I left the café an hour and a half later than planned. Now I was
weaving through lunch-hour traffic, making my way to the park. There
really isn't a lot defining randoms on the streets of large cities.
Everyone is wearing formal clothing, no more than a season old, and
at this time of day all have a brand-named disposable cup in one hand
and matching bag of lunch in the other. I assumed I came off the same
too all the other passers by.
To my pleasant surprise, the man from the train was sitting with his
bike next to him in the park. It was what I had hoped for. He looked
as happy to see me as he was to see the sun which now beamed through
the clouds.
“Hey there, stranger!” I called.
“Not a stranger for much longer. My name is Kim.” I took his
extended hand a shook it.
“I'm Ben. It feels like I hit the jackpot, meeting two interesting
people the same morning.”
“Oh? Who's the other?” Kim asked, genuinely interested.
“A girl named Anna. She's a cashier at the coffee shop where I
bought us there.” I held up twp salads and coffees. “I hope you
don't mind salad.”
“Not at all! This is a welcome treat. But how the hell did you
know I'd be here?”
“I didn't. But I thought, if you were, you'd like some company,”
I said bearing one of the day's many smiles.
We conversed for a long time over our lunches. I told him about
Anna and the missing memories from the previous night, and about what
I liked about the city. He told me that he had once been married, but
his wife had died thirty-some years ago. Though Kim was fatherly,
meeting him had felt more like meeting an old favorite teacher from
high school – which he indeed had retired from.
Seeing
now that it was almost 3 o'clock, I decided we ought to part ways –
again. He let me know the he'd really enjoyed my company and
hospitality, and that I should call him the next time I wanted
someone to buy me lunch. I was about to enter his number into my
cellphone, but discovered that was impossible. My phone wasn't in any
of my pockets. I quickly wrote his number down on one of the receipts
in my wallet before hurrying back to work.
Shit,
shit, shit.
How
the fuck could I not notice my cellphone being gone?! I
continued to mentally chew myself out while doing my best to run back
to my office.
I tried politely to excuse and pardon myself as I pushed past my
co-workers, spewing “hello's” and “good afternoon's” in every
direction while trying to get back to my desk. As soon as I was
seated again I picked up the office phone ad called my own. A man
picked up.
“Hi, Ben. I've got your phone,” he said teasingly.
“Hey...” I tried in vein to recognize his voice. “Who is
this?”
“I'm just an entrepreneur with a proposition I think you'd like to
hear. Are you interested?”
I figured this was just a prank being played by someone from work,
but I wasn't sure.
“Sorry, but do I know you?” I tried to ask without sounding
hostile.
“No. Not at all. Now, are you interested? Yes or no?”
“Sure. Fine. Yes.” This was making me madder by the second.
“Just give me back my phone.”
“Yeah. Whatever. Meet me tonight at Club Crossings,” he said. He
knew he had me on a short leash and had no problem yanking it.
“Where did you find it, anyway? Or did you steal it?” The latter
seemed less probably, being that this conversation was even taking
place.
“Fuck you. You're gonna get your phone back. It won't cost you
anything either, so don't worry.” I could hear him smiling.
The nerve to stay that casual.
“Whatever,” I finally said. “What time should I meet you
there?”
“Free admission is until eleven, but it's up to you. Thanks for
meething me, Ben”. He hung up.
Strangest
conversation ever,
I thought, silently, still seething a little. What made it even
stranger was that I wasn't actually that mad. Maybe it was the
feeling that something was finally happening in my otherwise uniform
life. Like an adventure or a quest, kind of.
“Why are you so smiley?” A different Kim than the one from the
train – and later, park – asked. She had apparently been staring
over my cubicle divider for a minute or so.
“S t r a n g e s t c o n v e r s a t i o n e v e r ,” I
laughed. “Some guy from last night has my phone. I don't know him,
but he said he has a proposition for me and wants to give my phone
back tonight at Club Crossings.” It was as weird for to her as it
was to me.
“Shit. Are you gonna kick his ass?”
I laughed again, “Actually, I don't think I will.”
* * *
There was too much on my mind for me to do anything other than stare,
brain-dead, at the CAD-window in front of me. The sceptic in me
consistently warned me not to go to the club. I should just report
the theft of my phone to the police. But I really wanted an
adventure.
What
if the guy kidnaps me or robs me again? I could probably defend
myself sufficiently. But what if there is more than one of them?
Maybe I should as Thom to come along with me? That's what I'll do. He
loves clubs, drinking, music and the lingering possibility of a
fist-fight.
I punched the programmed speed-dial button and held the reciever to
my ear.
“Hey, kid. What's up?” Thom picked up after a ring and a half.
“Hi. Some guy got a hold of my phone last night and wants to
return it tonight at Club Crossings. I think he stole it. Do you want
to tag along? I'll pay.”
“Sure.” He was silent for about ten seconds before continuing.
“What time?”
“The guy didn't say. Sorry, but are you busy? I feel like I'm
interrupting something.” I've accidentally caught him in meetings
before.
“No, no, nah. Don't worry. I'm having sex.” Wow. He's awfully
casual about it.
“Seriously?”
“Yes.”
“But I called your office phone.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“I don't know how you do it.” Thom is one of the nicest people
one could ever hope to meet, yet he gets in fights and, apparently,
has sex in inappropriate places.
“Right. I'll be by Genesis later to talk about tonight,” he said
in a calm, professional manner, and hung up.
I went back to to the CAD program and studied the skeleton of a baby
carriage I was piecing together. It took no more than 3 or 4 minutes
before Thom was at my office. He works two floors below me at ground
level for an investment banking firm. I still don't know what
investment banking is, but Thom is good enough at it to have kept his
job for these 5 years.
“It didn't take long for you to get here. I didn't mean to rush
you,” I said slowly while saving and shutting down what I was
working on.
“It was probably just as well. Carla had to get back to the
daycare center up here. And you know I'd drop anything to come hang
out with you.” Thom looked just as neat and proper as he had this
morning in his 3-piece suit and brown hair parted to the right. He
showed no signs of recently having fornicated; no sweat, no crooked
clothing, no cheeky grin.
“Anyway. Before we start in on tonight's plans you have to tell me
what happened to me last night. I'm worried I might have pissed the
wrong person off, but can't remember.” Finally, I'll get some
clarity.
“Oh. No problem. You got really drunk so we called it an early
night and took you home.” He saw on my face that I wasn't content
with his answer. “What? That's what really happened!”
“But what about the gashes on my face and stuff?” I was really
getting myself worked up. “You're telling me that's from an early
night?”
“You had too much to drink and decided it would be a good Idea to
short-cut over a few tables and patrons on your dash to the to the
bathroom. I compensated the owner for the mess. It's a good thing he
likes you. I mean, he's really gay for you. Carla and I took you home
in a cab.”
“So we didn't fight anyone?” I was embarrassed now, and could
see why Thom wanted to spare me the details. I still prefer the
products of my imagination, though.
“Nope. Everyone was cool about it. But you did tear your jacket.
Don't worry about it, though. I had a new one delivered to your
place. Now, about tonight.” Thom played the big-brother role better
than the best of actual big brothers.
“Oh yeah. I mostly wanted you along so the guy doesn't try any
shit on me. Thanks for the jacket, by the way. Once I get my phone
back I'll probably just want to head back home. I have no idea when
he'll get there or even how I'll recognize him.”
“Do you want to just sit and take it easy? We could go for a late
dinner before hand and have a few light drinks until your thief
arrives.” Surprisingly, it seemed my best friend was not at all
interested in getting wasted.
We agreed to meet up at a restaurant later for dinner. Thom and
Carla would treat and then he and I would walk her home before going
on to our rendezvous with the mysterious man.
Having something to look forward to made the rest of the day pass
quickly. I figured it was possible we might even enjoy ourselves,
though just retrieving my phone would make the evening a success. I
vowed I'd stay sober (barring wine with the meal) just in case “shit
went down”.
* * *
I caught the early train back home and picked up another pack of
cigarettes when I walked by the corner store. The sun had long since
disappeared behind more rainy clouds, but it wasn't raining yet. The
neighborhood was not at all as pretty as it had been that morning
and, being nearly 6 pm, the streetlamps were flickering on, one by
one.
A storm-like thunder echoed right as I locked the gate behind me,
followed by a dense storm or raindrops hitting the pavement, leaving
nothing dry. It sounded like the sudden applause after one
masterpiece of an opus.
Posted
against my door leaned a garment-sized box. Thom often takes it upon
himself to do favors for people, and buying me clothes is just one of
many. My apartment, for example, used to be his. When he found out I
was spending most of my savings and college money on a hotel suite he
offered to hook me up. I slept on his sofa for just one night. By the
next morning he had already moved to a nicer, more expensive place,
leaving his furnishings, and handed me the keys. Today, my laundry
and dry cleaning are picked up and delivered one a week – all
charged to his account. Generosity
could have been his middle name. It's not, however. Thomas William
Burgen is my best friend.
I grabbed and Exacto knife off my drafting table and cut the tape
around the box. Inside lay a gray sport coat sealed in clear plastic,
as well as a pair of light gray jeans. The set would be worn later to
dinner, mostly to show my appreciation. I flopped them on my bed.
What better way to wind down than to draw a hot bath? I couldn't
think of one, so I filled the tub and brought my cigarettes and an
astry to the bed-stand-turned-bath-stand. The steam from the water
gave the illusion of fog on and just below the surface, and my feet
broke the rainbow-colored film of soap, forcing it to the edges of
the white porcelain in just under one second. I lowered myself in an
inch at a time, letting my unaccustomed flesh get used to the heat
with each advance. It hit my butt cheeks and balls the worst, but
eventually every part of me – except my face and knees – was
enjoying the new, hot tingle.
I lay there with my eyes closed and let the back of my eyelids lose
color. The small adjustments of my body made squeaks and thuds that
reverberated off the bathroom tiles. The bathroom remains otherwise
silent. Not even my breathing was audible, nor the waves my chest
created as it heaved up and down.
When I finally opened my eyes again it almost didn't register that
they were open. The small, square window no longer shown light gray.
Everything but the corner where the night light was plugged had
become pitch black while I had rested. Without my phone it was
difficult to tell and keep time, but my guess was that I had enough
time for a cigarette – and I had become sufficiently raisiny.
With the skill and thoughtlessness of a routined soldier – because
that's exactly what it was: my routine of smoking in the tub – I
lit up and exhaled through my mouth and nose the “toasted” flavor
of the tobacco “inspired by the original recipe”. It was the
first time in all the years since I'd smoked my first Lucky Strike
that the taste was actually enjoyable. I could hear the paper burn
and crackle as the red-hot tip creeped closer to my fingers. Since
the purpose of my bath was more than just leisure, I made an effort
to stay clean and was careful not to let any ash fall into the water,
and instead used the designated tray.
After stepping out of my bath I leaned against the wall and let the
the blood seep from my head to the rest of my extremities while
dripping dry. Dizziness makes it tough to towel of one's body, and it
took a while, but I was eventually satisfied. I checked myself in the
mirror and deemed my appearance pretty enough to go out.
When I opened my closet to pick out undies, socks and a dress shirt
I comment my discovery of a completely emptied closet with a loud
“God-fucking-dammit, Thom”. Whatever the opposite of “overhauled”
is, that's exactly what Thom had done to my closet. There was one
pair of new, bagged underwear, black socks still stapled together,
and a t-shirt hanging on the rod. I pulled the shirt over my head and
stood in front of the mirror naked from the waist down with a pink
tee with white screened text reading: “Give me back my fucking
phone, please”. I was seething, but couldn't help smiling.
The whole ensemble looked casual and handsome. Thom does know
fashion. That might be the only thing he's an expert on, since I
honestly don't know what he does for a living.
Carla buzzed up to let me know they were downstairs waiting with a
cab, and I bounded down the stairs to meet them.
“Nice choice of outfit!” Them quipped with a cocky
grin.
“You're an asshole. I just thought Carla should know
that”, I joked back. “Carla, Thom is a terrible person and I
don't know what you could have done to deserve a punishment as severe
as this.”
“I actually had a friend print that shirt for you. You owe me 15
dollars”, Carla countered.
“You two deserve each other.” With that, we all bunched into the
backseat of the taxi. “By the way. You were joking about me paying
you, right?”
“Of course I was. Thom is the asshole, not me. Remember?” And we
all laughed.
When Thom instructed the driver to go to Club Crossings I was
confused and asked why we weren't going for dinner. He explained that
if we weren't planning on staying long then having dinner
reservations might serve as an incentive to leave. That made sense.
* * *
Once at the club, I checked my jacket without thinking. There I
stood with my conspicuous pink shirt and nothing to cover it.
Granted, the message was clear and clever, but I hadn't planned
attracting that much attention. Thom and Carla were at the bar and
waved me over for a drink.
“We should go dance!” Carla screamed in my ear. “This song is
good!”
“I'd love to, but I should keep my eye out for the guy with my
phone.”
“Come on. He told you to come here, so he won't leave until he
gives you his phone. Go dance and enjoy yourself and I'll keep an eye
out for him.” He paused while Carla paced down to the end of the
bar to get our three beers. “Plus, I might see somebody worth
punching.”
“Why don't we switch and you dance with your girlfriend?” I knew
his reply before I got the entire question out.
“First off, I stopped dancing when the girls stopped trying to
look nice,” which is what he has claimed for as long as I've known
him. What came next, however, shocked me. “And second, Carla won't
be my girlfriend much longer.”
“What the fuck?! But you two are perfect for each other! Did you
recently smack a mule on the ass and get kicked in the head?!”
“Settle the fuck down, Ben. Don't make a scene.” He switched to
a whisper. “She's on her way back. The reason I made reservations
after the club was to propose to her. That way she and I can go
straight home and screw till kingdom come.”
“Oh, shit! Congratulations, Thom.” Seldom had I been this happy
for somebody other than myself.
“Now shut the fuck up and stop grinning like a fool. Carla's on
her way back.”
“What are you guys talking about? If it's hot girls or dick jokes,
I want in!” She handed us our beers and we continued to discus
girls and dicks.
Eventually
she managed to drag Thom out on the dance floor. Club Crossings
bought an old train station and changed very little. The dance floors
are few feet lower than the rest of the club down on what used to be
tracks between the platforms. As I followed them across the floor I
caught a glimpse of what I swore was a child. Who
would bring their kid to a club? I
wondered. Maybe it's a bartender. It's not like an establishment like
this would have a daycare center and ball pit.
I shook off the
notion and ordered another drink. An hour had passed and I was
getting very antsy. Every now and then a friend of some shy girl
would come up to the bar to hype up said friend or get me out
dancing. I would kindly decline, and they would move on to the next
single at the bar. The girls weren't bad looking at all, but I
couldn't take the risk of not getting my phone back. And, of course,
there was Anna. I let my mind wander to her when I wasn't looking for
some stranger with my phone possibly waving for me.
Then I felt a tug at my pants and heard, “Excuse me.” The first
thing that came to mind was that the child I saw before wanted me to
help them find their parents. But then it registered that it wasn't a
child's voice at all. I turned around to see a midget (or dwarf,
little person, whatever).
“Nice shirt, Ben. Do you want your phone?” Holy shit. I could
not believe it. He told me to follow him to one of the corners where
it was quieter.
He walked me over to a booth far from both the bar and dance floor.
At least now I didn't fear being jumped as much, but all the while I
was thinking that this is – by far – the strangest thing the ever
happen to me.
I sat there silent for nearly a minute just trying to figure out
what to say. There was never really a plan, so I sat there stupidly.
Finally the guy spoke.
“First off, I'm Casey. I also want to apologize for taking your
phone. I will explain why later on.”
“Why don't you explain now? I like that idea more.” Once again,
this man was wearing my patience thin. Casey, dwarf or midget or little person, had the audacity to roll
his eyes and said, “I'm actually not the bad guy here. Not to say
that you are. I'm just saying there was method to my madness.”
The fact that he was so calm and rational about the fact he stole my
phone and thought there was something else more important that
returning only added to my initial impression that he was, in fact –
and true to his words – mad.
“I just came here to retrieve my cell phone. I have dinner plans
for later with my friends. This is not supposed to take this long.”
Something felt wrong about this situation. I was becoming
increasingly suspicious of Casey and wanted more and more to leave;
The option of just leaving and buying a new phone. It seemed like
less hassle.
“Here it is.” He slid it towards me on a Brooklyn Brown Ale
coaster. “I made only one call, and that was to you. It was a dick
move to take it, and I apologize.”
“I really don't like you,” I felt a little bad saying it, since
I'm sure Casey already knew it. “But I'll buy you a beer.”
I
waved the waitress over and ordered whatever local brew they had. It
was taking long enough for her to return and I grew tired of trying
to look as if I had seen something on the dance floor that caught my
attention, caught it enough that I was too busy to talk. Please
say something,
I thought. He sat there putting on the same act. In a club as loud as
this it's hard to imagine any kind of silence, but there it was, as
awkward as ever.
Shamelessly, and for lack of a better place to rest my eyes, I
peered under the table to see whether or not the dwarf's feet dangled
off the edge of the the seat like a child's. They would have but he,
like me, sat against the backrest. The bottoms of his shoes were
perpendicular to his legs and he resembled a child more than I had
assumed. Then the shame finally filled me and I felt as though Casey
knew what I was looking at and thinking. My eyes darted to another
spot under the table where two feet lined up. It was Thom with our
beers.
“I picked up your beers for you. Just thought I'd let you know
Carla and I are moving on to dinner.”
“This is Casey,” I introduced. They coldly shook hands.
“Casey. That's a nice name. Maybe you're a nice guy.” Thom was
never an expert on character. At least I have never heard him make
presumptions about people, especially not based on their name. That's
not to say that he was wrong.
“Thanks,
Thom,” Casey said appreciatively. How
did he know Thom's name?
“Now
that's just wrong, you little fucker! What else do you know about
me?” My usually calm brother in arms lost his temper in a flash. “I
take back any notions of you being a good guy. You're a dick.”
It was strange for the stranger to have that much information, I
agreed, but Thom was becoming to enraged and I feared that much more
of this could ruin the rest of his evening. I stood up and walked him
to the coat-check and told him I could handle myself for the rest of
the evening. We hugged and wished each other good luck. Carla may
have gotten a slightly longer and harder than Thom, but I tried to
hide my happiness best I could. The next time I'd see her she would
be Thom Burgen's fiancee.
Now
I could get on with my
night. Casey remained in our booth even though I had never excused
myself of told him where I was going.
“Sorry about what happened earlier. I don't think he meant it,”
I apologized.
“What do you mean? I thought it was pleasant.” He was clearly
being sarcastic, but since he was smiling so did I. “By the way,
you can tell your friend that I only knew his name because he sent
you a text the morning you discovered your phone's disappearance. His
picture popped up. It wasn't important, though. Just something about
dry cleaning.”
“Oh. He's gonna feel like such an ass in the morning.” That
started us laughing and kicked off the beginning of even more joking
and good stories.
We shared more stories of misunderstandings and awkward events
starting with the most recent (mine being as recent as yesterday when
I tried to explain in french how to buy a ticket to a couple who were
not; they were German) all the way back to when we each were kids and
repeatedly embarrassed ourselves then. Casey confessed an event when
he was 11 and flew across the country. He had gone to the bathroom
and washed he hands, but did not see any paper towels. Instead he saw
packets of what were labeled “sanitary napkins” and grabbed a
handful. The flight attendant rolled by later offering warm wash
clothes for hands and face and offered one to him pinched with tongs.
“I told her, 'No thanks. I already have some,' and flashed the
little packet. When she saw the stash of maxi pads in my lap she
collapsed in the aisle laughing.” He was fighting his own laughter
throughout the entire story in order to even tell it, but now that he
had finished he let it all out. We both lost our shit and I admitted
that this was easily the weirdest night I'd had since... And then I
paused, recalling the most recent experience this out of the
ordinary.
“The last night I had that was this strange I actually don't
remember too much of,” I began. “It was last night when you stole
my phone. You still haven't explained why. What I want to know most
is why you actually bothered giving it back.”
“As promised, I'll tell you. But this place is closing soon, and I
am too sober to really call it a night.” It was hard to believe
that it was only 2 o'clock and I, too, was in need of another drink.
“I suggest we go to some friends of mine. They have good beer.”
Why
am I following a guy I don't trust to a place I don't know?
...is
what I should have asked.
But I didn't. I went with him out the door and we walked and walked
a few blocks in silence until I let out, “Maybe we should do this
another night. I have work tomorrow and I should probably give Carla
and Thom a call to congratulate them.”
I clicked the Thom's avatar in my phone's address book to dial his
name. The call was forwarded directly to his voice mail. I promptly
hung up and re-pocketed my phone.
“I guess he's busy,” Casey offered. “But I still insist you
tag along. I think you'll like it.”
So we walked another 6½ to 7 minutes – it's a very exact
estimation because I kept peeking at my watch worrying at how late it
was – and arrived at a stand-alone house, 1 story high, crammed
between two tall apartment buildings.
Docile enough, I observed.
Casey approached the door and entered without knocking, and I
followed nervously. There was no loud hip hop or house music blaring.
There was nothing at all hinting at a party atmosphere. The hallway
we walked down resembled that of a respectable residence and was
nearly the length of a train car with now doors. We passed a few
benches and tables, and even a tree, before the hall took a sharp
right to a pile of shoes. Through the doorway and down four steps was
a huge high-ceilinged living room with 14 adults sitting in
armchairs, sofas and beanbag chars. The house that had appered so
narrow from the outside was in reality deeper than passers-by could
have imagined.
One head slowly turned to out direction and
announced with a enthusiastic tone, “Casey's here”. As she spoke
she exhaled a small waterfall of smoke. This is when I noticed the
smell of weed. “Come grab a seat!”
And thus began the passing
of various smoking paraphernalia. I received each pipe in bung with a
“Fuck it”, some voiced, some merely between my brain and
myself.
These people were all visibly interesting and smart,
though no one said or did anything especially of interest of
intellegence. But I was OK with this. My contentedness wasn't because
of the marijuana, I decided. It was simply due to good company. Not
once did anyone ask – or care – who I was, what I did for a
living, how I knew Casey, etc. I got the impression that this was
everyone here had some similar level of familiarity with each
other.
It was approaching 3 AM Tuesday, I had work in the
morning, and was very much under the influence. Influences. This is
how I assumed the previous night had played out, sans narcotics: a
series of ill-advised decisions that just wouldn't be heard over the
feeling of “good”. It was also one of the last feelings I
remembered before, apparently, passing out.
