From the Inside Looking Out

From the outside looking in- it doesn't look so bad. But she's not out here. She's in there. Seeing where it all started. Empty kitchen. The crack of the seal on the vodka bottle. Five straight shots. Heart pounding and nothing to inhale but her own angry dragon fire. Now she needs smokes. Keys in hand, mind out the window. Riding smack dab on the double line. The gas attendant sees the fury but it's desperation upon closer inspection. A match ignites the thin cigar because all her lighters are M.I.A. Street lights are blurred. Vision is blurred. But clear enough to see it. The black chariot. The wicked black chariot that haunts nightmares and daydreams with even relentlessness. Nothing left to do but unravel. Scream. Lunge. Slap. Kick. At anything at all. Anything that moves. When all is said and done, the windshield looks like Charlotte's web..without the words Terrific or Humble woven throughout it. Convulsions come. Tears. Gallons of them. Enough to outsalt the Dead Sea. Whispers of mockery dancing in ears. Knowing glances exchanged over her head. All in the name of doing what feels right. Long gone are peaceful times but quiet moments linger. Empty kitchens. Broken liquor seals. A fractured stillness. From the inside looking out- it looks like what it is.. and feels even worse. From the outside looking in- it doesn't look so bad at all. But I'm not out there. I'm in here.

One of Us

It's half past eleven in the morning. Thirty minutes before it's socially acceptable to have a cocktail- but the place is open and a Vodka tonic called me there. I drag the wooden stool back and order. "No lime, please." I say to no one in particular. A short glass of my poison is placed before me. I treat the first gulp like mouthwash then swallow hard. Before I can settle into my crowded brain, the door swings open and an older gentleman ambles towards the bar. He draws closer to me. Life has weathered his mahogany face. He needs a drink less than I do judging from the scent emanating from his pores. "Single malt if you have it," he says to the barkeep. I'm not surprised at all. He turns to me and asks if I want to hear the truth. I shrug. He walks over to the jukebox and drops in an endless supply of coin.

To the sounds of Little Milton, he launches into the aforementioned truth. I listen wordlessly while staring at the bubbles that find the top of my bitter liquid. Between sips of Glenfiddich he speaks of an ordinary life. Married for 32 years. Widowed 8 years ago. Three grown children spread across the continental U.S. Seven grandchildren between two of them. His eldest son- the one in San Diego, is a 'Fly Boy'. Lives out there with his partner. No kids, obviously. That one has his namesake if I can believe it. And I do. I ask if that bothers him at all. "Well, it did for a while...but he's still mine, you know?" His eyes appear to be looking thirty years into the past.

There's a pregnant pause between us and then I hear it. By the time he croaks out an admission you seldom hear a man of his age make- the guitar strings of R.E.M 's Everybody Hurts are coiling through the air. "I had to love him that much more... cuz his world was that much colder." For the first time since our conversation began, my mind wanders back to my own thoughts. What brought me here in the first place. Freshly sacked from a loathsome job I really needed, my car wanting overpriced repairs and enough past due bills to wallpaper my entire apartment. None of it matters. I gaze at the mirror behind the rows of bottles at the bar. I look like a stranger to myself and incidentally, the stranger's reflection seated next to mine looks oddly familiar. I begin to wonder why I've sat this long listening to him. I look to my left to find him gone. Joan Osborne's One of Us is the soundtrack to his exit. I push three singles towards the napkin holder. As I get up to leave it occurs to me that I was there to hear my own truth, not his. I step out against the lunch rush into a new, unknown world.



“Be not forgetful to entertain strangers; for thereby some have entertained angels unaware..”- Hebrews 13:2

State of the (Dis)Union

They had nothing to say to each other. The silence had since swallowed them whole. Ten years of loving, learning and loathing. She sat, arms folded against her crisp, gabardine suit. He watched her from across the varnished oak table. It was only a few feet, but it might as well have been a mile long. Scenes from their lives together replayed themselves in his head. When he carried her to the car. She twisted her ankle in the ‘Grand Canyon’ of potholes behind the restaurant. He saw it; why didn’t she? Those damn platform sandals of hers. He didn’t even believe she was hurt until her ankle was the size of a softball the next day. ‘Just doing the chivalrous thing.’ he reflected. But did she really need me to carry her to car? And he never seemed to hear the end of it. God, she really was too outspoken back then. She held her tongue for no one, especially not him. But he never could control her. He tried, and succeeded at times, but she never did quite bend the way he needed her to. She had no respect for him. That was it. Suddenly, all the memories came flooding back. Washing away any trace of affection he held for her. He realized she was a shrew that could never be tamed.

She meets his gaze with icy resignation. ‘Why look away? Let him see that there is no hurt left. That there is nothing left. Let him know that love can be extinguished.’ All those years wasted. So many years spent locking away all that she truly was. Stifling everything that was meaningful to her...just for him. So many years of holding her tongue to portray a united front in the name of loyalty. And for what? How many meaningless apologies and empty promises filled their years? She felt the chill of the rain on her neck of that night so long ago. “I promise. I’ll be back to pick you up when you get off.” He had her car, her keys and it was his world. She finally had to call a cab home in the wee hours of the morning. Locked out and freezing, calling and getting no response, she had no choice but for him to tire of his revelries and finally come home. And when she twisted her ankle behind the bar. Of course, he never seemed to remember that it was bar they were leaving that night. Or that he was walking so far up ahead that she had to break her own fall. The first of many in their time together. She learned to brace herself. The very thought of him left a sick, metallic taste in her mouth now.

She lifts her arm out of its comfortable place and picks up the elegant, silver pen. It is a magic wand between her fingers. Her signature is swift and final. It is over. Their representatives go through the formalities. They do all the talking. Ten years coming to a close. She feels the heaviness shrugged off of her slender shoulders like the Titan Atlas. The whole unlovely tale concluded. No longer needing to personify endurance for one so undeserving- a wisdom with no name envelops her. With both hands she rolls herself away from the table and rises. They had nothing to say to each other.