When I woke up there was 1 new envelope on my phone, indicating a new message. It read:
"Meet me by the cobbled path around four"
She meant the cobbled path that starts on campus then meanders through the park, around the lake, into the woods, then back again. Its quite scenic, especially for people-watching what with all the people out walking and biking. I got to the beginning of the path early, which meant waiting. If I can be honest here, waiting idly has to be one of my least favorite things. I'm not one of those people who bring little activities like Sudoku or Jacks or a Rubiks Cube for these moments. Plus I start thinking about how awkward and or creepy a guy standing or pacing by himself in a random place must be. I think how I could be taken for a killer planning his next mark by scouting for coeds. Do I look like that type? Lord no. But that doesn't stop stray thoughts.
In actuality I probably look like any old shmoe waiting for a friend in the park. I try to hold onto that image and cast out the idiotic thoughts by kneeling down and fidgeting with my shoe laces. First untying and meticulously retying the right shoe, then the left. I repeat this process for a bit, trying to ignore the thought that no one over the age of six would have this much trouble with their laces.
I looked up to see she was standing right above me. I was a little startled, but by now I should have been used to her stealth. She could walk anywhere soundlessly, even in heels. As if her feet didn't quite touch the ground. Maybe she had been a ninja in a past life. We hugged each other and to a passerby it probably looked like two friends reconnecting after years, really we had seen each other last night at O'Smokey's playing pool. This was just how we said hello.
Soon enough we were walking and talking along the path. Though that makes it sound like an entirely shared endeavor. We were both walking, yes, but she was doing the majority of the talking. Which was fine, I didn't mind listening. She said how you'd think we'd have gotten sick of this path after walking along it so many times. But we didn't. Each season brought something different: the leaves turning beautiful oranges and reds with bicyclists zipping by in the Fall, In the Winter the lake would freeze over enough for ice skaters and along the path professors would puff by on cross country skis, Spring meant budding flowers and countless people laying out on beach towels, hoping to get tan.
No it wasn't the path she was sick of, and it wasn't me, nevertheless there was something eating away at her. A sort of quiet worry or frustration. She said she was feeling hemmed in and it got worse every time she went home. It was like claustrophobia, she said, like the walls were closing in. As if her old room had been replaced with an industrial-sized trash compactor in her absence. More than anything else, it was an overall consuming feeling of dread.
She said this feeling had followed her back here to school. She'd considered this crushing feeling inside and out. Her diagnosis was that she was trapped in one certain path to the future. If she kept going it would lead to graduation, then a respectable job, then a family, a mortgage, a 401k, mini-vans, on and on. When she came to this realization of her impending finality, she made a decision. Instead of riding along this preordained road to the future, she was going to surprise it. Hit the future with a sneak attack.
I asked her if that meant she was dropping out, if this was goodbye. She shook her head. No, that would be too predictable. Her plans were far too grandiose to be predictable and yet they were so simple! I rolled my eyes. Then she began to tell me the real plan. She'd finish up the semester and walk at graduation. There were a few high profile internships she'd applied to and talked up to her parents. This was a cover, she had no intention of finding out a career just yet. The thought of finding one just made the impending feeling of dread stronger.
She had an uncle out in Montana. He had gotten wealthy after a few very well placed investments on Wall St. He retired early and started a ranch, thinking it might be fun to be a new-age cow boy. There was speculation that his investments had come from illegal insider trading. But that was just speculation.
He had told his niece that he could always use a few more cattle hands if she wanted to come out and work for awhile. She told me she thought it'd be a grand adventure. Or at least a it might be a good way to get away, surely one couldn't feel nearly as hemmed in out in Montana. If I wanted to come she said her uncle wouldn't be opposed to more help. I told her I'd consider it.
I asked her how she was planning on getting out there. Her eyes lit up, she exclaimed that was the part she was most excited for. She asked me if I remembered the old Oregon Trail game we used to play back when we were kids. I nodded. After graduation her plan was to take her trusty Trans Am out and follow the real Oregon Trail out there. I objected that it led to Oregon, not Montana; this much was clear from the title. She waved her hands in the air, vaguely brushing away my objection. She said we have modern roads now! Surely it wouldn't be too difficult to make a few adjustments.
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