Two Lost Souls

by Scott D Wagner

One score and seven years ago.

  From the beyond, comes All Hollow’s Eve. The year of our lord 1982. Or perhaps, just perhaps, for this single conjured Eve, the year of our demon 1982.

  A young Airman First Class, still green to the military, new to Colorado, and bunking at Lowry Air Force base, is out and about. Out, spending a fall day playing tourist. With two companions at his side, the trio is in search of entertainment; the kind young men desire. Their quest has brought them to Golden Colorado.

  According to any book on New York City tourism, a Circle Line Cruise around Manhattan is nearly mandatory. According to any young Airman that has ever passed through Lowry, a circle of the Coors Plant is a Direct Order.

  With all of the political correctness that consumes many these days, too many, I do not imagine that they do it anymore, but in 1982, ice cold Coors beer was free to visitors. They were offering, so the three of us consumed all the ‘3.2’ beer they presented us. It wasn’t much, just enough to give me a tremendous headache. This is the beginning of the Headache Story. However, this must be your lucky day; I’m not feeling it. Be warned though, if you hang around me long enough, you will get the Headache Story.

  The sun was slipping its hide beyond the Rockies. Perhaps it was because of the ghoul-filled darkness that was about to lay its blood stained cloak upon us. Perhaps it was because we were young and devil horned. Whatever the eerie reason, the three of us were looking for ghouls-play from the scantily clad vixens of this night.

  Two local She-Devils told of a goblin infested mansion that would provide us with that Witch we sought. This Bar was not far from our current location; so we headed up Lookout Mountain to… wait for it… Joe’s Bar.

  Joe’s Bar, it is named Joe’s Bar, so you might think it to be a hole in the wall. Well stop thinking, it was. Joe’s outer façade was done in an 1885 Tombstone motif. The length of the front porch was garnisheed with Barn Siding, it was antlered, and it was pelted. Rocking chairs and hitching posts were plentiful. No faithful steeds were currently posted. However, aromatic proof that they recently had been, was heaped.

  In the same space that was Joe’s, it was like diving upon a coral reef. It was blooming with visual memories. A painting for my future daydreams. As if from a childhood Christmas, there were many presents from Colorado that I can easily recall with exact clarity. Gifts I shall never discard. Joe’s, in 1982, my rustic saloon. Joe’s, in 2010, a wedding chapel. Both as the same, nestled high upon Lookout Mountain.

  The inner décor was… well… it was a nauseas garage sale. It was; we don’t want you to see too much so we will keep it moldy dark. Aged pick-nick tables were geometrically dysfunctional throughout. They sat upon a concrete floor. The once gray floor was a collage of stains. These stains weren’t there for the Halloween affect. Although I was certain that a horrible senseless act had taken place here once. Maybe twice. As far as I could tell, the floor was there to collect peanut shells. Each table held several baskets of salted un-shelled peanuts. And Joe the owner’s name was Lilly.

  Being who I am, I was completely enamored with the personality of Joe’s. It was just me sensing a feeling. Joe’s has something special for me. Therefore, I paid little attention to the opinions of my friends. I visually photographed; taking in all of the nuances that Joe’s presented. Items and appeals that many people never see; the same that I find wonderfully distinct.

  Even on the cloud that I was, there was a long-toothed something that grabbed me. Most missing teeth and none under fifty, the bar was mostly men. There were a few women; Cougars would have been a stretch for them. In the 80’s, at Joe’s, they were just Nasty. Maybe not an official term, but as a twenty year old, a term I would have used.

  Standing alone noticeably, there were two young women. They were costumed for the evening. I thought; ‘Yoos ain’t from around here is ya?’ It seemed that the She-Devils that steered us up this mountain had had some good fun with the stupid Air Force guys.

  A bad Country Band was preparing to play. Tuning, picking, percussion-ing instruments that I did not recognize; preparing to delight the locals and surely annoy me. As you may know, I am a dedicated Classic Rocker. I do have Little Feet catalogued, but that is about as far as I stray. Yet before the evening was over, these good ole boys would be a good remembrance.

  I was still profiling Joe’s and was not quite ready to leave yet. I sat down in front of a basket and looked for my travelers to join me. With a questioning look, they reluctantly did. ‘Questioning look’, maybe not the best chosen words. Smiling fake, I pushed a basket toward them. “Peanuts?” I asked, very full of myself.

  A Clairol 55 red haired woman approached us. She was fifty-ish, and not a good anything-ish. Our server to-be was playing in the outfit of a twenty year old. The critics would have panned her wardrobe. It was applauded by the Joe-ers. Melany’s bra, that must have had the tensile strength of a cable from the Golden Gate Bridge, lifted her breasts to the sky. Her Daisy Duke shorts left things untucked that should have long ago been stowed away. All to the delight of the same patrons.

  She amply displayed what the cables were unable to bind as she leaned down toward our young eyes. No doubt toying with us, she received several hoots from her fellow players in this game. Realizing my lips were parted, I swallowed and parted them again. “Three Coors please,” I shouted. Pretending that I hadn’t been staring and her breast and I did belong here. Melany exaggerated a smile and swung from us. Proudly displaying her more than ample back-of-front. A back that would surely explode into a large throw pillow if released from its denim grip. Although she didn’t have it, she flaunted it as she headed back to the bar. Again, Joe’s echoed with Cat Calls. Even with her departing away from us, I knew she had a playful smile in place. She had entertained herself and the raucous Regulars. Melany played well the game; a game that she had played many times over.

  Here, my visit to Joe’s Bar comes to an abrupt end for you. However, not to leave you wondering why I brought you here to begin with, you need to know two more things that I found at Joe’s. ‘Things’, may not define them properly.

  Wondering our future at Joe’s, I sat staring at the long row of smeared windows running the length of the back wall. Needing to escape the silent stares of my friends, I rose to my feet and headed to view the out of doors. As I approached, my vision began to detect glittered colors. I peered into the night’s darkness. What I saw, I have described often as indescribable. Simply put, a visual sensation. The Colorado forest parted, displaying all of an eastern view that my eyes could consume. Sloping gently downward, the brightest and sparsest of the lights before me was the foothills of Golden. At the base of the slope, opening expansively, flickering with all the colors conceived, were the millions of lights brought forth by the High Valley of Denver. Flowing furthest, the ornaments of the plains blinked into infinity. Infinity, as my eyes could pull in and place amongst context. It was a magnificent vision, a sight rare, maybe never to be for me again. One that fixed me in this place, one deserving ceremony. Ceremonies that the wedded now share with this lit carpet that spreads eternal; bound only by the restraint of vision. Perhaps, and maybe always, anatomy is the only boundary that challenges us with things we cannot overcome. Perhaps.

  As much as I was certain at this moment that this view would be the one thing that I would bring home from Joe’s, bring home remembered, I was wrong. Something happened that I play with every day of my life. That night at Joe’s, my life’s path turned in a new direction. Four months and five days after my evening at Joe’s, one of those out of place young women took me as her groom. We were married in a Lowry Chapel. I met my wife Pamila in a bar. Not just any bar, Joe’s bar, high atop Lookout Mountain Colorado. That night, I did indeed witness the most beautiful view of my life.

  On March 5 1983, we would be married. That vision looking out the dirty windows at Joe’s was magnificen
t. That slightly scared, and full of love view that I witnessed as she joined me at the altar, is the only view that I will ever refer to as: The only view.

  Those of you who read Incident at Monticello, you know what I just did there. For those of you who have not, well, I guess you will have to figure it out.

  Still with me? This brings us to the present, March 5 2010. It is Pamila’s twenty-seventh wedding anniversary. (Come on; you know anniversaries are for the woman. Again, if you read Incident at Monticello, you know why I can safely say that.)

  With Pami’s anniversary dinner just hours away, and she in full preparation, I have time to update you on Rojer. Remember Rojer? We left him at Monticello. And don’t worry; I am pretty sure Pamila is bringing me along with her.

  Leaving Rojer last, he had just stepped through the door of life and entered the challenge. However, for Rojer, his new direction would be a challenge of the good kind. It would not be a Significant Life Changing Experience. Changing jobs for Rojer is less change, more transition. For Rojer, transitioning is an expected adventure. Rojer’s intellect, his ability to instantly grasp and retain concepts, makes employers salivate. If it had been done at least once in the last forty years, and Rojer read about it, witnessed it, or was told about it, it was skilled knowledge tucked away into his portfolio.

  By simple definition, Rojer is not a ‘Job Hopper’. However, six to seven years seems to be about the medium. After six to seven years, he gets the wonder lust. Six to seven years that employers would love to have. Inevitable in time, Rojer moves on. New scenery, different people, a new challenge of a task of knowledge.

  What always amazes me when he goes through these transitions, are the opportunities presented him. In a nonprofessional’s term: The really cool jobs. His last three jobs have been: Curator at Monticello; Authenticity Researcher for the Smithsonian; Historical Documenter for NASA. Are you kidding me, whose resume reads like that? And yes, once again this makes me jealous.

  However, there is one thing that is different about Rojer’s current transition; this time his challenge is shared. Rojer is in lust, love, or a combination. His new girlfriend, Miss Kaitlin, will certainly have a bearing on his current job search.

  Through the receiving of Rojer’s last e-mail, I knew Rojer’s last day at Monticello was two days from now. The Evil Step-Chairman of the Foundation had bought out the remainder of Rojer’s contract. An act that showed me how pissed Peter was. I did consider if the Chairman of the Foundation was mad at Rojer, or was he venting on Rojer at me? Even though I was sure that Rojer was good with his contract termination, I did feel bad. Had I not gone to Monticello, this might not have happened. I rationalized; Rojer did invite me. He should have known better.

  Besides our impending dinner, which I was looking forward to, if invited, several happenings had put a little more pep into my step. Also, and however, and despite this, one self-consuming thought was holding me one step back after two forward.

  First, I will give you the two forward. Rojer’s last e-mail hinted of a possible future visit to our little hamlet of Morrison. His tease was: The Rockies may do me some good.

  There is a second pepped step. I earlier received a call from someone who always quickened my pace. For me at this moment, this conversation added the most to my current anticipating emotion.

  The call began thusly; “Hello this is Daniel.” A booming voice that probably needed no cell connection vibrated my Hammer and Anvil.

  “Danny boy! You old son-of-a-bitch. How the hell they hanging Danny boy?” It was a familiar voice that I briefly could not place a face to.

  Not attached, I responded with caution; “Okay, I guess.” In the same time that it took to deliver these three words, I placed the face. It was the ‘Danny boy’. It was the William Keefe. I only knew one The William Keefe.

  “Oh Danny boy… It has been a mole’s life Danny. How the hell are ya my friend?” He assumed I knew who he was. He assumed everyone knew who Billy Keefe was. I thought he might be right. With my luck of him, I smiled. He continued; “The last time I saw you, you were on the channel 9 news. You were running from the press like you were running from a pissed off Scotsman with a Grain Sickle whose little Lassie you’d just boffed in the hay’s.”

  With child excitement I nearly shouted; “Billy! William Keefe! You Emerald Isle reject. How’s retirement Billy?”

  “Retirement! Who’s retired? I’m not retired. I’m not getting paid either but what the hell.” Billy let out a rumbling laugh. It was loud and jovial. The type of laugh that you never would expect from a man of his diminutive stature. It was Billy.

  William Keefe was barely five feet three inches tall. However, in any tale you would tell of Billy, he was a giant. William Keefe’s personality dwarfed most. He was a fourth generation Irish American. However, his personality in costume, he played the role of a newly arrived immigrant in the land of opportunity. Billy loved this country with all his being; this enamored him to me. William Keefe was as sharp as they get. He was capable of making you believe whatever he was preaching. He was articulate; when he let his over-stated brogue settle amongst the clover. He was confident in his boisterousness, and a loyal friend. When Billy was around, all of these things drew me to he.

  All this was not all this for all. Billy was also an unforgiving enemy. I had seen him wronged; he always toothed for tooth. He was not mean, more vindictive. I’m not sure the definition of those two words is far apart. I guess I am trying to say that if Billy had wronged you, you had wronged Billy. William Keefe would not go after someone that wronged him, but when the Wrong-err screwed up, Billy would be right there to make sure all the pieces stayed broken. He’d toss the first spade of dirt on you.

  Billy Keefe knew many people; many people knew Billy Keefe. He always got information, and always gave information to those that would settle the score. Information was his weapon; and with it, he was deadly. Hs slate always stayed clean.

  To me, Mister Keefe was ‘dinner and a show’. Being with Billy was always a festival. However, I can only party so hard. Billy’s personality was much like the sun; do not stay in it too long. Billy and I were not sit-on-the-couch and watch twelve hours of football kind of friends. But rarely did I miss an opportunity to be in his orbit.

  My Pamila very much doted on William Keefe. She was very comfortable with his large personality. The same, in small quantities. She loved the part he played and saw him as a true gentleman. Billy loved women and always left them feeling beautiful and special. William Keefe had a gift, one that he always presented to the fairer gender. He playfully flirted, and Pami was no exception. He had a sense of humor that blushed women. Again, Pamila was no exception. Pami was teenage giddy when he gifted her. At seven and sixty, William Keefe fronted as a Ladies-man extraordinaire. Well-schooled in the art of the softer sex, he was a reflection of Benjamin Franklin. Shorter and louder, but similar in amore smoothness. This similarity is always an identifier in my Billy Profile.

  Thinking useless thoughts as I often do, I swirled around if Billy played chess. Even if he was not a student of the game, I was sure that if a young woman offered herself for a game of bathtub chess, Billy would happily be her Pawn.

  The phone conversation flowed through the polite exchange of news since we had last been together. I briefly wondered if he had ever called my cell before. That lead me to; how had he gotten my number. I grasped that it was William Keefe.

  He suddenly sucked air as if it was the last he would have for a while. He started again with a tone that was more serious. “Danny boy…” Billy’s Gallic-being rolled my name off of his tongue as if was spiritual. He loved my name and loved saying it. As any good Irishman would. Given a couple of whiskeys, he was predictable in his singing of ‘Oh Danny Boy’. As any good Irishman would.

  My presented presentation on Billy’s use of my name complete, and my textual inter
ruption of his words ended, he continued. “So I guess you want to know why this old Mick is bothering you. Well Danny, I miss you and lovely Pamila. I ask if you and she are free for dinner this evening. You would make an old man happy if you would honor me tonight. Ya know Danny that little lady dotes on me.” Told you.

  “Dotes? Billy you think all the ladies dote on you.”

  “Oh Danny they do they do my boy.” With self-enjoyment, his laugh was deep. I finished the banter.

  “And Billy no one is buying that old crap.” He laughed again and I enjoyed the moment along with him. Taking another long breath, he continued his role. “Danny boy, this soul won’t be old till me poor Irish bones is buried amongst the stones of me beloved Isle.” Billy liked to holiday in the Caribbean. I wasn’t even sure if he had ever been to Ireland. It was however good oral theater.

  “Beloved Isle! You mean Saint Thomas!” I countered.

  He laughed briefly and tossed it back at me. “You are as quick as ever Danny. How about it? Dinner?” He was going to be disappointed if I did, but I said no.

  “Billy I can’t tonight.” He took my ‘I’ and ran with it.

  “That’s alright Danny. How about Pamila? Is she free? We’ll bring you home a doggy-bag.” I chuckled at this. But I have to say, when our conversation had ended, I did wonder. It did seem like people really wanted to be with Pami. Was it… was I just an inconvenience that they would have to put up with? People skills might not be my strongest suit.

  “Danny you are watering down my whiskey.”

  “Sorry we can’t Billy. Not tonight. We have reservations at the Charter House for seven o’clock. It’s our anniversary and a bunch of us are getting together. You know family and friends.”

  “Me weak heart stops Danny. I thought I was a friend. I’m not invited?” My mind’s gears began grinding. Yes, Pami loved Billy. But she might not think this a good Billy event. You know this moment; it is the definition of awkward.

  I stumbled through my words. “Billy, well… Of course you are-”

  “Danny I’m just busting your oysters.” Billy was merciful and I was relieved. If I screwed up Pami’s anniversary… Well let us not go there. “Danny when can we get together? Soon?” I thought for a moment about when.

  “I don’t know Billy. Pamila and I are heading for the East Coast in three days. I have an interview to do. Let me check with her and I’ll call you tomorrow. I know she would love to see you. She does dote on you.

  “Oh Danny I love ya like me brother.”

  “You don’t have a brother Billy.” He didn’t pause.

  “I’ll speak with you tomorrow Danny if not sooner.”

  I didn’t know what he meant by that, but with that, William Gentry Keefe was gone.

  Sitting in my recliner, ambient CNN buzz lightly touched my hearing. Filtering the words that were broken into money, overseas something and a security leak, I sat with a soft smile. Feeling very much as a child on Christmas Eve. Anticipation of a future Billy Nights warmed my spirit.

  Memories of other Keefe meetings blocked the broadcast. The first time I was introduced to William Keefe was at Press Club weekend in Vegas. It was the spring of 2001. I recall his first words to me; “I’m Billy Keefe. The Rocky Mountain News works for me!” Instant man crush.

  Over time, I learned that it did seem like the News worked for him; and had for some thirty years. During this first introduction, he also told me that his title was; “Whatever fits well at the time.”

  In fact, Billy wrote a weekly column that posted in the Sunday edition, the World News Section. This homogeneous topic left for a lot of creativeness. It was the perfect display for Billy. Every column embodied stern seriousness floating in a pool of humor. Billy wrote with the snap of a bullwhip and the quill-ery of a master. Which is why the paper worked for him. After our first introduction, I never missed a column.

  First perspective changed.

  Closed within me, the tempest that was still swirling curiosity, stretching the line of truth, and ever expanding the limit of thought, was Monticello. At its core, and always orbiting the neutron, was the electron of what I was to do with this new gathered knowledge. A bit further to reach, what is my responsibility of this learned. Out of reach, visible to sight, did I indeed have a responsibility?

  ‘My Dream’, as I came to accept it as, or call it anyways, was that one-step back. My Dream still held me pinned between the rock of reality, and the hard place of reality challenged.

  My rock and hard place challenge had left me pondering direction. Although not knowing where it would take me, I had chosen acceptance of my knowledge and my understood responsibility to indeed share. The how, why, when, and where needed not to be shared. Plausible deniability gave me comfort. In addition, I thought it kind of cool deep political cloak and dagger. Less cool, I did not want to be freak spouting crazy stained water.

  Of course, first I would do what I had been doing for twenty-seven years. It was time to complete a pattern. I began my search for the board that would always sound. I went looking for Pami.

  Pamila:

  Feeling content and warm in a glow of reasonable satisfaction, my preparation for the night’s events continue. I sit at my makeup table; a frilled setting that is an imagined part of a young girl’s dreams. Seldom is it that I use this dream. Rebecca, who God bless her, so wants her Mommy to be a princess, gave it to me several Christmas’ ago. I could not break it to her that her mommy is not a Princess; her gift should remain a part of her fantasy.

  Within the event of this time, which is the beginning of this evening, I am delightfully letting myself enjoy my gift so very girlishly. Sights and aromas emotion me in the dream. A soft playfulness of a twinkle. My toys are just that, and I play with them. Colors of lipsticks, pencils, and shadows that I would never dare. Applying and posing for the mirrored paparazzi, I then wipe away what I wish I would dare. If just once. Even the giggle that recognizes that I would not ever, is a full of fun part of this. Fleeing from the reflective camera flashes, I lie to myself that one day I will dare.

  This evening’s preparation began with a long hot bathe. The water gently Jasmine scented was made wetter with a touch of Baby Oil. Self-manicuring was a needed task, relaxation a desired aspiration.

  My aspired began, as my task was complete. Lying and enjoying the warmth that surrounded me, Danny settled into my thoughts. I wished him to join me. Him slipping into the prepared water, caressing my neck with kissing, lathering my breasts and finding that spot. All would be licks of gentle suckled pets. Me inches from the peak, he’d slip in.

  These thoughts went unfulfilled; I bathed alone. It seems that children, the real world, and time, have left us with fewer of these moments. However, not wanting my fantasy to be completely unattended to, I lathered and enjoyed a piece of pie.

  Unfortunately, or fortunately, dessert has left me sitting here anticipating the main course. My current state of hunger was not lessened by this evening’s choice of apparel. My current heightened state of sexuality was being promoted by my worn intimates. All carefully chosen, and I am proud to say, for me, all a little bit daring. From toe to shoulders: Ivory silk stockings; baby blue laced satin panties, which were less functional and more inviting; matching garter belt; and a ribbon drawn bustier that presented me very amply. My outer-ware would be a new Little Black Dress. One that presented my amply very nicely.

  I was sure that when Sarina saw me in what I was not wearing, she would firmly grasp my hand and pull me aside. She would lean into me and in an attempted hush, would say; ‘Mom! Your boobs… their… their popping out.’

  Rebecca on the other hand, without any hushing, would say; ‘Damn Mom you look hot.’ I wasn’t sure which statement would embarrass me more. Neither mattered, I wasn’t dressing for either of them.

  Picking up a Garnet-red gloss, one of those never-to-be-worn’
s, Mervin’s collar jiggles his entrance to the bedroom. He leaps onto my bed with an emphasized exhale. Mervin’s arrival surely means that his father cannot be far behind. Half-heartedly I yell at him; “Mervin get down.” Looking into the mirror, I see him staring at me, asking if it is going to come. Hoping not for a second sterner rebuke. None coming he lowers his head in rested victory. “Spoiled dog,” I weakly mumble. His eyes meet mine in the mirror as he exaggerates a sigh. He knows he is spoiled.

  Danny walks in. Woman good! All powdered and perfumed. His walk pauses, telling me he recognizes this. His figure flows across the mirror from right to left. Joining Mervin, he sits on the bed. Only the back of my head is visible above the clothed pink and rose of the princess’s chair. If he wishes to meet my eyes, he will have to take in my reflection. One that hangs like an unfinished portrait.

  Danny gently pets Mervin. A deep green jealousy brought on by misguided frustration overwhelms me. Misguided, as this frustration is only a moment thing. It has not been a l lingering one. We did after all just share a romantic weekend within the Brown Palace. Danny was very attentive, and I crested repeatedly. It feels that my lone bathing has brought on this moment. Twenty-seven years passed, we are still very much in lust. Being with each other in pleasure, is youngness that we are not willing to let fade. It is my heart that tells me that our youngness nourishes our unity through the grief that wishes to stunt our marital growth. Perhaps I am just rationalizing; perhaps it is as simple as it is fun.

  I did not feel it was my turn. I did not speak. My eyes stayed fixed on my playing. However, my playtime was coming to a sad end. Time dictated that I needed to start getting ready in earnest. Time being a factor, is what I spoke of earlier. Time now a factor told me to worry about Danny’s arrival. Time. More concerning than his presence, was his position. As Danny would say; ‘His fortified position. Hunkered down.’ Doctor Daniel Rengaw had something smothering his mind. A something that would not be good for me, at this time. I would first try the simplest path, ignorance. However, ignoring Danny successfully was as elusive as the Fountain of Youth. When he wanted to be heard, Danny was a pesterer. When he wanted to be heard by me, Daniel was a pain-in-the-ass.

  I sat fixed on my preparation, he sat fixed on me. This was the game. In this game, he was the King, I the Jester. Still I held out, I did not look upper left. If our mirrored eyes met, I was finished. The bastard just sat there. Waiting. My temple thumped. Again. Waiting. A sudden and unwanted pull lifted my eyes up and left. “What! What is it Danny? Go ahead! I know you have something on your mind.” My words were weak in their effort to be strong. His slight smile chalked up another victory. Staring at his face in the mirror, I one last time conjured it to be no more.

  Toned in an unconvicting apology, Daniel spoke. “I need you to listen to me.” Lifeless arms dropped to my side, chin to chest. Danny taking some seconds warned me that indeed I was to listen. It would be Danny deep. During exchanges like the one we were about to have, Danny spoke with exacting words. Colors that added background to thought. That was his reasoning for me listening. At times, as I listened, he seemed to run beyond verbose. However, and mostly always, when I would revisit his coloring, the canvas would make brilliant sense. But damn, I really did not have time for the one hundred and twenty-eight box of Crayola’s.

  My eyes rose to gather in his mirrored. Palms up, I lifted my hands. “Well?” I insisted for him to begin. Upon this urging, he sat up straight and began a verse that I knew I did not have time for.

  “Pamila I need to run something by you.” Still searching his thoughts through the mirror, I tried to stave off this moment one last time.

  “Danny, it is less than three hours till our reservation. Do we really have to do this now?” These words delivered, I swung my chair to face him. This fully displayed me to him. Displayed me in my current presentation of undress. Slowly rising to his feet, his face phased from one of intenseness, to one of playful inquiry. With a silly face fully in bloom, he moved toward me. “There!’ I shouted. “There is the look I wanted earlier. Where were you fifteen minutes ago?” I asked pointing at a face with lustful intention.

  Still coming toward me he asked; “What? Fifteen minutes ago… I-”

  I cut off his ignorance explained. “No never mind.” My arms firmly extended to fend off a letch. Emotion’ d somewhere between sincerity and toying, I said; “No Danny! Not now! You had your chance.” His look told me he did not know of any chance. Danny saw this as his chance. He lifted me by my lower back, pulling me close. I giggled insistently; “Danny stop.” Over-acting an over-sexed vampire, Danny didn’t hear it all that insistent. Staunchly I ended another chuckle. “Danny my makeup stop!” His hold eased. Self-entertained, he let me slip away. Free from his youngish approach, I found the Princess’ chair. I spun to resume my preparation. Picking up an eyeliner that I would never wear, I raised it and stared into my thoughts. Warmed by the playing, I was a bit sad by its ending. I tucked it away for the evening’s later moment.

  Up and left, I watched him retake his bed’d seat. In an emphasized display of disappointment, he dropped his head and exaggerated a sigh. I wanted to be soft; I wanted to let him know that I’d tucked it away. “I love you Danny.” I wanted to be light. “You know natural beauty does not come naturally.”

  His playfulness had mellowed my disapproval of his attempted verbal profoundness. “Danny if you need to talk we can. But I will have to keep getting ready. Okay?” Studying his demeanor in the mirror, I could see that the playful Danny had morphed into a stoic Daniel. This thought- filled-face was the same always displayed with his sharing. Yet, what this was, was different. It was a baffle I couldn’t undo. He was deep a part of plain purpose. His cheekbones were points, his skin drawn thin. His brows trying to shade eyes were forced down. His lips were slits small and tight. His hands were fisted and buried into the mattress. He was tense, rigid, squeezing, and perspiring. The thirty seconds that it took to transform from where we just were, to where he was now, held my breath.

  His words rasped a tone that further concerned me. “Yes Pamila. Yes I do.” His ‘Pamila’ pierced me, ice, chilling. I didn’t know this Danny. I didn’t like this Danny. I did not want this Daniel.

  My chair wanted to spin to him; I told in no. Slow and straight, he walked up to the bathroom door. As if it might burn him, he slowly raised his hand to the door. The fingertips of his right hand traveled along the thin of the open door. In a voice that seemed directed to no one, and not toning that a reply was needed, Daniel spoke; “This door, do you see it? You do right. Therefore, if it is seen, it is here. If it is here, it is seen, it is real. It is really here and really seen. However, think about this. What if it was seen but not real. Alternatively, what if it was real but not seen. I think the two are not necessarily exclusive of each other. Example: What if something we knew as not real, and not seen, suddenly was seen. Would not it then be real? Even though it had never before been seen, never before been real. I know now that there are things like that. I have seen them. Things that you know do not exist, but now, do. But even though you do see it, what makes it real? Conversely, if you don’t see it, how do you know, how do you know it is not real?”

  Finishing what I had to believe were his thoughts, Daniel chuckled a self-actualized snicker. As if something for the first time had become understood.

  Pieces of what he had said made sense to me. However, I could not put the puzzle together. What I did grasp, what was unusual, was his passive voice. Danny never wrote with a passive voice. Danny never spoke in passive voice.

  Daniel continued; “It is only as real as we perceive it to be, seen or not.” Seeing the wooden door for the first time, he paused with his reciting. I was aware that my evening’s preparation was still. “Pamila, do you know that physicists have a theory.” He was aware of my pre
sence. A momentary snapshot of reality. Seen or not. “Physicists claim that with only one exactly perfect alignment of the atoms of two separate masses, two masses could pass through each other without any molecular disturbance, any transference of energy. This means that if the atoms of my body aligned perfectly with the atoms of the door, I could walk right through it. Do you know what that means? It means that for one moment, one smallest fraction of time, neither the door nor I could be seen. Therefore, neither I nor the door would exist. Neither I nor the door would be real.” Daniel laughed. It was cynical, it was unlike him, it was concerning. Chilled goose bumps rolled the length of my arms. “At least not as the door and I are perceived,” he added.

  Nestled flat amongst the urban sprawl of my make-up, my pressing hands were causing arm muscles to strain. Intent listening held so much of me that my buffed fingernails faded in and out.

  Listening to these words that were chosen by Danny, he seemed unknown to me; a person who had never before spoken to me. Not so much the words chosen, as it was the presentation and how the strings tied his words. I was listening to that which I had never heard.

  The door closed with a soft whoosh of carpet, a wooded stop, and a click. “But see, it is here, I just closed it. Does not that mean that it is here, it does exist? At least as we perceive.”

  Now it did not want to, but I forced my chair to swivel toward him. Daniel was still, facing the closed door. He wasn’t as much motionless as he was expressionless. With a quivering lip I said; “Danny! Danny what do you mean? I don’t understand!” My plead was spongy soprano. “Where are you going with this Danny?” I was sure he would eye me with my scared. He turned without the slightest affirmation that I was present. With a rigid, almost limping gate, he took an angled path toward the double windows. My fright passed around him.

  I watched him reach one of the two. He stood sculpture chiseled; hands settled on the small of his back. Right hand turned outward and lying flat atop the other. Looking, staring, he seemed consumed by the view. He had not seen this view before.

  In a tone I had been with, he began anew. ’“I understand now that there is much we don’t understand. This is what tugs at my resolve. I also understand that it does not matter. What does matter is knowledge; understanding gifted to me. The source is insignificant. The gift is not. While I mull over its source, struggling, I can not let the knowledge age into history. Perhaps waiting a century for another to light the torch and run with it. It is now. It has to be now.

  “A brilliant woman once told me; ‘It matters little how knowledge is acquired. It matters greatly if knowledge does not aspire to change. Change for good. Good change for all.’ Many years ago, these words were told me. I never forgot them. However, they never held a prominent place in my mind. Now I believe these words were sentenced just for me. Just for this exact moment in time. Time, as George Washington referred to it. This change, change for the good, this is what they want. This is my task, this is my aspire to.”

  “Danny who? Who wants you to do this?” He did not break thought.

  “To share knowledge with others and make change. That has to be it.” He was selling it to himself. “Now accepting that the source is inconsequential, I can move beyond the stone wall that has pastured my reasoning. Understanding, battling reason within understanding, this now is a struggle that I can mute in my thoughts. All attempted deciphering of my thoughts can be barreled and discarded. The only remaining deciphered is this. I have to share, change, all for the good of the consenting. Simple, the simplest. Simple? Is it? Perhaps it is only simple in its recognition of task. Perhaps that alone.”

  His face still full of struggle turned to me. He grasped my eyes with his. Still, I did not know if who I was, was in his sight. His face snapped from mine. He looked downward to his right. In a voice vibrating with sadness, sadness that I had rarely heard, there was his new question. “Oh my God. How can I… how will I do this?” Again our eyes met, brief, and then gone. Should I answer? It did not matter, I did not have an answer. My heart squeezed and leapt for my Danny. I couldn’t push away his sullenness. For the first time in our togetherness, I couldn’t ease what troubled his mind.

  I was full of emptiness. My best friend’s eyes had welled with a smothering scared. So rare tears were so real. I wanted to go to him, to hold him. It didn’t seem possible. It wasn’t allowed. Seconds passed so slowly that they stopped all together. He had nothing, no movement or sound.

  With a brief gust of wind, the rain stopped and the clouds separated. The storm that had come up so swiftly was gone. In him the sullen scared was frost harmlessly melting away. Weary tears fell to the sleep. Red eyes were draining to pink.

  Daniel’s tumbling words ended, closing upon themselves. There were words I easily placed; some sentences that seemed to work together. But in context, all was so strangely muddled. No glue bound it together. Mercury rolling atop thought. In order to taste its meaning, I needed more than the bouquet of its snifter swirled brandy. I sipped, sipped, and sipped. Unquenched dried to thirsty.

  Within the place that Danny now was, he was visiting with understanding. His emotional calming headed toward a solution, a resolution, a conclusion. Energy eased downward face to floor. His body relaxed, tension washed into carpet. His face had settled back to Danny. Lips gathered tight had gone comfortable, a tranquil center. His blue eyes gone gray sparkled back to warm blue. A Daniel living without meaning to me returned to Danny that filled my life.

  A completed Danny looked; finding me, he found my eyes. Maybe for the first time, he saw me. In a voice that was welcomed by me, he said; “I’m gonna grab a shower.” Danny beamed a smile and turned.

  Approaching and opening the real bathroom door, he disappeared within. Without getting a handle on it, I stared at the door, still trying to place this into… into anything. The shower handle squealed its friction’d awakening. Danny left me and came back to me with; “I love you.”

  I sat back in front of the mirror. “Huhh! That was new.” The mirror did not reply.

  Had I awaken from a dream? Had He?