ghosts
11.1.00
Sandra packed the last of her books into a whiskey box, leaving me with little grey ghosts on the shelf where they were. I didn't say anything to her when she left. Rent was due, but I felt too mundane already, so fuck it if I get a nasty note from Mrs. Rimbaud.
Pizza places got used to me again. The library called and said they had my book requests. I saw Sandra at the Page Turner on Beacon, but she pretended I was invisible. I thought about moving yet again, wrote an entry into my journal to think about it later on. All in all, I was another leaf rattling the cracks between colleges and the real world in Boston.
"I don't know if you'd call it an improvement," Kieran said to me over a Guinness at the Dub. "I mean, at least before you were a set man, you know?" He tapped obnoxious cigar ash into a plate.
"It's all shit, and you know it. I'll be over this in a few days. Just give me a chance, right?" I wasn't convincing myself, so I dragged my boots to the bathroom for a piss.
Days later, Sandra called and told me she needed for me to bring her some papers she'd left behind. I met her at our coffee place, or what used to be ours. I think she got that one in our decisions. She was so detailed that way. After the bookstore thing, she split the city up. I only lost one place that mattered, a good falafel stand. Otherwise, it wasn't a big deal.
"She really wasn't your type. I think it's for the best." My Mom dished out these choice phrases over a boiled dinner on Sunday.
"Donna," my Dad said. It was his attempt at diplomacy.
"I guess. I don't really mind. I'm over it." I lied again. That thing about lying and confessions must've slipped off somewhere back in catholic school.
I got work writing blurb content for a bunch of website start-ups on Route 128. The girl who hired me was Asian and very intelligent seeming. She laughed politely at my attempt at a date request. Just the same, I started making more money, which helped with the rent and the bills.
On a blind date I set up through the Net, I suffered through a really annoying jazz concert, free at some Unitarian Universalist church. We rode the T to Harvard Square to try out that stir fry place, and wouldn't you know it, we ran into Sandra.
"It's good to see you dating," she told me with a smile that looked more like, "you loser; you're already hitting the bottom of your dating circle."
"Thanks," I said, somewhat trying to conceal my blatant staring at her low cut top. She never wore that around me.
"You look good together," she added, losing herself in a crowd of people with bowls waiting for a handful of sweaty chefs to cook up their stir fry in a circle.
"Who was that?" My date asked. I didn't really answer with words. I just mumbled stuff.
There was a rash of dates set up by coworkers and "friends," which all ended in crashes and burns. The worst of these was a college girl who was studying veterinary medicine. She actually tried talking to me about the various sores and scabs that dogs can acquire when not properly groomed. I liked her a little better than the kickboxer, but not as much as the gas attendant.
I spent Saturday riding the entire T system, from the tip of the Blue line, down to its end, then back into town where I chose the Red Line. At Alewife, I got off and got cotton candy from that lady by the escalator, and then I rode in the other direction. The Orange Line was easy enough: a straight line, really, but when I did the Green, it was a pain in the ass. I quit somewhere around Coolidge Corner in Brookline. There, I got off and wandered around until I found the movie theatre and sat down to watch some subtitled flick.
"Following me?" Sandra whispered into my ear when I was just about ready to fall asleep.
"No, I uh. I don't really know what made me come here. I was just out in the area, and I thought the movie looked good."
"Yeah, right. This is Malcolm." Sandra introduced me to a guy about my age wearing an artsy goatee and a black ribbed turtleneck sweater. He nodded as if I were a gnat. It's stupid to admit, but I wanted to beat him up, for no reason other than the fact that he was with Sandra.
I got myself a couple of kittens from a girl at one of the jobs where I sold content for their site. I asked her out for dinner, and she waved her wedding ring back at me, politely. I could feel my blush all the way down to my socks, and couldn't get out of there fast enough.
Thanksgiving was a bitch, because my folks went off to Jamaica, and I didn't really have a backup plan. I ended up at a Chinese restaurant, eating buffet food with such great labels above the trays as, "chicken ball," and "fried por." My favorite was, "meat stir."
I got a Christmas card from Sandra's friend, Amelia. It was strange, in that it was addressed to me, but that it clearly was more for Sandra than me. I stuck it to the fridge with a magnet from my kittens' vet. A few days later, I started to write out a card to send back to her, but I tore it up and forgot about it. I think I learned somehow early on that you can throw away some kinds of problems and they'll stay buried. Others will bite you in the ass later on. Through years of getting it wrong, I had developed some skill at knowing which was which.
"You know what you need?" The last time Kieran asked this question to me over a Guinness, his answer had entailed hookers and some kind of road trip. I shook my head, just the same. "You, my friend, need a change of scenery. You've been cooped up here in Boston for too long. Get out of New England. See the sites. Maybe take a trip out west."
I didn't agree with him then, and I didn't agree with him when I landed in Dallas. Why'd I pick Dallas, anyway? It turned out to be an annoying and lonely trip. I ate alone at a Planet Hollywood, something called a deep fried lasagna. That place might be a party kind of place when you're with tons of friends, but it sucked when faced with an empty chair across from me.
That night, in my hotel room, I dialed Sandra. I'd copied the number down before leaving, tucking it into my wallet next to my fossilized condom. Talk about wishful thinking. I
dialed her, but when she picked up, I hung up the phone. What a stupid ass. What a jerk! I rented that cheap hotel channel porn and masturbated all night until my eyes were like raisins.
There were three messages on my machine when I got back from Dallas. One was a hang up. The second was a solicitation cut short. The third was from my Mom telling me that one of my kittens had an accident and to call when I got home.
It died by falling in the toilet when the lid was left up. I cried a little bit, but it was the kind of thing that could happen, and my Mom was really down about it. She kept apologizing and offering to get me another kitten. I reminded her that I was 30, but she just kept grabbing up my sweater and shaking while she wept. I brought home my little boy kitten and spent an extra long time playing with him before heading off to bed.
The doorbell woke me early on Saturday, and I thought it'd be a few people in suits trying to offer me copies of "Awake" and "The Watchtower." Instead, there was a little kitten tied by a piece of yarn to the inside hallway. There was a note tied to a ribbon around her neck, and it said, "Better luck this time."
It costs about $300 to get all the shots and vet visits out of the way, and besides, this one wasn't really as playful as the other one. Just the same, it was nice of my folks. I called Mom to thank her, but I got the machine.
On my way to Kieran's birthday party, I realized that I'd left his gift certificate at home. There wasn't much time and I'd walked, so I took one wary look at the Page Turner, and decided to duck in. What were the odds, anyhow?
Sandra was behind the counter, evidently working there. Damn. I brought my purchase to the counter with that kind of, "I'm invisible, really" look.
"Kieran's?" She asked. The book was, "Traditional Irish Pubs," a cheapy from the discount bin. I nodded. "There's a good one on the Famine over there."
I gave her the money and she handed me back more than I expected. "Employee discount," Sandra said.
I thanked her and did the standing-there-nodding thing for a moment, trying to come up with something else to say that wouldn't seem dumb.
"How's Martin?"
"Malcolm. He's fine. How are you? You look sleepy."
"I'm okay. I got this new kitten and she's really being a terror."
"Really? I'd hoped she would work out okay for you. The shelter said she was kind of calm and sedate."
"You?" I could only ask that. There were dozens of other thoughts pushing their way up to my lips.
"Maybe that was a bad idea? I'm sorry. That's kind of being presumptuous, isn't it?"
"No, it's okay. I really like her. She's great. You should see her. She's potty trained already. I think she'll make out okay with the boy."
She smiled. I wanted to touch her hair so bad that my fingers trembled.
"Um, there's a bit of a line. I've gotta go."
"Right, yeah. No problem." I gave a weak smile and bagged out. What a stupid idiot, I am. On the way to Kieran's, I swore at myself, punched my leg, and generally berated myself for being such a knob.
The next day I called Sandra, but she wasn't there. I didn't leave a message. I rode the T out to Harvard Square and fudged around the stores there a bit, trying to figure it all out. I had no answers. What I had were three kittens, one dead, and an ex-girlfriend who wouldn't get out of my head. I felt like an idiot.
Her doorbell sounded fat and dull. I hadn't been here yet. It was all new. The door opened into a cozy-looking living room and the smell of something sweet and freshly baked. Malcolm stood there in a tee shirt and shorts. He knew who I was. My hands felt sweaty and I couldn't feel my throat.
"Is Sandra in?"
"Look, man. It's not really cool for you to come around here. You two are over, you know? I don't wish you any bad luck, but just, I mean, don't come around here any more, okay?"
"I don't want to fuck her or something, Malcolm. I just want to talk to her a minute, okay?"
I hated my voice. It was wavering.
"Don't talk like that, man. I said you weren't really bugging me, but that's not cool, you know what I mean?"
"Oh, shut the fuck up! I just want to talk to Sandra. Sandra?!"
Malcolm came through the screen door and down the stairs. He swung and caught me in the eye. I gave him a few good kicks and then someone was screaming. He pinned me down to the ground and I saw Sandra over his head. The streetlight made a halo behind her hair.
"Let him go, Malcolm. Just go, okay? Please?"
I got up, brushed myself off. I probably could've kicked his ass. I wanted to kick my own. Sandra looked miserable. I left.
My apartment was crawling with her. She was in the shower, squeezing the extra water out of her hair. She tapped the drum parts to Radiohead at the stereo. She perched on the breakfast nook ledge and read indie comics with me. She was everywhere.
I spent the night at an all-night bowling alley, trying to think up ways to stretch out strings. The guy let me catch a nap in his office. I just couldn't go back to the apartment.
In the end, I had to call my parents to go get the kittens. I know that's lame, but I couldn't stand the thought of going back. The next day, I got a bus ticket for Portland, Maine, and quit my jobs down here by email. Boston wasn't a bad place to be, but there were too many ghosts around. I needed to breathe again. I had to stop being so damned lame.
Sandra died a week later in a car accident. I didn't go to the funeral, because I couldn't stand the thought of thinking it was really over. As it was, I had enough ghosts at my old apartment to last me.
***
Chris Brogan
chris@chrisbrogan.com