There are places in life, in the world that I didn’t expect to find. The first time I flew over the North Pole, I almost missed it. At thirty-five thousand feet, flying above the edge of a hemisphere, time becomes distorted. It’s marked by colors and contrasts rather than clocks and constructed impositions.
Looking out my window, the outline of the planet faded into pink. Below us the sky was clear, falling silently on endless miles of ice. As we continued, the ice gave way. What had seemed hard and formidable began to show cracks where frigid water pooled and continued the process of change. I pressed against the wall of the plane soaking in the penetrating cold of distance and quiet.
“You don’t forget to love. It’s here forever.” He pushed his first two fingers to his chest when he spoke. Holding my eyes, he removed his glove and pressed the same two fingers into the same spot just above my heart.
The river was full, dancing at the edge of its stone banks. I turned toward him, leaning on the ancient balustrade, leaning on my elbow. Eric’s hand was shaking in the cold air of Paris. My right hand took hold of his fingers and helped them back into the warmth of his glove. He moved toward the river and leaned forward.
I glanced behind us at Orsay. I pictured the other side of the iron clock, its glass façade keeping vigil over Paris. For a moment, I pictured what it has seen as its hands continued their circular dance. I imagined the thousands of travelers that had left one another within its walls, the thousands who had found one another. Always, there was change even in a city that seems to be so present in its past.
“Easy to say in a city like Paris.” I inhaled the January cold. “I miss this.” My eyes remained on the vendors that line the bank. Slowly, their bins were opening in preparation of mid-day when joggers would give way to tourists and pedestrians.
“Paris?” Eric was leaning over the edge, monitoring the goings on of a tourist boat below.
“The quiet," I turned around matching his stance, “Time.” I nudged him with my elbow. “Sometimes, I even miss my thoughts.” In my periphery, I saw his smile. A small cloud of frosted air escaped from the warmth within him.
I leaned forward onto my chest, resting my chin on my closed fists. “You don’t think you can forget what it was like to love someone?”
“No.” He didn’t hesitate. “Impossible.”
“I don’t know...” Someone in charge had stepped onto the deck of the boat below. His commands to the man on the deck were animated. The smaller man responded in French that didn’t need translation. The Captain stood still for seconds before releasing a boisterous laugh and gesturing dismissively. He climbed back into the boat, the steamed windows shielding him from view.
Eric chuckled. I smiled and continued. “Do you still love Michael?”
“Oui.” He leaned to his right, turning to face me. “It is different, but I don’t stop the feeling because he’s different. I’m different now also. Love is not changed.”
I looked farther to my left. Just above the buildings, the Eifel Tower loomed. It seemed deceptively close. I stepped back from the railing. “I don’t think that’s how it is for me.”
Eric followed and we began to slowly walk along the sidewalk. “How is it for you?”
I thought about the question for a moment. “I don’t really know, I guess.” I shrugged, “but it seems different than what you just described.”
“Where does the love go?”
“Isn’t that a song?” I smiled broadly. “Jesse & Trina?” I hummed some R&B and watched his perplexed reaction.
“Who are Jesse and Trina?”
I chuckled unguardedly. With Eric, the evasions were different, but always entertaining. “Never mind.” I bumped at him playfully with my shoulder. He bumped back.
We walked several blocks in silence. We passed the American Church, its neo-gothic steps lined with Sunday worshipers escaping the rigor of a morning liturgy. A thirtyish mother knelt down to retrieve a mitten that had fallen from the bouncing hand of a four or five-year old girl. “Elizabeth!” She called after the girl who was merrily dancing along the stone path. “Ecoute moi!” The woman finally got little Elizabeth’s attention and she pivoted on one foot to face her mother.
“You did not answer.” Eric spoke, continuing our pace toward nothing in particular.
“My name’s not Elizabeth.” I opened my mouth in a wide-eyed smile, gesturing with my thumb toward the young girl and her mother while turning toward Eric.
I was grateful for his smile. Always, I was grateful for his smile. He spoke with a serious inflection, “Where does the love go for you?”
I sighed and rolled my eyes, “I don’t know, Eric. It just goes somewhere far, far away.”
His response was quick and assured, “It does not.” He is a Parisian who lives in London. This allowed him to avoid sounding impudent while being assertive. Barely. “Love goes nowhere.” He stopped. A couple of steps later, I stopped as well. We were several feet apart when he continued, “You go.” His arms motioned in circles, his black coat raising, “You go, go, go, go, go. Love stays,” he pointed at me, “and you go.”
I allowed his words to settle back into the Sunday morning quiet. His arms slowly rested at his sides, his nose red from the cold and his eyes watery from the wind along the Seine. Several seconds passed before I laughed. It was irreverent and it caught Eric unaware. His expression softened and slowly, he began to laugh with me.
I stepped back to face him and pressed a fist to his chest. “How about we skip the philosophy this morning and go find a crepe stand?”
Eric put a fist to my chest, matching my stance. “Oui.”
We resumed our course into the winding streets of Paris. It was a cold, dreary morning that radiated warmth from the company of a close friend and carefree conversation. It was a morning for deep breaths and hopefulness.
Thousands of miles away, above, or beside us the world shifts. The frozen parts that stretch across the expanses of our vision are no longer as solid as they once seemed. Ice meets sun-colored horizons that are changed from our experiences. The same is life. Contrasts and currents move us in ways that we don’t always want or notice. And maybe Eric is right. Maybe love never leaves. Maybe it remains within us, a silent, powerful undercurrent waiting to thaw and carry us to the next warm place.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Eric’s Reflections
“I read his letter.” I don’t know what face he made, but I can imagine. I kept my eyes down, focused on the fork that ran across a slice of sloppy joe pizza. Eric didn’t respond. My eyebrows raised and I pursed my lips. “That’s what’s new. I saw David a few months back in Philadelphia. He gave it to me.”
More silence as I looked up to face him. The restaurant was quiet. It was a contrast to the packed street just a few steps from the door. Oxford Street was cold. It was also completely filled from one side to the other with Londoners looking for after-Christmas sales at Marks & Spencer, House of Fraser and all of the boutiques that line it.
“Meet me at Duke and Oxford?” Eric had asked/ordered when I’d called him from my hotel in Kensington a few hours earlier. Just over a year had passed since anything that might have been happening between us ended in a scrambled message to London.
“I know it wouldn’t have been simple.” He crossed his arms and leaned forward on the table pushing his plate forward. I continued, “It’s not life that’s complicated, but living it will fuck you over.”
Eric’s head tilted, “How long has it been?”
Indirectly, I answered his question, “He would have been thirty-five December 26th.” I shook my head gently, “It’s difficult to wrap my mind around that,” a pause, “Maybe because it reminds me that I’m not twenty-three, that a decade has passed and it’s hard to know what parts of it were real.”
“What parts feel real?” His feet stretched out and wrapped around one of mine.
I glanced at another couple at a table across the restaurant. They might have been in their early twenties. She kept a scarf tied tightly around her neck, her chocolate hair pulled into a casual ponytail. He reached across the table and stole a bite from her plate. She lowered her shoulders in mock exasperation and smiled at him.
“The parts with people?” It was a question to myself. I turned my attention back to Eric, “Strange thing for a guy who’s alone.” I was quiet for several seconds. “Mostly alone.”
He reached under the narrow table, leaning forward more and placing his hands on either side of my knee. “You are not alone now.”
I grinned gently. “You know…” I breathed in deeply, “I came to London to be alone.”
He didn’t miss a beat. “Not true.” My face responded for me. Eric continued, “Why did you call me?”
Would there be bad stuff now? Was Eric angry? Instead of asking him directly, “What?”
“You called me so you can’t be alone.”
My turn, “Why did you want to see me?”
He straightened back in his chair and seemed to ponder the question before answering, “I think I missed you.”
“You think you missed me?” It was a response that required deciphering.
“You are not so messed up or bad as you say.” He put his hands underneath him and raised his shoulders. “You care about people and I think it hurts you to do this sometimes.”
“Eric,” I responded with a surprised expression, “I am not very careful with people’s feelings.” My voice was softer now and my forehead furrowed as I felt my words climb out of the buried places we push away from our consciousness, “I have hurt people that I care the most about.”
A shift in the conversation was splattered on his face. “Let’s go.” Eric stood abruptly and started to maneuver into his coat. It was an unexpected transition. I stood and followed his lead. A few minutes later, we were walking along the crowded, cold side streets of Piccadilly Circus.
As we neared the roundabout, Eric’s gloved hand reached out for mine. I looked down at our hands, then up to him. He was moving ahead, eyes forward. I remembered Fuencarral in Madrid and how quickly he’d moved through the city. I warmed inside, allowing someone to take the lead. I was turned around, and didn’t care at all.
We stopped in front of a Puma store. The crowds had thinned and the centuries-old street curved before us, the tall narrow buildings making the place oddly quiet. Eric turned to look at me with a smile.
“Why are we stopping?” I asked, watching my words crystallize in the frozen air.
“I wanted to show you this place.”
I looked around wondering what I was missing. “The Puma store?”
He reached forward with resting his hands on my head. He was poised to lay hands on me as though we were at a Christian revival in Alabama. “This is where I broke my heart for the very first time.” I looked at him quizzically, silently soliciting him to continue.
He moved a step away from me and faced the opposite side of the street. “I came to London to be with him. I left Paris, my family, all to be with him.” He turned back toward me and the Puma store. “This is where he worked.”
“You never told me this.” I stepped forward toward him. “I thought you came here for your job.”
“Non.” He was French again, “The job was after.”
“What happened?”
Eric shrugged, “He didn’t love me. He told me right here after his work.”
“What did you do?”
His head cocked to the side, his eyebrows raising, “I cried.”
I smiled, “After you cried?”
“I found work and tried not to see him.” We started walking again, slower than we had before. “It was difficult because I lived with him.”
I winced, “Yikes.”
“Yikes, yes. It was a sad time for me, but it is good that it happened.” I wasn’t sure where this would go. There were a couple of directions Eric could be going. “That’s not like it was for you with Tyler.” We’d crossed through to a busier street and Eric was watching the traffic looking for a cab. He stopped against the curb and turned to me. “I think love is water, ami.”
“Water?”
He turned again to hail a taxi that pulled up to the curb. “You have to drink it, but be careful not to drown.” He opened the door to the cab and stepped inside.
We settled into the warmth of the car. I watched the lights of London speed past us as we headed to Kensington. My hand moved slowly across the seat between us, stopping at Eric’s leg. We looked at each other through the reflection in the window as he took my hand again.
“He loved you, Eric.” His eyes steadied in the reflection as he squeezed my hand.
More silence as I looked up to face him. The restaurant was quiet. It was a contrast to the packed street just a few steps from the door. Oxford Street was cold. It was also completely filled from one side to the other with Londoners looking for after-Christmas sales at Marks & Spencer, House of Fraser and all of the boutiques that line it.
“Meet me at Duke and Oxford?” Eric had asked/ordered when I’d called him from my hotel in Kensington a few hours earlier. Just over a year had passed since anything that might have been happening between us ended in a scrambled message to London.
“I know it wouldn’t have been simple.” He crossed his arms and leaned forward on the table pushing his plate forward. I continued, “It’s not life that’s complicated, but living it will fuck you over.”
Eric’s head tilted, “How long has it been?”
Indirectly, I answered his question, “He would have been thirty-five December 26th.” I shook my head gently, “It’s difficult to wrap my mind around that,” a pause, “Maybe because it reminds me that I’m not twenty-three, that a decade has passed and it’s hard to know what parts of it were real.”
“What parts feel real?” His feet stretched out and wrapped around one of mine.
I glanced at another couple at a table across the restaurant. They might have been in their early twenties. She kept a scarf tied tightly around her neck, her chocolate hair pulled into a casual ponytail. He reached across the table and stole a bite from her plate. She lowered her shoulders in mock exasperation and smiled at him.
“The parts with people?” It was a question to myself. I turned my attention back to Eric, “Strange thing for a guy who’s alone.” I was quiet for several seconds. “Mostly alone.”
He reached under the narrow table, leaning forward more and placing his hands on either side of my knee. “You are not alone now.”
I grinned gently. “You know…” I breathed in deeply, “I came to London to be alone.”
He didn’t miss a beat. “Not true.” My face responded for me. Eric continued, “Why did you call me?”
Would there be bad stuff now? Was Eric angry? Instead of asking him directly, “What?”
“You called me so you can’t be alone.”
My turn, “Why did you want to see me?”
He straightened back in his chair and seemed to ponder the question before answering, “I think I missed you.”
“You think you missed me?” It was a response that required deciphering.
“You are not so messed up or bad as you say.” He put his hands underneath him and raised his shoulders. “You care about people and I think it hurts you to do this sometimes.”
“Eric,” I responded with a surprised expression, “I am not very careful with people’s feelings.” My voice was softer now and my forehead furrowed as I felt my words climb out of the buried places we push away from our consciousness, “I have hurt people that I care the most about.”
A shift in the conversation was splattered on his face. “Let’s go.” Eric stood abruptly and started to maneuver into his coat. It was an unexpected transition. I stood and followed his lead. A few minutes later, we were walking along the crowded, cold side streets of Piccadilly Circus.
As we neared the roundabout, Eric’s gloved hand reached out for mine. I looked down at our hands, then up to him. He was moving ahead, eyes forward. I remembered Fuencarral in Madrid and how quickly he’d moved through the city. I warmed inside, allowing someone to take the lead. I was turned around, and didn’t care at all.
We stopped in front of a Puma store. The crowds had thinned and the centuries-old street curved before us, the tall narrow buildings making the place oddly quiet. Eric turned to look at me with a smile.
“Why are we stopping?” I asked, watching my words crystallize in the frozen air.
“I wanted to show you this place.”
I looked around wondering what I was missing. “The Puma store?”
He reached forward with resting his hands on my head. He was poised to lay hands on me as though we were at a Christian revival in Alabama. “This is where I broke my heart for the very first time.” I looked at him quizzically, silently soliciting him to continue.
He moved a step away from me and faced the opposite side of the street. “I came to London to be with him. I left Paris, my family, all to be with him.” He turned back toward me and the Puma store. “This is where he worked.”
“You never told me this.” I stepped forward toward him. “I thought you came here for your job.”
“Non.” He was French again, “The job was after.”
“What happened?”
Eric shrugged, “He didn’t love me. He told me right here after his work.”
“What did you do?”
His head cocked to the side, his eyebrows raising, “I cried.”
I smiled, “After you cried?”
“I found work and tried not to see him.” We started walking again, slower than we had before. “It was difficult because I lived with him.”
I winced, “Yikes.”
“Yikes, yes. It was a sad time for me, but it is good that it happened.” I wasn’t sure where this would go. There were a couple of directions Eric could be going. “That’s not like it was for you with Tyler.” We’d crossed through to a busier street and Eric was watching the traffic looking for a cab. He stopped against the curb and turned to me. “I think love is water, ami.”
“Water?”
He turned again to hail a taxi that pulled up to the curb. “You have to drink it, but be careful not to drown.” He opened the door to the cab and stepped inside.
We settled into the warmth of the car. I watched the lights of London speed past us as we headed to Kensington. My hand moved slowly across the seat between us, stopping at Eric’s leg. We looked at each other through the reflection in the window as he took my hand again.
“He loved you, Eric.” His eyes steadied in the reflection as he squeezed my hand.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Looking for Michael
8:23pm
His skin was soft. It was young and unblemished. The lights from Times Square danced across it, showing the goose bumps that rose along his shoulders and chest. Neither of us spoke as he moved slowly forward. He stopped just in front of me, holding my eyes with his own.
His hand reached for mine and brought it slowly to him. He pressed his fingers into my palm, opening my hand and resting it above his heart. His skin was warm. I felt the steady drumming beneath his skin; felt my breath move in and out in disquieted rhythm.
He reached around me and pulled himself into me tightly. His head laid on my shoulder and I ran my free hand along the dip of his spine until I met the prickly hairs where his head and neck met. I could smell the shampoo in his hair and I breathed in the flowery newness of it.
10:07pm
“Are you thirsty?” He reached across me to get the glass of water on the nightstand. He laid himself across my chest and drank. The heavy condensation that collected on the glass as the ice had melted dripped slowly onto my skin. I chilled from the sensation of his warmth and the cold water.
He set the empty glass back on the table, but didn’t move. The sheets were tangled under him leaving his back and ass exposed. He was completely unabashed, unfettered and simple. He smiled at me, resting his head on the shoulder propped up next to me. I closed my eyes and extracted my left arm from under him, laying it on the small of his back.
“Comfortable?” He ran his right hand along the stubble on my chin.
I smiled in response. “Are you?”
“Uh huh.” He pried at my eyelids, “Open up.” I did, and enjoyed the glow of the perfect teeth exposed by his smile.
“How are you not with someone tonight?” I asked.
He crinkled his eyes together, “I am.”
Although it was pretty much a perfect answer that made me swoon just a bit, “I mean someone else. A boyfriend, or friends or whatever.”
“Well,” he leaned closer, “I don’t have a boyfriend, and my friends don’t do this.” He drew forward and bit gently at my neck.
I drew up in response and he laughed lightly. “You could do better, Michael.” I moved beneath him, rolling him onto his back. He pulled the sheets and blanket up to his waist and nestled into my side. “Says you. I’m having a good time."
I hesitated, but asked the question anyway. “Why?”
“What?”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why are you having a good time?” I could feel his head move to look at my face. I kept my eyes toward the ceiling.
“I guess what we just did was fun, wasn’t it?”
“Yah, but I mean you’re a good looking guy who lives in Manhattan.”
“So? You’re a good looking guy who lives in Kansas or wherever.”
“Missouri.”
“Missouri. It’s still a weird question.” He moved his head back to my chest and crossed an arm over my stomach.
We lay in quiet for several minutes. I felt his breath regulate with mine, or mine regulate with his. His fingers stopped moving along my skin and I thought he’d gone to sleep.
He was very still when he spoke. “You looked at me.” His voice had been a whisper and I let it settle for several seconds.
“Hmm?”
He spoke more clearly, but in silent, stalwart tones. “You looked at me. In the store, in your hotel, during… you looked at me.” I left the silence, hoping he would go on. After a minute or so, “No one does that. Not really. Not without wanting something. When you look at me, you’re like looking for me.”
Quietly, "I don't mean to be... creepy."
Michael reached beside me to fold his hand in mine. “I like that you look for me.”
I turned my head toward the lights of New York and the world beyond it that soared in echoes of indigo emotions and souls wanting so much to be found. My eyes pooled as I squeezed the hand of a twenty-three year-old who understood what it is to be noticed and thought of and for even four hours in a cold December, to be held to and cared after.
11:48pm
“My flight’s at two o’clock.”
“So this is it ‘til next time?”
I pulled his jacket off the back of the sofa and handed it to him. “Next time?” I smiled.
He stretched himself into the thin black leather of the jacket, lining up the red and white stripes and ran down the arms with his wrists. “You’re coming back, right?"
“I’ll be back sometime in January or February.” He smiled back. When he smiles his bottom lip sticks forward.
He leaned forward and laid the palm of his right hand flat against the top of my head. He touched his nose to mine, “Sure?”
“Sure.” I grinned back.
He moved to the door and stepped into the hallway. I followed with one hand on the latch. He turned and we kissed. Without another word, he moved down the hallway to the elevators.
His skin was soft. It was young and unblemished. The lights from Times Square danced across it, showing the goose bumps that rose along his shoulders and chest. Neither of us spoke as he moved slowly forward. He stopped just in front of me, holding my eyes with his own.
His hand reached for mine and brought it slowly to him. He pressed his fingers into my palm, opening my hand and resting it above his heart. His skin was warm. I felt the steady drumming beneath his skin; felt my breath move in and out in disquieted rhythm.
He reached around me and pulled himself into me tightly. His head laid on my shoulder and I ran my free hand along the dip of his spine until I met the prickly hairs where his head and neck met. I could smell the shampoo in his hair and I breathed in the flowery newness of it.
10:07pm
“Are you thirsty?” He reached across me to get the glass of water on the nightstand. He laid himself across my chest and drank. The heavy condensation that collected on the glass as the ice had melted dripped slowly onto my skin. I chilled from the sensation of his warmth and the cold water.
He set the empty glass back on the table, but didn’t move. The sheets were tangled under him leaving his back and ass exposed. He was completely unabashed, unfettered and simple. He smiled at me, resting his head on the shoulder propped up next to me. I closed my eyes and extracted my left arm from under him, laying it on the small of his back.
“Comfortable?” He ran his right hand along the stubble on my chin.
I smiled in response. “Are you?”
“Uh huh.” He pried at my eyelids, “Open up.” I did, and enjoyed the glow of the perfect teeth exposed by his smile.
“How are you not with someone tonight?” I asked.
He crinkled his eyes together, “I am.”
Although it was pretty much a perfect answer that made me swoon just a bit, “I mean someone else. A boyfriend, or friends or whatever.”
“Well,” he leaned closer, “I don’t have a boyfriend, and my friends don’t do this.” He drew forward and bit gently at my neck.
I drew up in response and he laughed lightly. “You could do better, Michael.” I moved beneath him, rolling him onto his back. He pulled the sheets and blanket up to his waist and nestled into my side. “Says you. I’m having a good time."
I hesitated, but asked the question anyway. “Why?”
“What?”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why are you having a good time?” I could feel his head move to look at my face. I kept my eyes toward the ceiling.
“I guess what we just did was fun, wasn’t it?”
“Yah, but I mean you’re a good looking guy who lives in Manhattan.”
“So? You’re a good looking guy who lives in Kansas or wherever.”
“Missouri.”
“Missouri. It’s still a weird question.” He moved his head back to my chest and crossed an arm over my stomach.
We lay in quiet for several minutes. I felt his breath regulate with mine, or mine regulate with his. His fingers stopped moving along my skin and I thought he’d gone to sleep.
He was very still when he spoke. “You looked at me.” His voice had been a whisper and I let it settle for several seconds.
“Hmm?”
He spoke more clearly, but in silent, stalwart tones. “You looked at me. In the store, in your hotel, during… you looked at me.” I left the silence, hoping he would go on. After a minute or so, “No one does that. Not really. Not without wanting something. When you look at me, you’re like looking for me.”
Quietly, "I don't mean to be... creepy."
Michael reached beside me to fold his hand in mine. “I like that you look for me.”
I turned my head toward the lights of New York and the world beyond it that soared in echoes of indigo emotions and souls wanting so much to be found. My eyes pooled as I squeezed the hand of a twenty-three year-old who understood what it is to be noticed and thought of and for even four hours in a cold December, to be held to and cared after.
11:48pm
“My flight’s at two o’clock.”
“So this is it ‘til next time?”
I pulled his jacket off the back of the sofa and handed it to him. “Next time?” I smiled.
He stretched himself into the thin black leather of the jacket, lining up the red and white stripes and ran down the arms with his wrists. “You’re coming back, right?"
“I’ll be back sometime in January or February.” He smiled back. When he smiles his bottom lip sticks forward.
He leaned forward and laid the palm of his right hand flat against the top of my head. He touched his nose to mine, “Sure?”
“Sure.” I grinned back.
He moved to the door and stepped into the hallway. I followed with one hand on the latch. He turned and we kissed. Without another word, he moved down the hallway to the elevators.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Everything Since
The setting was familiar. It had become something I’d known – expected for three years. It was the same autumn in Washington, the same shifting season and falling memories. The trees were almost bare and the joggers along Constitution were wrapped in warm wear.
“Do you remember that song More Than This?” We sat on a bench across from the Treasury and watched several soccer teams start to form in the park. I turned a fallen maple leaf in my fingers.
“I think so.”
“There’s this line in the song about falling leaves.” I turned to face him, “About how they can’t say where they’re blowing.”
“Sing it.” His voice was soft. I winced. “Please?” I glanced around to ensure that no one was within hearing distance. I sang a couple of lines, only the ones that were pertinent. His eyes were steady. “Is that you?”
“The song, or the leaf?” I held the leaf out to him.
Taking it from me, he answered, “The song, the leaves. Is it you right now?” I was quiet, unsure how to answer. “It seems like you.” He traced the leaf across my eyebrow and I closed my eyes in response. “Unsure where you’re going.”
I smiled slightly, “What’s new, right?”
My eyes were still closed, but I could hear his smile in the October breeze.. “Well?” I noticed my breath. It was still with him. I was always ready for the next breath with JAG.
“Probably.” I opened my eyes to him. His face was how I always see it; shadows of light in Washington. I’m trying not to be tedious. Really.”
His smile grew and he patted my left leg with his hand, leaving it on my knee. “I don’t enjoy spending time with you because you’re uncomplicated.” He squeezed my knee gently, “You help me feel better about being complicated.”
I rested my left hand on top of his. “Thanks.”
He turned his head to me. “For all of it.” He whispered into my ear and I felt his sunburned lips, “For that.”
He pulled closer to me and held my hand, leaning forward to face the ground. “What are you doing, John?”
I knew the question from the thousand times I’d posed it to myself. I let his settle on the room for a moment, not wanting to step out of the perfect moment that was happening. But perfect moments end and that’s what helps us to remember and recognize them. “I’m waiting, I think.”
“When will you stop waiting?”
“The thing is, I don’t like to cry and that’s happened this year for the first time in a decade.” I felt the knot in my throat that had reasserted itself. “I’m trying to hold it all together.”
“For who? For what?” He paused and drew breath. “Damn. You’ve got your controls locked so tight, but it hasn’t worked for you for how long, now?” His tone wasn’t accusatory. It was a question that wasn’t new and one that JAG could get away with because of it.
“For whatever’s next, I guess.”
“Are you going to know what’s next when you find it?” I was tired. In every way that it’s possible, I was tired. I remained quiet. “Can I tell you something without you getting angry?”
“Probably not,” I nudged him with my elbow, “but when did that start to matter?”
“I think you let yourself die ten years ago. Everything since then has been for everyone but you.” When I didn’t respond he drew up and released my hand. “I’ve tried to get in there,” he pressed his hand into my chest, squeezing gently, “but I don’t know if there’s a way, anymore. It makes me sad because I believe it’s a good place to be, John.”
My eyes were filled with all of the reasons why I’m pathetic and broken. I managed a quiet, “I’m so sorry.” I turned my head into the wind, hoping the cold breeze would stop the pools that were ready to flood my eyes.
He leaned forward on the bench, “Hey, I’m not looking for an apology, John.” He reached for my chin and turned my head to face him. “I’m pulling for you.” He pressed a thumb at the base of my eye and wiped at it. “I wish this didn’t live inside of you and around us.”
Groaning with frustration, I reached up quickly and wiped at my eyes. I felt completely exposed and foolish. “This is so completely stupid. I’m just so sick of me.” I looked at him and felt a rush of embarrassment. “Can we please just be quiet together for awhile?”
He answered by straightening up and wrapping an arm around me. We sat there in silence, JAG wanting to find a way into a place that probably doesn’t exist anymore, and me trying to find a way out of a place that was never as perfect as I’ve wanted it to be.
“Do you remember that song More Than This?” We sat on a bench across from the Treasury and watched several soccer teams start to form in the park. I turned a fallen maple leaf in my fingers.
“I think so.”
“There’s this line in the song about falling leaves.” I turned to face him, “About how they can’t say where they’re blowing.”
“Sing it.” His voice was soft. I winced. “Please?” I glanced around to ensure that no one was within hearing distance. I sang a couple of lines, only the ones that were pertinent. His eyes were steady. “Is that you?”
“The song, or the leaf?” I held the leaf out to him.
Taking it from me, he answered, “The song, the leaves. Is it you right now?” I was quiet, unsure how to answer. “It seems like you.” He traced the leaf across my eyebrow and I closed my eyes in response. “Unsure where you’re going.”
I smiled slightly, “What’s new, right?”
My eyes were still closed, but I could hear his smile in the October breeze.. “Well?” I noticed my breath. It was still with him. I was always ready for the next breath with JAG.
“Probably.” I opened my eyes to him. His face was how I always see it; shadows of light in Washington. I’m trying not to be tedious. Really.”
His smile grew and he patted my left leg with his hand, leaving it on my knee. “I don’t enjoy spending time with you because you’re uncomplicated.” He squeezed my knee gently, “You help me feel better about being complicated.”
I rested my left hand on top of his. “Thanks.”
He turned his head to me. “For all of it.” He whispered into my ear and I felt his sunburned lips, “For that.”
He pulled closer to me and held my hand, leaning forward to face the ground. “What are you doing, John?”
I knew the question from the thousand times I’d posed it to myself. I let his settle on the room for a moment, not wanting to step out of the perfect moment that was happening. But perfect moments end and that’s what helps us to remember and recognize them. “I’m waiting, I think.”
“When will you stop waiting?”
“The thing is, I don’t like to cry and that’s happened this year for the first time in a decade.” I felt the knot in my throat that had reasserted itself. “I’m trying to hold it all together.”
“For who? For what?” He paused and drew breath. “Damn. You’ve got your controls locked so tight, but it hasn’t worked for you for how long, now?” His tone wasn’t accusatory. It was a question that wasn’t new and one that JAG could get away with because of it.
“For whatever’s next, I guess.”
“Are you going to know what’s next when you find it?” I was tired. In every way that it’s possible, I was tired. I remained quiet. “Can I tell you something without you getting angry?”
“Probably not,” I nudged him with my elbow, “but when did that start to matter?”
“I think you let yourself die ten years ago. Everything since then has been for everyone but you.” When I didn’t respond he drew up and released my hand. “I’ve tried to get in there,” he pressed his hand into my chest, squeezing gently, “but I don’t know if there’s a way, anymore. It makes me sad because I believe it’s a good place to be, John.”
My eyes were filled with all of the reasons why I’m pathetic and broken. I managed a quiet, “I’m so sorry.” I turned my head into the wind, hoping the cold breeze would stop the pools that were ready to flood my eyes.
He leaned forward on the bench, “Hey, I’m not looking for an apology, John.” He reached for my chin and turned my head to face him. “I’m pulling for you.” He pressed a thumb at the base of my eye and wiped at it. “I wish this didn’t live inside of you and around us.”
Groaning with frustration, I reached up quickly and wiped at my eyes. I felt completely exposed and foolish. “This is so completely stupid. I’m just so sick of me.” I looked at him and felt a rush of embarrassment. “Can we please just be quiet together for awhile?”
He answered by straightening up and wrapping an arm around me. We sat there in silence, JAG wanting to find a way into a place that probably doesn’t exist anymore, and me trying to find a way out of a place that was never as perfect as I’ve wanted it to be.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Shakespear's Ambassadors
Lunch today happened at Shakespeare's Pizza at the corner of Elm and 9th Streets downtown. The place serves pizza and undergraduate attitude, both of which are institutions in Columbia. The building has concrete floors, vintage roadside advertisements, shop towel napkins and a line out the door from noon to 2pm.
The group I sat with took up half of the backroom. One veggie, one works, one cheese, one venerable pepperoni surrounded by three Danes, one Aussie, one Scot, one Spaniard, one Argentine, one New Zealander and one American who felt incredibly old. Try explaining parmesan cheese that can be sprinkled out of a jar to ninteen-year-olds who come from countries that have banned geneticly modified crops.
Highlights:
"I'm not sure. I don't really know how to ride a bike." Blank stares from ten internationals. "I can ride a bike. I just can't turn corners."
"Try not to get sick while you're here. It's terribly expensive and very difficult to work into your schedule."
"I mean it's Florida. No one but Paris Hilton and the Bush family pay it too much attention."
"Cities and wastelines in America both started expanding uncontrollably during the Johnson Administration. That's what comes of a Texan in the White House, I suppose."
"Most movie theaters don't sell sushi rolls. We favor Mike 'N Ikes and popcorn here."
"People in the States just don't seem to pay that much attention to protests anymore." A drink of pink lemonade. "They went out of fashion when Disco hit."
"No, there shouldn't be any tornados during the fall semester. Unless you happen upon a semi-annual white sale at Neiman's. That's unlikely, but I can provide survival tips if you do."
"In fact, Columbia is nothing like Amsterdam."
"You'll need to ask a man who doesn't date other men what precisely happens at a tailgating party. I'm certain it's not the same thing as the guy in North St. Louis who sells Prada from the trunk of his '89 Oldmobile Cutlass, but everyone's game day takes on a personal flavor. No judgement."
"Please don't go to Tijuana. Or Alabama. Too be safe, just don't go past Jefferson City."
On overcast days in the middle of America, I'm lucky to have a job that reminds me of how wonderfully different we are. I'm even more lucky to see that even when those ways are difficult to explain or are disappointing, we still have the opportunity to smile at them. While I'm certain I'd be a horrible choice for an ambassadorial appointment, for the past several years, I've been able to view the world through the laughter and insights of young, questioning, hopeful students. When it happens over pizza, the universe is absolutely right for as long as the pepperoni holds out.
The group I sat with took up half of the backroom. One veggie, one works, one cheese, one venerable pepperoni surrounded by three Danes, one Aussie, one Scot, one Spaniard, one Argentine, one New Zealander and one American who felt incredibly old. Try explaining parmesan cheese that can be sprinkled out of a jar to ninteen-year-olds who come from countries that have banned geneticly modified crops.
Highlights:
"I'm not sure. I don't really know how to ride a bike." Blank stares from ten internationals. "I can ride a bike. I just can't turn corners."
"Try not to get sick while you're here. It's terribly expensive and very difficult to work into your schedule."
"I mean it's Florida. No one but Paris Hilton and the Bush family pay it too much attention."
"Cities and wastelines in America both started expanding uncontrollably during the Johnson Administration. That's what comes of a Texan in the White House, I suppose."
"Most movie theaters don't sell sushi rolls. We favor Mike 'N Ikes and popcorn here."
"People in the States just don't seem to pay that much attention to protests anymore." A drink of pink lemonade. "They went out of fashion when Disco hit."
"No, there shouldn't be any tornados during the fall semester. Unless you happen upon a semi-annual white sale at Neiman's. That's unlikely, but I can provide survival tips if you do."
"In fact, Columbia is nothing like Amsterdam."
"You'll need to ask a man who doesn't date other men what precisely happens at a tailgating party. I'm certain it's not the same thing as the guy in North St. Louis who sells Prada from the trunk of his '89 Oldmobile Cutlass, but everyone's game day takes on a personal flavor. No judgement."
"Please don't go to Tijuana. Or Alabama. Too be safe, just don't go past Jefferson City."
On overcast days in the middle of America, I'm lucky to have a job that reminds me of how wonderfully different we are. I'm even more lucky to see that even when those ways are difficult to explain or are disappointing, we still have the opportunity to smile at them. While I'm certain I'd be a horrible choice for an ambassadorial appointment, for the past several years, I've been able to view the world through the laughter and insights of young, questioning, hopeful students. When it happens over pizza, the universe is absolutely right for as long as the pepperoni holds out.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Times Squared - August 1, 2009
"I’m just getting off the elevator. It’s 32-07, right?”
“Yah. I walked to the door and looked through the peephole into the corridor as I ended the call. He was two steps away when I turned the latch and pulled.
“It’s so humid out there.” Was he more animated than he’d been that morning? He moved into the room as I shut the door behind him and followed. “I love this hotel.” He was looking onto Times Square below. The floor-to-ceiling windows glowed with moving lights.
He turned from the windows, moving to where I stood in front of the sofa. He set his iPod and billfold on the coffee table then put an arm around my waist and pulled me into a kiss. I closed my eyes for a second and let myself feel a memory that he didn’t.
When he stopped kissing me, he smiled and pulled on the collar of my white shirt. “That was nice.” I didn’t speak. His fingers moved from my collar to the buttons that ran along the front of my shirt. He pulled gently at the first three. I wasn’t looking at him and he paused to pull my glance into his. He curled one corner of his mouth into a grin and kissed me quickly.
* * * * * *
Train 2251 departed Penn Station in New York at noon. I’d walked the ten or so blocks along 7th Avenue from my hotel. Each step was another opportunity to turn around, to pretend that I wasn’t exploding with thoughts of my past and what I would find in Philadelphia.
I stood on the cracked concrete outside the train station. There was a teenage couple leaning against a low wall. I couldn’t tell if one of them was leaving. He leaned into her for a kiss, pausing to gently brush aside the strands of hair that played in the city breeze. I closed my eyes for a moment and remembered.
An hour and fifteen minutes later, the train delivered its passengers to Philadelphia. The air was sticky and thick outside 30th Street Station. I climbed into the back of a dark blue cab. “Eighteen thirty-five Arch Street, please.” The driver muttered a response and maneuvered the taxi into light Saturday traffic.
The city was hazy with early afternoon on the first day of August. I leaned into the seat and wondered how random life is. Atlanta, Chicago, St. Louis, Pensacola… Philadelphia. It was a strange city for Tyler to tell me goodbye.
* * * * * *
"You can pay for that back here.” The guy behind the counter was around my height, thin with dark blonde hair and an easy smile. I swooned a little.
“Thanks.” I crossed to the back of the store where he was positioned behind a small counter.
Rainbows & Triangles is a gay bookstore on 8th Avenue in Chelsea. The owner is a trippy bear with a goatee and fantastic taste in music. The front part of the store is dedicated to carrying out the mission implied by the name of the place. The walls and shelves are lined with pride stickers, patches, candles, flags, underwear, candy and so on. The main counter is along the north wall of the shop and there were two cubs engaged in a serious conversation with the silver daddy at the register.
I rested the book I’d selected on the counter. The clerk was now bent over behind the counter searching for something in a box that looked like it had been recently delivered. His voice was muffled, “Sorry… just a sec.”
“No worries,” I replied. His t-shirt was coming up his back exposing smooth, (not overly) tan skin. There was a small mole just above his waistline to the left of his spine. I wondered if he’d had it checked out.
As I was contemplating his possible melanoma, he rose suddenly with an armful of plastic bags. He’d caught me looking at him and he flashed a knowing grin. “Find what you wanted?”
“Yep.” I was noticeably casual.
He picked up the book and flipped it over to the back. “Band Fags!” the name of the book. “He’s been in here.” I looked to my right with puzzled eyebrows, not following.
He placed the book on the counter, opened the back cover and pointed to the author’s photograph. “The author. Frank Anthony whatever.” He closed the book and handed it to me. “He’s been in here before.”
“Really.” I said because I didn’t know what else to say. I hadn’t read the author before but I liked the declarative tone of title. It was solid and definitive; both qualities appealed to me that morning.
* * * * * *
He walked back to the windows and pulled the sheer curtains closed on the city. My voice was nervous when it sounded, “Do you want something to drink?” I crossed to a table in the corner of the room. “I have water.”
“Out of the tap is fine. The bottled stuff’s expensive.” He’d stepped out of his sandals.
“It’s okay,” I said, turning the cap off of a bottle of Evian. I pulled a handful of ice from the bucket I’d filled thirty minutes earlier. They clinked loudly as they bounced into a glass tumbler. The water cracked the frozen cubes as it rushed to the bottom of the glass to consume the coldness of the ice. I handed him the glass and felt the charged warmth of his fingers as they brushed mine.
I listened to the sounds of his body consuming the water; watched the movement of his throat as it gulped. The room was still with silent sounds of intimacy. The unnoticeable became vibrant with the brushing sounds of skin against fabric, mouth against glass and the humming city beneath us.
He finished his drink and set the glass on the table. Straightening, he removed his watch. It was green rubber, meant for running. His yellow t-shirt came off next. I turned toward the one lamp that was lighting the room. “Do you mind if I turn off the lamp?”
“That’s fine,” he shrugged. It was all so careless.
My fingers were cold. They struggled for a second under the shade before I remembered that the light switch was on the base of the lamp. I flicked it off before turning to face him. The room was blue with the illumination of the streets of Manhattan. He stood in the middle of it, twenty-two and living.
* * * * * *
“Yes?”
“Hey, this is John. I’m in the lobby.”
“Great. I’ll be right down.”
The building was beautiful. The exterior was brick and stone, a memory of the way that cities were built before they became disposable. Inside, the marble was light and polished, with shining fixtures and wood fittings. I stood just past the elevators and tried to check e-mail on my phone. My fingers were too cold to manipulate the tiny keys.
I heard the elevator doors open and I looked up. Dave hadn’t changed much. He was still beautiful with olive skin and gleaming black hair that curled slightly at the ends. He spotted me with a smile and I noticed there were a few more lines along his eyes than there had been seven years ago.
“John!” He was on me with a hug. I closed my eyes and smelled Atlanta and Brian and Tyler and happiness. Pulling back, he kept his hands clasped on my shoulders in a fraternal kind of posture. It fit. He and my cousin had felt more like brothers to me for years.
His eyes searched mine; mine his. “It’s good to see you.” He hadn’t stopped smiling.
I felt a sudden, uncontrollable surge of emotion and memory. I inhaled deeply before speaking, trying to keep myself contained. “You look great, Dave. Really, just… you look…” I felt myself falling, trembling and coming apart. Tears were forming and I was struggling to stop the heated streams that fought to break from wells in my eyes.
Dave didn’t falter. “Let’s go upstairs.” He pulled me into the elevator like a wounded patient under the care of a physician.
He pushed the button for the twelfth floor and seconds later the doors closed. “I’m so sorry, Dave.” I was embarrassed and sloppy with him. “I started a few months ago,” I explained with a glance of shame and bewilderment, “and I can’t stop. Anything. Anything sets this off.”
He enclosed me in another hug. “Hey, it’s okay, John.” My face was pressed into the space where his shoulder and neck meet. “It’s okay. I’m glad you’re here.” The time, the distance didn’t matter.
* * * * * *
I shook my head, “No worries.” Hadn’t I already said that? “Go ahead.”
He smiled cutely. “Cool. I’ll just be a second.”
While he was assisting the guy at the computer, I noticed the music that was playing. The song had just changed from Melissa Manchester to Dionne Warwick’s I’ll Never Love This Way Again. I smiled at the image it brought to mind of a drag queen I’d seen perform the song at a club in Portland. It’s a torch song that still calls to the most hopeful of sequined chanteuses. I sang along quietly as I glanced through a trade magazine on the counter.
“You like that?” The young clerk had returned. He’d forgone his position on the other side of the counter to lean against it next to me.
I’m sure I blushed. My pigment declares every emotion I posses. “It’s a great song.” I admitted with an apologetic glance.
“Hmm. This CD’s a new one.” He turned to lean his back against the counter facing the opposite direction toward the front of the store. He pointed at the owner with a nod. “He makes his own mixes and plays them over and over and over.” His head and eyes had rolled in-time with his speech to drive the point home.
The left side of his face pulled upward, “Still, it could be worse.” Moving behind me to resume his post at the register he patted my forearm, “It could be country.”
Goosebumps appeared on the skin he’d touched. “Sounds like a trip.”
“He has his moments.” He cocked his head, shifting gears. “Where you from?”
I grinned, “What if I told you I’m a local.”
“Really?”
I chuckled, “No. I’m from Missouri.”
“Missouri?” He smiled, “Like Kansas?”
I laughed, “Something like that.”
“That’s cool, I guess.”
“You guess?”
He was ringing up my book. “Yah, you know like farm boys and stuff. It’s sixteen forty-seven.” I handed him my debit card. “I’m from L.A., so I never really got to see much outside of city and beach.”
“How long have you been in New York?” I asked.
“I came here for school. I just graduated NYU in May.” He swiped my card and handed it back to me.
“Congratulations,” I responded putting my card back into my pocket.
“Thanks.” He started to put the book into a bag.
“ I don’t need a bag.”
“Cool.” He paused and leaned against the counter. “When are you going back to Missouri?”
* * * * * *
Dave’s apartment was clean and cool. I was standing along a large window with a wide view of the city beyond. It was all so full of movement and energy. So many stories, experiences and feelings; I saw in my mind a tiny thread spinning into a glowing chord with no end.
“Here you go. No ice.” He handed me a glass of cold water.
“Thanks.” I took a long drink. The room was quiet and light. I set the glass on a coaster on top of a stone cube and crossed to an imposing book shelf. “Is this your…?” I examined a framed photograph of Dave and a fare-skinned man in front of the Duomo in Milan.
“Partner.” He finished the sentence for me. “That’s Reed.”
“Reed?” I moved to sit next to him on a long, tweed sofa.
He pulled one leg under himself and turned to face me. “We’ve been together almost four years.”
“He lives here?”
Dave smiled, “Most of the time. He’s an auditor of KPMG. He travels.”
“Are you still traveling for work?” I asked.
He shook his head, “Not as much. When I do, it usually means there’s a problem on construction or I’m being called in to help the pitch on a big project. What about you? Last I heard, you were working for Sprint.”
I raised my eyebrows at the reminder of how much the details of life have changed; mine and his. I used to know Dave. I used to play Nintendo games with him and Brian in Kansas City. We used to laugh at Daisy Duke’s cleavage and hang out at Oak Park Mall before it became massive.
“Uh, no. I left Sprint in late 2002. I’m at MU now. It’s good.” I wanted to change the subject; get to the point before he could respond with polite chat. I looked away. “So do you still have it?” It was abrupt, my statement and the change in mood.
Dave’s smile faded into something more serious. He stood and left the room without a word. I leaned forward clasping my hands and resting my elbows on my knees to steady them. Several moments later, Dave returned and sat next to me In the same position. In his hands was a small envelope. The corners were bent, but the handwriting that had spelled my name across the front was unmistakably Tyler’s. With two fingers, Dave extended the envelope to me. I took it from him and turned it in my hands feeling the cool paper and the weight of its sealed contents.
The tears were back. I tried to speak but it came out as a whisper. “Thanks.” He rested a hand on my knee and I fell apart into him. “Oh, fuck,” I choked out. Dave moved his hand and pulled me into him with his arm. “This shouldn’t matter anymore.”
To his credit, Dave was silent. He squeezed me close and let me melt. After a couple of minutes, I stood up and breathed. “My life is so completely unidentifiable from what it was – who I was then.” The tears weren’t stopping, but I was managing to keep them contained within their deep pools. I crossed to the window and looked out, refusing my own reflection. “I’m trying to fix myself and I don’t really remember what I was before I was broken.” I wiped the water from my eyes quickly. “I hate this.”
Dave stood behind me, but kept his distance. He didn’t’ speak. There was nothing to say.
“My family has shit on you, Dave.” A whisper, “I am so sorry.”
He stepped closer. “You don’t owe me that.”
“It’s just such a stupid mess. I’ve tried like hell to keep myself together; to keep moving away from this.” How had he done it? How had Dave recovered from Tyler and Brian and Atlanta? It seemed like it had never been my life, except for the hurt. The hurt was mine and I couldn’t remember what it felt like before.
His hand was warm on my back. I shivered at his touch. “I’m sorry, too.”
I turned to face him with a puzzled look, “For what?”
“I’m sorry for each of us, including Tyler. We deserved better.” I let him hold me. “You believe that?"
* * * * * *
“I’m headed to Philadelphia to see a friend this afternoon.”
He smiled with a crinkled expression that was young and so completely unfettered. “That’s cool, man. You driving down?”
I couldn’t help but smile back, “Taking the train, actually, and coming back tonight.”
He leaned forward resting his elbows on the counter across from me. “Have you been to View Bar?”
“Not this trip,” I responded knowingly.
“It seems like your scene.” He’d raised an eyebrow.
I laughed out loud, “What… is my scene?”
“You know… just kind of… laid back and relaxed.”
I winced. “I can pretty much assure you that most people who know me would not use either of those adjectives to describe me.”
He nudged my right hand on the counter with his fist before straightening back up. “Maybe you need to find new people to know you.” His hand extended toward mine, “I’m Michael.”
“John,” I said shaking his hand, “It’s good to meet you, Michael.”
He extracted his hand and still smiling, took a pen from beside the register and scribbled numbers onto a bookmark. “This is my cell.” He reached across the counter and slid the bookmark into my book. “If you get back into the city and want to hang out tonight or something.”
* * * * * *
I leaned against the window of the moving train. The glass was hot in the closing rays of the sun as it rested beyond the coast. My cold flesh consumed the heat wanting the trembling within me to subside. There were only a scattering of other passengers onboard.
I hadn’t spoken since I asked the cab driver to take me to the station in Philadelphia. The hollowness of my soul was familiar. It was the same emptiness of feeling, thought and direction that accompanies grief. It’s a complete removal from a life and universe that shattered hearts don’t often understand.
The letter was heavy in my hands. My head still against the window, I looked at it moving in my hands. I lifted it to my face and inhaled, wanting to find the familiar scent of sandalwood and Perry Ellis that I’d known for two years of impossible love. I wanted to hear the Mammas and the Papas and feel the movement of him against me. There was no scent, no music or Tyler, only more welling tears.
In a quick, unexpected movement, the letter was extracted from the envelope. My tears were unstoppable as I realized who had held the paper in my hand. I was suddenly twenty-three and the incalculable weight of the infinite was falling around me again. I leaned forward in the seat, curling into myself as tightly as I could and feeling the aloneness that surrounded me.
* * * * * *
“I didn’t bring any lube or anything.” He pulled the sheets and covers from their neat tucks and starched corners. They fell across the bench at the foot of the bed in a crumpled pile of expensive fabric, slightly worn and indistinguishable from what they’d been.
He crossed into the bathroom. “There’s good lotion in here, though.” He came out with a small, amber bottle and stood in front of the bed, in front of me. He tossed the bottle onto the bed and began removing clothes.
After pulling off my shirt and belt, he stopped to kiss me again. I exhaled when he stopped, missing the warmth of his skin against mine. My flesh rose in response to the sudden, familiar cold.
He rubbed his hands over my shoulders and arms. “You’re a good kisser.”
There was split-second, forever silence as Michael’s face, his voice became someone else’s. I whispered, “You’re so young.”
“Twenty-two.” He didn’t understand. “You’re not old, anyway. How old are you?”
I closed my eyes and tasted the hurt in my throat. “I’m ten years later.” Before he could respond, I pulled him into me and silenced him with my mouth.
“Yah. I walked to the door and looked through the peephole into the corridor as I ended the call. He was two steps away when I turned the latch and pulled.
“It’s so humid out there.” Was he more animated than he’d been that morning? He moved into the room as I shut the door behind him and followed. “I love this hotel.” He was looking onto Times Square below. The floor-to-ceiling windows glowed with moving lights.
He turned from the windows, moving to where I stood in front of the sofa. He set his iPod and billfold on the coffee table then put an arm around my waist and pulled me into a kiss. I closed my eyes for a second and let myself feel a memory that he didn’t.
When he stopped kissing me, he smiled and pulled on the collar of my white shirt. “That was nice.” I didn’t speak. His fingers moved from my collar to the buttons that ran along the front of my shirt. He pulled gently at the first three. I wasn’t looking at him and he paused to pull my glance into his. He curled one corner of his mouth into a grin and kissed me quickly.
* * * * * *
Train 2251 departed Penn Station in New York at noon. I’d walked the ten or so blocks along 7th Avenue from my hotel. Each step was another opportunity to turn around, to pretend that I wasn’t exploding with thoughts of my past and what I would find in Philadelphia.
I stood on the cracked concrete outside the train station. There was a teenage couple leaning against a low wall. I couldn’t tell if one of them was leaving. He leaned into her for a kiss, pausing to gently brush aside the strands of hair that played in the city breeze. I closed my eyes for a moment and remembered.
An hour and fifteen minutes later, the train delivered its passengers to Philadelphia. The air was sticky and thick outside 30th Street Station. I climbed into the back of a dark blue cab. “Eighteen thirty-five Arch Street, please.” The driver muttered a response and maneuvered the taxi into light Saturday traffic.
The city was hazy with early afternoon on the first day of August. I leaned into the seat and wondered how random life is. Atlanta, Chicago, St. Louis, Pensacola… Philadelphia. It was a strange city for Tyler to tell me goodbye.
* * * * * *
"You can pay for that back here.” The guy behind the counter was around my height, thin with dark blonde hair and an easy smile. I swooned a little.
“Thanks.” I crossed to the back of the store where he was positioned behind a small counter.
Rainbows & Triangles is a gay bookstore on 8th Avenue in Chelsea. The owner is a trippy bear with a goatee and fantastic taste in music. The front part of the store is dedicated to carrying out the mission implied by the name of the place. The walls and shelves are lined with pride stickers, patches, candles, flags, underwear, candy and so on. The main counter is along the north wall of the shop and there were two cubs engaged in a serious conversation with the silver daddy at the register.
I rested the book I’d selected on the counter. The clerk was now bent over behind the counter searching for something in a box that looked like it had been recently delivered. His voice was muffled, “Sorry… just a sec.”
“No worries,” I replied. His t-shirt was coming up his back exposing smooth, (not overly) tan skin. There was a small mole just above his waistline to the left of his spine. I wondered if he’d had it checked out.
As I was contemplating his possible melanoma, he rose suddenly with an armful of plastic bags. He’d caught me looking at him and he flashed a knowing grin. “Find what you wanted?”
“Yep.” I was noticeably casual.
He picked up the book and flipped it over to the back. “Band Fags!” the name of the book. “He’s been in here.” I looked to my right with puzzled eyebrows, not following.
He placed the book on the counter, opened the back cover and pointed to the author’s photograph. “The author. Frank Anthony whatever.” He closed the book and handed it to me. “He’s been in here before.”
“Really.” I said because I didn’t know what else to say. I hadn’t read the author before but I liked the declarative tone of title. It was solid and definitive; both qualities appealed to me that morning.
* * * * * *
He walked back to the windows and pulled the sheer curtains closed on the city. My voice was nervous when it sounded, “Do you want something to drink?” I crossed to a table in the corner of the room. “I have water.”
“Out of the tap is fine. The bottled stuff’s expensive.” He’d stepped out of his sandals.
“It’s okay,” I said, turning the cap off of a bottle of Evian. I pulled a handful of ice from the bucket I’d filled thirty minutes earlier. They clinked loudly as they bounced into a glass tumbler. The water cracked the frozen cubes as it rushed to the bottom of the glass to consume the coldness of the ice. I handed him the glass and felt the charged warmth of his fingers as they brushed mine.
I listened to the sounds of his body consuming the water; watched the movement of his throat as it gulped. The room was still with silent sounds of intimacy. The unnoticeable became vibrant with the brushing sounds of skin against fabric, mouth against glass and the humming city beneath us.
He finished his drink and set the glass on the table. Straightening, he removed his watch. It was green rubber, meant for running. His yellow t-shirt came off next. I turned toward the one lamp that was lighting the room. “Do you mind if I turn off the lamp?”
“That’s fine,” he shrugged. It was all so careless.
My fingers were cold. They struggled for a second under the shade before I remembered that the light switch was on the base of the lamp. I flicked it off before turning to face him. The room was blue with the illumination of the streets of Manhattan. He stood in the middle of it, twenty-two and living.
* * * * * *
“Yes?”
“Hey, this is John. I’m in the lobby.”
“Great. I’ll be right down.”
The building was beautiful. The exterior was brick and stone, a memory of the way that cities were built before they became disposable. Inside, the marble was light and polished, with shining fixtures and wood fittings. I stood just past the elevators and tried to check e-mail on my phone. My fingers were too cold to manipulate the tiny keys.
I heard the elevator doors open and I looked up. Dave hadn’t changed much. He was still beautiful with olive skin and gleaming black hair that curled slightly at the ends. He spotted me with a smile and I noticed there were a few more lines along his eyes than there had been seven years ago.
“John!” He was on me with a hug. I closed my eyes and smelled Atlanta and Brian and Tyler and happiness. Pulling back, he kept his hands clasped on my shoulders in a fraternal kind of posture. It fit. He and my cousin had felt more like brothers to me for years.
His eyes searched mine; mine his. “It’s good to see you.” He hadn’t stopped smiling.
I felt a sudden, uncontrollable surge of emotion and memory. I inhaled deeply before speaking, trying to keep myself contained. “You look great, Dave. Really, just… you look…” I felt myself falling, trembling and coming apart. Tears were forming and I was struggling to stop the heated streams that fought to break from wells in my eyes.
Dave didn’t falter. “Let’s go upstairs.” He pulled me into the elevator like a wounded patient under the care of a physician.
He pushed the button for the twelfth floor and seconds later the doors closed. “I’m so sorry, Dave.” I was embarrassed and sloppy with him. “I started a few months ago,” I explained with a glance of shame and bewilderment, “and I can’t stop. Anything. Anything sets this off.”
He enclosed me in another hug. “Hey, it’s okay, John.” My face was pressed into the space where his shoulder and neck meet. “It’s okay. I’m glad you’re here.” The time, the distance didn’t matter.
* * * * * *
I shook my head, “No worries.” Hadn’t I already said that? “Go ahead.”
He smiled cutely. “Cool. I’ll just be a second.”
While he was assisting the guy at the computer, I noticed the music that was playing. The song had just changed from Melissa Manchester to Dionne Warwick’s I’ll Never Love This Way Again. I smiled at the image it brought to mind of a drag queen I’d seen perform the song at a club in Portland. It’s a torch song that still calls to the most hopeful of sequined chanteuses. I sang along quietly as I glanced through a trade magazine on the counter.
“You like that?” The young clerk had returned. He’d forgone his position on the other side of the counter to lean against it next to me.
I’m sure I blushed. My pigment declares every emotion I posses. “It’s a great song.” I admitted with an apologetic glance.
“Hmm. This CD’s a new one.” He turned to lean his back against the counter facing the opposite direction toward the front of the store. He pointed at the owner with a nod. “He makes his own mixes and plays them over and over and over.” His head and eyes had rolled in-time with his speech to drive the point home.
The left side of his face pulled upward, “Still, it could be worse.” Moving behind me to resume his post at the register he patted my forearm, “It could be country.”
Goosebumps appeared on the skin he’d touched. “Sounds like a trip.”
“He has his moments.” He cocked his head, shifting gears. “Where you from?”
I grinned, “What if I told you I’m a local.”
“Really?”
I chuckled, “No. I’m from Missouri.”
“Missouri?” He smiled, “Like Kansas?”
I laughed, “Something like that.”
“That’s cool, I guess.”
“You guess?”
He was ringing up my book. “Yah, you know like farm boys and stuff. It’s sixteen forty-seven.” I handed him my debit card. “I’m from L.A., so I never really got to see much outside of city and beach.”
“How long have you been in New York?” I asked.
“I came here for school. I just graduated NYU in May.” He swiped my card and handed it back to me.
“Congratulations,” I responded putting my card back into my pocket.
“Thanks.” He started to put the book into a bag.
“ I don’t need a bag.”
“Cool.” He paused and leaned against the counter. “When are you going back to Missouri?”
* * * * * *
Dave’s apartment was clean and cool. I was standing along a large window with a wide view of the city beyond. It was all so full of movement and energy. So many stories, experiences and feelings; I saw in my mind a tiny thread spinning into a glowing chord with no end.
“Here you go. No ice.” He handed me a glass of cold water.
“Thanks.” I took a long drink. The room was quiet and light. I set the glass on a coaster on top of a stone cube and crossed to an imposing book shelf. “Is this your…?” I examined a framed photograph of Dave and a fare-skinned man in front of the Duomo in Milan.
“Partner.” He finished the sentence for me. “That’s Reed.”
“Reed?” I moved to sit next to him on a long, tweed sofa.
He pulled one leg under himself and turned to face me. “We’ve been together almost four years.”
“He lives here?”
Dave smiled, “Most of the time. He’s an auditor of KPMG. He travels.”
“Are you still traveling for work?” I asked.
He shook his head, “Not as much. When I do, it usually means there’s a problem on construction or I’m being called in to help the pitch on a big project. What about you? Last I heard, you were working for Sprint.”
I raised my eyebrows at the reminder of how much the details of life have changed; mine and his. I used to know Dave. I used to play Nintendo games with him and Brian in Kansas City. We used to laugh at Daisy Duke’s cleavage and hang out at Oak Park Mall before it became massive.
“Uh, no. I left Sprint in late 2002. I’m at MU now. It’s good.” I wanted to change the subject; get to the point before he could respond with polite chat. I looked away. “So do you still have it?” It was abrupt, my statement and the change in mood.
Dave’s smile faded into something more serious. He stood and left the room without a word. I leaned forward clasping my hands and resting my elbows on my knees to steady them. Several moments later, Dave returned and sat next to me In the same position. In his hands was a small envelope. The corners were bent, but the handwriting that had spelled my name across the front was unmistakably Tyler’s. With two fingers, Dave extended the envelope to me. I took it from him and turned it in my hands feeling the cool paper and the weight of its sealed contents.
The tears were back. I tried to speak but it came out as a whisper. “Thanks.” He rested a hand on my knee and I fell apart into him. “Oh, fuck,” I choked out. Dave moved his hand and pulled me into him with his arm. “This shouldn’t matter anymore.”
To his credit, Dave was silent. He squeezed me close and let me melt. After a couple of minutes, I stood up and breathed. “My life is so completely unidentifiable from what it was – who I was then.” The tears weren’t stopping, but I was managing to keep them contained within their deep pools. I crossed to the window and looked out, refusing my own reflection. “I’m trying to fix myself and I don’t really remember what I was before I was broken.” I wiped the water from my eyes quickly. “I hate this.”
Dave stood behind me, but kept his distance. He didn’t’ speak. There was nothing to say.
“My family has shit on you, Dave.” A whisper, “I am so sorry.”
He stepped closer. “You don’t owe me that.”
“It’s just such a stupid mess. I’ve tried like hell to keep myself together; to keep moving away from this.” How had he done it? How had Dave recovered from Tyler and Brian and Atlanta? It seemed like it had never been my life, except for the hurt. The hurt was mine and I couldn’t remember what it felt like before.
His hand was warm on my back. I shivered at his touch. “I’m sorry, too.”
I turned to face him with a puzzled look, “For what?”
“I’m sorry for each of us, including Tyler. We deserved better.” I let him hold me. “You believe that?"
* * * * * *
“I’m headed to Philadelphia to see a friend this afternoon.”
He smiled with a crinkled expression that was young and so completely unfettered. “That’s cool, man. You driving down?”
I couldn’t help but smile back, “Taking the train, actually, and coming back tonight.”
He leaned forward resting his elbows on the counter across from me. “Have you been to View Bar?”
“Not this trip,” I responded knowingly.
“It seems like your scene.” He’d raised an eyebrow.
I laughed out loud, “What… is my scene?”
“You know… just kind of… laid back and relaxed.”
I winced. “I can pretty much assure you that most people who know me would not use either of those adjectives to describe me.”
He nudged my right hand on the counter with his fist before straightening back up. “Maybe you need to find new people to know you.” His hand extended toward mine, “I’m Michael.”
“John,” I said shaking his hand, “It’s good to meet you, Michael.”
He extracted his hand and still smiling, took a pen from beside the register and scribbled numbers onto a bookmark. “This is my cell.” He reached across the counter and slid the bookmark into my book. “If you get back into the city and want to hang out tonight or something.”
* * * * * *
I leaned against the window of the moving train. The glass was hot in the closing rays of the sun as it rested beyond the coast. My cold flesh consumed the heat wanting the trembling within me to subside. There were only a scattering of other passengers onboard.
I hadn’t spoken since I asked the cab driver to take me to the station in Philadelphia. The hollowness of my soul was familiar. It was the same emptiness of feeling, thought and direction that accompanies grief. It’s a complete removal from a life and universe that shattered hearts don’t often understand.
The letter was heavy in my hands. My head still against the window, I looked at it moving in my hands. I lifted it to my face and inhaled, wanting to find the familiar scent of sandalwood and Perry Ellis that I’d known for two years of impossible love. I wanted to hear the Mammas and the Papas and feel the movement of him against me. There was no scent, no music or Tyler, only more welling tears.
In a quick, unexpected movement, the letter was extracted from the envelope. My tears were unstoppable as I realized who had held the paper in my hand. I was suddenly twenty-three and the incalculable weight of the infinite was falling around me again. I leaned forward in the seat, curling into myself as tightly as I could and feeling the aloneness that surrounded me.
* * * * * *
“I didn’t bring any lube or anything.” He pulled the sheets and covers from their neat tucks and starched corners. They fell across the bench at the foot of the bed in a crumpled pile of expensive fabric, slightly worn and indistinguishable from what they’d been.
He crossed into the bathroom. “There’s good lotion in here, though.” He came out with a small, amber bottle and stood in front of the bed, in front of me. He tossed the bottle onto the bed and began removing clothes.
After pulling off my shirt and belt, he stopped to kiss me again. I exhaled when he stopped, missing the warmth of his skin against mine. My flesh rose in response to the sudden, familiar cold.
He rubbed his hands over my shoulders and arms. “You’re a good kisser.”
There was split-second, forever silence as Michael’s face, his voice became someone else’s. I whispered, “You’re so young.”
“Twenty-two.” He didn’t understand. “You’re not old, anyway. How old are you?”
I closed my eyes and tasted the hurt in my throat. “I’m ten years later.” Before he could respond, I pulled him into me and silenced him with my mouth.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Making Beautiful
In Mrs. Schultz' classes in grade school we spent one afternoon making marbled paper. A box of pastel colored chalk was shaved to dust over a black, rubber busboy’s tub filled with water. The water was black and still in the tub. When the shaving fell into it, the tiny colored particles separated, some falling deep into the dark water, while others glistened and danced on the surface. When the colors were in place, we used a ruler to make a few gentle cuts across the surface of the water, allowing the chalk dust to swirl together in subtle currents.
She parsed out fine sheets of linen paper to us to decorate. Using paperclips attached to two ends of the paper's edge, we rested the sheets gently on the water. We held tight to the clips while the chalk dust kept the linen sheets from sinking. After several seconds, the paper was removed, then laid over baker’s racks to dry. One sheet at a time, the process continued until an end of the long tables that ran the length of the classroom was covered in chalky, marbled paper.
Sometimes life happens the way those amateur papers were created. The parts of us that seem to be intact and vibrant are sanded down to minuscule pieces and left to float in dark waters. In dark spaces, the heavier parts of ourselves float to the bottom, while the beautiful parts blend with each other and create something new; something that was impossible before we were destroyed.
On days when life is vicious and destructive, I try to remember the quiet movements of twenty-year-old paper over colored dust floating at the surface of an abyss. It’s scary to release what we’ve known, who we’ve loved and lived for. The heavy parts cling to us, bound with shame and hurt, not wanting us to become new and brilliant. But when the weight is too much and we finally let them go, the best colors of those experiences can create something unexpected and beautiful.
She parsed out fine sheets of linen paper to us to decorate. Using paperclips attached to two ends of the paper's edge, we rested the sheets gently on the water. We held tight to the clips while the chalk dust kept the linen sheets from sinking. After several seconds, the paper was removed, then laid over baker’s racks to dry. One sheet at a time, the process continued until an end of the long tables that ran the length of the classroom was covered in chalky, marbled paper.
Sometimes life happens the way those amateur papers were created. The parts of us that seem to be intact and vibrant are sanded down to minuscule pieces and left to float in dark waters. In dark spaces, the heavier parts of ourselves float to the bottom, while the beautiful parts blend with each other and create something new; something that was impossible before we were destroyed.
On days when life is vicious and destructive, I try to remember the quiet movements of twenty-year-old paper over colored dust floating at the surface of an abyss. It’s scary to release what we’ve known, who we’ve loved and lived for. The heavy parts cling to us, bound with shame and hurt, not wanting us to become new and brilliant. But when the weight is too much and we finally let them go, the best colors of those experiences can create something unexpected and beautiful.
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