Jerry and I were in Birmingham, Alabama in the heat of July and on a quest for cold high-gravity beer. We ended up at that new trendy place that looks a lot like the old trendy place -- the one with the courtyard in the back. Emotionally, Jerry still has open wounds that need to be dressed often with an alcohol-based disinfectant. I went along on this medicinal outing to procure some of this same salve for what are now just pink blotches that still need an occasional treatment.
At the bar I saw Phil; I hadn’t seen him in years. As I introduced Jerry to Phil, I saw her. She whisked through the bar area and dashingly remarked, “Hey Phil!” I knew the moment I laid eyes on her that I loved her. I had never met her before but in my dream she was “the one”. The moment I entered the courtyard I realized that I wasn’t the only person under this delusion. It was obvious that all the men, and what I estimate were three women, felt the same way.
Jerry and I secured a table with two chairs at the corner of the courtyard. I, still transfixed on my new love, watched her flutter across the crowded courtyard from table to table, lap to lap. Soon after we sat down, Jerry asked, “Did you see that woman that came through the bar?” I took my eyes off her long enough to respond with a prideful, “What woman?” Jerry hadn’t noticed the heads of everyone following her like tennis fans or the beginnings of poetry penned to my beverage napkin.
“The woman with the British accent”, he said. I hadn’t noticed an accent. She was becoming more interesting by the moment. In an attempt at misdirection I spouted random sentences in bad British accents. He insisted I hadn’t captured her saying she had a “more refined, received pronunciation”. “And her mannerisms.” he stated, “So theatrical, almost like she’s been trained.” I replied in bold British accent, “Where did you learn to do that?” Relying on the reference to the movie “Shakespeare in Love” where, after an impressive audition, the Bard yells these words from the balcony. Jerry demonstrated that he got it by retorting with “The lunatic, the lover, and the poet are of imagination all compact.” A Shakespeare quote from "A Midsummer Night's Dream". We both shared a long laugh with that spirit of just being so impressed with ourselves. Little did we know that Jerry’s glib retort had introduced the three principal players in this evening’s performance.
Jerry was already giving this girl place, status, and education while I was stilling mulling in my emotions. This pursuit was now a team effort and knowing Jerry in social settings, I was to be the quarterback. After observing this woman in her natural habitat, I knew that I must provide a place for her to light. I proceeded to a nearby table and borrowed an empty chair. Going down the mental checklist of my proposed snare I realized it would be easier if I knew her name. I went back to my source, Phil at the bar, and he informed me her name was Anna. As she picked up her purse and deliberately headed towards the exit, I yelled out, “Anna!” She paused with some confusion and then proceeded over to our table. After a few proven lines and jokes to defuse that we really didn’t know her, we progressed to doing just that.
We learned that she was a product of a middle class family from North Carolina, had always spoken with this dialect, and never had any theatrical training, only dance, and she had just moved to Birmingham three months ago to be near friends. Her story that I had already forged in my imagination was quickly devolving under the weight of her own testimony. I began to fear that she was some type of histrionic that had manufactured a persona rather than having gone through the proper process of marinating and seasoning.
My mother’s voice in my head starting rattling conclusions, “She’s a phony”, “She’s crazy”, “if it seems too good to be true, it probably is.”, “Love is a compromise”, and “you shouldn’t be drinking, I’m so ashamed of you.” My affections for Anna became more impotent with every rationale provided by this maternal, Manchurian programming. But on her every word, Jerry clearly became more drawn in and captivated with her.
Anna gave us her phone number and excused herself stating that she was late to a party. Wow, digits! So seldom do I get a number – at least one that works. I know I’m supposed to wait three days before calling a woman, but the gravity of the beer caused me to only hold off about 30 minutes. I called. She seemed to welcome the call and invited us to the party she was attending at the Vulcan, a huge statue of said Roman God. It stands as an iconic and ironic figure of a Pagan God presiding over the Bible-Belt city of Birmingham on a 120 foot pedestal atop Red Mountain.
Upon arrival, Anna met us at the stairs leading up the hillside. In her purse was a bottle of wine and three glasses that she confessed were “lifted” from the party. We rode the elevator to the top of the Vulcan’s pedestal. From this open-air observatory, we could see the entire valley and downtown Birmingham lit by the moon and drawn by twinkling lights in the July evening haze. We sat down on the meshed metal floor, Anna in between us, peering through the rail as we drank wine and talked.
Out of the blue, Anna states “I wish I were a bird.” As I searched my mind's inventory for a witty reply she stood up, hopped up on the rail and while balancing precariously on her midriff exclaimed, “Imagine if I just jumped right now! What if I just flung my body over the side?” Oh my God, I knew it! She’s, crazy, crazy, crazy! I made some nervous wisecrack about Newton’s Law. After a long pause Jerry touched her foot that extended into midair and simply stated, “It would hurt”. She put her feet back down on the steel-mesh and they both shared a long laugh as though Jerry had made some poetic observation. Anna slowly leaned against Jerry as he wrapped an arm around her and they just held each other as we all gazed at the full moon.
As I saw this girl in the arms of my best friend, a girl who only hours ago I had loved, I began to question if she was crazy or was it me? One thing I was sure of; we were all birds – one love, one mocking, and one cuckoo perched high upon the God of Fire on a midsummer night.
© Brian Webber 2009
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