______ _ _ ______ _____ ______ /\___/\ / __ \ | `. | | / __ \ | __ \ / __ \ /\___/\ ) ( | |__| | | `. | | |__| | | | \ | | |__| | ) ( =\ /= | __ | | |`. | | __ | | | | | | __ | =\ /= ) ( | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ) ( / \ www.|_| |_| | | | | |_| |_| | | | | |_| |_|.net / \ ) ( ______ | | | | ______ | |__/ | ______ ) ( / \ |______| |_| |_| |______| |_____/ |______| / \ \ / e z i n e \ / \__ __/ __________________________________________________________ \__ __/ )) (( // "THE BATTLE" \\ (( 30/08/02 anada521 )) \) (/ Much like an old bicycle safety Officer Friendly video once asked, "ARE YOU DEAD ARE YOU DEAD?" Not me specifically. Everyone knows I live. But what about Anada? Does it live? Or has it finally bitten the dust? There's a straightforward way of doing things in life. A regular way, a predictable way, a set way which has supposed set results. People, I've lived that way. Most of us, in some capacity, live that way. I certainly do, with my whitebread job and whitebread manners and whitebread expectations of others to do the same. But I've come to the conclusion that there is a time and a place for routine. My fun, my spare time, and my artistic nature is absolutely *not* the place for routine. Don't like it? Bring it on, motherfuckers. I'll battle you all. Or better yet, run your own 'zine. You'll LOVE the people that are just like you. Guaranteed. --Gloomchen >(o.o)< `,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`, >(o.o)< TABLE OF CONTENTS "The Battle For Darvin Greenfoot" by E.J. ...........................line 48 "Drama Queen" by HapyHzrd...........................................line 755 "Day By Day" by Unrelated...........................................line 780 >(o.o)< `,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`, >(o.o)< "The Battle For Darvin Greenfoot" by E.J. The mass of college-educated people in this country is staggering. As a college student trying to study in the almost eternal winter of a small New England college, it is hard to think of the sheer population of college students studying something or other in America. From my apartment overlooking the bends and snowy fields of the campus, I can detect a copper molded statue standing isolated in the center of campus, with snow packed lightly on his shoulders and his head, like bird's droppings. He is upright, and his back is to me and my window, watching without judgment the students rushing to or away from classes in the bitter cold. It seems that the summers of my past take on a life of their own in my mind against this isolated landscape. When my mind decides to conjure up those memories, songs play in my head but are not welcome. They linger there, until my nerves tingle in agitation. The summer story I'm going to relate comes from one of those little songs that was once soothing, but now cures any relaxing moments in my mind. After I finish up going to my morning classes, I usually nap for a few hours before Naomi wakes me up. Earlier this week, she had taken a trip to New York, then to Burlington, VT, before coming back home. So she woke me up when she arrived and hurriedly slammed the front door to my apartment, and I was at that level of consciousness that makes you incomprehensible for the first fifteen minutes of conversation. She sympathized as I wiped the nod out of my eyes, but pressed me about what I did over the weekend. I gave her the same rigmarole I always do when I try to hide the truth, but at the same time I tried with frustration to remember the dream I had before she woke me. Thing is, nothing happened this weekend, and I wondered if telling her this would make any difference. Despite how I was brought out of the dream state by Naomi, I do remember certain aspects of the dream. A few distinct memories, at least. The first was in memory of the summer fade out, with everyone closing down shops and waving nice sweet goodbyes to one another from the square of the seacoast town I worked at last summer. Next to a white picketed fence in the town was a large apartment complex where some crazy old ladies lived. There was one old woman in that complex that none of the other old ladies could stand, because every time she had tried to hug one of the residents, she broke their ribs. She was the nicest lady, though. There was an elevator to take residents and visitors up to the different flats, which moved at about a 45 angle parallel to the ground. I met up with Darvin Greenfoot there, a youngish (I'd guess his age to be 21) Native American man with good intentions if only slightly drug addled most of the time. Greenfoot is the kind of guy whose good intentions only arise because he needs something to do. In any case, we took the elevator up to the rib- breaking woman's flat, and Darvin consoled her. She seemed to appreciate that, and tears flooded her eyes. Although it seemed that she desperately wanted to hug Darvin, regardless of the outcome, she restrained herself. It was my impression that few people ever consoled the rib-breaking woman for her rib-breaking ways, but some do, and I think that that's for the best. I mean, even nice old ladies with the best of intentions shouldn't have to cry all of the time. There was another part of the dream that had no connection with the rest of it. But this was the part that Naomi woke me up during, so I remember it the best. Although I have never studied dream psychology, I am aware, like pretty much everyone I suppose, of the Freudian take on dreams: that they are sexual wish fulfillment. Whether that's true of all dreams or not, I suspect that this dream was direct sexual wish fulfillment. It had something to do with an ex-girlfriend of mine named Mary. The weirdness of dreaming about your ex-girlfriend in a sexual way is something that cannot be described. She was sitting on a couch in a living room somewhere in dreamland, and I was sitting directly behind her on some medieval apparatus, kind of like a stirrup with slings. The traditional conversion of feelings to visual dream images didn?t occur past this point, however. I just remember feeling sexually frustrated from the dream. And her current boyfriend, Bob, attacking both of us. Not with weapons or anything, just with words. He is hurt that I am experiencing whatever I'm experiencing with Mary, and I feel ashamed. "do you still like her?" "..." "...i...know you still like her..." I think Bob just left us in stunned surprise. His plain, triumphant look, as if he knew about us, just as I had always imagined that he did. Mary also was surprised, displaying a mute-like sense of guilt. Most people seem to follow Darvin's battle along these lines: Darvin seems to be fighting a 24-hour a day battle against ennui. Usually it seems that the ennui wins most of the time. But Darvin will be high as a kite for about five minutes, asking total strangers off the street their names and phone numbers. He will earnestly explain to anyone willing to listen to him that their astrological sign at birth greatly influences their daily lives, and that they must do something, anything, special for a particular significant someone on some particular day. I don't think that Darvin had the faintest clue about how astrology worked, or even cared. He battled fiercely and without thought. But after five minutes, you'd see him huddled off alone in a corner somewhere, his face a perpetual mask of sleeplessness and nod. He would sit and wait patiently for the next big thing. Conflict is still the story telling medium of choice, and though I believe that love can still be a tremendous source of conflict in any story, it is not my choice. The conflict is a war, or at least a single solitary battle, fought by one man. Darvin thought that it was a battle, and that the battle was being fought in the fetid sluggishness of one's own ennui, isolated from the rest of the mind. It was typical of Darvin that the girl he was seeing over the summer, Shelly, was about 15 or 16 or so, and that the place that Darvin and I worked together was a seacoast carnival with no amusements. When he was bored, Darvin would roll a blunt mixed with tobacco and smoke it during work, and he assumed that the management wouldn't mind as long as the customers didn't. Every indication given to us seemed to indicate that they didn't, or that they simply didn't know what we were doing. Darvin and I were alike in our quest to relieve boredom, both on the job and off. The difference lies in the stream of communication between us. I express all of my problems with daily life, and all of my problems were consistently expressed to Darvin, for his ears only, who might've or might not have been sympathetic to them, but who listened to them regardless. I think it depended on his battle guard: sometimes he would quietly nod his head with a dazed expression as if he were lost in space, other times he would eloquently propose examples and solutions to tackle the problem. Then he'd ask me to smoke a joint with him. What a guy. Although I occasionally think of Darvin in the winter, the person who probably occupies most of my thoughts when I think of the summer is Belle. She was the one who sang to me softly. I'll bring up one example of her behavior, which happened about a year ago, before things got hot. We're coming back to our apartment building from class, walking and talking rapidly because of the February cold. We were slipping all over the ice and bumping into each other and into other people around us at the same time, like a dodge 'em. At some point, we stop talking to each other, because talking about classes gets old quick and by that point we didn't really have anything to say to each other. So she started to sing in a quiet, almost angelic voice. I strained to hear her over the cafeteria commotion of the students talking in the commons as I skated over the ice, and she continued to sing, as if in deliberate concentration. Everything about Belle, except for her height, is soft. It is in her hair, her face, her eyes, and her lips. Her height is in direct contrast to her appearance: she is a beanpole. She is even taller than me, and I am considered tall for my sex. Her long arms and legs give her an almost orangutan-like gait. She is very thin and frail, which even further distorts her appearance. She moves her limbs around like a puppet on strings. Despite her unusualness, there is nothing ugly about her. She is quite beautiful in the way she employs her charm with its supple oddities. Her smile is sweet in the winter, and sheer honey in the summer. Her legs, although lanky, possess an exquisite feminine shape that goes very well with the short skirts that she uses to exhibit them. Her breasts are economical, but pert. She is an affectionate drunk, and a smoker, and seems to enjoy the dull contentment that being both drunk and stoned at the same time can give you. Belle, like me, is going through one of those things called a relationship at this point in her life. This may be a source of grievance to her. I do not know anymore. I do know that it is a source of grievance to me. Darvin knows this well, but I'm afraid that he has responded to this problem not with his simple elegance, like he did for the old rib-breaking woman, but with his characteristic nod and single syllables of sympathy. Being in a relationship has very little to do with being into a relationship, as far as I can tell. Darvin, ever the Casanova, agreed with me. My friend Had Lewis (actually pronounced 'had') did too, although it was for different reasons. Had has been in a bad relationship for a little over five and a half years now. He told me that he and his girlfriend break up every four to five months, with no end for it in sight. Neither Had nor his girlfriend Joanna has even formed an outside relationship in that time. "The biggest problem with bad relationships," explained Had, "is the simple fact that the nit picking and pressure put upon you by a neglected woman is constant. This is different from the pressure put upon you by, say, a job. The pressure miraculously disappears when you leave the office; it patiently awaits your return the next morning. A neglected woman is always there to cause you pain -- if you are at work, she will call you. If you do not have your lunch break with her, she will suspect you of cheating. There is no escape." As willing as Had Lewis was to dispense advice, he was not nearly as enjoyable to hang out with as Darvin was. Even when Darvin did tread on your toes, he did so with a guilty conscience. His perpetually earnest expression had been labeled "rat-like" by some people, but those were people with whom Darvin had no interest in hanging out with anyway. His body was equally "rat-like" in the lithe, unseen gestures he made randomly and without pretense. I say these things myself without any guilty conscious underpinning because of a little romantic issue that developed right under my nose. Ava, a pretty young girl with dark hair, dark skin, and coy eyes, was a fellow employee last summer at a disgusting pizza place downtown. I was the "fry-guy," in charge of the frylator, which scalded me periodically with boiling black grease whenever I dropped a basket into it. It did not take me long to develop second degree burns on my palms and the side of my fingers, which, combined with the cuts and scrapes from cutting potatoes en mass into crinkle cut fries, made my hands look almost corpse-like. Ava was a promising local girl with promising breasts, and I had hoped she would a quick romantic conquest of mine. I had been seeing her for about a week, and she was slowly opening up to me on her own accord, but then Darvin decided to fuck her. Darvin claims he had no idea that she was seeing me. To him, it was an easy chance to get some quick pussy. Ava confessed, and later, when pressed, admitted whom the conquistador was. I dismissed her abruptly and quit my job at the pizza place to avoid seeing her again. To truth be damned! I do not flaw Darvin with taking the advantage, even if he did know that Ava was seeing me at the time. My summer romance would come later on. The thing that puzzles me most was the fact that what took Darvin one night to do I wasn't even on firm enough grounds to attempt one week into the relationship. He can size woman up, wrap them around his little finger, and with his simple eloquence understand them in ways that he can quickly manipulate to his own satisfaction. When I naively asked him about his "secret," he explained that it was "just something to do to pass the time." Time to Darvin is a useless thing, something to be consumed quickly and without regrets. Darvin emphasizes the ability to live each summer with quality, which is something I think I try to share in his enthusiasm with. Each summer seems to come and go with its share of disappointments and successes, but regret seems practically impossible, as if the summers we live for are nothing but a dream. Naomi and I were fond of sitting out on the deck of my apartment overlooking a set of railroad tracks at night and drinking under the stars. The sea breeze would blow past us, and long legged dark girls would walk along the railroad tracks from the bars to the seaside hotels that populate the city. I would watch them with the same simple enthusiasm that they seemed to share for each other as they giggled and sang to the music blanketing the city from the bars. Naomi always seemed fond of asking me if I was staring at them with some prurient interest, but I have never been able to come up with the correct and suitable answer to this question. A yes answer confirms guilt and also an implicit lack of interest in the current relationship. A no answer confirms the fact that you are a dirty and pathetic liar, with no "feelings" for your other. Questions like these seem to be used to "put one in his place." The deck to my apartment was equipped with a full bar, and I used it to host parties for my co-workers, college buddies, and various other strays from around town. Darvin was a frequent visitor, and we would go to the beach to smoke a few bowls after a party and watch the darkness from the ocean crash onto the sands. It was easy to imagine when stoned that the color of the sea at 3:00 a.m. was the result of an oil barge miles offshore being punctured and spilling its black contents into the ocean. We discussed this image with its implication frequently that summer. Some of the more wasted women we invited to join us in our adventures, which soon resembled the parties we threw at my apartment in population. It was presumably on that side of the beach that Darvin got to "know" Shelly. Shelly, with dyed blond permanent curls, bleached skin, and an alarmingly high-pitched voice. We referred to her as "Lolita Shelly" to Darvin behind her back, which didn?t seem to bother him the slightest bit. Her face was always overdone with makeup and badly smudged, probably from her frequent public displays of affection with Darvin, and she wore leather jackets with stainless steel buckles and sashes protruding from it like quills. Had and I in particular complained to Darvin about hanging around with Shelly, although I think everyone did to some extent. He would have none of it. "She's a woman, really," he said to us once as we all laughed at him, "she's nice, cleans my apartment, and she smokes weed. What more do you want?" "How about you getting a fucking clue?" asked Had. To that, Darvin looked at each of us in turn, smiled, and just nodded off somewhere else; looking for something else to do. Belle was a frequent visitor to the beach. She would sit out in the sun too long and get burned. It did not seem to matter what SPF level she used on her cream coloured skin. She'd come to visit me at work with a blushy red all over her exposed body after sunbathing on the beach, almost ludicrously matching her hair. This did not seem to bother her too much. She'd stroll over by herself or with her boyfriend Ben. Discussion topics were almost always casual, but I could see something in her eyes and her frequent reappearances that betrayed casualness. I took this as a sign of trust between us, even with Ben there on certain occasions. I had another dream about Mary the other night. In the dream there was another non-descript communal home where Mary and I lived. There was no omnipresent Bob there this time, but there was the same feeling of excitement at being caught in some respect by the other residents. Most of the dream I don't remember, except that Mary and I did not say much to each other. But at one point I pulled her towards me, and she didn't seem to mind. I brought her into my room and kissed her as her laid on my bed. I told her how important she was to me, and that it would be "great" if we met like this more often. She was reserved about it. The opening of an affair is hard to believe in. It requires a great deal of coaxing on the part of one of the participants to initiate it. However, it never was much of a problem between Belle and I, probably because we at least initially had similar expectations. Now that I think of it, I sometimes wonder if it is even possible anymore for an affair to be initiated on a single kiss. It seems that the mismatches have it all over the matches now. The lover of the perfect match is somewhat at a disadvantage over the quick fling. The betrayal of these quick flings when one has found what is believed to be a match is hard to take, I believe. I do not know how Naomi managed in those summer days. Perhaps with frigidity. About two weeks after Darvin met Shelly, I asked Belle to lunch with me at a cheapo Chinese restaurant on Grand Avenue, about half a block away from where I work, and she accepted. She met me just as I was punching out for lunch break with a light yellow sundress on; her slightly sun burnt forehead was glistening with sweat, so that strands of her bangs clung to it. She seemed out of breath. As we walked to the restaurant she smiled and put her arm around me, and I did the same, more out of convention than anything else. After finding a table and sitting down, she went into her week at the bank. She was clerking for some bank in town over the summer, and she never hesitated to say how envious she was of that I could work outside all summer, while she was required to stay indoors and dispense money to tourists all day. I sympathized with her. I didn't fail to mention to her, however, that as an intern she was actually gaining some job experience in her field, whereas I was just wasting my time and the summer, so far as actually planning my career after college went. She looked distracted, a delicate long finger revolved patiently around her drink, and didn't say anything. But the entire time, I noticed that she was constantly glancing at me and looking away through the corner of my eyes. I questioned if it was possible to seduce someone without saying a word. The town is littered with cheap restaurants and bars. I think this produces the cheap environment that frequents it. Bikers mostly, looking ugly and white. The male bikers give an air as if they are tough and mean, but I don't think that I believe it. Their bare white arms protruding from their denim vests seemed weak and unused. They are like old man arms. I presume that they are not the bikers of legend, the Hell's Angels type, but merely weekend warriors, trailer-park trash, looking to insult one and all. They would come back from the bars into the carnival, and seemed drawn almost irresistibly to Shelly. Four or five of them would gang up to hit on her over at her booth. She was kind to them until they became insulting, and then she'd ask them to leave the park. Sometimes, if they were drunk enough, they wouldn't leave her alone. One of the other co-workers would come by to break it up. We were constantly reminded we were a brotherhood by some of the old hands when it came to a problem with customers in the park. If any problems ensued, it was assumed that everyone working for the park would team up on the customers and violently kick them out. I never saw this happen during any of the summers there, but it was nice to know that it would if the need arose. Darvin was usually the one who looked after Shelly. She seemed particularly vulnerable for those types of events. I think that most of us could take care of an asshole, but Shelly had a hard time, perhaps because she was younger than most of us and too sensitive. That sensitivity marks you even more easily, though, if you're someone trying to present yourself as older. And especially if it is fear that makes you present yourself that way. One of the more annoying customers that came by to harass us was the broken-nosed man, as we called him. He was pretty typical in appearance, for a small New England coastal town: about mid fifties with receding orange hair, a curling goatee and mustache, and giant sunspots flawed his wrinkled skin like a burn victim. His sideburns were muttonchops, and extended to his jaw line. He always wore a sweaty tank top over his exceptionally flaccid beer gut, matched to pastel spandex pants. He was particularly well known in the park for riding his bike everywhere when in the park, which was a serious source of annoyance to the workers. To add insult, he would heckle us constantly while riding his bike. His interest seemed prurient, especially to Shelly, and he was particularly rude to her, of course. Her primped up appearance would always incite some comment from the broken-nosed man. "Hey baby! Where can I get some action? Is your pimp around? I understand you're the best on the street!" "Fuck off!" Shelly would reply if she'd reply at all. He generally rode off so fast, cutting off the customers walking through the park, that she'd rarely get a word in. The only unusual feature, besides the spots, that I can remember was, of course, his broken, beaten nose, which had made him jagged and deformed. It made him look like he was always snarling. Belle was sitting across from me, her legs crossed, and her eyes intent on me, waiting for me to say something. She had one of her elbows propped up on the table, and her chin resting on the palm of her hand. I asked her if she was looking forward to going back to school soon, and she sighed with a breath, and stated that it was much too soon for her. The summer was ending. She uncrossed her legs, tilting such that one of the straps to her dress slipped and exposed her bare shoulder, and re-crossed them. We again engaged in small talk, and had a second round of drinks. Lunch arrived shortly thereafter. I remember glancing at my watch at this point, saw that I had already gone 15 minutes past the time allotted for lunch, and not caring. At some point during lunch, I almost unconsciously reached my hand out about halfway across the table. As she was talking, she mimicked the action, and lightly brushed her hand against mine. I was immediately conscious of Ben, but did not feel guilty because of him. I smiled as I took her hand, and she gave it a gentle squeeze. I paid for lunch, gave her a kiss on the cheek, and walked out feeling as elated as I have ever felt in this life. We had made arrangements to go out to dinner the following night. Not one word was mentioned of Ben; he had become less competition and more like a decrepit shadow to me. I got a strange sensation in my mind and body, as if it was actually inappropriate to talk or even think about current or past lovers at this stage. I went back to work, punched in 45 minutes late, and worked the rest of the day in agony and impatience, awaiting some time in the future where feelings could be shared again in private. It is not easy to explain away what happened between Belle and myself. I look at it now, through a snow-covered sphere of disenchantment and envy. It is very easy to say that it was just one of those summer love stories. And that might be true. But I have known Belle for a long time now, always in my way a friend when she needed a friend. I never complained about her expectations; I was patient and understanding. I guess that it wouldn't surprise you if I said that I had felt attracted to her well before that summer day when everything fell in place. Moments work well like that. The only other reason I have come up to explain why she wanted to have an affair with me is an occasion she had to watch me fight. I was only an average boxer, and I lost most of my matches, although rarely by a knock out. I tried very hard to protect my face, for it is still fair, and I only fought in the summer, when classes are out of session. I enjoyed it simply for the sheer adrenaline rush. It is a high I cannot compare with anything on this earth, to be able to attack and protect yourself with your fists. Despite my compulsive energy when engaged in the sport, I have never won by a straight knockout. All of the fights I have won have been technical, or won by points. For this reason, my fights were usually long and exhausting to both me and my opponents. That summer, I didn't dominate any of my opponents, and I was ranked last in my weight class. I was only strong enough to block and move, and my natural ability limited me in landing a good punch at an appropriate time. The night that Belle came, I was slated to fight Jesse McNally. A completely ignorant blockhead, with his fish eyes and shaved head, he is what many would consider a true boxing stereotype. He was seeded only slightly higher than I was that summer, and I realized as I climbed into the ring that I could dominate him. The match was long and true to my style, but I did manage to get him down once that night. I was ecstatic, knocking down a superior fighter, and as I glanced around at the audience I started shaking from laughter. I couldn't help it. I was the underdog, and it felt so good to put someone like McNally down. As I was looking at the audience I caught the eye of Belle. I hadn't known that she was coming, and I did not invite her, but I realized that if there was anything to love about me, she saw it as she watched me in the ring. The rest of the match proved that Jesse was indeed the superior fighter. I was never knocked down, but he picked up on my fairly repetitious pattern and countered it sufficiently enough that I ended up losing the match on points. I didn't win one match that summer, but when I walked away from it for the last time, I was at least confident in the knowledge that boxing was only a hobby, and that college would be my ticket out. I still cannot get over how beautiful she was that night. Beauty is a physical quality, but I believe it also a circumstantial quality. The circumstances were right for her to acquire my affections, although I cannot say with any honesty how she felt about me that night. I have never asked her. But for me it was perfect: her catching me in a moment of sheer joy. Moments are like that. As usual, both Had and Darvin had differing opinions on conducting affairs. But surprisingly, they basically agreed that affairs were a good thing if done discreetly. Had was really keyed on that whole discreet thing, but even Darvin agreed that affairs shouldn't be flaunted around if you were cheating on a girl that you even remotely cared about. In this case, as in most others, I turned to Darvin for support. Had had never, as far as I know, even flirted with a girl while with Joanna, and for that reason, I basically put him out of the loop. I believed at the time that Had concurred with Darvin for envious reasons, and I regarded him as a coward in that light. I took Darvin aside the night I had taken Belle to lunch and asked, almost rhetorically, if he would ever cheat on Shelly. He said no, and this also surprised me. Darvin was the type who only seemed to be concerned about things when they didn't involve him. Since he was involved with Shelly at the time, I didn't consider that her feelings about being cheated on were of any import to Darvin. It further confounded me because I did not understand the attraction between Darvin and Shelly. Darvin's smile indicated that the case was closed. He probably did not understand the attraction himself, but in any event, the discussion about him and Shelly was over. I switched the topic to my dilemma over Belle. He replied by questioning my about my feelings for Naomi. I am still uncomfortable talking about Naomi. The only thing I offer good friends when discussing Naomi is that she is good leverage. She knows me well and she has decided that I am a keeper. That is confidence. Confidence that I seriously doubt any other woman could give me, and so far that has rang true, even with Belle. Darvin responded by reprimanding me. He told me that this was not a good enough reason for a relationship, and that I should break off with Naomi if I wanted to pursue a relationship with Belle. Well, Darvin had shocked me again. He smiled again, as if he was providing me with a service, and I blew up at him. I told him to fuck off. I would do whatever I pleased. Darvin seemed confused at this point, so I clarified. "You don't know what the fuck you want," I yelled, barely able to contain myself, "what the hell gives you the right to me give advice about my own relationship?" "You came to me?" I paused for only a second. "Look, Belle is very important to me. She's not just some cheap whore!" "But, from what I heard, Naomi is pretty important to you too." "I don't give a fuck about Naomi!" I hissed. "Well there you go, then," Darvin smiled. He had the most devilish smile sometimes, and this time it was trained on me. I steamed. "Should be a pretty clear cut choice, then, huh?" Darvin added. I walked off. I could see crystal clear why some people got so upset with Darvin. I knew he said what he said because he felt he was acting as a friend. But Darvin, the conscientious friend? What the fuck! My anger grew, and I felt like having a child-like old-fashioned temper tantrum right there on the street. I had no outlet. The consequences were there, and I had to abide by them. The only absolution I would get would be from myself. And I suddenly felt very trapped and alone. I kicked over a trashcan as I walked back to my apartment, and back to Naomi. When I got back to the apartment, I went to the kitchen and got a beer. I checked my e-mail, and got a message from Belle, saying that she wanted to go with me to "a secret place" after dinner tomorrow night. I wrote back and said it sounded like fun. I then shut off the computer and walked into my bedroom, where Naomi was sleeping. It was dark, so I could only see the outline of her shape underneath the sheet. I changed into another set of boxers and got into bed. As soon as I got in, she turned over in her sleep, so that she was on her side facing me. In sleep, she had a very peaceful, trusting face, but I wondered how much she trusted me while awake. I knew that she suffered pangs of jealousy when she caught me even looking at another woman, but did she trust me enough to believe that I wouldn't make love to another woman? I remember thinking that it didn't matter much. The peace on her face was a false presumption; it came from ignorance of who I was. I must've looked at that face for an hour, especially at her unfurled eyebrows, before I managed to fall asleep. The next day at work Belle came to see me. She came without Ben, and clasped my hands happily when she greeted me. Before she could give me a kiss on the cheek, I pressed her about where it was that she would be taking me tonight after dinner. She said "just some place -- you'll like it..." and no more. She had bought me a pair of cheapo sunglasses, because "it's too bright out -- you need a good pair, now." I took them out and put them on for her. She told me she had to go to work, but that she was "really looking forward to tonight." I nodded absently before she turned and left. I picked Belle up at seven that night. We went to dinner at a seafood place close by the beach, and, for my own amusement, I kept pestering her about where she was going to take me. She said it was a surprise. We ordered a few drinks afterward at the bar; she seemed a little apprehensive at dinner. After a few, she beamed at me and said that she was ready to go. We stopped off at the convenience store for a 12-pack, and she gave me directions to the jetty, a pig pile of rocks extending for a mile or so offshore. I was already well aquatinted with the jetty. I had taken Naomi there a couple of summers ago, and made love to her in her car during a storm shower. I had the crazy idea to walk to the end of the jetty, but the rain made the rocks slick, and the high tide combined with the storm submerged at least a third of the rocks on the other end. We only covered about 150 yards, before turning around and going back to the car. It was night and not raining when Belle and I went to the jetty. Nobody was there. We got out of the car, and she pulled a blanket out from the trunk so that we could lie down on one of the flatter rocks and watch the stars. I brought out the 12-pack from the backseat, and we walked onto the jetty. Judging from the graffiti on many of the rocks, the jetty brought many visitors with the same intentions as Belle and me. On a large rock read: "Joe and Jen and a night under the stars -- 6/9/89." Above the message were a bunch of dots with lines drawn around them -- apparently an interpretation of stars "twinkling." Other messages were equally enigmatic, if not quite as romantic as Joe and Jen. "Drinkin' Beast light -- 40 oz to freedom," read one; another said, "Julie sucked my cock here -- 4/7/85." I was actually somewhat amazed that a sentiment like that had actually graced that rock for more that ten years without being nixed. "Jenny was here," read another, no date this time. I wondered if "Jenny" was the same Jen who had spent a night under the stars with Joe, or someone else entirely. We finished off most of the 12 pack together, then I got out my bag and smoked a bowl with her. The weed relaxed me, so I laid down on the blanket with a cigarette in my hand and watched the stars for a while. Belle sat next to me, watching my face as she rubbed my belly with her soft hands. She sang a song for me. I don't remember exactly which song it was, but it was soothing. The only time she ever sang to me before was when I walked her back from class that day, and now I knew for sure that she sang it for me. Her voice was soft, and all my nerves relaxed and just let the song in. I pulled her close to me as I turned toward her on my side, and like many a couple on a summer fling before us, she allowed me to make love to her under a gorgeous night with no one else around. We woke up early the next morning, lying together in a spoon-like fashion. I drove her back to her apartment, without a clue of what kind of lie she was going to tell Ben to explain last night. Perhaps Ben was the trusting type. I imagined what my excuse to Naomi would be. Probably that I got wasted the night before and ended up crashing at Darvin's; which was fine as long as Darvin or Had hadn't called or stopped by our apartment last night asking for me. Lucky for me, they didn't, so I managed to get off clean. Naomi still wasn't happy, but there was nothing else she could say. That night I celebrated by hosting another party at my apartment. I didn't invite Belle, because Naomi was hanging out that night and I wanted, I thought joyously, to avoid a scene between the two. We drank margaritas all night. Darvin was there, but without Shelly, since she was night shift with the carnival that night. He must've danced with or at least hit on all the girls at the party, and Joanna and Naomi almost snorted in unison at Darvin's display. Had took me aside, and explained in drunken fervor that he had found a good paying job waiting tables down somewhere in New York, and that he planned on proposing to Joanna sometime before next summer. "Good for you," I said, and meant it in the same way you admire someone's new used car. Belle eventually did show up, with Ben. They had come over from the bars, and were both soused. Despite that, Belle did nothing conspicuous to betray our indiscretion from the night before. The only disturbance happened when Belle lit up a joint, and I had to tell her to take it outside, since Naomi didn't smoke. Belle asked me if I wanted to go outside and smoke it with her, and I dutifully said that I couldn't. It was only a minor infraction, nothing huge. But it would have looked bad to everyone if I suddenly took off alone with Belle, and she shouldn't have put me in that position. In any case, Belle and Ben only stayed for a half-hour or so. Darvin was still dancing around seductively with some girl when I stepped in on him to go smoke over at the beach. The summer was almost over, and I would be going back to school soon. It was time to wrap everything up. Darvin was one of those perfect seasonal friends -- kind and funny and a barrel of laughs when you're around him, but not missed when he's gone. It was around 3 AM and we were already both plastered. Darvin pulled a bowl out right in front of the apartment outside, and we smoked it on our way to the beach. I apologized to him for how I reacted a couple of nights ago. He understood. "You just have to understand that I gave you advice based on what I would do in such a situation..." Darvin said. "I'm sorry... it's just not the sort of advice I expected to come out of your mouth," I said. "Anyway, Belle's a great girl, just don't expect her to run off with you anytime soon..." "Just as she should expect that I'm not going to leave Naomi for her," I countered. As we made our way to the beach, a sharp chill wind hit us coming from the ocean. I had to be at work the next morning, but already I saw that there was no point in going to bed. Darvin and I found a big piece of beach wood to sit on, and we chatted lightly in the darkness -- the only light coming from the crackling of burning embers from the bowl we were smoking, until at last the morning sun rose from the ocean and I left to get ready for work. At work that morning everyone was very quiet, and the police seemed to be around at every corner questioning the beach attendants. I later found out that Shelly had been raped and beaten to death in a parking lot only a block or so from work. Later on that afternoon, after most of us had been canvassed by the police, the broken-nosed man actually came into the police station uptown and confessed to the murder. The story was that after the carnival closed, the broken-nosed man noticed, from his bicycle, that Shelly was standing by herself on the corner waiting for her cab. He offered her a ride home on his bicycle, and when she refused, he grabbed her by her wrist. He then threw his bike down, grabbed the air pump from his bicycle, and hauled her off, to the parking lot. She tried to make a commotion, but unfortunately either nobody was around, or nobody cared enough to intervene as she was carried off. He probably killed her in the alleyway behind the parking lot, which was dark and inconspicuous, before dragging the body into the parking lot. The murder weapon -- the air pump -- was found in a dumpster nearby. And so I was placed in the odd position of trying to comfort Darvin Greenfoot. Shelly's death, and the manner in which it came about, struck me as hard as it did everyone who worked with her. But Darvin was silent of the matter -- he would not allow himself to be consoled. Whenever the subject came up, he'd change it abruptly, although the subject was obviously on his mind. The ennui moved over for a rush of quiet brain activity that we sympathized with but couldn't quite understand. The role reversal was strange; it made us talk like strangers, and I think it is safe to say that we ended the summer as strangers as well. After that day, Darvin put up as much distance as he could between himself and everyone else. He finished the summer there working the carnival, without a heart, and then he was gone, leaving no forwarding address to me or anybody else. Belle heard the news on the radio, but there was little she could say or do besides put on that "that's a shame..." attitude and call it good. Belle never really talked to Shelly, and, what's more, it seemed Belle was getting cold on me. Belle, who had never really had that much to say to me to begin with, began responding only to my direct questions, and rarely elaborating much more of her life to me. It was pretty clear that the end of the summer would signal the end of our affair as well. We still talked, went out on dates, and even had sex occasionally, but it was impossible for her, especially, to believe that the affair would continue once classes started in the fall. I didn't understand. Why burn the affair out so quickly after it had just begun? "Because..." Belle stated in an unusually draconian fashion, "I love Ben too much." So that was that. Shelly was dead, Darvin was gone, and Belle was over. Classes began again, and though I am still with Naomi, I think about Belle occasionally. Particularly her song, and who she was singing it for. I don't know the answer to that anymore. I had another dream about Mary last night. This time, Mary is on the floor, in between Bob's legs, and she has her hand cupped over the mouth of the phone. I am standing on the other end of the room, also with a phone in my hand, apparently trying to communicate with her. I am frantic. I yell and cry incoherently over the phone, but it doesn't seem like Mary hears it at all, let alone understands what I'm saying. Bob is smiling and runs his hand through Mary's dark hair. It never occurs to me to talk to her directly, even though we're in the same room. My heart pounds itself up through my fucking mouth as I try to speak, and then I finally give up, and set the phone back on its receiver. It just now occurs to me that you probably think this is just a downer. You're probably right, but I think this needs a happy ending here. And I think it does, if you look at it right. I mean, Darvin is going to be content again, no matter where he goes. I don't think he's going to find his summers boring ever again. And I think he learned something about being a fighter along the way. Belle and Ben are happy together, presumably. Someday, I hope that she gets emphysema and needs a trache ring from smoking so much and it ruins her beautiful voice. Had probably got married at some point, and maybe he even learned to accept Joanna. Naomi's got me, of course, and I think that's fair. She probably deserves better, though. Shelly got death, which isn't fair, but innocence is a fair quality, and I think she preserved that in her in the end. And me? Well, I guess I'm better off too. I mean, even old babies like myself shouldn't have to cry all the time. >(o.o)< `,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`, >(o.o)< "Drama Queen" by HapyHzrd Spare me safe distances, your curse of popularity. You only heal as fast as you can take it, but learn twice as slow. You've come to say no, to say so, how it bothers you, how it bothers him. I ease pass with disregard, willingly waiting, eagerly watching. The secrets that you speak are all mine, there are none that you keep. Catch up on old times, and moan about new ones, but after what is such sweet sorrow, there still isn't any applause. >(o.o)< `,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`, >(o.o)< "Day By Day" by Unrelated Day by day I stand at the edge of a cliff Day by day I tell myself i'm finally going to do it Day by day I tell myself I'm going to let go Then I put one foot out, I close my eyes, I listen to the wind rush past my ears, I slowly turn my head ever so slightly Downwards, I slowly open my eyes, I begin to tremble, I bring my foot back in /|/| ( @ @) ) ^ / ||| (c) 2002 Anada E'zine www.anada.net * Anada is cat-friendly. / )|||____________________________________________________________________ (__________________________________________________________________________)