The Ice Age

by Kirsten Reed

  I’m not mad this time. Just wondering how he can stand the tension of this distance between us. Why he doesn’t just snap back to our closeness like a stretched rubber band. I ache for him to come back. But I know he won’t, not as quickly as I feel he should. Because he feels things in his own way. And this is him. This is just something he does. Now that I started with all the touching. Maybe I am a whore. It seems wrong making someone recoil from you in torment. Someone you care for a lot. I knew he was weird about it, and I just kept it up.

  I’m not religious by any means, but I said what was essentially a little prayer to Gunther as I drifted off to sleep. I tried to mind-meld with him out there on his Gunther trip. I told him I was done disrespecting his wishes, done pushing him too far, compromising his Gunther space and crossing his Gunther lines. If only he’d come back.

  I woke the next morning with the first rays of the blinding sun, poking through the cracks of the dingy blinds. I wondered if today would bring Gunther. Somehow it didn’t feel like it would. But, being a new day, it still carried the faint promise of Gunther.

  I went into town and walked around. There weren’t many people about. And ‘town’ consisted basically of one main street. There were a couple of diners, a gas station, a library. A knitting shop. I passed a couple of clothing stores that looked like they hadn’t changed their window displays since the 1950s. The mannequins were dusty, and looked even more tortured than usual. Never mind about the clothes.

  I had breakfast at one of the diners; eggs on white toast, bottomless coffee. I deliberated on pancakes, but wasn’t happy enough. Nor was I feeling sorry enough for myself to warrant cheering up via comfort food. I had what I deemed a man’s breakfast, minus the bacon (too salty, and pigs are just so damn loveable). Then I went and sat in the library.

  I found a book on Egon Schiele, sat at a table and looked at the pictures. Egon is Gunther’s favourite artist. He took me to an exhibition of Austrian expressionists on one of the rare occasions we stopped in a city. He’s pretty good at locating retro movie theatres, too. He likes to try and get us a cultural fix every now and then. We once found an arthouse cinema in a town so tiny all it seemed to have in it was this cinema. We saw Betty Blue. Now there’s a chick who latched onto a man and was truly crazy. I’m not that out there. Besides, I didn’t feel like I was latching on until after the fact. Seems to me like I was invited.

  I sat there and read about the life of Egon Schiele. He and his wife both got sick and died young. His artwork must have been pretty shocking for his day, because it’s semi-pornographic by today’s standards, but then, what a fucking bunch of prudes everyone is today. I don’t think Egon would have cared either way. In his words (written in calligraphy on the inner sleeve of the book), ‘Art cannot be modern; art is eternal’.

  I find Egon Schiele’s paintings to be a touch haughty. I can see why Gunther likes him. But out of all those old expressionists, I like Richard Gerstl, who committed suicide young and left barely any work behind to show for it. Gunther says I have highly advanced tastes. But it’s pointless to write about art when it’s not there for people to see.

  Checking the motel again for signs of Gunther was a compulsion I tried to but could not resist. I meandered a little, but there was no point in kidding myself, I really wanted to just make a bee line for the room, so that’s what I ended up doing.

  He was sitting up in bed with his ankles crossed, smoking a joint. He hadn’t even bothered to take off his shoes. But then, in a dump like this, who cares?

  ‘Have a good time?’ he droned, evenly. Goddamn the King of Cool. I just looked at him.

  ‘Spend all the money?’ Just as cas.

  ‘No,’ I stammered. ‘Some of it. I had eggs.’ I shrugged. ‘And stuff.’

  He smiled graciously. I knew he could tell I was upset. And it seemed like such a weakness, all this raw emotion of mine. He beamed down on me from that filthy rooms-by-the-hour motel bed, looking like someone had stretched a Buddha. All long and thin, exuding calmness, kindness.

  He handed me the joint, in a slow fluid movement. I took it, and flopped down on the bed next to him. We both stared straight ahead in silence. God knows what he was thinking; I was wondering where the fuck he’d been these past few days. He couldn’t possibly have dames everywhere. Besides, I don’t think Gunther’s libido’s all it used to be. He keeps to himself, and I coax him out.

  After we’d passed the joint back and forth and I’d had several good tokes, it struck me how perfectly the vampire scenario explained the unexplainable absences. If I had to duck out and slaughter some semi-innocent victims for the purpose of sucking their blood, I wouldn’t tell my loved ones, either.

  We switched the TV on and watched the news. Some little girl had gone missing in the next town over. And the next county had been swept by a tornado. There was an autoworkers’ strike, and they were predicting a drought.

  Gunther said, ‘Hungry?’

  I said, ‘Yeah.’

  Damn it how Gunther seemed to know his way around every town, no matter what a backwater it was, and how much he seemed like a piece of velvet on a hessian sack. Like a cat padding through his territory, he drove us to a well-decent little restaurant off the beaten track.

  Hell, was it romantic. There were candles and red wine. No one seemed to care that I was way underage. I just sat across from him beaming. He returned my gaze with plenty of feeling, and that touch of kindly pity that seemed to be increasing as the evening wore on; seemed to be increasing in direct proportion to the rise in my romantic zeal. After all, it was nearly bedtime.

  In the car, on the way home—on the way back to the sleazy motel—I told him about the ice age.

  I explained the whole thing, with as much scientific accuracy as I could. I covered the mud samples, the Gulf Stream, the sinking salt, the melting ice caps, the increased global warming, et cetera.

  He grinned sadly, with no hint of teeth, and said, ‘Is that what we have in store for us?’

  I said, ‘Yes, it is!’ and involuntarily leaned in toward him. I desperately want to share that phase of existence with him, bound together by love and necessity, watching this mad planet get its own back. That was definitely in store for us. He must understand that. There would be no disappearing for several days, driving off without a clue. He could do that, but he would lose all his warmth, all his shelter and safety; all that would undoubtedly become sacred.

  When we got back to the motel, and I stretched out my arms toward him, he said, ‘I’m sorry. I can’t do this anymore.’ He drew back a half step. ‘I never meant to.’

  Again, I only stared.

  ‘I’m old…er than you,’ he said, by way of feeble explanation. ‘You know? You’re not old enough to even know what you want. I can’t take someone like that.’

  ‘And you’re old enough to not want anything anymore,’ I snapped.

  ‘I want things.’ He sounded genuinely hurt. I didn’t anticipate such flippancy could have an impact on Sir. Master of His Own Domain. Mr. Even Keel.

  ‘I want you to know my sincerest friendship. As I do for all my dear…special friends.’

  Oh Gunther, ever the disarming one. Hearing him call me ‘dear’ and ‘special’ quieted me down. But I was still feeling princessy enough to fuss over the point of having to share him with the rest of these gourmet friends, and wondered how many we were talking. I’ll always want to be his special #1, the way he is for me.

  ‘Friends are a very special thing,’ he said.

  I said, ‘I know.’

  I crawled into the fetal position on one side of the bed and tried to sleep. I tossed off clothes intermittently, and strewed them on the floor. I wasn’t sure how much to take off, now that the line had been drawn at ‘just friends’ again. But I wanted to be comfy.

  He turned the lights off and tried to sleep, too. It seemed so unnatural, forcing ourselves to stay apart like that. It was hard to sleep with the tension of it. He must have felt the energy comi
ng off me the way, I was sure, I felt the energy coming off him, because by morning I was wrapped in his arms. We didn’t get up to anything. Just held each other.

  He got up even earlier than usual, and started on his morning routine. I could tell we were leaving by the nature of his preparations. Everything was going back in its place. Things were finding their way into orderly piles. I was still lying in bed, watching him.

  He came and sat on the edge of the bed. He had on a button-down shirt, his undies, and socks. Gunther never was too concerned about covering up and all that. Let’s face it; we’ve been sharing hotel rooms for a while now. And we’re practically family. Better than family.

  He said, ‘I don’t want to hurt you anymore.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I was happier being your humble chauffeur.’

  We piled everything into the car, and when I slid in beside him, he said, ‘Where to, Miss?’

  I vaguely remembered my days as a frustrated small-town bumpkin, dreaming of a promising and colorful existence in the big smoke. Besides, I thought we’d already decided.

  ‘New York City?’

  ‘New York City.’

  The words filled me with sort of a sick euphoria. I was destined to have an interesting life after all. What’s more, Gunther did love me, but from the abstracted distance of just wanting me to be me. The optimal me, that is. Fulfilling potential and all that. Just following him around like a puppy dog probably isn’t the best I can do with myself. I guess. I don’t like pining after him in his absences, that’s for sure.

  It’s a long, hot drive to wherever Gunther has us headed next, and I’ve had plenty of time to think. I thought, I wouldn’t be looking like a silly puppy if he loved me properly back. Everything would be OK.

  He’ll probably be dropping me in NYC permanently, after these little trial runs of leaving me stuck in the middle of fucking nowhere for a few days. At least there will be stuff for me to get on with in a proper city. But the thought of him leaving forever is…unthinkable. Surely that could not be his intention, after all this time out here bonding, getting to know each other out here on the road. Unless he considers himself some kind of Buddha master, instructing me until he decides I’m ready to tackle the world alone. Sometimes it feels that way.

  Vampires don’t do that, though. They don’t go to all that trouble with someone and just desert them. You live that long, you see how fucked up the world is, you travel around…you find a friend, you stick to them. You find someone to love, you make them your obedient slave. You bind them to you by sheer need. A loneliness that immense needs to be shared.

  I shot him a look. Me and my overactive imagination! But looking at him there didn’t help matters. He was squinting palely into the sun, looking withered but dashing. Looking every bit like he’d like nothing more than to climb back into his coffin, wrap himself in the satin lining.

  We stopped for lunch at a pizza parlor. I was pretty sure Gunther made eyes at the waitress. She wasn’t even pretty. She was kind of nervous. The food was average. I got a calzone, which was spelled ‘callzoni’ on the menu. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Gunther was being way too nice to that dame.

  Maybe he was just trying to spread himself around again. I’m feeling a little the same way. In a way it’s been nice to stop all that romantic crap; all that touching. I don’t have to worry about what I’m doing wrong, and if it’s going to make him go away again. He doesn’t have to act so guilty around me. Things are almost back to normal.

  We hung around town for a while. The streets were covered with red dust. I sat down by the car and painted bottle caps. Gunther kept a bag of paints in the glove box. He’s a much better artist than me. He came back from his walk and said, ‘Oh, look at you, with your folk art!’

  Damn Gunther has a name for everything.

  Then he said, ‘Little bottle cap miniatures!’

  I smiled up at him.

  ‘May I have one?’

  I gave him a little happy skull with a bone in its mouth. He cradled it in his palm, and carried it back to the car. We got back on the road and tried to get as far as we could before dark. I rolled a joint. I smoked and watched the land stretch out all around us.

  It looked just the same. The world, that is. The road; the shimmering gray asphalt, pea-green grass, people’s houses, people’s barns, people’s cars, the trees, were all unmoved and unchanged by recent events. Gunther and I, an item…Gunther and I, just friends. Me, precocious slut, tempting Gunther to nail me. Me, repentant youngster trying like hell to learn some respect for my elder(s) again. The sun just ruthlessly shines.

  ‘Gunther,’ I said, ‘the sun is so relentless.’

  I leaned over and handed him the joint. It wasn’t official Gunther Smoking Time. But he grinned a faint grin and took it. He smoked it a damn long time (Bogarting if you ask me) then handed it back in slow motion. Zen and the art of handing over a joint. I think it took a full thirty seconds for it to reach my hand. And it looked like he was flying it in on a little plane. I was deeply amused.

  ‘Gunther,’ I said, ‘you’re not getting this back.’

  He laughed heartily. ‘Well, I am driving.’

  ‘Yes, you are.’

  Apparently this was funny, too.

  The town we reached as the sun was setting looked to consist of little more than a whorehouse and a gas station. Men were actually having fisticuffs by the side of the road. We drove straight through. Gunther asked me if I’d like us to drive another hour and a half or so to a bigger town he knew was half decent. I said yes.

  We had a big pasta dinner, found a movie house, and watched Citizen Kane. I was too stoned to remember much about it, apart from the fact that it was long, and that an old man liked his sled.

  I was so tired when we got back to the room, I flopped down on the bed, kicked my shoes off, and said, ‘Goodnight, Gunther.’ I hadn’t even brushed my teeth.

  ‘Goodnight,’ he said, with no shortage of tenderness. He was sitting in an armchair.

  When I awoke the next morning he was already running the taps. He must have been halfway through his morning procedure. I was worried things would be weird now. Staying perpetually wasted was clearly the key to weaning myself off the carnal side of our dealings with no trace of awkwardness. I can be warm and sleepy, and just glad he’s there.

  We had breakfast to go at a really nice old-style bakery. I got a blueberry muffin. Gunther got a ham and cheese croissant. Then more driving, driving, driving. I didn’t roll a joint this time. I was kind of groggy.

  Seems like we’ve been on the road half of forever. We stopped at a crappy roadside diner sometime in the afternoon. I swear Gunther flirted with that waitress, too. And she was not much to look at either. Permed yellow hair, cigarette hangin’ out of the side of her mouth. Isn’t that a health violation? She may as well have had ‘NOT GUNTHER’S TYPE’ tattooed across her forehead. I picked at my meal and moved it in piles around my plate, muttering things like, ‘Is that mashed potato gray?’

  Was Gunther always this charming? I don’t seem to recall. I remember him being happy in my presence. I recall feeling like co-conspirators in something I didn’t fully understand, but was stoked to be a part of.

  So more closeness has yielded more distance. And the earth getting hotter will bring about an ice age. My head hurts. And I must be getting old now. Because it seems I’m starting to make crucial errors, rack up regrets, and muddle around in them. Sitting here smoking, looking at Gunther, typing on the typewriter. It hurts now.

  He’s still physically exactly the same. That Gunther sitting there, watching the news, in those slacks, in his brown shirt, with his elegance and his moody calm. That’s the same Gunther from the happy innocent cocoon days. The same Gunther of limitless passion, horizonless love. And so am I: the same. Those are my scrawny bitten chipped black nails on the keys. My mousy hair falling over my eyes.

  A morning shower bright and early confirmed this further. I wiped
the steam from the mirror. That’s me; it was always there, that little blank mouse face staring accusingly back at me.

  ‘You’re up early,’ said Gunther.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, and mumbled, ‘Like two ships passing in the morning.’

  ‘Hmmm?’

  ‘Nothing.’ I am really not a morning person, and I probably should never attempt to get up before him.

  I found a video channel and blared loud music while Gunther took his shower.

  A song came on that knocked me for six. Now, I know it’s cheese, but sometimes cheese hits you the hardest. A pretty-boy loud band. They said:

  I just lost my best friend. I miss you so much I wish my life would end…(something, something) And I can’t let go. Because it hurts like I’ve never been hurt before…I cannot sleep without you here. All I wanted was to be with you (something…)

  Or something like that.

  Gunther came out wrapped in a towel and made some disparaging comments about the lead singer’s haircut. He didn’t see my eyes welling with tears. My wet hair was falling over my face, dripping onto my lap.

  It was an overcast day, one of those silvery-gray ones. I slouched in the passenger seat, staring out at the sky’s metallic glare. I couldn’t tell if I was quietly weeping all day, or if my eyes were just sensitive. I’m generally not a crier.

  We drove all day and ate nothing but corn chips. We had a bag stashed on the back seat.

  Gunther’s in the shower. I get the impression he’s going out. Just a hunch. I’m not getting the social vibe. We’ve barely spoken all day. I wouldn’t say it was an uncomfortable silence, it’s more like we’re just tired.

  Now he’s trudged back into the room with his lank wet hair and asked if I’m hungry. I said not really. Sometimes sitting in the car all day makes you feel like a slug. He said, ‘Yeah. I’m not either. I have kind of a headache. I think I’ll go for a walk.’