Dear Erin,
I would appreciate it if you would not read my blog. I am ashamed of the degradation of my blog from last year. I used to be write such intelligent and though provoking things and now…this. I hang my head in shame.
Have a good day!
Love,
Katie
Her laughter broke the silence.
It was one of those awkward laughers, the one that did not mask well the fact that she was uncomfortable. She shifted from one foot to the other as the shallow laugh came to an end. She looked around desperately for an escape – any escape.
This is why she hated coming to bars. Creepy, fat, balding men who thought they were Casa Novas came up to her and tried to impress her with tales that made her stomach turn. She was too nice to blatantly reject them, but as the latest Casa Nova told her stories about his latest Mexican escapade with the last girl he met in a bar, a wave of nausea overcame her.
Her eyes shifted in their sockets. There had to be something that she could run away to, there had to be a safe haven somewhere. She would politely excuse herself to the ladies room and then crawl out of the window, but a couple had been occupying the bathroom for the last fifteen minutes and she wasn’t expecting them to come out anytime soon.
Unwillingly, her eyes met his. She saw the hope, the desperation that was reflected in the too deep-set, muddy brown eyes that were hidden under very large eyebrows and an abnormally large brow bone. She felt bad for being repulsed by his ugliness, but she just couldn’t help it. Each time he talked about his “love machine body,” she honestly thought that she would vomit.
She laughed awkwardly one more time, set down her drink, and walked away, unsure of what else she could do.
Patrick was a valet at luxury resort in Charleston. He had a pretty good life. He was in college by day, a party-animal by night, and a valet by evening. His tips allowed him to live in a beach-front house at the ripe, old age of twenty. The people whose cars he drove were always kind and tipped him nicely. Until this one day…
It was a December night. The balmy Charleston air was still. Rumor had it that music sensation John Mayer had a reservation at the resort for sometime in the upcoming week. Patrick wasn’t sure about the rumors, but a part of him hoped it was true; he thought it would be cool to hang out with John Mayer, or at least drive his car.
Lost in his thoughts, Patrick hardly noticed a huge tour-bus pull up to the entrance of the hotel. Was this it? Could it be? Several people piled out of the bus – the last of whom was Mr. John Mayer himself. Patrick felt a huge grin come across his face – celebrities meant good tips.
After the group got all checked in, they asked Patrick if he would help them unload the bus (well, actually they told him to help them unload the bus). Even though it was not his job, Patrick agreed, partly out of kindness and partly out of the need for a good tip.
After Patrick had helped the roadie unload everything, from guitars, to a drum kit, to amps, he was so happy to be finished. John Mayer himself even came outside to the tour bus after everything had been taken inside. Patrick felt a huge smile spread across his face as he anticipated his tip – or at least a ‘thank you.’ John Mayer just walked on by, without a passing glance.
Ah, such is the life of a valet.
They had nothing to say to each other. Every conceivable word, action, had been done before. Yelling, screaming, hitting, throwing; it had been done.
Everything was done.
Glass pieces from lamps and dinner plates lay strewn around the floor. Clothes from the dresser and closet in unkempt piles as each tried to “pack” for the other.
Everyone had seen it coming. People at the wedding made bets, even during the vows, as to how long the marriage would last. Rumors flew; he was sleeping with the maid of honor, she was sleeping with his brother.
He was possessive and controlling, she got off on confrontation – she loved it. She loved to make people angry and he got very angry, very easily. She hated to be controlled, and he did his best to try and rule every aspect of her life with an iron fist.
They made each other miserable. This was a ticking time-bomb waiting, just waiting, in silence, to explode.
Happiness had become obsolete. Neither one of them could remember why or how they had some illusion of happiness – much less, marriage – in the beginning. All memories of being content, smiling, laughing, they were all gone.
They simply stared at each other. Both at a loss for words, both unable and unwilling to speak – voices hoarse from the screaming.
Police had been called to the house nearly every night that week. They had been called by neighbors for “domestic disturbances.” Neither one of them wanted a police visit for the ninth night in a row.
They stared at each other, there was nothing left to say. They both grabbed their wallets and walked outside. They departed in separate directions – never to return.
The house remained abandoned and crumbled in dilapidation.
Joe sighed, as per usual, he was stuck with piling the luggage on the plane. As the passengers came forward, he smiled and took their luggage, being sure to make a display of how careful he was being. As they turned away, however, Joe threw them into the pit of the plane with a great force. After a few passengers, Joe thought he’d heard something break; he turned away sheepishly, catching a scowl from the Captain.
Finally, the last of the passengers arrived, and Joe and the Captain boarded at last, closing the door to the airplane and turning the large wheel, locking it securely. They sat down and prepared for takeoff – it would be their last.
Joe sighed impatiently at the Captain’s slow carefulness; he wanted this flight to be over – to go to Chicago and then turn around and come right back home. Little did he know that even though at LAX, the weather was beautiful, at O’Hare, not only had it been snowing for days, but now the black clouds promised the perfect storm rather than a white Christmas. The plane made excellent time, Joe was exceedingly pleased. He would even have time to smoke at least half a pack of cigarettes before the next flight took off. However, as they drew nearer to Chicago, disturbing images came up on the small radars of the plane. For the first time, Joe and the Captain saw the brutal snowstorm that hovered over Chicago. It wasn’t supposed to be there. It should have moved out at least two days ago.
“It’s just that it’s the day before Christmas Eve, Captain. You know? I’ve got stuff I could be doing. You’ve got stuff you could be doing. I’ve got to buy something real nice for the missus and the little rug rats.” He spoke with a heavy New Jersey accent, but with reverence to the old war captain.
“I understand,” the Captain said. “I’ve got five grandchildren I have to play Santa to, Joe.”
“I don’t know how you do it. Boy, it’s hard enough with two little monsters; but having four kids – and then five grandkids! That has to be one hell of a nightmare.”
The Captain knew better than to be offended. It wasn’t that Joe was really as insensitive as he seemed, he just spoke brutally, but honestly, from his point of view. He knew that this was never the life Joe would have chosen for himself – to have a steady job, a wife and kids didn’t at all suit his personality. He had wanted to be a wanderer – like James Dean in “Rebel Without a Cause;” that’s exactly what he wanted to be, in fact: a rebel without a cause.
“Well, to each his own, I suppose,” the Captain said clearly, ending the conversation. “Ah, here we go.”
Joe followed his gaze towards the door of the small airport, where people were beginning to file out onto the runway. They were still a long way off yet, but the Captain went to go stand over by the stairway into the small plane, to help the women up.
Mr. Tanis,
I don’t have my story with me now, but I’ll email it to you when I get home.
Bonjour mosouir Tanis. Je vais ecris in Francaise. Quoique j’parle francaise, je ne suis pas ecrire bon.
Poeme:
Ta douleur, du Perier, sera donc eternelle?
Et les tristes doscpirs
Que te met en l’esperit l’amitie paternelle,
L’augmenteront toujours?
Le Malheur de ta fille au tombeau descendue,
Par un commun trepas,
Est-ce quelque dedale, out a raison perdue
Ne se retrouve pas?
Mais elle etait du monde, ou les plus belles choses
Ont le pire destin;
Es rose elle a vecu ce que vivent les roses,
L’espace d’un matin.
La Mort a des rigueurs a nulle autre pareilles.
On a beau la prier,
La cruelle qu’elle est se bouche les oreilles
Et nous laisse crier.
Le pauvre en sa cabane, ou le chaume le couvre,
Est sujet a ses lois;
Et la garde qui veille aux barriers du Louvre
N’en defent point nos rois.
De murmurer contre elle et perdre patience,
Il est mal a propos;
Vouloir ce que Dieu veut est la seule science
Qui nous met en repos.
- Francois de Malherbre
Well, Misouir Tanis, J’ai copie le poeme avec vou. J’espere que vou amiez il. Francois de Malherbre vivaient dans des periodes medievales.
Okay, now English.
I hope you enjoyed my trip to France. I like writing in French very much. By the way, you never said that I couldn’t write in French – there were no language specifications, just saying. I’m about twenty words short. What are you doing for Thanksgiving, Mr. Tanis? I do hope you have a good Thanksgiving.
Pockets loaded. With rocks.
Life was pretty bad right now.
Hoodie zipped. Also filled with rocks.
Job lost. Damn economy.
His wife had left him for another man. Someone younger, a doctor, he thought.
She had their kids, their house – plus a nicer one in a ritzy neighborhood – and a new Mercedes.
He had nothing left, except room 512 in the local Red Roof Inn.
Even in that sad, lonely room, there wasn’t much.
It reeked of stale cigarettes. The light shone through the one little window onto an overflowing ashtray.
Other than that, he had nothing.
He wanted nothing. Maybe he finally got what he wanted.
He was numb to emotion. He didn’t even much care anymore.
Sure, there had been anger, rage, bitterness, even, in the beginning.
But now, there was nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Deep breath.
One step closer.
To the edge, to the end.
Try to remember. Something happy, something better, something distant, try to remember.
A smile from one of his kids. His wedding day. A feeling of love. Try to remember. He couldn’t remember anything.
“Winter must be cold for those with no warm memories.”
He could remember a movie quote, but nothing from his own life.
Was it all in vain?
He had lived for nothing? It seemed like it.
But the winter wind was cold. It hit him in the face, like a slap. Something to say, “wake up,” or “take that” – he couldn’t tell. He didn’t care.
One step closer.
Deep breath.
One more step.
Over the edge.
Cold lake.
Sinking.
Down.
Down.
Down.
