Essay 1 -> Knit-One

Ashlee Pitock

Kristina Rogers

English 1A

19 September 2010

Knit-One

          Should I ever become so socialized that I am able to grasp the complexities that the sacred art requires, I would be worth of acceptance into the haute monde that is Knit Whit club of Monterey, California. My hoary hands moving rhythmically, teasing yarn through loops made with my inherited pearly talons, I would appropriately remark on the going-ons of this family and that one, easing in my envious or venomous commentary whenever the appropriate break in conversation allowed itself. Our niche would be no less concerned about the enchantments we weaved with our hands as we were about the mending of the social walls our mason husbands had constructed and improved since their Protestant genesis. I could have not been this refined at eighteen years of age, when I approached the vision of the woman I would never become. She was perched inside a pearly white Bentley, hoary hands moving rhythmically, teasing yarn through loops made with her inherited pearly talons.

        When I lived in Monterey, I lived with three other college students in a small house on a large hill. The house was surrounded by homes which had lovely ocean views, unobstructed by the only two story home on the down-slope as my house was. It meant cheap rent for us, which allowed more money to be spend towards alcohol for the gigantic parties we would host. We were the party house; everyone knew us and wanted to befriend us. We’d have parties every other week and kickbacks every other day; the difference between the two being that parties are where people expect alcohol to be, kickbacks are where you’re expected to bring your own beverage. Despite my seemingly rampant popularity at our parties, the interaction with people I experienced outside of my home were often varied and more exciting than the general party goers. I’ve eaten sardines and olives (both of which I hate) with a world-renowned muscle therapist; carried a few lines of conversation with Bill Murray; sang my heart out to strangers in little coffee shops and on piers along the sea, songs that will never be relevant to me in my present state of living. 

         When I approached the lady in the Bentley I didn’t know what to expect, exactly. My moped had broken down a mile from where she was parked in front of a historic estate with a white picket fence. I needed to phone a friend to bring me fuel and was hoping the lady would have a phone for me to use. When I approached and inquired about her cell phone I assumed she had, she vacantly replied, “Do I look like I’d ever need a cellular?”. I blushed feverishly, caught off-guard by my assumption and the response in which I received. I mumbled and continued to disrupt her knitting, asking her what she was knitting and who for. She simply replied, “Mittens” and set the elegant mess of knots into her lap and gazed at me for the first time behind large ivory sunglass frames. She offered the chance of using her husbands cell phone when he had finished his business inside, to which I graciously accepted and lavished thanks upon her for. I started to talk about my moped, about my schooling, about my work at the local Starbucks, about things the woman probably would never care to hear about. She gently nodded her head and added a soft comment every-so-often, whenever the appropriate break in conversation would allow itself. She offered up some information about herself, but only that she was part of a knitting group dubbed Knit Whit club, consisting of ladies from all sorts of different families. They were to meet the next day at her own home, surely to socialize in the highest degree and weave great plots of social sabotage and good-will. I asked her about any charities she supported and added my week-long volunteering for Green Peace. She smiled faintly, telling me how nice it was that I would waste my youth supporting a nature organization. I agreed and smiled along with her, feeling very lucky to be in the presence of someone so eloquent and proper. I felt confidence rush into my brain and asked if I should ever be able to attend one of the knitting club meetings, though I wasn’t proficient in knitting and preferred crocheting. She slowly removed her glasses and stared directly at me. She pursed her lips and inhaled sharply through her nose, scrutinizing me intensely and suddenly. My confidence drained rapidly and and was quickly aware of the gravity pulling at my cheeks and my agape mouth and how horrid I must smell after pushing my bike uphill by the ocean. In what was maybe five seconds, the woman had surely analyzed every layer of my being. She sighed and pulled out a small leather-bond tomb from the glovebox of her car. I caught the reflection of the gold-laid words “Holy Bible” as she ripped out a blank page near the cover and gracefully penned the address of her home, a phone number to reach her by, the time of which the meeting was, and a small dress code for me to abide by. I smiled wildly, pocketing the sacred paper into the rear pocket of my brown jeans. Her husband, a thin man with graceful strides and  wearing a burnt orange sport-jacket, came walking towards the car, smiling just as wildly at me as I was at his wife. He let me use his phone to call friends that wouldn’t answer, bid farewell, and shuttled himself and his wife out of my vicinity and back into their societal niche. 

          By the time I had pushed my bike down the hill and to the nearest gas station, the sun had just began to set. I rode home hardly looking at the road, taking in the beautiful sunset that I saw every evening in that beautiful place. When I arrived home, I was shocked to see the amount of cars that congested our street. Music was floating out of our open windows, floating along the smoke and steam that was escaping with it. I went around the back of the house, having to step over a girl squatting on the ground peeing into her own pants. I quickly opening the back door to my room and collapsed on my bed, setting my phone alarm for two hours before 9 o’clock, when I would be admitted, albeit temporarily, into higher society. 

          I woke up before my alarm, as I often do. The abhorrent snoring that had begun to shake the house had startled me out of slumber, and I figured that I may as well begin to get ready now. Before I opened my door to the living room, I took a deep breathe and closed my eyes. Opening the door, I examined what I had braced myself for. A strange green film covered the beer pong tables and had grown like an algae on to the floor. I glanced over at the futons we used as couches and chuckled at the littering of bodies of party goers that were too drunk to drive home. As soon as I spotted a pair of gleaming butt cheeks, I leapt into the bathroom, where a less horrifying mess had accumulated. I removed the beer cans from the shower and let the water rinse the residue away before I stepped in. My mind flooded with thoughts about what I would wear, how I should do my hair, what I should eat for breakfast or if I even should. After showering, settled for a violet blouse and a lacy-blue skirt, tying my then dyed-red hair into a graceful bun. I threw on makeup I had rarely worn before, focusing on the dark circles beneath my eyes. I tiptoed out of my house, two hours ahead of schedule. The sun had just began to rise over my hill, causing the unseen ocean behind the two story house to gleam the same burnt orange as the woman’s husband’s jacket. I opened my car door and hearted up the interior as high as my thermostat would let me. I turned on my favorite CD and stared at the clock on the dashboard. I’d get coffee before, I had decided. I’ll talk about what I wish to be in my adulthood. I will make up a story about my father being a man greater than the manager of an electricity plant. I leaned my head against the cold car window and smiled to myself. I was so lucky. 

          TAP TAP TAP. (style) I woke with a start, inhaling deeply the heat inside my car, realizing it had been left on my entire nap. One of my roommates was standing outside my car, staring at me intently, smiling lightly. He was dressed in slacks and a black collared shirt, a hangover on his face and his lips still slightly blue from vomiting the night before. I exited my vehicle without glancing at the time. I removed my heels and walked barefoot into the house, skipping over the patches of green goo and isolating myself in my room. I stared at myself in the mirror, embracing my youth as I never had before. I realized so suddenly what I would have compromised in myself if I hadn’t fallen asleep in my car and missed the start of the knitting club. I would have forsaken my liberal mind, the love of my family, my greenness itself. I took the yarn and hooks out of my purse, throwing them on the floor and collapsing on my bed. I wondered if the party had been any good, what they had been drinking, who’s cheeks I had caught a glimpse of. I reveled in my independence and gently drifted back to sleep.