"Please
don't hold me. I had more of that than I could handle
with Ray. He was the first man to ever treat me as
anything more than a good bed partner. Here's
something I remember: I am a little depressed and so
I'm very sensitive about being intimate. Ray sets me
down gently, gives me more pleasure than anyone is
entitled to, brushes my hair back behind my ears,
licks tears away, and holds me until I sob myself to
sleep.
"So
don't hold me, okay? We can have all the basic
pleasures: I'm open to anything that doesn't actually
hurt me physically. I mean, hasn't this been fun?
Haven't we sated each other enough so that we can
just lie back here and wallow in the calm for a
while? Here, here's the rest of your rum. Enjoy. I'm
going to have a nice leisurely cigarette."
Ray
has trouble being alone now. His latest compulsion is
writing angry poems on toilet paper in the bathroom.
On those nights when he can't produce, he surrenders
to the TV and munches corn chips until the last
batter is out or the credits start rolling under the
sonorous voice announcing that the news is coming up.
More often he'll wake up on the couch at about 2
a.m., his back sore, his glasses lying on the carpet,
pieces of corn chips dotting his T-shirt like
confetti.
"If
you feel you have
to talk to me, please don't ask me too many
questions. I'm not callous enough to make you lie
there silent like a damn fool, or make you get up and
just leave, but I don't want you prying too much
either. I don't plan on asking you much and I expect
the same courtesy.
"I
mean, I had enough of that kind of probing with Ray.
Did I mention Ray? I wasn't used to real talking and
listening till I met him. He used to say that
conversation, genuine
conversation, is like shared red wine: it gets to the
bottom of things. You ask, they tell, you ask more,
they tell more, you pick up on things, you ask again,
you probe deeper and deeper.
"But
I'm done with that now. It's over. We parted on the
best of terms. We've agreed not to call or write.
It's better that way. Get on with our lives and all
that.
"I
like you. You are a good person, a great
lover. I hope I haven't been babbling too much. I
hope you understand what I'm saying. I'm not pining
for him or anything. I'm just trying to explain why I
can't get too involved right now. I think this has
been a great evening. Indian food, Smithwick's,
lovemaking. Most people never even have it this
good."
Ray
feels himself starting to go blind. He turns his head
quickly and experiences a blur before his eyes start
to focus again. He doesn't understand it. He looks at
some students coming out of the library. Stares at
them. Tries to keep the top floor of the building
from disappearing. It is not so much a blur now as it
is a blind spot, a hole in his perception.
Ray's
friend Marty teases him.
"If
you'd leave the damn thing alone for a day or two,
you wouldn't be going blind."
"'Let
me tell you something about yourself.' God, how many
times did Ray say that to me. I was carrying on in my
regular fashion -- drinking way too much scotch,
spending too much money—and I would arrive at his
place quietly drunk at like two in the morning, and
Ray—well, Ray would never get mad. Definitely not
his style. But, Jesus Christ, he could sober me up.
Not in any stupid head-game way, and not by arguing
like a jackass, but just by sitting me down with an
espresso and starting off with: 'Let me tell you
something about yourself.'
"He
told me I was out of control, that I wasn't slowing
down or allowing myself to be conscious enough to
appreciate what was valuable in my life. He asked me
to just stop and think who it was who was always
there the next day to rub my head when I was so
hungover I wished I was dead. Who cleared your
balcony, Sandra, he would say. Who cleaned up your
apartment because you were so drunk that you didn't
realize you were walking on gum in your kitchen,
didn't realize you had a week's worth of garbage
under your sink, or that you had scum in your bathtub
that went very nicely with the black and white tiles.
"He
cursed now and then, or got a little sarcastic, only
to shake me up. He wasn't harsh about it. He was just
trying to make me pay attention to how much hurt I
was doing to myself.
"Oh,
Jesus, I'm babbling again. I'm sorry. Did you say
something? I'm so sorry. Here, pour me another one,
and when we're nice and loaded again, when even
talking about Afghanistan is just too damn funny for
words, then we'll have some nice stiff sex
again."
Ray
is starting to get angry and confused over names. He
keeps thinking Sandra, Sandra, Sandra, when he knows
he shouldn't. Everything from "sand" to
"sangria," and even what she used to call
stupid Jane Austen words such as "sanguine"
-- everything reminds him of her, everything comes
back to her.
Tonight he decides to do something to free his mind
from her trap.
The
bar is no different from the scores of other ones he
could have chosen. The bartender has on one of those
white cotton aprons, thin, tied at the back, and
stretched tight over an established belly. The sight
comforts Ray. The decor is functionally minimalist.
Springsteen pounds out something on the jukebox,
something about cars, something about love gone bad,
something about longing. Ray can't help smiling when
he sees her. Smoking, of course, and alone. Her drink
looks just slightly out of the ordinary, Tanqueray
maybe, with something fizzy in it. She sees Ray
smiling, looks him straight in the eye for an
uncomfortable length of time, and then looks down at
the ashtray as she taps her cigarette.
He
sits on the stool next to her, offers to buy her a
drink, and holds out a lighter as she puts a fresh
cigarette in her mouth. She nods, stares, inhales,
and taps nothing from the end of it.
The
sex later is functional, minimalist.
"I'm
sorry. Yes, it's Jim,
right? Oh my God, this is so awful. I know you're not
Ray. I'm just a little mixed up and distracted these
days. Please let me explain, Jim. No. Please, no.
Please don't go. I went out with him for years.
We were supposed to get married last month. We broke
up, it's over, but you just can't forget that kind of
thing just like that. Please stay, Jim. I like you.
Please ..."
Ray
has taken down from his fridge the schedule of movies
playing at the repertory cinema, and now keeps an
up-to-date list of the things he would like to do
before he dies:
1.
Have sex with an inflatable doll. (Ray imagines
buying her all flattened out in some kind of K-Mart
shrink-wrap package. Flattened out like that clown
punching bag he had as a kid. Punch, down, up, punch,
down, up.)
2.
Read more philosophy. (Marty has suggested some
intriguing titles by Kierkegaard he'd like to peruse:
Fear and
Trembling, or perhaps The
Sickness Unto Death. He wants to be wandering
like some demented Wordsworth with book in hand,
admiring the look of the countryside, pausing a while
to pick a flower or two, when he performs his first
(and last) acte
gratuit: jumps off a cliff, maybe, or does a
one-and-a-half gainer into a blissful pond even
though he can't swim a stroke.)
3.
Be a guest on Oprah.
(He loves the format: theme, dumb audience, host with
more fat cells than brain cells, panel of
dough-headed losers, and The Expert. Ray plans on
disruption. When he explains that there was
absolutely no reason for Sandra to leave him, that he
would have done anything for her, and The Expert
comes out with some gem like "No one
person can satisfy all
our emotional needs"—well, then Ray wants to
start throwing chairs, or recommending the Pillsbury
Dough Boy as a nice partner for Oprah, or raving
about how oversexed the maids are in the hotel
they've put him up in.)
4.
Scare her. (Ray wants to re-create the past and
change it. When she says to him, "Ray, I'm
leaving you because I'm in love with another
woman," he doesn't want to be polite about it
this time. He wants to take her by the hand to the
alley behind the restaurant, gently, soothingly as
always. Take her there, put his forearm at her
throat, push so that she can breathe but can't talk.
Take out a pocketknife and pick his teeth with it,
remove a bit of lemongrass remaining from the soup,
and then, just after he has brought the knife much
too close to her angelic forehead, simply spit a
piece of noodle into her eye. Drop the knife. Ease
back. Smile but don't cry. Turn around and go home,
alone.)
"Please
don't get up and go right away. Stay a while, can't
you? I'll be all right in a few minutes. Hey, you can
tell your buddies that you brought tears to my eyes
in bed. Right. Sorry, sorry: not funny. I'm sorry.
Come back to bed. Please don't go. Hold me."
5.
Publish an essay. (Ray has brooded on the topic
almost continuously for the past month: the fine line
there is between being middle-classed civilized --
making distinctions between forks, being disdainful
of unthrifty behavior, keeping the garage
immaculate—between that and being murderously
violent—killing yourself with carbon monoxide in
that garage with the cross-country skis looking on
dispassionately from the rafters, spending a wad on a
.44, taking one of those forks, perhaps the small one
intended for the romaine, and jamming it in someone's
eye.)
6.
Do stand-up comedy. ("You know, I think one of
the things I learned from my childhood is that there
are advantages to everything.
Even getting dumped by the woman you love. I mean, I
lost my appetite totally, and haven't looked this
great in years.")
7.
Construct the most personally hurtful list of ways a
woman could break up with you, and submit them to
Letterman as a Top 10 List. (The spicy Thai noodles
are followed with that excellent iced coffee. The
bill arrives and is placed discreetly mid-way between
the two of you. You take it only because it is your
turn. She dabs a bit of nothing from the left-hand
corner of her lips, puts down the napkin, and after
you have given the pen and merchant's copy back to
the waiter on the black plastic tray, she tells you
she's in love with another woman. LETTERMAN: Number
2, Say she's cleaned out your savings account as an
acting fee for faking all those orgasms ... And, the
Number 1 Most Hurtful Way a Woman Can Break Up With
You ... Say "I'm in love with another
woman" only after
the check is paid. Laughter.
Thunderous applause. Close-up on Dave announcing the
first guest. Go to commercial.)
"Okay,
here's what happened. We met, fell in love, got
engaged. I got way too drunk one night and slept with
Monica. It carried on for a few weeks and I genuinely
thought I was in love with her. I told Ray, broke up
with him. The next week Monica moved in with her
accountant. I called her and she told me to wise up
and get a life.
"I
started drinking in a serious way then. Dated a few
guys. I was so happy when you came up to me. I
noticed you earlier because you do look a bit like
Ray. You are such a good lover. You give me so much
pleasure. I am starting to feel a bit guilty. Please
... tell me what you
would like.
"I'm
grateful for what you've done for me, but all I want
is to have him with me again. Have you ever had to
make a conscious effort to get something, someone,
out of your mind. Have you ever wallowed nervously in
dread that you'd never see him again. Have you ever
thrown away what you love most?
"No, don't. Please: I need to be alone now. Please understand. I'm sorry. No, I can't, I'm sorry. If you want to help me, please just leave. No, please don't. I can't. Please. Please don't hold me."