“Janis”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-17)

I met her at work.

She was unusual for the crew at my “real job” in Geneva. Long, red hair and no makeup. Thrift-store clothes, often in either orange or black. Colors I reckoned came from her affinity for Halloween. For a time, she wore a plastic spider on a necklace with every outfit. Amazingly, no one seemed to notice. Perhaps it was because they typically avoided getting too close.

She was at times what an earlier generation would have called a “klutz.” Impulsively changing her direction and losing balance. I once saw her fall on a concrete pad with such force that it seemed to guarantee broken bones in her leg and hip. Yet she simply righted herself and walked away without much concern.

I nicknamed her ‘Janis’ because of the Bohemian appearance she projected, and a love for the 60’s music icon. She talked at length about being raised by her grandmother. And related episodes from her favorite TV programs, ‘The X-Files’ and ‘The Walking Dead.’

Neither of us could remember when it was that we became friends. We had worked together during my first week in Ashtabula County. But shared little more than small talk. Somewhere along the way, she began to linger in the parking lot, after the business day was complete. We would sit on car hoods and chatter away. Eventually, our mutual love of Chinese food inspired a ‘date’ of sorts. We went to the local ‘Hong Kong King Buffet’ and feasted. I wondered if she had a boyfriend, but soon realized that her connections were treasured and few.

I asked why she had come to like me and our co-worker, Italian Jay. She insisted that I stop posing stupid questions. Secretly, I guessed that she literally had no explanation. Her thought processes defied regular organization. Even from a personal perspective. And her emotions… were buried deep in a morass of complex psychic layers. Visitors were not welcome under any circumstances.

“Feelings!” she snorted when I asked. “I don’t have those!”

Janis liked to walk after our meals of Pepper Steak, Lo Mein and General Tso’s Chicken. This habit reminded me of my grandmother, who was a retired schoolteacher. She would always have the family children ‘on parade’ after a meal. She lectured that it was good for our digestion and overall well-being. My friend echoed this plan with enthusiasm. As I struggled along with my cane, she would be slightly ahead, cigarette in hand, babbling about details of her day at work. Friends often saw us on the streets of town and would honk their car horns to offer encouragement.

Because we so often dined on the high-sodium cuisine of China, another part of our tradition became a pause after eating, at the local Circle K. My friend always wanted a ‘Polar Pop’ for refreshment. But I was more interested in conversation with the crew and their leader, Big Jeanne. Even with the brief duration of a typical visit, we would manage to share meaningful chatter. It was also challenging to guess what random locals might be present during our visit.

When the driver’s door on her car became hopelessly rusted, Janis rigged up a long string of bungee cords to hold it shut. This worked throughout the winter. Yet once her tax refund arrived, she found a replacement at a nearby junkyard. I picked it up in my truck and took it to her mechanic. She was visibly proud in declaring “My car is orange but the new door is purple!” When he asked about having it painted, she refused. It made for a unique look on the road – three doors matching the body color, with one standing out on its own.

Her necklace with the plastic spider had long ago disappeared. When I bought her an owl pendant, it served as a worthy replacement in her everyday wardrobe. But eventually this ornament also disappeared. Her bent toward wearing orange and black did not go away, however. She added a ‘mushroom’ T-shirt which appeared again and again on successive days. Over her hoodie, under a work shirt, or worn on its own. Her fashion sense was keen for someone who had a stated desire “not to bother looking pretty for men.”

I admired her freewheeling style of living. And her confidence.

But admittedly, there was fear in my heart over what she might say in public. Her ability to ‘self-censor’ remarks was undeniably broken. Once, we were getting fast food during a road adventure and saw an Amish fellow with his family. As he looked away after noticing her unconventional appearance, she became energetically vocal. “Did he just shun me?” she giggled. “Am I being shunned?” I wanted to hide under my truck. “I am going to post that on Facebook! I was shunned by an Amish man!” she cheered. It became difficult to breathe.

On another occasion, she began to discuss her choice of intimate apparel while we were having dinner. “Yesterday, I put my bras and panties in a bucket and dyed everything orange. Now I match completely!” she confessed. Silence filled the air around our table. My face was bright red. She began to laugh out loud. “Don’t you like the color orange? I’d rather wear that than anything pink!”

After a few years of hearing tales from ‘The Walking Dead’ and seeing old episodes stored on her DVR, I actually began to watch the program. It gave us something extra to discuss besides the quality of Chinese food at buffets in the area. Though at first, the show seemed like a typical ‘zombie’ creation, I soon realized that it was actually about how survivors of the apocalypse handled living in a fractured world. They were scavengers. Political order was nullified and replaced by naked tribalism.

Her critique of each episode was interesting. I reckoned that in some dark sort of way, she was the lone descendant of an emotional war. One which left her to cope by using imagery borrowed from Hard Rock themes and horror movies. A musty breath of Halloween that never faded with the dawn.

I did not really know her. I suspected that no one did. Perhaps not even herself. But whatever she might be, underneath red locks and orange garments, she was always… my friend.

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