Beauty: Not to be Confused with Garbage

by Amanda Pile

I will begin this short story by explaining myself. No, I am not a raging drug addict, but like Sedaris I would like to emphasize the correlation between drugs and artistic beauty. This story was inspired by Sedaris’s writing on many levels. For one, instead of denying my experimentation with drugs, or failing to mention it at all, I will embrace it. I will also take a seemingly pointless moment of my life and recall it in a meaningful way. And lastly I will attempt to make the story amusing with sarcasm, cynicism, and my utter stupidity. So here is my expressive piece, and if this piece fails, it is clearly your fault, not mine.

It was a crisp mid October afternoon. It was the beginning of my senior year, back in my hometown of Mercer Island. Yes, I am from Mercer Island. Home to Paul Allen, prime waterfront real estate, cars with no character, and seven Starbucks within a four mine radius. But please, don’t judge me. I’m not about the material things, and my BMW has a Free Tibet sticker.

Getting back to the story, it was a crisp October afternoon. My senior year was pleasantly turning out to be joke, and the scarcity of homework was not cutting into my busy schedule of getting high after school. This particular afternoon I had decided to have a smoke session with Anne Kimble, my co-worker, my classmate, my loyal drug companion, my best friend. Because of the beautiful day, we chose Luther Burbank Park to be our place of civil disobedience. Luther Burbank Park is located on the northern most tip of the island. Only a short three minute walk will lead you to a glorious view of Lake Washington complimented by the unspeakably stunning Seattle skyline. It is the most beautiful place on the island, rivaled only by Pioneer Park, a labyrinth of cedar and pine trees, home to many a smoke sesh, countable shroom trips, and the occasional acid flashback.

On that October afternoon, we skipped off down the path to the bushes to enjoy the five dollar bowl we bought from a dear friend, with a few crumpled bills and change discovered under car seats, or at the bottom of back-packs, where few hands tend to linger. This afternoon I was especially giddy, perhaps due to the beautiful weather or the delightful company. Or maybe it was the pot. In any case, we finished the deed and emerged from the bushes with mischievous grins plastered on our faces. We casually strolled back up the path, taking our time, as we were in no hurry at all. The conversation turned to the usual topics, string theory, our most recent tattoo ideas, and what we would eat if either of us had any money.

The sun was beginning to set and I must explain how particularly unforgettable this sunset was. See, Seattle sunsets are special. If you tilt your head up and turn in complete circle, you will notice the impeccable color gradation. The closer to the sun, the more brilliant the color, the further from the sun, the softer the color, yet the whole way around the colors are evenly blended and perfectly proportioned. The clarity and purity are indescribable. Don’t try to tell me that sunsets are caused by pollution because this, my friends, is an obvious exception.

I’m getting off topic, but you see how I could. As we walked along we slowly approached a tall maple tree, standing alone. And on this lone tree was a single leaf swaying defiantly with the subtle breeze. The scene was so absolutely picturesque; we stopped in our tracks to admire it from afar. It was that final leaf of the season, colored a radiant, fiery red, and the light reflecting off it just so. It was barely hanging on and we were the final two people to witness its last few moments before the gentle breeze slowly carried it to the ground. We felt so fortunate to be observing such a definitive moment, a symbol of the changing seasons. But it must’ve meant more, the end of something significant or perhaps an omen for a smooth transition. Maybe we read it as a symbol of the last shred of beauty in a world continuously growing ugly. Or maybe it was just the opposite, a reminder not to forget that things still can be beautiful. It is the little insignificancies that matter, appreciate them for they are greater than they seem. It was so peaceful, so powerful, so momentous.

We ambled on up the path feeling complete, the world was at rest, and nothing mattered but the moment.

And as we slowly approached the tree we realized out senses had failed us. Our beautiful defiant, symbolic leaf was nothing but a discarded old plastic bag. The mangy crumpled plastic had managed to get tangled up on one of the tree’s branches. The absolute treachery! Now, there was nothing to do but laugh. Our moment had gone from moving to meaningless in about sixty seconds. So we kept laughing, and we kept laughing, and for some unfathomable reason, we couldn’t stop laughing. There we were keeled over in the middle of the path slapping our knees and holding our sides. And then I knew that this moment was more important then any stupid red leaf, this was the epitome of our friendship. This was that lame story that we would always remember.

And to this day, I may not recall exactly the shape of the leaf, or the time of day, or the angle the sun reflected off of it, or even the type of tree. But what I will never forget is the connection and the elation that we shared at that moment. And what I have today is not an omen, or a new outlook on life, but the memory of a hearty laugh and a good story to tell. And maybe this story isn’t "laugh out loud" funny, but out of all the times we’ve re-told this story, not once have we been fazed by the blank stares and the awkward silences we received.