The Color of Cold and Ice

by J. Schlenker

  That movie had stuck with him for some reason, perhaps fate, waiting for this very moment. He stopped for a brief interlude, pondering his surroundings, lodging his self in lotus atop Umpire Rock. Innocence hung in the air. The pristine snowfall and early dawn, if only for a moment, had wiped away all that had preceded it. If only he had his guitar. A song could be born. He looked upward at the stars and thought of the song by Don McLean. He squinted to envision the swirling patterns the artist had seen.

  His shivering ceased. He was suspended, encapsulated within a gap in time. Sounds had vanished. The indigo sky with a multitude of stars looked fresh, newly formed. His damp body felt warm. Had he stumbled upon some kind of ancient Tibetan secret? By accident had he discovered The Iceman’s secret? He had seen the documentary on YouTube. The Iceman was a middle-aged Dutchman who had conquered cold as well as breathing. Well, he hadn’t actually conquered breathing. But he could stay submerged in icy waters for unprecedented lengths of times. He had climbed Mt. Everest in nothing but shorts. He controlled his body, his heart rate, his fate. He was like the ancient yogis that Mark had read about, the one’s Mark wanted to emulate.

  Mark had been contemplating his fate for some time. Mostly, his ruminations concerning his future, though, never took him in a precise direction but rather in circles.

  In one of Mark’s quests towards self-improvement, he was on the verge of signing up for the Iceman’s workshop, going off to The Netherlands. But then he met Shelly and let it fall by the wayside. Shelly was practical, pragmatic. She hated the cold. So, did he for that matter, and he was loathing it at an exponential rate at this point, as the thought of Shelly had killed his meditative state and any chance of finding Nirvana through the cold. He had wanted to control his own fate, but fate had a way of controlling him.

  His parents were at their wit’s end. He couldn’t blame them. He couldn’t ask them for another handout. At thirty-three, he was still just rambling along in life. The thought of Shelly and his parent’s disappointment in him catapulted him into a different mood. The innocence that hung in the air turned to guilt and blame. The snow turned from soft virtuousness, a mystical insight, to stinging pelts. He began to walk, lest early morning joggers find him frozen solid, a part of the bedrock.

  A squirrel eyed him, suspiciously guarding a nut. Insufficient prey, not worthy of a rifle, not worthy of Jeremiah Johnson. He reasoned he could strangle it with his bare hands, use it for a cap, but he wasn’t quick. Not in this weather, nor in any weather. The squirrel taunted him. More so, the squirrel gave him a perplexed look. Didn’t he have anywhere to go? A home of his own? A nest, a tree, something?

  The Essex Hotel, blurred by the haze of condensation, loomed to his left, a landmark mapping his way. He said adieu to the annoyed squirrel and switched direction with a purpose, not any great momentous purpose, just a resolve to get out of the cold. A coffee shop couldn’t be too far. They were on every corner. It would be some place warm, a place to recharge his phone, a place to check his messages. There would be a text from Shelly, saying Come back. I was wrong. A warm apartment once again. His familiar guitar in the corner. Some sleep before work. Or better, yet, makeup sex, and then sleep. It was Shelly’s day off.

  People were already beginning to stir. The loud clank of a garbage truck and the stink drifting from black industrial sized garbage bags said he had entered different terrain. He had departed the snow-covered jungle of the park where the only thing he had to fear was a squirrel into the concrete maze of cannibalism, where man ate each other’s souls instead of flesh.

  He bypassed the sterile green mermaid wearing a crown. The early bird hunters, the ones who were overzealous to land the account and seize the day, were already going back and forth through its doors, brief cases slung over their shoulders, coffee in one hand, and their faces mesmerized by the smart phone in their other hand. He settled on a place around the corner called the Java Bean Factory. The posters in the window, the sign, hand-painted in a bright orange and the terra-cotta entrance beckoned him like sirens around a warm fire.

  The white porcelain against his hands felt like a coveted prize after his trek in the one-inch snowdrift. The girl had started to put his coffee in a paper cup. “Could I have a mug please?” He did his best to form the words through his mouth that felt like heavy concrete.

  “We only use recyclable cups,” she said smiling, reassuring him that a paper cup was perfectly responsible.

  The warmth of the coffee shop had first hit him like a welcomed alien invader. Live long and prosper, it told him. His body sluggishly adapted to its new environment. He tried to muster a smile from his numb mouth, something placed on his face that didn’t belong to him, some awkward communication device he wasn’t yet accustomed to after his bonding with Mother Nature, his momentary submergence into The Fortress of Solitude. How long had he been roaming in Jeremiah country? Hours? He was sure it came across as he had just come from the dentist, although, who came from a dentist this early in the morning? “I prefer a mug if you have one,” he told her in a garbled voice. He was sure saliva had frozen to the side of his mouth.

  She smiled as if nothing was abnormal about him in the least, “We aim to please. Actually, I like mugs, too.” She placed the paper cup aside and reached for a cup on a top shelf. They were varying sizes of white, all with the store’s logo stamped in orange on the side. He had ordered an extra large or venti, the upscale term for super-size me. He would be there for a while. He had no place else to go. He didn’t need to be at work until noon.

  “What’s the name?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “For the cup.”

  He wanted to say, But you’re putting it into a mug, not a paper cup. How can you write my name on it? But his face in a state of numbness prevented him from saying anything. Besides, after his near mishap with the squirrel, he didn’t have the energy.

  He looked around. There was only him. “Mark,” he replied.

  She handed him the coffee, and he found a table in the corner of the room and checked his phone. About an hour later, she brought out another mug, a cappuccino. “I goofed on an order. It’s on the house.” Steam rose from the heart shaped dribble of cream on the top. Were all the baristas aspiring artists?

  Why him? Why did he get the free drink? He looked around. He shouldn’t flatter himself. He was the only lone person in the place. She couldn’t very well go to a crowded table with one free drink. She probably felt sorry for him. He gave it his best concentration and mumbled, “Thank you,” from his thawing lips. She smiled. He tried to smile back. He wasn’t sure if he did.

  * * *

  He checked his phone again. No messages. Shelly had landed a small part in Wicked. She was on her way up, a small-town girl from Oklahoma. She no longer needed a part-time clerk in a vinyl record store who worked a few gigs here and there in bars for tips, someone who still depended on his parents for backup. But then, Shelly did, too. She was living in New York by her parents’ good graces. However, Shelly was also only twenty-five, and she, after much persistence, had landed a part in one of the most successful Broadway shows ever. Shelly had a fire he didn’t have.

  His guitar was still at her apartment. He would have to go back. He would also need to collect his clothes, secondary to his guitar, and his razor. Or why not grow a beard?

  What kind of woman threw a man out in the middle of the night in a blinding blizzard? Okay, it wasn’t blinding, but it was freaking cold. Did she think he would just go straight to John and Allison’s? He had thought about it but needed time to think, or time to grow numb to thoughts. The cold helped.

  What must the girl behind the counter think, that is if she thought about the customers at all? But she smiled at him. She probably smiled at all the patrons. She had put a heart on the cappuccino. For him?

  He gazed over her way as casually as possible. She was busy. Customers had started straggling in. Why was he even looking? It was some primal instinct, an uncontroll
able male trait. Men looked. It was a fact of life, something mechanical. Still, on the philosophical side, he felt removed, displaced from the flirting and dating rituals. It was too soon. It was too cold. He would hibernate during the winter, reflect on his life. Grow that beard. He would bounce back in spring. Buy a new razor. Shave. His mind drifted back to taking a trip to Holland. He could swim in the icy canal waters of Amsterdam, clear his brain, marvel at how Anne Frank had made something inspirational from her grim circumstances, salute her as he swam past her family’s hiding place, freeze off his balls, get carted off to the hospital, and end any potential for further romance in his life.

  Should he say something to her? She probably had a boyfriend, maybe even a husband. She was too cute not to be snatched up. He hadn’t mastered the art of flirting. He was a musician. Chicks came to him. That’s what John always said. He was at a disadvantage. His guitar, his girl magnet, his crutch, was still at his place, although it was not his place any longer. It was Shelly’s place.

  * * *

  Shelly was the one who had initiated contact. She had liked his music, or so she said. She had thought he was going places. She winked as she placed her phone number in lieu of a tip into his guitar case. After a year, it had fizzled out. No, not fizzled, far from fizzled. It had been a throbbing crescendo climaxing into Custer’s last stand, he being Custer, retreating out into the cold, the bleak darkness of predawn.

  It was still and peaceful in the cold. The fighting had ceased, but the accusations of him not applying himself, that he was no longer going places, that he had no ambition, rang in his ears, lingered in his psyche. There were no record deals in the foreseeable future. Maybe he wasn’t much to brag about to her parents back in Oklahoma, but a flying monkey? Shelly had jilted him for a flying monkey?

  * * *

  A little boy peeked out from the back near the counter. He looked to be somewhere around eight, maybe ten. Mark heard him say Mom. Oh, well, the woman of his dreams was already taken.

  After reading a good portion of the New York Times, he looked at his watch, a gift from Allison and John. The analog dial said eleven o’clock as near as he could make out beneath the condensation on the glass. Had he actually sat in here that long? He would go to John and Allison’s after work, tell them he and Shelly had a fight, and that he needed to crash at their place for a while. They would be more than willing. Neither of them really approved of Shelly, especially his sister. John had stayed out of it as much as possible, merely echoing Allison to keep the peace. Allison could be opinionated, like their mother. But never bring that up around her. Now that the children were both in school and John was busy with his practice, she had more time for her opinions.

  Still, despite all her faults, Mark admired Allison. She was older than him, only by five years, but she usually knew what she wanted and went after it. She had been doing it since childhood. She had outlined her life. Go to college. Get a teaching degree. Don’t use the teaching degree but have it to fall back on, a secondary plan, if her primary plan didn’t work out. Meet and marry someone destined for success. Have three children, spaced two years apart, one boy, one girl, the last optional.

  John and Allison currently had two children, one girl and one boy; the youngest was four and in pre-school. They were overdue for that third child. Perhaps Allison had made amendments to her life outline, but Mark didn’t ask. John seemed perfectly content, going along with whatever Allison wanted, although he wondered if John secretly missed spontaneity in life. John would often comment on Mark’s own vagabond lifestyle with a hint of jealousy in his voice, and a note of gloom about all the student loans he was burdened with.

  John’s parents had two sons, both doctors. Even though his parents lived on Long Island and could well afford it, they firmly believed their kids should pay their own way in life. A few years ago, John’s dad had died of a heart attack.

  Mark had bypassed college. His parents would have gladly given him a free ride if he had chosen to go. They probably would now if he would only show some ambition towards making something of himself.

  * * *

  He looked around at the coffee shop, mostly to capture another glimpse of the girl. Warm colors everywhere. Orange stucco peeked out from the walls, the parts that were not covered with posters and original art that more than likely never sold. Off in the corner sat a small raised platform. A microphone was pushed back against the wall. A poster tacked off to the side announced upcoming acts. The girl had a warm smile that melted into the surroundings. Should he inquire about a gig? He would come back when he had her alone. The lunch crowd was coming in. Croissants, bagels, and coffee cakes had been moved aside in the case for boxed salads, vegetarian Panini’s and tuna on rye. He took both orange stamped white mugs back up to the counter and placed a couple of dollars into the tip jar before leaving. The girl with short dark hair framing her perfect face was beautiful, especially her smile. She was also probably married.

  He looked at his phone one last time. Still no messages. Nada. He stepped outside, making his way through the slush and throngs of people, toward the record shop. No longer damp, his dry leather jacket creaked in protest to the crisp air.

  * * *

  Allison greeted him at the door, Little John and Molly, close at her heels. “Well, hello, stranger.” Allison looked around as if someone was missing. No doubt, she was looking for Shelly.

  * * *

  Shelly didn’t like going to his sister’s house. She sensed John and Allison’s disapproval. He and Shelly had fought about it on several occasions.

  That was one thing he wouldn’t miss, the fights. The one thing he would miss was the sex. It was stupendous. At least he thought it was stupendous. Shelly had probably been practicing. Practicing for that one big nude, sexual scene, she would land one day. She wasn’t shy at all.

  He was thirty-three, a musician, well, that could be argued, and had only been intimate with a handful of women, a handful, being five, beginning with his somewhat high school sweetheart who gifted him with a blow job upon graduation. He felt so ashamed. He had only gotten her a funny, silly card. After all, their relationship had only been somewhat of a relationship up until that point. They had gone to prom together and had hung out together in groups. He believed they would part ways after high school.

  The blow job was as far as it was going to go she said since she was saving herself for the right guy. She eventually gave in, even though he wasn’t the right guy. They had lost their virginity together, as awkward as it was for any first time, even though they were practiced in other ways. They had a past together, grade school and high school. There was a familiarity. After four years of living together, Kris made a speech that she wanted more out of life, new experiences, a chance at life beyond high school, obviously something that had been welling up inside of her since her days on the debate team. He applauded her tenacity but took exception to the part where she stated that he was boring. Yet, he secretly agreed with her.

  Unlike his departure with Shelly, this relationship had been fizzling for quite some time. They were no longer teenagers. Still, he was left in the lurch, with an apartment and no one to contribute towards the rent.

  After a fellow musician moved in with him to allay the costs, housekeeping had become atrocious. The blessing was that they rarely saw each other. Girl-wise, there was a year’s dry spell. Contrary to most people’s opinions of musicians, he lacked confidence. Lacking confidence wasn’t really boring. It was just what it was. Allison had been gifted with all the self-assurance in the family. There hadn’t been any left over for him.

  Next in line after the dry spell came Emily who was an aspiring record agent. Emily was older, twenty-seven, a woman who knew things. She had seen great hope for him as a successful musician. He was writing a new song every week. She had been a boost to his ego, what he greatly needed, until he found that she had been boosting the confidence and egos of lots of struggling musicians, all younger. Perhaps they should have
formed a band. They could have called themselves EGO, an acronym for Emily, great for others or great for out-of-work musicians. One of the band’s vast appeals could have been the allusion to some great mystery behind the name, a ginormous secret, something the tabloids would sensationalize, and the paparazzi would try to uncover. They would make appearances on the morning shows, or perhaps Ellen, or Oprah.

  He found out later that Emily didn’t last long as a record agent. She was sacked and ended up working for an insurance company, having an affair with one of the company’s agents, if the gossip was correct. That agent’s sales had probably skyrocketed during their tryst.

  Mark found himself down in the dumps after Emily. The songs that came to him were scarce. When they did, the lyrics were too melancholy, even for the artsy, Bohemian crowd. What perked him up was the one nightstand with the blonde nameless girl. Should he even be counting her as a relationship? He had worried about sexually transmitted diseases for nearly a year. But, he had proved to himself that he wasn’t boring. Then he saw her one day in the park. She came up to him. Turned out, her name was Karen. She apologized. That kind of thing so wasn’t her, she explained. She had pre-wedding jitters. She had only ever been with her fiancée. That night with him had helped her decide. She wanted to let him know that she was now content and happy. He tried not to show disappointment when he told her that it was nice to know that he had had such a positive impact on her life.

  Then, there was Rain, short for Rainbow. She was the product of hippie parents. He was the product of Jewish parents who wavered back and forth between absolute strictness to downright slackness in their Jewish faith. During one Hanukah, they put up a Christmas tree. His friends thought his parents were cool. Mark had just thought them confusing beyond belief and began reading the Bhagavad Gita for some clarity. But, he didn’t understand it, except for the part about maybe killing off your relatives. Wasn’t that what the saying meant? It was all relative, or it was all relatives. It was always about relatives. He guessed that might apply to girlfriends or wives as well. Wasn’t life about handing out relationships to deal with like kids handing out valentines in grade school?