[Intrepid Homoludens]

T.J.
fiction (in progress) by B. Rafól




I was in a brown study. I bought some postcards, two from work at the Aquarium, and two more from that shop on Broadway. I wanted to send myself to my friends, my niece in California, my soul sister who lived just several blocks north. A correspondence from sea. I felt stagnant and trapped in banality. Living in the city for only several months, after moving from the numbing rural suburbs (and being neutralized by it), it seemed I was sterilized, under glass. All the bus commutes to work, during which I was constantly treated to spectacular views of downtown in all its tints and glimmers, and all the strolls to errands, affording street level life. They still seemed distant, the immediacy prevented. What happened?

The late summer, early evening light diffused the atmosphere at Roscoes', hinting at something to happen, a kind of anticipating calm. Only a few guys yet were there enjoying their drinks, the music bouncing off the dark wood columns and walls, the scale model houses collected by the bar's owner lining the high shelves, the bar itself commanding the long room, and it was like home, somehow. Coming in, the skies were volatile, indecisive - will it storm, or will it clear up? I didn't pay much attention to it, and I fished out the postcards and a pen from my backpack. I missed my old Namiki, given me by S., a storm back then, a thrilling then draining harrow, cause of my immolation. I loved that fountain pen, modern yet comfortingly classical. The stamps were in my wallet, and I awkwardly pulled them out.

Craig, one of the bartenders I adore, greeted me: "Hi. The usual?"

"Yes, please," I replied, managing a smile. Did he know I sent it from across the sea? No. No, he didn't. I pulled out a twenty from my wallet as he mixed the martini. Blue olives. He knows I love the blue olives, and he's sending the cold drink across the sea. For a moment he became my only lifeline, and I floated in the comfort. He was handsome, aging, and so much more attractive for it. I floated, ignoring the others in the bar trying to get my attention. It's these tiny pockets of comfort. I won't sink, not now at least. I needed this drink. Craig placed the cold glass before me on a napkin and took the twenty and made change.

"Thank you," he expressed, placing the money next to the glass. Always a gentleman. I floated. It was all I could do, send him one more smile across the huge stretch of water.

The stamp had dry glue and I had to lick it first before affixing it to the postcard. There was a nighttime skyline of Chicago on the other side. I always prefer to write the address first and put the stamp, that tells me how much room I have to spill myself on. I inked my correspondence:

K.,

I'm lost. The beauty, the cradling, of this great city seems unreachable to me. I feel I'm merely a specter, existing by incidence, not intent. I'm miles away. I can't touch anything, even though things touch me. All I can do presently is breathe on the separating glass and scrawl backwards on the fog: 'Help me. Please.' Your face makes me smile now. I can keep you inside and that will warm me. Please send yourself. I have no map, no bearings, but all seem so familiar. I can trace my past, the cartography of memories. Maybe that'll do. It's all I have for now. Love you.

B.

As I relaxed my fingers from the pen I suddenly felt a heaving, along with a strange warm undercurrent of electricity. It was disorienting, something was permeating me, almost communicating, contradicting my misplacement. I wiped my tears and lifted up the glass and took a sip and closed my eyes. The liquid slipping down my throat felt good. The warm current didn't go away, though. It lingered. What was going on?

I looked around the bar and saw some new patrons. No one I knew, of course, although most of them were familiar for being regulars on an early Friday evening. It was now raining softly, steadily outside, and the constantly opening door brought the fresh wet odour to me and I breathed it in. Craig was standing in front of me at the other side of the bar, his back to me, talking to someone. There was an older woman, anamolous, elegant, thin, handsome. What was she doing here? She looked like she would belong more at home at the Drake Hotel or a tea room. She was in a blue silk tweed jacket, the kind you buy at Chanel, her salt and pepper hair cropped like a boy's, her face pale and fresh, thin lips painted vermillion. She seemed the kind of older woman I always fantasized about having drinks with, yet it was the last thing on my mind at that moment. She sat next to whomever it was Craig was talking to. The warm electrical current lingered in me, imported.