luke
yellow line(s)
The signs of the road have always interested me. When I was younger I would stare out the window to guess what the various symbols passing by the car meant. Over time I got it down; I knew what most signs meant, but there was always the occasional one that I had to go home and look up on the family computer. But even more enthralling than signs, were the lines on the road. I looked forward to the drive home from school everyday so that I could watch the lines snake back and forth, pass under the car, climb over bumps, and disappear around potholes. However the thing that fascinated me the most was that the simple difference between a solid line and a dashed one instructed where you could and could not go.
I walked down the street, my feet awkwardly spaced apart to retrace the parallel yellow strips of paint. One step at a time I lined my feet up with the lines, placing my right foot delicately on the right line, and my left foot delicately on the left line, right, left, right, left, ball, toe, ball toe. To touch the lines precisely I had to squat and shift my hips forward, my head bobbing back and forth to keep my eyes sharply on the thin path. Though I knew the awkward stance gave me the swagger of a newly born duck, I didn’t care: it was late, I'm sure nobody saw. At least that's what I told myself. Even still my brain continued to rationalize the situation; even if they did see it it didn’t matter, I deserved the embarrassment. After all - I had just sinned.
I wasn’t halfway back to my house before it started raining.
“Good,” I thought, welcoming the cleansing shower. “Let it rain.”
I put my arms out, palms up, and leaned my head back, letting the rain wash over all the places I still felt him on me. The scent was the worst part. Every time I breathed in through my nose the smell of spit, skin, and cigarettes followed. But as the rain continued to pelt my skin, heavier now than before, I began to wonder if it was a sign. How silly it is to think such naive thoughts. How immature… How juvenile… How stupid.
But my suspicions were confirmed very soon, as the sky behind the trees illuminated with the light from a single bolt as it seeped in between the stars and painted the night sky the color of day. If the rain wasn’t a sign surely a projectile from Zeus was. No truer a condemnation of character from God is there than a storm. Though now that my head is clearer, I see how utterly self-obsessed it seems to think that my actions on Earth brought about a bout of anger from the Heavens. Even still, I was consumed by guilt. Guilt that I had betrayed a God I didn’t even understand. Guilt that I had betrayed my future lovers. Guilt that I had betrayed myself. Guilt that I felt Guilty.
The fact that I felt ashamed about an action so primitive, so quintessential to existence, so widely engaged in, was shameful in itself. And the fact that I couldn’t help but blame myself for him not being able to stop when I so clearly beckoned for it, was worse. All this shame was draining. But while draining my pride it also consumed me long enough to distract me from the rest of my journey home as I soon arrived next to my mailbox. Just around the corner was my parents bedroom. And their light was on.
It wasn’t on when I snuck out, but now it taunted me, laughing as I crouched enough to be out of their line of sight while walking across the soggy lawn. Each step produced a disgusting squelch from the earth; not loud enough for them to hear me, but loud enough to make me concerned that they could. When I reached the outside of my bedroom it dawned on me that it's a lot easier to jump out of a window than to climb back in. I had two options: attempt to scale a wall that was short enough that failing to do so would be humiliating, or go around the back and pray that the door was unlocked. I didn’t have enough courage to endure even the possibility of failure, so prayer was my only course of action. Venturing to the fence required a journey through the overgrown boxwoods, which had been drenched in God's holy gift of dirty water. I squeezed my body through, trying not to think about the Adam’s ale that had dampened my body to the point that I could now feel it through my clothes, and emerged triumphantly ashamed on the other side. Creeping up to the door I stopped to pray one last time, holding my eyes firmly closed so as to not disturb my vision of God listening to me on a rotary phone in heaven (or however he hears prayers). Afterwards I opened my eyes, placed my fingers around the handle, turned, and pulled. It didn’t budge - but I didn’t panic; the door had a tendency to refuse entrance due to its rusted hinges. I pulled one last time, ripping the bandaid of shame clean off. The door creaked so loud I may as well have just yelled out “I’M HOOOOME!”
I stood in silence awaiting the shrill voice of my mother or the gruff voice of my father but neither came. Apparently God had picked up the phone that day and heard my cry for help. I made my way slowly past their room and caught a glimpse as I passed: they had both fallen asleep with the light on. My father had his reading glasses on and a book in his lap, my mother was facing the other way, breathing slowly but enough to see through the covers. I didn’t get my hopes up yet, there was still the path to my room that needed traveling. As I walked down the hallway that housed my room at the end, two yellow lines appeared in the center of the floor. I followed them to my bedroom door where they continued under it. I opened it to investigate, no longer concerned if anyone could hear me. The yellow lines winded throughout my room, so bright that they shined in the dark without producing light. They made their way across my carpet, past my bookshelf, under my desk, and up onto my bed - where I saw him - breaking my solid yellow lines into dashed ones once again.
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