Ribbons, a novel -- Chapter Five

Ribbons

FIVE

Excerpt #5 from Burl Wonder’s Journal
Dated 12.24.2010
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“WHEN WE ARE LOST IN THE WOODS THE SIGHT OF A SIGNPOST IS A GREAT MATTER…  THE WHOLE PARTY GATHERS ROUND AND STARES.  BUT WHEN WE HAVE FOUND THE ROAD AND ARE PASSING SIGNPOSTS EVERY FEW MILES, WE SHALL NOT STOP AND STARE…  OR NOT MUCH; NOT ON THIS ROAD, THOUGH THEIR PILLARS ARE OF SILVER AND THEIR LETTERING OF GOLD.  ‘WE WOULD BE AT JERUSALEM.’”

--EXCERPT FROM SURPRISED BY JOY, BY C.S. LEWIS

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(ROSE: MY FIRST SCARE)
         The tall booth at the back of the bar was crowded-to- overflowing in the dimly lit, smoke-filled, so-called dive.  I had somehow managed to find my way to the very center of the festivities, flanked on each side by attractive girls and downing glass after glass of cheap beer.  It was a marvelous time, a time before obsessive-compulsive thinking controlled me like a toy car.  My one concern in those days, besides paying rent and car insurance, was to make enough money each week so that I might find myself nightly in a crowded bar, surrounded by young women and drinking large amounts of alcohol.  My success rate was staggering.
         The hazy room radiated a deep, cherry glow, enhancing the amorousness that occurs effortlessly in a college-town bar.  The noise, chitchat and laughter were great for filling awkward, conversational gaps between newly acquainted singles, as well as for covering up intimations that one might not want overheard--people are often willing to do or say a lot more than one might think, so long as they’re relatively certain that no one besides the intended audience is paying attention.  The music was at an appropriate volume for a chatty pub; conversely, clubs and sports bars either thumped the drink right out of your hand with obnoxious levels of bass, or played no music at all, opting for some game on the TV instead.  Yes, I was particularly pleased with the venue I’d chosen for paycheck night.
         I was also particularly pleased with the red-haired girl sitting to my left.  As I mentioned earlier, the booths were packed tightly, forcing everyone to press and squeeze against his or her neighbors.  This factor allowed me the opportunity to revel in the atmosphere of this beautiful stranger’s perfumed neck without looking like a creep.  It also allowed me to engage her in conversation without having to invent a reason for approach.  I don’t recall a single thing that we talked about, but I know that we talked with ease for quite some time.  I felt that the occasion called for something more refined than the champagne of beers, so I ordered a carafe of red wine and two glasses.
         As the table talk continued, I spoke less and less, and listened more.  She had a voice like a wilderness, a rich wind rushing over a clay jar.  She had quick, blue eyes, a perfect smile with full, red lips and just a dash of freckles on her high cheekbones.  She also had an elongated jawline, a feature I’d fallen in love with while studying the history of Egyptian art.  She was a dancer and it showed.  But unquestionably, the most charming attribute that Rose possessed was her generous, robust laugh.  She laughed like I imagined Julia Roberts laughing on nitrous oxide.  I don’t now know if it was her laugh, her lips, her eyes, or the wine, but something--maybe a combination of all four--provoked me into leaning forward, sans permission, to kiss her.  Not a peck, but a plunge.  And she reciprocated, but only for a moment.
         “I’m not going to do this in the middle of a crowded bar,” she said.  Her words were firm, but her eyes betrayed them.  I smiled, rewarding her sensitivities and steeping myself voluntarily into the steamy waters of a sudden, alcohol- enhanced infatuation.
         Leaving my last, fifty dollars with a friend to cover our bill, I decided to take her words and her eyes at face value.  I stood and walked to the door.  I exited the building into the oppressive heat of late May and waited around the corner, unsure if I’d perhaps taken things a step too far.  Seconds later, however, I saw Rose walk out through the same glass door and look around for me.  I stepped halfway between the sidewalk and the alley where she could see me.  She did and we locked eyes.  It was a supremely corny moment, I admit--straight out of the most cliché of Hollywood stratagem: The air was thick.  The sidewalks, wet.  A single lamppost stood, glowing faintly, across the side street.  Her heels tapped solidly and evenly, reverberating off the alley walls.  Then, her pace quickened.  I stood in my spot, motionless, waiting in partial shadow and almost total disbelief.  She reached me and we embraced.  I spun her around and she yielded, leaning against the red brick wall.  Our eyes closed.  Our lips joined.  I could have sold the scene to Calvin Klein for a million bucks!
         I should have felt terrible the following morning, but I didn’t.  There’s no cure for a hangover and cheater’s guilt like a beautiful girl and an unfamiliar bed.  I opened my eyes to find myself in a dream setting--sepia tones and a haziness that seemed to come from behind objects, pushing them toward me rather than separating me from them.  The word, “nice,” had never seemed more appropriate or complete as a descriptor.  I recognized the fact that I had just met Rose; but I still felt the potential for something real.  I felt a sensation that tingled much more than simply the nerve endings of my olfactory receptors or the comparable, nerve endings located farther below my beltline.  I felt a connection, a certain commonness of soul.  One look at her CD collection and I knew I was right.
         She rolled over in the muted, yellow light and looked at me.  I froze.
         What is she thinking?
         “Good morning, sunshine,” she offered, stretching her long arms above her head and smiling.
         “Hi,” I replied.  As if sensing my anxiety, she leaned forward, resting her left arm across my chest, and kissed me on the shoulder.  I relaxed immediately and felt my confidence restored, though apparently unnecessary.  “I really like your music collection.”
         After soaking awhile in the climate of our new and as-yet-undefined relationship, I asked Rose to join me for coffee at a local café only a few blocks away.  She declined, though, citing class as the reason.  In a sense I was relieved.  I had really developed a fondness for her in an uncomfortably short amount of time and could use a break to recharge my batteries before we began circling the same conversation pieces.  We needed to go off separately and have some new things happen so that we’d have something to discuss next time.  I’ve found this to be a valuable insight towards the longevity of any relationship, even an adulterous one.  Too much of a good thing can be boring as hell.
         Besides that, Catherine and I were only living in separate cities because of school and work.  The plan had always been to resume our lives together at the end of the fall semester, which would begin in a mere three months and be over in the blink of an eye.  Whether I wanted to admit it or not, I was playing dirty.  I had become a lying, cheating asshole and I was doing nothing to stop it.  In fact, I was pursuing every prospect and creating opportunities where there should not have been any.  I was breaking her heart, even if she was unaware of it.
         And what of the other girls?  Surely there were wounds there just waiting to be discovered.  I was running with scissors, playing with fire and lying my ass off.  I knew things were going to end badly, even with Rose, for whom I had really developed fervent feelings.  It was only a matter of time before people began to realize who they were in bed with.
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         The last time I saw Rose was indeed a sad experience.  She knocked unexpectedly on my apartment door, crying.  I steered her to the couch by the shoulders and put my arm around her while she buried her face in her small hands.  After a few moments of sobbing, she was able to collect herself enough to tell me that she had just come from the doctor.  My lungs felt as though they had collapsed, fearing what she might say next.  I tried to imagine how we would make it work as young parents who’d only just met.  Such is the mind state of young men.  We naturally assume that having a child would be the worst thing that could possibly happen to us, so much so that the mere mention of the word, “doctor,” from a girl’s lips lofts flags as red as Santa Claus’s boxer-briefs.  Given the choice between raising a baby and defusing a bomb, a strong, seventy percent of young men will say, “Show me the wires; it’s always the red one.”
         As it turns out, though, I was simply a self-centered prick.  Rose wasn’t pregnant; she had contracted herpes.  She swore that she had not been with anyone else and I did not doubt her in the slightest bit.  She hadn’t cheated on me.  She wasn’t the cheating type--I’d have recognized.  The doctor said that she could’ve contracted it from a variety of sources, including toilet seats and shared, drinking glasses.  Herpes, as she unfortunately found out, is surprisingly easy to catch.
         She cried for a while there on my sofa and I did my best to console her.  We drove to the park off of Woodlawn Avenue, where I intentionally made a fool of myself by climbing trees, doing cartwheels and generally acting like a person who had not just received cheerless news from a close friend and lover, all in an attempt to momentarily take her mind off things.  It worked, for the most part, but there was something behind her eyes that continuously reminded me that she would not just be able to laugh this away.
         It wasn’t until weeks later, after she’d returned to Wisconsin, that I considered the possibility that she might have suspected me; that her testimony of fidelity had not been an attempt to clear her own name, but rather a solicitous accusation.  And though I knew I hadn’t given her any disease, I felt strangely culpable--like an innocent man who, though unpunished, had nonetheless been found guilty. 
         Then, fear set into my brain:
         Maybe I didn’t give her herpes, but what if…  Oh, shit!
         I spent the next few months terrified of any bug bite or blemish even remotely close to certain, select areas and using mirrors in ways that I’d never considered using them before.
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Excerpt #6 from Burl Wonder’s Journal
Dated 12.24.2010
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         The hot nights of summer quickly became disgusted with themselves, agreed to seek counseling and eventually turned over a new, multi-colored leaf becoming the cooler nights of autumn.  I took a job as a set-up coordinator for banquets at a resort south of town.  I didn’t know it at the time, but this would be the place where I would not only meet some of the most influential people in my life, but also the starting point for what I had, at the time, written off as a dead dream.
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(LILLY: MY FIRST CRAZY)
         Life at home was usually unusual.  I was living in a house of musicians, though it seemed that the house was less a home and more a place for the vampires to hang out after the bars closed.  I didn’t mind; it made me feel like a part of something.  I had begun dating--cheating--again, after some blood tests and cotton swabbing, finally confident that I was indeed herpes-free.  It was not an easy thing to do after coming so close to the potential of something authentic, even if dishonest, with poor Rose.  I suppose, however, that the brevity of our relationship made moving on less than traumatic.  That, plus the fact that I was a male in my early twenties.
         I met Lilly, paradoxically, at the same bar where I’d met Rose, but under completely different circumstances.  Lilly was sent by her friend to talk to me.  I should have known right then and there that she would be a bad, albeit noteworthy, person to get involved with.
         I was sitting by myself in one of the large booths near the main bar, writing in a notebook as usual.  I was jotting down some specifics for an idea I had: a script for a television series about an insanely brilliant, asshole-type of doctor who treats his patients like science projects and is addicted to pain killers.  He would be crass but loveable, difficult yet dependable.  A beautifully sculpted antagonist if ever there was one.  Unfortunately, I never pursued this idea and some other early bird caught my worm and named him “House.” 
         At some point, Lilly sat down next to me.  From that moment on “disinterest” and “detachment” became two of the most powerful weapons in my arsenal of getting laid; pretty girls hate it when you don’t notice them.
         “Hi,” she began.  “My friend over there,” she pointed to her friend, who pretended to watch a game of darts, “wants to talk to you.  But she’s shy, so she sent me.  I’m not.”
         “Oh.  Well, hello,” I replied, disinterestedly.
         “I’m Lilly.”
         “Hi, Lilly.”  I lit a cigarette, but did not put away the notebook.  Detachment.  She was hooked.
         “So, what are you doing later?”
         “Nothing.  Just getting out of the house.”  I don’t think she really cared, though, because it took her less than a millisecond to respond with:
         “Do you have a car?  I could use a ride home.”  She spoke with such disinterest and detachment--it was intoxicating.
         “Yeah.  Where do you live?”
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         Lilly lived at Trafalgar Apartments, which was about a ten-minute drive from the bar.  It was a Thursday night, the official beginning of the weekend in any college town, and people were everywhere: walking to and from and in between the clubs and pubs and bars and cars, on the sidewalk and in the streets, hanging out of car windows, standing in a line that writhed into the parking lot at Taco Bell, or trying to walk a much straighter line for the police.  The midnight air had that crispness that comes after the loll of a humid summer has departed and just before the reality of a drawn-out, Midwestern winter has begun.  The possibilities of my youth seemed endless on such nights.  I had only been mildly bashed over the head with, and by, life, and the expectations for having achieved anything significant were far off in the future.  Living in the moment was so much easier, it seemed.
         Once inside Lilly’s apartment, things moved along expediently.  Unlike with Rose, there was no innocence to the state of affairs with Lilly.  No sweetness.  It was apparent from the moment the door closed why I’d been invited.  There was no time to even consider my options before she was on top of me, biting my lower-lip.  She was a tiny thing, but surprisingly strong.  My shirt buttons never stood a chance.  I was falling backward onto the couch before I could say, “So, where’re you from?”  She had my belt hanging from the ceiling fan before I could ask, “Are you a student?”  And I found myself in her bed upstairs before I could comment, “I like your lip-ring.”  I discovered in a hurry that I did not, in fact, like it when girls played hard-to-get.  Lilly had opened new doors for me.
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         The room was dark save for a soft, violet light that hung above her open curtains.  It gave the experience a velvety feel that it didn’t really merit.  As I looked around the curious room, I noticed books in every corner, heaped in sloppy stacks, their spines half-split open.  I was happy to know that my new acquaintance was a reader.  Her clothes, all seemingly purple in the hazy glow, were hung neatly in a large closet next to an antique sewing machine.  On the walls were large, framed posters: a couple of Andy Warhol’s back-to-school classics, a large photograph of the Eiffel Tower and a familiar black-and-white of Claude Monet in his garden.
         It was approximately four o’clock in the morning.  Lilly had fallen asleep, but I was wide awake.  I noticed a bottle of burgundy on her nightstand, but no glasses.  I decided to take a drink straight from the bottle but, before it reached my lips, something else grabbed my attention.  I noticed a crouching figure move just outside the room in the upstairs hallway.  I froze.  Having never asked Lilly whether or not she had roommates, I didn’t know if I should be concerned about the stranger who had apparently been watching us for who-knew-how-long.  The figure then stood quietly and turned to walk away.  I heard a door shut softly, and then a thud and a female voice, wincing. 
         “Now that’s the sound of a stubbed toe,” I thought.  I decided to let it go.  “So she watched--so what?  Maybe she’ll have pointers and suggestions for us in the morning.  Maybe she took notes.”
         I retrieved a cigarette and lighter from my blue jeans’ pocket crumpled on the floor beside the bed.  I tried to recreate the night’s events in my brain--the unsolicited attention from two, attractive girls, the drive to the apartment in a wealthy pocket of town, the NASCAR-paced hook-up with Lilly, the peeping Tom-girl who had apparently just gone to bed with a throbbing toe--but I could only manufacture flashes of memory.  I breathed deeply and looked at Lilly, sleeping.  I repositioned the blanket over her exposed shoulder and leaned back against the solid headboard.  I looked again at the Monet poster near the foot of the bed; his garden lilies were staring back at me, disinterestedly.  I lit my cigarette and exhaled a
death plume.  The burgundy was calling my name.
         “Whatever became of Lilly’s drinking buddy?” I wondered.
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         I awoke, naked, to the sound of a low growl.  Lilly’s dog, Roosevelt, was a mean-looking creature.  His snarl was menacing and his wide display of sharp teeth made his case for him in advance.  I was immediately reminded of a Richard Pryor quip: “Does it look like I’m smiling, motherfucker?” 
         “No,” I thought.  “You’re definitely not smiling.  Good not-smiling dog.  Please don’t take my dick!  Take a finger, take my nose, but leave my tackle, please!”
         Lilly barely stirred.  “Rosy!” she roared.  “Go!”
         Roosevelt’s face went soft and his teeth took cover beneath the floppy skin of his chops.  He turned and thumped his way out of the now sun-filled room.  Lilly rolled over, facing me, and drifted back to sleep.  I was surprised and delighted to find that Lilly was even more appealing in the light of day.  She had short, black hair and a smooth, ruddy complexion.  Her build was not at all displeasing to look at: feminine and firm.  Her neck rested on the pillow at an elegant angle, her collar bones meeting in an arrow pointing south towards her perfectly symmetrical breasts.  Her smooth stomach invited kisses and caressing, but I let her be.  It was now nearly noon and I needed to be getting on with my day.
         I stood and began to dress.  As I was pulling on what remained of my shirt, however, Lilly sat up and yawned, allowing the blanket to fall into folds just covering her bare thighs.
         “Are you leaving?” she asked, mid-yawn and stretch.
         “Yeah, I probably should.  I work later.”
         “Do you want some breakfast?” she offered.  “At least some coffee.”
         “Sure.  Coffee sounds great.”
         I made my way downstairs while she found her robe, passing a closed door adjacent to Lilly’s as I went.  My mind drifted for a moment back to the nighttime spectator who’d stubbed her toe and then to the abandoned friend Lilly had been with at the bar.  Once downstairs, I made myself at home on the plum-colored sofa next to an open, screen door.  Lilly was down promptly and put on a pot of coffee.  She was obviously quite relaxed--more so than I, which made me even less so.  I was reminded of my rather narrow escape from the dilemma that Rose would be facing for the rest of her life, wherever she might now be, and reached into my pocket, clutching the empty, condom packet for assurance.  I‘d made a pact with myself during those months of worry and self-examination that casual sex would never be quite so casual again.  I wondered what precautions Lilly had taken to produce such an air of nonchalance the morning after.  I also wondered about the stranger upstairs.
         “So, you’ve got roommates?” I began, listening to the coffee percolate.
         “Why?”
         “Oh, no reason.  I just noticed that one of the doors upstairs was closed this morning and I think they were all open last night.”
         “Yeah, well.  That’s just Beth.  She never sleeps with the door open.  Roosevelt isn’t welcome in her room.”  She smiled.
         “Beth?  That’s not who you were with last night, is it?” I uttered, attempting disinterest.  She slinked slowly towards me, like a lioness eying an unsuspecting meal.  She set a cup of steaming coffee in front of me and then curled up on my lap with her arms loose around my neck.  I felt like a really bad stage-prop.
         “I was with you last night,” she nearly purred, kissing my forehead.  I wondered whether she was purposefully avoiding the connection or if there was simply no connection to be made.  Perhaps her friend at the bar and Beth were not one and the same, as I had suspected.  And, apparently, Lilly’s friend from the bar was of little importance to her, or at least beneath any sense of loyalty.  I suddenly noticed that Roosevelt was sitting in the corner of the living room, giving me his best not-smile.  I reached for the coffee, balancing Lilly with my left arm, and watched as Roosevelt’s eyes followed my hand.  Taking a careful sip, I pressed on:
         “So, what do you think happened to your friend last night?”
         “Who?” she asked, as if in a wakeful state of dreaming.
         “At the bar.  You were there with someone.  Sitting over near the pool tables.”
         “Oh, her?  She’ll be fine, I’m sure.  She knew the risks of sending me over to talk to you.”  Her eyes were half closed and her robe was half open as she spoke.  “She just needs to grow a pair.”  Her voice trailed off to a whisper.  Her body warmth was soothing and my curiosities began to wither.  My hand brushed against, then rested on, her honey-colored leg.  I ran my fingers from her knee down to her ankle and gently gripped her foot with the meaty palm of my hand.  She squeezed slightly my shoulders and neck with her arms and entangled her long fingers in my crazy hair.  Surprisingly, I, too, began to drift into a half-asleep state of wakefulness.  I was right there with Dorothy, the Tin Man and the rest, walking through the field of poppies.  I had hours before I needed to be at the resort for my shift.
         Plenty of time to… get home.  To shower.  Dress.  Plenty of time to get… home.  Get ready… for work.  No place… no place… like home.
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         Typically, the stroll from my bedroom to the shower was not likely to draw a crowd.  My roommates and their hangers-on were accustomed to seeing half-naked people cross the living room and head upstairs.  But something caught the attention of everyone awake that afternoon.  It was certainly not my physique, nor did the towel around my waist slip off in mid-stride.  Rather, it was something that I was completely unaware of that begged a curious gaze from everyone present.  Parrish’s comment, mid-toke, stopped me in my tracks and derailed my caboose.
         “Whoa!  Someone put her stamp on you, my friend,” he managed communicate between choking coughs.
         Several of the twenty-somethings chuckled--not out of derogation, but with combustible intrigue.  “Oh!” and, “Shit!” seemed to be the general accord.  Observing my baffled expression, Parrish grabbed me by the shoulder and escorted me to one of the floor-to-ceiling mirrors on the southern wall.  With my back turned to the reflecting glass, I craned my head over my shoulder to discover the object of everyone’s amusement: eight, red, claw marks stretching from my spine to my outer ribcage, four on either side.  For the briefest of moments I was alarmed, but quickly realized what had happened.  An almost prideful sensation came over me as I modeled my bedroom wounds for the mirror and all my peers.
         It would not be, unfortunately, the last time Lilly drew blood.
         I proceeded to the shower and slipped into the spray, avoiding the broken skin on my back.  I dressed for work quickly.  Hopping, finally, into my black 1987 Dodge Daytona, I headed south for the hotel.