At Least They're Committed

The door is slightly ajar. I don’t knock, I quietly squeeze past so as not to be noticed. It’s black and white, everything is various shades and depths of black and white and gray. I look first at myself, then at the tight cropped carpeting, the stairs directly across from the entry way, the dismal paintings on the paneling and they’re all — we’re all — in a 50s television show.

He’s sitting in his Lazy Boy to my left, his feet up, his newspaper up at eye level. He can’t see me, but he snaps the paper as he turns the page, signaling he knows I’m there. He speaks and I can tell there’s a pipe in his mouth by the way his words are clenched. “So,” he says. “You’re back?”

I shrug as he puts the paper on his lap. “I guess maybe so,” I say, rubbing the arms of my sweater.

“And what did you learn in all your exploration and self evaluation?” He looks 20 years younger than me, but he’s much, much older.

I twist my hands together, “Well, I went out and looked and looked for the new me, the person I was going to become. The person I was supposed to become.”

“Go on.”

“What I found was that I’m really not so different. I mean, I am some. I love color now, all on me, all around me. But, I’m still Tripping Raul and when I tried to be someone or something else it was wrong.”

He stares, chomping on the unlit pipe.

“Goth Girl is gone, but I’m still here,” I whisper.

He reaches over and pulls on the lamp chain. Instantly the room fills with color, the rich earth tones of the walls, the green of the carpeting, the red runner snaking up the stairs; the paintings on the wall are filled with bright hues of burgundy and orange and blue and I look down to see my fuzzy sweater is bright yellow.

“Well then,” he takes the pipe from his mouth and tosses it away, smiling. His teeth have never looked so white, his hair so golden or his eyes so green. “Welcome home, Tripping Raul.”

“Thank you.” I am smiling.