Gold Fever

She staggered over to me at the bar.. "Just keep digging that hole.. Maybe if you get it deep enough you can just take a seat and have them bury you alive." Normally, I'd never think twice to what some rando alcholic at the bar might drunkenly suggest to me. Maybe it was the third vodka tonic, maybe it was the fact that I hadn't cried in public since the third grade when Timmy Shumaker threw a half eaten apple at me, but she was making sense. I was digging that hole and it was going to be a long climb out. Actually I think by this point in the night I had dug myself to China. Me, a grown women of 26. Sitting at a bar in downtown Sacramento. Crying. It was beyond ridiculous.

I compiled what dignity I had left and tried to compose myself as I rose and walked to the bathroom. I grabbed my phone. No new messages. Fixed my shirt and avoided the stares. It had been a rocky night to say the least. I finally, after what seemed like a millennium of sniffles, got to the bathroom mirror. My father had always told me, never let a man see you cry. Those word always stuck with me and until tonight had been true. I never counted Timmy since he barely lived up to my definition of "man" at eight years old. I also don't believe real men should throw half eaten apples either, just saying. The part about life that always seems to throw me are the moments like these. Two days ago I would never have thought that going to Sacramento would have ended in me standing here, puffy eyed, red in the face, with mascara running down my left cheek. I stopped sniffling for a moment and really looked at myself. It was so alien to see what I looked like, I realized then, I had never seen what I look like when I cry. Not only did men not see me cry, women as well, parents and teachers, kids or grandparents. They used to call me "Stone Cold Sammie". It was my one talent, being able to control my tear ducts and I'd blown it all to hell. Normally what I'd do to prevent the tears was just simply shut my eyes for a few seconds, sometimes I had to clench my fists as well, others bite down on my lip as hard as I could, but any combination would do the trick and keep me from what I believed was embarrassment beyond embarrassment.

An hour earlier on the street I was clenching my fists as hard as I could. Closing my eyes for so long it probably looked like I was sleep walking. And biting my lip to no end. But the tears kept streaming. It was as if all those years of repression just rolled on down my cheeks, took a ride past my nose, and slipped aimlessly onto my chin before free falling onto the cold hard pavement in this foreign place. Tear drop stains, old memories left to die on the street. Whoops, there goes the time my brother read my diary to all his friends at school, long gone was my first break up, I was rounding on failing calculus my freshman year of college when the death of my dog Javie took it's place in line, soon followed by the day I dropped my science project on the way to school. Of course this burst of emotion couldn't have waited until I got back to the hotel. It had to be in the middle of the street, in a place I've never been, while I was completely by myself. Why this moment, this event, I'm not sure. I could say it was the straw that broke the camel's back, but I'd be lying. There was great cause for me to be crying that night. It was great and terrible.

I wiped my face off and pushed my hair back. Took in a deep breath. I leaned on the counter and took another look at my face and for the first time in a long time, I looked beautiful. Striking almost, my eyes glowed golden and I thought of the first people to come to this strange place on a pipe dream. A promise of gleaming golden rocks in a muddled mush of sand. I had told myself over and over again I was going to be fine, that this too shall pass, but it wasn't until then that I believed it.

By Rose Meza ®