They didn't know it when they saw it.
You know how you're always told that you will? That you'll know it when you see it? It doesn't matter if you're talking about love, art, obscenity, or, in this case, a two-story, four-bedroom house of recent vintage in a decent school district, Jason had always thought that he'd "know it when he saw it" -- know that it was the right place and the right time.
But he was wrong. She knew it. He didn't. So they didn't know it.
When the walked in the door, before she even took off her shoes, Rachel gave a little leap and clapped her hands; Jason imagined she did the same thing on her seventh birthday when she tore off the gift wrap on a new Barbie.
Jason felt nothing.
It was an OK house with high ceilings, shiny wood floors, stone counter tops and stainless steel fridge and stove. The reproduction had an automatic ice maker, which Jason thought was cool. But, you know, big deal, right?
Rachel dashed up the stairs with a stream of "look at this! Oh, this is nice's, I've always wanted that's..." while Jason stared out the window, over the massive deck where he imagined kicking his feet up with a beer on a little plastic table and his guitar in his lap singing out off-key tunes to the night sky.
"So?"
"So. What?"
"How do you like it?"
"It's OK."
"OK? OK? Don't you think it's just perfect?"
"Well, sure I guess." Jason thought about the back deck in their own house. You couldn't even go back there in the summer, with all the mosquitoes. Probably the same here, he thought.
"I need to know how you feel. Jason. Wake up!" Rachel's voice was sharp, crisp, like a drill sergeant and it snapped Jason to attention.
"What does it matter? We'll like what you like."
"But I want to know what you like. I want you to care."
"Well, maybe I don't."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I don't know. I'm just talking."
"Talk some more."
"I...I don't care where we live. I just want to live somewhere. If it makes you happy, it makes me happy. I really could live anywhere."
"Jason."
"What?"
"Jason." Rachel said again.
"What? What?"
"That is the biggest load of crap I've ever heard."
"Oh, I'm sure you've 1eard bigger."
"No, I don't think so."
"Look, what can I tell you. Maybe this just isn't the right place."
"What does the right place look like?"
"I don't know... I'll know it when I see it, right?"
"Yeah, right," Rachel said, and she turned her back to Jason and slipped on her shoes. Jason stared after her, and then followed suit. Back in the car, Rachel drove, and Jason started singing the song on the radio out loud, drumming on the dashboard..."Mis-ter Jones and me...runnin' through the barrio..."
Rachel didn't take her eyes off the road.
"What are you so happy about?" she said.
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What do you think? Click the envelope below to comment, or email me.
You know how you're always told that you will? That you'll know it when you see it? It doesn't matter if you're talking about love, art, obscenity, or, in this case, a two-story, four-bedroom house of recent vintage in a decent school district, Jason had always thought that he'd "know it when he saw it" -- know that it was the right place and the right time.
But he was wrong. She knew it. He didn't. So they didn't know it.
When the walked in the door, before she even took off her shoes, Rachel gave a little leap and clapped her hands; Jason imagined she did the same thing on her seventh birthday when she tore off the gift wrap on a new Barbie.
Jason felt nothing.
It was an OK house with high ceilings, shiny wood floors, stone counter tops and stainless steel fridge and stove. The reproduction had an automatic ice maker, which Jason thought was cool. But, you know, big deal, right?
Rachel dashed up the stairs with a stream of "look at this! Oh, this is nice's, I've always wanted that's..." while Jason stared out the window, over the massive deck where he imagined kicking his feet up with a beer on a little plastic table and his guitar in his lap singing out off-key tunes to the night sky.
"So?"
"So. What?"
"How do you like it?"
"It's OK."
"OK? OK? Don't you think it's just perfect?"
"Well, sure I guess." Jason thought about the back deck in their own house. You couldn't even go back there in the summer, with all the mosquitoes. Probably the same here, he thought.
"I need to know how you feel. Jason. Wake up!" Rachel's voice was sharp, crisp, like a drill sergeant and it snapped Jason to attention.
"What does it matter? We'll like what you like."
"But I want to know what you like. I want you to care."
"Well, maybe I don't."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I don't know. I'm just talking."
"Talk some more."
"I...I don't care where we live. I just want to live somewhere. If it makes you happy, it makes me happy. I really could live anywhere."
"Jason."
"What?"
"Jason." Rachel said again.
"What? What?"
"That is the biggest load of crap I've ever heard."
"Oh, I'm sure you've 1eard bigger."
"No, I don't think so."
"Look, what can I tell you. Maybe this just isn't the right place."
"What does the right place look like?"
"I don't know... I'll know it when I see it, right?"
"Yeah, right," Rachel said, and she turned her back to Jason and slipped on her shoes. Jason stared after her, and then followed suit. Back in the car, Rachel drove, and Jason started singing the song on the radio out loud, drumming on the dashboard..."Mis-ter Jones and me...runnin' through the barrio..."
Rachel didn't take her eyes off the road.
"What are you so happy about?" she said.
# # #
---------------------------------------------------------------
What do you think? Click the envelope below to comment, or email me.
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