For Crying Out Loud

I thought she was the most beautiful girl on The Main. She probably wasn't of course, but I thought she was. "Exquisite" might be a better word. She approached me as though she took it for granted that I had already decided to go with her. She was right.

The first time was business as usual. The second time I saw her was... different. We did things we weren't supposed to do, things that lovers do. Tender things. I don't know if she felt what I did, and I never asked. I told her afterwards that I couldn't see her like that anymore. She said simply, "I know," and it never came up again.

After that, we would hang out, grab a bite every so often, sometimes have a drink or two. I took her out for her birthday. Once,  she invited me over for breakfast. We talked, we laughed, she told me how she got there. It always killed me a little, what she did, but I knew enough to leave it alone.

We'd known each other about six months when I got home from a vacation to find my answering machine full. She was in the hospital. I didn't call, I didn't even unpack, I just went. She had been stabbed. She was barely conscious when they had found her. They told her she was lucky to be alive. She didn't look very lucky.

She had nowhere to go, so she stayed with me while she recovered. I took care of her, and she took care of me. We never touched each other, except when I dressed her wounds. It was a tiny apartment with only two beds and I had a part-time roommate, so when he was there we would have to double up. One night, she said I could sleep in her bed. I muttered something unintelligible, stayed where I was, and regretted it for a long time afterwards. It never came up again.

Her wounds healed. We both knew that she couldn't stay, that she had to leave the city to get away from where we had met. She went back to her home town, got a job in a department store, went back to school. We spoke regularly. When my father died, she was the first person I called. I wouldn't have been able to make the drive otherwise.

For years, we kept in touch, visited each other every few months. Over time, we drifted apart. She got a boyfriend, I got a girlfriend. The visits stopped, the calls were less frequent. The last time I ever spoke to her was when I told her that I was getting married. As I hung up the phone, I knew that it would be.

For crying out loud
You know I loved you
  

Song on the Radio.

In the soundtrack of his life there, that song clearly represented that particular time.  Not only because of its lyrics, classically appropriate as they were (although he was never really sure if he should think of them as directed at him or from him), but of when it was played. It was played a lot, as it was at the top of the charts then, but it seemed to be played only at moments when it was particularly relevant.

Of course, there were a lot of those moments, but there were a lot of other moments as well, and it never came on the radio during those. And the radio was almost always on. Nor is it that he just didn't notice it; when that song played, he noticed it. And when that happened, it was one of those moments. It did freak him out a bit some times, although he knew it was merely strange coincidence.

When that time ended abruptly, or so it seemed to him, that song's time on the radio ended as suddenly as it had begun, as often happens with hit songs. To be sure, it was still played, but not nearly so often, and when it did, it was just as likely to be during one of those other moments. Eventually, he just didn't notice it anymore.
  

Old Friends

From the moment we became friends, we were old friends. We had known each other in passing, then, a random encounter, a chance to talk, and we were old friends.

We remained old friends after the time that ended that night, when we both stood talking for hours, each waiting for the moment neither would allow, just because it would have been wrong. That time ended that night  because we knew we could not resist again. Or would not. So we stayed away, but stayed old friends.

We spoke on the phone recently, for three hours, longer than we have spoken in total in the four years since that night. It didn't take a minute to know that we were still old friends, it didn't take a second. We already knew.

We spoke briefly about that time (but not about that night). Able to look at it from here, we could talk about then. Then, we had talked about music, kids, other of our many common interests. Now, we talked about then, and about what we couldn't talk about then. Not because it wouldn't be wrong now. Because it doesn't matter. That was then.

We joked about how we might have been soulmates. We agreed that it could have been perfect. I gave her insight into then and now. She gave me insight into here and there. We talked about how things fit together, and why they didn't. We both knew when it was time to go. We didn't make plans to speak again. We just know we will.
  

Death of a Stranger

The stranger stumbled out onto the street, his cheek still stinging from the well-earned slap. The evening had not gone quite as well as he had hoped. It would get worse.

He wandered the dark streets, stopping occasionally to collect another bruise. He passed it off to his unfamiliarity with the town and its customs, but the truth was that he just wasn't as clever as he thought himself. Or maybe he was, but cleverness was no match for stealth.

As he walked away from yet another unfortunate encounter, a passing figure on the street pressed a paper into his hand. He looked at it. "No," he said, "this must end here." He crumpled the note and let it drop to the ground as he walked towards the edge of town. He left the buildings behind him and entered a wooded park.

After a time, he arrived at a clearing. There was a crowd. Trumpets blared. Swords were brandished. In the distance, a herd of wild horses rode by. The stranger knew this would not end well for him. As the dagger was withdrawn from his side, he fell. The crowd laughed.

As he lay on the ground, through the laughter he heard a voice. He was about to say something when he realized he knew those words. As his heart was about to beat its last, he found them in the recesses of his mind. With his last breath, he gave the answer. The crowd fell silent. Life flowed back into him. He stood up and walked away from the crowd, back towards the centre of town.
  

At The End Of The Rainbow

I told her once, not long after we separated, what I saw, and she saw it too. We cried, together. Whether that was because we believed it or because we didn't remains unclear. We never mentioned it again.

I still see it, sometimes. That same picture, almost as clear as the first time I saw it. There we are, as we once believed we were meant to be, sitting together, smiling, surrounded by our...

I try not to think about it too often. It saddens me that we will not share the journey that we each must take to get there, even though I know it cannot be any other way. We travelled together further than we probably should have, long past the point where we were only holding each other back. I know that we have to go our separate ways. I don't have to like it, but I will learn to.

As I do, it will fade, what I saw. It has to, or it will stop me from seeing anything else. In time, I will forget all about it. The thought of it will seem absurd, and the picture will bury itself somewhere deeper than I will be able to reach. Before that happens, I will look at it one more time, and remember those words she said to me so long ago, and wonder...

And then I will forget, and continue on my journey.
 

Then and Now

It was strange to see, after all this time. To see that place that he know so well, looking like that. The place itself looked the same. Sure, some tables had been moved around, the barmaid was new to him, but it was the same place, wasn't it? He recognized a couple of faces, but they didn't seem the same. It was clear that then was not now. What he noticed more were the ones who weren't there. If your presence doesn't make an impact, your absence won't make a difference. It did.

He wondered if that was just because he know these faces, and he didn't know those. Had he been there at a different time, would he miss the faces he didn't know now? He tried to look for counterparts. You know, you walk in to a bar you haven't been to in 20 years, and you see that guy. He's not the same that guy, but he's still that guy. Same people, different faces, like the daughter on 'Til Death.

He looked for types. You know, which of those people was "me", which was "him", which was "her". Didn't work. He thought maybe "we're" not types. Maybe types only work for people you don't really know, like that guy. Try as he might, he couldn't identify with those people, couldn't see himself fitting in there. He couldn't help but thinking that it was no accident that he showed up there when he did. That any other time he wouldn't have stayed. That those people just didn't interest him.

So he left.
  

1991

It was in her eyes, and it was unmistakable. As much as I tried to turn away, I could not. They drew me in, and it scared me. Because at that moment, I knew. I kept looking over at the others, wondering if they had noticed, hoping, so that they could put a stop to it. They hadn't. There was no stopping it. Not then. Not now.

But I had to try.

"Sorry," I said, "you're too late."

"Or too soon," she replied.
 

Into the looking glass

Alice wondered at the strange looking glass. She had seen it before, but had never paid it much attention. Busy with her classes, she had little time for recess. Then one day, tired of her studies, she decided to take a closer look. She leaned towards the looking glass, wanting only to catch a glimpse of the strange goings-on, when suddenly she found herself drawn right in.

She picked herself up off the floor to find herself in the type of place her parents had always told her to stay out of. A lady floated by, muttering about some cleaning she had to do. Alice blinked, and some people were considering things Alice thought quite impolite for social discourse. She blinked again, and they were gone. She drifted off...

When she awoke, she saw that she was not alone. She looked at the time, and told the stranger, "I think you should leave now." The stranger thought not, and some discussion ensued. As soon as Alice conceded, the stranger left and Alice fell back into her slumber. She awoke again some time later to find that the stranger had returned, and had brought some others. Alice quite enjoyed their company and when they left, she followed them out.

She found herself in somewhat of a maze, and feeling a bit lost, she began to wander. As she did so, she thought to herself, "I might just like this place." She had no idea.
 

This Old House

We moved here in the spring of '99. It was to be a new start, as though leaving the city would leave the city behind. We looked at more than two dozen house and bought the first one we saw. We hated it, but it was near there. As though that would somehow make it better. It didn't.

We did what we could to pretend to like it. Got rid of that old carpeting. Most of it, anyway. Helped the remaining vintage 70's faux-bricks join their already-fallen comrades. Replaced them with tiles that came from Italy, because the ones made here just wouldn't do. So said the tilestore lady. Finished the basement built for men with big trucks. Never understood why the moron who had renovated the place didn't add a few inches when he had the chance. After all, he drove a Civic.

Then there was the balcony. I had used that contractor before, there, and he had done good work at a fair price. We didn't want to take the time to shop around. Big mistake. Too long, too much, not quite right. We got so used to coming in through the garage we never stopped doing it. I lost the only key to the front door years before I noticed.

We did what we could to pretend to like it. After all, we would only be here for a few years, five at the most, before we would be there. Right.

Maybe it was the ghosts. The tall man with the little basement breathed his last that first summer, as though there was no escape from here in this life. The man before him spent his last heartbeat making a snow angel, shovel by his side.  Maybe there were others. Yeah, it must have been the ghosts. It couldn't be us. After all, we left all that behind, in the city.

We like to believe that we can change our lives by changing our circumstances, our surroundings, our activities. Because those things are easy. Changing our selves is not. Before we can change something, we have to accept it. Aye, there's the rub.

We came here to get there. It really was the only thing about this old house that we really did like. Had we gotten there, would it have made a difference? I think so. Not because simply being there would have somehow changed us. Because to get there we would have had to change our selves first. We didn't. Blame it on the ghosts, but which ones?

The Italian tiles are holding up as well as the lady said they would. The floating floor too. The basement is still too short, but it doesn't matter. Nobody stands up down there. And the balcony is the balcony. I tell the kids to go up and wait for me to open the door while I enter through the garage. I don't know why. Maybe it's the symbol of the failure of this place, of my failure, and I don't want to share that with anybody.

She left this old house, taking her self with her, looking for that change that will change her. She's starting to find it, now that she's looking in the right place. She doesn't blame me anymore for everything that went wrong. I wish she did. I'd rather be responsible for her failed dreams than mine.

I'm still here. I avoid going there like the plague. I do it only when I really have no choice, and even then sometimes not. It reminds me too much of what could have been, what isn't, and what will probably never be. When I do go, I look at that picture, the one of those ghosts, the good ones, the ones that gave me all the possibilities I've squandered, and I say "I'm sorry." Sorry I let their there fall apart the way it has. Sorrier for the failures that represents. Sorrier to myself.

I'm still here. Three words. Three words that represent my failure. I look at them again, read them again, and wonder if they might have some other meaning. Then I see.

I'm still here.
 

Stranger In a Strange Town

There is a strange town, just over yonder. It is at once both modern and ancient, bustling and deadly silent, common and quite unique, planned and completely random . It has no permanent residents, but what town really does? We are all travellers, our destination the same, the journey itself all that matters. We live as we dream.

Like most towns, this one is made up of a collection of neighbourhoods. The invisible overlords of this town planned these neighbourhoods when they built their first scale model of the town, envisioning that each would serve the population in a different way. There is an educational district, with schools ranging from kindergarten right up to grad school, where people learn how to do things. There is an industrial sector, full of repair shops where you can bring what's broken.

There is a legal district, where you can go when you have a problem getting what's rightfully yours. There is a construction zone, where you can get everything you need to build your house the way you want it. There is also a town hall, where you can scream into the wind about what upsets you, what pleases you, how you think things should be.

Then there is the café district, where people go just to hang out. This is where our journey begins. Almost.