A long, long road

Behind every beautiful thing there’s been some kind of pain
—Bob Dylan

Those were halcyon days, Elaine—days of you and me and never-ending sunny weather—although it rained a lot back then, and frankly, things could have been much better.

We palled around in our little group—our clique at work—setting the publishing world on edge—doing all the things I should regret, but don’t.

We went clubbing, drank a lot, danced too much—all with our friendly pack—and when it finally came to an end, I vowed never to look back.

Bartleby House, nosedived, hit by paperless flack—and we all bailed, in different colored parachutes.

We were blown to the four winds and never heard from again—including you, Elaine—I counted you among the lost.

And so, here I am— sitting by a rainy window on a dreary Friday, drink in hand, staring out into the night, cursing the pride that won’t let me send an SOS.

The laptop glows eerily in the room, its pale light a mist. Love among the ruins?

But there will be no midnight meeting tonight—no dramatic figure rising from the rubble— only the hiss of rain, and the staccato rumble of thunder.

Martin Wallace stares at me from across his desk.

“Let’s talk about Elaine.”

This is the part of therapy that pains the most.

“I can’t,” I grumble.

“You visit her each night.”

“In thought, yes. It’s one of those futile things I do—like watering a plant that’ll never bloom—or searching for a cat that doesn’t want to be rescued.”

“You have a tender heart, my friend.”

“And what’s that gotten me—other than a whole lot of grief?”

He tries a different tack.

“You could always reach out to her, you know.”

“Do you know how pitiful, and pathetic that would be?”

“But you’re tormenting yourself with desire, Paul.”

“I know—but you want to know the truth? It makes me happy.”

I’m doing a lot of things lately I never imagined I’d do—like seeing Martin Wallace—a shrink, for god’s sake—and walking aimlessly in the rain.

You’re tormenting yourself with desire, Paul...

He’s right, but it’s the only thing that consoles me, and gets me through most nights.

I lie awake and imagine improbable scenarios—bumping into her in a bar—or, more mundane, in a mall—or quasi romantically, on a crowded street.

That would be lovely—her white face a pale bloom against the dark mass of humanity.

And I’d be so embarrassed if she ever guessed I felt this way—after so many years of mocking laughter, off-hand remarks, cynical put-downs and testy comments.

We both engaged in witty repartee—but in the end where has it gotten us—and more specifically, where has it left me? High, dry and nowhere. Well, maybe not so dry.

I end up at the Park Hotel and take the elevator to the 18th floor, to the rooftop lounge.

If I’m going to drink alone it’s the one place I want to go because there’s a cheery fireplace and a bartender who’s been there as long as I can remember, and who just happens to be called Joe.

Set them up, Joe. I got a little story you ought to know.

It’s not like that, of course. No Frank Sinatra in trench coat and hat, smoking a stogie and getting misty—well, maybe me getting misty—but nothing too schmaltzy.

© 2018, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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