The Stoplight Oracle

We slowed to a stop at the red light.  Jessica, my best friend of 16 years, sat in the passenger seat of my mom’s Chevy Lumina, and she was in the midst of revealing to me the identity of her latest crush.  Blues Traveler provided the soundtrack for the evening (and most of 1994 for that matter), and aside from an occasional stop to socialize in J.C. Penney’s parking lot, or a driving-too-fast-detour over the dip on 11th Ave., we stuck to the prescribed cruising route:  up Main Street, around McDonald’s, down First Avenue, and around the square in one continuous loop.

Jessica and I sat stranded at a red light in mid-loop when she completed her romantic revelation. “I’m going on a date with Neil Coulter next weekend,” she exclaimed excitedly.  I stared straight ahead at the red light, my hands tightening around the maroon leather of the steering wheel.  "Neil Coulter?" I thought. "My Neil Coutler?" 

Of course, he wasn't technically mine.  I mean, I was sort of dating someone else, and so was he. Sort of. Technically.  At that point in my life I'd had, maybe, a total of three minutes of conversation with Neil, and I'd certainly never told another living soul about my clandestine crush.  But I'd hung out in his area of the parking lot a little.  I'd laughed at all his jokes, and I think I leaned on his station wagon once while I was there. 

“Erin, the light is green,” said Jessica, and with those words I was startled back into reality. “Oh, sorry,” I replied as I stepped on the gas and shook my head in an effort to physically remove myself from the twenty second stupor I’d just experienced.

As we made our way around the loop again, Jessica continued to talk, but I didn’t really hear what she was saying. Hadn’t I told her I liked Neil? Or did I dream that?  Okay, maybe I'd never actually mentioned it out loud, but wasn't there a mind-reading clause in this best friendship?  Perhaps I'd thought about it so much in the privacy of my own brain that I simply felt transparent.  And asserting oneself isn't really part of the giggly, quiet side-kick code of conduct, I suppose. 

Her detailed description of the courtship rituals that led to the making of her date with Neil lasted an entire cruising loop, and so did the silent struggle in my head. Should I say something?  And, if so, what?  No, you can't date my secret, fake boyfriend?  That wouldn't work. My 16-year-old self did not possess the strength to risk looking like a crazy person in the eyes of both my best friend and a boy who was quite possibly unaware of my existence.  But had she noticed that funny way Neil sucked in his breath after he laughed really hard?  Or paid attention to that sweet way he naturally took care of all of his friends?   

As we finished the loop, we slowed to a stop at the same stoplight we'd sat at earlier in the night. It was red. Stop. Wait. Again. Perhaps it was a sign. “That sounds great,” I said. “Neil seems like a really nice guy. I’m happy for you.” The strain in my voice produced by the lie was barely detectable. As I sat at that stoplight for the second time that night, something inside me said stop. Wait. So I did.

The light turned green; the night continued, as did my friendship with Jessica. Nine years later I ran into Neil again. Two years after that I took his last name. The stoplight on Main Street, the one that decided my future, is visible from the bedroom window of the house that I now share with Neil. I came full circle thanks to one continuous loop.