Problems and Persistances

Joan wanted to go into the store. She really did. Was she going to disobey her rules just once to see the man she'd swooned over for years? The light rain soaked her shoulders as she stood outside, trembling, and softly crying. Passerbys didn't think much of it. In a city like New York, she wasn't the weirdest person they'd seen.

The only thing that, perhaps, might distinguish her from other loonies in NYC was her age. She looked very young, because Joan was very young. A freshman in high school wasn't supposed to be insane. She wasn't insane, she was difficult, just not insane. This is how she justified her actions. Technically, she was considered crazy. That word hurt her more than any other.

Her problems and persistances (the two words she referred to her quirks as) kept her from leading a completely normal life, but it wasn't too bad. They kept her from entering that record store as part of a superstition she held, because of her Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Like a book that held all of her "rules"; she just couldn't/wouldn't/shouldn't enter stores with odd numbered adresses. She had to obey her mind. And she did. She lived with every aspect of her problems and persistances. One thing plagued her though.

The sidewalk looked like it was going to swallow Joaan as she crouched and contemplated. One block away, past the busy tourists and business people, there that woman was. "That woman"'s existence was marred by the speeding cars that cut her from Joan's view every couple of seconds. Joan groaned when she saw her.

Joan's birth mother looked concerned as she tried to hide behind a street light. She reluctantly glanced out at her every few seconds hoping her daughter wouldn't notice her. Joan didn't have a mother in her warped reality.

Some people had actually called Joan "a horrible monster," and "a whiny little brat," because of this problem. She hadn't directly spoken to this woman in five years since her tenth birthday when her mother became ill. Her problems and persistances couldn't deal with it - and she shunned her mother. Tears erupted from Joan's eyes. She wanted a mother, but she couldn't have that woman.

Something that Joan could not tolerate long ago broke any bond she had with her mother. Joan knew that that woman wanted to be a part of her life. It wasn't her fault. She'd yelled this at millions of people. Especially, distant relatives who didn't understand Joan's problems and persistances.

"It isn't fair!" Joan cried. Her rituals, quirks, whatever you called them could destroy love. She decided this a cold day when she was thirteen. When her mother called for her to run back home and get some mittens, she scowled.

Joan distinctly remembered thinking she wanted to kill her mother. When she thought this tsunami thought, she stopped dead in her tracks. She fell back, unprovoked into the thick snow. The freezing water reddened her exposed back under her jacket as she sat in the snow.

At that moment, she had recalled a memory from before she swore off the woman who birthed her. A typical kid memory. She had had a bad dream, was scared, and her mother stayed up all night with her watching Cartoon Network. Perhaps, Joan expected this to bring some huge revelation, but it didn't. She tried pulling up as many happy memories as she could with her mother, but nothing - no memory could cure her OCD. Joan only felt burning hatred for the woman who didn't exist.

The invisible woman who drove her to her friends, the invisible woman who made her do things, the invisible woman who had to take anti-depressants just to deal with her only daughter's sudden flurry of loathing for her mother. That snowy day, Joan cried in the park. Singing tears contradicted the icy frost nipping at her face. She wanted a mother.

Now, she wanted a mother more then ever. She wanted to hold her mother's hand, squeezing it so hard, it could fall off. She would be able to walk inside this record store, meet her favorite band, and she would have a purpose. She would actually be able to know where she came from, and why she was there.

The rain beat down harder as Joan's tears dripped more. Her long red hair obscured her face from the world. She didn't want anyone to see her fail at doing something...again. And as she was standing up, to gloomily walk home, she stared into the eyes of Baxter Springer.

His deep, cheerful brown eyes were the only thing she could see as she stared dumbly at him. His five o'clock shadow bordered his slightly yellowish grinning set of teeth. His elongated nose pointed at her jeeringly as she began to stammer, "H - h - hello." He wasn't perfect in person. He had a double chin, a small protruding gut, and long disheveled greasy hair.

Joan didn't care. For once, it wasn't about being clean. She had fallen in love with Baxter's inspiring lyrics, his sad but pretty guitar chords, and his funny interviews. "Hey, there why the long face?"

"Y - you're B - axter Sp - Springer, right?" Joan spat. Her mouth didn't shut after she formed the word, "right?"

Baxter laughed. "She's digging you, Bax!" said Morgan Grants, Baxter's drummer behind him. Baxter grinned. "Shut up, Moe."

Baxter held out his tattooed arm, so Joan could be helped up. Joan put her hand into his, and she stopped. Her hand was in Baxter Springer's. Her problems and persistances disentegrated at that. She stood up, grinning. "If you must know, yeah, I do dig you," she said confidently smiling at Baxter

"Let's go inside, what's your name?" Baxter said, walking into the store.

"Joan," Joan said as she stepped into the store without a thought. She was actually stepping into a record store - with an odd numbered adress - without fainting, screaming, or panicking.

Her mother, Sandra, sprinted down the street after her. She rushed in after Joan quickly, and looked around the dusty, cluttered record store.

Sandra cried out, "JOAN?!" Joan waved at her in the corner. She was idly standing by Rejected Colors' drum set, grinning. Sandra reluctantly walked over to Joan.

"Hi, Mom," Joan said, "This is Baxter, Morgan, Mandy, and Dean. They're Rejected Colors. R.C., this is my Mom."

Sandra was aghast. Had Joan's life long struggle with OCD been cured by a -- band? Sandra smiled through tears at Baxter. She recalled the many posters of him on Joan's wall.

For a few hours, Joan was cured of her problems and persistances. For a few hours, Joan had a mother she knew existed. A few hours of bliss.