I started flying at a young age and with regularity. I’ve never had any fear of flying. This is not about airplanes. It’s about girls, women. Specifically, lately, I’ve been trying to wrap my head around my trepidation around certain girls. Certain women. I used to think that it came from an intense fear of rejection whose seeds were sown deep somewhere in my fairly pedestrian childhood. But I can handle rejection. I’ve taken it in stride more than once. I don’t lie awake at night thinking about the girls, the women, who’ve turned me away at the gate. I barely think about these incidents at all and when I do it’s with the same import that I would give to a disappointing meal I had one time. The ones that keep me up at night are the ones I never acted on. The girls, the women, whom I fantasized about but stood there stone silent and tongue tied in their presence. And if it wasn’t a fear of rejection that held me back then what could it have been? I developed another theory. It was the exact opposite. It was an intense fear of success whose seeds were sown deep somewhere in my, frankly, rather dull childhood. I was worried about being happy. I was worried about achieving the kind of success and happiness that you only hear about in the storybooks. Maybe I was a manic-depressive. Maybe I was worried that the fantasy held wouldn’t stand up to the fantasy as imagined. And as a romantic, that thought was too much to bear. What if I got everything I ever wanted and it wasn’t enough? There would be nothing else. Life would be confirmed as a long series of hits and misses that all, ultimately, lead to the same place. It would be empty and meaningless. And as a realist striving for optimism that thought shook me to my core. But come on. Obviously all of those thoughts didn’t go rushing through my head as I was standing at the bar, 5 gins deep, and staring at the pretty brunette at the other end. Or maybe they did. Imagination can be a curse at times. But I’ve always taken exception with the ‘ignorance is bliss’ camp so we’d better move on.
If it wasn’t a fear of rejection or success that was troubling me, what then? I developed another theory. It was an intense fear of the unknown whose seeds were sown deep somewhere in my, honestly, thoroughly non-descript childhood. It wasn’t any particular outcome that troubled me. Indeed, it was any outcome at all. A result can be good or bad or somewhere in between but it is a result. It’s an end. And nobody wants things to end. Better, I thought, to keep moving forward making no decisions and see what happens. Take things as they come and there will never be an end. Just more and more experiences. No end in sight. But this sounds more like a yearning for the unknown than a fear of it. So I developed another theory. It was an intense love of the unkown whose seeds were sown deep somewhere in my blandly pleasant childhood. It was never a fear of committing or succeeding or failing or not knowing, it was my rambling spirit taking shape. My trepidation sprung from my wanderlust.
Because if you never ask the question then the answer can be whatever your imagination will allow. A torrid love affair in Paris. A white picket fence in the suburbs. A one night stand in a cheap motel. A weekend on the beach in paradise. The dreams and imaginations of my wildly spectacular childhood would not be put to rest! Because to pursue earthly pleasures would be to deny your pursuit of the sun and the stars. Or maybe I’m afraid to get on that plane.
“I always said I needed a woman who likes to drink. She was the one who made me realize I couldn’t have one who likes to drink more than I do.”
I long suspected that if you set off with with an un-fixed destination that you would still somehow know when you’ve arrived. I got here yesterday. I had a strong feeling I’d arrived as soon as I got in. Everything I’ve seen since has strengthened this conviction. We got in after a truly horrible journey. We were five hours on a bus after one hour’s sleep. It was hot and crowded. My friend remarked that he’d lost a stone in sweat. I don’t know how much a stone is but I appreciated the sentiment. When we finally pulled into Mui Ne there were several false stops. A few passengers got off and fewer got back on. Still, we stopped. We knew it wasn’t our stop because we hadn’t seen a beach yet. Our stop was the white sand and the rolling waves we had heard about. Ours was the last stop. When we got there we pushed our way off the bus with the road-weariness that can make you do things of which you are not proud. It was early afternoon. The sun shone brightly. The fresh air was a welcome relief from the mild stench of the tightly packed bus. As we all got off there was another busload waiting to get on and back to Saigon. They seemed in a rush. I would soon wonder what their hurry had been. This is not to speak ill of Saigon. My experience there had been a five-day long all-out assault on every pleasure center in my brain. It was a ramshackle rush of a city. A beautiful mess that jibed perfectly with the contents of my head. The liquor was cheap and of a high quality. It flowed freely day and night. The barmaids were uniformly beautiful and unfailingly friendly. The city was a haven - and heaven - for expats of all stripes. And the food! Tapas at the Spanish joints. Baguettes off the street vendors filled with shaved pork and imported cheese. The best bowl of noodles I could ever hope to experience. In my life. It held parts of a cow I didn’t know existed. Foie-gras and steaks at French bistros. My Vietnamese-American host and the French owner both laughed at me for ordering Australian wine. Elitists! Pas de probleme. It was lovely.
Arriving in Mui Ne our method of choosing our first bar was uncomplicated. My Irish travelling partner looked left and then right. The sign out front said “Joe’s Cafe”. He looked at me.
“Joe’s?”
“Yes.”
We walked underneath a thatched roof and into an open-air setting. The seating consisted of wood and wicker chairs and plush purple sofas. The trees consisted of bamboo, palm, banyan and starfruit. There was a stage in the middle of the area with another thatched roof. It held sofas and microphone stands and was surrounded by a moat. We picked a glass-topped table with wicker chairs and soft cushions. We drank mojitos bursting with fresh mint and good rum. The sweat and fatigue from our long trip dissipated. We grinned at each other like pirates over a treasure chest. Paradise found. We inquired about rooms in the wood huts that surrounded the bar area and found one perfectly suited to our purposes. The sun peeked in through the tree-tops and a cool breeze drifted in from the sea out back. After a brief but intense argument about the rules I managed to lose almost every single game of gin rummy that we played. I walked to the back to inspect our view of the beach. A small flight of concrete stairs ended where the water began. The tide was in. The beach spread out far off into the distance in both directions. A few junk boats dotted the seascape and the sky to my right was filled with kites of all different colours. It was the kind of place where somebody could write their masterpiece if they had the time and the inclination. I was in love. We are, all of us, seeking something. Somtimes it appears to you clear as day. Other times it is vague and elusive. Sometimes you’re staring right at it. And if you’re lucky, you realize it.
The cafe and resort were owned by an expat named Joe and his pretty Vietnamese wife. They had an infant child that was fawned over and played with by all of the girls who worked there. Some of the girls’ inability to take an order in English was frustrating at first but grew comical over the course of the weekend. It was hard to get upset here. The bar area only had a few other customers but the girls seemed perpetually busy, running around taking orders and carrying things to and away from the bar. They all flashed huge smiles whenever they caught your eye. We walked down the beach road a bit before settling on a place for dinner. The food was not great but it didn’t matter at that point. We headed back to Joe’s and the night had brought some more patrons. We ordered whiskeys with coke as a large man set up his guitar on the stage. He played some fine cover versions in a Spanish blues style. He favoured The Beatles and Eric Clapton. His attempts to banter with the crowd were met with mixed results. The menus boasted of being open 24 hours for over 5 years. Our first night there put lie to this claim. I tried to convince the barmaid to keep serving us as they were closing but she demurred. I managed to wrangle two tumblers from her and I went up to our room to retrieve a bottle of Jameson’s I had purchased down the street for a song. We sipped a few more whiskeys that we probably didn’t need. Some of the girls from the bar were chatting over snacks at one of the other tables. The music had long since stopped. We didn’t say much.
You’re out with all of your friends again. They’re all drunk, as usual. You’re drinking as well. You don’t enjoy drinking nearly as much as they do but you’ve been doing more of it since you broke up with your girlfriend. Normally when they are all getting too drunk you feel like you need to remain sober in case something happens. It’s not uncommon for one or more of them to get into trouble and you feel responsible for them. You resent them for this, in fact. It’s not that you wish you could get drunker - that particular desire is not strong in you. You resent them because you feel they aren’t mature enough to take care of themselves. Grown men and women. Drunks. Lately, though, you’ve been cutting loose more and more. Tonight you feel good. You are laughing and singing and dancing right along with everybody. You are telling jokes about yourself and your ex-girlfriend because you don’t want people to think you’re too upset about the situation. This could not be further from the truth. The truth is that you are hugely upset and that is precisely why you’ve been drinking more often. But it hasn’t helped. You’re tired of being the adult all the time. You’re tired of being the one to take care of everybody else. The drunks remind you of your drunken mother. Needy, helpless, burdensome. None of your friends asked you to assume this role but you feel it’s yours nonetheless. You want to stop worrying and just have some fun. Some nights it works. Some mornings it doesn’t. Sometimes everybody is happy and everything goes okay and all your friends get home safely. Other nights there are wild arguments that go too far. Some people’s feelings get hurt. Some of your friends curse each other. You implore them to stop fighting - to remember who their friends are. Sometimes they turn on you for trying to be the voice of reason. This upsets you to no end. But you grit your teeth. You take it. No sense arguing with a drunken lout, you reason. Better to leave it out until the morning. Or maybe forever.
Finally you’ve had enough. You say goodbye to most of your friends and give a mean look to the ones who’d been rude to you. You take a taxi home by yourself. When you get there you wash your face and brush your teeth. You put on your pyjamas and bathrobe and curl up in bed with the book you’ve been reading. You scan the pages perfunctorily but can’t stop thinking about what had happened at the bar. Then you think about your ex. Then you get to the bottom of the page and realize you haven’t given thought to a single word you’ve read. You put the book down and rub your eyes. You look around your tiny room and consider the pictures on your bookshelf. You think about turning on your laptop and checking your Facebook but think better of it. You sigh and pick up the book again, starting over from the top of the page. Your phone rings. It’s your roommate. He’d been out at the bar with you.
“Hello?”
“Hey buddy, w’sup? Can you let me in? Can’t find my key.”
“Yeah, hang on.”
You walk to the front door and open it. You step into the hallway and check both ways but it’s empty. You put the phone back to your ear and hear, “Oh, nevermind, it’s open …” before the phone goes dead. You look down at it, thoroughly confused. You close the door but don’t lock it. Five minutes later your roommate bursts through the door with a huge grin on his face.
“Hey buddy, are you okay?”
“Yeah! Oh yeah! Can you make me a drink?”
“Yeah sure, why?”
“Too drunk! Can’t do it myself.”
“Okay. What do you want?”
“Vodka ‘n’ orange juice.”
You fix the drink with a little less vodka than he probably would have put in. You follow him to his room and hand him the drink after he collapses into his favourite chair. He thanks you and takes a small sip.
“Are you okay?”
“Fucking great! Why?”
“What happened?”
“Huh? Oh! Elevator let me off on the wrong floor.”
“And you got the door open?”
“Oh yeah! Dude was fucking pissed!”
“What did you do?”
“Well I didn’t fucking hang around! He was lucky he didn’t have any vodka in his freezer.”
You smile, shake your head, say good night and go to bed.
“He’s the type of guy who will stay on a pool table sober all night, racking up wins against a bunch of drunkards.”
Fever dreams and half mad ramblings.
The power of words, language.
Chaos and confusion.
Dirty minds and dirty toilet bowls.
Fog descends on the room.
It clouds our actions.
Darkness follows swiftly.
It erases them.
The ceiling is receding.
Half-asleep and talking to strangers.
They wonder where we’re from.
For this we need a story - a lie.
Our lies become warped.
They take on the form of truth.
Truths get twisted.
Tangled up in you.
Where have they all come from?
Stay close now.
This is no time to be lost.
“And she called me darling. And I called her darling. And it felt like a Hemingway novel. And it was a fine thing. But it was all a damn lie.”
She bubbled up to the surface and caught him completely unawares. They hadn’t spoken in quite some time and the few conversations they had were short and inextraordinary. How’s life? Where do you live these days? How’s work/school/whatever. The typical ex-lovers’ conversation. Keeping in touch but not revealing much. Things hadn’t ended poorly or well. They’d just ended. It was one of those stories where the details weren’t important to anybody except each other. And perhaps the one they’d hurt. The other man. But this isn’t his story. It’s theirs. After years apart they found themselves on opposite ends of the world. She called him and started talking and it wasn’t like the other times. It was her late night and his early morning. She’s been drinking so he started to do the same as they talked about their past and why it hadn’t worked out and their best memories of each other. They laughed together and it was easy. The stories flowed back and forth and the liquor made them nostalgiac.
“Turn on your computer.” she said, “I want to see your face.”
He turned his laptop on and soon they were staring at each other’s pixellated images. They both commented on the beauty and blueness of the eyes they saw. She worried out loud, drinking alone at home, that she couldn’t possibly look very good. He assured her that she was as stunning as ever. They drank some more and made their confessions to each other. Her current relationship was confusing and causing her to question her self-worth. He was alone but only occasionally lonely. She’d been dealing with troubles in her family. He’d been trying too hard to feel comfortable in a foreign place. They missed each other. Not always, but at this moment more than ever. Looking at each other but not being able to act on their impulses. She was barely dressed and her movements in front of her camera revealed parts of herself to him. He stared at her with the same goofy grin he always had when they’d been together.
“What are you looking at?”
“You.”
“Why are you laughing at me?”
“I’m not laughing. I’m smiling.”
“Oh. Well that’s okay then.”
“You ruined me, you know?”
“What do you mean?”
“You ruined me for other girls.”
“How?”
“You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever been with. And the best. And now I’m alone all the time because my standards are unreasonably high.”
“You’re amazing. Your standards should be high. You’re right, though, I am the best.”
“What did I do right?”
“Excuse me?”
“What did I do to get you? Why can’t I ever seem to do it again?”
“You didn’t do anything. You were just being you. And I loved it.”
He was satisfied with this answer. There’s no big secret. You can try and push and fight all you want but it’s either there or it isn’t. There’s no use struggling for some things. Life is hard. Some things shouldn’t be. Some things aren’t.
“Anyways, what did you ever see in me? Look at me. I’m sitting here alone on a Friday night getting drunk off a bottle of wine I stole from my Mom. I’m a mess.”
“That’s funny. My friend and I had a joke about writing a book called ‘A Beautiful Mess.’”
“About what?”
“Every girl we know.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s pretty funny.”
“Seriously, though? I never felt better in my life than I did when I was with you. I’ve never been so confident. Knowing you were mine. I felt invincible.”
“That’s the nicest thing anyone ever said to me.”
“Just being honest.”
They were quiet for a time. They sat there grinning at each other.
“It’s driving me crazy looking at you like this.”
“Do something about it.”
“I’m about to.”
“Show me.”
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
They put their drinks down. They touched themselves together. The release was bittersweet - singularly unsatisfying.
“I need you here. Beside me.” she said.
“There’s no place in the world I’d rather be.”
“So why aren’t you here?”
“It’s complicated. I’m taking care of the things I need to take care of.”
Their conversations after that became more frequent and were all very similar. They remembered why they had both fallen so hard for the other. They laughed together. They shared feelings that they hadn’t shared before. Their emotions were laid bare. It was pure and naked and real. It mattered. It seemed to. One day he told her that he had booked a ticket home for the holidays. She couldn’t wait to see him, to hold him in her arms. They couldn’t wait to rekindle their brief romance, if only for a time. They spoke of the things they would do to each other. She told him she wanted his child inside of her. They joked about how such a child would turn out. Then one day, with the date looming large, it was shattered. She told him she had fallen in love with her best friend. He was stunned. She said she still wanted to see him when he came home. He agreed. They made awkward jokes about the flavour the reunion would take. She worried about how the news had affected him. He brooded. They didn’t speak for a time and then …
“So when are we going to see each other when you come home?”
“I’ve been thinking about that. I don’t think it’s such a great idea.”
“Why not?”
“Well, regardless of everything else, if we see each other and have a few drinks together I’m definitely going to try to sleep with you. And if you reject me I’ll feel like shit. And if you don’t and something happens then we’ll both feel like shit. I ruined your last serious relationship already.”
“Oh.”
“Not to mention how poor Jim would feel.”
“Jeff.”
“Whatever.”
“Well if you change your mind, if you think you can control yourself, give me a call.”
“Mmm-hm.”
She was disappointed. Regardless of the outcome she had still looked forward to seeing him after all those years. He’d told himself that he was hardened to these feelings of disappointment. Still, this one stung. Some old wounds are best left unopened. It’s true what they say, that you can never really go back. Everything ends. Everything ends for a reason. And even if you think you know the reason, most times you don’t. Things that are clear to you in the moment become muddied with the passage of time. The simplest answers reveal their complexities eventually. Every small thing is part of a bigger thing. And that’s it. Things don’t end well or poorly. They just end.
(Source: rulesformyunbornson)
Asked by Anonymous
Have a drink!
