ECHOSIS

ECHOSIS - Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

As Derek began his long journey back, Samara walked the quiet streets crisscrossing Soho, lighting one cigarette after another. As she came up to a man standing on a corner, she stopped, snuffed out her cigarette, and taking the man's arm, continued walking.

"You're late," the man said.

"A lot on my mind."

"It's been a long time. Don't I even get a kiss."

"Lighten up, Christopher," she said with a smile and pecked him on the cheek.



Christopher's apartment was perfect in every detail. Muted colors, furniture with soft textures, unpolished stone sculptures everywhere, and two perfectly behaved poodles standing like sentries beneath the arched entrance to the living room. As Stan Getz's Bosa Nova cuts filled the air, it was perhaps two hours into this, their periodic exchange of philosophical ideas always scribbled on three by five cards, that Christopher leaned back, grinning as he studied a card. "You trying to tell me something?"

Samara, heavily involved in sorting her cards, looked up, "Which one is that?"

Christopher slipped into his James Mason imitation and lifted his voice just loud enough for her to hear. "Can love ever be defined for those who have never loved?"

"Oh. That one. I thought it a good question, given all you've told me lately."

"Oh, please..." he replied, still in his Mason voice.

"You know, Christopher, your graduate class of elitists might have some interesting answers."

"Meaning?"

"Have you?"

"Have I what?" he asked, now in his normal voice.

"Loved?"

Christopher rose, gave one furtive glance and walked to the liquor cabinet. "Usual?"

Samara glanced at her watch, "It's a bit late. Don't you have somewhere to go?"

"Like I said, usual?"

She nodded, "So... have you ever loved?"

Christopher poured two fingers of cognac in each glass and walked back to the couch. "That's like asking a smoker if they've ever tried to quit. Everybody tries."

"To love?" she said.

"Of course." Christopher sat down and took a savory sip of the golden liquid as he tilted his head left and right reading the various 3x5's. "And you're right, my class could give a variety of answers, I'm sure." He chuckled. "Especially since we just finished Lady Chatterley's Lover."

Lifting her glass in a toast and sipping, she said, "To the professor who can teach the clothes off of love, but whose students think he's never done it."

He grinned and lifted his glass. "Best kept secret on campus."

She leaned across and patted his thigh. "That's what I like about you most. You're painfully honest."

His eyes remained fixed on her. "Most gay men are."

"Honest?"

"Likable."

He gathered up the cards and put them in order. "You outdid yourself tonight. I like these ideas... like them a lot."

"A woman's perspective can be interesting."

Christopher laughed quietly, "My mother used to say something like that. Drove my father to drink."

"Because she was a bore?"

"Because he was a bore."

Samara sipped her cognac and savored the taste as she stared over at the crystal bottle on the bar. "Sharing your private stock suggests I'm still welcome."

As he placed the cards in his three by five box, he said, "Thought you'd appreciate that. And you're always welcome, especially with work like this. By the way, that's Timeless, Hennessey's best, you're drinking. Bought three bottles last year when Derek passed that tip onto me. Tell him my door is always open for another."

"Thanks, but he's rapidly weaning himself away from the stock market."

"That's a surprise. He's so good at it."

"He's finding out the museums and corporate world thinks he's good at his sculpturing as well."

"Pity."

She suddenly downed the balance of cognac and picked up her coat.

"Something I said?" he asked.

"No, something I need to say."

She kissed him on the cheek and moved toward the entrance. She opened the door, allowing a stream of hallway light to spill across his child like expression of disappointment. "You're special, you know," she said.

He nodded, "Yeah. My mother used to tell me that."

As she moved into the hallway, "I'm not your mother, though. Tell Jonathan hello for me." She moved toward the elevator.

He threw her a kiss and said, "I will. He's so obsessed with his health lately. Every night at the gym, you know. Hey..."

She turned back. "My love to Derek. I mean, say hello. When will I see you again?"

"As always. Up to you. You set the rules, remember?"

The elevator arrived. As she stepped in, she glanced back one more time. He stood in the doorway, his continued disappointment in her leaving reminding her of the first time he'd asked her to his apartment. She could only think his "rules" for her visits only exacerbated the confusion he continued to experience with his sexual identity. Had it been a full six years he'd been with Jonathan? It was times like this that separating friendship from therapy was the most difficult. She was, after all, a human being first, and a professional with a particular skill second. She valued his friendship.



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The walk back was short. Two blocks east, one block north. She smiled at the twisting and turning of her high heels the cobblestone provided. For a listener and composer ten to twelve hours a day, that was exercise. As she turned the final corner, a freshly washed sidewalk of the small rocks glistened with the reflection of the neon martini sign of "Stefano's Bar." She glanced up at the sign, then at her watch. She paused a moment. He's still driving. Might as well make the most of a good start. She pushed the wooden door open.

Inside, she paused to take in the scene. The regulars were at their usual stations. Marge, the Johnny Rockets waitress, whose plastic surgery had left her somewhat of a "phantom of the opera," hovered beneath the shadows in the corner of the bar. She was doing her habitual humming of Irish folk music as she played with the parasol decorations of her six-a-night habit of rum and Coke. Jersey, the bar tender, was polishing glasses, his ritual in-between serving customers. Known as "Mr. Clean" among the regulars, if the glass didn't blind you with refractions, he considered it dirty. Sitting at another table was Cinch. Not a pleasant man, he was known in Soho as the guy who could get you anything you wanted-for a price. Stefano's was where he "counseled," as he called it. Tonight, he had a visitor unfamiliar to Samara. Looking like a hooker, she was pleading with Cinch.

"Christ, even my John treats me better than you," she said.

Cinch leaned back in his chair, laid out another card to his solitaire hand. "Tina, I'm not your daddy, your lover or your John. This is strictly business. Cash and no carry. Cash."

With fright and hurt in her voice, Tina leaned across the table and said, "You promised I could give you half now and half next month."

Cinch looked up at her bruised face. "That was before you got yourself messed up. How you suppose to turn tricks with that face? What's due, is due."

Tina stood up wanting to find the words that might convince him, but instead, took a deep breath. "I'll be back. Gonna soak this face in some good salts, put on some ice... you'll see... good as new."

Cinch threw down another card. "What's due." Tina stood, staring a moment.

"Jack," Samara fired at Jersey.

Jersey looked up from the glass he was polishing and with another glance through the spotless polish, grinned at Samara. "Feelin' chipper, are ya?"

Tina's shoulders dropped and a distraught turning of the head from left to right kept Samara's attention, "What does she drink?"

"Tina? Coffee," quipped Jersey.

"Coffee?"

"With cognac... 12 year old stuff."

"Damn," said Samara with a grin. "Child's got taste."

Tina made her way to the far end of the bar and slumped on a stool.

"Scrub the Jack. Two of those," said Samara as she made her way toward Tina and sat down on the adjoining stool. Tina glanced at Samara, then the empty row of bar stools. "I don't do bitches."

Samara stared back at the bar mirror reflecting Tina and the tears beginning to roll across her cheeks. "Neither do I," Samara whispered.

Jersey placed the drinks down. "Compliments of the lady," he said to Tina.

Tina wiped her tears and nodded to Samara. "Sorry. Thanks... whoever you are."

Samara could only imagine the turmoil in Tina's mind as she watched her lift the steaming cup to her battered lips. Tina closed her eyes and savored one, two, three, four sips before saying, "Beats shit out of sex."