Spanish Place

Harry looked up as the cab pulled away. His eyes followed it to the end of the street, paused where it paused just before it turned onto Cromwell Street. Then the car turned and he let them fall to the ground again.

It had begun to rain. The cab was blue and that didn't seem right in a city of black cabs with engines that sounded like cans of marbles being turned over in perfect rhythm.

A lot of things didn't seem right. This was stupid. Some line from "Casablanca" about a guy standing in the rain with his guts kicked in ran through his head. Things didn't seem real either. This wasn't a movie. The air was cool, the rain was wet, there was no popcorn and there wouldn't be a happy ending and he wouldn't take his date home. He looked up. Don't show the hurt.

The sign said "Spanish Place". It was about five eighths way up the side of the building, where they put street signs in this town. He knew that but this was the first time he had noticed the sign. He knew why. Up until that cab had turned the corner, he had had no reason to note street signs. But now she was gone in the cab and he had two more weeks of work in town and home had what this place didn't; obstacles, some seemingly insurmountable, to their ever having had what they just did here.

She hadn't kissed him goodbye. It wasn't right. Not in public, no one had known for the past ten days and no one was going to find out now, didn't matter how nice it would have been to have one last kiss goodbye. Lou, Harry knew, was still sound asleep. Craig was probably up but glued to the BBC, catching the late trading numbers out of New York. Who was to know?

But they hadn't kissed. More her call than his. And now she was on her way and he was standing in the rain wondering what next?

Last night had been the last party night for the group. When they all had gotten together for a last dinner and drinks and close the bar in the hotel because, for fuck's sake, the pubs close when?

They had had a lot of nights like that, after the two groups had gotten to know each other; Harry's, a bunch of magazine editor types in town to help talk up the idea of a U.K. edition of the book. She the head of a reseach library in New York going through the Hulton Archives trying to coax it's keepers into unwrapping kraft packages of glass negatives that had not seen light since the thirties and getting a volume discount scan rate before the silver plate oxydized more history away forever.

The desk clerk was Italian. She did not speak English well but she tried. She got room numbers mixed up and when Harry asked to call Craig to see if he wanted to go out to a museum, he had connected with her instead.

"I'm sorry. I think I got the wrong room. Well, actually I know I got the wrong room or Craig's been keeping an awful big secret from me."

She laughed.

"You're American. You're not one of those three guys who were checking in ahead of us, are you?"

"Are you one of the two women behind us? You were with that really attractive blonde woman who argued about the room rate."

"I'm the blonde."

"I know. I recognize your voice."

"Do you always hit on women you don't know on the phone?"

"Only when I'm in a foreign country and my chances of not being tracked through Homeland Security are better."

She laughed again and asked what he wanted. Nothing actually, I'm sorry but I did get the wrong room. I was trying to get Craig to go to the Imperial War Museum with me.

"How about we get some lunch instead? I'm fucking jet-lagged and starving and I've been laying here trying to sleep but just keep feeling shittier. Might as well eat."

"Might as well. I'm in the lobby. I'm the guy with the square glasses and black t shirt."

"I'm Chris."

Days were spent working. Nights, the two groups got together after dinner for drinks or dessert in St. James street.
It was the usual pattern. Craig or Lisa gave up first and headed upstairs. Then Lou or Harry or Ellen would retire, depending. If Lou went on his own, that was fine. Harry and Chris would hang around for a while longer. If Lou looked to be staying around, Harry would leave. Chris left later. They were all, except for Harry and Chris, scattered throughout the floors of the hotel. But they didn't take any chances. They were, all of them, married. But for some the emotional bond was beginning to crumble under strain. And for others it had broken a long time ago. Chris walked down the hall to her room at the end. She put the key in the lock, turned it, opened the door, shut it again and locked it. Then, still in the hall, she'd turn and walk quietly back up to Harry's. Quietly.

So it had begun again last night they shut the hotel bar down one last time. This time they all hung around together. Chris, Lisa and Ellen were off in the morning and Harry put on a happy face. They talked movies. They compared some great date movies. Harry thought "Garden State" was a pretty good bet, although his wife had hated it. Lisa was a holdout for "Dirty Dancing." Lou came up with "Ballroom Dancing" and "Scent of a Woman".

Chris loved "Beautiful Girls."

So did Harry. It was one of his favorites.

He knew the morning was going to be hard and, standing in the rain on Spanish Place it was living up to every bad promise it had made the night before.

Alone, he turned back into the lobby.

Fair Warning

So there you were today, giving me a high five as we passed.

One of these days, I'm going to hold on to that hand and not let go. Fold fingers around each other, each embracing the other, hold, look in your eyes and get that smile that lights up a room.

Fair warning.

Me and Lenny

Leonard Nimoy, years ago, wrote a book of poetry entitled "I am a romantic."

I remember him on one of the Merv, Mike or Johnny shows reading from the book, staring straight into the camera, trying to be taken seriously.

Poor guy had the whole Spock thing to live down. I am luckier in a sense. I have the whole hardass curmudgeon thing to live down. The advantage is that I'm not nationwide.

The next place I drop myself into will be able to see the real me from the get go. No previous reputation to live down.

Yes, me. Not only romantic. Not only hopeless romantic. Irredeemable romantic who thinks perfume on a pillow is a great thing and who's fear is living the rest of his life with plain-smelling pillows.

Me, who is not yet out of the shadow of fifteen years of marriage but is locked onto somebody else already and, for a lot of reasons, this is neither a rebound nor a passing fancy. This, I am sorry to say, is the real McCoy, all over again.

Me, who, had we been able to share some of those special moments-think making love by the full moon- would still be married to you. But sorry, I like to celebrate the meaningless moments. They may be all we get.

Me, who just shot a reply email to a woman who emailed me at 11.40 pm. The seduction continues. I guess I like the bleary eyed, day's growth of beard, loser image. It may not lead to perfect happiness, but to thine own's self, be true.

Me, who tells a friend to bedeck herself in cashmere. Who knows what tomorrow will bring?

Sorry Leonard. Liked your book. Think you're a pretty good actor. But when it comes to romantic, take a look at your six o'clock. That would be me with a full radar lock.

Flying is Man's Second Greatest Thrill

Landing is the first.

Here's a promise inspired by a post to a friend.

I fly a lot. If I get to the point that I know death is a logical and probable outcome, I'll do the following:

-Raise my tray table and make sure my seat is in the full upright position.

-Call you.

-Tell you that of all the sense memories in my life, the one that flows over me strongest, like intense pleasure followed by haunting pain, is the one of us hand in hand, then arm in arm, then wrapped around each other walking up through that street fair we couldn't quite figure out the point of.

-That and kissing you for the first time. The lipstick, cigarettes and wine.

-Tell you that your eyes are the portals to the most beautiful soul I've ever known.

-Tell you that it will all, eventually, be all right. I will be at your side faithfully always. I have been there up until now and will continue to be. And like before, in life, you will not be aware of my presence.

-Tell you that you are and will continue to be a good person and to never let anyone say otherwise. Or there will be one hell of a good haunting in their future if I don't make it.

-And if I don't, and even if I do, I love you. You ought to know that. It don't come cheap and it don't come easy and I've only said it once before in my life. But I'm old enough and smart enough to know what I'm feeling. And I don't believe in the hereafter and I don't believe in ghosts.

But if it will bring me back to be close to you, I'm willing to try.

So there.

I love you.

Now you can land us in hell for all I care...

All the People Tell Me So

I'm flipping through a men's magazine this morning, waiting for coffee to brew, wishing I had a cigarette to round out the wake-up call.

Sorry, but there's something dashing about standing around in a t-shirt from a road race you almost won, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, with the slightest of hangovers.

Sure, you have no opportunity to ever think of winning that road race again, but, then again who wants to live forever?

Not me, man.

What sort of man reads Playboy?

Guys that subscribe to the fantasy that nothing can ever go wrong.

Trouble is, it all can. Horribly, and you wind up waiting for coffee to brew (hurry the fuck up) reading Notplayboy but a crap magazine that explains why relationships that begin like ours did usually wind up in the can really fast.

Why? Well, they're based on deception and mistrust, aren't they? I mean, according to this nasty little piece, the only reason people like you do what they do is self image and domination.

You have no respect for me or my life and will toss me aside at the first opportunity.

So why did we see each other last week? Why, when we have absolutely no opportunity for passion, do we continue to meet to pursue other common interests? Why do we talk about other aspects of our lives and give each other advice like we really mean it?

Maybe it's because we do?

Maybe we do care.

Maybe, it's because what happened happened not because somebody needed an ego trip or to show off who was alpha dog but because we both had been kicked around so much it was nice to hold someone who didn't kick for awhile?

And maybe we just hid in each other's company for a few days because it was a sanctuary, albeit temporary?

You are no more a notch in my gun than the reason everything that happened, happened. It was coming anyway. I was the only one who could have stopped it. What you did show me was a way out, a better reason to go on. An inverted view of the universe.

You just proved that things could be different.

So here we are; still friends with a growing sense of respect for each other. Ok, I've fallen in love with you but that's not relevant right now. There are bigger issues and you'll find out eventually. And for all the alleged "wrong" motivations that brought us together, some "right" ones are keeping us close.

What do all the people know?

Noble Thoughts

I don't often have them but here's one:

Somewhere else I speculated that one use for $100 MM would be to pay someone to go away. Forever. But with a physical reminder that if they ever harmed you again I'd be back in the night for them.

Well I don't have a hundred mil and probably never will. But here's a wish: After all the shit that has been this year and all the pain and frustration, fear and anger, if doing what you are doing now will make you come out happy on December 31, it will have been a good year.

And I will turn into the sunset, alone, and hang on to that thought.

I told you so.

Today the nagging sixth sense came home to roost.

Today the weird gut feeling took physical manifestation.

Today I found out that my writer's perception had not abandoned me. The ability to observe quietly, judge and generally not be wrong.

Today I was left.

Don't cry for me Argentina.

I can now ignore the voices that call out "its all wrong." I can stop trying to figure out the mystery wrapped in an enigma and satisfy myself with knowing it was the obvious answer all along. The butler did it or in relationship plainspeak there's another guy I really like (inference and I really don't like you). Not much of a mystery there. No deep dark thoughts waiting to reveal a personality that can't or won't show itself in broad daylight for reasons other than shame.

Don't cry for me Argentina.

It was coming, one way or another and if it didn't come from her it would have come from me. Conversation shouldn't be that hard to keep going and I don't worry about long silences when so much doesn't have to be said. I do when there's nothing to say.

Observation one: If you are out at dinner with someone for the first time and you are thinking about someone else and wishing it were her because things were so much easier, you might want to rethink wandering deeper into the waters you have stepped in.

Observation two: If you think powers of perception that have served you ably have suddenly abandoned you, think again. Tigers don't change their stripes. Disinterested kisses are disinterested for a reason. Friends coming for the weekend usually shave.

Don't cry for me Argentina.

The hard cold truth is that there was another one in line ahead of her and if what once was between us could ever be again, I would be gone in a heartbeat. I may like you but, I'm sorry, I love her.

I wouldn't, however, dump it in an email and send it out just before dashing off to a nice safe three hour meeting. Let me clue you in on what adults do. The world is a sufficiently harsh place, be gentle with people. That means sitting down over coffee and having the guts to look someone straight in the eye and saying its over in a clear tone. It will hurt. It will hurt less if you have the decency to do it right.

I know, I just did that to a fifteen year marriage. Your shit is peanuts compared to that.

If you ever grow up, you might learn that skill. Right now, suffice to let me explain that its a skill you're going to need. Someday you might be the fool sitting in front of a computer wondering what the fuck?

So let me leave you with that as you leave me altogether. And, oh, if you have any reservations about your decision, let me finish it for you:

So as you go, so stay the fuck out of my life.

The Second City

We were making the final descent into Chicago today when I thought of you with an intensity that branded your name deeper into my brain.

I remember that you like Chicago a lot.

Outside of the airport, I have never been to Chicago.

I am sure that I would like it. I have a pretty good idea that I would love it.

If you were there.

Here are some things that will never happen:

We will never walk the loop hand in hand.

We will never go down to the lake.

We will never wink at each other on the el, I while some downtown trader checks you out, you knowing that were the checkout to progress to anything stronger that "nice weather today, have a good one" I would casually clear my throat and nonverbally note that you are a taken woman. Taken by me, loved to pieces and guarded jealously.

If I ever experience anything of Chicago and get to know her, it will be alone or with someone else. And I know that I will walk whatever streets I eventually walk with the ghost of you and what might have been haunting me like a frozen specter.

Maybe I'll allow myself to go back to the fantasy. The timeless one you know about but you don't know the backstory of. This time it will be set in Chicago. The small house we buy on the edge of the city, me with the first book well under my belt and the second due the publisher in a month and on time, by golly. You doing whatever it is you have always wanted to do.

After a morning appointment, we've taken the kids kite-flying down at the lake. Then filled them up on local delicacies and sent them to bed. Good story in hand, they are asleep. I wonder who could concoct a good story out of whole cloth?

Then and only then do we light some candles, pop the champagne and celebrate what we've done today. We play the theme song of the recent nuclear wars that were our respective lives. You put the CD in, turn it on, turn and smile at me.

And as "Gimme Shelter" plays, we tell each other its all good from hereon in.

Lipstick, Cigarettes and Wine

I've finally settled on a title for a book I'm writing and now I, five chapters into the thing, have to take it all apart and rewrite the thing because its changed so much.

Why will be explained in a minute or two.

It is insanely sunny out and the air is cool and dry. The first taste of fall I suppose and we are quick forgetting the tropical slop we were enduring just two weeks ago. Air so thick you could just as soon drink it and clothes perennially soaked with sweat, water and gin. We forget so fast as we rush headlong one season into the next and wonder what's around the next corner before we've even figured out what this corner held in store for us.

Some of us, like me, linger at the corners though and try to make sense of what is there and when it doesn't make sense, like it doesn't now, we slip down into our dark morose places and it doesn't matter how fine the weather is.

My two big demons are standing at this corner. Smoking cigarettes and drinking from a bag, they are in their leather jackets and blue jeans and biker boots just waiting for me. Loneliness and Despair. Bullies that have dogged me most of my life and that I have only won a few fights against and that only recently. They know what kind of day it is going to be today and they are primed and ready.

I should be out on a bicycle or off to the hardware store for some bits and pieces to rebuild the house with. Or I should be up on a ladder finishing the track lighting in the kitchen.

But I am none of those things.

What I am is in bed until about ten finishing off one book that has been like swimming in wet concrete but finishing it off anyway because I am exorcising things unfinished. And then I dive into the next book because, hell, I have no one to answer to but myself and when did I get to bed anyway, three a.m?

Just about.

She left. I walked her to her car, kissed her good night and went back inside for a stiff nightcap. Then I thought about her and the other her, the one for whom the book is named. Then I wondered what the fuck to do next like there was something I could do that would make a damn bit of difference.

Short of tying her, the one that the book is not titled after, to a chair and shooting her veins full of sodium pentathol and getting to the bottom of everything there's not a lot I can do. I still can't quite figure her out and it's not the cute mysteries of the human personality. It's that she's so fucking enigmatic that I have no clue one minute to the next where I'm standing.

So I'm spending a lot of good time and a lot of money hunting around for clues in a personality that is like a maze that keeps changing. Like movable office cubes, once you turn away from one blind alley, someone has set up another blind alley behind you, right from where you thought you came from and the game starts anew.

Not that money is the issue. I promised myself I wouldn't care once it was mine to earn and mine to spend and what the fuck do I want with a wad to retire with anyway if I've spent these years miserable in self imposed frugality. Let's just have a little time where we don't save a lot of our paycheck and let's not give a fuck about it for a change. Contrary to my opinion of myself, it, as well as other innocent indulgences, won't make me a bad person.

Just a stupid one for paying Loneliness and Despair to leave me alone for a few hours instead of taking them on face to face like I should.

And maybe if I can get around them, I can get over trying to decode the enigmatic friend and relax and have some fun with her instead of beating myself up trying to be the perfect older companion.

Not so with her after whom the book is titled which is funny because she's so much more complex and intricate and yet I know her so much better or at least think I do. And if I really don't then I know enough to realize that we turned to each other in our mutual pain once and that threw the match into the can of gasoline that was my falling in love with her.

Oops. There I've gone and committed it to print instead of saying it out loud to the walls at three a.m. to hear the sound of it or briefly tapping it into an email just to see what it looks like. Then delete the thing quickly and pray like hell you didn't hit the wrong key because of all the things you've done wrong, this won't be one of them. You will tell her one day and maybe when it's too late or it doesn't matter anymore but you will tell her and you won't put something that important into a fucking email.

And that's why the book has to be rewritten.

Because it's not about work.

And it's not funny although there are parts and characters that will intentionally be and that's fine.

And it's not about a magazine.

It's about me. What I do. What I feel. What I've lost and gained over the last few years and what I am looking for and will or won't find.

And it's about that first kiss. That first hot, wet kiss at 1 in the morning after a long walk that was supposed to let us figure out why we were going to do what we did and think better of it and not do it.

But that didn't happen, did it?

Instead, pressed against a fence we kissed for the first time, an intense taste of lipstick, cigarettes and wine and quiet murmurings of sneaking back in and not waking anyone up.

So I'm going to shower and shave now. Then head down to the hardware store to get the part that will let me run the clothes dryer. Then I'm going to spend the rest of this day with my nose buried in type trying to re-work chapter one and get through a few more pages of the Stephen King book too.

And maybe this evening I'll ask Despair if he's feeling better after the cold cocking I gave him.

Then Loneliness will hit me back.

Only harder.