I lost the ounce of creativity I once had. And now I'm too far behind, to go looking for it.

Surviving Darkness

I need the sun to survive. I was told it’s just one of those circumstances a few unfortunate people end up with. “So you can’t live in Seattle or San Francisco, so what?” But it was worse than that. I was living with a disease. The weather felt like the first stage of death. My condition drove me away from everywhere. Turning me into more of nomad, than a first-class jetsetter. There was nowhere I belonged. I never asked to stay. Boston was bleak. I told my parents I needed to move and they said it was my mentality that needed changing. “Keep running, son, you’re only getting further from yourself.” I became a man overnight and insisted my job transfer me. They did. I was sent to Paris. They said nothing was permanent, but encouraged me to call it home. When I arrived, I felt I wasn’t there. Acknowledging this emptiness made me feel less, which eventually made me feel worse. I couldn’t bare it so I left—as I knew I would—not permanently, just a vacation to see the sea and get some sun. My hope being a good feeling wouldn’t wash off. I was destined for light.

*

She stood bathed in sunrise when I first saw her, a woman of no words. Behind her waves tried to reach the ship, but withdrew with the wind. I, too, wanted to reach out, wished I could touch her. I had no reason, only an urge. But my desire was immediately obscured. The monotony of my voice echoed fear of what she might say. My intuition lost its sense and all that could be heard was birds beating their wings in the background, treading air while watching me. I blame such nature from keeping me from what I was meant to have and to hold from what would have been that day forward. My fate was to hold her in spotlight.

*

At dinner three couples danced to Bobby Vinton. Two by two, “blue on blue” had them leaving heel marks slain across the dining hall’s squared dance floor. Lines of laughter took the attention away from the wrinkles weathered around their jaws and foreheads. At their age their faces were like tree stumps, but then again I looked more enervated than all these geriatrics. Rich histories made me jealous. I pictured the family portraits hung in the hallway, a family of four playing cards pass midnight and the collection of Christmas cards covering the piano table. I had no such memory. Did each life cater to a purpose? Curiosity affected me. The game of “what could have been” never ended. I played it and sometimes it amused me during fits of boredom. I thought of all the things I needed. I already had a serious imagination. What I didn’t know outweighed all I experienced. The meagerness of my existence was confirmed by my fragmentary life. If a biographer exaggerated me, I might be a product of a page. This depressed the shit out me, so I kept quiet. I once read there was an element of mystery in the unsaid. I can’t remember who wrote that, but I thought it sounded like something wise, something a father might say if he wanted to teach his child a thing or two. My father didn’t teach me anything. He just showed me how not to be. Watching the couples, I felt a simple pleasure being there, as if I could steal the experience and consider it my own. Smiling, while other shipmates applauded the dancers, I wondered if the woman danced, whether she would attend to the spotlight. As the couples took their seats, I kept my smile, curious if the woman would have a partner. I wanted to indulge.

*

All six nights, groups traveling together were mixed with different couples and single sailors, like myself. While aboard the ship, one was to have their horizon expand, or rather, that was the Windstar’s mantra. So I sat tall—conscious not to have my shoulders hang downward—and taking advantage of my frame and 6’2 height, saw that my posture did not convey a shortage of self-esteem or my gestures an over articulation of right from wrong behavior. It had taken four years of compulsive correcting, but recently I had become confident that my exterior laid no claim of my interior discomfort. When my twin sister died after turning twenty-three, I experienced a change unlike any other. It was impossible to be prepared for it. And yet, my adjustment was expected. I couldn’t make sense of it. When I was thinking that I wasn’t thinking about now versus then, I was. I wanted to remember how it felt the instant before I opened my eyes and found out I was now an only child. I missed what died in the darkness. 

*

Five sat at each table, but so far I was amongst only two. Both men: tall, dark and handsome—the type is well known. Their attire was more trendy than practical, less waterproof than proof of their paycheck. Not the outdoor type per se, but those that went where money could take them. It was a sort of animal instinct—men were hunters, women the gathers—seeking out luxury as if it were bait for their yuppie mouths. With combed back hair, they spoke with their noses in the air, laughed like a finger was up their asses and swallowed down all that was offered. To lend an adjective to the behavior, they were drunk, lubricated, uncontrollable. Or maybe they were just on vacation. I made no judgments, not outwardly, just watched with assumed admiration in a mockery of approval and joined in as if encouraged by celebration. Hand-me-down Rolexes counted down their pulses, and with Blackberries safeguarded under their napkins, it was obvious they were never disconnected from here and there, living and working. We weren’t men of the same mind. Our mothers had bred us differently. Small talk between each swig of Scotch made it effortless to have their dirty briefs aired out and on display. They were younger than I by four years, give or take, Hollywood go-getters, smoking spliffs the entire drive down the Hills, pitching screenplays, blowing lines and here to get away from their “lalaladiiiies”. But as I listened in, laughing along with their humor—those things you do to be one of the boys—I couldn’t help but see myself during that age of invincibility: when you think your shit doesn’t stink, that nothing will kill you and you live by one motto, “ignorance is bliss”. As I swallowed down the Scotch, I couldn’t avoid closing my eyes to listen with my other ear: who would wake first Hollywood or them, was it possible to stay forever dreaming? And there she was dressed in gold. 

*

She hadn’t arrived alone. Why were they late? They had missed the couples dancing. The appetizers were being served. Shrimp tails hanging over rims, salads tossed, tartar like Jell-O in a bowl. Did they always make an entrance? Had they come together? Maybe met half way? Facing them was our attention, but they were too distracted with themselves to care. Could I blame the state called love? I was silent. They became rowdier. I was just someone, anyone sitting single in the room, alone with cocktail sauce on my chin, appearing unimpressive, as he held her hand, her lips lined, her mouth full. She was beautiful, but I didn’t know how. I wasn’t sure why. She didn’t even see me there, again, taken by her. It didn’t feel good. It didn’t feel bad either. Everything always felt the same. And then she looked up. She looked over. Through me. Her hair stranded around her neck, her face framed by gold, her skin flooded by light. She was facing me with eyes that didn’t seem to look. How close does one come to their shadow? “We’d both like a glass of champagne.” Behind me, the waiter held a plate over my head—one drop and it would have been OPAAAAA. I hadn’t seen him standing there, but as soon as I did her eyes were gone. “Sorry we're late, but I can see we are the most sober sailors because of it.” The table laughed, the servers winked, shedding light upon their—as the man at the head of the table put it—“tardiness”. “Hey boys, that’s how rumors start.” His eyes barely attached to anyone’s face, before he was back whispering a silent significance in the pearl of her ear. He, too, was taken by her. Who was this star? Why were we watching? I saw I wasn’t the only one. Why did we care about what they did? The men laughed, as he kissed her forehead. And I stared, as she kept her eyes closed, not moving, never acknowledging me. My shadow freely taking to the skin I am under.

*

*

“I want to make a toast.” “Shock us and don’t." “Come on now Paul, let’s hear if he’s as good as he use to be.” She laughed; her glossed nails covering her face as if somehow his behavior was a reflection of her. This time her eyes closed as if to postpone the consistent embarrassment. They seemed to be together, or at least hiding the fact, but we were halfway into the main course and I still wouldn’t bet my money on it. No one said. They were discussing films, lunching at The Ivy, Kitsuné, hydrogen cars—it was a pissing contest—but she hadn’t taken her eyes away from him. Was this how to impress a chick nowadays? I couldn’t help but watch her, watching him—this curly haired crowd pleaser—who I’d gamble was Italian because he couldn’t refrain from talking with his hands. Fingers pierced the air like exclamation marks and gestures were delivered as if it was his way of italicizing his importance. This group lived in a dream world—I didn’t have to look too far into them to figure it out—but I also didn’t doubt for a second they were devoted to entertainment. The entire ship loved them and tonight, I was a bit in the spotlight too. Attention seemed addictive, and God knows beneath this front I am a dependent pussy. He rose and I almost choked on my turf. The Napoleon complex was no myth—this guy would be making up for what he lacked his entire life. Maybe knowing we all have our own setbacks is better though. “To lying, cheating and drinking…lie only to protect…” “Not again,” was basically shouted in unison. “Jade we’ve heard it a thousand times, change it up.” “No one looked ready.” Our glasses rose. “Just because it is our fourth night and we all have been drinking ourselves to higher moods, does not mean I have forgotten…” The table cheered. “To everyone escaping to the sea, where it always feels like summer and is always twice as beautiful, thank you for putting all your burdens on the backburner and letting go with me.” He closed his eyes and mouth and appeared to be catching up with his thoughts and deciding his final words. She looked at him as if he were someone she barely knew, someone she was trying to remember. It was like he felt her judging, and he turned toward her—a motion that seemed planned all along—“to Claire for being more beautiful than I remembered and for putting up with all us lemonheads, and last in this speech, but never the last thing I’ll have to say, here’s to living a little better than maybe we should.” On that note everyone laughed—Claire especially—placing our glasses together like a centerpiece of champagne. And then she said something—not just anything—but her voice held time. “Cheers to Jade's 25th, may aging bring growth as well. Also, to Johnny for acting amused and giving me hope that there is someone beside us lushes, I’m glad I could be here.” Those words were for me.

*

The dining room was clearing out. Those with higher tolerances and stomachs for dessert stayed. Pistachio ice cream, fudge squares, wedding cookies and Irish Coffees. My didn't hold back. We had nowhere to go either. There was a small casino across from the gift shop, but I’d consider myself fortunate if I never ended up collecting chips in the corner with some woman in a suit dishing cards. It looked lonelier there then it did in the karaoke lounge, and both activities seemed equally self-indulgent. I never could find any logic in the claim it was just “fun and games”. If you didn’t take your voice seriously, then why would you go on stage and choose a heart-wrenching song? Why would you intend to move an audience if your voice is "pitiful"? If you weren’t a money loving sonofabitch you wouldn’t keep risking all you had won and then complain about luck and spouting off what you considered fair game. It always seemed like everyone was giving themselves away. 

“Jade, enlighten me. What was the genius behind choosing a cruise with a bunch of oldies that pop vitamins instead of crush pills? No one’s around for us to rival.” 

“Exactly smartass, more liquor stocked for us.”

“You’re such a Jew.”

“Claire tell him he sounds like a girl and to quit making his napkin soggy with tears.” 

“James, don’t worry you don’t sound like a girl. You sound like yourself.” 

“You know, you don’t say much, but when you do, dannnng woman, you leave your mark. It’s a shame you aren’t around more. No, man I’m serious. I miss your face.”

“Alright, stop with the sob feast. You can touch hearts later. I’m drunk and don’t need to hear this sentimentality.”

“Paul, you really are the prick of the group. I don’t want to hear any more bitching coming from your mouth about going home alone. It’s all action with you, never about the feelings. Women like feelings first man. Pull that off and then you can act all you like.”

“How many times do I have to remind you James? I’m cool on my own. I’ve got it made as it is. I don’t need the relationship. Just every once and awhile I want some pancakes in the morning. Someone to get behind the stove and flip it up. Break me from my habits. That raisin bran is beginning to taste like shit.”

“WAKE UP CALL. It is shit. Am I right or am I right Johnny.”

“It’s supposed to cleanse the colon.”

“Is that what you do, Johnny, to rid your body of waste?” 

“Claire don’t be gross.”

“Gross or not, she’s got a gift for having it sound sexy.”

“I’m not being anything Jade or James. No one’s asked him anything tonight. I’m curious, so I’m asking. Johnny, what do you like for breakfast?”

“Ppphhh. Oh God, well I don’t know. Let’s see. Depending upon what’s in the fridge. Maybe I’ll scramble some eggs, on the weekends make a batch of French toast that’ll last me till Tuesday. But there’s always Captain Crunch or leftover fried rice.”

“You eat Captain Crunch, Johnnyboy?”

“Well, sure. Everyone’s entitled to a sweet tooth. I wish it were the same in Paris, but there I’ve got to settle for a loaf of bread to hold me over till lunch. But yeah, Captain Crunch was my sister’s favourite.”

“Paris?”

“Hey Johnny, how old did you say you were?”

“28. 29 in three months.”

“You’re a Scorpio.”

“Oh, Claire, really! You still believe that adolescent crap? It was cute in the beginning, but now it’s just childish. Sorry Johnny, some psychotic on Venice Beach persuaded her into psychoanalyzing people by signs and stars. I’m riding a wave one day, and I look out at the shoreline to see if she is spotting my form, and low and behold, some tool is burying her head beneath the sand with symbolism. I’ve told you Claire, it’s a bunch of bullshit, absolute brainwash you’re having performed on you. These magicians just blow smoke up nice people’s asses, so they become as crazy as them. Why do I have to be the only one breaking the news to her? It’s one big cult.”

“He talks about me as if I’m not even in the room. You want to discuss signs. I should have paid attention to that when I first met him. People don’t change, Johnny, mark my word. He and whoever else can say what they want, but astrology has meaning, just as all three of you claim the films you talk about have meaning. See, this is why I am thankful I left LA when I did. All those studio sets, Blockbuster hits and Hollywood “oolala” makes you forget your left from your right.”

“Beware boys, the claws are out tonight.”

“No, I just forgot how when the three of you are together you never have the time to listen to anyone else. It always has to be your way, what you want to hear and how you want to hear it. And it’s embarrassing. No wonder Johnny has been staring at us all night. Who can blame him? I no longer know what to think either.”

“Wait, wait, wait. Slow down for one damn second. Claire, did you pull a Winehouse beneath my nose? You’re talking a mile a minute and I can’t even remember how this whole thing started.”

“Jade, I believe it was your doing.”

“Paul, you’re a prick and you’re acting sloppy as shit. This is a cruise—for my birthday—not Regatta weekend. Pull it together. This is my week.”

“Then where is Dominique? Don’t ride my ass Jade, if you’re going to sit in front of us acting the way you do and then tell us to keep it secret with your tail between your legs. Damn man, you’re 25, we’ve got to grow up already.”

“What secret?”

“Nothing is a secret Claire.”

“Then tell her.”

“Tell me Jade.”

“I have nothing to tell.”

“Of course you don’t. You wouldn’t unless someone said it for you.”

“James get Paul to stop drinking. He’s an asshole alcoholic and no one likes that type.”

“You having a girlfriend isn’t anything to tell? Who should I share that with first? Dominique or Claire?”

“Who is Dominique?”

“It’s Jade’s girlfriend. Some LA script girl. She wants him. He needs her. It is what it is Claire. It may not mean anything, but I’d rather be a home wrecker than listen to your ex chew on you and have him eat me out during our last two dinners.”

“She doesn’t mean anything. You know that man.”

“No, Jade, Dominique doesn’t mean anything to you right now."

Claire disappeared into the night, where darkness owns us all.