Synesthesia

I
She wouldn’t have guessed in a million years what I was going through, and before I convinced myself of her wayward affections, I had planned to tell her, but now I would just feel cheesy expressing what I had intended. On several counts she strikes me as self-involved and extremely naïve, though I would not boost myself out of that consideration by any means, but what she seemed to have had in mind, I mean before her brother’s death and all, would never have worked. I merely thought these things before while playing at finding out, but I know now for certain. She hasn’t a clue as to what goes on in other people’s lives when they are not in her presence, nor does she appear to believe what goes on affects her, and who can say how she might have reacted? I know it has me in a tizzy, questioning my own beliefs. Not even during my brief time with Tom Lawrence was I put into such a quandary, but, then, because our time together was cut short by his death, I will never know if such a thing might have happened.

II
The Thursday after I had returned to Mexico, having been snubbed and ignored by all and sundry, except for students, I finished work, and not looking forward to sitting solitarily in my big old empty space, I headed off to the cantina. I met a few acquaintances in transit, but nobody who wanted to hang out and talk. After a few beers, and growing just a bit maudlin, I was on the verge of taking flight and returning to my big old empty space on Staten Island, but consideration of commitments I had made had me thinking I would attempt to finish the semester before throwing in the towel. Even then something indefinable gnawing at me told me things would never work out for Sam and me, and I guessed they were the same reasons that had divided my relationship with Diana, though at that time they had remained so nebulous their possibility never crossed my mind. Indecision and stifled persuasion were probably the bases of how I was so easily taken in by those guys in Tapachula, followed up with a rash decision, and eventually wound up in this town. Most likely they were also what stalled any conclusive advances in my attempts at establishing a relationship with Samantha, and behind my bringing my now prodigal ex-brother-in-law south to stay with me.

III
I was getting bleary-eyed, and I knew it was unethical for a high school teacher to be sitting wasted in a cantina, but it was a free night in that I had no papers to mark, my syllabus was already planned out for a couple of weeks, and I did not expect to run into any of my students. Nor did I think any of the teachers would drop in by that point in the evening, so I was surprised to be sullenly greeted by Antonio wearing a loud yellow muscle shirt with the words I AM SYNESTHETIC printed in different colored letters emblazoned across his chest. He’s a little guy in stature, though well-built due to working out, and his almond shaped eyes gave him a look of sadness even if he were to smile, which in that moment he did not. “Where’s your lady love?” I asked, remembering his turning down an invitation to join me here a few weeks earlier on her account. “It’s over,” he said, sitting in the chair opposite me, and signaling for the mesero, who glanced at his watch, to bring another glass. Although I was sloshed, I felt while he was describing his break-up his salty voice was telling me more than his words contained, and I smelt something in the air not native to the place.

IV
When I awoke wearing only my skivvies early the next morning on my living room floor and found Antonio in a fetal position similarly attired, a flood of peculiar images from the night before rushed through my brain, and though I found them difficult to absorb, and accept as the truth, I did not find them entirely unpleasant. The thing that troubled me a bit was wondering how he would react on waking, and though I sat staring at his sleeping form for approximately twenty anxious minutes in my one easy chair, and smoked the last two uncustomary cigarettes I found on the little table beside it, I soon discovered when he stirred that he did not consider it a topic of conversation. He dressed, turned down an invitation to get some breakfast, saying he had to go home and take care of some things before going to work, but he would meet me for lunch, and if I wanted to go off campus, he would drive to Sanborns. As I showered and got ready after his departure, I realized what a cool character he was. “You knew this would happen,” I said aloud, but couldn’t tell if I was addressing myself or the mental image I retained of the guy sleeping on my floor.

V
Friday brought on the weekend, and there were no discussions, no recriminations, no conditions set. Antonio and I had lunch together, discussing teaching resources, whether or not either of us would be attending the play I Eat Numbers the student repertory group was performing in the civic center, and figuring out vacation plans, and in that last item lay the hint of something changed. Four nights later, we got bombed and once again spent the night together followed by a Tuesday of non-discussion about what was occurring between us, but on Friday, both of us sober as judges, though non-judgmental, stayed at his place. I should not declare I was entirely non-judgmental because I found no trace of his former fiancée in his house, no pictures, no lingerie, nothing in the bathroom, and was aware that I had been expecting to find something to corroborate her mere existence. This was the damnedest thing that ever occurred in my life, this entering into a situation, a relationship, that had never been agreed to, nevertheless going forward, and I knew there were loose ends that had to be prudently taken care of and that I had to speak with Samantha as soon as possible.

VI
As I waited outside Sam’s place, thinking of what to say to her, how to let her know I would be moving on even if I were not physically going anywhere, I took my cue from Antonio’s condition wherein letters and numbers have colors and heat, and twisted things around in my head reasoning that I was where I now was because she had persisted in avoiding me. Upon seeing her expression as she approached her building and found me waiting for her, I knew my plan was not so outlandish as it had at first seemed. I realized there was no need for me to feel guilty about attempting to break things off between us as they already appeared to be broken. She looked like a lovesick puppy, and it was clearly apparent that it was not for lack of being with me. We exchanged words, with me playing the part of the betrayed partner, but walking away from her, I felt a wave of relief wash over me as if everything had been resolved without anyone truly being hurt, and now, in any case, she has more to be concerned with than fretting over some wastrel who decided to switch teams. Heading back to my own place, for a night alone, the first few raindrops that wet my shirt seemed more metaphorical to me than the thought going through my head that if Cal decided to return any time soon to pike off me, he would probably choose this night to be waiting outside my door, or more likely have found a way to get inside, and how was I going to explain Antonio to him?

NoTed

They called you Victor. Maybe it was because they thought you would win every battle you would get involved in, but if they truly believed that, Victor would have been your first name, instead of a second name to be promoted when they tired of calling you Edward, and you just never struck anyone as an Ed. Besides, Ed was a ridiculous talking horse on television, given the soubriquet Mister, which you always heard as mistread, and waited for him to fall down.
Mister Ed seemed wise in comparison to Wilbur, his owner, who was never seen riding the horse. Not that you remember anyway.
Edward Victor. Why didn’t anyone think of calling you Teddy or Ted? Remember how confused you were the first time you saw Ted Kennedy on television and it said Sen. Edward M. Kennedy under his face? That was one of your first connections.

Synonymy V and VI

V
My visitor's card was stamped for a six-month stay. I had previously been advised by the Human Resources people at the school that I would need working papers that would put me into immigration status, and started that process before my little northward jaunt, in fact, that was why I went—to retrieve the necessary documents. I did not mention any of this to Cal, who is under the impression that I'm feeling out the place for the duration, and he appears to be willing to "stay as long as we are able before having to leave." It's all the same to me so long as I know he is not up in my house using my stuff; six months should provide enough time for me to come up with a plan. I have already discussed with him the merits of sunny days on the beach in Acapulco, and all the wealthy women there looking for companions, all of which makes me feel like a bastard for being as devious as I have known him to be, but in the end, it's six of one… I'm wondering what he'll do with himself all day while I'm at work, which as far as he knows is the edgy little private school I first worked at before meeting Samantha again.

VI
Something very weird is going on, and nobody will tell me what I'm supposed to know, if I am the cause of their distress. First thing in the morning, Matt was acting very cool as if I had offended him in some way, and later, between classes, in the teachers' salon, Ari the philosopher started an argument over a hypothetical ethics question. Then, I said hello to Antonio and he snubbed me. I didn't see Sam until the afternoon when she was on her way out, and she had some sort of fading bruise on her cheek, and would not comment on it. Strangest of all, Cal was not in the apartment when I arrived in this confused state, and he never came back last night. Everything is running together as if it had only one meaning which I cannot fathom, and I am wondering what I have come back to.

Synonymy IV

When I woke from a nap on the plane, I found Cal ostensibly reading the Fernando Pessoa biography I had carried on with me. Apparently he had finished with all the comic books he had picked up in the airport bookstore, and the graphic novels I was bringing down with me to use in my teaching. I knew, not having the proper training except for what I would be able to grasp along the way, that I would have to be innovative. I had even thought while Cal was paying for the comics, with my money, that I might be able to find some use for them, but in his considered review they were garbage. "And this guy," he said, pointing to the cover sketch on the bio, "he was just weird; I mean, I couldn't tell the difference between any of the voices." "Among," I said, "between is for two people; among for more," and he just looked at me with that "fuck me" glare he possesses before calling the flight attendant to bring another drink.

Synonymy III

"Hey, Caligula," I said, "are you thinking of going out to look for a job?"
"Are you looking to get rid of me," Cal asked, "as if friendship and relative proximity count for nothing?"
"I was wondering if you might consider coming down to Mexico with me for a little while, and it'll be my treat." Yeah, and I can keep my eye on you until such time as I find a way to dispose of your annoying presence. I knew if I offered him a couple of hundred bucks to make him go away, he would just return after I had gone, so I only saw one solution. Besides, I was fairly certain I could pack him off to Acapulco and he would get distracted enough, in some get-rich-quick scheme not to want to come back to where I'd be staying.

Synonymy II

Cal told me all about how Jay-Jay was doing with her schooling; he knew I would be interested in that, and that he had seen Diana in concert—never so bored in his life. "I mean she is my sister, fer crissake, but all that opera twaddle leaves me cold." Why'd he go, I wanted to know, and he said, who wouldn't on free tickets, but mostly he went to get bombed at the after party, which didn't turn out quite the way he'd foreseen. "The kid and the nanny were there to help mom celebrate. You know she's always been a bigger hit over in Europe, and I guess she considered it a form of victory to be performing here in New York even in a secondary role." He did not mention whether or not he had hit her up for "something to tide him over" as was his usual m.o., but he said she headed back to the continent shortly thereafter, and since he was in the city, he hopped on a ferry and came over to the Island looking for me.

Synonymy

I decided about two weeks into the thing that my original plans were not the best choice. I wanted to do it right, and that meant asking for a few days off to fly up to New York, gathering together all my papers, and returning in a way that I could hold my head up and not walk around preparing for a hand to come down on my shoulder by someone telling me I would have to take a hike. The flight up was non-eventful, but imagine my surprise on finding someone living in my house in my absence! My ex-brother-in-law Calvin was drinking the last of my private stock, sitting in his boxers and watching television in my favorite chair, and after I squelched the desire to rap him on the head, mostly because I quickly recalled the devious reactions he was capable of, I asked him why he wasn’t working. He simply replied that his last good job had ended six weeks earlier, he had coming looking for me to hang out with, and on finding the house empty of me but not my stuff, decided to await my return. He declined to say how he had entered, but I figured that part out when I discovered I had to clean up the bits of glass from one of the panels on the back door, bits he hadn’t bothered about after discovering the full larder.

But Will I Pick Up on the Grammar?

My "life" has evolved 360 degrees. I'm looking up (and I guess I'd have to say backwards at my "past") instead of forward because I've opted to move my base of operations down to Mexico. I wouldn't give up the house on Staten Island. That would be stupid. But I can do this. Hadn't heard from Raymond or Denise in a while, so I rang their number. She answered. Said he was no longer upset with me, just wasn't in at the moment. She wished me luck and said the move would be a good thing. Wish it was more of an adventure, but as I don't have to work, and have no qualifications, it may end up as just a repositioning. I could look Michael up and ask him to help me get a job teaching English. Apparently he's been at it a while, and doing all right. He must know some people. I'm a quick learner. I just tire of things before they run out.
No. No. No. This is going to be different.
I'm going to do this. Correctly. Or maybe not.

Day 3 of a Long Weekend

All the lights of the city would be shining. The pink sky of the late afternoon would fade to the blue of dusk. It would be autumn with red, gold and brown leaves everywhere. They would have made their journey, probable and right, unlike the places we went.
I will wonder where you might be and where you're going to. Again, I´ll be going nowhere, but now I will realize drugs will not literally take me to some other place. Like the leaves at my feet, bunched together, you know, I don't want to travel alone. Going home again, I'll turn a corner, resigned to another evening in front of the television. I will think if you were here, we could order a pizza and listen to music and tell each other a few jokes, have some wine and laugh, then get serious. Then I would tell you just how much of a fool I have been. We would kiss and make love without undressing. Then we'd go to bed and hold each other so close neither of us could make plans to try to live alone. These are the simple things I never allowed you to think me capable of wanting.
I will climb the steps and remember the woman I disturbed by speaking my thoughts aloud, and her disapproving look. Perhaps she didn't feel I was crazy, but was only reminding me it doesn't do to dream. Perhaps she knew I was high, or thought I was a lost soul. If so, she had that right.
Putting the key in the lock, I will hear a familiar sound behind me causing me to turn, and I won't believe what I'm looking at. It will be you, standing on the lowest step, and when I start to say a word of welcome, you will put one finger to your lips.

Day 2 of a Long Weekend

My mood changes, ostensibly. Green lights tell me everything is go. The streets are crowded once again. They're always so, but this time I just push my way through, past the nameless faces. None of them are you. Having taken something from the medicine cabinet, I don't know what it was, I feel like a wild thing, all on fire and ready to burn something. It's invigorating. This works for about an hour, but then I think how I would like to share this experience with you. You know, I believe, for a little while at least, that I am able to see everything more clearly. I realize I've been afraid to show you how I truly feel, and I want to admit I have made some terrible mistakes.
In my head I'm having this conversation with you, when for no good reason at all, out loud, I say, "You never had to doubt my feelings." A woman with a shopping bag looks at me as if I'm just another crazy man. I'm asking you to forget the reality of what happened. Let it go. Please. Forget what reason tells you, and feel what I feel in this moment. She doesn't know me. She doesn't know us. Shaking her head and tut-tutting, as if to wither me, she doesn't realize her actions cause me mixed emotions. I'm also sensing that I must have taken something left over from our college days of staying up all night to study. Remember when we used to pop a few No-Doze and drink liters of coke to cram? I know if you were here with me, you would find it amusing to see how it affects me now.

Day 1 of a Long Weekend

I didn't know what to do with myself. I walked through crowded city streets. Red lights everywhere told me to stop what I was doing. Go home. To what? Later, with a bowl of popcorn that tasted like chalk, I sat in front of the tube, and flipped the remote. What was happening on the box didn't catch my interest, but the dialogues reminded me of things we'd said. Like the times you asked me why I felt the need to smoke something before we went out with friends and I pretended not to hear you. I would ask you if you'd seen my black shoes, or if you knew where my jeans were. When the boyfriend in the sitcom played stupid, it was me I was seeing. When I thought back on what happened, you know, I realized I was thick-headed. I was blind to my own self-centeredness and to your needs. I thought I would be a fool to get so involved, to open up my heart and have it broken. Little did I know that the hurt experienced is the essence of being in love. All I expected was eventual jealousy and bitterness. I couldn't find the words to tell you and you probably wouldn't have believed me then if I had. I went to bed earlier than usual feeling as if I were the one who was hurt.

NLE at the POB

The job fizzled out and I did not even remark about it. I’m not suited to sitting in an office keeping track of other people’s numbers. Nobody, I am aware of, keeps track of mine. Two months ago I decided to treat myself to a cruise to the Mexican Riviera, had a blast escaping from the New York winter, but when I reluctantly returned I found only three pieces of junk mail in the mailbox. Two had Tom Lawrence’s name on them, and one was addressed to “Current Occupant.” That would be me.
I tried to write while I was onboard the ship, but the only thing I came up with, extensions to someone else’s story, went uncommented. I guess the writing was too much about me and the other person didn’t recognize herself, nor did anyone, it would appear.
Someone did sort of satellite position me and asked a friend if he were traveling incognito, but by the time he advised me, it no longer had the power to make me feel good. Oddly, upon observing my post, he told me he didn’t feel the need to comment either as he had been working toward the same end. I had to agree. He had started the tale which inspired the other writer, which inspired me… Perhaps I had taken too much liberty. We had only been acquaintances in a previous life, but I thought we had gotten to know each other enough to become friends. That might take another life. The whole thing was going in circles, not leading anywhere. Still, it’s there to be taken up at any time.
Jobless now, I think I will begin writing a novel. I don’t know enough about myself in a meaningful way. I feel like a tabla rasa, and that might be a good space to explore.

Symptomatic 6

I slept through the long bus ride north, having thought to map out my plan of action along the way, but quickly becoming overwhelmed by heat and exhaustion, then finding a comfortable reclining seat on the air-cooled bus, I gave in to sleep, which provided a pleasant dream of slow freefalling. In the morning, I was surprised to find Tuxtla much like Tapachula in tone and ambiance, having expected to find some dusty little pueblo because of my inexperience leading me to believe Mexico only had modern amenities in its resorts along the shorelines. I ate breakfast at a MacDonald’s, and after scoping out the place discovered there were plenty of little English schools where I might apply for a job with a promise to supply proper papers as soon as I could have them sent to me. I figured by the time I would actually have to deliver my documentation, I would be in a position financially to move on, and if I worked the situation out befittingly, I could be in Mexico City in about three months. Everything changed one afternoon three weeks on while I was relaxing at Starbucks enjoying a latte after successfully talking my way through a session with a group of teenagers eager to learn some American slang, when a familiar looking young woman passed by, and looking at me quizzically for a moment, said, “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” Preposterously, I offered, “Why don’t you have a seat, and we can see if that is true?”

Symptomatic 5

As soon as I had a chance to look at a map and actually realized where I was, I quickly made a change in plans, and decided my itinerary must perforce take me through the state of Chiapas to its capitol Tuxtla Gutierrez. Mexico City would have to wait a while, and even at that, I figured I’d have to pick up a little work along the way if I wanted to survive. Little did I know there were few if any opportunities for an empty-headed stranger such as myself that would pay any kind of money I could live on. In my research, I’d come upon a memorable old black and whiter from the 1940s wherein a shady businessman on the lam pretended to be a teacher in order to hide out in a little town far away from the pursuit of his nemesis, a friend he had grown up with who had joined the police force, and I thought I could probably get away with something like that. Sure, he had the woman between them on his side alerting him to the cop’s progress over her radio show, and I didn’t even have anyone chasing me, yet, but I was up to a little subterfuge to add spice to my adventure, so it seemed like the way to go.

Symptomatic 4

Something Kafka once said about Truth being indivisible and not being able to recognize itself held sway over my decisions in the next few days. I wanted to maintain high ideals and believe I was in the right, to be an adventurer, to earn my stripes, to boldly go…blah, blah, blah, but I knew I was waffling, and would not admit to myself that I had just fucked up and could not bring myself around to rectifying. Like a cat that bumps into the furniture and then continues blithely across the room, I would say I wanted things to happen so. I was meeting my fate. Recalling both the film I had watched and my primo’s maxim, I wondered how difficult it might be to shimmy through the space between traveling without proper documentation and the pain of retribution if caught, and foolishly compared myself to all those poor farmers who creeped up North out of necessity, though I knew full well they did not begin their journeys from capacious Acapulco on a whim as I had.

Symptomatic 3

My curiosity got the better of me and I decided to cut out the middle-person, my lady friend in Amarillo, and rather too quickly arranged to fly down to the Mexican Riviera and take a cruise stopping at some of those southern ports. Acapulco struck me as similar to other places I had visited, flashy and touristy, but when I visited Tapachula, I was taken by the homey ambiance. I thought it felt like Queens, New York with a heavier touch of tropical design. Still hung over from the previous evening’s indulgence in a cantina near the beach, I found a quieter place, just to shave off the hair of the dog, but after several caguamas, and an interesting chat with a couple of locals, I unfortunately fell asleep at a corner table, then woke up to find my wallet gone, and that I had missed the ship’s sailing. I had tucked enough money into an inside pocket along with my passport and cards, so I was able to pay for all the beer, and could have arranged for a wire transfer to catch up with my passage in the next port, but optioned instead to strike out on my own, and travel to the capitol. The words of the one who robbed me (I believed it was José 2), echoed in my disappointment—en Mexico, primo, a man can do anything.

Symptomatic 2

After striking out on the live social scene, I returned to spending a couple of hours each night at my laptop, writing a little, chatting with people I had never sat next to, and checking out the news in English on Latin American countries, but especially Mexico because it was fresh in my mind. I learned the country was suffering a number of difficulties resulting from battles among drug families, and about a disused justice system presented in the dramatic documentary Presunto Culpable, but most of the news I could find concentrated on mishaps in the north of the nation. Very few newsworthy events outside of the education arena appeared to be happening in the south. Any discussion of the situation in 1994 had a historical flavor to it, as if the most recent revolutionary fervor had now joined its brethren on the shelf and in the books. Upon switching to travel guides and noting there was still a call out to come and enjoy “the best the country had to offer,” I started communicating with the woman in Texas, discussing the possibility of being in her area and seeing if we could meet and size each other up. She must have concluded I had formed Plan B because I could tell by the way she said it “might be nice” without conviction in the tone of her words that she was being duplicitous as I was and both of us were too shy to admit our possibilities had expired.

Snowblind

I was freezing and my planned cruise to Central American ports came at a good time, but it made the return to this Arctic more unbearable. For five days, I drifted in a paradise of idleness, which helped to unstiffen joints, while my brain produced static impulses. There was nothing I had to do, and now that I have to, I don’t want to. I am aware of animation that lies waiting under this icy white blanket, but long for the beauty that lies fully exposed under black pin-pricked skies and radiant tangerine politics shared by smilers who express little need for the tangibility of current events while inexorably donning their consequences. We all must move forward, but some, like certain crabs, have chosen to shift sideways, and still, it gets them there. I must get away more often, but timing is everything, and now I require hot coffee.

Symptomatic

Met two women last month while out having a drink or two one night, and I guess that means I still have it; only I didn’t get it. The first said her name was Beth, and that she had recently settled in New York after a long stint of teaching English in Mexico, and when it came down to it, she wasn’t really looking for companionship, but what she said in parting caused me to whither, and I was glad to see the last of her. A little while later, I shared a drink with a woman named Samantha, who was on a side trip to the east coast before heading on down to Mexico. I knew there was no future in chatting her up, but I did for a while, mostly because I was trying to find out what the big attraction was South of the Border. Last week I was reading through CraigsList and read an offer that titillated, but I didn’t respond because when it comes down to it, I am looking for companionship. I am acquainted with a couple of women, one who lives in Boston, and another who lives in Texas; both of whom in prior communiqués have invited me to come visit. I might just take up the offer of the lady in Amarillo because if reality doesn’t measure up to fantasy, I could easily move a little further south.

Creepypasta

The machine was off for three minutes and forty-seven seconds, which doesn’t seem like so very long, but something happened in the world during that time, and it was an irreversible action. The Engineer had spent four hours and thirty-seven minutes aimlessly surfing the Internet when he should have been mindful of his watch; then, foolishly he dozed. Two Girls, One Cup and the little girl from The Ring danced in his dream, which creeped him out a bit until he was awakened by the silence. He shivered, realizing there would be consequences, and he had to go to the bathroom. Tormented by need and responsibility, he wavered. As the machine whirred to life, thoughts of suicide crossed his guilty mind.

Ars wipe

We all knew what was coming next. One of us would disappear for a while and the rest would forget the missing member almost entirely. All he would receive would be announcements. His in box would overflow with invitations to participate in the success of others.
They might find him inside his sealed up Lexus in the garage, or maybe not.
They might wonder from time to time, or not.
It was regarded as declasé to inquire.
One single, soft slip and all his work would be disregarded. The pundits might recall Ars longa, vita brevis, but who had time to practice punditry?
Years later, all would appear in the database, but rarely on a search engine, and Mom would say, “Don’t cross your eyes. They may stay that way.”
We could always count on Mom’s perception, if not her affection.

Standard Op

At the end of the year, I felt like Edward Hopper’s White clown in Soir Bleu. Does that make me a cliché? I probably won’t make it to the Whitney to compare notes. I sat alone in my big house. Didn’t drink anything stronger than green tea, and tried to ignore all the noise outside on the streets.
I’ve got a new job, but as it's only a stop gap, I don’t even feel like writing about it. I will say this. I haven’t had to work during the greater part of 2010 and I set about grounding myself, but now out of boredom, I sought something to do.
The girl from the Seven-11 turned out to be a wash. She went away as high as she came. I thought there was something more there. She wrote an interesting little poem, but it must have come from before her mind went blank. It could have been addressed to anybody, and probably had been presented to several gobs before me.
My mother told me in a dream that she tried to call me, but couldn’t get past the long distance exchange. I don’t have a working land phone. Perhaps I only imagined that conversation.
My father concurred.
I wrote a few pieces myself last year. They didn’t amount to much. Expecting less time available for same these coming months, but feel an urgency to talk to someone, something, a screen.
I could take on a new persona, but if I become disconnected, I will just drift.
I need prompting.
Here is a resolution. I will bear witness to a stone’s worth of truth each and every day. Whatever shines may find its way to this page.