A Last Time of Sorts

The new year was approaching and Duncan didn't have anyone to kiss. In his nightstand he kept a little black book with phone numbers and girls' names. He liked the personal touch. But leafing through its pages he realized he might not receive personal touches of any kind this midnight. The connections were either too brief, too long, too painful, not painful enough. Out of the four dozen or so he only called about six and received just as many rejections.

"Rita, you have to help, you must know some girl who doesn't have a New Year's date."

"Oh my god, New Year's doesn't even matter, Dunc."

"Yes, it does. I'm not going into next year alone." She said that we were all going into next year alone, which didn't really help matters much.

Rita's almost-fiance Hup was hosting the shindig, and Duncan figured he would probably know a decent amount of people there. To him this gave all the more reason to be as nervous as he was. Everyone was pairing up and pairing off and talking about mortgages and the ungodliness of the inevitable suburbs. He felt as though this would be a last time of sorts. So he needed a filly, and he had called Rita, and it sounded as though Rita would pull through. Her friend, June, would be there. There was no need to pick her up, buy her dinner, do anything except show up, refill her drink when necessary, and not act like an ass.

He tied and untied his tie probably a dozen times. And after shining his shoes and applying just enough cologne he only had time for a few mints before heading out the door, not wanting to be too late. Plus his nerves still shook him. His nerves shook him something awful.

Walking on his way it struck him that he should pop into a bar for a quick nip to calm those nerves. He ducked into one that didn't seem to be too crowded, took a seat, and ordered a bourbon. A comely girl set down a glass before him.

"Meeting someone here?"

"No, on my way to a place," Duncan said. "Just thought I'd have a quick one." She smiled, nodded, attended to some other customers. After finishing the drink quicker than he meant to he ordered another. "How's my tie look?"

"Looks good from where I am." She was going to get a big tip. And then, like she had that special sense, she asked, "What's wrong?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing, nothing at all." He ordered a third and she poured it. "What would you say if a guy like me would come up to you tonight and kiss you? I mean at midnight. Would you let it happen?"

She laughed, but just a little. "I suppose I would, sure. You're cute." It made him feel so good he ordered another bourbon. His nerves were almost completely gone, thank heavens. He made his way to the jukebox to see about something to play. While the discs flipped from right to left he saw the girl, his server, in the corner of his eye. She was putting on her coat, grabbing her purse, meeting a tall and dark and handsome gentleman at the side door. They kissed. Duncan left his money in the juke for someone else, downed his drinks, threw some bills and left. It was snowing now.

Hup answered the door. "Did you fall in the snow?"

"It's snowing," Duncan said, brushing himself, shaking like a mutt.

"I know. Where's your coat?" Had he really not worn a coat? Did he leave it at the bar? He couldn't remember.

All the people blurred together and he squeezed through them until he saw Rita. "Where's... where's...?" She did not look happy, not that the fact lodged with him at the time. It looked like her mouth was opening and she was about to gesture to the young woman next to her. You couldn't really call it making a decision because that would imply that certain faculties were in play, but nonetheless he lunged for the girl, trying to force his mouth on hers, bending bending bending forward as she limboed. What was he doing wrong? Come on, chicky baby! Get into it! It's New Year's!

He woke up on the couch and Hup was making coffee. "I made you a to-go mug. You should scram before Rita gets up." Duncan somehow found the strength to not only get off the couch but also to remain upright. If only all resolutions were that simple. He reached for the mug and saw a note on top.

"What's this?"

"I don't know how it happened but it's that girl's number. You know, the one you tried to eat."

He squinted into his memory and every horrible detail came back; the drinking, the lunging, the limbo. "What?!" The exclamation made his head throb. He was throbbing, every part of him was throbbing. He took the mug and note and left. Snow blinded him. Escaping coffee burned his hand. His nails dug into the numbers. This year was going to be all right.

Green Beans

I'm hoping this chicken sausage is cooked all the way through. I think I cooked it through. It's pink and soft in the middle so I can't really tell. That could go either way right? I don't cook many chicken sausages. Maybe in hindsight I should've microwaved it, had it over quick in thirty seconds just like it said on the package. But I didn't want to do that, it's unnatural. It gives no sign that it's been prepared except for split ends, make's it look like it's gorging. And the grill's busted so pan fry it was.

Then there's the makeshift salad I threw together. Some leftover green beans, I chopped up some cherry tomatoes and some basil that was going bad and threw the rest out. A little olive oil, a little balsamic, a little salt and pepper and you're done. The entree and side almost go together. Not really. The chicken sausage has little bits of sweet apple in it, so sometimes when I bite I worry it's blood. It's not. I think. But the sweetness and the salad, they don't really pair, but I'm not complaining.

The bread is dry. I should have toasted it. There was a rat in my toaster the other night so I'm not using it. Could've used the oven I guess. Hindsight.

I got the green beans from my roommate, Charles. He's an older middle-aged black man, about fifty I'd say. Got divorced a while back, got remarried and divorced again. Now he's left his life to go live by his kids and be a screenwriter. I asked him if he'd ever written before and he said no. I asked if this was the town to be a writer in and he said all he had to do was mail the pages. I asked if he'd pay his rent on time and he said yes. That was all I needed to know.

I don't really see him and when I do he doesn't say much. Four days ago there was a note that said "Have some green beans, in the fridge. I don't want to throw them away." And I haven't heard from him since. I don't even know if he's here nights. Guess I'll worry about it when the first rolls around. I'm happy to have the green beans though. Even if his kids aren't into spending time with him and he gets a stack of rejections, I'm happy for these green beans. It'd be nice if he were around a little more, but beggars and choosers and all that.

That must be quite the feeling. To just quit your life and go someplace new, try out something else. And for him to do it now, I guess I have to hand it to him, tip my hat in his general direction if ever I knew where he was. I bet he's scared. I should be scared. I'm not scared of anything. And I'm sick of these leftovers night in and night out.

My stomach hurts. I'll microwave that sucker next time. Who do I have to be fancy for? Hindsight.

The Nineteenth Floor

I don't know many in our group. I meet up with Van, supposed to be a quiet night of just us two. Some friends of his end up joining later which is OK, they seem like nice enough people. I just don't know any of them from Adam is all. But they seem like they got their heads on straight. Dylan, this girl, even buys me a shot of whiskey and for a little bit there I think she's into me. She's talking, I'm talking, we're both talking to each other and I think she seems interested. She sure is interested in her boyfriend when he walks in, that's for sure. Think I hear someone call him Dylan, too, but that can't be right.

Turns out this guy is just there to take us away. Let's take this to my loft downtown, he says, and everyone gets real excited. Even Van, although it was supposed to just be the two of us. But who knows what the night has in store? So I don't go home. A bunch of cabs get called and I get in one with three other somebodies. How I ended up wedged in the middle of the back I'll never know, but I'm in between two attractive girls so I can't complain too much. One takes out her phone and basically makes love to it the entire ride, the other searches her purse for a Vicodin. So maybe I can complain a little bit. We get there and get out and whatever guy who's sitting in the front wearing a suit with no tie pays. I don't try to slip him any bills. Looks like he can afford it.

The Man Who Isn't Dylan ushers us all past the night guard behind the desk and we take the elevator to the nineteenth floor. When I was a kid this is the kind of building I thought I would want to live in when I was older: night guards and chandeliers, air conditioned lobby, vague Chinese-looking sitting arrangements in the corner, a sign out front telling people they've arrived. That was making it in my book.

We enter and everything is very tidy, very whole set, real posh. It's not set up for a party or anything, this is just how the guy lives. Maybe if you live as if you're always expecting guests people will actually come over. He puts on music and starts taking out drinks: beer, wine, liquor bottle after liquor bottle. I can see into the guy's cabinet and he's got twelve or thirteen bottles of liquor all at various stages of emptiness and younger me would think he's made it. I don't know, from the looks of it he's sure made something. Everyone seems to know the song that's playing. I don't know what it is, but I feel like it wasn't made for me.

Van hands me a drink, something brownish with ice in it. He gives me a look, Well, I guess we're doing this now. Yeah, I guess we are.

I make my way to one of the balconies. There's a few girls out there, including Dylan, and they're drinking clear drinks with ice, laughing, having a genuine time. I make a crack about jumping, I don't even remember what it was exactly. But it's enough to get the girls to quiet down. Dylan turns to me, says what, so I repeat. Whoa, you're being pretty intense right now, she tells me, and her friends agree. They go inside and I can see Dylan go straight for her hubby, telling him something quietly, looking in my general direction. He comes out to the balcony real friendly like. He asks if I need anything, how I'm doing, if everything's OK. Sure, why wouldn't everything be OK? He gives me another one of these looks I keep on getting and heads back inside to his spoils.

Honestly, who doesn't think about jumping? It would be the easiest thing in the world, and it's the easiest thing to think. I could just take one step, a little hop, I could barely try at all. It's not the falling you're thinking about, it's not the killing yourself. It's the jumping. Not thinking about jumping, that's not normal.

I rest my arms on the railing, look out at the city. I love the skyline, but now I'm in the middle of it, so I can't see it at all. Around me all I see are buildings and streets and cars, tiny little people trying to have a good time, and we could be just about anyplace.

Seven Lifetimes, Two Days

I'd lie on my bed in the dark before dinner listening to Kind of Blue. I didn't know much about good music but knew this must be it. Must have been made in heaven's what Jimmy Cobb said, and though I was but twelve I was inclined to agree. Sun streaks faded blue through my skylight, my blue walls, they turned a different shade, things darkened around me and my eyes adjusted. I'd stop blinking, things got dark again, I was my own spotlight. I was seeing sound then, my ears pulled in the music coming out of my stereo and it got louder somehow. It was time lesser beings might spend doing homework, but they'd be wrong. They'd only be learning numbers, spelling, wherever the hell the Congo was. They weren't going back. They weren't connecting. They weren't learning how one thing can say a hundred. Here was this perfection sculpted by fingers and mouths and all it took was seven lifetimes and two days. Even then, as a kid, without knowing much of anything at all, I knew that with seven lifetimes and two days I couldn't make something half as good. And that's either a knowledge that's very very good, or very very bad. I'm still trying to figure out which.

My Boyfriend's Lesbian Rainbow

My boyfriend broke up with me for a lesbian. So that's how my life is going, thanks.

I mean, no one's a hundred percent sure whether she is or not, but we figure she is. He and I would talk about it, make jokes even! Or, not jokes, we would never joke about something like that. But he definitely knew what he was doing. He knew when he ended it, and I asked if there was someone else, and he said not really, he knew that he should hide it from me. Because it's ridiculous. It's crushing. It hurts enough when a guy tells you he's bored, he's lost touch, you're not good enough anymore. But when you ask why and he throws this fantasy in your face, it's all you can do to not pull his ears off.

I just started laughing. I laughed right in his fucking stupid beautiful face. I had to ask him to repeat himself because come on. He would rather try to court a lesbian than work out with me whatever isn't working out for him. And fine maybe she isn't a lesbian, maybe she'll fall for him and go down on him long and hard like he always wants but my god.

He didn't even tell me anything was wrong. He didn't show me any signs. Maybe if he had done something to let me know that things were winding down. Just to lessen the blow. But he knew what he was doing and he knew it was ridiculous and he knew it would hurt even more than it should. It's like if he broke up with me for an Asian girl and said, "Don't worry, she won't be Asian for long!" You cannot change who you are, sir. I guess if he'd rather chase that dyke rainbow more power fucking to him! I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. God, these circumstances are just the worst.

Maybe that's the point. I guess he is who he is. So I guess it's good I'm rid of him, but it still hurts to say. I hope he does get her. And that she falls hopelessly head over heels in love with the jackass. And then leaves him for some gorgeous, buxom woman. I hope she falls in love with me. That'll learn him to bust my heart.

Sugarloaf Park

I don't really drive my car anymore. Mostly I walk nowadays. But every once in a while I'll take it out of the garage, dust her off, take her for a joy ride. Just for fun.

It's a 1969 Mercury Cougar and it's as red as your blood. Birthday present when I turned 17 right before junior year and I'll tell you right now, that thing changed my childhood. I could've been beaten by my father and scolded by my mother every day up until that point, but when they put the keys in my hand I would've forgiven them everything. I had a pretty good growing up, but that car, that made it.

Kids looked at me differently. Their parents did. I'd see teachers in the parking lot smoking, whispering and pointing and scowling at me. It was great to get the attention, but it was the teachers that made me smile the most. I was never a bad kid, but I always got the feeling my teachers thought I had something up my sleeve. Maybe it's my hair or my eyes, the way I dressed, I don't know. I got nothing up my sleeves, folks.

Here's how great that Mercury was: Gwendolyn Pryce noticed me. Divine, cheerleader, blonde, senior, everything every guy ever wanted since he realized kicking and flirting were the same thing. I idolized this girl from day one. She was the girl of my dreams, my soulmate, my one-and-only, I was sure of it. I had her scent of vanilla caught in the back of my head. I'd go out of my way to pass her in the hall, or end up by her locker, or walk behind her to class. I'd overhear her talking about Muddy Waters and my heart would almost stop. I lusted after the pale yellow sweater she wore, bumped against it whenever I could find a plausible excuse. For whatever reason I love that color. Pale yellow. I don't know what it is.

It's a Wednesday after dinner and I'm stopped on the corner in town with my buddy, Teddy. Gwendolyn is just over there with a few friends, talking outside the drug store. She walks up to me and says, This your car? I can't think of a thing to say so I just nod. How's it drive, she asks. I say, somehow without stuttering, Why don't I show you sometime? She flashes those pearly whites and nods back. She nods back, right at me, like I'm a person. I can't even hear the horn honking behind me when she leaves. Teddy tells me how unbelievably cool it was that I just nodded to her, and I decide to let him believe it.

We only went out the once, to Sugarloaf Park. It's one of those Inspiration Point or Makeout Creek places you see on '50s television, where all the kids go before or after the malt shop. Fool around, smoke some grass, look at the trees, whatever. It's a place you don't think really exists, but it does. I wasn't trying to force anything on her, it was her idea even. We went out for pizza and then drove there. It wasn't late, maybe nine o'clock, but there was already a row of cars. It was pretty quiet except for the gentle white noise of rocking vehicles. Puts thoughts into your head, that sound.

She's the first person to make a move. She's really the only person. After a moment talking about how beautiful the view is—lights and trees and the moon and all that, real idyllic, a real picture—she leans over to me, kisses me, presses her lips against mine. She pulls back after a few seconds.

It was nice. I can't lie and say it wasn't. But after two years of fawning over this girl, that's all it was. It was nice. It wasn't earth-shattering, it wasn't spectacular, it wasn't the end-all-and-be-all experience I thought it would be. No heavens opened up, no fireworks went off, nothing like that. It just didn't click. I don't know. It didn't feel right. Wherever her soul was it wasn't near mine. And I got really quite incredibly nervous after that, like I was a freshman again. And after a few more minutes of straight silence she asked me to drive her home.

When we pulled up I told her to please not tell anybody about what happened. She scoffed at me and said, Why would I tell anyone about this? Like it was the craziest notion, like talking about it would be just as humiliating for her as it would be for me. She closed the car door hard. That was the last noise she ever made in my direction.

I still live in town. I still drive to Sugarloaf from time to time. It's changed a little, but the spirit remains the same. There's the careless sex and several potheads who are fascinated with the Mercury. I'll talk for a little while and I'm mostly polite, but I'm not there for them.

I went on lots of dates with lots of girls. I had my sex and smoked my grass. I had a couple relationships that even lasted a few years. But nothing went anywhere worth going to. Nothing ever felt right. Their souls never felt near mine. Or maybe mine wasn't near theirs. I don't know. But every single girl had a bit of that Sugarloaf feeling. Some worse than others. But it was always there.

She's out there somewhere. Whoever's meant for me. I haven't found her yet and maybe I never will. But that doesn't make the feeling any less true. So I'll take out my Mercury from time to time and go for a spin. I'll sit and look out at the town, looking over at the passenger's seat with that white noise in my ear. I'll go home and lie down on the bed and look across from me. And as I look I can imagine her, somewhere else, near or far away, lying down in her bed, looking over at my phantom, thinking the exact same thing I am. There's solace in that.

Just Another Motion

I've been looking at this woman ever since I got on, and at this point I don't even care if she sees me. I doubt she does. Her son—can't be more than four or five—is taking up most of her attention, or at least whatever's left after her phone. Not that he should be. He changes positions to sit on his knees. She grabs his arm, pulls him back to sitting regular, and tells him to behave.

"What's your name?" he asks the elderly woman to his right.

"Denise," she tells him.

"Anthony!" His mother grabs his arm again. "What did I tell you about bothering people? Huh?" She shakes her head. She never cared about an answer, and apparently Anthony knows this because he doesn't give her one. He's been through this before.

The little boy rubs the spot where his mother's grip was, trying to make it feel better. He reaches over to her. The music I could already hear across the aisle gets louder when she yanks out one of her earbuds.

"What?"

"Can I have my juice box?" You'd think he was asking for one of her teeth. A purse that small can't hide a juice box for very long, and it doesn't. When he's done he hands it back and she throws it under her seat. Careless.

He locks eyes with me and smiles. I smile back. This is a good kid. He waves. I wave back. She shoves his hand down.

On the bus everything is real life. This is why people hate it. It reminds them of the world. I want to say something, anything, but I know it'll only fall on deaf ears. People would be quick to say it's not my place. But looking at this scene I can't help but think my place is a whole hell of a lot better than hers.

She pulls on the line for the next stop, and I decide it's close enough for me. I want to see her more. I want to believe I caught the bad minutes. I want to believe that something happened today to make her this way. I want a lot of things I'll never get.

The moment she's two feet from the bus she reaches into her purse. She pulls out cigarettes, takes one out, lights it. She starts walking, Anthony lagging behind, shuffling his sneakers the way a nervous kid does when he's forced into doing something.

"Hurry up!"

So he runs up to her, hand outstretched to meet hers. She's blind to this, facing the other way, and brings her hand back while walking. To her it's just another motion, it's a thing that happens when you walk. The boy lets out a shriek when his mother's cigarette ash burns his arm. And all she can do is yell at him, wondering why this boy is crying for no reason.