We sat together in the booth, her throwing me an array of probing questions (“Are you happy?”), and me unraveling my story to this mystery woman — possibly a side effect of the pints, maybe a result of the immediacy of the moment she presented to me, probably some combination of the two. Who was this woman? She (I didn’t even get her name — Amie — until the end of the night) listened unlike any other person I had ever talked with before, sitting freely in the silence that often accompanies our most honest moments.
People can blab endlessly about important things like how drunk they were at X’s going away/birthday/bar mitzvah/ wedding/dirty-doctor-naughty-nurse party, or the latest episode of Grey’s, or how “awesome” their new iPod is, but ask them a question that penetrates even an inch under this flimsy coating of the human everyday experience, and more often than not you’ll find more nervous laughter and spastic bodily twitches than you would in a fourth grade sex-ed class. Silence dominates. But understandably so! This is the hard stuff. You don’t like thinking about what makes you happy because then you realize that much of your life might actually kinda suck. You don’t like thinking about the greater meanings of your job because then you might find much workplace fulfillment there is to be desired. Deep down are you in a relationship that you know has no chance to make an ultimate connection? Then you sure as hell won’t want to see past the shared interests and smoking sex and into the heart-shaped void that may lay dormant. Honest reflection about these things isn’t always comforting, and words become few.
Amie asked about things like my relationship with my parents. How was I supposed to tell her how every time I watch Field of Dreams I cry because the scene with Kevin Costner and his dad reminds me of my own insecurities and fears about my own father? Amie asked about things like my biggest regrets in life. How could I tell her about the time I fucking cheated on Mary (many moons and heart-to-hearts ago) because I went out and got loaded on a night when I was pissed that she blew me off for her girlfriends? The memory of seeing Mary’s innocent, beautiful soul take an irreversible turn inward is hardly something I want to be reminded of.
So when she asked these questions, I inevitably danced around the answers and mushed my words. She didn’t run from the silence or awkwardly try to change its course, though; she sat with it. And much to my amazement, so did I. It would have been easy to clam up, politely send Amie on her way, and wait alone for Mary, but this stranger’s comforting, compassionate gaze suggested that I shouldn’t be so quick to dismiss her; something told me I needed to walk down this dark path where she was leading me. Her questioning exuded a real sense of genuineness, a rare character trait which I find to be utterly magnetic. So I tried to answer her questions as well as I could. I felt vulnerable. Vulnerable! Before she walked in from out of the rain, I didn’t even know what vulnerable was. I had a beer in my hand and the future in my pocket. Life was good, I thought.
Moments. What is life if not a collection of moments? There’s no one storyline that weaves in and out of our days, no cohesion to unite the unpredictable. There’s not even good guys or bad guys. We’re all ordinary, everyday people who try to do good with the life we’ve been given, but inevitably there are times where we really screw up. We lead fragmented lives desperate for a sense of purpose. We somehow hope one moment may shed light on another, and then another. In this way, we attempt to build a cache of moments to supply an overarching motif to our lifelong story.
Moments can be a most powerful teacher. But just as one party, or one retreat, or one vacation, or one class, can all blend together into another in one amorphous blob, so can all the moments of our lives. Not every part of every day changes our course; such a lack of any relative stability would surely drive even the most grounded among us to the nearest asylum. But, sometimes, some moments do. Some moments change the direction of our lives, and these moments become emblazoned into our minds more than, say, an entire year may be. These fiery moments are the ones where our humanity and our emotions shine the brightest.
And sometimes, we have the silly idea that our path is figured out. We make plans and just expect them to happen. What could possibly go wrong, we say? If there’s one thing I’ve learned, only one thing, it’s that I know nothing. Because it is precisely at these moments of self-assurance when the bricks and mortar come tumbling. It always is, no? Just when we think we have things charted out, the legend made and the map color-coded, it all changes, the train derails. Maybe I’m full of shit, but it’s like this for me all the time, really. So I really should have expected some sort of snafu at this moment when things seemed to be the clearest — at least with the things that mattered the most, the woman I loved, the future I wanted, the life I saw myself destined to lead. The only thing that needed to happen was for Mary to walk through that door. The only fucking thing.
But instead, I drew the wild-card, got the trick candles on the birthday cake. Amie touched in me something hidden, something not yet alive, something bursting. I struggle to explain it to you because I can hardly explain it to myself. It’s new. Doesn’t have a name yet. It’s senseless, in a way, but I felt something beckoning. Calling me to something more, something greater than I wanted or thought I was ready for. I had to listen. Then she asked me about Mary. My hand reflexively shot into my pocket and fiddled around. She’s everything I could hope for, I said, slowly, calculated. She makes me happy. Amie nodded. Then I cracked, the fourth wall blown away. For the next stretch of time (though time seemed to be standing still), I spilled everything about Mary — my hopes, my questions, my fears. With tears welling in my eyes, I pulled back into silence and gazed beyond Amie toward the musician now lazily picking at the strings of his guitar.
Excuse me for a minute, I said. I stood up, walked toward the window, and called Mary. After three rings, she picked up, her voice sounding more anxious than usual. Maybe she sensed tonight would be a night set apart from the others. Maybe she knew this was the night her life would take a turn. Mary, I said, what’s your story? You’re over an hour and a half late. I know, I know, she said. Something came up that I have to take care of, I’m so sorry. Are you okay, I said. I’m fine, it’s just something that can’t really wait right now. Don’t worry, I’ll explain when I get there. I love you, honey. This is going to be a night to remember; I know it.
I ran my hands through my hair and walked back over to the booth. Amie sipped her pint and looked at me with a playful, knowing smile. She speaks: Night not going as you planned? You could say that, I answer. God, she unsettles me. No one — not even Mary — has done that to me. At least, not like this. I’ve had enough. You know, I say, I don’t know a damn thing about you. She nods. Who are you?
Amie, she says calmly. Then for the first time, it was suddenly she who looked vulnerable. Earlier tonight, my parents died in a car accident. Amie, I interrupt, I’m sorry. She immediately grabs my arm with one hand and and places the pointer of her other onto my lips. I got the call tonight. They live on the other side of the country, and I didn’t know what to do. So I went for a walk, through the rain, no real destination in mind. I saw this place and hoped to find someone to just chat with. I saw you sitting here alone, and I decided to make the best of it. Then you started talking more and more, and, well, let’s just say this was the last thing I expected tonight. Of all nights.
Likewise, I mutter. Listen, she says, I don’t know how things with this Mary are going to work out; I wish you the best. But take my number. She scribbles a number on the back of a coaster and slips it across the table. Even if you never see me again, don’t forget tonight. All of us need to be challenged. Otherwise, we shrivel up and die on the inside.
Without another word, she rose from the table and walked out the door. I fiddled with the coaster before dropping it into my inner coat pocket — the one opposite the ring — and going to the bar to settle up. I was halfway to the door when Mary walked into the pub. She saw my dazed look and asked what happened. I’m not feeling so well anymore, Mary, I said. Can we call it a night? Of course, honey. We’ll do it another night, I promised. With that, I walked out the door and into the rain, Mary a step behind me.
