She wore a white long sleeved work shirt and blue knee-length shredded denim shorts, scores of long beaded necklaces—The clothes, soaked in perspiration that at some point in the evening must have touched against Cara’s secret love, Matt.
Cara, unable to fathom Sheryl’s pain or dishonor, or to hide the blur of the moment, turned her head in disgust. In Sheryl, she was almost afraid that she would find something of herself, repressed like the reason she had come this evening. Sheryl—detached—unashamed—ravaged by the attention of men—grotesque men without names—didn’t see Cara.
Cara crossed the garage and entered the house, her eyes wide with disbelief. She stood, staring into a blank wall, her heart pounding as hard as the music. As Cara turned the corner and entered a crowded open kitchen, she could see the dancing and celebration—an enormous, dimly lit living area filled with young people, bouncing, stumbling, faltering—powerful yet fragile, capable of any transgression.
Again, Cara felt like she was trying to walk in a boat on choppy seas, like a magnet forever attracted to Matt. And then Matt saw her. Cara, resplendent—stirring—sensual—angelic—many things that seemed all the same. She saw the smile that she had brought to his face.
Matt concluded a conversation with a tall, thin young man, who glanced at Cara and then winked at Matt. Cara’s heart beat even harder, causing her to catch her breath. Matt walked around the dancing mob—his eyes on Cara—smiling, slowly lifting his arms for an embrace. Cara received him with a light hug. They kissed each other on the cheek. Matt leaned in to Cara and shouted above the music.
“Cara! Hey, it’s good to see you—”
“Good to see you too,” Cara said.
“Alex isn't here, is he?”
“No, he’s not.”
“Good! He’s way too young for this party,” Matt laughed.
“I would say so.”
“This party is intense.”
“Yeah!” Cara almost burst into laughter, after what she had seen in the garage, Sheryl, doling out her affection. Maybe she had been right all along—she needed to be there tonight.
“I think Sheryl’ll be glad to see you. I think she liked talking to you last time—on the boat. By the way, you look simply smashing,” he said assuming a British accent.
“Thanks,” Cara laughed.
“Let me go find Sheryl, before she finds me with a beautiful woman.” Matt squeezed her hand and walked away in the direction of the garage. The room suddenly felt balmy to Cara, her face tingling with sweat. She turned and followed Matt with her eyes, not caring if anyone could see or laugh at her infatuation.
Cara leaned against the wall, waiting, hoping the night would forgive her. A discomfort in her stomach began to take hold. What seemed like a century of time opened before her, to torture her—the stalker. She realized the sadness of the moment, her hypocrisy of having spoken once to Sheryl like a friend, and now waiting like a scavenger, to feed on the death of a relationship.
Cara turned her thoughts to her mother, lying in a hospital room. If she only knew how sick Matt was making her, causing her to selfishly malign priorities, fettered to her obsession. Dirt. I feel like dirt, Cara thought.
An enormous wave of self-consciousness swept over Cara, deeper than anything she had yet felt that evening. I don’t belong here with college students—I’ve never even wanted to be on this planet, much less take on the stress of college—can’t deal with a structured life—I’m an artist—who can understand me? Would Matt think I’m just a dumb girl who didn’t like school? I bet I’ve read more books than Sheryl Janzovich. Has she fallen in love with Keats and Yeats? Rumi and Tagore? Is her mind possessed with the voices of poets? Does she think with her heart? No. No—she doesn’t love Matt. She is cruel—forbidding—she might give herself away to all men, but none could ever have what is crucial, her heart.
Matt walked back into the room, despondency and agitation in his eyes. Cara saw him moving across the opposite side of the room, disappearing and reappearing behind heads moving to electro funk, the darkness strobing with camera flashes. Matt found his friend and spoke to him at length, eventually the two collapsing into an embrace. Cara had never seen such tenderness between straight men.
“Wanna dance?” a man with large eyes said.
“Oh—I’m not feeling well,” Cara said tersely.
“Okay.” The man walked away, looking at her out of the corner of his eye, shaking his head.
Cara noticed the DJ laughing and looking at her, gently hailing with both hands. She couldn’t help but smile at the chubby man with emo hair and a gray suit who reminded her a little of Alex. First she tried to hide her embarrassment, but then chose to make a full confession with her eyes, smiling as she walked toward him.
“Hey gorgeous—I know everything,” said the DJ.
Cara chuckled. “Oh really—what’s that supposed to mean?”
“I am the god of par-tay—I know everything that’s going on. I’ve been watching how you’ve been watching that guy over there. Whatever happened to him, you already saw it coming. So you also know a lot—maybe—just maybe—you know more than me.”
The DJ grinned and tilted his head with self-satisfaction. Cara laughed and revealed her astonishment by looking away.
“What are you playing?”
“Right now, I’m playing some German Acid-House—it’s a remix—crazy sick bass. So—what’s your next move? I wish I had women chasing me like that.”
Cara, completely disarmed by the DJ’s warm eyes, sighed. “I have no idea what I’m doing.” She felt as though she were plotting to do something, like an assassin that had not quite yet decided on the exact location for what needed to be a clean hit.
“All right, so hang out with me so the guys will stop hitting on you.”
Cara nodded and chuckled. “Okay.”
The DJ raised his index finger and eyebrows. “But!”
“What?”
“You have to come back here and dance with me.”
“Oh—not into techno—”
“That’s okay, just watch me.”
The DJ jerked his head and simulated the bouncing of a basketball with his left hand and high bouncing ball with his right. “See—low ball—high ball!”
“Very impressive.”
“Now, watch this!” He reached up into the air like he was picking fruit off a tree. “Picking the citrus—picking the Florida citrus!”
Cara surrendered to the frivolity and soon found herself moving to techno, then Latin music. She was astonished to find that the experience of dancing could be so stirring, despite how strange and disorienting life had become—the power of being one with many, the indistinct faces, the sensing that she was living a new life—a life that would care for her, refusing to let her stand by a wall, waiting, consumed with a maddening self-awareness.
Being in the midst of the celebration with the par-tay god created a strange distance between herself and her anxieties—and it wasn’t that she wanted to be at the center of the universe, only that she had unexpectedly found transcendence—a fire from within or above. Maybe the DJ was some kind of god or divine spirit, Cara thought. But how could he not know about Sheryl and Matt?
Lost in a capricious abandon, tension melting away, Cara was enlivened by her own stubbornness—her determination to be near Matt. She looked at him again, and it took away a little of her smile. Matt was describing something with his hands, his friend nodding in sympathy. Cara couldn’t see the expression on his face and looked back to the DJ who was smiling and nodding as if he could read every one of her thoughts. She gave him a playful glare, accepting his omniscient status.
The DJ said something she couldn’t hear.
“What?”
“He’s getting away! Your guy just walked out the door.”
Chapter Ten
Outside, Cara stood immobile on the sidewalk like she was on a pier, scanning the horizon, hoping for something foretelling or some insight that would sa
ve the evening from a dreadful ending—Matt, nowhere to be seen—completely at a loss as to what to do next.
“Hey Cara.”
Cara looked behind and down to the grass to the source of the voice. “Matt, is that you?”
“Yeah,” came the tired yet friendly reply.
Cara moved closer to see Matt lying with his back on the grass, one forearm over the lower half of his head, his shirt absorbing starlight.
“Are you okay?”
“No, not really,” he whispered.
“What’s wrong—want to talk?”
“I’d like that,” he said, lifting his arm to his forehead.
Cara smiled, dropped down and sat cross-legged.
“Lay back—I’m looking at the stars—they’re kinda bright tonight.”
“All right.” Cara dropped down next to Matt, their two bodies arranged like parallel sunbathers.
Matt searched the stars for answers, but they remained elusive.
“So what’s going on?” Cara said.
She looked at his profile, not the stars. Matt squinted his eyes with reluctance and breathed out slowly.
“Sheryl and I broke up tonight.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Sheryl was here earlier—and some stuff happened.”
“What happened?” It’s okay to say she’s friggin nuts—it’s okay, you can say she’s friggin nuts. She’s much more nuts than me.
Matt sighed and shook his head. “Oh, I just want to forget about it.”
“Sorry.”
“You know, I think—we’re both kinda normal. Normal people attract unbalanced people. Do you attract a lot of unstable people?”
“Yes, I do,” Cara laughed.
“And the timing is always so messed up. By the time I get over this, if I were to ask someone like you out, you’ll be the one suffering with relationship problems.”
“You think? So what you’re saying is that soul mates are really star-crossed lovers?”
“I hope I’m wrong. God would be a sadist if that were true.”
“Yeah, you can’t think like that.”
“How are your mom and dad?”
“Dad is heading back to Afghanistan soon, and Mom is in the hospital—my stepfather, Luciano, beat her up.”
“Oh—I’m sorry to hear that.”
“So you’re right about how normal people attract unstable people.”
“Is your mom gonna be okay?”
“Yeah, the doctor says she’ll get better.”
They both stared at the blinking red and blue lights in the sky, Cara swatting what felt like a mosquito crawling on her arm, Matt’s presence, a distracting camphor.
“My Dad felt bad about what happened to your family. He would’ve let you guys stay with us, if you had only said something.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“It wasn’t the same after your family left. The new neighbors butchered the yard and cut down all the trees. And you and your brother were so cute. And look at you now—a beautiful woman. You’re actually making me very nervous.”
“Stop it,” Cara laughed.
Matt turned his head towards Cara. Their faces were close together—their lips only a few inches apart. Matt seemed somehow transfigured, the night having a strange effect on him. Cara studied the bluish shapes in his irises, amazed at how much color she could see in the dark. Her mouth felt warm, which made her want to push her lips against his. The door was open for only a moment longer and then it closed. Matt stood up, patting dry grass off his clothes and reaching down to Cara.
“Let me help you up.” Matt gently pulled Cara up to her feet and hugged her. “Thanks so much for talking to me.”
“You’re leaving?”
“Yeah.”
“Keep in touch Matt, I’ll be checking up on you online.”
“Okay—now I better get on with the rest of my life—going home—I’m so tired. Besides—no one wants to see a man cry. Good night Cara.”
“Good night Matt.”
As Matt walked across the street to find his car, he couldn’t see Cara, behind him, keeling over.
...
A short while later, Cara paid a toll at the Rickenbacker Causeway and drove along a tall bridge toward the Atlantic Ocean. Eventually, she parked her car on a small island overlooking Biscayne Bay and downtown Miami—the city lit up with countless bright windows. It was the reflections in the bay that she wanted to see most. Blue lights seemed to have a reddish tint in the water. Purples became green. Waves caused striped reflections to squiggle with interesting patterns. Some of the patterns reminded her of Matt’s eyes, which had taunted her all evening. She searched for the exact colors and shapes, but the water was ever changing, defying her meager longings.
No one wants to see a man cry. She could still hear his voice echoing in her mind. If only she had responded with something clever. I know all about crying—I’ll cry with you—we can cry together until the sun comes up...Oh—I’m such a drama queen—he would think I was just as nuts as Sheryl. He’s a guy—I’d scare him away with such talk. I’ll be checking up on you online? My God, I can’t believe I said that. I sound like a crazed stalker. I am a crazed stalker...
...
On the edifice of the strip mall were bright green neon letters, powerful enough to compete with the afternoon sunlight. Another sign hung on a white curtained window: OPEN, in red letters inside a blue swirl. Oh—Cookie Ben’s, Alex salivated at the sight.
In the dark glass of the door he saw a perfect reflection of the parking lot, and then of himself. He tried to minimize the disappointment of seeing his XXL t-shirt being stretched tight by his flaccid midsection.
In Alex’s mind, Cookie Benito’s Deli and Sub Shop was the proverbial whore of Babylon. It seemed that the aroma had led him here from miles away on a boring Sunday afternoon. So great were her powers that Alex eyed the stainless steel appliances, wishing he could touch them—get close enough to breath in whatever essence caused the harlot to speak, to advertise for a good ol’ time.
A man in a white shirt and black apron looked at Alex through droopy eyelids. Was he tired or impatient or perhaps judging Alex for his frequent visits? He saw Alex looking back at him and averted his eyes, shaking a cleaver in a water container. “What can I get you today?”
“Um—I’ll have the double meatball—with bacon—fifteen inch sub with extra provolone cheese—and onions and mushrooms.”
“Sauté the mushrooms and onions, right?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
The man threw the mushrooms and onions on a large griddle before starting the sandwich. Alex was torn between hunger and self-loathing. He had promised himself that he would diet today—and he did, but eating small amounts of food all morning had driven his appetite to a lustful, unmanageable level. Eat half now, half for dinner—yeah that’s what I’ll do—it’s a big sub—half will fill me. The scent of provolone made his mouth water. Saucy, steamy meatballs were sprawled out on bread without the tenderness required for such high art. It was all so cheap, degrading, and yet awe-inspiring.
“What would you like on that?”
“Lettuce-pickle-tomatoes-green pepper-olives—um—salt-pepper-oil and vinegar...”
What am I doing? I wonder how many calories are in this thing.
Alex nervously lifted his phone and texted his favorite toll-free mobile answers service: How many calories in a meatball sub?
Onions and mushrooms softly fell on the lush, succulent feast, which he could no longer look at—Alex having succumbed completely to the tormentor. He noticed one-pound bags of M&M’s on a shelf next to the chips. Why were they selling these at Cookie-Benito’s? I’ll eat my half sub, and then have a few. I’ll count them out—five or ten. That’s what I’ll do from now on—portion control—I’ll eat only part of something and then save the rest for later. I bet I can make that one-pound bag last for a month.
“You want a value-meal?”
“
No thanks.” Don’t want a bag of chips—on a diet, Alex thought.
“Here or to go?”
“Here—I’ll have a bag of M&M’s and a soda.”
“One pounder?” The man’s droopy eyes could have been astonished, or simply condemning, but very definitely not approving.
Alex paid for his lunch and sat down by himself to eat, placing a glossy Japanese graphic novel, iPod Touch and phone next to the plastic tray to visually enhance the eating experience. He heard his ring tone and checked his phone. The mobile answers service had returned his text message: A plain 12-inch meatball sub has 1,000 calories.
A thousand calories—and that was only a regular meatball sub. Add extra meatballs, extra three inches, bacon and cheese—can’t think about it—can’t. Alex unwrapped his sandwich—undressing the vamp. The sharp, biting, salty heaven filled his being. He thought a moment about flipping the pages of his manga, but chose instead to devote his heart and soul to conquest and delight.
It seemed like it only took a few bites to eat half the sandwich. Alex was shocked to discover that he was still hungry, the other half waiting for him, unwilling to be put away and saved for dinner—still hot and fresh. It had been a mistake to order a high-calorie sub—tomorrow was another day—I’ll begin the diet tomorrow. He tasted the second half, determined to savor every morsel.
Seated a table away were a man and his son of about ten who was wearing a soccer uniform. “You shouldn’t say that,” said the father.
“But it’s true—he’s not playing his position right,” the boy said.
“Even if it’s true, you don’t say it.”
“I’ll tell him that I was once terrible and pitiful, and I practiced real hard and got better.”
“You can’t say that either. Remember, people can read into your thoughts. People will know what you’re actually thinking and what your true motivation is—remember that,” the father said.
For Alex, the discussion was far more stimulating than the sub. He could imagine the kind of life the boy led. Soccer and karate or clarinet lessons, or maybe scouting, earning a million merit badges. No doubt, it all starts with a good father. With a good father, the boy will understand all the mysteries of life at a young age. Of course, Alex had Wikipedia, but wisdom? Where would wisdom come from? The war had taken Dad away for most of his life—and when he was back from Afghanistan, it sometimes felt as though he wasn’t all there—something he had never dared to say aloud and rarely admitted to himself.
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