Caution Tape
by Laurel Tokarczyk
He spoke to me with a familiar tone, although it had been over a year since we shared any kind of conversation. This boy, whom I used to walk down the halls with, faded in time just like most of those familiar faces from high school. I always told myself that I would never lose contact with my true friends, but it’s hard to predict life at 17. Now, three years later, we sat on massage chairs in the midst of a neighborhood mall, just watching people wander by on the floor below.
It was a boring night that was surprisingly uplifted by the call from an old friend. Had it been any other Tuesday night, I know exactly where my path would have gone. Tiredly, I would have, no doubt, lounged around on the couch, flipping through channels that display shows that I have no desire to become enthralled with. Later, I would have rationalized my laziness by dragging my unmotivated body to the gym, enjoying a minimal-stress workout until my favorite aerobics class began at 8 p.m. sharp. A tired hour later, I would have made my sweaty drive home, lighting up a contradicting cigarette, would have taken a shower and then fallen asleep. The basic dullness of my Tuesday nights was, at times, enjoyable, but nevertheless, bland beyond mention. Receiving a call from my old friend was a happy escape from my predetermined evening, even if we did just end up at the mall.
As we sat on the massage chairs, we joked back and forth. The conversation was light and enjoyable. I felt like conversation like this has ceased to exist in my life anymore. My relationships consisted of exhausting conversation, filled with complexities involving unrest, and yielding an overwhelming amount of stress to my already worn-to-the-bone existence. Rarely do I know what I’m doing, or even whom I hope to be. I am a creature who has succumbed to a purgatory existence and who has learned to accept that as normal. I am content with the few close friends I have, rarely showing my discontentment related to all of those whom I can’t help but to miss. However, while sitting in those massage chairs with my old friend Yianni, life seemed to tick by a little bit slower.
He told me of his job, of his girlfriend of nearly four years with whom he is simply, comfortably in love. He asked me questions, displaying genuine interest and offering friendly opinion.
“Well, Yianni,” I began, as I spilled my troubles, hopes, thoughts and dreams onto his lap. His male perspective on relationships was invigorating, yet not helpful to my situation. Regardless, I was grateful. I was grateful for his uninterrupted interest; although his cell phone made the occasional beep, his eyes kept right with mine, unfazed; and I would do the same for him.
Abruptly, as if intended to interrupt the most entertaining part of our conversation, my cell phone began to beep, then beep and beep. A symphony of songs was raining through the air, and I was shocked.
“What is going on?” I wondered.
“You’re obviously pretty popular,” Yianni joked.
I grew more and more confused as I received text message after text message asking of my whereabouts.
“I am at the mall. Why do you ask?” I forwarded the same message to each individual, hoping to get some kind of clue why my location was, all of a sudden, a major issue.
Suddenly, I was enlightened, as one text message told that there was a major shooting at my local gym, killing several and leaving others wounded. I was in shock.
The news spread among my network of friends and coworkers. The calls kept coming and the knowledge just kept growing. No longer was I at ease watching the still-calm flow of people on the lower mall level. I had to get home. I had to check on everyone. We left the mall with haste, rushing back to my small hometown area of Bridgeville.
As we approached the town, it was like a nightmare. The main road was a complete cluster of people coming and going and some not knowing where to go. Red flares set a glow to the night; and everyone knew what the flares symbolized. My eyes stayed fixated on the building as we inched past through traffic. I couldn’t take my eyes away, but I wanted nothing more than to clench them shut and attempt to wake up from this horrific dream.
After arriving home, we opened our apartment door to anyone who wished to wander in. My roommate and various others were scattered around the television set. The news was an eerie verification of what my eyes refused to believe. The number of deceased was on the rise.
Local gym participants were interviewed. The news reporter filled in the missing pieces of the puzzle.
“A local man who was a member of the gym snapped and, during the 8 p.m. aerobics class, shot, wounded and killed many women.” I fell to my knees and immediately called my mom.
My mother was never the strongest woman; if anything, she is an emotional wreck most of the time. Despite the reaction I knew I would receive, and how it was the last thing I needed while attempting to retain my own mental stability, I knew I had to let her know I was OK. She answered the phone, in tears, and for a solid 30 to 40 seconds, just cried.
“Mom, I’m fine. I was out with Yianni at the mall. We weren’t even nearby. Mom, stop crying, please.” She cut me off.
“Laurel, honey. … That was your class, wasn’t it? That could have been you, baby. Darling, I love you so much. That could have been you. Do you know what this means? God has a bigger reason for you. You know that, right, Laurel? You know that?”
I couldn’t speak. I knew I was breathing, but I didn’t feel like I was part of this world. Just for a moment, I was on my own. I was scared. I was thankful. I was enlightened. I was confused.
As the night ended and the days ticked by, the notion of my presence in that room lived inside of me. Days turned into a month, and the world, which had halted for a moment, was spinning yet again. The gym, now completely renovated, was up and running and those participants who worshiped the workout were back again for more.
I debated the idea of going back, but each time was inhibited by the turmoil that was still inside me. I pondered every angle of the night. Why wasn’t I in the class? It was noted that the shooter stood in front of the light switch as he turned the room to darkness and went on his psychotic rampage. My position in the class was always that of the back row, right in front of the light switch. It should have been me, but Yianni had saved me. Of all nights to catch up, it was that night during that period of time. That’s when I knew what I had to do.
I finally decided to end my membership, as I picture that night forever in my mind. As I stepped through those heavy metal doors, which were held for me by a devoted participant, I wondered how he beared to stay. I wondered what my reaction would be, not three seconds later, when faced with a visual. There was not a single face that mirrored any correlating emotion from that night.
The room looked old but felt new; changed, as if to meet the needs of the company and of devoted patrons. Business was status quo; the world caught in a catastrophic event only pauses momentarily, then it goes about its routine. I felt numb for a moment, as images drawn from that night flooded me. I felt unprotected.
“I’d like to cancel my membership,” I said, and with a smile, my wish was granted. I went on to inform the friendly employee that my problem was time, or lack thereof. Her smile was elongated.
Through the process, I noticed one detail that remained unnoticed to everyone around me. Caution tape. A single roll remained and it took me away. This place is more of a haunted house than a gym. As my thoughts progressed, I refuted the notion of telling the friendly girl why I really would never be back; of how it was almost me gasping in a pool of blood, a victim of a horrific shooting. She interrupted my mental daydream.
“You’re all set. Just mail in this cancellation form. That’s it.”
I mustered a smile and descended through those heavy metal doors, then took my turn to hold them for a devoted participant on her way home from an intense workout.
As I made my way through the parking lot, I glanced at the form.
“We thank you for being a member and hope in the future we have another opportunity to service your fitness needs.”
I smirked as I entered my car and proceeded to take myself mentally and physically away from this place, for good. |
Titles
|