The sound of a police siren in the alleyway outside my room brought me out of my trance. I realized I’d been staring at nothing in particular, in the general direction of the bathroom door, for several minutes. A cigarette in my right hand had burned down to the filter, then burned out.
Smoke from burning sticks of Nag Champa and dragon’s blood incense swirled throughout the near empty and decaying old five-story building at the corner of 26th & Guadalupe where I rented a single room. It was Thanksgiving Day, 1971.
Thomas, the third door down the south hallway on the first floor, was responsible for the distinctly Eastern atmosphere. The vague odor of a substance of questionable legality also sent its smoke down the hallway toward my room. It all combined to create an ambience unique unto itself.
Holiday smells of turkey and dressing, hot rolls and cranberry sauce were rising from thousands of tables in thousands of homes throughout the city. But, not in our building. It was just me and Thomas.
Everyone else had left town for the holiday. Like a covey of quail flushed from a mesquite bush on the desert back home they had all scattered the previous afternoon, all in a hurry to get home to family, friends and Thanksgiving dinners. For Thomas, home was 8000 miles away in Mumbai. My home was closer, still 650 miles away in the sand outside El Paso. It might as well have been in India.
I looked at my watch. It was mid-afternoon. Management had turned off all heat in the building for the duration of the long weekend. No one ever asked if any residents would be staying in the building. No one really cared. Except me and Thomas.
I hadn’t figured on all the burger joints and taco stands being closed. I hadn’t figured on making Thanksgiving dinner out of a can of cold Austex chili and a bag of Fritos®, the best stuff I could find at the Seven-Eleven up the street. It was the only open business within walking distance. I had sold my car to get to Austin.
Hot plates weren’t allowed in the rooms. Management said they were fire hazards. Microwave ovens cost several hundred dollars. It was 1971. Only rich people and commercial canteens had those.
There was a hand lettered sign on Thomas’ door that said “Occupied.” I noticed it as I passed his room on my way to the front door around four o’clock. I knew what the sign meant. Thomas was occupied. I didn’t stop, and I didn’t knock. He was celebrating in his own way.
I wasn’t headed anywhere in particular, and there was no one I expected to see when I walked out the front door of the old building onto Guadalupe Street. There was no one I expected to talk to. I was just killing time… waiting out the hours… waiting for nine o’clock when long distance calling rates would change. I figured I could afford around fifteen minutes at nighttime rates.
It was a day of Thanksgiving, and give thanks I did as I wandered around the abandoned campus and along empty Austin streets. While others savored their Thanksgiving feasts, I savored the delicious memory of a beautiful brown haired girl wrapped tightly in my arms. Nothing has ever tasted so sweet, nothing has ever been so necessary.
I impatiently glanced at the giant clock atop the UT tower, urging the hands to go just a little faster. Just a little.
I so wished I could skip all the days between Thanksgiving and the January day when that girl would be coming to me, this time forever. I was thankful that such a day was finally drawing near… close enough now to be real. Close enough to believe in.
Last night I went walking through our neighborhood and, as darkness fell, my mind flooded with memories of that Thanksgiving Day in 1971. Last night, just as then, my head was filled with thoughts of that beautiful brown haired girl. In my heart I gave thanks for those memories of a time long past, and for the memories we are making yet.
I paused at the corner of Stratford and Golf to wrap her in my arms and tell her that I Iove her. I kissed her, inhaled the wonderful smell of her hair, and continued on our way holding her hand tightly in mine. Nothing has ever tasted so sweet, nothing has ever been so necessary.
I impatiently glanced at the small clock on the face of my mobile phone. In my heart I urged the minutes to go just a little slower now. Just a little.
