The Resolution.
I awoke on the couch with the phone in my hand. It was one thirteen in the morning. It was a brand new day and I was myself and alive to enjoy it. I began preparations right away to profess my heart to the one I loved and win her over. I think the part of me that loved to wallow in misery was so stunned at how things backfired that it just went into shock. I was determined. The nightmare had gotten one idea into my head; tomorrow is not a guarantee. I’m sure I missed the point completely but I was on a roll and showed no signs of slowing down. It was too early to call so I thought about how I might explain why I didn’t call last night… being a few hours earlier. There was no hurry. I had time, and plenty of tea. By dawn I would have the perfect alibi and the perfect plan for the perfect day to be with my embodied perfection. Talk about a train crash ending.
Fist things first: get more sleep. Awake at nine, call her at 9:30, freshen up, meet for lunch, sweep her off her feet by two, then walk hand in hand through the park on our way to a movie, something romantic. Propose in a year or two, wed a few months later. Start a family after sufficient time to enjoy one another’s company and live out the rest of our days in blissful harmony.
I tried to get some more sleep. I may even have succeeded to achieve brief segments of REM slumber, not that they accomplished much, having only succeeded in sending me visions of Angelica that kept me awake, for hours, exercising my creative outlets. Fatigue began to catch up with me. After getting a ream of paper scattered about the house of drawings, letters, pictures and inspirational quotes, I rested my eyes for a five-hour second at six o’clock. When I awoke at eleven to a dismal grey morning I was substantially behind schedule. All of them. During my brief bout of insomnia I had drawn up a few dozen. Most were mere minor revisions on the basic outline, some were discarded as nonsensical, and others were discarded on the basis that there are some things you just can’t plan. I’ve learned better since; I’m now aware that there is absolutely nothing capable of being planned.
When I called her at five after eleven, I had not quite regained full control of my faculties. So when I got the answering machine I was a little flustered.
“Hi, it’s me… sorry I didn’t get you last night. I fell asleep. I’m up now. I just wanted to touch base and see if we couldn’t get together sometime. I had a really nice time with you. Oh yeah, it’s me. So I’ll try you later I guess. Love you. Bye.”
It was another one of those moments. Or would have been, if I had dialed the right number. Instead I created one of those moments for a young lady who had to explain my message to her fiancé. When I refocused and cleared my head a little from my minor setback I took a deep breath and dialed again. This time I dialed her number.
“Hello.”
I was keen enough to realize that unless her voice had dropped a few octaves over the night someone else had picked up the phone.
“Good morning, is Angelica available?”
“Who’s this.”
Sometimes I really think I’m clever.
“Tell her it’s… ‘Frankie’.”
“Frankie.”
“She’ll know who it is.”
“Well… Frankie, she’s not home.”
Contingencies.
“Excuse me?”
“Angelica’s out.”
“Oh… is there somewhere I could reach her?”
“Is this important?”
Of the utmost importance… it’s a matter of the heart, but try explaining that to people these days.
“Sort of…”
“Can I take a message.”
“It’s not that important. I’ll call back. Do you know when I might be able to reach her?”
“No.”
Not a very helpful sort is he…
“None?”
“No.”
“Ok, well, could you just… tell her I called.”
“Sure.”
“Thanks… bye.”
Click. Not even a goodbye. Thanks for nothing. I didn’t account for jerks in my equations. I’ve since learned that although math is the universal language, it’s impossible to speak; there are too many unknowns to make equations out of life.
All the rest of that day I used my newly kindled passion to fuel increasingly creative outpourings of my heart for my love. I waited patiently by the phone for the moment she would call. I had worked myself into such a frenzy in writing down the characteristics I hoped she had that I had put all of my faith into her would-be faithfulness. When the grey morning ran it’s course into a colorless afternoon and the black night followed suit, my patience prompted me to turn it in to get a fresh start tomorrow; a day had passed without a word from Angelica. Not unlike thousands of days previous except that this one ended in an anxious ardent expectation for what the following day would bring. Never before had I reason to hope, but now that we had met, connected, and had the means to do so again, there was no hindering this flowering new sensation digging up the foundations of my being and rooting itself there.
When hope gets old, hope gets mean. Luckily, hope has characteristics that enable it not to age by the normal standard of time, but rather to mature, wither, blossom, or preserve itself according to circumstances. Granted, circumstances are often time-dependent but that hardly affects the nature of hope. Not in my mind… but even if it did I wouldn’t say otherwise now… primarily because I like the way that sentence describing hope looks and I want to keep it, but now that I’ve just demeaned the whole ordeal I think I’ll just drop it and carry on. After a week of various runarounds, redirects, explanations, excuses and even after arousing indignant ire on an occasion with the unnamed gentleman on the receiving end of my inquiries my hopeful romanticism began to wane. I would still wake up to an enrapturing sense of urgency concerning ways to sweep Angelica off of her feet and into my arms, but by noon I was considering ways of just making my affections vocal, and by dinner time I was retreating to the words of others for assistance. By the time I retired at night, I would be tortured by an overwhelming sensation that another day without her had passed and that I wasn’t getting any younger and I probably wasn’t the only guy who acknowledged her for what she was… namely everything.
“Are you saying she’s fat?”
I had one really good friend. I could tell him anything. I told him everything. That was the first thing he said to me.
“What? Where do you come up with this stuff?”
“From what you just said, she sounds like a real porker… but I mean, hey, whatever does it for ya…”
Foster is a character, and he’s rarely the same one twice. I met him in Drama class at high school and we both studied English at the same university due to a lack of other options. We hit it off through sheer familiarity. It took three years before we acknowledged one another’s existence, and four to be best friends. It was inevitable, we were just too much alike and so very different we couldn’t help but fuel each other. Foster is a Christian… at least, that’s my conclusion. He doesn’t say so in so many words, but the circumstantial evidence kind of gives it away. He grew up in a Christian home, and he goes to church at least once a week. He used to carry a Bible with him to school every day in grades nine and ten… and he prays. There’s times when you look at him and you just know he’s talking to God… not with words, I’ve never heard him utter a thing out loud, but the communication is there, at least one line of it.
I’m not much of a believer myself. I was raised a catholic. I was christened, confirmed, communioned and baptized but I’m not kidding anyone, myself included; my god is my love. Foster and I get into it all the time. We hypothesize and theologize and philosophize over all the age-old conundrums of faith, and virtue, and everything questioned and seemingly answered in regards to living this life, but no matter how heated or intense our conversations get, there’s one thing we continue to find refuge in… our failing hearts. For as much time as we’ve spent on every other issue, contemporary or otherwise, we’ve delved into the agonizing query of love more often and with less success.
“She’s not fat.”
“I’m just saying… that’s the impression I’m getting… at least, from your choice of words. ‘Everything’ gives a pretty big picture.”
“What would you say?”
“Me?”
He said this with this smug little smile he got when he knew he had the opportunity to finally present something he’d been rehearsing for god-knows-how-long.
“Yes you.”
“I can’t speak of your love.”
“Then speak of yours.”
“I would say that my love is a treasure chest buried in the arid dunes of a great desert…”
“What?”
“Don’t interrupt… I’m just beginning.”
He did this. He went off sometimes… could last an instant, could become the next epic improvisational masterpiece… but he usually got my attention, and sometimes a few others’ as well.
“…Not unknown, many clawed their ways to the very spot she lay, but none uncovered her. For though no other chest was finer, none sought what she had to give them. When I wandered into the sun however, I was ill-prepared. I held an empty chalice in my hand and had nothing but the footsteps of others to guide me. I too stopped where so many others before me had, where even a few now stood, some kicking at the sand where she lay, but all moved on; I remained. I saw people marvel at her beauty, and scoff at her treasure; they sought gold and jewels and these she did not possess. I held her and I waited. Waited while others looked on. I waited with the utmost patience because I knew what she held. It seeped from her lock and poured endlessly from her seams, and the taste I got of it sustained me. But I knew a time was coming when a greater portion would be necessary or I would die in need. I waited for an expanse of time, immeasurable by hand or face, for the key to her to be presented to me. It never came. When my last breath was filling my lungs and I no longer had the strength to suppress the tears I stored away, from every night I had life in my arms and could not partake of it, I wept over the stronghold that carried all that I sought. It was then that my error was revealed to me, as my tears washed the hinges, and my love opened to me; it is only in humility that we receive what we are meant to have. In my love was the life-giving water that filled my chalice to overflowing and sustained me ever after. My love is not my everything, she is only one, but the one I cannot live without.”
“I didn’t know you spoke in parables.”
“That’s clear as day to anyone who’s experienced true love.”
He’s more of a romantic than I am… and only one person will ever know the true reaches of how far he’ll go to put a smile on the face of the one he loves. To my knowledge he’s had one real crush. It lasted three years. He doesn’t consider that love. I only heard about it afterward. He met some other girl he’s hinted about; I may be seeing a budding romance first hand, and if that’s the case, I know he’s not much longer for my world. It’s best I take advantage of him while I can. At this point I had to. It had been two weeks, and though we chatted briefly on the phone for a few minutes, Angelica and I weren’t getting along quite so well as I had scripted.
“You scripted it? Sweet. How does it go?”
It was a practice I picked up from him. He spends his nights of silent ardor typing away... stories, poems, plays, songs, words, words, words. He writes because he has no other way to express himself. I wrote to rehearse. My intent has always been to put my plans into action. He heard my dialogue as I had planned it during one of my creative seasons of night that had elapsed with the previous week. The recitation was followed by a time of mutual introspection.
I looked at him lost in thought. We’re very similar… but if it’s possible, I think I’m only a fraction of Foster when it comes to brooding matters of the heart and introversion. He’s often quiet and apt to be staring off somewhere. We’ve had our coffee ritual for almost a year, and I’ve seen him up and down. He doesn’t do either half way. Yet it can still be surprisingly difficult to figure out which is which if he’s far enough away. When he’s not lost thinking though, he’s a good listener, and a good friend.
“So tell me where things lie.”
No response.
“Something wrong?”
Not the slightest trace of acknowledgement.
“Hey Jackass. Snap out of it and tell me what’s on your mind.”
Foster would have held out… I’m not as resilient.
“She hates me.”
“She doesn’t hate you.”
“She doesn’t like me.”
“She doesn’t know you.”
“She doesn’t want to.”
“She doesn’t know she wants to… yet. You need to help her along there. Entice her a little.”
“How?”
“How the hell should I know.”
Foster didn’t have all the answers; he had a lot of the questions though… and surprisingly few answers when I think about it. But the questions were enough. He was right. Even though he didn’t assert much of anything, he was right. One evening together is not enough to expect any sort of obligatory responses. I still wasn’t anyone she had to call back or explain anything to, there was no contract or oath that bound us together, we had our separate lives to cope with and…
“I’m not saying that she’s giving very clear signals… I wouldn’t have a clue anyway, but I think there will come a time when you’ve had enough, and all the small talk just won’t cut it anymore, and you’ll bite the bullet and tell her exactly how you feel… and come what may, you’ll be able to proceed with everyday living.”
“How long will that take?”
“I don’t know… I haven’t found that time myself.”
Coffee was often inconclusive; that made the next meeting inevitable.
That night, when another failed attempt to reach out and touch Angelica led me into a tearless depression, I almost receded back into my melancholic misanthropic masochistic state. I was on the very brink of sanity; teetering between hope and hell and not knowing which would end up hurting more… so I made a call.
“Hello?”
I’m not a strong person. Foster is. He battles daily with questions I’m afraid to confront. He told me once that everyone has had the thought of suicide cross their minds, and that many contemplate suicide, but only the weak commit it… and the weakest bring others with them. He claimed that if it weren’t for his convictions he’d have done them all several times. I don’t believe him. I don’t think it’s an easy thing to throw life away, regardless of the quality. I don’t believe I could end my life… so how could he… but those thoughts have crossed my mind. They were crossing when I got a beep, and Foster had just said hello.
“Hey it‘s me… hold on I got a beep… Hello?”
I was sullen and depressed, I think it threw my caller off… it took a second before the response.
“Hello?”
A girl. Those thoughts were rocked.
“Hello.”
Encouraged this time.
“Phillip?”
The girl. Those thoughts were sunk.
“Yeah. Speaking.”
“Hi… it’s me… Angelica? Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner but I’ve been really busy. I just got back from an Education conference they were holding in preparation for next year, and on top of that work has been hectic and I’ve hardly been home what with all the parties going on. I thought I would’ve run into you by now at one of them…”
She called. She was speaking to me. Her voice echoed, churned, and crescendoed throughout my mind; created enough waves in my ocean of thoughts that the ships of the crossing armada of suicide that had been sailing there were immediately capsized or scuttled. My mind hadn’t experienced a storm like this for at least a couple weeks. The hopes came flooding up from unknown depths and new dreams fell in torrents. My heart, cracked and dry from the weeks of drought, was saturated with the trickling sound of her voice through the telephone receiver… and I knew what Foster meant, and I wondered why I was blind to it before, lest I could have been the first one to write it down for prosterity. I also knew that I was in desperate need of more than a taste.
“Hello? Phillip… are you there?”
I was beyond anywhere I ever thought I could go.
“Look, I’m sorry I couldn’t get back to you sooner…”
From my vantage point I could see nothing but her, and her voice was the only sound that traversed the space between existence and me.
“Phil?”
Her and I.
“I said I was sorry…”
I was sorry too, for all the thoughts I couldn’t bend to my will that strayed into those dark corners of doubt, denial and mistrust.
“Fine. Be a jerk. Don’t expect me to call next time and try to explain to you… anything. If there is a next time.”
“Shit!”
“Excuse me?”
Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. I actually said shit! A cascade of thoughts pure and sweet are filtered out, and the one that sneaks by at a time when I’m severely strained by time to say something in time before time ceases to have any meaning for me because the one my time revolves around is about to hang up and never again give me the time of day, and I say that.
“I said that didn’t I…”
“Yes. You did.”
Just in a niche of time.
“I didn’t mean to…”
“Are you going to tell me why you said it?”
“Well… it’s a long story.”
“I’ll give you time.”
When a window of opportunity opens, stick any appendage through that you can. I don’t care if you have to pull a muscle to do it. Stretch, reach, do what ever you have to do. Don’t let that window close.
“It’s… um… not exactly a phone story.”
“Let me get this straight… I call you to apologize. I explain. I’m ignored. I’m insulted. And you try to manipulate all of this into a scheme to see me?”
“Isn’t that sweet of me?”
She laughs… and I flush all that shit.
“Meet me tomorrow afternoon sometime. At the Gap in the mall. I’ll break for lunch when you get there.”
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