One More Time With my Life

I met her last month. I didn’t know anything about her other than that she was singing onstage. My first impression was that she was a southern transplant who hung out with these country musicians. But she was beautiful. I went up after her and sang “Boy Named Sue.” I forgot half the song. Everyone loved it. I couldn’t believe it. If they only knew. More people told me I was good, even Beautiful. Though I didn’t remember her name until the next time we met. I never assumed it would make a difference.

The next month was the same. Though I remembered more lyrics. Beautiful was there again. She remembered me. She was glad to see me. I got her number. Almost immediately I got a text saying I was great. I was right next to her. She had sent it to the first 10 people in her phone, it was still a nice thing to get. Then it said I was her hero in her facebook profile. I knew it was superlative. Then the next night I got another text message,

“Hey, I had a great time with you last night, let me know about your party or the next time you’re at buttermilk.” 12/1/06 9:40pm

I started creating the story. It’s something I’m so good at in my head. Analyzing why. Why people are the way they are, what I like about them. Listening to their stories. Looking at the blocks I can see of their lives as a rubix cube. What do I know about them? How can I break it apart and put it back together? It’s the same problem I can’t fix with myself. I know too much about my life. The pieces are immobile. I’m immobile. These things come and I rotate and rotate and can’t fix it.

I invited her out that Saturday. Monkeyfucker, BAIMM, Branton and I were all going to the Brooklyn museum for the free night they do on the first weekend every month. It was free to get in and they had a band and drinks. It sounded very cool. She agreed. When I met her there she looked great. Grey checked dress over a black shirt and tall boots. I'm a sucker for a girl in a dress. We walked through the museum talking. I made a vague attempt to find my friends, but was relatively unconcerned. They’d call before they left. Around closing time we met outside. My friends all came outside. They were going to a bar. We followed. The bar was packed when we arrived. I stood with Beautiful, bought her a drink and we talked. Every song on the jukebox was great, and she loved them all. She bought me a drink. We went outside for a cigarette. Back inside I bought her another drink. A Gin and Tonic. Something I haven’t had in a while. It was amazing. She was amazing. Another cigarette and then she bought me a drink. Vodka/Cranberry made with some Swedish sounding Vodka, or so she said. I slammed it down steeling my nerves.

“Do you want to go back to my place, maybe listen to some music?”
“Yeah, I’d like that.”

We headed back. The walk was moderately long, her feet were tired from her boots. I shouldn’t have made her walk so far. We got inside and put on some music.
“Oh my god. Did you really just put this on? Are you trying to make out with me?”
“Well… not necessarily. But I certainly will.” She laughed. “Do you want to smoke some pot?” “Yeah.”

We smoked pot and she went to the bathroom. I stood at the window and felt the cold air blow against my face. I settled for a moment. Reminded myself of my own story. She came back in. I kissed her deeply. She was a great kisser. I reminded myself of my story. We collapsed on the bed rolling back and forth. Eventually our clothes came off. She didn’t want sex, somehow I couldn’t have cared less. I wanted to change the way things usually happened to me. Force this new tale onto some new path, one that I haven’t been on. One where things go… differently. Her breasts were spectacular. Another reminder. I have to keep checking myself. I have to make sure that the right images are lined up and that I don’t forget how some have taken me to the others. How this could unfold based on what I know. The little bit that I know begins rearranging. I’m drunk enough to ignore it. It’s too ideal now.
“I can’t wait to get in your blog and have a handle and all that.”
“Hah! Yeah, I’m sure its exciting.”
“What do you think it’ll be? My handle?”
“I don’t know, if I had to say now? I’d say… Beautiful.” That was a snap decision.
“Really?"
“I guess. I mean, you are pretty beautiful.”
“That’s good. You need some more steamy girl stories.” No I don’t. “Where did you come from?” “I don’t know… somewhere.” That story is too long. “Do you want to go to sleep? It’s late.” “Okay.”

I turn off the music and we go to sleep.

I opened
my eyes
and watched
the sunshine.

I get out of bed for my water bottle. Beautiful wakes up. I bring her the water bottle. She has to use the bathroom. I lay down next to her and tell her she can put on one of my shirts to make the short walk. That too soon moment under the sheets. Sun slipping through the blinds. She’s wearing my shirt. Just my shirt and panties. She’s the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. I’ll never see her again. That’s how the pieces fit. She’s traveled so much. She’s had so many different boyfriends. She can’t settle down. I’ve heard her say elements of all those things. The picture unfolds and holds in my head. I can’t make it go away. I need to change it. She gets back. The indelible image of her in my dress shirt that could have passed for a short dress in the early morning light filtered by the blinds. A moment. One to remember. But I place it next to the one of her waking up on some strangers couch just because they were close to the bar. Innocent of anything, even anything I could or should care about, but still there. I see them side by side. This story connects to pieces of the one of her. I try to rearrange them. But in the oppressive light everything is visible. The bright morning sunlight burning through the blinds. Highlighting her eyes, making them sparkle. Burning the image into mine. Burning over all the other ones that won’t go away. That shift on their own making me unable to see the person for who she is for who she could or should be from how I connect the stories in my head. I try to shut it all down.

“Let’s just lay here a little bit longer.”
“Okay.”
“You don’t have to leave yet.”
“This cuddling thing is pretty great.”
“Yeah… it is.” I meant that. I don’t want her to leave. This is pretty great. I lay there, happy. But I can’t stop assembling the story, interspersing it with mine. The last time I felt like this was the morning after with Her. Years ago. A lifetime ago. Memories I’d like to reform with someone… different. And yet those pieces still fit. Don’t look the same as the complete cube. A face with all the things I remember fondly from Her filling the spaces of what I don’t know about Beautiful. We lay there for as long as I ever laid down with anyone… as far as the shifted thoughts that only I know were concerned. I could have laid there all day.

“I should really get going soon.”
“Do you want to get breakfast?”
“Yeah, I really would.”
“I know a place right near the subway. I could use some eggs.”
“I could use some coffee.”
“Let’s go.” “One thing about being from Jersey is that I’m all about diners. Hardcore.” “Awesome, I fucking love diners.”

We had a good breakfast. Neither of us finished. We sat for another 10 minutes after the 10 we had already wasted before getting the check. We got up to go.
“The subway is right over here. I’ll walk you to it.”
“Wait what line is it? Where exactly are we?”
“It’s the F line, this is 15th st./Prospect Park.”
“Oh! The world just spun into place and everything went where it needed to go.”
I suppose it did.
“Well I had a great time.”
“I did too. I’ll call you.”
But I called her first. I could have been happy. But when I rearranged the pieces they just looked like the ones of the rest of my life. Another face of the cube. The world didn’t spin, but I managed to shift the cube to arrange this great night as one whole event. 2 days later I called. She was busy all that week. And weekend. But if something was cancelled she’d call me. She called me handsome the next morning.
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She calls me Thursday. Her friend is performing that night. I agree to meet her on the Lower East Side. She’s already drunk from lunch. We go to the bar and have a few more drinks. She’s lovely. And so smart. Everything about her is right. I put the pieces together differently in the low light and low music of the bar. Her friend sounds like she’s been prerecorded. We talk and drink slowly. Afterwards we go back to her place. We go to bed. The loft bed reminds me of college. How hard I searched for someone. How now someone was here. And she wanted me as much as I wanted her. I can’t fuck this up. We lay naked under the sheets. She’s breathing heavily. Almost asleep. I recall the last time I felt this good. A lifetime ago. I slowly rub her shoulder and drift off to sleep. The next morning I wake up early. Slightly before the alarm goes off. She has work before I do. All we want to do is stay in bed. After we get up I can’t find my socks. Eventually they turn up. I don’t have to borrow one of hers. We walk down the road, she takes me to the subway. I tell her I’ll call her soon. I know she can’t hang out on Saturday. But we make tentative plans for Sunday.
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The next night there was an open bar for the holiday party at work. I talked about Beautiful with Monkeyfucker.

"I really like her man... this is the first time in a long time that I can go out and not have any interest in trying to find a girl."
"That's great man, it's been a while. You've definately been more relaxed this last week."
"Yeah. Now I just need to not fuck it up."
"Honestly man. For all our sakes."

Branton and I went to the party. We found out it was amazingly easy to get anyone in. I texted several of my friends. Sunboliscious couldn’t come. EBS called me back and said she was coming. I was excited. I hadn’t seen her in a long time. She’d probably even watch out for me. The bartender assaulted me with drinks. I would order and accidently get 2 drinks. I drank heavily. Then Beautiful arrived. I hadn’t expected her to come. We got whiskey sours.
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I launched out of bed at 9am. I thought I had work before I remembered it was Saturday. I sat for a minute.
“This is bad.” I thought.

I didn’t remember last night. I looked at my calls. 8 or 10 to Beautiful.

“Fuck me… fuck me.”
I read my texts. 2 from her, one apologizing to me for having to leave. 1 telling me to get to bed and take care of myself. I texted her, apologizing. I got dressed and went for a frantic walk in the park. Last night I had swore I wouldn’t fuck this up. Then of course I did. Around 12 I called EBS. She told me everything that I had done. I got really drunk, she left and I called her.

“You called her, seriously, like 15 times.”
“Yeah… What did I say?”
“Nothing too crazy. She kept picking up and you’d go ‘BEAUTIFUL!’ and not really say anything.”
“But it wasn’t too bad?”
“No, I think it’s fixable.”
“Really?”
“I think anything is fixable if you’re straightforward.”
I wasn’t so optimistic. “Thanks.”
“No problem. I have to go to this thing. I’ll talk to you when I talk to you.”
“Thanks.”

I called Beautiful, she didn’t pick up. I left a message telling her I was sorry and wanted to talk. People say “they know me better than I know myself.” This took on a new meaning in the harsh light of my room. Everything I thought I knew about myself and how I interacted with the world was ripped apart by the stupidest mistake of my life. I remembered the border. The empty pit in my stomach that was caused by a problem I got myself into, something I could have stopped at any point by not being so stupid. But I couldn’t stop that, it was done. And now this is done. I have to move on. But I can’t. I try to pretend that I’m the person under the sheets. In the flat morning light. That my image was burned into her eyes like that instead of my drunken ranting voice on the phone. I hope that I am the person who didn’t want to leave the bed, and not the person who couldn’t shut up. Monkeyfucker called around 3. I thought it might be her. He needed my computer. I needed to be around someone who I could avoid my own head with. When I arrived Monkeyfucker and Branton were hanging out in their living room. Branton lazily picked a guitar.
“So, you have to run damage control this morning?”
“Ha… yeah, I haven’t heard back. I hope she calls.”
“She probably will, I mean you didn’t say anything too stupid.”
“I just wish someone could have stopped me.”
“You wish!”
“No… that’s what I mean, I wish I had the capacity to be stopped.” My stubborn streak was a mile deep and a lifetime wide. “EBS even took my phone… she could have stopped me.” That was a lie.
“I don’t think anyone could have. You really wanted to talk to her about something.”
“I probably just wanted to talk to her… FUCK! I like this girl so much… and I just totally fucked it up.”
“It’ll be okay.”

I wanted to believe that. We played video games and I nodded off on the couch for a while. Monkeyfucker used my computer and Branton took a nap. It was a lazy afternoon. When they headed off to a party in Harlem, I didn’t go. I couldn’t. I couldn’t drink. I had to be penetent. I was sorry. I prayed for forgiveness. If I thought God existed it might have meant something, I said some gates to calm my mind. It barely worked. I watched Punch-Drunk Love and fell asleep.
The night was restless. I left my phone on. Around 2 a dog started howling and at 4 a car revved its engine for 10 minutes or so. The noise and the dark made me destructively analytical. Tearing apart huge portions of my life to see who I was. When the engine stopped and the quiet returned I was no closer. I fell back asleep. My phone never rang. The damage was done.
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