Just Once

Thirty-five years walking

On this here land

And I can’t help but think...

The jobs?

They served

Their purpose and

Paid my booze, often.

My rent,

Sometimes.

My girls,

Always.

Yes, the girls,

Let’s talk about them…

I keep a stash of could-have-beens

Deep in the chambers of my heart

And the regrets are busting

The flood gates open.

Some were fond of me,

Probably.

But none will remember me

Or miss me when I’m gone.

I’ll be an anecdote, at best.

The friends?

Well, they shake my hands

And pat my back when they want to.

But when the darkness creeps up,

I am left alone to fight off

The demons.

All I have to show

Are a handful of acquaintances.

Drinking buddies,

Gossip mongers,

Happy in-love people

Who don’t have time

For a guy

Reminding them of

The realities of life.

So, what do I have to show?

Besides a collection

Of books and films I am still

Paying for?

Besides a heart bursting at the seams

And a life going moldy at the edges?

Not much.

Things could be worse,

Don’t we all know that…

But why can’t they be better,

Just for a short while

Or at the very least:

Just once?

A Picture of Her

I came across a picture of her

with her new beau.

The pain is as sudden and unexpected

As it is ravaging.

My heart still skips a beat at her sight,

And I wish I could go back a few

Minutes ago when I was blissfully

Unaware of who she had chosen,

Unaware of how the person whose

Lips she graced with hers

Looked like.

They are gazing at each other and,

Had the photo been of

Anyone else, it would be lovely

And heart-warming.

But as it is, it brings me nothing but pain

And the feeling of loss

Truly hits home.

Finally. Irrevocably.

Who knew I’d still feel like that after eight months

Of not hearing from her?

I can’t help looking at their eyes and

Their smiles.

Two young people in love,

Happy, unaware of the world

That surrounds them.

How I want her

-Need her-

To look at me like she looks at him

Just once more.

I remember her smile and her eyes,

Mere inches away from my face,

Her head resting on my pillow.

I can’t help thinking that

He doesn’t look that much better than me.

So why him? What’s his secret?

Where did I go wrong?

Does he realize how lucky he is?

Does he know how blessed he is?

From the way he’s looking at her,

I am guessing that he does.

And that makes it all the more

Painful.

And so I force myself a cynical thought:

Soon his heart will

Be shattered like mine,

One day, perhaps, he’ll be

Looking at a picture of her

With her new beau.

That day, I’ll feel sorry for him,

And I’ll start hating the new guy.

But never as much as I hate myself

For letting her go.

Sickness

His laugh was a thunderous ‘haw haw haw,’ just like a cartoon baddie or some black-hatted villain from the westerns he used to love watching on AMC. When people first met him, they usually thought he was faking it, as some sort of strange joke that they were the butt of. But he wasn’t, he really did laugh like that and you could never really get used to it, no matter what. So, after a while, you just tried to not make him laugh, which was no easy matter, as he always had a joke up his sleeve. And his jokes were funny, so you had to laugh and what he got off on was making people laugh. So there you were, laughing, snickering, or giggling and soon the ‘haw haw haw’ would echo throughout the house. Deep down, I think he knew his laughter bothered people and what I loved about him is that he just didn’t give a damn.

When I first heard he had cancer, I couldn’t believe it. I was having my morning coffee in my un-tied bathrobe, which was getting a bit too tight at the gut; I was gazing out of the kitchen window at the neighbor’s dog taking his umpteenth dump on our lawn, when I heard my wife sobbing. I turned around and noticed her eyes were filled with tears. I didn’t know what to say, it just seemed too early for tears and drama, especially on a Saturday.

She was sitting at the table, her fingers busy twirling a napkin ring. She took a deep breath and looked at me, saying she had something to tell me, that she just couldn’t keep it all for herself. My first thought was that her friend Bonnie had cancer again, that her breast tumor was back and that this time, it was malignant. But when she started her sentence with “my dad,” it took me a second to fully understand what she was talking about.

Her dad. My father-in-law. Raymond. Ray to his friends. He had cancer. Not just any cancer, oh no, but liver cancer. Inoperable.

“Don’t they do liver transplants?” I asked my wife.

“They do, but they can’t. It’s too far ahead.”

“Didn’t Ray get check-ups every year?”

“He did, but he never talked about his liver. Even though he’d been in pain for the last few years.”

Few years? I couldn’t believe it! Why hadn’t he talked to his doctor about it? Or to us? Or to anybody, for that matter?

“Because he didn’t want anybody to worry.”

I set my cup on the counter and sat down facing her.

“Well, we’re worrying now, so why is he telling us now?”

“Because he’s...”

She couldn’t finish her sentence, but I knew what she was about to say. “Because he’s going to die.” And soon.

I felt a deep irrational anger. Anger because: how dare he die on us?! How dare he get cancer? We’d have to call the mortuary, we’d have to “shop” for a coffin, for a plot at the cemetery... How in the world to you go about doing that?

Of course, I hated myself for thinking that way, but I didn’t know how or what else to think. This was all new to me; I didn’t know how to react. In movies, they usually break down in tears, hug and realize how fickle life is and in the end, everything changes for the best. But in real life? In real life you mostly stay quiet, keep the tears in, and think back on the good times. You also want to spend as much time with the soon-to-be-departed, but at the same time, you don’t really want to see that person at all, because you want to remember him the way he used to be: healthy, funny, strong. Not frail, sickly and gray looking. Because that’s how they look: gray. As if life was slowly fading away. Of course, that’s exactly what’s happening, but who knew death was gray?

And so on that day, my wife and I spent the morning in silence, avoiding each other’s eyes and looking out the window, at the kitchen table, at the trinkets we had amassed during out fourteen years of marriage, at the curtains that needed ironing, at the carpets that needed washing, and at pretty much anything else that was inanimate. It felt trivial to feel thirsty or hungry. It felt trivial to be too cold, or too warm. Everything we took for granted was unimportant. Everything we would usually complain about felt ridiculous. Because how could we complain? Next month, we’d still be alive with our so-called worries. But Ray wouldn’t be. So, really, truly: how could we complain?

In a way, I resented Ray dying: Because I couldn’t complain to him. People love to bitch and moan about their problems but, most importantly: they love to have people feel sorry for them. How can you complain about the hole in your new shirt to a cancer patient? And if you can’t complain about your life, what is there left to talk about? Well, you have to listen to the cancer patient complain about his life and the rotten luck he’s having and you just have to care and you hate that. Because cancer tops it all. It’s the ultimate complaint, the ultimate answer to everything: “Oh yeah? Well, I got cancer.” Nothing to say to that.

At eleven, my wife and I got dressed. We were going to pay Ray a visit. Of course, I knew that we’d be wearing fake smiles and that we’d talk about everything except his disease and his dying, and we’d pretend to be cheery and it would all seem so fake; but we’d all pretend it wasn’t. He’d even crack a joke or two and his laughter would sound weak and frail and I’d realize that I was going to miss this laugh that I used to dislike so much. I also knew that as soon as we’d be back in the car, my wife would start sobbing and I’d have to hug her and pat her on the back and tell her that things would be okay and she would say “no, that’s the point, nothing’s gonna be okay!” And so I’d have to stay quiet and hold her until the sobs subsided and I’d be able to put the key in the ignition and drive back to our house, where we’d probably have a drink and she’d cry some more and tell me she didn’t feel like cooking dinner tonight and I’d play the understanding and caring husband, telling her she shouldn’t even worry about that, that we could order something in, and so I’d pay thirty bucks for lukewarm Chinese food that she wouldn’t even eat and I’d tell her she just had to eat something and she’d tell me she wasn’t hungry, that she just wanted to go to sleep and so she would go upstairs while I ate the by-now-cold spring rolls, and I’d watch some TV before cleaning up and joining my wife in bed. She’d be wide awake, of course, crying and staring at the wall, curled up into a ball, and I’d hug her some more and tell her things I didn’t really mean, such as “everything will be okay.” This time she wouldn’t contradict me, because she’d want to believe it.

            We would then finally fall asleep only to wake up the next morning, more tired than when we’d gone to bed, and we’d realize we hadn’t dreamed it all, that we were still surrounded by reality and impending death. Worst of all, I’d have to keep pretending I was the strong type and comfort her, making sure I didn’t cry in front of her. One day, maybe she would be thankful for all of this, but it would be too late because by then I’d hate her for having forced me into becoming the strong type, because I never was the strong type and always hated hiding my feelings. After all, Ray was like the father I’d never had. But by then, I’d have become so good at masking my emotions that I’d also be able to hide my resentment of her. She’d eventually realize my feelings had changed, but she’d still pretend she loved me because of how good I had been when her father had passed away, and so we would keep living this lie until one of us died.

We got in the car and drove to see Ray, me already dreading everything that was bound to happen, but nonetheless ready to start acting the great tragedy that would become our life.

Shame

Shame… Fuck… What’s shame? I mean I know what shame is, I know you know what it is and if you can’t put it into words, you’re gonna run for the nearest Webster’s. But let’s be deep, man, let’s go all out. Let’s  talk about shame and what it really is. For me? I don’t know, there are so many levels of shame, you know? I mean, it can be shame from yourself, you know: you’re staring at your goldfish and your mind starts to wander, it wanders, you wonder, you can’t help it: what would it feel like to get a blow job from a big gold fish? You know? That perfect ‘O’ mouth, no teeth… we’ve all thought about it. Then our brain goes ‘wait, whaaaat?’ and you look down in shame, because you’re one sick motherfucker, you know.

Or, I don’t know, your brother catches you jerking off your dog. Your brother’s a bit disturbed, I mean therapy is a given at this point. Lying down on the couch, gripping tissues, asking ‘Why? Why?’ all the time. The dog was happy, if a bit confused. But generally happy. Then again it kind of always was sporting a big goofy grin. But, no: I’m sure he was happy. And possibly frustrated. Because, well, when you brother walked in on your little canine debauchery, you stopped. So that’s one frustrated retriever, you know? And the shame? The shame you felt as you made eye contact with your brother? That shit ran deep. You were deeply ashamed, because you’re one twisted twat.

But you get over that, you say it’s youth’s folly and you move on, somehow. The shame I’m talking about here is the kind that sticks with you like body odor on Easter Sunday. You know: the sun’s blazing, you’re wearing a suit, you ran out of deodorant the day before and you were too busy twiddling your woman’s vag to go out and get some more. So now you feel sweat pooling into your shoes and a fucking creek is forming between your shoulder blades and a lake is forming in your ass crack. And you smell, man, you smell worse than a pile of corpse. Anyway, what was I saying? Yes… The shame that sticks with you…

For example, you start working somewhere new and there’s this girl just sitting there. And your heart skips a beat, you know? She’s just so… So incredible. You know? Then she looks up and smiles at you and you think you might pass out, you have to remind yourself to breathe. It might be love at first sight, I don’t know, or maybe it’s just asthma or all those years of pepperoni pizzas finally catching up with you and this is it: your heart attack is upon you. But no, you’re alive, you feel a bit dizzy and you smile back and you don’t know what to say, so you don’t say anything. You grin like a retriever. And this goes on and on. You get nervous around her, you can’t talk to her, but you want to, but you don’t know what to say, so you don’t because you can’t. But you should, you know you should. But you just don’t. Idiot. So, one day she casually mentions that she hates coffee.

Now… Coffee’s your life. I mean you live for coffee. If they made coffee suppositories, you’d shove them in your ass five at a time, that’s how much you love coffee. If you had to wake up and your coffee machine was broken, you’d just run into the bathroom and slash open your wrists, because without coffee: what’s the point, you know? You love coffee so much that you sometimes think  about chewing on used coffee filters and you think that if you commercialized a candy called ‘Used Filter,’ you’d be a millionaire. And if you went bust, you wouldn’t give a shit anyway because then you’d have a gazillion of those candies just for you. So, yeah: you love coffee. More than sex, more than shitting, more than your PS3. If anybody told you: ‘Yeah, I’m not a big fan of coffee,’ you’d go nuts. They’re not saying they don’t like it, just that they don’t love it. If anyone told you this, you’d grab the nearest blunt object and bash their brains in, because fuck them really. ’You don’t like coffee? Oh, no? How do you like having your brain leak down your forehead, you stupid cunt?!’

So, okay: you feel strongly about coffee. And this girl that makes you dizzy tells somebody else she hates coffee. So you vouch right then and there that you’ll stop drinking coffee. And you do. And she doesn’t know it, and even if she did how would she understand how much you love coffee anyway? But that’s okay, you did it for her. Because, well… She’s worth it. So worth it that you still don’t talk to her.

But one day… Yeah, we’re getting to the shame part, hold your horses… One day you’re home and you’re a bit drunk because you finally opened that bottle of vodka somebody gave you for your last birthday and you’re listening to sad-shit music. Not gay music, just sad. You know the kind. I’m not talking Lilith Fair, here. I’m not talking about Sondheim or whatever. But good sad music. Tindersticks, maybe, or even Antony and the Johnsons. Yeah, so they’re gay, that’s not the point. The point is: you’re drunk, listening to music. And alone. And your mind drifts to Her, that creature who probably doesn’t even know your name. But you got her email because some asshole co-worker likes to forward shit to everyone. The fuck sent you a video of a cat rollerblading or something like that and, at first, you’d decided that, okay: tomorrow I’m bringing a shotgun to work and this asshole is going down. But then in the ‘To:’ line in that email, you noticed Her name. Her email. This sent an electric charge in your brain and your feet felt tingly for a second. It was like finding the Holy Grail. You didn’t know why, you didn’t know what you’d do with it. But it felt important to have it. And to see her name on your screen. So, you had her email. Thanks to the forwarding douche. God bless this fucking douche.

So, you’re home and, hey: you’re so drunk it feels like a good idea to email her. So you do. Deep down, whatever’s left of your reason is on its knees begging you to reconsider. I mean at this point your reason is John Turturro in the woods in ‘Miller’s Crossing.’ But you’re Gabriel Byrne, you go ‘fuck it!’ and you start typing. And you pour your heart out. Not too dramatically, but honestly, if a bit drunkenly. But not so drunkenly that you forget to read it a few times, correcting the grammar and punctuation and what have you. And before your reason turns itself into the shark from ‘Jaws’ and snaps at you, you click ‘Send.’ Then you light up a smoke, fart, and pour yourself another drink.

In the morning, hey: guess what?! Shame. Not shame because you got drunk and wrote her, no. You did what you had to do. But shame for feeling this way about a girl who doesn’t know who the fuck you are. Shame for feeling like a teenager. Shame for acting like a pimply prick. I mean, okay, you think about her all the time. You don’t even think dirty filthy thoughts, but nice ones: looking at her, listening to her, having dinner with her, making her laugh. You can’t imagine sleeping with her, because you know she would never do that with you. And you know you could never have such a girl. But being her friend, maybe make her fall in love with you, maybe. Why not? Stranger things have happened. And one day, maybe, she’ll take your hand in hers and then you’ll know you could die happy. You can’t even imagine kissing her, because if you do, you might pass out.

That’s shame, buddy. You’re a thirty-something guy fantasizing about a younger girl. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like she’s 12, no: it’s not that kind of shame. I mean, she’s not that much younger. But she is younger. And beautiful, with that smile of hers, and those eyes and the long flowing hair, and… Yeah, anyway. Whatever. You feel shame for not talking to her, shame for feeling that way about her. Shame for being a coward. Shame for being a fool.

And then, you know what? She never replies to your email. Is it because she didn’t read it? Is it because she doesn’t know who you are? Is it because you didn’t actually send it? Is it because you freaked her out? You’ll never know. Because you stop going to work, you never see her again. Instead you sit in dark bars, get drunk and talk about her to people you barely know.

One day, three months after that email, you actually write her another email, apologizing for having written to her. And when you click ‘Send,’ the shame you feel is so overwhelming you look at your heater and imagine yourself strapping a belt around the hot pipe, putting your head in that leathery noose, emptying the vodka while taking a few dozen sleeping pills and going to sleep, strangled by Morpheus.

No, not ‘The Matrix’ guy.

Fuck you, man, you asked me about shame, so I’m telling you. What? You didn’t ask me? Well, fuck you anyway. Buy me another drink and I’ll tell you about sorrow.