We are on our way to a vineyard about 20 minutes south of town on a July afternoon studded with cotton ball clouds in an aqua sky when the most bizarre thing happens.
The last few days have been sweltering, and I’m wondering if it will be possible to sit on the clubhouse veranda with a crisp Sauvignon Blanc and a smoked white fish spread as we drive toward the South River bridge. Traffic is heavy and fast in both directions.
We are in the left lane when, out of nowhere, a young guy on a motorcycle wearing blue shorts and a T-shirt flies around the passenger side of our car, passing on the right so close that had my arm been resting on the window ledge, he would have touched it. He wedges himself through the narrow gap between our car and the one in the next lane and then, having successfully maneuvered in front of us with inches to spare, he turns back to stare at us, raising his fist in a strange gesture of triumph, as if to say, “Did you see that? Watch me now!”
Shaken at how close we have just come to a high-speed collision, we watch, incredulous, as still blasting down the highway at 65 mph, he becomes unhinged. He sweeps up to the passenger side of a dark SUV now in front of him, tilts the bike toward it, and tries to touch the door while racing in tandem, like a cowboy trying to change horses at full gallop, or as if to say “you’re it” in a game of tag. He looks back again as he veers off, raising his fist in the same weird, wild gesture.
“Still watching me?” he seems to ask.
And we do, horrified, as he attempts to touch the door of every single car in the fast lane, and then, as if this is not enough— he stands up on the bike, never breaking speed, and a moment later lies down on the seat sideways for an instant before popping back up. A police car at the intersection we are approaching does nothing, and the cowboy takes a hard left, blasting out of sight.
At the vineyard, we recover on the shady veranda in the company of black-and-yellow bumblebees at work on the wildflowers and violet butterflies lighting like kisses on the lavender. Acres of vines, laden with milky-green, pearl-sized clusters of grapes, furrow the fields in glorious symmetry, as if the fields have been combed by God. Chestnut mares shake their manes and whip flies with their tails as they graze in the far field.
We pour wine the color of liquid gold from a bottle that’s been nestled in ice, relax on the porch, and file the incident under lucky and crazy and high on drugs. I say a silent prayer for the biker-cowboy who does not love his life (or his mother) enough to protect it.
The beauty of this vineyard often attracts young influencers who use it as a backdrop for their selfie posts. This time, I watch a young woman in red shorts and a silk bandana over long black braids bounce down the porch steps to stand with the rows of grapes behind her, smiling up at her phone. She cocks her head, making a V sign just beneath her ear, then enlists help in capturing a pic of her looking coyly over one shoulder and another standing with her hand on one cocked hip.
Look at me, world. Look at me.
I am looking—and remembering making the same request, swimming in the river, with all my attention on the beach where parents sat in lawn chairs, talking amongst themselves.
“Mom!”
”Look at me!”
“Did you see me? Look this time!
And I see again the vague parental nods from shore as we surface from having performed our best underwater handstands, our best walking on our palms, our most dramatic cannon balls.
Were you watching? Did you see me? As if the only reality is the one witnessed. Authenticated.
In Utah, there are thousand-year-old handprints on canyon walls. I understand now they are the signatures of witnesses. I existed. I was real. We fill pews to witness weddings and funerals. We change our Facebook profile pictures. Look at me now.
Spacecraft carry two golden records etched with the sounds of humankind, 16 billion miles from Earth, seeking witnesses to a civilization that may be gone before the evidence is found. And while there is no scientific consensus that the universe requires a conscious observer to exist, it feels as if that may be true; it feels as if that which is witnessed becomes more real somehow.
Someone should tell the physicists that our search for a partner is a search for a witness to our days. It is our nature to be verified.
We are like the yellow butterfly which whispers to the Queen Anne’s Lace,
Tell me that you see me.
Tell me I was here.
Laura J. Oliver is an award-winning developmental book editor and writing coach, who has taught writing at the University of Maryland and St. John’s College. She is the author of The Story Within (Penguin Random House). Co-creator of The Writing Intensive at St. John’s College, she is the recipient of a Maryland State Arts Council Individual Artist Award in Fiction, an Anne Arundel County Arts Council Literary Arts Award winner, a two-time Glimmer Train Short Fiction finalist, and her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her website can be found here.
2 Responses
Amazing.
To which I can only say, thank you. (Smiling.)