Value of Merit

Her immediate thought was he must be a fascist. Tall and rigid, he wore the uniform of some newly formed eastern European country Meritt guessed probably ended in "-icstan." His features held a severity that made people think everything he said was of dire importance. He had the dark features of a Moorish Spaniard. He didn't carry a heavy pack like NATO soldiers, just utilitarian duffel large enough for a change of clothes and a shaving kit. His face was fallow and she thought he must be older than she, but you can never tell because life east of Greece ages peoples' faces.

Meritt amended her first impression of a stern goose-stepper when he helped an old woman board the train. Then her bags. Then her covered birdcage, as gently as if it were his own. The old lady tried to tip him (he was in uniform after all; though Meritt could hardly believe he would be mistaken for a valet) but he gentlemanly refused. They seemed to debate while she stood on the train's entry steps and he looked up at her from the platform. She first offered more, then less. When it was obvious he would offend her if he declined, he accepted some pittance. Once the money changed hands, she moved and permitted him to board. Clever old woman.

The soldier came into Meritt's car. She watched him take off his hat and stow his bag underneath a seat next to a man she had already voted "most likely to sleep with his mouth open." The soldier faced the back of the train. Meritt faced the front. Their eyes met for the first time and she noticed he had long lashes. They both looked quickly away just as the train lumbered into motion.

Most of the trip, she avoided conversation with the woman sitting next to her wearing a dress patterned after a table cloth by looking aloof and making her earbuds obvious. Trains bore Meritt. She prefers to travel by car, where she has control, or by plane, where the wait is mercifully short. She took the night train hoping to sleep most of the trip away. Only after seeing that she wouldn't want to close her eyes for any extended period of time with these "coach passengers" did she regret not making her father buy her a cabin. She passed the time staring at a landscape changing too slowly to be interesting. She brought a teen trash novel about an American Wild West werewolf and his repressed, Victorian love interest. Her sister recommended it, but it was drivel. Sometimes she stole glances at the soldier. Sometimes she caught him looking at her.

When the table cloth woman took the stop at dusk, the soldier moved to sit next to her. Meritt had been right about the open-mouth sleeper and the soldier had been looking very uncomfortable as the man's head bobbed with sleep apnea sounds. "Is this place taken?" He was putting his bag and hat under the seat before Meritt could answer. She tried to look disinterested.

The rode in silence until Meritt had memorized the new Audio Séance album in its entirety. She removed her earbuds and the soldier said, "I like to make up stories about the things that pass by." He was looking out the window as he spoke the words.

"Are you an author?"

He laughed the laugh of a hookah bar, "Your stories have to be interesting to be an author."

"You're a poet, then? Because they don't have to be interesting at all, just weird."

"A very poetic observation."

"Are you saying I'm weird?" She had not intended to flirt with him, but already she was putting him on the defensive and seeking compliments.

"I'm Cahit. What's your name?"

"Meritt."

"I work with men who’ve chased merits all their lives."

Thus began a nightlong conversation. Cahit didn’t hail from Youbrokeastand, but was Turkish. He laughed when Meritt confessed she had been to neither. He looked stern, but smiled easy and attributed both looks and smile to his grandfather. That grandfather still herds sheep in the foothills.

Cahit’s father didn’t dream of sheep and moved to the city. He didn’t have the education to thrive, but learned quickly where to direct young Cahit for success. He still feels the weight of his father’s vicariosity “if that’s a word. There’s a word for it in Turkish. But the idea still translates, yes?”

He enlisted in the military hoping for some sense of adventure. He’s disappointed he spends most of his time checking IDs at checkpoints on base. He resents his commanding officer. He overheard him refer to a soldier’s value as “he can stop a bullet.” When Meritt commented on the very un-NATO pack, Cahit informed her Turkey has been in NATO for 60 years.

He quit college to join the Army – another regret. He was studying to be an architect. He worried he’s not creative enough, but wants to do something lasting in the world.

Cahit read Grimm’s Fairy Tales and all the mystery of the Black Forest made him want to see it for himself. He didn’t find any gingerbread houses or talking wolves, but he did experience a sense of the wild. It was at Baden-Baden, the resort town on the outskirts of the Black Forest, that he boarded the train.

Meritt wasn't aware when she fell asleep. But she woke with Cahit's arm around her shoulder, nestled to his pressed uniform chest. He told her he didn't sleep but watched over her.

Meritt blinked dreamily in the morning light, “were you making up stories for what you saw?”

“All I saw was you,” replied Cahit.

“Then your story must have been exotic and interesting beyond compare,” she teased.

“It ended with me giving you my email address.” He pulled out a precisely folded paper and gave it to her. She mashed it into her pocket with other sundries.

In the light of day, their conversation was much less intimate. They spoke philosophy and music and even briefly delved into God (Cahit was Muslim, but not very devout). Nothing really about them – their nonsense dreams or that one who bruised their heart or what they would allow to corrupt them. Instead it was ideas and pop culture.

But Meritt didn’t move.

And Cahit held her in his half embrace.

At her stop, Meritt smiled pensively. She recognized the moment for what it had become. Her future could be defined by the choices in front of her – romantic and impulsive and practical and silly and lascivious. Each decision spread before her like a web of possibility. As she packed up her things, every movement to disembark put a future to death. Opportunities shriveled into truth.

She stood on the platform with an anxious thudding in her chest. He lives in Ankara for christsake. And Muslim. And in a foreign army. She fished out his email as the train pulled away. Receipts rained to the floor as she clasped the neatly folded paper. She did what she knew what right. Only later did she consider that Cahit might have watched her throw it to the waste.

ohgoshwow

I've got this amazing kid I don't deserve. Recently, I've seen myself turn sardonic and a bit cutting, but my son compliments so easily. It's natural for him.

Tonight he takes his first bite of salmon and says "ohgoshwowthatsgood." He's seen me cook since he was small. I've got this masterpiece on my fridge titled "Son Helps Dad Cook" where my son is drawn a safe distance from the stove that Daddy is operating. Daddy has caught himself on fire. Flames are everywhere. Last week he suggested I should write a cookbook.

Truth is, I'm not a very good cook. But he's not really complimenting the food. He's talking about us in the environment and me providing for him and laughing and feeling protected and this moment where even the taste of lightly seasoned and overdone salmon is good.

It's humbling when children teach you things.