Iron of the Sky

by Ryan Downey

  Gravity

  Clicking on the radio he scanned with torpor through station after station to find something to listen to as salmon sizzled and rice steamed. He convinced himself it was for music and not to hear himself talk. Far too lame was the guy at this or any point in career who would go out of his way to experience his own work, let alone listen to a bore-ass interview. One where he copped out no less. The question was lobbed. Rachel Clark, experienced journalist and broadcasting personality, asked what it was like to work on the project. Rather than talk about what the experience really meant, how he had to delve deep for this one, for the church scene with the gun. How what he wrote for the hospital bed scene mirrored a profound experience with a dying relative. Et cetera. Instead it was idiot fodder. Experience was great. Other writers were great. Everything was great.

  The actual answer was a bit more inclement. As he fiddled between adult contemporary and classic rock, he asked himself. What was it like working on that project? He answered. “Imagine there’s a voice in your head. A person as real as anyone you know. You don’t know them, but boy, do they know you. They know everything about you. And they’re telling your story to the world. At first you’re ok with it. Pleasant stroll down Memory Lane. But then they start into rooms and chambers and dusty halls you closed off and buried long ago. And hoped would remain closed. Long forgotten. And you beg and plead. ‘Don’t. Please don’t. Please don’t give them this.’ Only to hear the voice of what is essentially a stranger whisper back, ‘I have to.’” His fingers had rolled their way to NPR and Rachel Clark was reading him his life story abridged.

  Over the years he had developed the most peculiar habit. It started out innocently enough. He would walk into the kitchen or his bedroom and wonder aloud, “Wait, why did I come in here?”

  Something familiar to anyone, old or young. His inner thoughts would scramble until they uncovered the solution. “To get my glasses.” Simple flub. Honest mistake. First person. But as time wore, the habit intensified. And with no one there to correct him, it never felt strange. “Why do I need my coat?” “Cold front came in.” “Did I get my mail?” “Yes, I grabbed it earlier. Just junk. Again. As always.” Then it started taking turns. “Do… you have to keep tapping that damn pen?” Or when he was sitting in traffic. “Why the hell did you go this way. You know better.” A moment passed. “Because there’s construction on 95, you idiot.”

  While the habit seemed disconcerting for anyone in the adjoining cars who watched his mouth move, but saw no passenger, it was one that may have behooved him to develop sooner. It’s not that he wasn’t self-aware, quite the contrary. Knowing when he was wrong or unusual was rarely the issue. Every once in a while he would find himself in a situation where the facts were stacked against and the odds bore no favor. And the voice in his head begged the case, pleading. “Please don’t. Don’t do this.” And if he only ever learned to invert his giant fucking ears and listen. That if just once he had kept his mouth shut, then maybe he could learn to be happy once more.

  Dying hard, some habits are impossible to rid. So as he switched his fork with his knife he stopped himself, asking aloud, “Why did you just do that?” A moment passed. “Because you love her.” Then he salted and peppered his previously frozen salmon filet, making sure to toss some salt over his right shoulder as he did. His chin retracted to his neck and wrinkles added to his brow. “Why did you just do that?” Another moment. “Because you miss her.” A final drop of salt fell to salmon as he ate in humbled silence.

  Lex Talionis

  She called around 2:20AM. She knew he’d be up. Neither slept. He knew upon seeing it that something was wrong. She had drunk called him in the past, typically on her way home. He’d wonder if her calling was some sort of conciliatory effort to gain some favorable male attention on an evening where she struck out or if she actually just wanted to talk to him. A novel concept. Any of the calls would have come by 12:30AM or 1:00AM at the latest. This was different. She had called him two days prior and he had intentionally neglected to answer or return the call, a tactical he felt made him look more desirable. Girls who want to talk constantly will avoid any man who offers to listen consistently.

  He returned her call just before 2:45AM. The girl he had over, Lauren McCrossen, lying half asleep on his couch was in no delicate way informed that he was making this call and it would take a while. He promptly left the room. Priorities.

  He would be hers if only she would call. The holidays were theirs and in this, the wee small hours, she had. He was ready. Convinced beyond a shadow he knew this was the call for which he had been waiting years. She wanted to get back together. She had to. Nothing else made sense. Maybe she wanted to come over. He had to start conspiring. Had to get… what’s-her-face out. Lauren. Ugh, why couldn’t he remember that? He wasn’t that drunk. Didn’t matter. The moment was here. Not a second too soon. He was dying to go back to eating burgers and listening to sports talk radio. As God-awful as it could be, he missed it.

  She was upset. And coked up. The deluge started promptly on the second ring. The information was scattered and mildly incoherent. Vague life crisis spilled in pieces here and there. He finger dusted the hall on his way to the back room. Only way he ever did. Strange that he detested the act so, yet refused to hire a service to clean. Dust was always an afterthought. At least he vacuumed.

  It wasn’t that he was bored. He was bored before she called. It was just the typical fare from her, nothing ever changed. He knew every word, but if you’re going to a Buffett concert, you want to hear Fins. He wasn’t going to interrupt.

  It was on the third or fourth “I don’t know what to do” where he was opening his mouth to invite her over. As he opened his mouth he heard a door shut.

  “What was that?” There was no answer. Only the sound of a crackling fire. “Who’s there?” he implored. The sound hadn’t come from her, it was distant. Not a word. Not a sound. “Are you kidding me? You’re still with Alex?” Finally, a response. “No.” Rage filled him as her visitor made his way to his car, balls blued, sent into the cold, empty darkness, unaware that when he was asked to leave, he was supposed to do so surreptitiously. They flew into a fusillade of one awful slight after another, with he showing absolute zero concern if his guest was off put by denigrations. Feeling completely justified and embarrassingly sophomoric at the same time. The person to hang up first missed the final insult.

  Fuming, he stood breathing hard and heavy in his kitchen. In his anger he had paced his way back. From there he could hear a theme song. Another episode of his favorite show had kicked off at the top of the hour. Never had such an eerie and unsettling tune brought such comfort. He was suddenly glad the chick in the living room was there. Tears hung out to dry, he returned without a word and led his guest by the hand up the stairs. He brought the woman he had no genuine intention of inviting to stay to bed. Meanwhile, the man whose green light had turned bright red drove his buzzed way home.

  Any Consolation

  Vince Wills could have gone pro in the NBA and was convinced the bartender needed to know about it. The pontificating didn’t bother him nearly as much as the nature of the story. It was one of those half stories. A would have. A could have. That’s not a story. No one wants to hear about how someone almost had something great. Actually played in the NBA. Yes. Couldn’t play in the NBA because he had to go to war. Yes. Hell, he would have even settled for the time Vince Wills ran into Michael Jordan at a greater Chicago area Nike outlet. But this was nothing. ‘Almost made it’ doesn’t count.

  Three drinks deep and going strong, he had worked hard to drown Wills out. A concoction of his own creation did wonders for sore ears and tired heart. Fortunately, Almost Made It had cornered the bartender and was only occasionally redirecting when something needed special emphasis. Licking some serious wounds, he just wanted to be left alone and was certainly in no mood to humor.

  The conversation s
tarted off pleasant enough. The windbag had finally given it a rest leaving room for someone else to chew his ears, a hearty feast to those who gab. The second act was considerably more appealing. He was now beholden his car service had mixed up the dates.

  She wasn’t waiting for a flight either. In fact, she had just come back on his, though her trip was to visit her sister. Conditions had not improved in her absence, she had found, as her husband told her when she landed that she could “just stay at the airport” and refused to make good on promised ride. Fine by her, the airport had bars and no lying snake in the grass scumbag lawyer husbands. At least none that she knew. The empty chair next to the familiar face from Row 4 Seat F seemed as good as any for pulling up.

  “Waiting for a connection?” she excelled at openers. “I’d say I just made one,” hand outstretched, he excelled at quick-witted replies. They shook and not that he needed to, but he beckoned her to join.

  He ordered another whiskey ginger with a dash of elderflower, spot of aromatic bitters and a splash of lime juice, Irish Champagne as he called it, as she ordered a more traditional rum and Coke with a wedge. His drink name gave her a good laugh. Her observation that they were the only two in the city drinking at an airport bar with nowhere to go gave him a laugh equally needed. Half-listening when she gave her name, he began to offer his until she cut him short. It wasn’t just from the plane that she recognized him. “You caught my eye… I read an article on you in the New Yorker a month or two ago. ‘The Diagnostic Editor.’ You’re quite the big deal.” He scoffed. “Depends on whom you ask.” He sipped his ‘champagne.’ “Sometimes it doesn’t matter how good you are, they hate you anyway.”

  “Well I was pretty bowled over,” she insisted. “You’ve worked on three of my favorite movies.”

  “Out of 100?” he jested. “Out of 10,” she flirted and they raised their glasses. They talked a great while. Rationalizing at his best, he tried to explain why drinking and writing were symbiotic. He quoted Oscar Wilde and Oliver Goldsmith much to her impress. She teased him and the bartender, at one point begging the bartender, Mack, to whip up some Jell-O shots. Light bulb on. That reminded him.

  “Remind me to make a phone call when we get home.” Rather presumptuous. Yet she neither argued nor questioned.

  Mack kept flipping around on the TV. It was Saturday, so there were a lot of movies on. Alien on the science fiction network. Pinocchio on the Disney channel. Bruce Almighty on the comedy network. Patton on the history channel. Breakfast At Tiffany’s on the classic film station. Unable or unwilling to pick a show, and ignoring his comments, Mack put the local news on. Ball game wasn’t on until later and company policy didn’t really allow movies to be played anyway.

  The question of whether they should do another round arose. Scratch that. The decision was to not do another round. That had already been decided. The question if they should continue paying airport prices was on the board. As he mulled it over, beacon of broadcasting and head anchor, Cecily Allicott, turned it over to weather for the 5-day.

  Last he spoke to her, she hadn’t come to a clear decision regarding whether she was going back to her part time gig. It appeared she had made a choice in his absence. Two actually.

  Remaining part of the most trusted meteorologists in the city was a bit more of a challenge. As she pointed at temperatures and cloud patterns, she was continually forced to adjust her position for the sake of visibility of those at home, while her other arm lay rest.

  He did some quick math, lips moving while he did, as he stared at the bump. Not his. Not by a long shot.

  With plenty of distraction and scarcely any time, he had yet to process what he saw on his way to the lecture the day before in that small café. Now he was half standing over a stool in an airport bar with what was left of his whiskey diluting by what was left of his ice. He was no longer doing math, but his mouth stay open. The feel of a hand placed on his shoulder snapped him back enough to close it. But not to break his gaze. Saliva rushed to his mouth over and over, almost faster than he could swallow it in his battle with the urge to throw up. There would be no rapprochement.

  “Hey, you alright?” The voice sounded like it was in another terminal. He looked over. She saw weakness in his eyes, but no tears. Not today. “Let’s get out of here,” his voice was cracked, but not broken. Not today. Not yet anyway. “I’ll grab my purse,” she reached for it as he signed the credit card slip. All drinks on him. Then he realized he had to ask now, lest he find himself later in a situation he had put himself in a few times before. “Hey sorry,” he stopped her. “What was your name again?” She smiled, not nearly insulted enough to not still go home with him.

  “Gillian. But my friends call me… Gillian.” He laughed softly as, with no attempt at grace, she swung her purse around her shoulder. Then they went down to baggage claim to hail a cab.

  Daylight

  The meal was proving a great success. Each bite better than the last. Candles lit, tree aglow in the corner. Bittersweet as their true beauty was to only be enjoyed by he. For when the daylight leaves, she would have to go. She was so grateful. He had even set the silverware on the proper sides etiquette wise. Only two settings for now, yet he had some hope. Never a firm desire for him before her, timing or age ever burdens. It was not a thought for her either, she dread the thought and even with the man she loved wasn’t really up for ruining figure. Which also meant no dessert, the butter used would be the limit of the lactose she was willing to tolerate. But he knew her well. His mission was to change her mind. She had so much love, so much life force to give. And it was so apparent to him that her life force, her love would burn out eventually as all things do. Even if it took multiple lifetimes. It made no difference. His was here and now. She was so lovely. It was true for them both that love was indeed lovelier the second time around.

  He loved how small her mouth would get when she chewed. He loved how she couldn’t salt anything without tossing a dash superstitiously over the wrong shoulder. He loved how she had once again taken casual Friday too seriously and worn flip-flops with jeans. Rest assured he began teasing her the second she got to the top of the stairs. The way she wore her hat. The way her smile just beamed. The way she held her knife. Once sat and eating, he considered rehashing the issue of adding place settings, but settled instead for rehashing the issue of another trip. Their long weekend in the Windy City provided fine dining and escapism, precisely what they needed. He thought maybe once again he would pitch the idea of a long weekend to the Birthplace of Rock’n’Roll to party on Beale; something he hadn’t anticipated would be such a difficult sell. Especially since, like their previous destination, it was a place neither had ever been. They chewed politely and stared at one another. Not in the way so many couples do, with years between them and nothing left to say. Rather with no words need spoken. The music, classical, her favorite, kept the mood light. At least for a time.

  The argument got pretty heated. Minutes past no words and there were several, none too savory. It was over something stupid. They always were. She was so insistent. It made no sense. The sun had to be closer to the Earth during summer. Or Earth to the sun. Whatever. It had to. How else could he explain the seasons? Once again he was deflecting rather than offering facts, opting instead for personal attacks in the form of how she could possibly have missed that class with her impressive degrees. And the minor fact that she was a popular meteorologist. The phrase ‘occupational hazard’ was repeated ad nauseam. “How” she yelled indignantly, “how does that make sense?”

  Nostrils flaring, he caught himself. His inclination to return blows was all of a sudden overcome with cool collection. She was so hot when she was mad. Fire in her eyes. He wiped his mouth with his napkin no longer in his lap and placed it on the table over his silverware. His chair scooched back, he stood and put his hands on the table. “Stand up,” he commanded. Fire subsided to confusion and she glared not knowing what to
expect. The command itself carried an air of impending pugilism, while his tone affirmed anything but. “Stand up,” he repeated, an octave higher. She did as told.

  Head tilted when cocked, she too placed her hands on the table in mocking fashion. Scoffing laugh shot from his nose. Smiling confidently, he beckoned her.

  Resolute in her stand, it would take a second attempt. Still smiling, he insisted. “Come here.” There was that voice she couldn’t resist. Over she went. They stood face to face for a moment. She wanted to smile after a bit, but would never give him the satisfaction. Until she slipped. Holding out paid off and now he was free to move about without tension. “Ok think of it this way.” He placed his hands around her forearms and at this proximity a different tension arose. He buried his eyes in hers. “Imagine” he breathed for effect, “my affection for you is the heat stabilized in the Earth’s atmosphere.” Smile sustained once more. He started to spin around at a steady pace. She looked at him as if he were nuts. Every time he would complete rotation he would look right at her, but only as he turned and soon his back was to her once more. She was confused. Right before she could utter ‘what the hell are you doing,’ and right as Holst switched to Debussy, he had stopped and was facing her directly once more. Now he took ten paces backward.

  “Ok?” he poked. She shrugged, yet to catch on. “Now,” he said and began spinning at the same pace. “I’m a million miles away. Or whatever.” When he spun in this fashion again, he did the same and stared at her whenever they were facing. And as he did, her expression softened. Still spinning, he spoke. “As you can see, same pace. Respective sizes haven’t changed. Though my orbit places me farther away, it gives me more time to look at you. With more time to look at you, my heart beats faster with every second. Each additional second of faster beating heart means greater love for you.”