I do not remember the exact date, nor the exact time on the clock, but I do remember the moment I fell in love with Summer at first sight. Never before had it happened to me up until that time, but the feeling felt so familiar it was as if breathing oxygen after almost drowning. It was about ten to twenty minutes into the workday, when I was scanning Next-day Air packages, and then tossing them into the big containers which were to be driven straight to the airport. On that particular day our team was understaffed, so management called in two people who worked in the morning shift to aid us evening shift people. I was about to scan and toss a package going to Kingsman, Arizona, when I heard a member of the management team call out to the two double-shifters.
"Go upstairs and sign your names on the staffing sheet in our office," the manager said.
I looked up from reading the label on the package slowly moving along the conveyer belt, and saw one of the most -- if not the most -- beautiful women I had ever laid my depressed eyes upon as she was turning to make her way to the office at the other side of the building. She wore a gray tank top, baggy blue jeans, black work boots, and a pair of work gloves, one of which she was removing from her right hand so she could use the pen to write her name on the staffing sheet as instructed. Other than her beauty, that's what impressed the most at first, her readiness for work, and fully prepared for the hot evening of hard work. Her beauty though, goddamn what a beautiful girl. Her blue eyes shined like the waters of Bora Bora, blond hair pulled back into a ponytail, exposing a beautifully grand face which had not one touch of makeup, and sure as fucking Hell, didn't need any.
If I had fallen to my knees, injuring myself, and having to take time off work, it would've been worth it.
The coworker walking beside her I had only noticed in my peripheral. I only knew he had black hair.
It was a moment I shall always remember. I even know the exact spot I was standing. I was twenty years old at the time, and never before that moment had I ever fallen for a girl so quickly. It was as if I had been struck by lightning, blown off my feet straight into the air, and all I could see was the rest of the world over the walls of my isolation and dark depression.
I looked back down at the Arizona package, scanned it, picked it up from the conveyer belt, and placed it inside the airport container.
"What are their names?" I asked my manager.
"Her name's easy to remember," my manager said. "It's Summer. His I forgot, which is why I had them both sign in. I'm lazy that way."
"Summer," I said. "Of course her name is Summer."
"Hey, everyone," my manager called out to the rest of the staff, "Olavi's in love."
"What's his name?" a coworker asked.
"Her name's Summer," I corrected. "She's a she. And I don't -- I'm no love." I stammered, scanning a package that didn't go in the container I was loading. "I don't know what you fools are talking about. It's only been like ten seconds since the first time I've seen her."
"Come on, Olavi," my manager said, "if Helen Keller were here right now, she'd even notice you smitten with hearts in your eyes."
Most intellectuals in this world have the blue-collar worker all pegged wrong; though most showed up either drunk or high -- management included (as well as I) -- they saw right through me as if they could read my mind.
Later that evening, as I was loading packages into a trailer, I took any free moment available to look out at the unload area so I could catch a glimpse of her putting a package on the moving conveyer belt -- not that I wanted to see her bend over, I just wanted to see her in all her glory of, you know, existing. The few times I did observe her, she was working close with the other dude from the morning shift, and all I hoped for was that he wasn't her boyfriend. Unloaders usually worked separately along the conveyer belts where the delivery trucks were parked, but these two were basically connected at the hip, unloading the same package cars or ones parked right next to each other. They were both good workers, but I found the sight of them working so close together so disheartening, and I hoped they weren't as close outside work.
I'm going to fast-forward a bit, because I don't want to bore you with the day-to-day of my work experience at that particular company -- which I shall not name -- nor the consistent routine of unloading, sorting, and then loading customer packages inside a forty-foot trailer. It was probably the best job I've ever had: four to five hour shifts with good pay, and excellent benefits. The perfect part-time job for a college student or a struggling artist, allowing plenty of free time during the day to focus on their passion -- if there was any, that is. I'll admit, I was a twenty year old college dropout, hopelessly finding my voice and craft in my writing of fiction, finding myself in a pool of self-doubt, becoming lazy. I had this cool, original idea for a novel, but I simply was having a difficult time starting it -- debating with myself whether it should be in third-person, or first-person narrative. So I spent a lot of my free time going to the library and reading critically acclaimed novels for inspiration and some semblance of motivation.
After a while I realized I was not really progressing, but stagnant, stuck in a routine which I had never really left. I quit college because I felt no passion in going to classes, listening to lectures, writing essays, taking exams, study and research for a thesis I literally didn't give a shit about even though I came up with the subject matter, and giving some speech in an attempt to get people to like something which was assigned to me, but I wouldn't give a fuck about it even if I were paid. And those fucking godawful college debates where everyone's mind is already made up before they even start fucking talking. I don't mean to bash those who desire for careers in the medical field, Law, Education, Politics, or Engineering, but those with a passion for the Arts attending college, not only are wasting their money, they're wasting valuable time. You can't find yourself by doing work for others. But I'll tell you this: as you hear my story you will consider me a Dumbass hypocrite, and I'll concur with such criticism because I wasted so much time -- at one point finding myself in debt with no job. We can either learn from other people's mistakes, or learn from our own. Either way, we fucking learn.
In the routine I found myself in, where I simply was a recluse who woke up, read, watched movies, saved money, and occasionally tried to write a novel, it finally dawned on me I wasn't living a life. Up until I first laid eyes upon Summer I had never had a girlfriend, never had sex, nor kissed a girl. It wasn't that I was a religious person holding onto my virginity until marriage. Hell no. It was just I never made any moves on girls I had crushes on in high school. Back in those days I was mostly depressed, and if I wasn't, I'd just be too chickenshit to ask a girl out on a date.
In my teenage years I didn't like those popular skanks who everyone knew was bound to get knocked up by the bad-boy-jock-guyhoes by the end of senior year, or at the least, the summer immediately after. The girls I liked -- or I should refer to as ladies -- were the ones more focused on their education, especially ones involved in sports.
No. I never attended a girl's sports event to gawk at their perfect form... performance. Now that I think about it, maybe I should've sat in the bleachers, shown my support and expressed Minuteman (actual high school mascot, weird) PRIDE! But the ladies probably would have said to each other: Did you notice that guy Olavi always comes to our games, sitting all by himself? I heard he only shows up at the girl's events and never the dude's. Who's he dating? WHAT?! He's single. OH...MY GOD! What a CREEPER!
The ladies I had a crush on are now either married with children, or have awesome careers and live far away.
Anyways, back to Summer.
I never expected to see her again after she first double-shifted, but every once in a while she'd be there, and every time I saw her at work, it was as if seeing her for the very first time all over again. There was this feeling of refreshing excitement, as if my depressed soul were soothed by an ancient tonic long forgotten. For months I didn't get the opportunity to talk to her; by the end of every shift she was there for, she'd be gone by the time I'd clock-out.
Then a miracle occurred -- a miracle to me anyway. She transferred from the morning shift to the evening, and there she was, my coworker everyday. Everyone else knew I was in love, everyone but her of course. She seemed too focused on her job to notice some dude gawking at her. The fact she'd be naive of my crush on her made me love her even more, because as I mentioned earlier, I don't like attention-seeking skanks.
For about a month we didn't have a conversation. When we finally did we were alone in a trailer she was loading. I don't remember what I said word for word, but it was about loading boxes in that particular trailer and other bullshit regarding work. I basically said the first things which were coming to mind: These packages are the ones the customers bitch about most cause they're not home to sign for them. When they finally get them, the boxes are half-crushed. Whatever, they're idiots. You don't even have to build walls with the boxes, just put them to the side, or toss 'em. You don't have to feel guilt about it. I never am.
I don't think Summer said much in reply to what I was saying; probably saying things like, "Wow," "Interesting." Then turning around and going back to work. I probably sounded like a bumbling idiot, but her looking right at me with those beautiful blue eyes when I was speaking made my appearance of idiocy worth it.
As time passed I would notice more and more Summer appeared sad, like her heart had been broken, or some bad memory left a scar in her mind, and all I wanted to do was make her happy. Hug her, kiss her forehead, telling her there was nothing to be sad about, because no matter what, I'd make my soul purpose in life to make her happy.
A day before Thanksgiving, during a short break at work, I asked her where in the Bay Area she was going to celebrate the holiday with her family. She informed me her family was the type where everyone simply avoided each other.
"Sorry to hear about that, Summer," I said.
"People in my family are selfish trash," she said. "I don't mind anyway. Are you having dinner with your family?"
"Yes. Family on my father's side. They're religious, but it'll be nice to see them. I hardly see any of my cousins on my dad's side of the family."
"That's nice," Summer said, placing both her hands under her chin, looking bored.
"So what're doing tomorrow if you're not eating Thanksgiving food?" I asked. I was working my way to inviting her to my family's dinner.
She replied, "Oh, I'm still eating Thanksgiving food. With friends. And we're gonna eat edibles an hour before we cut the turkey. We did it last year. It's really fun to be high at Thanksgiving."
"What's an edible?" I asked, unfamiliar with the context of what she was saying.
Summer cupped her hand on the side of her mouth, moved closer to my ear, close enough to where I could smell the scent of her hair, and whispered, "Weed." She then backed away, looking around to see if anyone else was listening. "Last year we made cookies. This year I'm baking brownies."
That evening I laid in bed having a hard time falling asleep because I couldn't get Summer out of my mind. I so desperately wanted to talk to her more, learn everything about her: where she was born, how old she was, her favorite color, her interests, her favorite book, when she first kissed a boy, her first crush, and so on and so on. I thought of her so much that night, I believe I only had an hour of sleep.
I thought about what she had said in regards to eating weed brownies with her friends on Thanksgiving day. The thing was, up until that time I had never tried marijuana. Most of my coworkers smoked weed. Seemed like everyone smoked something illegal at that company. A lot of meth heads. My friend Mario smoked weed, and had tried for the past year to convince me to at least try it. He told me if I didn't enjoy it, then I obviously wouldn't have to do it again. And coincidentally, as I lay in the dark, imagining hanging out with Summer and all her friends at a party at one of their apartments, Mario called me on my cellphone.
"Hey, man," he said, obviously stoned. "Olavi."
"Yeah, Mario, what do you want?" I asked.
"You don't have to be rude, man."
"What time is it?" I asked.
"Like, almost three," he said. "Why?"
"And you expect me not to be rude, Mario? It's three in the morning."
He sighed heavily into the phone. "Well, are you tired?"
"No, I'm still awake. I'm just saying, man, it's the principal."
"Olavi, we're not in school anymore. We don't have a principal."
Jesus Christ, I thought, is it cause he's high, or simply naive.
"I was calling you to ask you a question," Mario said. I could hear him blowing out smoke.
"And that is?"
There was a pause. I could hear the sounds of him toking hard, then blowing out smoke.
He finally said, "Will you ever, at least once, smoke weed with me, your bestest of all bestests friends in the wholed wide earth?"
I was silent for nearly a minute, thinking about the moment Summer moved close to my ear, her hand covering her mouth, and the scent of her hair. How much I wanted that hand to touch my face, how I desired more than anything to put my arms around her and touch her hair with my nose so I could get a close and clearer whiff of her blond, naturally scented hair.
"Did this mothafucka' just hang up on me, man?" Mario said to someone with him.
"Yes," I said into the phone. "The next time we hangout I'll do it. I hope it's as good as cigarettes."
"Man, the shit's so good, you may quit tobacco for good," Mario said, nearly cheering.
"Unlikely," I said. "Have you ever had an edible?"
