July 8, 2009

In the arms

He sits there, shifting nervously in the seat; fingering the tab of his newly opened beer. His seems troubled by the question, as if I had asked him about the stained rags lying close by the side of his bed. It’s puzzling, his anxiety.
“No, you won’t understand.”
Again, we goad, but are stonewalled.
And again we ask, again we plead.
No avail. It was another one of those late-night sessions where we ponder the fate of man as we try to find the bottom of as many beers as we can. Perhaps what we talk about would rival Plato or Aristophanes, if only we could record these matters before they fade as dawn awakens the new day. The only reason I remember this particular episode was John’s peculiarity in withholding information. Usually, when intoxicated, we can’t get him to shut up, always babbling on about topics too deep to ponder under the influence of “c –h-three-c-h-two-o-h” (his phrasing, not mine) and we have to beat him with pillows. He’s my best friend, but there are times when he must be dealt with.
“It’s not that easy to explain. I have a favorite place, but it doesn’t really exist here on Earth, or anywhere else in the galaxy.”
For some reason, I felt my grip on the pillow tighten. Luckily, he was quite for some time after that, but that opening intrigued us. It was the beginning of a path, but we wanted more. Actually, don’t tell him this, but we all respect him more than we let on, but being the baby of our group, he has to take shit from us.
“I’m not saying it’s something like a castle on an island on a cloud in the sky. My favorite place was once very real, but it wasn’t in a concrete place, but it was no abstraction. This was a very real place.”
Those were the kinds of things I was talking about earlier. He just, well, he’s just John.
“Oh, never mind.”
He also is reluctant to share his true feelings with people, even his best friend. You just have to know the right words to coax him. Usually, the word “pussy” is adequate, in the derogatory sense, not in the slang term for the vagina. Come to think of it, they’re probably one in the same.
“Come on, don’t be such a pussy, it’s a simple question.”
“Ok, just give me a second”
Presto. See, it works.
“It was a warm, comforting place, on that makes you happy, creates a warm feeling rushing all over you. There were smiles, lost of smiles, smiles without thinking. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t exist anymore.”
Ok, by either meaning of the word “pussy,” he’s there. The corners of his were watering.
“Soft flesh pressed against you. The warmth of respiration tingles your neck. Dudes, there is no place on Earth like there is in the arms of someone you love, and I don’t have that anymore”
With that, we grew silent. There was nothing else we could say. He may be a pussy, but that was raw emotion. Thus, the question moved on to me. He got and grabbed another beer, which was weird, because I seemed to remember him having a new one but five minutes ago. Maybe that boy drinks too much. Or maybe he just needs to find his favorite place again.