(Untitled): PS

Part I

Part II

Part III

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.

(Untitled): Part II

(cont.) Part I

At the end of the next tune — Fields of Athenry, I knew that one — the bartender put down his flute and made his way back to draw some rounds. The guitarist paused and took a long, relaxed swig from his pint before continuing on to the next song, hardly missing a beat. Like I said, there are never a lot of people in here. I live in a young, hip neighborhood — you know, the kind of place where legions of twentysomethings move to take their first real job after graduation. I’m not one of those hipsters, though. I wish I was. I like to say I was here before it was the cool thing to do. Really, though, I suppose I live here in spite of myself. But those people generally have no patience for a place like this. I hate to stereotype, really, but they seem to be looking for somewhere pulsating with new beats, somewhere dripping in sexuality and fancy martinis — the kind that you really would never know how order without the help of your girlfriend or cool bartender (but only after he looks it up), but the kind that when people see you holding it, it says you’ve got the secret to a good life. Not that there’s anything wrong with those places, looking good, or anything like that, but it’s just not my scene, you know? God knows there’s enough of those kind of places out there. Fortunately for me, they keep pubs like this relatively empty. Or even on the rare night when there’s a bigger crowd, everybody generally stays under control and never gets loud enough to disturb anyone looking for that quiet drink. It boils down to respect. That’s all. Respect, people.

And you know what is one of the best things about her? I respect her, and I don’t respect a lot of girls. Well, I mean, I do, really, but it makes it a lot easier to respect someone when they respect themselves. That way, you don’t have to spend all your energy in a relationship just trying to convince the other person to think with their head on straight and stand up for their feelings; instead you can focus on other things, like talking about how you feel about family, what we should do in Iraq, the best dance song of the 80s — you know, the important stuff. We can do all this so much more naturally because she already respects herself. God, I love her.

It hasn’t always been easy, though, I’ll tell you that much. The relationship, I mean. But that’s okay, I don’t know one relationship that’s roses all the time. In fact, there was a long time when I wasn’t even sure if we’d make it here. We broke up for awhile and I started seeing some other girls. And I had a nice enough time with these girls, and even lucked into dates with some tres attractive ones (God, I make it sound like there were a lot of them — untrue! I fundamentally lack game.), but at the end of any night with them, the only thing I really wanted to do was ring Mary and tell her about how she ate her pizza with a fork, or something silly like that. I knew Mary would find moments like these funny, but I saw this whole inclination as being slightly problematic for the health of any new relationship. And this feeling wasn’t a one time thing, either. Sigh.

So, a lot of life happened, blah blah. Mary dated some other guys, I think, but I don’t really want to talk about that. It was hard enough just thinking about it. We managed to stay friends through the whole breaking up fiasco, which so often can mean loads of grief and work, and for what? For me, though the process along with it was hard as hell, the ‘for what’ was easy enough. I just couldn’t imagine anything but. We all have people who we want to see stick around in our lives, no matter what. Mary is that person for me. Broaching friend territory was in many ways wonderful practice in self-flagellation — for instance: while I may have periodically wanted to, say, take her in my arms and hold her til morning, I knew that would somehow break the friend protocol — but all in all, I felt it was worth it. Or so I hoped. I didn’t want those bruises for nothing.

I’ll spare you most of the dirty details of how it all went down, but one day down the road, we started talking — you know, really talking, in the way we had before — over a bottle of wine, and, well, one topic led to another, until she looked me in the eye, let the gaze sit there in a silence for what felt like 20 minutes, and finally asked why we aren’t together. Wow, hands down, way the hell out of the park, No. 1 question on my all-time top 10 questions asked list. To OR from. I knew how to take it from there (Though I never expected the day to come, I’d been practicing the answer for over three years), and here we are today, diamond ring dying to jump out of my pocket.

Except, I’m not sure where she is. She’s usually not late for anything. I hope she’s okay.

…

(Untitled): Part I

The rain came down in torrents, soaking the already waterlogged spring soil, but not even a little unseemly weather could derail me from my quest that night. I walked into the bar and brushed the rain off my coat. A few disinterested pairs of eyes glanced toward me before settling back down to the emptiness before them. Thunder rolled gently yet steadily in the distance, providing cover for hushed conversations on the inside. I ordered a pint and took a seat at an empty booth along the wall.

Flickering tabletop candles cast shadows that danced around the room as I sipped my beer. The dark wood paneling and exposed timbers exude a warmth that any libation will only enhance. After a moment (as I had so many times already that night), I reached into my pocket and momentarily held the small box in my sweaty palms, making sure it was still there. I ran my hands through my hair, trained my eyes on the door, and waited.

I’ve never been here on a night when there were more than a just few people around, and that’s really most of its charm for me. That and the fact that there’s no TVs anywhere. Groucho Marx once said, “I find television very educating. Every time somebody turns on the set, I go into the other room and read a book.” Amen, brother man. But anyway, places like this really give a man room to think, room to drink a pint and unwind. I’ve found that these moments of silence are sometimes the only thing keeping us afloat as we go on from day to day. Really, can you imagine a world without places of retreat? This is mine. But I wouldn’t really recommend it to you. Nothing against you personally, but suddenly having loads of people here, all looking for silence, would kinda defeat the purpose, no? You can find your own. I know you can. There’s so many out there.

I took another sip off the top, the creamy head and ruby body sliding into my mouth. I thought of the first pint we had shared together, with the first date awkwardness and sweaty palms quickly giving way to what so quickly felt like a true connection. Looking back at those first few months, everything had been so…natural. The passage of time so often supplies us with rose-colored glasses as we look back, but here there was no artificial enhancement.

We had grown to be good friends before I ever had the guts to ask her out, and I remember our first real date. God, how could I forget? After a perfectly good dinner on the town, I lost it. I really did. On a warm fall evening, we were lying next to each other on the grass in a clearing, just talking (as we did so well), and for some reason I felt it would be a good idea to supply a litany of reasons about how she absolutely amazed me. Nothing like a little first date honesty, eh? But as ridiculous as I felt that night (and God bless her for not getting up and leaving on the spot) it’s even more incredible to see my evolution from self-perceived loony to prophet. Every single sentiment I said to her that night has only deepened throughout the years. No kidding. In some weird way, without me realizing it was happening, that night I think a part of me saw through the twists of time and pictured us at this moment. At this crossroad.

I glanced down at my watch. Any minute now. A bolt of lightning momentarily illuminated the bar before it again darkened with a sustained roll of thunder. The door opened and in walked a man carrying a guitar case. He said something to the bartender, made his way over to the corner table, and sat down, content to quietly strum and tune his guitar. None of the handful of people in the bar took more than a casual notice of the man before going back to their quiet conversations. After a minute, the bartender brought him a pint and joined him at the table. From under the table the bartender pulled out a smaller case and deftly assembled what looked like a flute or penny whistle. After pausing for a moment to catch the guitarist’s tune, the bartender put the flute to his mouth and joined in, playing some slow melody that I didn’t recognize. A couple on the other side of the room quietly turned their chairs and intently watched the two harmonize, only communicating through the ebb and flow of the music. I smiled and took a long sip, savoring its intricacies.

Am I nervous? Let’s just say that my butterflies have little butterflies of their own. There’s no way to control — or even predict — how the other will react in these situations, but I just think that it’s the right thing to do. I’ve thought this for quite a long time, actually. And I’m not saying there’s some shortage of outstanding questions about our relationship and about our lives, or anything like that, but I just thing those are things we can sort through together, you know? To me, one of the funny things about love is that while it can scare the crap out of you by leading into some part of yourself you may not be entirely comfortable with, it also helps you out on the journey. I don’t know how better to explain this, but it seems to me that we’re better off by going through this process, even if we fall face first in the mud along the way. I kinda think God is the same way.

…

A Reunion

Though I was in Millenium Park, firmly in the heart of downtown Chicago, I found myself alone on the metal bench that night. A handful of couples walked by, enjoying the warm spring air, but nobody really took much notice of me; they were far too caught up in their own evenings. Not even the security guards, chatting on their segways, disturbed my own little world. I was completely alone.

All my other friends were across town celebrating into the sunrise, but I knew there would come more opportunities for that. Graduation wasn’t for a few more days, and parties filled the week. For me, tonight was different. Tonight was the night I’d been dreaming about for months. Tonight was another kind of graduation, as I awaited the return of the woman who had shaken up much more within me than I even knew existed.

As I waited to get that first sight of her, my eyes darted and my stomach churned. In my head, I replayed the timeline of our relationship, still amazed at how rapidly – yet entirely naturally – our relationship had blossomed. My life will again and again prove one certainty: no significant life moment will ever be predictable. That said, I still couldn’t imagine a better first nine months of a relationship. What we had been through, especially the half of it spent at a distance of a cool 5,000 miles, was nothing short of remarkable. Remarkable, and in my mind, divine.

Then she stepped out of my mind and into the night. Backpack slung over her shoulders, suitcase rolling along behind her, her wavy brown hair rolling off her head, she strode confidently in the direction of dreams. Almost as a father would watch over his sleeping daughter, I saw her before she saw me, and a smile crept over my face. God, she was even more beautiful than I had remembered. My fears momentarily relinquished their hold on my heart. The bottom fell out of my uncertainty, only to be replaced by irreplaceable joy, the joy that I had for so long imagined.

As she walked up the sidewalk, her eyes arrived on my bench around the corner, across the grass field. Our eyes finally hooked together, and her progress halted. For a fleeting moment, we stared at each other, probably trying to verify that the other was indeed real. Then, her pace quickened. My heart jumped. She ran around the corner and down the sidewalk. Steps before she got to the bench, she dropped her bags and jumped into my open arms. We embraced. Tears and laughter flowed. Finally, a warm body (pressed against mine) behind the words that had daily filled my inbox with prophecies of love.

Hardly anything said, but so much communicated. At that moment, there was nothing more to say. The warm night breeze ushered in the May flowers, and my own flower had again taken root, locked in my arms. Indeed, it was a moment of unbridled joy; one of those moments where, for a brief second, nothing else in the entire world matters one lick.

Sometimes, if we’re lucky, we have these kind of moments. You know, the kind where you just know that even when you’re old and gray, you’ll remember more about it than you might about entire years – a tattoo on your soul that will never be taken off.