Thursday, August 19, 2010

Spring Fever / Some Things Never Change

Ascending from the dank tomb of the subway station, I squint at the white overcast sky. It is not a beautiful day. It is a day better forgotten. I fumble open a pack of cigarettes only to realize I don't have a lighter. Wedging the imminent stogey behind my ear, I make for the nearest bodega which, lucky for me, is within shuffling distance.

Minutes later I'm back on the sidewalk, flicking my new orange lighter and inhaling that first relaxing drag. The ashy taste brings me back to 8th grade, to my first cigarettes smoked rebelliously at the neighborhood park, the same park where I first made out with Donna, back when I was little more than nerves and wonder, timid and curious and attempting not to appear so.

I fiddle to remember how I liked to hold it. Everything feels unnatural, but my nerves are settling a little. I don't think I ever developed a smoking style. These days peer pressure is geared more towards quitting than lighting up. I've got to start standing my ground.

My head swims from the nicotine and I relish the gentle tilt of vertigo. What am I going to say to him? In my head, the conversation plays out like a scene in a movie: my steadfast accusations met by his guilty retorts, his attempts to shrug off the blame and my deft repudiations. He'll blame it on being drunk, and I'll tell him it doesn't matter. He'll claim ignorance, and I'll prove otherwise. He'll apologize and I'll stare him down, letting the weight of my silence crush him. The actual conversation will, of course, veer violently from any conceived trajectory, but my thoughts are otherwise unable to settle. I'm really no good at confrontation, but this one is necessary.

I take a deep breath and tuck my chin into my scarf against the cold gusts of city wind. As I approach the corner of Houston and Avenue B, I am nearly toppled over by two impish children squealing around the bend. They disappear into one of the anonymous entryways ensconced among the shabby Chinese joints and dollar stores.

I remember playing "boys chase girls" as a child, but I have no recollection of what I did when I caught them. I would sometimes cage them up in the jungle jim, but that only ever lasted as long as the damsel wished to remain a captive. Some things never change.

It's Spring and the trees protruding warily from these gum-spotted sidewalks have begun to sprout new leaves. I remove my non-smoking hand from my pocket and pass it through the downy tufts of foliage. The freshly sprouted leaves are still soft. They show no evidence of the harsh winter only recently abated. They shimmy in the wind, eagerly anticipating anything and everything. I rip a fistful of them and let them flutter to the ground a verdant confetti. I take a deep pull from my cigarette. Sometimes Fall comes early.

The coffee shop is across the street from me now and I can see Sam inside sitting by the window, head inclined, probably reading something. We have known each other for years and only recently began taking steps to become actual friends. His cherub face is completely relaxed. He could be meditating on a mountaintop, green eyes collecting light like koi ponds at dawn. It was a face I had trusted. My stomach is tight. My lungs feel tiny. I hate this.

He thinks I don't know. I wonder how long he would continue the charade if I let him. Would he ever tell me? Forty years from now, would we be old friends on rocking chairs, and would he lean over and say to me, "Christopher, I'm not a good friend."? Would I have secretly betrayed him by then? Would I smile and tell him that we were even?

Part of me wants to keep walking, just leave this all behind, ignore him out of existence, but I know it's not that easy. I take a final puff of my stoge and catch a wisp of smoke in my eyes causing them to tear up slightly. I honestly don't know that I will be able to forgive him. It's a shame, really, but trust, once broken, is a tenuous repair.

Thursday, August 12, 2010

Fancy Writer

I have a friend who fancies himself a writer.

He begins every conversation with me excitedly describing some skeleton of a plot he has just conjured. Though sometimes mildly promising, his plots are consistently under-developed and rife with inconsistencies.

"But I've got a great title!" He grins spearmint and chapstick, eyes wide enough to swallow the world whole. I can seldom argue; "My Three-Legged Neighbors" or "Aboutface, Clockmaker!" seem as if they would portend hilariously imaginative plots or situations. The smiles I return to him are as encouraging as I can procure. I tell him that I absolutely can't wait to read it, though I've never actually read any of his stories.

It is only after he leaves that I acknowledge Envy perched on my shoulder, flapping his ragged wings. I used to be able to shrug it off; no longer. The earnest optimism is gone for me now. I know it takes more than a catchy title and a burst of adrenaline to craft a proper narrative. This awareness was my golden egg. But it's gotten dull, and it's a cold place to sit.

I never loved you.

I peel the skin from my orange. My practiced hand deftly removes the skin in one piece. It expands like a mottled corkscrew, perfect for the lip of a giant margarita glass. I wish I had a giant margarita. It’s hot today and a giant margarita would be very refreshing. I would drink and swim and drink until I couldn’t swim any longer, and then I would be drunk. I wish I was drunk. I’m not, and my orange sucks. It is dry and tasteless, a product of poor breeding.


I ask you to take a walk with me but your feet are made of sand. I promise to bring an umbrella with us just in case. In case we decide to go to the beach, which we do, and lucky for us my umbrella is very large. I turn it on its head and we use it as a boat. We decide to float to Hawaii, but we never make it there, of course. Your feet get wet and they disintegrate, detaching from your body; they turn into small islands while you sink.


For awhile I live on these islands. Every night I dream of you sinking. Every day I wake up and sculpt a giant sand cathedral where every angel on every spire has your face until the wind blows. I know that if I leave the island the dreams will stop and I will forget you. But there is a beauty in the forgetting. And I will probably drown before I get anywhere significant, never to peel another orange again.