; that he had nicer shirts at home. That somehow got interpreted to mean I thought he had bad taste in clothes, which ... sort of set him off.

What do you mean by set him off?

You know, set him off. Like the typical, abusive, girl ... hitting ...thing ... archetype.

I pull my feet off the desk and sit up in my chair. Heroes and villains are archetypes, guys who hit girls are demoted to being clich. I lean down to put on my shoes.

She continues, Yeah, well, at any rate, so now Im in the bathroom.

T-Mobile?

Verizon.

Wow, my cell phone hardly ever works in the house, much less in the bathroom. So, did you check the cell phone coverage in the bathroom in anticipation of this moment, or was it serendipity? Theres another loud BANG in the distance as I lace up my shoes.

Momentarily distracted, she pulls focus back to our conversation. Yeah, so hes been banging for over an hour.

I grab my keys and head out. Im on my way

-No, dont do that! Hes not ... good.

The engine hums and I start driving. How old is this guy?

Nineteen.

White?

Yes.

Does his Dad make over or under $100,000 a year?

Over, way over.

And is his car worth over or under $30,000?

Over. I turn left out of my complex.

So, let me get this straight. You want me to be worried about a rich white kid, nineteen years old, whose daddy bought him his car, who hits 110-pound girls and refuses to take his medication.

Howd you know he doesnt take his medication?

Stuck at a red light, Im better able to give the conversation my attention.

Because there is always some medication some rich suburban white kid refuses to take. Because hes not a person, because hes a clich. Archetypes I steer clear of, but Ill kick a clichs ass all day long. Pack a bag, Im on my way. The light turns green.

When I get to Patchoulis apartment complex my heart beats fast. My eyes dart across the area faster than they should. Its the rush before a fight. I turn the corner to see her apartment, but hes not there. Gone fishing maybe. Up the stairs I knock on her door, glancing around all the time. The peephole goes dark for a moment, then unlocks and opens. The smell of home billows out and hits me. Then I see her, backpack in hand, silver bracelets on her wrist, just as I remember. Worried, she looks past me to the surrounding area. After a scan of the area she focuses on me.

He quit banging a few minutes ago. I dont know where he went.

Do you want me to stay here, or do you want to come with me?

I want to go.

Part II

We pull into a Cold Stone Creamery. What are we doing? she asks. I turn the car off, turn, and face her.

Well, I say in exaggerated words, In my family, we have very few hard and fast rules, but one of them is this: When you call a friend, only to find that friend has locked herself in her bathroom to hide from her abusive ex-boyfriend, and you come over to get her from her apartment, afterwards, you must go for ice cream.

Patchouli gives the smile I imagined on the other side of the phone. She tilts her head down, and then turns one of the silver bracelets on her wrist in habit. She looks back up to me, glean in her eye. Thats the rule, is it?

Its a seldom used rule, practically forgotten. I wouldnt be surprised if your family had the same rule. I reach for the keys and threaten to start the car. Now if you want somebody else to come and pick you up from your apartment, Im happy to take you back and you can call someone else. But if Im the one picking you up, youve got to follow my family rules. A wide smile gives way as a tear forms at the corner of her eye. She quickly wipes it away.

Then I guess Ill have to eat ice cream.

Ice cream in hand, sitting outside, the conversation continues. A cool breeze blows the shade umbrellas and they rattle around the center hole in the table.

So, I say, purposefully talking with too much ice cream in my mouth for comic effect, I have questions. Patchouli turns her spoon upside down, licks the ice cream off it, and tilts her head.

Questions?

Yes. You see, youre the first person Ive ever known in an abusive relationship that I know well enough to ask questions to. So, its not that I want to pry, but Im wildly curious to learn about something I totally dont understand.

She points her spoon at me in better spirits, So Im a science experiment?

No, youre not a science experiment, youre source material to a slice of America I never get to interact with, like people without a college diploma, or everyone I walk by at the State Fair with bad teeth.