I pieced together what I could, based on the little things he’d let slip, people he mentioned, places he obviously knew well, because inquiring minds want to know. I’m cursed with a brain that works endlessly to figure shit out; two and two makes four every time; never the grey area of three or four-and-a-half. Always fucking four, you know what I mean? And really, that was the thing about me the intrigued him.
The problem was, in the arena of our friendship, what he knew about me could fill Lake Michigan, but he shared so little information about himself, it couldn’t fill a petri dish. After a year of conversations, I still knew very little of who he was. I knew he was generous, caring… the substance stuff, but not the labels the world puts on people that define how they live and make public the legacy after death. The way he always kept in touch and got back to me right away when he thought I needed him reinforced the friendship, despite the holes in the information.
I didn’t pry or push him for more than he was willing to say. I waited - albeit, not so patiently, telling myself that someday he would trust me enough, while inside I was silently screaming whenever he would abruptly end a conversation just when I felt we were making progress.
I over-compensated by letting him know everything about me; showing I could be trusted, that I respected him and his work, that I would never do anything that he would consider hurtful… that I could keep his deepest secrets safe. Oh, who was I kidding? He knew he could trust me completely, but it never seemed to be enough. I didn’t know if it ever would be, and more than frustrating, it started to hurt. He knew it; still it didn’t change, and it didn’t end. So really, was he my friend if he knew he hurt me and didn’t change it or stop it? It hurt me to see him as anything less than I thought him to be.
We discussed using the power of silence against those who hurt us or those who had now become our common enemies; offering empathy and kinship when either of us dealt with jealousy and ignorance within our craft. Keeping to yourself can be a good shield, a barrier to that which can expose, hurt, defile. I got that. But why did he feel the need to be that way with me? It made no sense.
I faced his ambiguity regarding his personal life over and over again, finally breaking down and confessing that his infernal silence was even more damaging when wielded against one’s friends; most damaging to me who really cared about the person he was inside, not the persona he might be to the world. Lucky me, I was rewarded with five days of the dreaded silence. Clearly…my point had been made. My hurt feelings demanded that I did not reach out.
That silence… it lasted until he decided to inquire about my location, my mother’s health, wish me a good weekend or something equally impersonal. It seemed so obvious, the contact was just as important to him as it was to me. One way or another, the conversation began anew, but with my questions still left unanswered. Anything important to me was bypassed time and time again, always leaving me empty and helpless, wondering why I cared or even bothered.
I sighed and gazed into the dark endlessness stretching before me. It was an enormous exclamation point on my thoughts. Darkness, silence, and vague nothingness…mock away, you insidious bastards! Fuck you, all of you! My eyes burned with the sting of tears and my throat constricted painfully.
The how and why our situation began seemed irrelevant as time passed and the pattern continued. We had commonalities that kept us both engaged: words, music, art…love, compassion, frustration. I liked his depth; he liked my snarky, inquiring personality and my humor. My ability to solve the toughest of puzzles seemed to intrigue him and fire his need to create one I might not be able to crack.
Over time, even faceless words began to transform into living, breathing reality and superficial conversations, industry bullshit and career discussions weren’t enough. How many times can you talk about the same thing without wanting to slit your wrists? I wanted to know the person behind the words, and wasn’t that the natural conclusion to the months of conversations? Questions and sadness flooded my mind and heart. Where would we go from here? Could the friendship be so askance without fading into nothingness or one of us going insane? My fucking head was going to explode and my heart was breaking.
It didn’t change. My honesty when he requested information was the juxtaposition of quipped responses toggled with his stoic silence. That remained constant. I had to accept it the way it was, or move on. His refusal to help me understand the reason behind his reluctance stung. I wasn’t asking for line item details about his life or to come to Sunday dinner, but how could we be friends and not want to know more about each other? Finally, I confessed my frustrations. While I valued his friendship, I didn’t feel valued in return. I said it multiple times, giving him several opportunities to let the friendship go. And always, I got the same answer. “We are friends, I do value you…”
Ugh! Honestly, I didn’t understand his penchant for remaining in contact when he refused to be real. What was the point to it all? Part of me prayed that we’d keep in touch, but a larger part prayed it would end because of the emptiness it created. Why? My mind screamed.
Why couldn’t I know him? Why couldn’t he trust me enough?
“Why no closer, but not nothing?” I asked.
I was met with more silence followed by another round of vague statements that couldn’t qualify as answers.
Would the reason that kept him from owning it, make him let it go? No. Never. He’d never tell me what I wanted to know or admit we weren’t really friends, but still he kept the door cracked open.
After a few days, he would find some other reason to connect, blowing the whole heavy conversation and all my questions off. Again. For a long time, I let him get by with it. I didn’t want to give up on someone who had become important to me. But, I was at my wall.
And now, finally, my work took me to his city. We didn’t discuss his location, but he knew that I knew. My last curtain call was probably as close as I’d ever get to him.
Would this be the end or the beginning? I was sure of one thing: it would be one or the other. When I left this place, I would no longer seek out his friendship. I steeled myself for the result. We both had enough superficial friendships; people that prodded and pulled at us…we didn’t need that from each other. At least, that wasn’t what I needed from him. Not what I wanted.
He certainly had a choice, but his would determine mine. If it didn’t matter, what did I have to lose anyway? But it felt like I had a lot to lose. I had to own my own value. I deserved more. I struggled with trying to figure out what he gained by leaving me hanging. Was his ego so fragile that it needed constant reinforcement at my expense? Well, fuck him and his passive-aggressive bullshit! I shouted the words in my head.
“Ughhhh!” I screamed into the suffocating silence. No one was listening. “Why does he even matter to me? This person who won’t be real?” That was the crux of it, wasn’t it? Then it hit me; the issue was really “Why don’t I matter to him?”
I didn’t realize I’d said it aloud.
“You matter.”
The words bounded out of the silence, the voice deeper than I’d imagined. Were those words echoing in this hollow space or only in my mind? I bolted upright and turned toward the rows upon rows of empty seats that disappeared into the dark in front of me, my eyes scanning for the slightest movement, ears straining for sound. My heart pounded in my chest. I saw nothing but inky blackness.
As the seconds ticked by, an eerie calmness spread over me. It didn’t matter if it was all in my head or not. I wanted this conversation. I needed it.
“Really?” I asked. “Actions speak louder than words. Some notable politician, philosopher or Pulitzer Prize winning author probably said it, and you would know exactly who that was. Hell, it probably was you. So prove it.”
“I do consider you my friend.”
“Do you mean that lousy Follow Friday thing on Twitter? La-di-dah.”
“I’m still here.”
“Barely. And why? For what?”
&nb
sp; “What do you want from me?”
“I’ve told you countless times. Is English your second language? “ It didn’t matter that it was his second, third or seventh; he already knew the answer to the question. “Oh wait, it is,” I spat sarcastically. “If you were anyone else, I’d cut you a break on that, but suck it up.”
His light chuckle vibrated over the walls, landing softly around me. It should have been comforting but it wasn’t. It just pissed me off. He was still answering questions with questions.
“I’ve missed hearing from you.”
“Yeah well, that silence…it’s a real bitch, isn’t it?”
Cha-ching. Obviously, I’d hit the mark. What could he say? He wouldn’t admit that I was right, and he really couldn’t ignore the enormous elephant in the room. He wouldn’t want me to get too cocky about my deductive abilities that had served us both so well in the past. Well, fuck him, again. I knew what I knew. He could bury his head in his books and try to pretend he didn’t hear me. He had. Many times. We both knew it.
“Why are you so complicated?”
“Me? I’m complicated? That’s hilarious. I’ve told you exactly what I need from you. I’m just not a push-over when you try to skirt the issue. Should I be twirling my hair and popping my gum, grateful for the paltry bones you throw? Just one of the many accouterments to your greatness? Sorry, I’m not some ditz. I’m confident you wouldn’t find me so engaging if I were. I didn’t take you for one who appreciates giggling, mindless types, but whatever.” I lowered my tone and breathed out the words in my best air-head impression. “You probably can’t see my expression right now, but my eyes are really, really wide.
“Hmmm…” He laughed out loud, but it only made me frown. “Mocking me doesn’t suit you.”
“Yeah, hmmm. And yet, you’re so brilliant at it.” I laid back down on the stage, rolling on my side and facing the emptiness of the one shrouded in the protective darkness. “Are your eyes blue?” I wondered aloud. I imagined them to be a bright, brilliant blue.
“Yours are green.”
I wanted to rip my skin off. Ugh! I hated that he knew me so well, when he hid everything from me.
“Don’t you know you can trust me, yet? Haven’t I proven myself?”
“It isn’t that I don’t trust you.”
“Could have fooled me.”
“I trust you more than most.”
“That’s not saying much. You don’t trust anyone. We’re friends in name only.”
“I value your advice and consider you my friend.”
“Bla bla bla…rewind to the earlier blurb about actions sounding off. I think you missed it completely,” I said dryly, my hand whirled around each other in reverse. More silence. Why couldn’t I just put on my shoes, stomp off the stage and leave him engulfed in his beloved darkness? “What are you afraid of?”
After a pregnant pause, he answered. “Maybe I can’t live up to your expectations.”
I considered this for a moment, my brow wrinkling thoughtfully. “Any expectations I have, were created by you. How can you fail to live up to that which came from you?”
“Touché. Well done, Sherlock.”
“Thanks, Watson.”
“Maybe this is for your own good. In the end.”
“You have no right to make that choice for me.”
“I’m not perfect.”
“Obviously. Or we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
He laughed again. “You’re surprisingly witty.”
“Yes, I’m very sparkly, too.”
“Are you?”
“Aren’t I?”
“Very.
“This is so typical of us. I sit here in the light while you lurk around in the dark, just beyond my line of site. Even if this is real, and you’re not a figment of my imagination, you’re still hiding from me.”
“I told you; you’re destined for the spotlight and I like my hidey hole.”
“That’s a cop out. We’re not that different. You could at least meet me in the cheap seats.”
“Isn’t that where I am already?”
“No, you’re on the freaking berm.”
He chuckled again. “You certainly have a way with words. Perhaps you should be a writer.”
“It’s a thought.” I smiled weakly, despite the sadness I felt.
“I don’t know if I can give you what you ask. There are other things involved.”
“Then explain, at least.”
“I can’t.”
“You won’t.”
“Is there a difference?”
“Please don’t belittle me by feigning ignorance. You don’t have to give me a dossier, but seriously, this enigma bullshit is getting old. What’s it going to take? My first born child? An oath written in blood? My very last breath?”
He sighed, loudly enough for me to hear. “You’re just as frustrating to me as I am to you.”
“Only because you refuse to compromise!”
“We continue to communicate. I’m making an effort.”
“If it’s so unbearable, don’t do me any favors. I don’t understand why you even bother.”
“Only because you refuse to acquiesce.”
“See? You are a genius! And I can keep up nicely, which works out well, don’t you think? We are at an impasse, it seems. It’s foolish to hope for a friendship that you will not allow and I don’t like how this fake stuff makes me feel. You should know by now, I don’t do anything half-assed.”
“I’m sorry it’s not as you’d wish… but, we are friends.”
“On the surface, maybe, but real friendship takes two. It’s that whole Tango scenario and I’m one hell of a dancer.”
“Yes, I sense that about you.”
I signed in frustration. “You have to sense nothing since I tell you anything you want to know! God! I’m so foolish! What sort of Voodoo magic to you possess, anyway?”
“I’m sorry,” he said again and I wanted to scream. My fists clenched at my sides, my French manicured nails digging into my palms.
“No, I’m sorry. If we were friends like I wish, you’d be sitting next to me on this stage right now, sharing a bottle of some ridiculously expensive liquor, admiring my fantastically expensive shoes. We’d be talking about my performance tonight and the changes you’re making to your script. The conversation would be easy because we trusted each other and we’d be getting just the slightest bit tipsy, without worrying about saying something that shouldn’t be said, because there would be nothing that shouldn’t be said. It would be fun, comfortable... after all we’ve talked about, and all the time that’s passed, doesn’t that sound better than this? Neither one of us has time for pseudo-friends. Life is toooooo damn short.”
He cleared his throat with what sounded like exasperation. Apparently, he couldn’t argue, nor was he willing to make the leap.
I continued. “Pseudo-friends, you know; antonym of super-friends? Maybe you should write a playbill about some backwards sort of super hero. Bet it would be a huge fucking success. Would it be a tragedy or a comedy of errors?”
“Why are you swearing so much? It’s not like you.”
“Well, I left my emoticons on my lappie and smoke signals won’t work in the dark.”
He chuckled again. “What are you going to do?”
“In regard to what?”
“Our friendship.”
“React. Isn’t that all you leave me with? I don’t get a voice in the decision regarding the degree of separation. The real question is what will you do when I’m the one who ‘poofs’? You’re going to miss me. Even if you think you won’t.”
“You can certainly turn the tables. Your words are like lead.”
“You listened to it,” I said of the song I’d sent a few weeks back. “I wondered, since you never mentioned it. What a shock that was. Being helpless of the outcome kinda sucks, doesn’t it?”
“Why isn’t our communication enough?”
“Haven’t you b
een listening? How can one so educated have such selective perception? Because it’s empty and predictable, that’s why. I was hoping we’d be friends; as in ‘casual conversation without worrying all the time’, type of way.”
I crossed my legs and let them dangle over the edge of the stage. My shoulders slumped as I pushed my long hair back from my face and tucked it behind my ear. “There are thousands of faceless, ego-stroking people you can communicate with; it doesn’t have to be me. If you can’t differentiate me from the masses, then I think we should let this go. I deserve more…we both do.”
I huffed and shook my head in exasperation. Again with the booming silence. For someone so adept at arranging words, the lack of them was like the first thunder clap of a spring deluge.
“This is what I can’t stand… I feel like I’m talking to myself. After all… you’re the one who refuses to be real.”
“So answer my question. What will you do?”
I laughed bitterly, the effort mixing with the emotion that constricted my throat and stung the back of my eyes. “Isn’t that funny? You’re demanding I answer one question, when you always refuse to answer mine?”
“What will you do?” Anger laced his tone.
“What can I do?” I asked; raising my hands and letting them drop in exasperation. “Wish you success; wave from the aisles. Send back that stupid Follow Friday thingy on Twitter, but not one word more. Not one emotion more. No more trying to make something out of nothing, no more stumbling around in the dark trying to find my so-called friend. I’m through shouting into your silence.”
“Have you been shouting?”
I shrugged in defeat, my voice weary. “Sorry, I guess I should have used all caps for more drama, but surely my meaning was clear. After all, I’m not the one who hides behind words; so carefully crafted, to bait and switch, yet not reveal one damn thing. Please don’t insult my intelligence and pretend that I don’t know what you’re doing.”
“So…. that’s it?”
I remained silent for a moment and cursed myself when the words burst free. Silence had never been my friend, my comforter. “Hey, these are your rules, not mine.”
Moments In Time: A Collection of Short Fiction Page 42