In Memory of Galaxy Hartwood
((a/n sorry this is a repeat from my poetry book. this was actually a project for my writing class orz))
My memories of Galaxy Hartwood are firm but sparse. She's inside the back of my mind constantly, always lingering with her tired eyes and leather jacket, yet other than her personage I can't seem to see anymore of her than this. I guess that's just the way it is.
Knowing Galaxy Hartwood wasn't simply knowing a person. It was like reading a book. In the end I'm not sure if she was a suspense novel, a series of historical fiction and romance, or the script of a tragic one-act play, but either way she was a person who was read, not known.
When I think of her I see her walking, sometimes away from me, sometimes beside me, always blank-faced and so deep in thought we could never hope to drag her back up from inside of her mind. Now that I think about it, when I looked in her eyes that first day of school, I saw music playing behind them. A song. Just one single song.
That song, I discovered, was Fast Car by Tracy Chapman.
I figured this out on a breezy September day, a little less than nine months ago. The five of us- me, Galaxy, Leonard, Elaine, and Ronny- all hopped into Ronny's Grand AM Pontiac and cruised down the side of the Potomac to the docks across from the National Harbor. It was a chilly Saturday in the DC area, but it was the first time in awhile we all had the chance to get together for a picnic, so we took it gladly.
We headed for the open grass to play some frisbee and set out the basket Elaine and Leonard had put together for lunch. Autumn was in full swing at this point; the trees were wildfire colors of luscious red, orange, and yellow, and they swayed in the gentle breeze. Fallen leaves crunched beneath our feet as we traversed the path, passing joggers and old couples with sweet little dogs.
Even as Elaine, Leonard, and Ronny chatted idly around me, I couldn't stop glancing back at Galaxy. She was trailing behind, as had become custom, and she watched the ground rather than us. She wasn't particularly our 'friend,' but we invited her out today in hopes of breaking her out of her shell. She was the new girl, and seemed to be suffering the new girl syndrome; barely speaking, sitting alone at lunch, rarely ever smiling. We felt obligated, as the nicer kids of the school, to cure her of these awkward traits.
It was proving to be far more difficult than we thought. She was weird. She never wore anything but black, for one thing. On that day, she was wearing a knee-length black dress, black tights, black boots, a black bow in her hair, and, of course, that black leather jacket that wouldn't come off even for a heat wave.
Other than that, the not-smiling thing seemed to be more than just a social defense- it was an instinct. Her tan-toned face was always a blank slate painted over with eyeliner and shielded with rectangular glasses. She didn't laugh at jokes, and her voice was always quiet. Strong and intelligent, but quiet. As if she was only used to speaking in silent rooms.
She was from somewhere up north. The state of New York, and I'm pretty sure New York City itself. I know people from there are pretty weird, but I always assumed they were the extroverted kind of weird.
I stopped looking back at her once we reached the open grass. Elaine tossed the picnic basket onto the grass and set out a blanket as Ronny tossed a frisbee to Leonard, who leapt in the air to catch it. Elaine ran over and took me by the arm, cooing something flirtatious about sitting with her on the blanket that I wasn't paying attention to. I looked back at Galaxy again. She was watching something in the trees, like a bird or whatever.
"Galaxy, c'mon and sit with us!" Elaine chirped, batting her pretty eyelashes and showing off her CoverGirl smile. Elaine was full of herself, sure, but there was nothing wrong with that. It was refreshing to find a girl who loved everything about herself.
Galaxy turned towards us, taking her time, serene eyes blinking as she weighed the options of joining us versus not joining us, then came to sit with us, plopping down on the blanket next to Elaine and sitting with her long legs out in front of her. She gazed at her hands on her knees without a word.
"Eric, honey, won't you pull out the sodas?" Elaine chirped at me, immediately finding it hard to strike up a conversation with Galaxy.
"Sure thing. And don't call me honey," I replied, passing her a Sprite and Galaxy a Pepsi. I'd figured out at least one thing about Galaxy Hartwood- she really liked Pepsi.
From behind us, Ronny shouted "Heads up!" And before I realized what had happened, Galaxy had reached out one scrawny arm to catch the frisbee before it conked Elaine right in the head. Elaine gasped and squirmed away before laughing at this near-injury experience.
"How did you do that?" she asked Galaxy through her hand, bewildered and giggling.
Galaxy merely shrugged. "Reflexes," she replied before getting up to give Ronny the frisbee.
Elaine turned to me immediately, snickering in awe at how the weird girl just kept getting weirder- but in a good way, she added quickly.
From somewhere down the path that led through trees down to the docks, a soft melody floated to us on the breeze. A guitar and a voice were carried on the air to us, creating a relaxing fall ambience.
"Street performers," Leonard commented with humor before turning to catch the frisbee Ronny chucked at him.
I wasn't thinking much of it, but Galaxy was. I didn't notice, but she was standing in the field, gazing in the direction of the music, listening intently. Without making a sound or saying a word, she began to walk towards it, unnoticed by the rest of us.
I didn't notice she was walking away until she was already on the path and almost to the trees. I hopped up immediately, calling her name as Elaine, Leonard, and Robby abandoned our picnic and followed. In retrospect, I'm not sure why we were so worried about her. It's not as if she would've gotten hurt, but then again, every memory of Galaxy Hartwood feels like it was meant to happen, whether it made sense or not.
We stayed behind Galaxy, watching, and the words of the song drifted to us. I could hear only the ends and beginnings of words, like "school," "fly away," "driving," "car," "arms," mixed in with the notes of a guitar.
For a second, we lost Galaxy beneath the shadows of the trees, and I nearly panicked until we finally reached the street performer. It was a young woman sitting on a little stool with a guitar in her hands, and she was singing and playing something I'd never heard before. Her appearance was more Janelle Monae than Tracy Chapman, but her downturned face and unyielding voice were full to the brim of soul and heartache.
Galaxy was sitting on the large, protruding root of a tree directly across from the woman with the guitar. I could see her profile from this angle; her shoulders slumped over, dyed-midnight blue hair pulled into two braids with her bangs hanging in her face, and her eyes wider than I'd ever seen them. They were fixated on the performer, as if she was watching the music float from the guitar itself. In this light, I noticed for the first time that her eye color was golden brown.
Looking from Galaxy to the woman with the guitar, I began to listen to the lyrics. If I remember right, it went something like;
"You've got a fast car
We go cruising, entertaining ourselves,
You still ain't got a job,
Now I work in a market as a checkout girl"
Standing there, I couldn't for the life of me figure out why Galaxy was looking the way she did. I wondered if maybe she'd never seen a street performer before, or maybe she was having some sort of episode. It didn't quite occur to me that this song meant something painfully important to Galaxy Hartwood until the chorus came around. Something like;
"So remember when were driving
Driving in your car
Speed so fast I felt like I was drunk
City lights lay out before us
And your arm felt nice wrapped 'round my shoulder"
It was there. It was that line that I looked at Galaxy and her eyes were closed and her shoulders began to move up and down in a hiccuping, erratic motion. I looked at the profile of her face and she was crying. Galaxy Hartwood was weeping, right before me.
Each note seemed to be striking her in the chest. She cradled her arms to herself as the lyrics spat "I had a feeling that I belonged, I had a feeling I could be someone," and something with the way her shoulders shook and how she gripped at the front of her leather jacket told me she used to have a feeling she belonged, that she could be someone, and before she moved to our school she lost that feeling in a tremendous way, and now she was here.
I looked at the woman with the guitar. Her voice kept coming out and her fingers kept strumming, but she was looking up at Galaxy. She wasn't shocked or even guilty; no, she was understanding. Her large, melancholy eyes had nothing but a sympathy for Galaxy, a shared feeling. There was something going on between the woman's guitar and Galaxy's tears that only this song understood.
"Thought maybe you and me find it
I got no plans I ain't going nowhere
So take your fast car and keep on driving"
Galaxy's head was bowed. She was curved, like a cripple, and as afraid for her as I was, I wanted to know all about her sadness. I wanted to read this chapter of Galaxy Hartwood, entitled, "Why This Stranger's Song Breaks My Heart in the Most Personal Way Possible."
"You got a fast car
Is it fast enough so you can fly away?
You gotta make a decision
Leave tonight or live and die this way"
The voice stopped, and eventually the guitar did too. I was silent, and so were Elaine and Ronny and Leonard. So was Galaxy, as her damp eyes stared down at the fallen leaves, her teeth biting her lower lip and hands debating whether to keep clinging to her jacket or to wipe away the streaks of dark eye make-up that ran down her cheeks.
The street performer removed the guitar strap from around her neck and placed it on the ground next to her stool. She stood up and walked with light steps over to Galaxy, that same understanding look planted firmly on her face. She brushed Galaxy Hartwood's bangs to the side and kissed her forehead gently, like a mother. Their lips never moved, but they were speaking with each other. Whispering thanks you's, screaming I'm sorry's. Communication of those with backstories, I guess.
The street performer picked up her guitar and her stool and left down the path towards the docks. None of us said anything. None of us moved.
I stared at Galaxy Hartwood, who was staring at the ground. I wanted to ask her everything, but knew she would answer nothing. She was a book that I could only read, chapter after chapter, without ever knowing the motives of the person who wrote it.