The Red Light

There is a light out there. A red light in a house so far off the beaten path it's bruised with neglect. It should have been forgotten. Was for decades. But that hardly matters now. What does is avoiding the light. Completely. Unless you can't. And if you can't, I'll see you soon. 

I guess this can all be chalked up to my fear of commitment. Hell, I can't even commit to weekend plans. My friends would have day planners full of shit to do. Even had a friend who would block off his calendar for mundane tasks like laundry or eating lunch. That wasn't me. 

I lived by chance. If it was a day full of new experiences, great. If it was a day to sleep, get high, and rewatch Twin Peaks, so be it. Point is, I don't like to make plans, and I sure as hell don't want other people telling me where I should and shouldn't be. 

Now I'm here. The only thing to see, a dim red glow cascading down from that single bulb, never to die out.  It's been on since the last one and will be on for you if you're next. 

There I go again. Let's focus on the good. What my life was like before everything was drenched in permanent crimson. And that good was Victoria. 

I had moved to Wisconsin for a job, my first out of school, and it being 2008; in the midst of yet another economic panic attack, I took what I could get. Did I want to work in suburban Wisconsin? No. I wanted to be in Chicago, where the action was. But like I said, I go where the world takes me. And in 2008, it took me to Pewaukee, Wisconsin, a smudge away from the real 'Waukee in Wisconsin. 

I was starting my career as a lab tech, something I stumbled onto, surprise, by taking whatever classes fit into my schedule in college. And I liked science because there were unknown variables and uncertain outcomes. I was a month's rent away from moving back home to Nebraska, and I sure as shit wasn't ready for that. So when I got a callback after months of endless applications for anything tangentially related to my degree, I took it. Pewaukee be damned. 

And life was good. Wisconsin is beautiful, especially in early fall. Nothing but rolling hills covered with auburn leaves and a chill in the air to remind you of winter, but not enough to scare you inside. My job was good with pleasant, if not a little boring, coworkers. But outside of work, I didn't know a single soul in the city. And I was lonely. Enter online dating. Now, Wisconsin girls, before you get too judgy, are total babes. Just because you grow up with beer and cheese doesn't mean you can't screw like a city girl. 

That's how I met Victoria. She was quirky. She was funny. She was sexy. And she wasn't looking to settle down anytime soon. Only problem was she lived all the way up in Madison. And I didn't have a car. She did, a beater, but enough of a car that could drive the hour plus to hang with me in my tiny apartment. 

Despite my distinct lack of commitment, we got close. Close enough that we started to see each other every weekend. And it worked. It made our time together extra special and let me live my carefree life during the week. We eventually got into this rhythm of swapping the cars. She'd drive up for the weekend, leave the car with me, and take the train back. The following weekend, I'd drive up to her and train back. And I loved those late-night drives. Just the road, a podcast, and a cigarette. It was perfect. Until I saw the light. That fucking red light. 

Here's something to know about Wisconsin country roads. They're dangerous as hell. Not only do they wind back and forth through endless fields like the world's lamest roller coaster, but Wisconsin has the highest concentration of drunks. Point is, you can't just drift your way through a drive. Hands at 10 & 2, eyes peeled around every blind curve. And it was on one of these white-knuckle drives when I saw a shining red light breaking the darkness of the woods. It streamed from this dilapidated house at least half a mile off the main road, looming on top of the hill. 

And let me clarify. There weren't any other lights on. Nothing on the porch. Nothing in the kitchen. Nothing for a good five-mile radius. Just one bright red light from the second floor's top bedroom. 

Seeing it for the first time, I took it for some angsty kid, stuck in rural nowhere, reeling, listening to nu metal in a bloodshot room. Sure, it stood out, but it didn't stand out beyond being a bit weird. 

Weird enough that I told Victoria about it that night. We were out back, enjoying one of my favorite views in all of Wisconsin: a field full of glowing fireflies. We'd spend hours cuddled up, enjoying a craft beer — made in Wisconsin, of course — watching the flickering of fireflies. That night, watching their tiny butts glow and fade, we were broken from our trance by a loud sizzle. Above us, another mosquito met its untimely end, zapping in a wave of electric tubes. 

"Why do they do that?" Victoria asked, watching the scorched body fall away from the zapper, joining his dead buddies piled below. 

"Think they're drawn to it. Like, they just can't resist."

"Yeah, well, they have brains the size of a pimple, so nuts to them." 

I took a long pull from my beer, a delicious malty brew with a polka-dotted cow smiling back at me. I was relaxed, letting the slight buzz drift over the day. I swallowed. "You ever see that red light off Route 59?" 

She stopped mid-sip. "On the way to your place? If it's a red light, it's probably a whore house."

"No, it wasn't that. It was completely out there. Nothing around for miles. Just trees, fields, and this two-story house. Nothing on but a single red light on the second floor."

"You think a whore house would just be next to, like, a Walmart?"

"Look, it was just a bit… creepy, I guess. Like it was trying to get attention. Inviting anyone brave enough to approach."

"Or horny enough." She downed her beer, giving me a look. "Speaking of…"

I tried not to think about the red light for the rest of that trip. We went out to dinner and on long walks through the auburn fireworks of rural Wisconsin. We slept late, avoiding the morning chill creeping through our poorly insulated walls. We talked about getting a sourdough starter. 

Like lightning, the weekend passed, and it was time to go back. Sunday afternoons had this bitterness to them. In some ways, I couldn’t wait to be by myself and on my own non-committal schedule. But I couldn’t deny that weekend me was better than weekday me. Better dressed, more motivated, even better looking. But to admit that meant I was feeling deeper things for Victoria. Long-term things. And my long-term plans did not involve any part of Wisconsin — no offense, cheese heads. I was a bird, and like Nelly Furtado, I had to fly away. 

I was driving to the train stop, lost in thought about the upcoming week, sad to be apart. We were just a few miles away from the station when the stop light ahead turned yellow. Instead of speeding through like I usually would, I slowed. What can I say? I wanted a few more minutes with Victoria. The light changed from yellow to red. 

I’ve seen stoplights my whole life, and they’re always a particular type of red, like a three-year-old’s fire truck. Primary school red. Friendly, yet authoritative. I know what stoplight red is, and today, hanging from the wire, the stoplight was not stoplight red. It was that red. That black as a moonlit night, and all you can see is red, red. The exact shade of red I saw two days ago on the drive up. 

I stared at that light, transfixed, unable to look away. Even as Victoria squeezed my hand, all I saw, all I heard was red. So obviously out of place in the comforting daylight. And it stared back. Angry, speaking volumes with just 100 watts. Behind me, horns honked. Next to me, Victoria was saying something, but I couldn’t make it out. All I saw, all I was, was red.

“Hello! Babe, the light is green.” Victoria hit me on the arm. “Green means go, yo.” I blinked as if waking from the tiniest of cat naps. Another horn honks from behind us. I snapped out of it and slowly inched forward, the angry driver behind me skidding his tires. “What was that about?” She asked, looking at me like I was a squished bug. 

I didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. But right before Victoria kissed me goodbye, right before I boarded the train, I asked, “Hey. Keep an eye out for that red light. The one in the two-story house off Route 59. OK?”

She rolled her eyes, grabbed my hat, and pulled it over my face, shoving me toward the train. “See you soon, lover boy.”