That moment when the clock stops.
Everything goes silent.
Breathe in the morning,
exhale the density, the weight of another night bitter spent.
That moment between inhaling and exhaling.
Everything begins again.
She kisses me with fingers crossed behind her back.
I open myself to misguided hopes and dreams.
I surrender to a thousand might have beens.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
the letters that she wrote
I saw it in her eyes for the first time. No matter what he tried to do to make her happy it would never be enough. Behind her creative force was a destructive energy, and all the romantic weekends, and kinky sex would never satisfy the desire that drove her to states inspiration at great heights. So I continued to watch her from across an ocean with my telescope by day, deciphering the secret love letters she wrote to me by night. Each one always ended,
I will hunt you and haunt you.
Give and take.
Love always,
Rebekah.
I will hunt you and haunt you.
Give and take.
Love always,
Rebekah.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
you've got a lot of nerve (pt 7)
I'm standing on a street corner waiting for no one, watching the people passing and can't help but want to shout, “What the fuck?” Now I'm all worked up and have no way of releasing it, so I turn back and head towards the convenient store to buy a couple of cans of beer, which will hopefully subside the beast within.
I walk in and surprisingly find Rex at the hot dog counter. “Hey man,” I shout to him as I head towards the cooler.
“Hello there.”
“Yeah. I'm sorry about leaving you at the ATM. I just . . . didn't . . .”
“It's okay. The woman called her daughter to come get her because I wouldn't let either of them leave until they started acting right. I talked to the daughter and we're going to have dinner tomorrow. Beautiful girl, named Mariela, she lives in your complex. You know her?”
“Yes. Yes I do.”
Rex moved past me with his hot dogs and headed towards the cashier as I walked back towards the cooler. I took a couple of cans of beer out and turned towards the chips. As I contemplated my options, a hunched over man wearing a dark suit and a Bill Clinton mask comes waddling into the store waving a snub nose .38 around.
Fuck, it's Cheney, I mumble to myself.
Dick's keeping the gun moving. Going from the clerk's head to Rex's, which is really starting to piss Rex off.
“Give me the goddamn money!” Cheney barks at the clerk.
“Sure thing Mr. Clinton.” She responds with the thick sarcasm of a someone who's been robbed by someone pretending to be an ex-president before.
Rex's jaw is clenched and based on the tight fists his hands have become, he's moments from making a stupid move. As the cashier, takes all the bills out of her till and puts them on the counter, I reach the decision that this whole robbery situation is just stupid. This guy, who may or may not be Dick Cheney is robbing a convenient store, Rex is about to do something very stupid that could get him and the cashier killed.
Fuck it. I say with a sigh before stepping out from behind the chips and tossing a can of beer at Cheney's head. It hit him as expected, slightly off catching more the back half of the side of his head than the front half but it spun him around and knocked him silly all the same.
After he hit the ground, Rex was on top of him, holding his lifeless but still breathing body against the floor while the cashier called the cops. I put a couple of bucks on the counter for a can of beer and promptly left before either could try and stop me. It had officially been a long and trying day and I was ready to head home, maybe smoke a little ganja and drift off to sleep.
Heading home, I think about crawling into bed and sleeping the rest of this strange evening. I'm moving toward paradise, I think to myself, a comfortable bed, warm blanket, perfect pillow, letting myself get lost in a series of dreams.
I walk in and surprisingly find Rex at the hot dog counter. “Hey man,” I shout to him as I head towards the cooler.
“Hello there.”
“Yeah. I'm sorry about leaving you at the ATM. I just . . . didn't . . .”
“It's okay. The woman called her daughter to come get her because I wouldn't let either of them leave until they started acting right. I talked to the daughter and we're going to have dinner tomorrow. Beautiful girl, named Mariela, she lives in your complex. You know her?”
“Yes. Yes I do.”
Rex moved past me with his hot dogs and headed towards the cashier as I walked back towards the cooler. I took a couple of cans of beer out and turned towards the chips. As I contemplated my options, a hunched over man wearing a dark suit and a Bill Clinton mask comes waddling into the store waving a snub nose .38 around.
Fuck, it's Cheney, I mumble to myself.
Dick's keeping the gun moving. Going from the clerk's head to Rex's, which is really starting to piss Rex off.
“Give me the goddamn money!” Cheney barks at the clerk.
“Sure thing Mr. Clinton.” She responds with the thick sarcasm of a someone who's been robbed by someone pretending to be an ex-president before.
Rex's jaw is clenched and based on the tight fists his hands have become, he's moments from making a stupid move. As the cashier, takes all the bills out of her till and puts them on the counter, I reach the decision that this whole robbery situation is just stupid. This guy, who may or may not be Dick Cheney is robbing a convenient store, Rex is about to do something very stupid that could get him and the cashier killed.
Fuck it. I say with a sigh before stepping out from behind the chips and tossing a can of beer at Cheney's head. It hit him as expected, slightly off catching more the back half of the side of his head than the front half but it spun him around and knocked him silly all the same.
After he hit the ground, Rex was on top of him, holding his lifeless but still breathing body against the floor while the cashier called the cops. I put a couple of bucks on the counter for a can of beer and promptly left before either could try and stop me. It had officially been a long and trying day and I was ready to head home, maybe smoke a little ganja and drift off to sleep.
Heading home, I think about crawling into bed and sleeping the rest of this strange evening. I'm moving toward paradise, I think to myself, a comfortable bed, warm blanket, perfect pillow, letting myself get lost in a series of dreams.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
you've got alot of nerve (pt 6)
I walk out into the frantic world of sirens and people moving up and down the street. For some reason I feel safer out here than in the bar. I light a cigarette and look up at the sky. It's become something I do when I leave the inside. There are no clouds. It occurs to me, Rex never came to the bar, and I begin to worry that the mess I left him in the midst of, may not have turned out well.
I walk over to the pay phone outside of the convenience store next to the bar. I don't like cell phones and I refuse to get one. I figure I'll call Pete to see if he's heard from Rex. If not, I'll tell Pete to apologize to Rex for me. I'd try Rex myself, but I don't have his number and I don't want to get into anything.
There's a guy on the phone already. His head and shoulders are deep in the phone box. I stand behind him, as still as I can, but I'm drunk. Not so drunk that I'm drawing attention to myself, but drunk enough that standing still isn't the easiest of tasks. I try not to pry, but I can't help myself, so I listen to his end of the conversation. In a voice wobbly from nerves and anticipation he says, “Hello, yes, Mariela, my name is Dick, your profile seems perfect. We seem to both be in the same place. I would like to take you to dinner some time. Again my name is Dick. Give me a call. My number is 879-0973.
It can't be, I thought to myself. No way that this guy is calling . . . impossible. He notices my presence as if my thoughts were so loud he could hear them. He steps away from the phone and turns. Still a little hunched over, he looks at me, makes eye contact and straightens up. My eyes move around, taking in his facial features. I realize the man standing in front of me might be Dick Cheney. I'm pretty drunk and it could very well be Richard Dreyfus, but I'm pretty sure it's the real deal. He gives me a smug half-grin as he shakes his head in total disgust at my very existence.
“You've got a lot of nerve standing so close to someone while their on the phone. It would make someone think you're up to something or that something is seriously wrong with you. You're not a foreigner are you? You're legally in this country, right?”
“I'm as American as McCarthy, apple pie, and baseball,” I reply.
“That's good to hear. You just need to learn to respect people's space . . . their privacy.”
“Yes Dick. I'm very sorry. I'll try and do a better job of keeping to myself.”
“Good to hear. The phone is all yours.”
“Thanks.”
Dick straightens himself, upright, proud, and everything in its proper place. He is full of hope in the possibilities that personal ads offer and walks across the parking lot and down the street.
I pick up the phone, listen for the dial tone, then drop a pair of quarters into the slot. I punch in the series of numbers that will connect me to Pete. As the phone rings, I think about how we're defined by numbers, height, weight, age, social security, phone number. Our whole lives are marked by numbers. Time itself, just numbers that ultimately define our existence in the flesh, the day we're born, the day we die. Six rings, voice mail. I want to leave a long message about numbers and time, instead I say nothing and hang up. My thoughts feet obvious and irrelevant. Why bother?
Why bother with any of this? These connections that lead to so many wasted nights and dead ends. Disconnect. The line of communication simply goes dead. Sometimes quick and virtually unnoticed. Other times it's a slow and painful estrangement. The chaos of life can be so loud and overwhelming that it causes an anger to swell inside of me and so I must grow a beard and go into hiding. The speed of these modern times has lead to the dead eyes of addiction, the blindness of insecurity, the rise of the shaman of the prescription pad.
Then there's love. It's own noise and confusion, a symphony of brass and bottle-neck blues, it's own seductive language that leads us along like the Pied Piper's song, to a fairy tale promised land. At first it's always magic, and romantic notions, and then it turns deep and profound, commitments need to be made. Simply put, that's the fucking beauty of it, but it's that very thing that terrifies me, and is the cause of why I force myself to live trapped in the corner.
And I see all these people hustling, driving tense and aggressively, heading for somewhere, nowhere, lost and found. What are they all searching for? What do they want? Why do they live with so many secrets and lies? Going so far as to even bury their desires deeply underneath all of these secrets and lies we hold so dear.
I walk over to the pay phone outside of the convenience store next to the bar. I don't like cell phones and I refuse to get one. I figure I'll call Pete to see if he's heard from Rex. If not, I'll tell Pete to apologize to Rex for me. I'd try Rex myself, but I don't have his number and I don't want to get into anything.
There's a guy on the phone already. His head and shoulders are deep in the phone box. I stand behind him, as still as I can, but I'm drunk. Not so drunk that I'm drawing attention to myself, but drunk enough that standing still isn't the easiest of tasks. I try not to pry, but I can't help myself, so I listen to his end of the conversation. In a voice wobbly from nerves and anticipation he says, “Hello, yes, Mariela, my name is Dick, your profile seems perfect. We seem to both be in the same place. I would like to take you to dinner some time. Again my name is Dick. Give me a call. My number is 879-0973.
It can't be, I thought to myself. No way that this guy is calling . . . impossible. He notices my presence as if my thoughts were so loud he could hear them. He steps away from the phone and turns. Still a little hunched over, he looks at me, makes eye contact and straightens up. My eyes move around, taking in his facial features. I realize the man standing in front of me might be Dick Cheney. I'm pretty drunk and it could very well be Richard Dreyfus, but I'm pretty sure it's the real deal. He gives me a smug half-grin as he shakes his head in total disgust at my very existence.
“You've got a lot of nerve standing so close to someone while their on the phone. It would make someone think you're up to something or that something is seriously wrong with you. You're not a foreigner are you? You're legally in this country, right?”
“I'm as American as McCarthy, apple pie, and baseball,” I reply.
“That's good to hear. You just need to learn to respect people's space . . . their privacy.”
“Yes Dick. I'm very sorry. I'll try and do a better job of keeping to myself.”
“Good to hear. The phone is all yours.”
“Thanks.”
Dick straightens himself, upright, proud, and everything in its proper place. He is full of hope in the possibilities that personal ads offer and walks across the parking lot and down the street.
I pick up the phone, listen for the dial tone, then drop a pair of quarters into the slot. I punch in the series of numbers that will connect me to Pete. As the phone rings, I think about how we're defined by numbers, height, weight, age, social security, phone number. Our whole lives are marked by numbers. Time itself, just numbers that ultimately define our existence in the flesh, the day we're born, the day we die. Six rings, voice mail. I want to leave a long message about numbers and time, instead I say nothing and hang up. My thoughts feet obvious and irrelevant. Why bother?
Why bother with any of this? These connections that lead to so many wasted nights and dead ends. Disconnect. The line of communication simply goes dead. Sometimes quick and virtually unnoticed. Other times it's a slow and painful estrangement. The chaos of life can be so loud and overwhelming that it causes an anger to swell inside of me and so I must grow a beard and go into hiding. The speed of these modern times has lead to the dead eyes of addiction, the blindness of insecurity, the rise of the shaman of the prescription pad.
Then there's love. It's own noise and confusion, a symphony of brass and bottle-neck blues, it's own seductive language that leads us along like the Pied Piper's song, to a fairy tale promised land. At first it's always magic, and romantic notions, and then it turns deep and profound, commitments need to be made. Simply put, that's the fucking beauty of it, but it's that very thing that terrifies me, and is the cause of why I force myself to live trapped in the corner.
And I see all these people hustling, driving tense and aggressively, heading for somewhere, nowhere, lost and found. What are they all searching for? What do they want? Why do they live with so many secrets and lies? Going so far as to even bury their desires deeply underneath all of these secrets and lies we hold so dear.
Friday, January 29, 2010
you've got a lot of nerve (pt 5)
I've been steadily drinking for the last few hours and feeling like a real asshole for leaving Rex to deal with those two and possibly the cops on his own. I know I've only known him for a couple of hours and I've done far worse things to people I've known for years, but he seems like a genuinely nice guy. The incident did shed a little light on why Pete may have wanted Rex and I to meet. The guy definitely has a problem letting things go, but is my general passiveness any better? I guess not much to be done about it except order another drink.
While I wait for the bartender, I look over at the guy next to me. He's been here for about an hour. I've never seen him before, and thankfully he hasn't tried to talk to me. He's been drinking his drink and scanning the room, staring stealthily at the pretty girls as they come and go. He's been locked on one girl for awhile now. Normally, I wouldn't pay a guy like this any mind, but he keeps fidgeting as he tries not to stare too long at the girl on the other side of the bar. Then he does the last thing I wanted him to do. He leans over and talks to me.
“Damn, isn't that girl over there hot.”
I look at her. She's pretty. I wouldn't say beautiful, just pretty in a very conventional way. Shoulder length dirty blonde hair, pale green eyes, and smile that took thousands of dollars to create. There are half a dozen of her in the place right now.
“Go over and talk to her,” I say to him. He isn't bad looking guy but she's still out of his league. More than anything, I'm curious to see if he'll actually go up to her.
“I can't talk to her.” He responds, shocked that I even suggest such an idea.
“Why's that?”
“She's not gonna give me a chance.”
I shake my head in a contemplative manner. I feel a little bad for the guy, he obviously has self-esteem issues. Not that I'm a solid example of someone who has a very good opinion of himself, and I understand the staring and adulation, it was the sum total of my adolescent sex life, but now I would have no problem going up and talking to the girl.
“You know what I'd like to do with a beautiful girl like that. I'd like to kidnap her and take her to my apartment . . .”
My mind is not sound enough to hop aboard this man's delusion train so I interrupt him. “I don't think women like to be held against their will.”
“It wouldn't be against her will!” The guy next to me became angry and defensive. Everything about him turns sinister and he stares me in the eyes, deciding whether or not to smash my face with his glass. I watch his eyes and hands carefully. A few deep breaths later, he calms down enough to finish what he is trying to say.
“Once she saw my place, she'd realize how cool I am, then she wouldn't want to leave.”
Maybe I'm wrong about the self-esteem thing, I think to myself. But these are still the desperate words of a very strange and twisted man. What does one say to a desperate, drunk, crazy man?
“You should leave that one alone. I've heard she's got syphilis.”
“No. A girl like that.”
“Yeah. A friend of mine got it from her. Terrible stuff, man.”
“That's horrible. Some people.”
I feel like a huge asshole now. I completely leveled this poor guy's fantasy, burned it to the ground, and just for good measure, I made sure he was in the house when the house burned down. I got up off the bar stool and threw some money on the counter. If it was short, Paul the bartender would make sure I paid up next time. I have credit here, but it's not very good anymore. I left the guy next to me to ponder his rotten luck. The one girl he falls in love with today, probably has syphilis. Truth is, I don't know if she does, I don't know her, but I felt compelled to keep her from having to deal with him, twisted logic I know.
While I wait for the bartender, I look over at the guy next to me. He's been here for about an hour. I've never seen him before, and thankfully he hasn't tried to talk to me. He's been drinking his drink and scanning the room, staring stealthily at the pretty girls as they come and go. He's been locked on one girl for awhile now. Normally, I wouldn't pay a guy like this any mind, but he keeps fidgeting as he tries not to stare too long at the girl on the other side of the bar. Then he does the last thing I wanted him to do. He leans over and talks to me.
“Damn, isn't that girl over there hot.”
I look at her. She's pretty. I wouldn't say beautiful, just pretty in a very conventional way. Shoulder length dirty blonde hair, pale green eyes, and smile that took thousands of dollars to create. There are half a dozen of her in the place right now.
“Go over and talk to her,” I say to him. He isn't bad looking guy but she's still out of his league. More than anything, I'm curious to see if he'll actually go up to her.
“I can't talk to her.” He responds, shocked that I even suggest such an idea.
“Why's that?”
“She's not gonna give me a chance.”
I shake my head in a contemplative manner. I feel a little bad for the guy, he obviously has self-esteem issues. Not that I'm a solid example of someone who has a very good opinion of himself, and I understand the staring and adulation, it was the sum total of my adolescent sex life, but now I would have no problem going up and talking to the girl.
“You know what I'd like to do with a beautiful girl like that. I'd like to kidnap her and take her to my apartment . . .”
My mind is not sound enough to hop aboard this man's delusion train so I interrupt him. “I don't think women like to be held against their will.”
“It wouldn't be against her will!” The guy next to me became angry and defensive. Everything about him turns sinister and he stares me in the eyes, deciding whether or not to smash my face with his glass. I watch his eyes and hands carefully. A few deep breaths later, he calms down enough to finish what he is trying to say.
“Once she saw my place, she'd realize how cool I am, then she wouldn't want to leave.”
Maybe I'm wrong about the self-esteem thing, I think to myself. But these are still the desperate words of a very strange and twisted man. What does one say to a desperate, drunk, crazy man?
“You should leave that one alone. I've heard she's got syphilis.”
“No. A girl like that.”
“Yeah. A friend of mine got it from her. Terrible stuff, man.”
“That's horrible. Some people.”
I feel like a huge asshole now. I completely leveled this poor guy's fantasy, burned it to the ground, and just for good measure, I made sure he was in the house when the house burned down. I got up off the bar stool and threw some money on the counter. If it was short, Paul the bartender would make sure I paid up next time. I have credit here, but it's not very good anymore. I left the guy next to me to ponder his rotten luck. The one girl he falls in love with today, probably has syphilis. Truth is, I don't know if she does, I don't know her, but I felt compelled to keep her from having to deal with him, twisted logic I know.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
you've got a lot of nerve (pt 4)
Rex and I are standing in line. In front of us is a Hispanic woman, maybe sixty years old. In front of her, using the machine, is a hippie type kid with long hair, a tattered t-shirt, and worn, dirty jeans. The kid is having difficulties working the machine. He seems to be staring at the screen, doing nothing. Maybe he really stoned or tripping, I consider. The lady in front of us is mumbling to herself, making noises, looking back at us, saying, “Ay dios mio.”
“I'm planning to go trout fishing out west later this year,” Rex says, in what feels like his first attempt at small talk all day.
“That should be fun,” I reply.
“Last year I went salmon fishing in Oregon, but I've heard good things about trout fishing in America.”
“I've never been, but I've also heard great things about it.”
The woman's limit has been reached and she is becoming unruly. The kid doesn't seem to have made any progress with his transaction either.
“Hurry up you dirty hippie. Stop smoking the dope and get a life,” She yells at the back of the kids head. She turns, looking back at us in order to gain our support and assist her in getting this kid to move on.
“Ma'am,” Rex begins, “you shouldn't call him a dirty hippie. He's a person too, and doesn't need to be called derogatory names.
A perplexed look forms on her face and she looks to me for an explanation. I have none, so I let my eyes drift to the ground. I glance back up, she has a stern look on her face and is eyeing Rex down as the kid finishes and walks by us.
“That's right you old bitch, you shouldn't call me names,” he says as he passes. Rex reaches out and grabs the boy by the throat and holds him still. He looks away from the woman to the boys and says, “You should never call anyone a bitch, and you should have more respect for your elders.”
The boy looks like he's about to crap himself as he shakes his head slowly up and down until Rex releases his grip. The woman, high on the empowerment Rex's actions have just provided her, begins cursing at the boy. Rex, completely aghast by the woman's attitude, puts a finger to her lips, aggressively shushes her, and then says, “You need to learn to respect other people.”
I'm stepping away from the scene, slowly and backwards, because I don't want to miss anything. I'm figuring at this point though, it's got to be over. Then the boy makes the mistake of laughing, which earns him a smack in the mouth. I shake my head at the futility of what is going on.
“Hey Rex, man, you get this straightened out, meet me over at the bar,” I shout trying to be heard over the three of them. Rex doesn't acknowledge me, I split anyway. As soon as I'm ten feet away, I'm filled with guilt. I know I shouldn't be leaving Rex in this situation, but I've never done anybody any good, so why should I start now.
“I'm planning to go trout fishing out west later this year,” Rex says, in what feels like his first attempt at small talk all day.
“That should be fun,” I reply.
“Last year I went salmon fishing in Oregon, but I've heard good things about trout fishing in America.”
“I've never been, but I've also heard great things about it.”
The woman's limit has been reached and she is becoming unruly. The kid doesn't seem to have made any progress with his transaction either.
“Hurry up you dirty hippie. Stop smoking the dope and get a life,” She yells at the back of the kids head. She turns, looking back at us in order to gain our support and assist her in getting this kid to move on.
“Ma'am,” Rex begins, “you shouldn't call him a dirty hippie. He's a person too, and doesn't need to be called derogatory names.
A perplexed look forms on her face and she looks to me for an explanation. I have none, so I let my eyes drift to the ground. I glance back up, she has a stern look on her face and is eyeing Rex down as the kid finishes and walks by us.
“That's right you old bitch, you shouldn't call me names,” he says as he passes. Rex reaches out and grabs the boy by the throat and holds him still. He looks away from the woman to the boys and says, “You should never call anyone a bitch, and you should have more respect for your elders.”
The boy looks like he's about to crap himself as he shakes his head slowly up and down until Rex releases his grip. The woman, high on the empowerment Rex's actions have just provided her, begins cursing at the boy. Rex, completely aghast by the woman's attitude, puts a finger to her lips, aggressively shushes her, and then says, “You need to learn to respect other people.”
I'm stepping away from the scene, slowly and backwards, because I don't want to miss anything. I'm figuring at this point though, it's got to be over. Then the boy makes the mistake of laughing, which earns him a smack in the mouth. I shake my head at the futility of what is going on.
“Hey Rex, man, you get this straightened out, meet me over at the bar,” I shout trying to be heard over the three of them. Rex doesn't acknowledge me, I split anyway. As soon as I'm ten feet away, I'm filled with guilt. I know I shouldn't be leaving Rex in this situation, but I've never done anybody any good, so why should I start now.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
you've got a lot of nerve (pt 3)
A man in the doorway is half genuflecting. I assume it's his way of apologizing for any inconvenience he might be interjecting. “Hello, I'm Rex,” he says, smiling.
I'm staring blankly. I know who he is and why he is here, I'm just wondering, why now? I use this silence to take in his features. He's got a rugged masculine face, and solid bone structure. He's clean shaven, and it doesn't seem right. For a moment I think about asking him if I can color a five o'clock shadow on him.
The look on my face distresses him. “You're Pete's friend Tito, right?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Tito, in a manner of speaking or Pete's friend in a manner of speaking.”
“Little of both.”
“Pete said you'd be expecting me.”
“Sounds like Pete.”
“Is my coming here a problem?”
“No. It's not that.”
“You wanna get some coffee?”
I nod is acquiescence and we walk to the restaurant near my apartment.
“I don't tell many people this . . . enough people think I'm crazy as it is. I like to talk to rocks.”
“Why rocks?” I ask without any judgment because I myself talk to almost every inanimate object in my apartment. It comes with the territory, I convinced myself long ago. I suffer from incredible social anxiety, and I just can't relate to most people. These things are all I have left to talk to. This was the gist of the conversation I had with myself some years ago.
“Of the few people I've told, you're the only one who's asked me, 'why rocks?'.”
“Why then?”
“It's because they are fragments of something else, something larger than themselves. Within them in an entire history, but they know nothing of it. They're like us in that way.”
“I guess that's true,” I respond.
We're on the forth cup of coffee when Rex's attitude changes. He's looking out of the window, down the street. I follow his eyes as they drift down the avenue, to the last intersection that can be seen before the pavement rises like a rolling hill, blocking one's eyes from continuing on until the edge of the world becomes soft and blurry. To me he seems gentle and enlightened, an Eastern type of enlightenment. Nothing like most of the people I know. He is beyond the cynicism and rage that dwells in others. They all have learned the world is corrupt and ugly and can't get past it. It gnaws at them and has left them with a weight upon their shoulders. Rex is no different, no edge or bile. He's evolved beyond it, seen the ugliness and through his own willpower has forced it to recede.
There is a wisdom, a calmness about the man sitting across from me that I'm envious of, and I can't figure out what it is that Pete thinks I have to offer Rex. Maybe that's what this is really about. Pete didn't set this up for Rex's benefit, he did it for mine. That bastard, I think to myself, while Rex peacefully swishes the last sip of coffee in his mug around.
All the caffeine has made me anxious and I need a drink to smooth things out. Rex agrees to join me, but first we have to go by an ATM so he can get some money.
I'm staring blankly. I know who he is and why he is here, I'm just wondering, why now? I use this silence to take in his features. He's got a rugged masculine face, and solid bone structure. He's clean shaven, and it doesn't seem right. For a moment I think about asking him if I can color a five o'clock shadow on him.
The look on my face distresses him. “You're Pete's friend Tito, right?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Tito, in a manner of speaking or Pete's friend in a manner of speaking.”
“Little of both.”
“Pete said you'd be expecting me.”
“Sounds like Pete.”
“Is my coming here a problem?”
“No. It's not that.”
“You wanna get some coffee?”
I nod is acquiescence and we walk to the restaurant near my apartment.
“I don't tell many people this . . . enough people think I'm crazy as it is. I like to talk to rocks.”
“Why rocks?” I ask without any judgment because I myself talk to almost every inanimate object in my apartment. It comes with the territory, I convinced myself long ago. I suffer from incredible social anxiety, and I just can't relate to most people. These things are all I have left to talk to. This was the gist of the conversation I had with myself some years ago.
“Of the few people I've told, you're the only one who's asked me, 'why rocks?'.”
“Why then?”
“It's because they are fragments of something else, something larger than themselves. Within them in an entire history, but they know nothing of it. They're like us in that way.”
“I guess that's true,” I respond.
We're on the forth cup of coffee when Rex's attitude changes. He's looking out of the window, down the street. I follow his eyes as they drift down the avenue, to the last intersection that can be seen before the pavement rises like a rolling hill, blocking one's eyes from continuing on until the edge of the world becomes soft and blurry. To me he seems gentle and enlightened, an Eastern type of enlightenment. Nothing like most of the people I know. He is beyond the cynicism and rage that dwells in others. They all have learned the world is corrupt and ugly and can't get past it. It gnaws at them and has left them with a weight upon their shoulders. Rex is no different, no edge or bile. He's evolved beyond it, seen the ugliness and through his own willpower has forced it to recede.
There is a wisdom, a calmness about the man sitting across from me that I'm envious of, and I can't figure out what it is that Pete thinks I have to offer Rex. Maybe that's what this is really about. Pete didn't set this up for Rex's benefit, he did it for mine. That bastard, I think to myself, while Rex peacefully swishes the last sip of coffee in his mug around.
All the caffeine has made me anxious and I need a drink to smooth things out. Rex agrees to join me, but first we have to go by an ATM so he can get some money.
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