Copyright © 1999 by Gene Michael Stover. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or recording, without prior written permission of Gene Michael Stover. Permission is granted to my internet service provider, currently GTE, to store this publication in my WWW home page. Permission is granted to the general public to download this publication from my WWW home page, currently http://home1.gte.net/gstover1/, and to print a hard copy for private, non-profit, and non-mass-distribution, use.
I once had a friend who was pale, with dark hair. She was tall for a woman, though I don't know the feet and inches of it. She had a whimsically grim outlook on life, and she wore black, usually in layers artfully and tastefully draped over her slim body, maybe so that the grace in their movements would hide the grace of her own.
I enjoyed talking with her. She always had something interesting to say, usually insightful, and when she paused to search for words, which she did often enough, she gestured clumsily with her arms, her hands limp at the ends of her wrists, consciously mocking the smooth movements she used at all other times.
She rarely laughed or smiled, but I didn't interpret it as chronic unhappiness.
She almost never talked about herself, but she did once.
We were alone, just talking, which is how I spent most of my time with her. Just talking. ``I was struck by lightening once'', she said. I've forgotten how the conversation led to that, but it must have led to it because that's what she said.
``Tell me about it?'' I asked, curious, but also afraid that it would make her coy.
She waited. I couldn't tell if she was steadying herself for an important story, a costly story for a person who never talked about herself, or if she was thinking of a way to change the subject so she could remain a person who never talked about herself.
``I went to the mall during my lunch break'', she began. ``It was last winter, when we had a lot of rain, and it was raining that day. Well, it was really light, like sprinkling, but, anyway, it was raining.
``I got out of my car and opened my umbrella. I held it up while I went to close the car door, and I felt a tingling, or a buzzing in my left arm, the one holding the umbrella. I stopped, wondering what it was, and it got stronger so I could feel it almost all over, and then I was sort of pushed against the car, but not really hard. I mean kind of hard but not hard enough to hurt.
``I didn't know what had happened, and I had butterflies in my stomach. I didn't feel nauseous, but I felt ...'', and she made her self-mocking clumsy gestures while she searched for a word.
``Giddy?'' I suggested.
``I guess. Yeah, giddy. So I got back in the car, but I just sat there for a while, quiet, just looking around. And then I started giggling and even laughing and couldn't stop for a while. But then I did stop, and I drove back to work.''
She finished her story, or so I thought. I felt a little privileged at finally knowing something about her. I started to say something, but she had only paused.
``So on the way back to work, I figured out I had been struck by lightening. And when I got back to work, I told some people there, but I left out the part about sitting in my car and laughing. My boss said it sounded like lightening, and one of the girls there said that her husband had had the same thing happen to him, and it was lightening. So I was pretty sure I had been struck by lightening.''
``You're sure?'' I asked without skepticism. I hoped.
``Yeah. It just made sense.'' Yes, it did.
Again, I thought she had finished, and I felt a little privileged, so I started to tell her it was a good story, but she interrupted my clumsy interruption.
``But the best part, is that for the rest of the day and for a couple of days after, I felt really good. I think that being struck by lightening must'', clumsily moving arms with floppy hands at their ends, ``energize you. I had all sorts of creative ideas for days, and I felt really good about them.''
I had come to realize that she was finally sharing something about herself. She was telling me about an event in her life that made her feel special because of its rarity and because of what it had done to her, how it had probably scrambled some fragile part of her brain and made her feel as though her soul had been tickled. I wanted to know more so I could help value her experience. ``What kind of ideas?'' I asked, though I feared I was de-valuing her experience by doing so.
She exhaled a short puff of exasperation, and I knew I shouldn't have challenged her story, though that's not how I had meant it. ``About all sorts of things. Everything. Too many to explain and too many to remember. I felt light-headed, but I wasn't out of it. I was still a little giddy, I guess. I had all sorts of creative ideas, and I liked them, and it felt good.''
I knew she was right that she had been struck by lightening; I didn't doubt it at all. She had been struck by lightening which, for all I know, could have killed her as easily as not, but it hadn't, and she was telling me about it. She had told her co-workers parts of it, but she hadn't told them how it had made her feel. Maybe she had told only a few people. Maybe she had told only her best friends. Maybe she had told only one person. She had told me. She guarded information about herself more closely than any other treasure I could imagine, had finally told me something special and private about herself.
I wanted to tell her that I understood her story and that I valued it. I needed to tell her, but I didn't know how. I had no idea of what I could possibly say that wouldn't run the risk of making light of the moment. I was silent while I frantically tried to think of a way to say what I felt. I hoped that this was one of those times when silence was appropriate, as it sometime is between good friends. Maybe silence was the appropriate way to respond. Maybe listening silently showed that I valued her story. Maybe in the past few minutes our friendship had progressed to where silence was okay.
``You don't have to be quiet to be polite. I know you think it's silly story.''