Nonfiction--by Jackie Ho

The Tradition
by Jacqueline Ho

Sweatshirt first. Quilted vest next. Then wool coat. Black leather gloves. White fur earmuffs. Then lavender cashmere scarf. Wrap around twice. Layers of protection. We all do what we can to brace ourselves for what lies behind the other side of the door.

Anne Livingston made sure that her eyes would be the only visible part of her body before rushing out the Science Building and into the merciless winter snowstorm. She had been attending the University of Western Ontario for over a year, but she accepted the impossibility of ever becoming accustomed to the near-death experience that Canada called Winter.

“Five more minutes…five more minutes,” Anna optimistically muttered aloud while enshrouded in clouds of her own visible breath. The pain from her key’s jagged edge digging into her left palm pulsed in and out as numbness began to set in. By the time she reached her icy front doorstep, her trembling was uncontrollable. After multiple clumsy attempts, Anna finally succeeded in turning the key and pushing in the icicle-framed door, which creaked open into her musty, warm apartment.

There was only one word on her unfeeling, ripe plum-colored lips—“Ryan.” She could not wait to hear his voice. They had been dating for a year and a half, and the very fact that this was her longest relationship to date convinced her that they must have something special. Something different. As Anna tore off her dripping layers, she wondered what he was doing back in Virginia at this very moment. She glanced at the clock before tightly pulling on a soft, cream-colored robe. 9:53. He was probably reclining in his favorite computer chair, getting drunk off some Jack.

Picture this: Brown carpet floor covered—and I’m not exaggerating…literally covered—in unidentifiable black stains. A decent-sized bed—no, wait, I’m sorry—a decent-sized mattress, sans sheets, dotted with cigarette-burns. A desk hidden under layers of dust and piles of crusty dishes. A flat-screen T.V. hooked up to an X-Box—the star of the room. Boxers and wife-beaters thrown carelessly on the floor and furniture, and no way of knowing what was clean and what was dirty. Use your nose, I guess. Speaking of smell, the worst thing about Ryan’s room was the dire stench of rotting leftovers, dirty laundry, stale smoke, alcohol and the occasional stinkbug. Most people would recoil in revulsion at the sight of his room. She smiled.

At last Anna was dry, warm, safe. She had been longing for her nighttime phone call to Ryan with excitement and desperation. Her late-night phone conversations with her long-distance lover gave her comfort and reassurance. Just hearing his raspy voice soothed her. She had no way of knowing what he spent his days and nights doing, but at least for a few minutes every day, she knew that he was listening to her, and she to him.

Can you guess how much she’s spent on calling cards so she could make those late calls to him every night? $750. Amount spent on surprise gifts that she occasionally shipped to him? $300. Amount of debt she is currently in because of frequent flights home? $1,200. Number of flights he took to see her, number of calling cards he bought, number of gifts he sent her: 0. Most people, myself included, would think this imbalance unfair and intolerable. But he stayed with her even though they were far apart, and he told her he loved her. And that’s all that mattered to her. She ignored the pesky voices of Conscience that occasionally lurked in her gut. She was just doing the right thing for them.

“Hey babe.”
“Ryan! How are you?!”
She heard his drawn out breath as he exhaled from his Camel Light.
“All good, just chillin…you?”
“Better now! I’ve been waiting all day to hear your voice.”
“Cool, cool, me too. Uh, hey…sweetie?”
“Yes, honey?”
“Can I call you back? The boys and I are kinda having Tradition right now.”
“Oh I’m sorry! Yeah, for sure, call me back. I love you!”
Click.

Tradition. Kind of a silly thing, she thought. But still kind of cute. After a day of working at Starbucks, Ryan and his coworkers would lock up the doors then arrange a semi-circle of chairs out front, facing the empty parking lot. They would smoke. They would laugh. They would relax. As badly as Anna wanted to sprawl out on her pull-out couch, pop in a romantic movie and talk to Ryan until they fell asleep, she closed her eyes and grinned at the image of him. Some kind of white skater shoes. Khakis—slouched down to expose his Elmer Fudd boxers. Black collared shirt. His cross tattoo peaking out from under his right sleeve. And him smiling, laughing in appreciation of his own jokes and playful insults. Even though Anna looked forward to her nightly tradition with Ryan, she understood that he had his Tradition too.

Anna sighed and began to fumble impatiently with her phone. Staring blankly at the chipped pink paint on her toenails, she couldn’t think of how to occupy herself now. It was Friday night, and her roommates were long-gone. They used to invite Anna out with them when they first moved in together. Invitations turned to pleas. Pleas turned to urges. Urges turned to demands. Demands turned back into invitations, and eventually the invitations disappeared. Before she left Virginia to go to Canada, they had spoken about this kind of thing. Ryan specifically told her not to go out on weekends. She would never do anything to make him uncomfortable, and so she stayed at home.

Ryan tossed his phone onto his pile of work clothes, from his black collared shirt to his Elmer Fudd boxers, now sitting on the floor. “Where was I?,” he said playfully as he caressed his hands under her white T-shirt, felt over her tiny waist, up to her ample breasts and skillfully unhooked her cotton bra with one hand while impatiently pulling her shirt over her head with the other. Whitney felt herself becoming relaxed and aroused at the same time. She grabbed the back of his head and forced on him a heavy kiss. He slowly worked his way down, yanking off her blue jeans and teasing off her tiny panties. She leaned back onto the pillows, and he kneeled over her, knees digging into the naked, cigarette-burned mattress. They smiled at each other with untamed excitement.

Taken in her car on her departure to Canada, Anna had taken a picture of herself to give to Ryan. She was blowing a kiss to him. “Don’t forget me now,” she had said to him. “I’m thinking of you and loving you no matter where I am.” And now, over on his dusty desk, wedged between his sticky smoky bowl and a half-eaten slice of pizza, her framed picture sat, reflecting the two bodies working desperately to please and be pleased.

Back in Canada, Anna placed her phone on the nightstand within arm’s reach and collapsed on her couch-bed. She checked the time. 11:12. She couldn’t wait for Tradition to be over.