Phil's Story, Chapter 10

1 Corinthians 13.

I took this from a NKJV version…

Though I speak (write, draw, act… fill in the blank) with the tongues of men and angels, but have not love, I have become sounding brass or a clanging cymbal. And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and though I have faith, so that I could remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, (or tossed off a balcony?) but have not love, it profits me nothing.

Love is patient. It suffers long. (Phil was patient and a long time suffering. Only a couple weeks, three months at the most? I don’t know if you know what it’s like to pass a second in genuine anticipation. I met Hope a couple years ago now, and as we’ve grown better acquainted, the days have lengthened exponentially. I’ve passed days of a thousand years. I’ve measured dreams and wishes that transcend all temporal planes. It’s taken me a million thoughts to take one step nearer to her and a second to fly worlds apart. Time is relative, especially in relation to relationships. Phil was patient. Coincidently, I happen to be scared motionless, but that doesn’t stop me from thinking, it only makes the time I wait longer…)

Love is kind. (Phil was kind. His purposes seemed to be selfless, up until his final fling, so to speak. Perhaps that’s too harsh to be saying… but I’ve had much thought-packed time and I’ve shed my share of tears and I’ll shed more rest assured, that doesn’t change the fact that jumping off of a balcony is a selfish end. I can’t believe that an end so selfish was spawned in selflessness. I’d like to believe in the ability to be truly selfless… I don’t know if I can believe in something that is so fragile, something so easily undone. True kindness is rare. Rare because of how it is qualified.)

Love does not envy. (If love is born of two people’s union as an act of free will, jealousy is a non-issue. You can’t envy what you respect, and you can’t love someone you don’t respect… still, it hurts to see her prefer the company of someone else…)

Love isn’t proud. (Thus, It is humble…

“Humility is seeing yourself the way God sees you.”

Another quip of wisdom from one of my numerous youth pastors.

“And how is that?”

I was genuinely curious, searching, desperate for all the clues I could get on how to live a proper existence. He was prepared for that one though…

“It’s how you really are.”

He didn’t get it. I wanted the secret. The irrefutable key to living life how it is supposed to be so that I could be fulfilled, if in no other way, in the knowledge that whatever I was doing was justified by the only judge that mattered.

“So… how is that?”

A pre-rehearsed coverall answer would not suffice. I wanted a messenger of God to tell me how it was that God envisioned me.

“Well, I guess it would be perfect… insomuch as you are a child of God, but still a sinner, albeit covered by the blood, so I guess that makes us all red.”

Cute. Hardly satisfying, but cute.)

It does not behave rudely. (Phil was, in most instances, a gentleman. I remember once a little old lady reversed right into me… more accurately into my mother’s car’s front right passenger door. Phil was sitting in the passenger seat. I watched as Phil got out of the car. The old lady walked right up to us and blamed me for her cataracts. I maintained control as best I could and was even commended on my behavior by the lady after she spoke to an officer or a lawyer and found out she was at fault. If Phil hadn’t intervened on my behalf with the words to substitute for the ones I was thinking (like Phil I’ve always tried to maintain control of my tongue) I never would have received the praises I did… regardless of my innocence. Phil remembered his manners on all occasions, even when those around us in the bars or clubs had rebelled against decency. The only exception was when Phil and Seth got together. I frequently had to cover my virgin ears, and they usually ended up raping them anyway. There’s something caustic in people… sometimes the reactions are extreme.)

It does not seek its own. (It is self-finding in the midst of self-sacrifice. Love is not seeking itself, it’s offering one’s self, and what better way to see what you have to offer than by holding it out.)

It is not provoked. (I’ve never known a person more difficult to provoke than Frosty. I should know; I tried quite a bit. That whole Frosty thing started as an attempt at provocation and he ended up embracing it. He embraced a lot that would have broken other people... then again, he broke when others may not have. We used to work out together. In high school we were the skinniest guys around, but by the end of our freshman year at collage we had other guys coming up to us for spots and pointers. I did it for three reasons. One, because I thought it would make me a more adequate catch for whoever it was I sought at the time. Two, I was once robbed at knife-point in an elevator. I lived in an apartment on the twenty-second floor on the west side of the mall; I was relieved of five dollars and a few bus tickets by two guys I held the door open for. Nothing kills the desire to be polite like having preferred your assailants. I vowed when the blade was against my throat that I would never again be targeted as easy prey. The third reason; I grew to enjoy it. Phil had only one objective. Go. He wouldn’t stop until his body quit on him, and even then he would have me spot him, lifting five-pound dumbbells, until he wasn’t even able to lift his arm. Once his mind was set, nothing could budge it. Phil would not be provoked to do what he would not have done, or to stop what he thought was necessary to achieve.)

Love thinks no evil. (I’m convinced that that is one of two things… the unattainable standard that qualifies that God is love and we are incapable of being on the same playing field as God, or that it is referring to the blinders that go on when you look at someone you adore. If you don’t know what I mean, try finding faults in the object of your affection during that preliminary stage of infatuation, chances are that if you do… the infatuation won’t last very long, and if you don’t, well, you may have found your Hope.)

Love does not rejoice in iniquity, but rejoices in the truth. (I fall short here. Not because I’m purposely deceitful, but because I’ve led myself to believe that a look is enough. A look is not enough. If love rejoices in the truth, then the truth must be expressed… clearly. I have all these romantic notions that words aren’t necessary… funny that I have to write that notion down… I have looked Hope in the eyes and I’ve been swept away, but there is no love for me until I find the words to say. Phil had a similar problem. He couldn’t say what was necessary… until it slipped out of its own accord. I’m not saying a bit of tactful presentation of truth is necessary… not in love, but I don’t think it could hurt… maybe that’s my problem though… I’m counting on too much tact and not giving truth enough credit.)

Love bears all things.

Love believes all things.

Love hopes all things.

Love endures all things.

Love never fails.

(I can’t say that Phil, or I, or anyone for that matter, is capable of doing any one thing to all things… which makes love impossible for humanity… which often seems an accurate assessment. It’s a good thing that love is more than a feeling… that God is Love.)

Whether there are prophesies, they will fail, whether there are tongues, they will cease, whether there is knowledge, it shall pass away. We know in part, we prophesy in part, but when that which is perfect has come, that which is in part will be done away.

(Imagine… no more halves, just the whole.)

When I was a child I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things. (I’m still a child… in so many ways. I have so much stuff to pack up. Phil was twenty when he fell to his death; I think he tripped over something he could have picked up.)

For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part, but then I shall know just as I also am known. (While this endeavor is partly for Phillip, something he asked me to do, it’s mostly for me, something I need to do, to know who it is that I am, and what, or whom, I seek. Phillip knows and sees now and I wonder if it’s too late… and if it will be too late for me when the mirror breaks and I see face to face.)

And now abide faith, hope, love, these three; but the greatest of these is love. (If I’m not in love, I’m afraid of what will become of me should I ever have the privilege. I know I can’t be this love, the one described here, alone, but if there’s a way to receive it, I know I want to, if only to give it away. But I struggle enough with Faith and Hope.)

Op-ed: The Separation of Wealth and State

The Separation of Wealth and State:

“The love of money is the root of all kinds of evil…”

A lot of people have praised the proclaimed re-separation of church and state since the general consensus after the last American administration held that faith should decidedly remain as far outside of the political spectrum as possible. I tend to agree; faith has little to no place in politics, though I adhere to this maxim for a different reason. While most would argue that the two don’t adequately mix, like oil and water per se, I liken their mixture more to that of adding lead to gold. And it’s not the politics I value. Adding politics to faith merely cheapens faith. If you believe something to be true, it’s independent of a majority vote, as former President Bush might tell you. Of course, things have changed since Bush’s consecutive terms. Faith’s reputation has been tarnished by the policies of government despite the fact that nothing of faith has changed. Nevertheless, professing adherents of faith are on the decline, being faced with the imminent ridicule of being labeled zealots, extremists, terrorists, or right-wing extremists as a consequence for confessing a belief in something that extends beyond sensual experiences.
However, in recent light, it has come, or should have come, to the collective attention span of the world populace that there are equal, if not greater, threats to private liberty than those of a strictly religious nature, even if the subject at hand is not too far removed.
It is high time that a discussion concerning the separation of wealth and state be instituted for the betterment of all humanity, hopefully before the economic powers that be send all of civilization into a spiral of destruction that will doubtlessly lead to desolation of far more than the ever-changing world we have known the past hundred years. Of course, such apocalyptic revelations often send people reluctantly clinging to the elements of faith they so quickly disregard when trials deem such profitable, but there’s that idea again, profit, wreaking havoc on my argument.
Even the former disestablishment of theocratic government had its roots in the abolishing of and redistribution of wealth and power out of the greedy vice grip of the few and into the shared responsibility of the laymen, and eventually laywomen, and perhaps one day into the outstretched hands of all humanity, but until then, distributed nonetheless to those who’ve suffered through to obtain the right of suffrage, but to what end?
Without the means to reside peacefully in a nation, free of the constant fear of sudden fiscal failure, or circumstantial material ruin, what matters disenfranchisement?
Conspiracy theories abound concerning the oligarchy of the finance elite, out to rule and enslave all the world through the power of the dwindling dollars and sense of the masses, and whether the theories are true or not, it remains the onus of the individual to rise above their own dependency on currencies and focus instead on what remains of value in society while it yet exists to cherish as more than a memory.
Much of the so-called developed nations of the world have utilized a perceived “right to owe” which has resulted in the impending crises of late with more to come.
You can argue all you want for or against certain policies, on either side of the aisle in congress, plotted wherever you wish on the bipartisan line, or if you are lucky enough to live where an axis exists, place yourself anywhere among the quadrants, it matters not so long as all of the area exists as a game-board for the uber-rich.
That I struggle to place my piece on the cross is my own concern. That I continually look for things more valuable than money in life is my own endeavor, for better or worse, one that I think may prove viable. I invite others to do likewise; to better inform myself, and one another, on the finer aspects of how to live this temporal life free.

Phil's Story, Chapter 9

Phillip.

It’s been almost a year since Phillip leapt to his death off of the balcony of the ninth story apartment he lived in. He jumped at dusk, I think he waited until the natural lighting was just right; bright enough for the dramatic display, and dim enough to hide the horror. His mother heard about it on the 11:00 news while she was lying in bed with her boyfriend. I heard about it the following day. I saw his picture on the inside of the front page of the local newspaper when I was checking to see where the editors put my crossword puzzle. My first reaction was to call him and tell him I saw his picture in the paper. When I didn’t get an answer I read the article.

I received a manila envelope from Phillip’s mother at his funeral. It was sealed and had my name on it. Inside were pages of writing, thoughts scribbled hastily on Post-its, letters, theories, stories, even essays and various school assignments dating back up to ten years… there was also his account. The three-day suicidal prelude. His story of Angelica. I read those pages alone in my room over and over again and again. The six-months that ended twenty plus years. I tried to figure out why. I still catch myself trying some nights, in between bouts of feeling the betrayed and betrayer… I’m so bloody presumptuous.

Phillip and I had a lot in common. Broken homes and broken hearts being the foremost unifying factors to come to mind. I never met Phillip’s father, and Phillip didn’t remember anything about him but the one-sided accounts his mother gave. Phillip’s mother was very independent. She worked… a lot. When she wasn’t working she was usually occupied in some other endeavor, that didn’t involve Phillip in any way, which left him to pretty much fend for himself since he was twelve years old. Phillip was an escape artist, always immersed in secret worlds; video games, movies, books; he’d pick up anything that would take him away to a different place. He was quiet around people he didn’t know, so it’s no wonder it took four years of association before we hit it off… but we hit it off. Phillip was an idealist, always searching for the best… he wouldn’t settle for better, he held out for the best. He put off everything, never committing, always hoping that perfection would find him. Well, I guess he thought he found what he was looking for and it killed him. What scares me is that I’m much the same.

We would talk about anything and everything. Morality and ethics, philosophy, theology, politics, literature, movies, culture, current events… even the best way to fix a cup of tea or coffee. More than anything else we would talk about love. What was it, how did you find it and if you were ever lucky enough to spot it, even from a distance, how could it be obtained? My favorite definition of love is still 1 Corinthians 13. I’m not about to go into what the Bible is or isn’t. Not now… but even Phillip liked that passage.

“It’s practical.”

He was right. It’s a love that you can choose and demonstrate, even when the sensation escapes… as I’m told it does in time. However, he tried, and the outcome wasn’t promising.

He spoke about Angelica twice to me. Once the day after the party where he first met her, and during our last coffee when I was so preoccupied with my own infatuation I ended up fueling the fire. That’s what seemed to happen when we got together… we’d fuel each other’s passions. We’d elevate our ideas, to standards we could never grasp, and then we’d discuss the means of stretching ourselves to reach those new heights. For two weeks prior I was away visiting my father, this was while much of what transpired between them took place, and that last week I was busy… so I didn’t see him. Nevertheless, during that final face to face, we were seated at that table for hours. All we could talk about revolved around our ideals and the manifestations of them we found.

“Tell me about this Angelica.”

“She’s perfect. That’s all I can say… she’s absolutely perfect.”

“No one’s perfect.”

“You don’t believe that.”

I’d had two big crushes in my life thus far. Both of them were “perfect”. I told him of them. But I didn’t even know I had actually fallen in love yet. I’d have denied it if asked… probably still would.

“I know I don’t… but I thought you might.”

It was news to me that Phillip saw in me that a new perfection had taken form in my heart before I even knew it was there, but he did. He didn’t call me on it… but somehow he knew that there was a change that took place in me while I visited my father’s house… and that I had met my own Angelica.

The closest thing I’ve had to an actual girlfriend, meaning a mutual committed relationship, at the time of my writing this, was in grade eight. Alice was my first crush and I actually got her. That’s a horrible way to put it, but words fail me in how to express my relationships, which is a part of that whole problem. More on that later. We met (Alice and I) informally in grade six or seven, but it was in grade eight that I was in her class. My crush was fully developed in November, after attending her birthday party, but it wasn’t until after she had hooked up and broken up with Jerry, and the summer began, eight months later, that I took my shot. I asked her and she said yes and it was official. I was young then, my own parents were separated or preparing to, it was in the summer before transitioning to high school, and we were going to different ones, and I was getting the impression that she was at a point where holding hands wasn’t enough for her, whereas holding her hand, for me… nevertheless, we were going out for one month before I was sufficiently terrified at where the relationship was inevitably headed and I ran.

My second crush was just that in hindsight… a crush, that it lasted three years might say something about my perseverance, tenacity, or any number of issues I have, but looking back, and in contrast to how I feel about this present girl, Julianne remains a crush. Albeit, I’ll admit, a life-altering one.

Phillip knew about Alice and Jules… and evidently about Hope as well.

He knew things in the sense that he thought a lot and was always well acquainted with anything he shared. Knowledge to Phil was more a relationship he had with and idea than an idea itself. When he said he knew something, he wasn’t claiming to have reached a profound conclusion on the matter, he didn’t make many vocal assertions, rather he would write everything down, and puzzle everything out, and then edit and rethink and get tied up in the idea as a whole, with all of its inconsistencies and complexities, then put into action a simple plan. Even that was only when his imagination didn’t get the best of him. He would zone out for a second and then, if he was in a particularly careless mood, he would take you on this wild journey of images and connections and if you were lucky you could hold on. He could elaborate on an instantaneous thought for an hour.

I have my moments too; instances where my imagination takes me on a trip that I don’t have time to pack for. Unlike Phillip however, I keep my fantasies separate from reality… which could explain my somber demeanor much of the time. I am far more careless and assuming in my convictions. I know things. I even know things I don’t know at all… I just keep most everything to myself. I never answer questions easily…

“What’s your new catch’s name?”

“My catch?”

“You know what I mean, who is she?”

I make people fight to know me.

“Who?”

“This girl you’ve met at your fathers’ house.”

“I didn’t meet anyone at my dad’s home that fits the context you’re placing them in.”

“Then adjust the context and get it out already!”

“I can’t answer a question that isn’t phrased well enough to grasp so much as the basic idea you’re concerned with.”

“I shouldn’t even have to ask, Foster… you should just be able to tell me.”

I had yet to be able to keep a thought from Phil.

“Her name is Hope.”

“Is that really her name or is that just a euphemism for her role in your life at present?”

“How could Hope ever be a euphemism?”

“You haven’t met Angelica…”

I didn’t have to meet Angelica. I couldn’t believe he called me on it though. Hope is a euphemism for the one who I’ll call Hope throughout, but not just a euphemism… while it is a less than adequate word to ascribe to this wonder who has captivated me, Hope is the best way I can articulate who she is. More on that later too. After we had both sat in silence for a while Phil brought us back by slurping his last sip of coffee.

“She’ll be the death of me Fost …”

“If you haven’t found something worth dying for you have nothing worth living for.”

“What are you saying?”

“Find her, Phil… and when you do, live a little.”

That’s when I showed him the ticket.

Some people like to think of themselves as influential in the lives of others. I don’t. The way I see it, influence is equal to a compounded responsibility and accountability, the last thing I want is to be judged for someone else’s actions. That doesn’t ease the pang of guilt I still occasionally feel when I think about Phil, and that last cup of coffee we had, and the turn the conversation took. Especially when he asked the following:

“What would you die for, Fost?”

There is no such thing as a simple question… simplicity is contingent on ignorance, but there are loaded questions and then there are loaded, cocked, safety off, finger already on the trigger questions.

I don’t remember what exactly I said, so I’ll give you the literary account. As far as “what” goes, I think the only things worth dying for are intangible and abstract. Truth, love, I think that exhausts my list; I’d even argue that they’re the same thing, I think I did argue that with Phil, but the time I’d die for them is dependant on how the abstract applies to an individual. Truth and love are only valuable in so much as they apply to people, and it is only in such a context that I’d die for something; I’d die for someone.

“That was beautiful, but incredibly vague.”

“I know. I wouldn’t want to commit to dying for something now that I might not want to die for later… I’d be a hypocrite… even more so.”

“I think I’ll die for her.”

I heard what he said, loud and clear, still…

“Excuse me?”

“I said I think I’d die for her… I think I love her.”

“Haven’t we been through this?”

“No, I don’t think either of us have been through anything like this before. This is love and death.”

“Life and death.”

“You said it yourself; there’s no life without love.”

“Did I say that?

“Something to that effect.”

“I did didn’t I… well, that’s true… but love is a sorely misused word these days.”

“Let’s define it.”

“It’s already been defined.”

“1 Corinthians 13?”

I tried to remember what it said before I nodded… but I nodded anyway.

Phil's Story, Chapter 8

Finally.

After my frenzy, my fall, my search, and my being dragged from the mall, I was quite the mess. I showered and changed and tried to dishevel my hair with the same artistry I showed in the morning. While I freshened up, Angelica sat in the living room. She was looking, at the pictures hanging on the wall, at the stack of magazines my mother kept in a wicker basket by the couch, at the CDs stacked by the player, taking in her surroundings.

As I rounded the corner from the bathroom she looked at me.

“Where would you like to eat?”

“I thought you’d have all the details planned.”

“I did… but things didn’t go according to plan.”

She smiled again at the scene from the mall. I opened the fridge in an attempt to look busy or occupied.

“Do you know any recipes?”

I peeked up over the refrigerator door… I could see her through the doorway. It was a rather small apartment and unless someone was behind a closed door, they were pretty much always visible.

“Excuse me?”

“We could just stay in and fix something.”

I know the microwave and soup. I tried to put the two together once and ended up with a crusted-over bowl. I could work a kettle and add milk to cereal (not without the occasional mishap) and that was as far as I ventured. I couldn’t even bring myself to attempt Kraft dinner. I wasn’t about to make the mistake of killing my beloved. I closed the fridge.

“There’s not much here…”

“Let me see.”

She came to where I stood blocking the entrance to the kitchen.

“Don’t you trust me?”

“Move.”

I let her pass hoping logic would prevail.

“Wouldn’t you rather eat a nice meal out somewhere?”

She opened the fridge.

“A place where hired professionals cook the meals?”

She opened the freezer.

“Where inspectors uphold standards?”

She peered in the cabinets. Something got her thinking because she finally responded with a question of her own… but we weren’t on the same page.

“When’s your mom coming home?”

“I doubt if she is.”

I let my mother’s curfew drop because she paid rent… I was a student after all.

“We’ll make do.”

With that she reached into the cupboard and pulled out a couple of bottles, went back to the fridge and rummaged around a bit finally emerging with an assortment of vegetables and various ingredients, then over to a drawer to pick out utensils, and back to the freezer for a cut of meat that wasn’t past due, when that couldn’t be found, one that hadn’t begun fossilization.

I protested. Or I started to…

“I can’t…”

“I can.”

She began. She began by ordering me to start chopping, so I guess it would be more accurate to say we began; chopping, slicing, mixing, pouring, thawing, tenderizing, tasting, adding, stirring, soon the marinade was complete.

“It should be an hour, at least, before the flavor starts to set in…”

“Tea?”

“Sure.”

An hour steeped in a cup of Red Rose and pleasant conversation over a few hands of gin. Then it was back to the kitchen, boiling, sizzling, frying, broiling, baking, dashing, daring, sparing, spilling… before long we had something resembling a meal, and a hell of a mess.

“Was this red meat?”

“I think so.”

“Does that mean Sauvignon Blanche, a Chardonnay Rouge, or Rose Zinfandel?”

“I don’t know. Got milk?”

Smell check.

“Yep.”

We sat down.

“Wait…”

I turned off the lights. I kicked a chair. I turned the lights back on. I lit a candle. I turned the lights back off. Perfect. It only cost me a stubbed toe.

“Now, to dining in.”

We raised our glasses and took a sip. Then we partook. If I were the only one to gag and spit out my first bite I would have died of shame… luckily it was a reflex we shared.

“How about Pizza?”

“We already toasted to dining in…”

“I’ll call.”

Forty minutes later the kitchen was clean, the garbage was full, and we were side by side on the couch watching music videos and eating pizza. Perfect.

If I had been given the luxury to transpose my life then and there onto some lasting medium, I wouldn’t be in the position I find myself in at the moment. Looking back I can honestly say that I wish my life were a movie, and I were holding the remote, so I could stop and rewind and pause and relive that evening, that day, even those few weeks, with the drama and the feeling and the uncertainty and the hope… it’s the hope I wish I could capture… the suspended moment when that video came up that she was particularly opposed to viewing and she reached for the remote that I held in my hand, just as I was moving my hand away from her, (coincidentally, I swear…) the result being that she fell right into my lap trying to grasp the evasive converter. She looked right at me, a mix of embarrassment and hysteria playing with her features. I handed her the controller and she buried her face in my shoulder, laughing. She laughed so hard she left wet spots on my sleeve. When she calmed down she rested her head in the same spot. The wall around Jericho had fallen again, this time from laughter. She gave me back the flicker… sort of. She set it on my knee and when I put my hand on it, just to secure it from falling (I’m pretty sure my knees were shaking) her hand alighted on mine. Her touch was soft, she was wearing Obsession, and I didn’t even have to pretend. Freeze frame. Fade to Black. Cut. That’s a wrap.

But time passed. I don’t know how much of it. She eventually stirred and looked at me.

“It’s late.”

I hadn’t noticed.

“I hadn’t noticed.”

She smiled. I couldn’t recall ever speaking a thought so honestly, without filters or spin doctoring, I smiled too.

“Hmmm… I guess I should go…”

I wished she wouldn’t. I could have died happy just sitting there.

“If you must…”

She stood, I stood, and we walked together to the door. She gathered her things and I opened the door and she stepped across the threshold into the hall.

“Do you want me to walk you to the bus?”

“No… I could use the time alone.”

“Are you sure? It’s no trouble.”

“I know it wouldn’t trouble you… but I’ll manage. Bye Phil.”

“Bye Angelica… I love you.”

I closed the door. She knocked. She must have forgotten something.

“What did you forget?”

“What did you say?”

“What did you forget?”

“Before that…”

“Just now?”

“When you closed the door…”

“I said ‘Bye’.”

“No you didn’t.”

“Yes I did.”

“You said something after that.”

“Angelica.”

“Yes?”

“No, I said, ‘Bye Angelica’.”

“You said ‘I love you’.”

“I said ‘you love me’?”

“No! You said you love me.”

“Oh.”

She stepped back inside.

“Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Because I don’t know how you could…”

“What do you mean…”

“I mean you hardly know me…”

Talk about uncomfortable thought-filled silences.

“How could you…”

I didn’t like where that was headed… I decided rather abruptly that I had to stop that thought before it formed into something more formidable. I actually put my finger to her lips. I proceeded to close my eyes, take a deep breath, then continue:

“How could anyone not love you…”

She looked hurt that I could say such a thing. I kissed her where I made the hurt… I just assumed that I had made the hurt with my finger. She slapped me. Hard. I didn’t feel it because of what she shouted as she was running down the hall. She was crying, but she made sure I heard her clearly…

“I hate you… don’t ever speak to me again.”

I didn’t feel anything after she said that to me.

Looking back I wonder what could have happened; if a different sequence of events had transpired, if the whole outcome would be different. If I had succumbed to her weight, when she was leaning against me, as so we could lie together, or if I had given her mine. If I asked her to stay rather than facilitating her departure, would the following morning have resulted in a brighter future?

I tried calling her that night but she didn’t go home. I tried her all the next day but there was no answer. The next day, when her father picked up, I got the message.

“Hi is…”

That’s all I got out.

“Is this Frankie or Phil or whatever the hell your name is? Listen you little sonuvabitch, if you ever step foot near my daughter again, or try to contact her in any way, I will castrate you and feed your Johnson to my pit bull as an appetizer before I chop the rest of you into little pieces and shove you in his dish. Go off and die somewhere you little shit.”

Click.

When I called back he actually had the dog answer the phone.

That was three days ago. It’s been a week since she walked out of my life. One week and I am so weak. I haven’t so much as risen but to relieve myself from bodily waste, or partake of minimal sustenance. My mother hasn’t called or come home. I haven’t picked up the phone, lest a way out would present itself and I forget. I don’t want to forget this. This is pain, and it let’s me know that I’m alive. It won’t last though. I can’t weather this storm, Fost. I’m already growing accustomed to these ideas… these tendencies. They’ve been visiting me, in the middle of the night, waking me from my tortured sweet dreams where she presides. They rouse me in the mornings when I sit down to write. I’ve penned all that I have herewith under their vigilant watch. They’re waiting for me, these fancies of never having to suffer pain again, waiting for me to put down the pen so that they can have me, because I have already given myself over to them. It’s just a matter of doing this one last deed. What I’ve written down in the past few days has been recorded in numb recollections. I’m leaving it up to you to spice it up a bit. Try to make me out to be something better than I was. I don’t know what purpose you can find in this, in me, but if there is one, I trust you to find it. Try to make people understand, Foster. Not ‘why’… why is inconsequential… try to articulate ‘who’. I bet you keep that sentence… it’s you. Anyway, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. Don’t let anyone take the blame for this; the blame lies on me. I leave you this in hopes that it will be the most valuable thing I leave behind. If there’s nothing after this world, write me into one of yours somewhere, so that I’ll live on…

Post Script.

Tell Angelica… something. That I love her… that I always have and always will… that I love her smile. That she made my lofty ideals loftier just by smiling when we met. That I died happy because I died with her in my memory. Tell her something… something I could not. It’s too much, Fost… It’s too much.

Phil's Story, Chapter 7

Time.

I can’t remember if I slept like a baby, if I slept like a log, if I slept like a hopeful romantic on the night before meeting the girl of dreams for lunch at the mall in hopes of kindling a romantic blaze that would consume them both for eternity, or if I slept at all. Whichever it was, I was up at eight in the morning and singing in the shower. The whole night was a haze. I remembered the call, the plan, and that was all. Then I remembered that I had left Foster on hold but that he was a fairly forgiving sort and he would be more than understanding… he would be happy for me. I was belting out Unchained Melody, or at least the parts I remembered, while a steady steaming stream turned my body red. I love my shower. The only thing I’ll give my apartment is the shower. The endless hot water tank coupled with constant pressure, and our own addition of a multi-adapting showerhead, made mornings easier to wake up to… especially when most days offered little to encourage getting out of bed. Today it was just an added ecstasy. It was one of those mornings where I left the bathroom door open and the light off so that the accumulation of moisture wouldn’t cause a short in any of the track lighting… a painful lesson to have to learn. I washed away two weeks of worry and anticipation, a lifetime of longing, any bodily filth, and forty-two minutes in that shower. I emerged fresh, clean, and ready to tackle just about anything.

Just about.

I fixed a big breakfast but only ate half of it. I couldn’t sit still enough to eat. I was thinking of the best way to appear before her highness. What to wear, how to wear it, how to gel and mold and manipulate the matted mess atop my head… maybe it would be best just to cover it up. No… that would give an impression of carelessness and I cared, or wanted to give that impression anyway. I even accessorized… I even wore my watch. Not that it would do me any good. My watch was only right twice a day.

I was out the door of my apartment by ten in the morning (according to the microwave) looking as good as I thought I was capable of looking. I ran all the way to the bus terminal. The bus terminal happens to be located at the southern most perimeter of the area that is ‘the mall’. I was there by five after with two hours to kill. I figured I wouldn’t look so desperate if I kept her waiting a whole five minutes after noon… but if I couldn’t hold out I only had an hour and fifty-six minutes.

The funny thing about killing time is that it usually appears to be the other way around. Every minute picked away at me. If you can occupy yourself then you can succeed, but I would not be occupied or distracted. I tried, but I just don’t like malls. They’re engineered to drive cattle through… and they are very effective. I wandered around and the seconds gathered. I stopped at windows and kiosks and displays and soon minutes had passed away. Just as I rounded a corner by the food court and saw a perfectly good line to stand in and get the better part of an hour under my belt, time struck back; the Gap was right there. The coffee vendor I was loitering at was located not fifty feet from the nearest styling Gap-clad mannequin, and through the panes of postered glass I could see Angelica, standing behind a register ringing in a purchase, the smile on her face didn’t seem quite the same, but after two weeks without it, it was a mighty sip to swallow. So much so that I began to choke on it. All of a sudden as I stood in line I inhaled and that was it… nothing would come out. I coughed and hacked and coughed some more, I got weird looks, and one well-meaning gentleman behind me patted me gently on the back and asked me if I was alright. I teared up in response.

“That’s not how you do it… back up mister.”

Now I was gathering a little bit of attention. A heavy-set woman emerged from the flock that had gathered around and she wound up. The sound that was created when she struck my back reverberated throughout the cathedral skylight center of the surprisingly acoustic mall surroundings, creating a rather unexpected effect. A few kids skipping school ran for their lives at the shock wave that straightened my spine and made me cough all the louder; others came to see the spectacle. Luckily one was a doctor.

“What the hell are you doing to that boy? Step aside.”

“Like hell, who are you to be tellin’ me what to do?”

“I’m a doctor, and I’m going to save this young man’s life.”

Something in the way he said that made me feel uncomfortable… I tried to gather myself in a few short gasps and would have pulled through if I hadn’t fell further apart. I think it was his little black back that did it… or more his eagerness to try out what was inside. And the fat lady wasn’t about to be ousted so easily.

“Look!”

She saw my erratic attempt at breathing and pointed at me.

“He’s hyperventilating! Hurry doc, I’m a nurse… I can assist you.”

“Fine, suit up.”

It was rather impressive that the doctor managed to cram two scrubs as well as gloves and all of his surgical tools so neatly in his satchel… but I didn’t have the time to comment on my thoughts.

“You… hold him down he may resist.”

It was just my luck that a man who could have wrapped Lou Ferringo around a tree was watching… my attempt to resist was thwarted before it began… but keep in mind I would have put up a better fight if I’d taken a proper breath in the past few paragraphs…

“Scalpel.”

I resisted, breath or no breath.

“Dammit! Hold him down! Nurse, a general anesthetic… stat!”

“Ow!”

That was me. I don’t know if it was the nurse jabbing me in the buttock, the doctor stabbing me under the ribs, or the giant contorting my torso, maybe it was a combination, but something hurt. That it was me and that it was the only noise I made to offer my opinion in their little foray didn’t cause a moment’s hesitation in their procedure. Everything went black.

“Are you gonna get something?”

My battles with time always have casualties. Sometimes I emerge with physical or emotional scars… but I’m usually put through some intellectual ringer or mental strain. I’ve learned to take account rather subtly. As I pretended to scan the options chalked up on a blackboard before me I made sure all of my appendages were there by shifting my weight and patting myself down in search of my wallet. (This was really to look for bruises or scars but I don’t think I betrayed as much.)

“You’ve been gawking at the board for five minutes. I’m as patient as the next mall employee but if you don’t either order something or leave right now I’m going to call security.”

I panicked and began to actually read the limited menu for what I thought was the first time.

“That’s it smart ass… security it is. Those no loitering signs aren’t there for pictures.”

He waved and pointed while he was talking, so before I could ask him what that was supposed to mean, some gigantic toy cop had me in a full nelson.

“What’s the problem?”

It was the grappler who had subdued me in my choking fit… funny how our own subconscious minds toy with us sometimes.

“Loitering.”

He looked disgusted as he said it, like I‘d just been caught teaching children how to fly off the grand canyon, even if they were brats who pushed gifts aside at Christmas calling out ‘next!’ before contributing to unnecessary noise by kicking a younger sibling seated next to him. Who‘d only wish he could learn to fly and would be quite content if someone had the heart to take the time to teach him. But children can’t fly, the clerk actually knew as much, thought little of this, and stared at me as though I had just confessed to practicing it. If I could have seen the guard’s face I’d have known he looked much the same.

“I’ll deal with it.”

He forced me to the nearest exit… which happened to be right through the Gap. I looked over to see the forced smile of customer service engulfed by an expression of embarrassed, irate, horrified, nauseous, anxiety. I liked her smile better… even the forced, fake, facsimile reserved for customer service.

When we got outside he pointed.

“Go.”

“Where?”

“I don’t care, as long as it isn’t here.”

“How long?”

“Two days.”

Under any other circumstances I would have laughed and pleaded for a month. Today I cried; the man behind the counter took pity on me.

“Whoa, buddy… take it easy, I’m sorry… take all the time you want. I’ll just… help the next customer.”

The bloated nurse pushed me aside… unintentionally I’m sure; she probably didn’t know that it was a fundamental law of Physics that no two objects could exist in the same space at the same time. Her space just kind of made mine cease to exist and I found myself beside her. She looked over at me as though a gnat had flown by her and she wanted to swat it. She looked right into my eyes, and her countenance changed.

“Oh, you sweet thang!”

She was surprisingly agile for one of such proportions. She had the back of my head in one or her padded paws before I had sufficient time to scream… and by the time I had had sufficient time, it was smothered by her ample bosom.

“Don’t struggle sugar… we was meant to be. That’s plain as day. I didn’t think I’d ever find my sweet little dollop of whipped cream but here you are… right ready to dip into a pot of coffee…”

Luckily I snapped out of it before I ventured to find out what that meant or where it was going. Six short minutes had elapsed since time got the better of me… and I had to counterattack quickly or I was a goner. In frustration I pocketed my watch; it didn’t seem to be helping much today anyway. I wiped away the remnants of the tears that escaped during episode two… or was it three? I had lost count, and I ventured into the bookstore. It was beside the Gap… but by far the safest place to be.

“Can I help you?”

She had a nice voice… but I wasn’t about to get caught looking, not in my present mental state; who knows what dreams may come…

“Just looking.”

I was actually wondering rather aimlessly through the countless accounts of… well, everything. I managed to hover ever so briefly by the magazine section… just long enough see who the recent cover girls were… not that the selection changed with much frequency. The men’s magazines had a healthy smattering of well-adorned (or unadorned) flesh… so did the women’s magazines. None of them had Angelica though, so I wasn’t all that allured. I made my way to the classics and the clock struck twelve. Twain, Dickinson, Dickens, Shakespeare, Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Pope, Austin, Swift, Locke, Descartes, Plato, Augustine, Mill and hundreds of others… immortal, immovable, irrevocable. The thoughts, and feelings, and lives that these people penned were absolute, and had only what was there, within themselves, to lean on for defense. They were my refuge because it was in picking their minds I escaped my own picking on me. One o’clock passed.

“Is everything alright?”

“Quite.”

Paris is in ruins and an innocent man sacrifices himself for an unrequited love. Everything was far from alright but that was centuries ago. Programmed responses. I put down the tale. I picked up another. I wandered through Rome, Venice, and Verona, castles, caves, forests, a graveyard, and an ocean, all at the hands of a dramatist.

“Are you sure there’s nothing I can help you with?”

“Un-huh…”

I went from title to title to author to genre and back and forth from mythology to fiction to philosophy and drama, even poetry tasting a smorgasbord of isms, ideologies, conventions, what have you. It wasn’t until three o’ clock that I figured out the world was against me. My greatest friends, those who wrote down their stories before me, had stabbed me in the back with the deadliest weapons they could muster. I looked at my watch. It was still dormant. I didn’t know my fault until I asked the poor girl who kept trying to help me what the time was.

“It’s ten minutes after three.”

She said it laughing.

I don’t need to tell you the word that backed up its way into my head. I dropped the Penguin Classic I was musing over onto the floor and I ran. I tried to cut the turn out of the bookstore too sharply and ended up sliding on the linoleum. The high pitched squeak alerted security as to my whereabouts. I got up and hightailed it to the Gap entrance. A couple of thirteen-year-old girls screamed when I startled them. Security began running. Angelica wasn’t at the register; she wasn’t on the floor. With my capture inevitable I figured what the hell and I checked the stockroom. No luck.

“Where is she?”

“Who?”

“Angelica!”

“She got off…

I’m frantic…

“When? When! How long ago?”

“I dunno… like, ten minutes…”

The target of my inquisition fielded my questioning with remarkable ease, as though it were an everyday occurrence. I was about to comment on her service, but I was had. There was no use resisting. Time had coupled with the mightiest weapon it could have, at least given the circumstances, a uniformed high school dropout that could crush beer cans on his forehead and me underfoot. I was defeated. There’s nothing worse than authority in the wrong hands, and that thickheaded, thick-chested, toy cop was definitely the wrong hands. When I was kicked out this time, I didn’t bother to look where I was being directed or ask for how long. I just left. I was in no hurry. I was headed back. Back to life before. Back to monotony and misery and…

“Frankie!”

I looked every which way as fast as I could and crumpled to the ground because I hurt something doing so.

“Phil! Are you ok?”

I must have cried out when I fell because she came upon me quickly and with concern that turned to smiles when I smiled at her. I winced getting up. She held my arm.

“Are you ok?”

She was laughing.

“I’m Fine… I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

Love keeps no record of wrongs. Foster showed me 1 Corinthians 13 during our last coffee session. If the whole Bible were like that I would have converted.

“I missed you at work… I mean I didn’t miss you… I was there… I was there the whole time. I’ve been at the mall since ten. I just… lost track of time…”

“I know. I saw you reading.”

She was still laughing.

“You did?”

Laughter. Sweet joyous laughter… and a nod.

“What’s so funny?”

“I asked you three times if I could help you with anything and you kept brushing me off. I took my lunch without you at two. I was hungry. Then I saw you get yourself thrown out.”

I must have reddened because her laughter resumed with newfound vigor.

“You won’t be visiting me at work for a while…”

“What’s my sentence?”

“That? Don’t worry about it. I smoothed things over there… I just don’t want to be seen with you in public.”

“Oh.”

A lengthy silence followed. It was actually just time exacting its power over me because I had hardly taken a breath before I asked her.

“So how about dinner?”

“What?”

“Lunch is a write off… and I still want to talk to you. How about dinner?”

“Sure. But you’re not going like that.”

We walked back to my apartment. Laughter and silence consuming any time communication would have taken. No complaints here.

An Extended Caveat:

I appreciate your taking the time to read my writing, however, I need to offer an extended caveat:

"Phil's Story" was written some ten years ago now and was a primary means for me to work through some of my own issues at the time, so please do not take any of the fiction too much to heart. It is first and foremost a story, though circumstances, characters, themes, and the like may bear resemblances to my life at the time, especially as I composed it as a story from pieces of what I knew, and not all the pieces were polished, I don't want anyone to be hurt by anything now, long after the facts and my own understanding regarding them and subsequent maturation.

You're more than welcome to read whatever I'm posting, I don't want to deter you, I'd consider it an hono(u)r. I just want you to know in reading it that I'm okay, and I mean no offense.

To any of my family and friends who circumstantially end up perceiving themselves fictionalized in writing: I never aim to hurt, but I'm not oblivious of the potentiality should things be misconstrued. Any questions, comments, worries, concerns, before or after reading anything I post, don't hesitate to be in touch.

That's all.

Phil's Story, Chapter 6

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.”