Pearly Crucible

I stepped through the club doors, trading the tepid summer day for the artificially cooled interior of that city dive, the store front’s neon lights blinding all who were foolish enough to look at its red, blue, and purple alternations of promiscuous displays. It didn't take me long to find who I was looking for; he was in the corner furthest from the entrance and, ergo, the furthest he could get from the stage. It must have been a slow night if he couldn't spare a few singles for that evening’s coterie of dancers. Then he again, he said he wanted to talk over the phone; maybe it was the noise he was trying to get away from.

I made my way towards the slumped-over figure of my companion, through that familiar haze of sickly sweet scents; hand-rolled cigarette smoke, classy men's cologne mingled seducingly with painfully cheap street perfume, the natural body odors of unwashed miscreants look for an easy lay, and something that smelled suspiciously like picked pear and coleslaw. I lingered in that noxious combination of smells for a bit while I chatted up the bartender and ordered a few drinks. He insisted on showing me pictures of his newborn and by the time I joined Andy in the back table, gin and tonic in one hand and Scotch on the rocks in the other, I already felt the desperate need for a hard scrub in the shower. Home seemed further away than ever before.

I placed the glass of amber liquid in front of Andy. The ice clinked against the glass. Andy looked up me, saying nothing.

I shrugged and took a seat. “You looked like you need something stronger.” Andy regarded the Scotch for a moment before downing it in one breath. My eyebrows shot up on my forehead. “Guess I was right?”

Andy slammed the glass on the table. He continued his apparent vow of silence.

I cleared my throat and leaned toward my friend. Andy has never been the tidiest of men, but today, he was especially haggard; his faded navy blue shirt was sagging at the collar, his usually trimmed beard looked like it would be more at home living as a dust bunny underneath an ancient sofa, and I was sure my nose detected a distinct odor that reminded me of corn chips. I’ve seen him like only once before and I knew from experience he was fighting with his wife again. “Whats on your mind, Andy?” I said as politely as I could manage.

Andy buried his face in his hands “I’m all fucked up.”

I took a sip of my gin. “Why’s that?”

Andy regarded me over the tips of his fingers. His chocolate brown eyes looked the same as the day I met him. My old man got me a summer job cleaning toilets at the reformatory where Andy was doing time for some major vandalism at his high school. He was always a messed up kid, but he was a messed up kid who needed a friend. After he saved my sorry ass from the creepy warden’s advances in the girl's lavatory, I decided I could be that friend to him. Our lives took very different paths, but we always managed to stay present in each other’s lives.

“You ever been in love, Logan?” Andy said suddenly.

My eyebrows knitted together at the odd question, but I didn't have to think much to answer. “Sure.”

Andy’s voice suddenly became wistful. “What's it like?”

I couldn't contain my curiosity at the point. “What's going on? Did something happen with Amy?”

Andy inhaled sharply as he averted the look I gave him, the shadow of what looked like shame crossing his face. He didn't respond and I didn't press him any further. I was pretty sure I had my answer.

I took a swing of my drink. “You know that feeling you get,” I said finally, “when you miss a step going down the stairs? Or when you almost tip over when you’re leaning back on a chair?” Andy nodded. “That’s what it’s like. . . That’s what it’s like to fall in love.”  My voice softened and the ghostly pang of old heartbreak burned in my chest. Andy continued to watch me, his hungry eyes pleading for more.

And like a man possessed, I continued: “It’s this tiny fraction of a second of pure fucking terror.

You have no idea how or why it happened and you certainly don’t have time to process it. It happens so quickly, yet you almost feel like you’re frozen in time.

Then the moment ends as soon as it started; your instincts kick in, you grab onto the banister or the edge of the desk, and you convince yourself you're okay.”

I paused to take another gulp of my gin; my throat was burning from so much talking. By now, Andy had lit what was probably not his first cigarette of the evening. I continued as if I hadn't stopped:

“But your heart's still pounding in your chest, yeah? Loud and booming, like a bass drum. That’s how you know it ain't over. You're sweating a cold sweat, the kind that only a sudden rush of adrenaline can bring on. You feel your limbs quiver ever so slightly. . . and then, inexplicably, you laugh, as if nothing happened, as if laughing will suddenly make that residual terror finally dissipate so you could go on pretending to be normal. It's an empty, confused laugh, the kind that might come out when you don't quite get the joke but you don't want to look like an idiot in front of your peers (we’ve all done it).

But that's all it is, isn't it? A bland, unfunny joke; a hapless ride around an antique, almost terrifying carousel; an order of unsalted, soggy fries (and sorry, no refunds!); a gray tablecloth sporting gray candelabras with gray candles that smell like plain smoke. It all goes from adrenaline-fueled ecstasy to a tumor shaped blob of confusion and anxiety. And that's what they don't tell you. They don't tell you how scary it is.

You know the crap they do tell you? ‘The heart wants what it wants’? ‘You can’t choose who you love’? Blah blah blah. . .”

I shook my head, clearly critical. Through the veil of smoke coming off the lit end of his cancer stick, Andy’s eyes were glazed over; they were staring at something over my shoulder. When he spoke, his voice was devoid of emotion. “Sounds fucking terrible.”

“It is. It's the goddamn worst. They don't tell you that love is just the production of chemicals in your brain under the right circumstances. It's all bullshit. Trust me, you're better off without it.” Looking for something to do with my hands, I turned my empty glass in my hand, listening for the chirping of ice against glass. The buzz of activity behind me grew suddenly, and it occurred to me that no one had bothered us since I took my seat. I wondered if the bartender was too busy talking about his newborn to remember he had a job. Another fool trapped in the sticky web of love’s lies, I suppose.

Andy put his cigarette out inside his glass; he had already smoked it down to a bud. He crossed his arms in front of him and watched the butt float among the melted ice inside his Scotch glass. I waited for him to say something.

“If it's all bullshit,” he said finally, “then we do spend our lives looking for it?”

I sighed deeply. I didn't answer right away. His question brought back of barrage of memories, a lifetime of relationships and loves lost. Becca, who said we were too different; Manny, who didn't want to come out to his family; Jordan, who said I was too intense; Jasmine, who wanted kids; April, who couldn't be with someone who “wasn't on her level”; Q, dear, sweet, wonderful Q, who left this life too soon; and Ethan, who was too damn sexy and desirable and who made me feel like shit every second I was around him.

“We entrust our hearts to people every time we fall in love and we naively think it's safe with them... For a while, it is, and for that short while, it's bliss and it's amazing. Then it's not, and when that person leaves, they take a little piece of your heart with them. Then you meet someone else and, like an insane person hoping for different results, you do it all over again. And again, and again, losing more bits of your heart and collecting bits of other people’s hearts to replace the parts you lost, until eventually, you have nothing left to give and you're stuck with a mismatched patchwork heart held together by strings of lies and yards of tears and sewn together with stupid, ridiculous hope. . . We're junkies, chasing that high, no matter how many near-death experiences we have because of that damn drug, we keep coming back for more. . .”

I trailed off, my voice too heavy to keep going. My tongue was desert dry and I was craving more gin. Andy leaned back in his seat, stretched out his arms along the backrest, and threw his head back until he was looking up at the ceiling.

For a while -- might have been 5 minutes, might have been an hour -- neither of us spoke. I was leaning forward in my seat, my elbows on my knees, staring at the ground between my feet. I could hear familiar voices behind me and some of them might have even called my name once or twice, but I was too deep inside my own memories to notice. My words hung in the air and sometimes buzzed past me like bees looking for nectar. Just as I was thinking of getting the hell out of there, even if it meant abandoning Andy, I felt more than I heard him finally come back to life.

Andy took a deep breath and then chuckled; it was a dry, bland sound the kind that lets you know there was nothing truly funny about the situation.

“Sounds fucking amazing, old friend,” he sighed.

I stared him, incredulous. I was certain nothing I had said was worthy of being called amazing, and didn’t Andy himself just finish realizing how god-awful it is to exist, to feel, to trust others? Maybe there was more than nicotine in those hand-rolled cigarettes of his. “What makes you say that?” I said, aware of my unsympathetic tone but not really caring.

Andy slowly sat back up and when he faced me, I was appalled to find that he had been crying. “Because,” he said, “heartbreak sounds a hell of a lot better than never having known love at all.” He dug his wallet out from his back pocket and produced a few crumpled bills.

“You’re leaving?”

“Yeah. . . I’m gonna go talk to Amy.”

I scoffed. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before.” I took a bitter swig of my gin, downing the last of it in a loud, violent gulp.

Andy chuckled. “You know why I wanted  to see you?” I shook my head. “I wanted to remind myself exactly how bitter I don’t want to end up. So, thank you.” He grinned goofily at me. “That was a close call.

“Piss off,” I said, but I smiled in spite of myself. Andy reached over and patted my shoulder.

“You’ll find somebody, brother.”

My smile faded and I gazed at the remnants of my gin, regretful now at how hastily I drank it and wishing, once again, that the bartender would do some bartending for once. After a quiet minute, the buzz of the club now a distant hum, I sighed. “I had somebody. . .” I said. Then I laughed bitterly. “I had a lot of somebodys.”

Andy nodded. “I know losing Q was hard, but you had nothing to do with that. . . Life will carry on. And you? You'll find more somebodys.”

I shook my head in disagreement. "What for?" I half cried. "To what end?"

Andy thought about it for a second. His hand slid off my shoulder and I found myself missing the weight of it, a thought that caused a heaviness at the pit of my stomach. Has it really been that long?

Andy looked down at me. "To feel, Logan," he said. "You'll do it so you can remind yourself you're alive."

“You know,” I said, soaking in his words, “I recall being summoned here to comfort you. Why are you doing the comforting?”

Andy scratched his nose, which I knew was code for a sheepish confession and I felt my heart sink. Andy was pitying me. The bastard was pitying me, even though he’s the one with the overbearing, shrill wife at home that's the reason we both have a drinking problem. As if reading my mind, Andy said, “I know Amy can be. . . difficult, and I know you two have never liked each other--”

“I reject that statement,” I interrupted, “I liked her just fine before you two met.”

“--nevertheless,” Andy said, with the exasperated air of someone who’s had this conversation before, “Amy is the kind of difficult I’m more than happy to bear with, especially since she had to deal with my bullshit.” He pulled out another Newport and lit up. "She makes me feel something, you know?"

“I can’t say I envy either of you.” I tried my best not to sound as bitter as I am famous for being, but I admitted to myself that I was impressed with Andy’s maturity, and with only one Scotch in his system. He usually needs four of those in order to adopt the facade of a reasonable man. Us old friends parted ways, Andy on his way home to his Amy, and I was left alone to cradle my empty gin glass, with still no sign of the bartender. I made a mental note to not pay for my drinks upfront next time.

With Andy gone and nothing to focus on, my senses started to zero in on my surroundings. Bar food was being fried up in the kitchen and Kanye West was playing on the overhead speakers, but I was more interested in what sight this hole-in-the-wall had to offer. It wasn’t long until I locked eyes with a dapper gentleman who I’ve never seen here before and who was almost comically out of place. He had a neat goatee, dark almond-shaped eyes, and he was well-dressed in a silk vest and matching tie; not the sort of fare usually found in this seedy spot. I was immediately interested and I must have shown it because he sauntered over with a confidence only an Adonis could possess and took Andy’s former spot. He introduced himself as Amir and his Yorkshire accent snagged at my naval and dragged me completely under.

I would, later that evening, lost in the mess of a haphazardly unmade bed, tangled sheets, and miles upon miles of Amir’s delectable chocolate skin, ruminate on the hypocrisy that was my bitter words starkly compared to my actions. Broken as I was, lost as I felt, I was a junkie and this was my drug. I realized that Andy was absolutely right; we allow ourselves to fall into the trap of digging for the common crystals that are one-night stands while occasionally stumbling upon the less common gems that are relationships all in the hopes that we might actually hit the jackpot and find a diamond wedged between layers of grime, filth, and shit.

I lazily traced the lines of Amir’s sleeping face. I didn’t know what he was or what this was, if it was anything, yet. . . But for those blissful moments, the possibility of something grand and rare and wonderful did feel worth the risk I was taking in once again trusting my heart to a complete stranger. And as though he wanted to verify what I was feeling, Amir opened his eyes, looked deeply into mine, and I felt my heart leap as though I just nose-dived off the edge of a particularly steep cliff.

I had forgotten.

I had forgotten what it felt like.

Chasing love can be painful, and finding love can be aggravating, but the ecstasy of human connections you make along the way are enough crystals and gems to make an exceptionally unique and lovely necklace.