AUGUST
Listening to a recording of your own voice is like listening to a stranger; writing honestly about yourself is the same. This is what I have concluded after Karen’s latest ordeal.
Before we boarded the “Adirondack” Amtrak for the ten hour trip she went to Jared’s hotel room, the one she forced him into by insisting on a separation, two blocks from Penn Station. She found he had been tracking her sometimes weird behavior and telling it to his own psychiatrist who then diagnosed Karen’s ghost-seeing as some sort of anti-marriage birdcage syndrome. Karen flipped when she read these notes hidden beneath Jared’s red socks. She had been looking for condoms to try to prove her gut feelings that Jared had already begun screwing around again. If true, this evidence would give her leverage at the lawyers; if not true, if he hadn’t been ‘involved’ with another woman, she still had room in her haunted heart for a maybe reconciliation.
But Jared’s invasive notes, these legally looking evidentiary notes stopped the ‘back-together’ symphony soundtrack that began when he opened the door and smiled warmly. Reading Jared’s edited version of her words and actions from the past six months forced her to see a much different version of herself.
When we were practicing recording what kind of voice message we would have for The Station, the analogy between voice recording and journal writing became apparent. We cannot see nor hear ourselves objectively nor accurately.
I can do a half year review on this Halley person but she is only vaguely familiar.
Jared’s shrink thinks Karen’s reported problems (via Jared) stem from her childhood hurt (traveling father, caged-in mother, and a dark lonely house). But what he doesn’t know is that Jared has lied or misled Karen on many occasions and that has inflicted insecurity and doubt about his loyalty to her and their marriage. Jared’s mimicking her father’s errant behavior and faulting it through Karen’s admittedly strange reactions.
So now Karen is sitting over there (we’re in an internet café in Montreal) trying to reconstruct the words and actions of Jared to counter-punch his list of her not-so-flattering moments.
Her renewed friendship with Halley is going to be used against her. Halley is a bad influence, so says Jared.
Jared is an asshole, says Halley.
The Jared joust has been a good distraction from the latest Peter problem. Peter decided to stay in Alaska for a little while to help out with some sort of Alaskan Wildlife Refuge initiative in Anchorage. This delay, to say the very least, was not in the plan etched into my forward-thinking-ness. Peter’s been tattooed inside the cranium case that’s protecting my brains from falling out. Tattoo removal is not easy.
Brian still does not know about Peter and me and my single life of the past year. I don’t ask him about his other affairs (if any) and he doesn’t ever ask me about mine. We have this unspoken arrangement that if we are both available and needing... two single people providing a mutual, necessary service for an adult’s well-being.
Sexual intimacy is like having a portable opium den. I don’t know the hormonal exacts of it, but endorphins syringe throughout my body; I get glassy eyed, drugged with pleasure pulsing and then… An hour later regret drops by like a nosey neighbor and wonders what the hell I’m doing.
Brian and I don’t communicate verbally, especially about this evolving arrangement. It’s satisfying but empty, and I know something’s not right. But once or twice a month we meet, desire and follow through. Needs are being met and friendships maintained. Married couples do the same thing, except they’re stuck with each other in the morning. I like our arrangement better. I like options.
Actually, some mornings I feel catatonic, paralyzed, unable to get out of bed. But some mornings are fine. I just never know. Dawn: welcome to the mystery.
Old Montreal is absorbing and somewhat absolving though. Notre Dame in particular with its magnificent altar carvings lent some sort of other-worldly support, a visual pep-talk about the transitory nature of things.
And so, after an exhausting old town exploration Karen and I are sitting across from each other at this internet café. She’s on her computer, I’m on mine. We share a table and a plate of pastries and a past that won’t pass quietly, a present ticking away with each keystroke, and future headed toward The Station.
The emails begin.
Dear Knute
Stay low, stay behind, stay out of sight.
I will help you with college when you return.
Halley
Hi Peter
You do realize how dark and cold it will get in Anchorage?
Halley
Yo Karen
Don’t forget to write about how Jared put the whole plane in jeopardy when he wouldn’t get off the phone.
And could you please pass a napkin.
Halley
Karen nudges the small pile of napkins my way, but doesn’t acknowledge the crashing-the-plane-with-his-phone reminder.
Yo yo Karen
Thanks.
Let’s put cobblestone floors and old stone walls in The Station. I love this place.
Halley
PS I need to go the restroom, be right back
End of emails.
Desiree est complet. Says the restroom stall graffiti.
Desire is everything.
Desiring the Richard Gere-ish divorce arbitrator helps Karen get through her current mess. Peter not being here brings out the desire for him tenfold and gives me a beacon to focus on, and an energy source to tap into.
Sexual desire is better than its aftermath.
Would I rather desire than possess? Desiring is greater than having. Not having something desired is a more intense experience than having something desired. Desire is stronger than completion. Isn't it better to want something, desire it, than to actually have it? For once, the writing on the wall is clear.
Desire is what inspires, pushes, and gives life purpose and meaning. Having whatever it is desired, love or money or fame, is almost always a disappointment. Motivation moves people, possession bloats people. Besides, most of what we desire is illusion, so accomplishing a goal will kill the illusion and spoil the fun. Christmas Eve is a better day than Christmas. Wrapped packages are more intriguing. Wanting someone is more intense than having him/her.
Obviously, The Station is an important desire. In order to live in the present, you have to have a sense of future. But I’m not sure I want to get tied down owning a business 24/7; it’s not the leap of freedom and independence it represents. So the desire for The Station is almost certainly of more value than the reality of opening and running it.
“Karen,” I say on returning to our table, “Desiree est complet.”
Karen turns and stares at me as if I’m a stranger, as if she’s hearing my voice for the first time.
“Desire is everything,” I interpret for her.
“What?” she asks.
“In the bathroom someone wrote desire is everything, Desiree est complet!” Jared has gone and screwed up her thinking process. Friends should not be having this kind of communication problem.
“Desiree est complet?” she asks in perfectly snobby French.
“Yes. It seemed profound a few minutes ago.”
“Halley, desire is desir in French. Desiree is someone’s name. I think Desiree was referring to finishing her bowel movement.”
Karen, my personal translator and reality checker.
“Desiree est complet!” She mocks me and I let her. It’s healthier this way.
Two weeks pass.
Karen returns to Jared. Yes, it defies the imagination. He had been jealous of her involvement in The Station; contractors had overrun her free time, his time. Poor sap.
I’m spending more time alone and have picked up a rather bad habit, I think. It started with the need to buy replacement heads for my Oral B electric toothbrush. Karen says, while informing me of her incredibly out-of-the-twilight-zone Jared reunion, why don’t you try EBAY, I’ll bet it’s cheaper than the Amazon price ($24.95).
So instead of scrutinizing her Jared jabberwocky I use my newly stimulated human behavior amazement and advance toward EBAY.
The Station will have hourly auctions. High bid for a drink, or pastry, or a kiss, something to stimulate the feeling I have using EBAY. When you bid on an item, such as toothbrush heads, you have to be clever, know the market value, understand the competition, and be patient, all the while knowing almost every item pops up again and again so you’ve got lots of chances to experience a bargain high on your own terms. I ended with twelve heads for the same price of six. A two for one; a two heads ARE better than one kind of deal. I’m the Winner of an Oral B auction.
A winner! I can’t stop bidding now. I ‘win’ a twenty dollar CD for one dollar (plus $5 for shipping). The “Life of Brian” DVD for $6.50. The CD and DVD are used items but in like-new condition. Air-tight cellophane wrapping is not needed to appreciate an item that is new to me.
My neighbor Neville has been hooked for the past four years. He specializes in ceramic bowls and plates. UPS has been coming in and out of his apartment as if it’s their warehouse annex. His January breakdown was as much a result of his empty interpersonal life as it was from his serious EBAY addiction.
I’m getting the shakes waiting out my latest bid on the Godfather Collection (5 DVDs). Peter’s birthday present. The choice was between a cheaper Asian import with Chinese subtitles or the more expensive North American version. I like the Chinese characters on the cover of the display box; it gives the collection an international flare. Peter loves Chinese food, so I bid for this version and hope it actually plays.
While waiting for this auction period to end I force myself to go downstairs to empty the garbage, get the mail, and try to burn off some of this anxiety. Neville’s waiting for the elevator as I re-enter our building. Normally we just nod but today’s different.
“I’m using EBAY,” I say tucking the mail under my arm.
His eyes open wide and he grins, which either means he perceives me as one of the gang, or that I’m becoming a sucker.
“What are you looking for?” he asks as the elevator door opens.
“Actually, nothing,” I say, “Nothing in particular. Well, toothbrush heads, a Sheryl Crow CD, “Life of Brian” DVD. Got a great deal on all of them.”
“I know the feeling. Start small and end up bidding on $3000 plates.” He shakes his head in a self-deprecating way. I didn’t know he had it in him.
We both reach out to push the third floor button. It’s awkward and almost intimate.
“I find it so involving,” I admit, “I mean, I don’t really need anything it’s just that…”
“Living on the edge of the moment, watching the clock wind down, calculating what others are going to do,” he nods, “Yep, I know.”
“Getting a bargain and self-entertaining. I haven’t been bored since I started three days ago.”
“I know. The auction makes buying a more intense experience. It’s a sport with its rules, goals and time frame. You’re a winner?”
“Yes, I am.” I feel like I’m being set up.
“Well, you have to be careful that you don’t overbid to be a winner, because overbidding will actually make you a loser if you don’t know the value of what you’re bidding on. They’re clever people at EBAY. Calling people winners for buying something. Anybody with low self-esteem can become a winner, for a price.”
I hope he isn’t referring to me, or himself. Me?
Is there such a thing as an Ebay rehab clinic?
“They’re smart. You automatically get emailed for the next or similar auction for every item you bid on, but didn’t win. It’s really incredibly consuming. Be careful.”
I find myself standing in front of my door with Neville for the first time. I don’t remember the elevator ride or walking down the hallway.
“If you need any help give a knock,” he says.
“Okay. See ya.” My rattling keys remind me of my current Godfather bid and the anxiety returns.
He continues on to his apartment. He’s actually not bad looking, good build, nice butt. If I was a gay man I’d give him a shot. I’m starting to think that he’s not as screwed up as I thought he was. This is a disappointing revelation because that means my perceptions have been off kilter once again. Yet it also means I’m starting to see things more clearly.
The phone’s ringing. Caller ID: Karen.
“Karen, how’s it going?”
“Not bad, not good. It’s going,” she says.
“Yeah.” Silence. “I got the Crow CD. I’ll burn you a copy.”
“How’d EBAY work out?”
“It’s addictive. My new best friend.” Yeah, that’s a bit sarcastic.
“We’re working on things,” she says of her and Jared.
Such as leaving out your friends?
She continues, “Hey, I had a dream about us last night.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
“We were driving through the city in a hurry. We turned suddenly and cut off an Accord which smashed into a parked car. We kept driving, through red lights and kept causing crashes behind us, huge funny pileups. We shrugged and giggled. We were in a movie-like rush to get to The Station. Suddenly we were there, but it wasn’t. We were in the middle of nowhere.”
“So, what are you saying?”
“I’m not. But Jared has an Accord, Peter’s in Alaska…Well, whata ya think?” She starts laughing.
Alaska’s not nowhere. “Was it funny?”
“When we knocked off the Accord it crunched up like an accordion. Jared got out and started jumping around like an angry monkey. Monkey and accordion, get it?” she laughs.
“So, who was in the pileup?”
“Oh, just extras.” She continues laughing, “It was a funny, funny dream. Like It’s a Mad Mad Mad Mad World.”
Psychoanalyzing dreams is an imperfect task, but if her subconscious is destroying our Station, it’s not humorous. I’ll let it slide for now.
“It is a mad mad mad mad world,” I say in a neutral tone.
“Jared’s curious about The Station,” she says sheepishly.
“Jared?” Perhaps I heard wrong.
“What sort of financial risk is involved?” she asks.
I’d rather lose everything than to have him ‘involved’ in The Station. Don’t need anybody muzzling in on my business. What next, the Mafia?
The email light blinks on my laptop. I’ve forgotten to check on the Godfather bidding… The message says I’m not a winner. Next time I’ll make a bid that can’t be refused. I refuse to lose.
“He’s trying Halley.” She says of her born-again life-partner.
“That’s good.” We’ll need a busboy.
I’m scanning mail on the desk and notice one from my mother.
“Gotta go.”
“We need to talk. I'll be --” she says as I hang up the phone. Whatever.
My Dearest Halley –
I may have cancer. I’m telling you this in a letter so that when we talk we won’t have to waste anymore time on slights and indifferences. I’m very proud of you as my daughter, no matter how estranged we’ve been at times. I’ve had a good life, been with two loving men, and have enjoyed both motherhood and a career. I want you to know these things, really know these things, so that you will maybe understand me better. I haven’t been as isolated and ‘out to lunch’ as I think you’ve assumed over the years. I’ve had other loves in my life, there’s been other men you haven’t known about, even when I was younger I had a very intense relationship with a woman at college. The way I was brought up was not to talk about private matters beyond the person with whom you’ve attained intimate status with. I realize in this we are different. My heart is full of love for men and women I’ve known, nearly all have gone on to other unknown places. That is life. I see you trying to figure out how to keep your interests and desires in one place, but it doesn’t work out that way. Halley, darling, enjoy life as much as you can.
With all my love,
Mom.
I’ll wait a few moments before calling her or Karen or Peter or God knows who the hell I can talk to…
Dad…
The email light is flashing like an emergency beacon. It is annoying. Screw EBAY.
I go to close the computer lid but notice the email message line says “Knute news”. This must be family day.
Dear Halley,
I’m a close friend of Knute’s. He wrote me about you and that you and he were becoming very close. He didn’t want me to write to you or anyone else, so please forgive me, and do not blame him. Knute has been seriously injured from a car bomb at a checkpoint near Ramadi. He doesn’t want to have to deal with people right now, especially he doesn’t want sympathy. He wants to get better on his own terms. But I think he underestimates the power of people willing to come to his aid, unsolicited. So that is why I am writing. I think he could use some words to help in the healing. Please don’t let him know I’ve contacted you -- in his state of mind he might take that as a betrayal of trust, instead of an act of love.
Pauline Lowery
1222 Gregorio
Hamlin, NY
[email protected]
The receiver I’m holding is saying if you’d like to make a call please hang up and redial the number... I’m feeling spacey … Someone is knocking on the door. It’s insistent and irritating. I can barely hear it through the wailing.
I unlatch the door and open it. It’s Neville.
“How’s it going?” he says. There is concern and empathy in his face and in his voice.
“What?” I ask.
“Did something happen?” He is reaching out for me.
I pause for a moment. My face is wet and puffy. “I didn’t get the Godfather,” I say and start crying, again. Well actually, I’m falling apart, falling onto Neville.
Then I hear that wailing sound again. I can’t catch my breath. Christ, it’s me. I’m crying so hard I can’t recognize myself.
Neville has brought me into the bathroom; water is splashed on my face, a washcloth applied to the back of my neck. I think Neville is rubbing my back.
I don’t know how long this lasts but now Karen is here.
Tea is served. I’m on the couch propped up with pillows and my blankie.
“Mom and Knute... I’m losing it.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Karen says with a softness that soothes momentarily.
“I just found out.”
“Yes, I understand. I’m talking about Peter.”
“What about him?”
“He called and told me,” Karen says. She turns to Neville, “Peter was her boyfriend who recently moved to Anchorage.” She turns back to me as I sip Trader Joe’s Night Time Tea, “I know, Halley. He’s staying in Alaska. He found a permanent job there; he’s not just helping out. Why didn’t you tell me?”
They say bad news comes in threes. That’s what they say. But it’s not so. Peter’s news is a three week old secret I’ve kept from everyone, including myself; mom’s cancer has been lurking for months probably; Knute’s injury must have happened many days ago. The problem is these things have converged into the narrows of my cortex at the same time. Too many adjustments being squeezed into too small a space creates a wailing sound. And then Karen’s leaving The Station for that jerk Jared. That’s four things.
“Why,” I whine (this is embarrassing), “why are you backing out?”
“Backing out?” she says.
“The Station. Sounds like you’re trying to…”
“Halley!” she says as if I’ve offended her honor. She turns to Neville, as if he could understand her better than someone with a waterlogged, overly-converged noggin, “The Station is the café Halley and I are opening. I would never ever back out!”
“But you said, dreamed, and Jared…”
“Jared wants to be an investor, you ding-dong. He thinks you’ve got a great idea.”
I stop my pathetic woe-is-me, “Really?”
“Really!” she says in a tone aimed at a pathetic moron.
"August" excerpt from "The Station" © 2005 by John Kirkmire, © 2013 Kirkworkshop. All rights reserved.
return to stories page
Listening to a recording of your own voice is like listening to a stranger; writing honestly about yourself is the same. This is what I have concluded after Karen’s latest ordeal.
Before we boarded the “Adirondack” Amtrak for the ten hour trip she went to Jared’s hotel room, the one she forced him into by insisting on a separation, two blocks from Penn Station. She found he had been tracking her sometimes weird behavior and telling it to his own psychiatrist who then diagnosed Karen’s ghost-seeing as some sort of anti-marriage birdcage syndrome. Karen flipped when she read these notes hidden beneath Jared’s red socks. She had been looking for condoms to try to prove her gut feelings that Jared had already begun screwing around again. If true, this evidence would give her leverage at the lawyers; if not true, if he hadn’t been ‘involved’ with another woman, she still had room in her haunted heart for a maybe reconciliation.
But Jared’s invasive notes, these legally looking evidentiary notes stopped the ‘back-together’ symphony soundtrack that began when he opened the door and smiled warmly. Reading Jared’s edited version of her words and actions from the past six months forced her to see a much different version of herself.
When we were practicing recording what kind of voice message we would have for The Station, the analogy between voice recording and journal writing became apparent. We cannot see nor hear ourselves objectively nor accurately.
I can do a half year review on this Halley person but she is only vaguely familiar.
Jared’s shrink thinks Karen’s reported problems (via Jared) stem from her childhood hurt (traveling father, caged-in mother, and a dark lonely house). But what he doesn’t know is that Jared has lied or misled Karen on many occasions and that has inflicted insecurity and doubt about his loyalty to her and their marriage. Jared’s mimicking her father’s errant behavior and faulting it through Karen’s admittedly strange reactions.
So now Karen is sitting over there (we’re in an internet café in Montreal) trying to reconstruct the words and actions of Jared to counter-punch his list of her not-so-flattering moments.
Her renewed friendship with Halley is going to be used against her. Halley is a bad influence, so says Jared.
Jared is an asshole, says Halley.
The Jared joust has been a good distraction from the latest Peter problem. Peter decided to stay in Alaska for a little while to help out with some sort of Alaskan Wildlife Refuge initiative in Anchorage. This delay, to say the very least, was not in the plan etched into my forward-thinking-ness. Peter’s been tattooed inside the cranium case that’s protecting my brains from falling out. Tattoo removal is not easy.
Brian still does not know about Peter and me and my single life of the past year. I don’t ask him about his other affairs (if any) and he doesn’t ever ask me about mine. We have this unspoken arrangement that if we are both available and needing... two single people providing a mutual, necessary service for an adult’s well-being.
Sexual intimacy is like having a portable opium den. I don’t know the hormonal exacts of it, but endorphins syringe throughout my body; I get glassy eyed, drugged with pleasure pulsing and then… An hour later regret drops by like a nosey neighbor and wonders what the hell I’m doing.
Brian and I don’t communicate verbally, especially about this evolving arrangement. It’s satisfying but empty, and I know something’s not right. But once or twice a month we meet, desire and follow through. Needs are being met and friendships maintained. Married couples do the same thing, except they’re stuck with each other in the morning. I like our arrangement better. I like options.
Actually, some mornings I feel catatonic, paralyzed, unable to get out of bed. But some mornings are fine. I just never know. Dawn: welcome to the mystery.
Old Montreal is absorbing and somewhat absolving though. Notre Dame in particular with its magnificent altar carvings lent some sort of other-worldly support, a visual pep-talk about the transitory nature of things.
And so, after an exhausting old town exploration Karen and I are sitting across from each other at this internet café. She’s on her computer, I’m on mine. We share a table and a plate of pastries and a past that won’t pass quietly, a present ticking away with each keystroke, and future headed toward The Station.
The emails begin.
Dear Knute
Stay low, stay behind, stay out of sight.
I will help you with college when you return.
Halley
Hi Peter
You do realize how dark and cold it will get in Anchorage?
Halley
Yo Karen
Don’t forget to write about how Jared put the whole plane in jeopardy when he wouldn’t get off the phone.
And could you please pass a napkin.
Halley
Karen nudges the small pile of napkins my way, but doesn’t acknowledge the crashing-the-plane-with-his-phone reminder.
Yo yo Karen
Thanks.
Let’s put cobblestone floors and old stone walls in The Station. I love this place.
Halley
PS I need to go the restroom, be right back
End of emails.
Desiree est complet. Says the restroom stall graffiti.
Desire is everything.
Desiring the Richard Gere-ish divorce arbitrator helps Karen get through her current mess. Peter not being here brings out the desire for him tenfold and gives me a beacon to focus on, and an energy source to tap into.
Sexual desire is better than its aftermath.
Would I rather desire than possess? Desiring is greater than having. Not having something desired is a more intense experience than having something desired. Desire is stronger than completion. Isn't it better to want something, desire it, than to actually have it? For once, the writing on the wall is clear.
Desire is what inspires, pushes, and gives life purpose and meaning. Having whatever it is desired, love or money or fame, is almost always a disappointment. Motivation moves people, possession bloats people. Besides, most of what we desire is illusion, so accomplishing a goal will kill the illusion and spoil the fun. Christmas Eve is a better day than Christmas. Wrapped packages are more intriguing. Wanting someone is more intense than having him/her.
Obviously, The Station is an important desire. In order to live in the present, you have to have a sense of future. But I’m not sure I want to get tied down owning a business 24/7; it’s not the leap of freedom and independence it represents. So the desire for The Station is almost certainly of more value than the reality of opening and running it.
“Karen,” I say on returning to our table, “Desiree est complet.”
Karen turns and stares at me as if I’m a stranger, as if she’s hearing my voice for the first time.
“Desire is everything,” I interpret for her.
“What?” she asks.
“In the bathroom someone wrote desire is everything, Desiree est complet!” Jared has gone and screwed up her thinking process. Friends should not be having this kind of communication problem.
“Desiree est complet?” she asks in perfectly snobby French.
“Yes. It seemed profound a few minutes ago.”
“Halley, desire is desir in French. Desiree is someone’s name. I think Desiree was referring to finishing her bowel movement.”
Karen, my personal translator and reality checker.
“Desiree est complet!” She mocks me and I let her. It’s healthier this way.
Two weeks pass.
Karen returns to Jared. Yes, it defies the imagination. He had been jealous of her involvement in The Station; contractors had overrun her free time, his time. Poor sap.
I’m spending more time alone and have picked up a rather bad habit, I think. It started with the need to buy replacement heads for my Oral B electric toothbrush. Karen says, while informing me of her incredibly out-of-the-twilight-zone Jared reunion, why don’t you try EBAY, I’ll bet it’s cheaper than the Amazon price ($24.95).
So instead of scrutinizing her Jared jabberwocky I use my newly stimulated human behavior amazement and advance toward EBAY.
The Station will have hourly auctions. High bid for a drink, or pastry, or a kiss, something to stimulate the feeling I have using EBAY. When you bid on an item, such as toothbrush heads, you have to be clever, know the market value, understand the competition, and be patient, all the while knowing almost every item pops up again and again so you’ve got lots of chances to experience a bargain high on your own terms. I ended with twelve heads for the same price of six. A two for one; a two heads ARE better than one kind of deal. I’m the Winner of an Oral B auction.
A winner! I can’t stop bidding now. I ‘win’ a twenty dollar CD for one dollar (plus $5 for shipping). The “Life of Brian” DVD for $6.50. The CD and DVD are used items but in like-new condition. Air-tight cellophane wrapping is not needed to appreciate an item that is new to me.
My neighbor Neville has been hooked for the past four years. He specializes in ceramic bowls and plates. UPS has been coming in and out of his apartment as if it’s their warehouse annex. His January breakdown was as much a result of his empty interpersonal life as it was from his serious EBAY addiction.
I’m getting the shakes waiting out my latest bid on the Godfather Collection (5 DVDs). Peter’s birthday present. The choice was between a cheaper Asian import with Chinese subtitles or the more expensive North American version. I like the Chinese characters on the cover of the display box; it gives the collection an international flare. Peter loves Chinese food, so I bid for this version and hope it actually plays.
While waiting for this auction period to end I force myself to go downstairs to empty the garbage, get the mail, and try to burn off some of this anxiety. Neville’s waiting for the elevator as I re-enter our building. Normally we just nod but today’s different.
“I’m using EBAY,” I say tucking the mail under my arm.
His eyes open wide and he grins, which either means he perceives me as one of the gang, or that I’m becoming a sucker.
“What are you looking for?” he asks as the elevator door opens.
“Actually, nothing,” I say, “Nothing in particular. Well, toothbrush heads, a Sheryl Crow CD, “Life of Brian” DVD. Got a great deal on all of them.”
“I know the feeling. Start small and end up bidding on $3000 plates.” He shakes his head in a self-deprecating way. I didn’t know he had it in him.
We both reach out to push the third floor button. It’s awkward and almost intimate.
“I find it so involving,” I admit, “I mean, I don’t really need anything it’s just that…”
“Living on the edge of the moment, watching the clock wind down, calculating what others are going to do,” he nods, “Yep, I know.”
“Getting a bargain and self-entertaining. I haven’t been bored since I started three days ago.”
“I know. The auction makes buying a more intense experience. It’s a sport with its rules, goals and time frame. You’re a winner?”
“Yes, I am.” I feel like I’m being set up.
“Well, you have to be careful that you don’t overbid to be a winner, because overbidding will actually make you a loser if you don’t know the value of what you’re bidding on. They’re clever people at EBAY. Calling people winners for buying something. Anybody with low self-esteem can become a winner, for a price.”
I hope he isn’t referring to me, or himself. Me?
Is there such a thing as an Ebay rehab clinic?
“They’re smart. You automatically get emailed for the next or similar auction for every item you bid on, but didn’t win. It’s really incredibly consuming. Be careful.”
I find myself standing in front of my door with Neville for the first time. I don’t remember the elevator ride or walking down the hallway.
“If you need any help give a knock,” he says.
“Okay. See ya.” My rattling keys remind me of my current Godfather bid and the anxiety returns.
He continues on to his apartment. He’s actually not bad looking, good build, nice butt. If I was a gay man I’d give him a shot. I’m starting to think that he’s not as screwed up as I thought he was. This is a disappointing revelation because that means my perceptions have been off kilter once again. Yet it also means I’m starting to see things more clearly.
The phone’s ringing. Caller ID: Karen.
“Karen, how’s it going?”
“Not bad, not good. It’s going,” she says.
“Yeah.” Silence. “I got the Crow CD. I’ll burn you a copy.”
“How’d EBAY work out?”
“It’s addictive. My new best friend.” Yeah, that’s a bit sarcastic.
“We’re working on things,” she says of her and Jared.
Such as leaving out your friends?
She continues, “Hey, I had a dream about us last night.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
“We were driving through the city in a hurry. We turned suddenly and cut off an Accord which smashed into a parked car. We kept driving, through red lights and kept causing crashes behind us, huge funny pileups. We shrugged and giggled. We were in a movie-like rush to get to The Station. Suddenly we were there, but it wasn’t. We were in the middle of nowhere.”
“So, what are you saying?”
“I’m not. But Jared has an Accord, Peter’s in Alaska…Well, whata ya think?” She starts laughing.
Alaska’s not nowhere. “Was it funny?”
“When we knocked off the Accord it crunched up like an accordion. Jared got out and started jumping around like an angry monkey. Monkey and accordion, get it?” she laughs.
“So, who was in the pileup?”
“Oh, just extras.” She continues laughing, “It was a funny, funny dream. Like It’s a Mad Mad Mad Mad World.”
Psychoanalyzing dreams is an imperfect task, but if her subconscious is destroying our Station, it’s not humorous. I’ll let it slide for now.
“It is a mad mad mad mad world,” I say in a neutral tone.
“Jared’s curious about The Station,” she says sheepishly.
“Jared?” Perhaps I heard wrong.
“What sort of financial risk is involved?” she asks.
I’d rather lose everything than to have him ‘involved’ in The Station. Don’t need anybody muzzling in on my business. What next, the Mafia?
The email light blinks on my laptop. I’ve forgotten to check on the Godfather bidding… The message says I’m not a winner. Next time I’ll make a bid that can’t be refused. I refuse to lose.
“He’s trying Halley.” She says of her born-again life-partner.
“That’s good.” We’ll need a busboy.
I’m scanning mail on the desk and notice one from my mother.
“Gotta go.”
“We need to talk. I'll be --” she says as I hang up the phone. Whatever.
My Dearest Halley –
I may have cancer. I’m telling you this in a letter so that when we talk we won’t have to waste anymore time on slights and indifferences. I’m very proud of you as my daughter, no matter how estranged we’ve been at times. I’ve had a good life, been with two loving men, and have enjoyed both motherhood and a career. I want you to know these things, really know these things, so that you will maybe understand me better. I haven’t been as isolated and ‘out to lunch’ as I think you’ve assumed over the years. I’ve had other loves in my life, there’s been other men you haven’t known about, even when I was younger I had a very intense relationship with a woman at college. The way I was brought up was not to talk about private matters beyond the person with whom you’ve attained intimate status with. I realize in this we are different. My heart is full of love for men and women I’ve known, nearly all have gone on to other unknown places. That is life. I see you trying to figure out how to keep your interests and desires in one place, but it doesn’t work out that way. Halley, darling, enjoy life as much as you can.
With all my love,
Mom.
I’ll wait a few moments before calling her or Karen or Peter or God knows who the hell I can talk to…
Dad…
The email light is flashing like an emergency beacon. It is annoying. Screw EBAY.
I go to close the computer lid but notice the email message line says “Knute news”. This must be family day.
Dear Halley,
I’m a close friend of Knute’s. He wrote me about you and that you and he were becoming very close. He didn’t want me to write to you or anyone else, so please forgive me, and do not blame him. Knute has been seriously injured from a car bomb at a checkpoint near Ramadi. He doesn’t want to have to deal with people right now, especially he doesn’t want sympathy. He wants to get better on his own terms. But I think he underestimates the power of people willing to come to his aid, unsolicited. So that is why I am writing. I think he could use some words to help in the healing. Please don’t let him know I’ve contacted you -- in his state of mind he might take that as a betrayal of trust, instead of an act of love.
Pauline Lowery
1222 Gregorio
Hamlin, NY
[email protected]
The receiver I’m holding is saying if you’d like to make a call please hang up and redial the number... I’m feeling spacey … Someone is knocking on the door. It’s insistent and irritating. I can barely hear it through the wailing.
I unlatch the door and open it. It’s Neville.
“How’s it going?” he says. There is concern and empathy in his face and in his voice.
“What?” I ask.
“Did something happen?” He is reaching out for me.
I pause for a moment. My face is wet and puffy. “I didn’t get the Godfather,” I say and start crying, again. Well actually, I’m falling apart, falling onto Neville.
Then I hear that wailing sound again. I can’t catch my breath. Christ, it’s me. I’m crying so hard I can’t recognize myself.
Neville has brought me into the bathroom; water is splashed on my face, a washcloth applied to the back of my neck. I think Neville is rubbing my back.
I don’t know how long this lasts but now Karen is here.
Tea is served. I’m on the couch propped up with pillows and my blankie.
“Mom and Knute... I’m losing it.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Karen says with a softness that soothes momentarily.
“I just found out.”
“Yes, I understand. I’m talking about Peter.”
“What about him?”
“He called and told me,” Karen says. She turns to Neville, “Peter was her boyfriend who recently moved to Anchorage.” She turns back to me as I sip Trader Joe’s Night Time Tea, “I know, Halley. He’s staying in Alaska. He found a permanent job there; he’s not just helping out. Why didn’t you tell me?”
They say bad news comes in threes. That’s what they say. But it’s not so. Peter’s news is a three week old secret I’ve kept from everyone, including myself; mom’s cancer has been lurking for months probably; Knute’s injury must have happened many days ago. The problem is these things have converged into the narrows of my cortex at the same time. Too many adjustments being squeezed into too small a space creates a wailing sound. And then Karen’s leaving The Station for that jerk Jared. That’s four things.
“Why,” I whine (this is embarrassing), “why are you backing out?”
“Backing out?” she says.
“The Station. Sounds like you’re trying to…”
“Halley!” she says as if I’ve offended her honor. She turns to Neville, as if he could understand her better than someone with a waterlogged, overly-converged noggin, “The Station is the café Halley and I are opening. I would never ever back out!”
“But you said, dreamed, and Jared…”
“Jared wants to be an investor, you ding-dong. He thinks you’ve got a great idea.”
I stop my pathetic woe-is-me, “Really?”
“Really!” she says in a tone aimed at a pathetic moron.
"August" excerpt from "The Station" © 2005 by John Kirkmire, © 2013 Kirkworkshop. All rights reserved.
return to stories page