Saturday arrived and I was ready to party. Dale picked me up in his big ass truck, and we made decent time. It was two days after my 27th birthday and I was ready to cut it loose. I’d been waiting for a chance to see both The Used and Linkin Park for a while now. We had great seats, about 8 rows back, almost in the center, which we rarely sat in. Most of the day we walked around talking to people and spent a small fortune on overpriced drafts.
The Used went onstage like they were possessed. Not a hairsbreadth of time or an inch of stage was wasted, they simply couldn’t stop. I regret not having made it to another one of their concerts since then, but time is a harsh mistress, and there is never more of her to be had than she wishes.
Linkin Park headlined the tour and rightly so. They put on a great show; worked the crowd like a $2 whore on half off night. It was commanding to say the least. We’d been outdoors for at least 8 hours, drinking as heavily as our wallets would permit and running amuck in the crowds of fanatics ripe from sun, sweat, and beer. We had less than an hour to go before leaving when I got a phone call from Amy.
“I want to see you tonight.” Her voice professed through the receiver.
“Yeah, sorry about that. I really wish things had worked out. That was just a little higher price than I was prepared to pay.” Speaking of the hotel, allusion dripping from my words.
“I, um… I really need to see you tonight.”
“Amy, it’s getting late…”
“Please,” she interrupted.
A moment’s peace. The music fell away, the people surrounding me froze in midstep. The world held its collective breath with me and I could hear the audible click inside my head as the gears shifted.
“How do I get there?”
I’m an easy sell sometimes, especially after a day of inebriation and brain-meltingly loud music. So we finally left the show a little after 11 and I still had an hour back to my car and almost 3 hours to get to Amy. She had left me a couple messages with directions so I went off of that and eventually made it to her hotel. With timing that Swiss watchmakers could only dream of, she woke up from sleeping, called me, and made it out to the parking lot of her hotel just as I was pulling up. Return to Neverland.
I used to love building with Lego’s. I even won a Lego building contest when I was 9. I would always be begging my parents to get me more kits so I could create new and more interesting objects. Hell, I almost got arrested for shoplifting Lego’s when I was 13. Depending on the pieces you have at hand, you have a theoretically limited amount of possibilities. Working with instructions, with a plan, is always different than starting from scratch with a scattered myriad of pieces that can go any direction. Nearly infinite possibilities, the vast majority of them awful, lie stretched out on a canvas in the spaces between these little bits of plastic. Where do you start? That night was a lot like one of those situations, a million possible things to say and do, not even sure what I was hoping the finished product would be, but I had to start somewhere: I picked up a piece.
I took her to the beach. The September night was crisp; snapping in the air even lacking any significant breeze. We had parked and walked out to the beach, sand sifting under our sneakers like the shifting possibilities of the night when we found a lifeguard shack and sat down to enjoy the dark autumn sky and even darker Pacific. I tried to avoid speaking too much about the past, but it came up from time to time. For spells we would sit in silence and listen to the crash off the waves and stare off at the lighthouse in the distance. After a while I noticed a spotlight sweeping across the sand from behind the guard house. Going to investigate, I was privileged to introduce myself to one of Santa Barbara’s finest. Apparently I had parked in a No Parking zone and like the dutiful trooper he was, he was here to protect the city from indiscriminate nocturnal parkers like me. Great. After several uncomfortable minutes while the officer made sure we were not junkies or illegal crab smuggling bandits of some sort he went on his merry way, leaving us to vacate the beach, profligate parking place and all, and drive up the coast into the city. We drove around for a while aimlessly, letting the nighttime coastal air blow through the car, keeping the situation fresh and chilled. Finally, completely disenchanted with the ability of the city planners to put any semblance of a working street plan into place, we decided to find an all-night Coffee shop to relax at.
A scary old gas station attendant with a moustache unwashed since Garfield was in office directed us to a Carrow’s restaurant about half a block away that we had been unable to find in 20 minutes of searching. As a testament to the lack of any late night businesses in the area even that generic looking hovel of an eatery was moderately populated for 4 in the morning. Our waiter was apathetic at best, bringing coffee and French toast like a poorly functioning robot in dire need of repairs. People shuffled in and out mostly unnoticed by us, however there was one man who came back with two different people to drink coffee and have bizarre conversations. He had a hat that must have been cast off by a blind golfer it was so ugly. Weird.
We were both pretty tired and silly at this point, so we laughed and talked about anything in a meandering exchange of phonemes punctuated only by the recalcitrant intermittent robot and occasional exclamations from Weirdo Hat Guy. Around 6 in the morning even coffee and a beautiful companion couldn’t stave off the realization that I had a long drive ahead of me and I was in no shape to make it. Reluctantly and with no small amount of u-turns and side streets I finally got Amy back to her hotel.
I don’t know why I did it. I was tired, wired, and had the sneaking suspicion that this would be the last time Amy and I saw one another. After keeping it to myself for so long, it felt good to let it out. I told Amy about my abandoned plans to move to Atlanta, about what I had felt, and explained to her that I was better now. I didn’t expect any response or validation after so long an interlude; I had overcome the need for that. I just thought that I should let it out. Dealing from a position of disclosure, of strength, I was able to let the words pass into the night without needing anything in return. It felt good. One less piece of the “What If” puzzle.
Driving the three hours home was stupid, but I had to do it. My mind and body were so numb I lacked even the mental acuity to think about the nights activities. I really don’t remember the last hour of the drive, but I made it home intact, so it couldn’t have been that bad, right?
Amy and I stayed in touch for another couple of months via email, phones, and txt messages. Strange coincidences always kept us laughing, and wondering what would happen next; like the time I called her as I was leaving Hooters in Ontario, and she was leaving Hooters in Atlanta. Then she disappeared. Again. This is starting to sound like a broken record competition.
The last time I spoke to her I told her I would be in Atlanta for 2 weeks in January and I wanted to say hi. She seemed distracted but said it sounded good. When I got to Atlanta I messaged her saying I was there. I gave her my schedule and left it up to her. Not a word. That is not to say the trip was wasted. I had a tremendous time! I got to spend copious amounts of laziness with Will and Melissa, Will’s girlfriend. I had tons of good food, I met new people, partied all night, watched way too much tv; absolute hedonism. I caught up to several old friends I hadn’t seen in months and even met a guy I knew from the internet and had not met in person. The trip was well worth the time and energy. Amy’s inconspicuous absenteeism detracted very little from the experience. I was getting better at missing her.
March 12th. 6:36 p.m. PST
Enter Amy, Stage SMS. ‘Hi.’
Yeah, right. At this point the whole thing was getting tiring. I did my best to blow Amy off via SMS but she called me moments later. There is only so much space in between the words “What” and “if”, and that space was filled to bursting with doubt and disappointment. I told her so. Amy’s words came out in a rush, each word almost falling over the one preceding it in her hurry to tell me what a terrible 3 months she had been having, that she was all alone, etc. etc. Doing the math, I calculated that three months put my trip to Atlanta well within her crisis period. I wasn’t biting. We talked for a few minutes, her need and my obstinacy dueling through the phone. She promised to call, and there was nothing left to say.
Two weeks to the day later I got an email apologizing, yet again, for her failure to call and saying that she was leaving the ball in my court; it was up to me to contact her. I was getting the feeling that Amy, with all her experience, has to be the most accomplished palliator in the world. It brings to mind one of my favorite phrases and the guiding precept of my childhood: “It’s always easier to ask forgiveness than it is to ask permission.” I imagine my parents would get a real kick out of this.
Scattered emails, radio silence, and a warning shot later here I am; a glorified scratching post and hair care parlor for a spoiled cat, pondering the infernal mysteries of the universe that just refused to let Amy out of my life.
