Immortal

This is good; I want to be alone.  I’m amazed I’m the only one here.  You’d think the place would be swarming with fans, pilgrims, worshippers at the shrine.

            I close my eyes, listen to the silence, wish I’d planned all of this better.  Forgot to shave; my hair looks like I’ve weathered a hurricane.

            I shudder at the selfie I’ve taken.

            But I am here. Here I am.  Gotta live with it.  There’s a lot to be said for just being here, after all.  Since my college days, I’ve promised myself I’d come here.  There were times I thought it would never happen, that I’d never make it, never travel this far.  But I have arrived.  I can die happy now.  For the most part.

            “Excuse me.”

            I open my eyes.  It’s a thirty-something woman with short blond hair and piercing blue eyes.  She’s carrying two cameras, one slung around her neck, the other strapped over her shoulder.  She also has a tripod.

            “Yes?” I say, instantly falling in love, as I am accustomed to doing. What a great story this would make.  The working title is “Lanning in Love.”  I can see it being made into a movie.  I, the Hapa Asian-Caucasian tourist all the way from Hawai‘i, she the woman of mystery who comes from one of the Northern countries where income is high and guaranteed, where happiness tends to reign in the poll of the citizens, but where alcoholism is almost an accepted lifestyle, and suicide rates are high per capita.

            This perhaps Norwegian — to match my Caucasian half — suddenly appears, here, in this sacred place, this shire of creative inspiration, this shrine to fine literature and occasional happy endings.

            “I hate to bother your meditation,” she says, “but I was wondering if you’d mind me setting up to take photos of myself sitting by his grave.”

            Ah-ha, with the appearance of this angel, I think, my prayers have been perhaps answered.  In more ways than one if I am blessed.

            “You look like a serious photographer,” I say.

            She smiles.  “Well, yes, I’m a freelance travel photographer.  I’m here working on an article.  But what I really want is to get a picture of myself with my hero.”

            I know she is not talking about me.  “Sure,” I say, getting up off the floor.  “Can I help you?”

            “Oh, no, that won’t be necessary,” she says, “but thank you.”  I can’t quite place her accent.  Maybe Finnish?

            I take a seat in the pew behind her and watch her set up.

            “You’re way beyond the selfie-stick tourist,” I say.  “Those look like amazing cameras.”

            “Yeah, no, no selfie sticks for me.  These cameras are my bread and butter.  They’re my babies.  I don’t think I could survive without them.”

            I nod, not that she can see me doing so with her back to me.  Finally, everything is set it seems.  She goes and sits as near the grave as she can, scooching up against the golden cordon rope.  With her head against the gold, it looks like a halo.  Her chin’s up toward the camera.  All of a sudden she breaks into this huge smile that lights up the chapel. I’m love-struck again.  A flash goes off.

            She remains seated and gives that big smile again, a flash goes off.

            “Come, come,” she says, waving me over.  “Come sit beside me.”

            A flash goes off again.  That one will be a candid of her

            I jump up and rush over.  While my back is still to the camera the flash goes off.  That will be a perfect shot of my butt.

            I sit down beside her, she puts her arm around my shoulder.  “Say poetry,” she says, as the flash goes off again.

            This one is a keeper.  I mean the photo, too.

            “Okay,” she says, hugging me with that arm around my shoulder.  “We’re immortal now, as well.”

            I laugh.  Not that I can do much about being unshaven and looking like hell.

            “Say, if I give you my email address, could you send me a copy of that last photo?”

            “Absolutely,” she says, removing her camera from the tripod, laying it on the pew, then breaking the tripod down.

            I carry business cards in my wallet.  They state my name, my author’s website and email address, and my phone number.

            “Here,” I say, handing it to her.

            She looks at it.  “Lanning is your first name?”

            “Yes, Lee is my last.”

            “So you’re a writer?  LanningLee.com, huh?”

            “Well, I try.”

            “Hey,” she says, “you’ve surely come to the right place for inspiration.  There’s none better in the world.  I will check out your writing.”

            Ah yes, a potential fan.

            “Would you mind,” she says, “if I use the picture of the two of us by the grave in my article?  I promise only the last one.  Not the one of your butt.”

            We both laugh.

            “You have my 100% permission to do that.”

            “Mahalo,” she says.  “That’s how they say thank you in Hawaiian, right?”

            I nod enthusiastically.  “Hey,” I say – and I’m telling you I never do this – “would you like to get a drink?”

            “Absolutely,” she says.  “I’ll be a little bit.  I have to scribble some notes.  Let me just finish up here and I’ll meet you outside.”

            “That’s great.  I need to go to the souvenir shop.  I’ll meet you out front.”

            With my cool tea towel in hand, I go out the church door and sit on the steps.  Examining the selfie I’ve taken, I’m disheartened.  If only I’d shaved.  The wild hair I can live with.  Ay, me.  No matter.  A better one is on the way.  One shot by a professional.

            Time passes.  A little too much of it.  Standing, I walk back into the church.  The woman is gone.  I search every nook and cranny in the church.

            Darn.  I thought we’d hit it off.  I exit the graveyard and head off searching for my photographer.  Nothing. Nowhere.  No how.

            That night, I see the Royal Shakespeare Company in action.  It’s the bloodiest version of Romeo and Juliet I’ve ever witnessed.  Or so it feels.

            Stumbling along after the show, I find myself at The Garrick Inn.  The sign says it was founded in 1718 and is “the oldest and coolest pub in town.”  Ah, I speculate, if Shakespeare were alive today, I bet he’d be drinking here.

            Sitting down to one of those warmish British pints, I examine the sucking selfie on my phone for the umpteenth time, totally bummed out.  I look like a slob sharing the frame with William Shakespeare.  Well, with his grave.  Me and the Bard.  Or as English majors might say, the Bard and I.

            I check my email in hopes of finding a message from her with our photo attached.  Nothing yet. 

            Immortal?  Ay me.