The Observer

The Observer

Her name was Abigail. I had watched her play before. Our dorms are conveniently located next to the sports side of the campus, lucky for me, the most athletically challenged person alive. We must have a female tennis team because they are always there, day and night. They seemed almost obsessively devoted to the sport. They would be playing whether rain or shine, hot or cold weather. I guess the heat of Florida is subconsciously expected. It is always the same girls playing. Almost like I used to be with my guitar. I would play it anytime, and in any mood. Why I had stopped I do not know really. No, not that. I knew, but part of me was angry with myself for stopping. I let him get to me. Devotion meant something to them, devotion to the court with tennis I mean. Maybe I was just never really devoted. For some reason to this Abigail girl it was much more than just a tennis game. It is much more. I always notice her. As if her just being out there is an attraction. Attraction, like I get from watching seasoned guitarists or beautiful singers. That desire too had subsided. But if it really had, why is it still coming to my mind. You usually know if she is on the court because there is a somewhat larger than usual audience. She draws people. Easily. I noticed her on this particular night because she was no longer playing drills with her team, or being tested by her coach.
Their coach was a brassy man, Coach Mark they called him. I remember one day I was studying in the campus café and I heard a loud tire squeal. When I looked out the window I saw him jump off of the “sport coach designated golf cart” and violently open the door, which consequently slammed behind him. He rushed over to the deli and loudly demanded some health friendly sandwich. You know the kind I am talking about, the all protein kind of sandwich with “less carb” bread. I would not dare tell him today. While the deli lady prepared his sandwich his phone rang. He answered and quickly leaned over the counter to begin scribbling something on a paper menu he found close by. They lady set his finished plate above the deli shield and tried to get his attention. He turned sharply around and ended up knocking over the plat unto the ground. He flew into a rage and demanded the woman make him a new sandwich and that she ought to be more polite when she plainly saw that people were having more important calls than serving lunch. I heard the way he yelled at the girls when they missed, or if they seemed to not be running fast enough as well. The normal weather is grueling heat, and rest is quickly warranted. It is as if running thirty laps around the court is not enough, or the twelve consistent drills he runs them through.
It was not the coach I noticed tonight, but the fact that she was playing a young guy. He was someone close to her age by the looks of things. He was someone I recognized seeing with her before around the campus. Seems like when you become the most devoted to something is when you draw the most attention. Everyone wants to be your friend when you are going places and doing things with your life. When I first started learning guitar I let him show me how to play one of my favorite songs. That is how it starts. Innocent as it may look at first, your relationship progresses and gets more serious. Then your life transforms into their life. Your whole world starts changing from what you want to what they want. Then your devotion becomes a human. When you no longer move in a “fame like” direction or in a direction they think is favorable they move to the next “devotee” they meet, like a leach that feeds off the devotion of innocent girls.
Such a shame for her really, seeing as she really is so good. Your eyes are almost instinctively drawn to her, as if she commands your attention without saying a word. Even people from the courts directly beside hers have to stop and watch. People at the bench escaping the heat and drinking from their water bottles almost loose their thirst for a moment in regards to the intensity that was once directed towards their plastic, but their focus quickly becomes her.
The first time I ever sang it was like that, I was very young. I walked up to the middle of the stage. I could tell that everyone on the first row did not expect much because they were continuing to whisper and point at the flyer of the night’s schedule. I guess after hearing act after act of elementary age kids sing to popular radio songs you might not expect from the last act of the night who happens to be the youngest girl. If I was them I would probably be more occupied with keeping track of the time on my watch. The moment the first word escaped, they immediately looked up. The director of the talent show dropped her flyer. The words from my mouth almost like a tennis ball straight from Abigail’s racket. Commanding everyone’s attention.
This match was different though. She did not have the same extreme focus. She was laughing and acting childlike. Smiling at all his bad serves and huge dramatic dives from just her gentle tap. I was almost mad at her. She was letting him get to her and it was very obvious. I see her around campus. Everyone recognizes her. They congratulate her on being well taught.
“You are so talented”, they say. “What a gift you have!”

My director said the same thing. It is funny how everyone suddenly remembers your name when you are going somewhere. He remembered my name. Only he left with a part of me. Soon after that I began singing in everything I could. Pageants, fairs, talent shows, weddings, church, anywhere they would give me the microphone. They even let me into a bar to sing karaoke on my vacation one year in Key West. It was during high school that I met him. Everyone loved him. Stunning personality, always laughing and joking, but most importantly an excellent guitar player. We appeared to be a good match. He started playing for me when I sang places. It was a step up to go from singing with tracks to live music. Then he quickly became my guitar teacher. My guitar is dark purple, we became the even better match. You could say that was how our “relationship” started. Unfortunately he became more like an obsession for me. I started singing less and less to be around him. We were together all the time. Then one day another eager young devoted girl passed by and I became a memory. I had not played a day since he left, and I sing even less.
She seems to walk around happy and proud of herself. But, I wish I could ask her the same thing I have been asking myself. What does genuine passion look like?
I got up from the bench I was sitting in. My shade spot had changed with the suns position in the sky and I was becoming very hot. I walked to the library. It is always packed in there, a last resort on my part to go in. All I remember is finding a comfortable chair upstairs in a quiet spot. Next thing I know I was startled awake by the sound of the closing bell. I must have fallen asleep. There are two things I have lost since college, my appetite and sleep. I gathered my things and walked outside. As I was walking to my room I noticed Abigail and another girl shake hands and sit down at a table next to the cafe. The girl had a small interviewers note pad in her hand. Curious, I walked over to the table adjacent them and pulled out a book to seem occupied. The girl was apparently from newspaper being as she had a badge with the name on it. They were running her interview as a headline story. The conversation started with the interviewer.
“How do you describe yourself and your tennis style?” she asked.
“Well I am driven and I love the sport, which helps me play more freely. Those two characteristics keep me busy enough.” Abigail replied. The interviewer wrote on her pad violently. Then she asked, “Do you ever get tired of the sport? Do you ever just want to quit because it seems hard?”
Abigail quickly answered, “I don’t think I could quit if I wanted, it is a part of who I am. Plus, haven’t you ever seen our practices? Talk about learning focus.”
“I have seen them” the interviewer said, “Plus I know the coach personally, and that is enough to know you must be devoted. He works you guys hard. What I want to know is what is the secret to success? You must have one like lucky socks. Or, or maybe a four leaf clover?’ she added playfully.
“I have no secrets.” Abigail started, “I have lived my entire life with this devotion. It is burned into my heart. When I breathe, it breathes. We are each other. You mentioned earlier being tired, but it is the strength of the passion that gets me through the tired things. My love for it goes beyond emotions and my physical being. It is innate passion that drives me and I really think that will overcome anything.”
The moment she said this it all made sense. She was right. I have let him get the best of me. It was not him that made me love singing and playing, but the innate love for it I had inside me. If you let the whims get in the way of your true passions how will you ever succeed at anything? You miss what you truly love. I miss enjoying music and participating with it. The more I heard her talk about passion and drive, the more a realized how much of a fool I was for letting him ever stop me.
The moment I walked back into my room I pulled the case out from under my bed. As I unlocked it I could sense that old familiar smell. As my fingers gently touched the cold purple, I was flooded with memories. As I lifted my guitar to my lap and began to play, it was as if I had never stopped. No time was kept between us. It was just my guitar, and I the way it should be. I played for what seemed like only a few minutes, but when I looked at the time it had been an hour. And then I remembered that I had not thought about him one time since I started playing. Finally. You miss things you truly love and you let go of the things you never did.

(**This is a FICTIONAL story.
This story is not about me,
for anyone reading this from back home!!**)