literature

This Is Fiction I Swear: Part 15

Part 15: To Swim

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The last day I ever saw you was the day my Solzhenitsyn came in the mail.

It is the most horrifically ugly book I’ve ever seen: giant and crassly red with typeface that gives away its 1968 reprint year. The jacket is creased and torn and the sallow-faced author himself frowns at me from the safety of his four-by-six bio. He doesn’t look like a decorated war hero in this picture. He doesn’t look like a revolutionary. He doesn’t even look like an author, which is saying a decent lot because what does an author look like anyway? He just looks like the man I see sometimes on the number twelve bus who’s always drinking vodka out of a plastic bottle at 8:00 am.

I set the book on my table and look at it like it’s a newborn with webbed toes. I hate it. I want to destroy it. I don’t even care to open it to see if my old professor was right when she said I would find words so beautifully and deeply written that I would feel my soul jump in my chest when I read them. Instead I leave it sitting on the table like an open wound and go across the street to the café for breakfast. The snow is still falling thickly and steadily and my toes are getting wet through my suede boots but I don’t care because Graham and I have decided to leave tomorrow, Sunday, for California. I shake the snow off my scarf and say hello to the owner before sitting down and ordering a coffee to start. California. Sunday. Tomorrow.

I am the only person in the café this morning and there’s some animal program on the silent television above my head so I’m in a pretty good mood thus far despite the cold still seeping in through the windows. If I knew at this moment that it would be the high point of my day, what would I have done? Would I have thrown myself in front of the traffic on 18th Street and died a frigid death in the gray slush? Would I have crawled back to my apartment and slept until summertime? Or would I have simply bitten into my sourdough egg sandwich and washed it down with black coffee?

Impossible to tell.

I’m chewing heartily when my phone beeps and I expect it to be Graham making arrangements for tomorrow or maybe Angelica telling me again about her birthday party tonight but it’s not. It’s you. You’re on your way back from some god forsaken Midwestern city and are asking what I’m doing later because it would be nice to see me. Oh, cords of dynamite unfurling.

I have every intention of tying them back up and ignoring them but then I get a message from Graham: he has bronchitis. He will be on antibiotics for days and will not be able to leave with me tomorrow, Sunday, for California. He is sorry, and I know he is. He says we’ll go next week, and I believe we will. But my heart, it cannot take this kind of disappointment. It cannot wait. I cannot wait. Maybe the coffee is just hitting my brain but I cannot sit still, cannot sit in this café or this neighborhood or this town for one second longer.

Outside is murky from car exhaust and wet snow, and the dove gray sky is heavy and pressing on my back.  But I am outside. And moving. I don’t know where most of the day goes after that but somehow I am at work, my last shift I thought but now who knows and I have new manager named Jake or Jerry or something and he’s from one of the Carolinas and I hate him for no reason. But I can come up with reasons enough, and so I do and I tell them all to my coworker who agrees with me probably because most people don’t understand what other people are like, and they’ll believe anything you tell them. Really, it’s frighteningly easy to create or destroy someone’s character if you want to.

And after my shift when I have sufficiently severed any hopes of an amicable work relationship with Jake Jerry I walk to the train to go to Angelica’s party at a bar on the north side. I thought it was going to be the last time I would see her and now that it won’t be it feels less significant and I feel less like remembering it. I don’t want to go, but I don’t want to not go because then what? There is no California tomorrow, Sunday.

There is tomorrow, actually, and there is Sunday, because those happen whether we plan for them or not. They arrive whether we order them or not, sort of like that poor Solzhenitsyn bleeding on my table. But what if there weren’t tomorrow or Sunday? I have this thought somewhere between the whiskey shots I bought for Angelica and the sips of bourbon from a friend’s flask. And by the time the music in the back room has changed decades and the floor by the bar feels sticky and the girls in flowered dresses all have partners, I am setting my latest drink on a table and rushing outside to meet you.

Your car is idling by the curb or what I think is the curb because I can’t see it through all the dirty snow and slush. Your headlights are on and I’m frantically putting my arms in the sleeves of my coat because it’s fucking cold out here I think but I’m not sure. I slide into the passenger seat and you barely look at me and I don’t look at you because I’m too busy saying something about how I forgot my gloves at the bar. But you don’t care and I don’t really either and now we’re gliding through the wet side streets heading for Lake Shore Drive. And that’s when it occurs to me.

-What?

-How I might be able to stop Sunday!

-What are you talking about? Tomorrow is—

-I’ll stop it. Sorry, we’ll stop it. Together. What do you say? I think it would be beautiful. What do you say?

You don’t seem to have any clue what I mean so I start to tell you but then change course and tell you instead how different we are and how you never ever know what I mean. You will never understand if you lived a thousand times longer than a thousand generations and…

But it’s no use because the words aren’t getting through to you, probably because I’m not stringing them together right, probably because of the whiskey swirling in my brain. But just that second as I look at the black lake all the alcohol seems to evaporate and my head is clear. So clear and crisp and I swear the snow has even stopped falling for a minute and the radio has stopped playing and the other cars have disappeared from the road. I know what I need to do.

I grab the steering wheel and turn it sharply to the left, towards the lake. There’s a ledge at this point in the drive and if we go over it we’ll fall twenty yards before crashing into the waves. I imagine the icy water peeling off the layers of dust and sweat on my skin. I imagine it numbing my nerves and slowing my heart until everything around me and in me is calm. Unmoving and calm, and I can drift until the end of time, until the cold water turns to sun on my face, until the sound of the waves turns into the sound of my mother’s voice calling me to the kitchen for breakfast and I am five years old.

But the only voice calling is yours and you’re screaming my name and a hundred other things at a pitch I’ve never heard before. Your whole body is somehow in between my arm and the steering wheel, and as you continue to yell I notice that the snow has started to fall again. Or maybe it never stopped. I’m enraptured with the scene out the window: this endless stream of tiny white snowflakes, so silent, against the dark canvas of night. And city lights to the west. And this bridge back to our neighborhood.

You pull up to my apartment and wait for me to get all my things out of the car and then drive off. It is just then when I’m inside my door and I see Solzhenitsyn staring at me from my table in the dark that the monstrous, cavernous hole opens its jaws and sets to work ripping apart my chest. An hour or so of this until I’ve worn myself out. I make some tea and look at the clock. Eleven minutes to sunrise.

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Things I Am Good At That I Can’t Make A Career Out Of

espresso in paris

1. Leaving the house in exactly the number of minutes it takes me to catch the train

2. Drinking wine

3. Drinking tea

4. Drinking coffee

5. I guess just drinking

6. Avoiding people I don’t like

7. Avoiding people I do like

8. Eating with chopsticks

9. Mornings

10. My birthday

11. The physical part of relationships

12. Being the only non-brown person in an Indian restaurant

13. Walking forever down rural roads

14. Saying F. Scott Fitzgerald is relevant and meaning it

15. Saying “I really like you, too” and not meaning it

16. Thinking I am invincible on my bike

17. Cleaning my kitchen

18. Not answering my phone

19. Cutting my own hair

20. Wanting things

21. Taking things

22. General mischief

23. Change

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This Is Fiction I Swear: Part 3

Part 3: That Party Somewhere

Industrial

I’ve been gone for a week now and I’m not sure where. Dead to the world my friends say. M.I.A. Unreachable. Out of touch. I’ll say something about the reception in my apartment or the poor quality of my old phone, but it wasn’t those things. I don’t know what it was. I lost some days, just dipped out for a while because everyone is terrible and boring and I couldn’t find it in me to bother.

But I’m back. Shoes on, and the evening smells like promise. It rained earlier in the day and the wet sidewalk reminds me of the first time I left you. It didn’t feel like summer then but it was, and the heavy sky hurt when it came down to rest on my shoulders. Your silence hurt when it dug into my shoulders. I just needed to feel your arm on my shoulders.

But everything around me was gray and damp and covered in little stones. I thought I saw you everywhere. People who vaguely resembled you or people who looked nothing like you or people who I didn’t even see very well—they were all you. Why couldn’t they be you? I remember I stopped at the drug store to check on our carelessness and wondered why I had to leave you. I wondered if I’d see you again and if you’d give me another chance to do better. You did, later. And you were so stupid.

But tonight a few of us–Max, Angelica, J-Kim– are riding over to a venue with no name to listen to kids play around with synths and act like they’re artists. I can’t tell one set from the other, and the room starts to get hot and my friends and I are passing whiskey around till the dark room embraces us and the neon lights blur to liquid channels. We’re happy because we’re together and we’re here. What else do people need? What is there outside of this? I think the world must be so jealous of us, but it doesn’t know about us. It doesn’t know about this room or these kids or this dark.

Then somehow I’m outside later and the guy I was chatting with is leaning in and I’m pressed up against the brick wall in the alley. He’s wearing suspenders and that’s dumb and that’s why I was talking to him in the first place, but now we’re kissing and I can’t breathe and I can’t think so I push him away and go unlock my bike. On the ride home my body goes numb. I’m suffocating in this perfect night air and thinking how I just want to feel it, just for a second.

But all I feel is the kitchen floor against my bare feet when I take my shoes off back at home. I turn on the light which I hate to do but I can’t see a damn thing and need a little help. For some reason in this yellow glow all I can think of is how my dad used to cut up pears for me when I was a little kid. I’d get too hungry before dinner was ready so he’d slice up a pear while I waited. I remember once when I was six or seven and swinging my legs back and forth at the dinner table I said, “I think Mom will be happy that I ate the whole pear.” My dad stopped what he was doing at the stove and very slowly turned around, spatula in hand. “Your Mom does not know, Ana. She’s not here, and you know that,” he said. Then he set down the spatula, walked out of the room, put his fist through the bathroom mirror, and I spent the rest of the evening watching him pick glass from his palm.