Six months of winter, three months off

The paycheck came in the mail, but never mind that.
It was never really about the money. Or business as usual.
No, something else, deeper, more attractive, more elusive, definately more unusual.
Adventure, and a lack there of.
Across the country, on the other end of the line, she's asking me why I don't sell out, get a 9-to-5, a cubical, some office furniture, a fake plant -- likely a fern -- a coffee maker (and a taste for coffee to go with it), a $125 office chair and maybe one of those squshy seat cushion things to go with it. I wonder why I would want any of that.
"Walking shoes would be better spent for my money," I say, because, no, it was never really about the money, or spending it on uselessness.
Wallets are what we're talking about, then, and how hers is by some designer, but actually a knock off, and how it cost less than what it actually looks.
"Something cheap that looks great."
"In this economy, that's what you shoot for."
She tells me she's in Las Vegas and has $45 of $550 she brought with her.
"Just gambled it all away."
And I smile.
"Roll the dice once for me," I say, and my voice wanders as I wonder.
I think my wonders are lost with the enthusiasm of it all. I think my words are lost in the whole meaningless of it all.
Since the winter I can't really think straight. Like something is inhibiting the thought process. Maybe it's the warm weather. Heat makes you content. And I'm content and I hate it. I feel like lately I've really lost the lust for life that Iggy Pop so passionatly called for.
"And that's my soul."
It all seemed better in Europe six months ago.
I tell her I want another job, something like Europe-six-months-ago, with soldiers and bombs and guns and intrigue and adventure and enthusiasm and fireworks and victories and early mornings and late nights that were all spent in the advancement of society.
And passion, too.
I feel I've lost passion.
She asks me if I've ever had it in the first place.
"At some point. That time we were looking at the stars on your roof."
"How do you lose passion in six months?"
"I guess I just came back."
Six months ago I embarked on the greatest adventure yet, and the philosophies were tested. Then I came back and when I was coming back I knew I would hate to be back once I got back. I remember the moment. I was driving on the autobahn.
It's strange, but I remember that I could think straight those days. Maybe because it was cold. The sharp breeze always keeps you on your toes.
Now I feel I can't even write straight. Like I've had three months off and I haven't done a damn thing, just laid there, let my soul, my mind, my body, my existence atrophy.
The writing is the reflection.
Really, it's become one of those frame stories, a story mirroring a story mirrored in a story. Like "Fall of the House of Usher".
"You've always seemed to have a way to find passion around midnight," she says.
"What does that mean?"
The wind outside begins to blow harder and as it sprays me, I wonder if this is the end.
"Never could get you off my mind," she says.
And I smile, concealed as we talk, and I tell her I don't feel alive anymore and she laughs. Then I laugh, darkly. She's the dozenth person I've told that to who has laughed.
"Around here everything isn't too serious."
"In Vegas?"
"I wish I had your job."
"To make up the $515?"
"Among other things."
"You wouldn't be happy with my job, there's so much more out there."
"It wouldn't be bad to have the $515 again."
"It was never really about the money."
"I'm happy you got your money in the mail."
I sigh.
"Yeah, me too."
And she laughs.
"There are two great tragedies in life; one is when you lose your heart's passion. The other is when you find it. That's what Gorge Bernard Shaw said."
"How did he know?"
"Must have known somehow."
"I guess you really do just know when you know."
Six months ago U.S. Airways flight 842 flew into Lexington, Ky., from Charlotte, N.C., the final connecting flight from Frankfurt, Germany, and stepping off at Blue Grass Airport I knew I'd lost something.

Lost in contents stirring

At dusk I try and remember why I left this place in the first place. A specific reason, I mean.
And the reason I came back
Tossing, turning, wondering, wandering; waiting for the moment when things make sense, I realize that a lot of things don't make sense. Questions lead to answers that are more questions.
“So glad you’re back. How was Europe?” she says. “You must tell me about it. And your job. You were a journalist, or just a writer, one of those expatriates?”
“A little bit of everything,” I say.
At dusk the sun setting slowly lights the sky afire in a hot rust, and I am almost blinded as we drive, so, squinting, I take out my sunglasses.
Her hand is on my thigh, running over my jeans.
The breeze is warm, getting cooler, and there are clouds on the horizon as we cross a bridge, drive into downtown and park for a drink. Windows up, doors closed, locked, then over to the bar, where the night starts, and I remark that it’s nice to be back, but don’t know if I mean it. The sound of her heels clicks along the pavement. She is wearing a thin white shirt and as the wind picks up, it dashes her long strawberry hair about. She keeps brushing it from her eyes as we talk. Our arms are locked and it feels familiar, but strange, and with our arms locked I’m not thinking of her, but someone else.
In Europe I covered the U.S. military. There were terrorist plots and military plots and bomb threats and bomb demonstrations and often men with guns and I remember that I had left to get away and I got away, I guess almost forgotten. I came back because I was lonely.
I don’t tell her that.
Outside on the patio we finish wine and she’s smoking and I ask for one too, even though I don’t smoke.
“Maybe it’ll help with the thoughts,” I mumble, lighting the tip.
“What?”
I have a bourbon and she has a vodka cranberry and is stirring it with a thin black straw and is smiling and talking and will brush my leg lightly with hers. She downs the liquor, then orders another and says, “I’ve needed a drink since last Thursday.”
Tonight we’re sitting in that place with the sky big above us.
A band starts to play. People scamper around. A waiter passes. Across from me a girl with piercing features and strawberry hair is staring at me with absolute lust filled to the brim in her eyes, and I'm flattered. But I’m thinking of someone else, and hate myself for it.
I'm searching for answers as I stir my drink, memorized by the motions of the alcohol making a cyclone in my hand. I wonder if I’m really even thirsty for a drink, this liquor and wine, or if water would do just fine.
“Did you meet anybody? Did you buy European clothes? How was the beer? Were there terrorists, men with guns?” she says, and I want to tell her that these are all things I don’t really care to talk about. The cigarette doesn’t help.
The drummer plays and somewhere from the back there is a guitar.
“Do you need more to drink?” And I think.
“I’m fine.”
My eyes are focused on the ceiling and I'm exhaling strong, sighing, and sitting opposite the cigarette in the ashtray on the small table in between us, which burns slowly, thinking thoughts as she talks and the purple smoke clouds over us, watching as a ceiling fan spin in a counter-clockwise position listening over the music.
“Italy is the most beautiful place,” she says
“Oh?”
“I fell in love there.”
“I wonder why all women in the Western world west of Lisbon and north of Grand Cayman fall in love with Italy.”
“It’s just gorgeous.”
“There is so much more out there.”
She takes a drag.
“Hardly. Were you in Italy?”
“No.”
“My heart is in Italy. I fell in love with Italy.”
“Don’t let love damage your heart.”
And my thoughts drift as I swirl my drink and I wish She would call, to save me from this place, just even say, “hey.”
Across from me she smiles at me as smoke expands over her head and it's a shallow smile.
I bring up the rest of Europe and she tells me it’s a dump, culturally, and goes on about the Italian men and the coffee and something about the architecture and the soccer and the history and the art.
Then fashion for a while.
“These clothes,” she motions to her chest. “All my clothes are Italian.”
“Congratulations.”
“They really have to be, you know.”
And I stop listening to her and picture her naked as she continues to point at her chest and realize, oddly, that the only thing pretty about her is her body and laugh because she doesn't know it. Then I think about myself and laugh harder.
She laughs with me and takes a drag and the smoke is caught by the wind and circles her head. She brushes my leg, I move it away.
The place fills up and there are people all around us, talking, and the band is playing louder, some deep, metallic song with an electric current, and there is a man with a tie leading them in song, who squeezes his microphone and jabbers about losing the prettiest thing he’s ever had in his life. “…Can’t find my happiness anymore….” The guitar plays. I think the band would be better without the singer.
“Could you do this?”
“The music?”
“Could you?”
“I could never play guitar for a living.”
“I could, maybe. I want to be an actress.”
“That's cute. I wanted to be an actor once.”
“Did you?”
“When I was young.”
“Aren't you still young?”
“Are you a journalist?”
“Do I ask too many questions?”
“You ask a lot.”
“You’re a journalist. How do you like it?”
“It doesn't pay the bills.”
“Then why do it?”
“Back stage access.”
“That’s a perk.”
I tip my drink, and then, “Do you want more to drink?”
I stand to get another round from the bar. She watches me with a smile.
Drifting in the night above is my mind, and I hate to leave her starving.
Another girl walks past, nice legs, lips, eyes, hair, waist; but it’s not Her.
Smoking, I walk to the bar and ask for two bourbons and a vodka cranberry. The bartender pours and I want to tip him and get my wallet, fumble it, catch the contents, all save for a picture that floats to the counter.
He grabs it for me, looks at it, grins, “She looks pretty.”
On the back is a name, written in a black permanent marker, slightly smeared.
“What happened to Marie?” He asks, and I feel like I’m in one of those classic black and white movies, circa 1949, where the main character is alone at the bar, eyes dark, talking to that friendly bartender, who is smiling as he cleans glasses, spilling personal secrets under the haze of increasing intoxication to someone who more than likely doesn’t really give a damn.
“She didn’t really love me,” I think, I mumble.
“Lemon?”
“Something like that.”
The first bourbon is for me, there.
At the table her eyes flow across me in my chair, and I hate myself.
I sigh and sit and she smiles, and I collect myself, and my thinking, without the aid of the cigarette, and quickly decide to make the most of the situation and to maybe drink harder and shove my thoughts in the ‘sometime later’ category of my brain.
The liquor doesn't take long to run through my veins, and I realize that it's exactly what I needed.
The smoke rises and disperses above the ashtray. I forget about the photo in my wallet.
And as the dusk turns to night, I start over, collected, and not thinking about a damn thing that I don’t want to. After dusk I forget why I left this place in the first place. Forget the specific reasons, I mean. And I don’t care why I came back.
Everyone outside turns their eyes to the night sky as a firework explodes some 100 yards away, bright for only seconds, then glitters down.
“That was pretty,” she says.
And I agree.
“You know who you remind me of?” She reaches in her purse and shuffles for a cigarette. “An actor. Can’t think his name.”
Then another firework explodes, dazzling across the sky as its tail flares for a second, then crashes to earth.
Around the end of my next bourbon we start to discuss her friend or sister's friend or someone of that relation being hit by a train recently, which is highly morbid and actually brought on by her vodka cranberry, I think. She’s already had a few, to loosen her tongue. It seems to help with the details.
“The bad thing about that is that there are a lot of pieces,” she says.
“That's kind of morbid, but true.”
Pieces are always hard to pick up, I think.
“It’s harder to find all the pieces,” she says.
She takes out another cigarette and lights it in her mouth and hands it to me.
“Take it.” And I do, and I take a drag.
She mentions something about quitting smoking and drinking harder, or smoking harder and drinking less and I laugh.
My eyes scan the evening horizon, the stars and rooftops, searching for more fireworks that may streak by. Then I look at her. She slants her body and the night light makes the curves of her chest shimmer. Her eyes look up and meet mine and she smiles, and I smile back and at that point I’m somewhere else. Under the influence of something else, of someone else. And I’m thinking of her and her hair, her eyes, her smile, looking at her and nothing else in the world matters for a second as the cigarette smoke makes a frame around her face.
“Let me light mine,” she says.
I’m just staring and she reaches in with her cigarette in her mouth and leans forward, eyes closed, to kiss, and the tips of our smokes join and there is a flare. She takes it in, satisfied, and I’m satisfied.
And she leans back and smiles.
We both have more to drink and the drinks help me forget for a bit, but seem to help her remember and she continues on about the train, the details of which I tune out.
Around midnight we decide to leave. She’s had a lot to drink and I think I’m a little over the edge, too. We hail a taxi.
Above us the stars are shining and I’m thinking again and I can still hear the band inside and there is a cool breeze and the liquor dulls it at first and there is a crescent moon rising, horns pointed up, and I’m remembering.
We drive and the driver has his window down and there is a breeze and the breeze catches her hair and she pulls it behind her ears and says she’s happy I came out with her tonight.
We cross the bridge. I can’t judge if she’s drunk or not, or acting. I can’t focus. Her hand is at my side, her other holding down her dress so as not to have it blown everywhere. I look at her legs, then at her hair, her smile, then at the night and think that I’ve lost my ability to think clearly, and to feel, but still can’t seem to forget.
“Are you happy to be back?” she asks.
I don’t answer. I start thinking about Her, then about Europe and Italy and how much I really actually hate Italy, and then about her again, and her hair, her eyes, her smile, and in the haze of drunkenness I’m lost.
In the seat she kisses me on the cheek, hovers beside me, leans on my side, and I feel nothing, and hate myself for it.
We stop. She gets out, asks if I want to come in.
I say, “No.”
She is still smiling and says she’ll call.
Then, “It'll be a lonely ride home,” she contends.
But it gives you time to think, I think. And I want to tell her that I'll drift along alone alive, and thinking, and that would be better for me anyways. As I pay for her fare I look at the contents of my wallet and sigh.
And I wave goodbye.
“That’s it?” She says.
Like an eyelash caught in her eye she blinks.
“Got nothing anymore.”
The best ‘The End’ is just to end.
I wave goodbye.
The last act.
Back home I look at myself in the mirror, eye to eye. I wash my face in the sink, then get in the shower. The water is warm and I just stand there staring at the ceiling, watching the steam rise and swirl as the jets pound my chest.
Wearing a white towel, I walk over to pour a cup of water, with lemon. My wallet is at the counter and I question if I should dump the contents.
Outside the night is clear.
I sit down and I think that I want to fall asleep, but can’t.
The quiet is disturbing. I turn on some music, then turn it off again, then the TV, then turn that off again, the just listen to nothingness. I think about the band and think that it really was a bad band, or at least the singer, but think that if it were a different singer with the same lyrics, it probably wouldn’t have been so bad. Or maybe different lyrics. I turn and look at my clock and realize it’s late in the early morning. The quiet is disturbing, makes me wonder.
So, late in the early morning my thoughts stir. I wonder why I left this place in the first place. Where did I ever go and why?
Sometime later my phone rings, screaming through the darkness.
I search around for my pants, find my pocket, juggle the phone.
A haze frames around me as I’m staring, smiling.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey.”