Going Nowhere

There are police sirens blaring outside my window and I begin to wonder if I made the right decision. I’m on the eleventh floor, the Penthouse floor or whatever they want to call it, and the sirens sound like crying babies. I fear for my car. I look out the window, ensure that it’s not on cinder blocks, and fade from the glass. I can’t imagine anyone finding anything of value in the car but the simple, racist things that twitter your heart make you react irrationally when you hear a police siren. Case in point, I think there has to have been a murder.

It’s not like it’s been smooth sailing or anything. The trip here hasn’t gone off without its hitches. Some Cracker Barrel semi almost pile-drived me off the road. The cable in my room decided it doesn’t want to work; my books are all at home. Sam’s new boyfriend, some twit who considers himself the next Charles Schultz, calls to enforce a no-seeing policy. “Sam’s being doing so much better without you in her life, you did some regressive shit to her you know?” He tries the tough act for a spin, I let it slid, for a period, straighten him out when it comes down to it. I play innocent the whole time claiming to not know what he’s talking about, that she’s been the one in contact with me. He asks me what my game is with the situation. I tell him, no game pal, and laugh violently. One has to have a sense of humor about themselves in situations like that.

The room is so quiet. And white. It reminds me of a pysch ward. I half want Jack Nicholson to walk in, be my buddy. I’m not a really ethnic looking guy but I could be his chief, if he would have me. God, if anyone would have me.

There go the sirens again. This time there accustomed with yelling from the street and the scuffle of tennis shoes across pavement. I sink to my bed not even having the strength to gaze out the window. This is going to be a long year, I guess.

****

She makes a little care package before I leave. It’s full of the bare necessities-soap, shampoo, towels, chips, cute little bottle of Jameson. It’s so saccharine it almost makes my teeth hurt. If only I was attracted to her, god, I might find this little gesture beautiful. Girlfriend material, almost. But I look at her, her face, round about the cheeks, white teeth, slant nose, crystal blue eyes (the eyes, jesus, the sex oozing out those eyes) all point to something beautiful and fragile and worth keeping safe, but my heart is just not into it. I feel for her, sure, I’m not that cold-hearted, but that feeling lies somewhere between confusion and admiration for someone to hold onto something that is so obviously dead. One has to have a bit of awe for someone who models their relationships after Custer’s Final Stand. All knowing of the wreck that has become them. Admirable in some strange way.

“Are you going to call me everyday?”

“Of course I am.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

She looks up to me, trying to gaze past the steely look to my inners, to my brain, my heart which is hidden, tucked, away from view. She can look all she wants but she’s not going to get a glance. I’ve done very well hiding it the last year.

I take her hand and bring it to my face. I kiss her warm skin; I hear her heartbeat skip a couple of decibels. Her fingers are short and fat, soft, yes, but very unladylike. Her nails sit like periods on the end of her hand. It’s the errors and faults that make us beautiful or special they say. Well, her hands give her character much like the birthmarks that cross her face and sit above her hips. There’s something to be loved here or learned here but I’m clearly missing it. Bringing her mouth to mine, I feel her tornado swirl around.

“I’m going to miss you babe.”

“I’m going to miss you too. I swear.”

And with that, it’s over. I grab the gift and I leave.

*****