PIPEDREAM

Pipe Dream

            (An tale of absurd nature in defenseof amorality and love.)

            I

            You can say she came with thedrugs.  Or, you can say the drugs camewith her, but that makes her sound like an appliance, you know 'the followingaccessories included'.  Some appliancesjust come with a power cord and a difficult to understand instructionmanual.  You must buy the gizmos neededto utilize you brand new, expensive dust collecting appliance. Others come witha sampler of gizmos.  Some of the newcomputers these days include pre-installed software.  I know that is beside the point, but indeedthe drugs came with her, accessories and all; sort of, but not exactly like apet.  "Here is my petrock."  Humm.

            Now that we've established thosenecessary details, I'll tell you how she came with me.  (Yes, I used that phrasing with intent.  Intent to kill, no, but with at least enoughintent to be guilty of a misdemeanor.)

            I, myself bored and taking babysteps in the general direction of intoxication, noticed her sitting bored andalone; stirring her drink without looking down; staring at nothing and takingnext to little notice of me watching her. Her hair dripped blonde and curled onto her forehead, blocking in partmy view of her blue eyes, which stared disinterested at nothing, blank andemotionless, framed by her perfect lashes that curled upward through a lightcoat of mascara. 

            I walked over and took the seatbeside her.  While looking at my beer,not at her I tell you, I gave it to her straight.

            "I love your eyes."  I said with little to no inflection in myvoice.  I wanted her to know she does notscare me, that I am not afraid to look in her eyes, that I do indeed possess abackbone.

            "I know."  She said, just as sweet as you please.  My heart contracted as she took a sip fromher drink and cast a glance at me through strands of blonde hair.  I fought an urge to turn tail and run, toremove myself from the situation.  I knewI had no business talking to her and her glance told me she agreed.

            She sat there, confident andbeautiful in a tan sun dress, bare legs crossed, waiting on me, waiting for meto overcome my seizure.  And indeed, aseizure gripped my entire body as she stared at me.  My hands tightened around my beer as I triedto think of one remark that wouldn't make me look foolish. 

            "Let me help you," shesaid.  Her eyes remained pinned on me,not moving, showing no emotion. "Why don't you buy me a drink?"

            I signaled to the bartender.

            "Another beer and a drink forthe lady." 

            I took out a cigarette and fumbledwith my lighter, my hands shaking and failing me.

            "Must I do everything for you?"  She said. She took the lighter from my hand and put a flame to my cigarette.  I took a deep drag and managed to settle mynerves.  The bartender arrived with ourdrinks and I drank half of my beer in one pass.

            "Slow down killer.  Just relax." 

            She shook her head in disgust andtook a sip from her drink.

            "You don't go out a hell of alot do you?"  She asked.  I don't think she needed an answer, but Igave her one anyway.

            "Almost never."  I said. I turned away from her and looked into the mirror behind the bar.  I saw her continuing to look at me.

            "I'm Holly by theway."  I watched her hand extendtowards me and without looking I met her halfway.

            "Ryan."  I said.

            "See, it is not thathard."

            "For you maybe not.  Everything is easier when you are bornbeautiful."

            "So you'd think, but let's nottalk about that just yet.  Let's talkabout how you're going to convince me to go home with you."

            Silence.  Did she really say that?  I'm still not sure.  Everything stopped around me.  I looked at her and thought her too beautifulto say such a thing, her pale skin delicious and creamy under the bar lightsand the way her neck, thin and smooth, slid slow and delicate onto hershoulders.

            "Two comments come tomind.  First, I don't think theconversation was far enough along for that comment.  Second, I don't think I can afford youanyway."

            "Finally he shows some signs oflife.  And, by the way, you'reright.  You can't afford me."

            "Always the money issue.  I know, I know.  Poetry might be nice, but it doesn't buydiamonds."

            "Control yourself killer, I'mnot looking for a diamond just yet."

            "That's comforting."  I said.

            "Anything I can do tohelp."

            I took a drink and lit anothercigarette.

            "You know those things willkill you right?"

            "I think I've heard."

            "Well, as long as youknow.  While you're at it, light meone."

            "Cigarettes kill."

            "You don't say."  She said.

            I lit a cigarette and passed it toher, our hands brushing, touching, my finger running over her fleshy palm.  Shivers and flutters passed over my arms,legs, down my spine.

            "I think I am over my headhere."  I said.

            "Maybe, but I haven't walkedaway.  Don't ruin a situation with negativity.  It's a disease."

            "Negativity?  I guess I missed that chapter in Biologyclass."

            "It is wiseass.  You run through life telling yourself thewhole time that it won't happen to you, for you, around you- whatever.  Just live. If I walk away, you can always say-

            "Let me guess, I can say Itried."

            "No.  You can say, 'her loss'."

            I laughed, a real laugh, letting mynerves out with it.  I ordered anotherround.

            "Very nice.  You didn't even ask.  Not bad."

            "I figure it this way, mychances will improve if you're a bit tight."

            "Ha, what a noble man I'vemet."

            "Hey, a man has to do..."

            "...whatever he can to getlaid."

            "Exactly."

            "Sure.  I agree. Use anything, everything.  Drugs,alcohol, even blunt objects because it isn't a fair fight.  Men vs. Women would be along similar lines asthe Cowboys vs. a high school football team. No contest and you'll only score when we want you to score."

            "Who?  The high school team or men?"

            "Both."

            She seemed confident in herabilities and theories.  She stared atme, almost daring, begging me to disagree. Tick, tick, tick went seconds as I gathered resources, courage,arguments...all to no avail.  Women wineven more often than our so-called 'America's Team'.  I sighed in defeat.

            "You're telling me that I can'twin?  Should I even bother to suit up forthe game?"

            "There's that damn negativityagain.  Drug companies should sell a pillfor it just like they sell one for depression."

            "I don't think Prozac will workin my case.  Besides, there is afundamental flaw in what you say."

            "How so?"  She waited eager for my answer, her eyesshiny and bright with liquor high; maybe something else besides, with her wholebody turned to me in anticipation.

            "First, you said that womendecide everything.  Right?"

            "Okay..." She followed atleast that far.

            "Well, if that is true, which Ido no argue in the least, my negativity is just an outward show of an obvioustruth.  Nothing I can say or do will makeyou come home with me tonight."

            "Well, well, well.  I guess you have it all figured out."

            "I guess so."  I took a small sip from my beer, then anotherand again another.  "Another roundbartender."

            I lit a cigarette and inhaled neededconfidence.  The noise around us filteredinto my mind as if I hadn't noticed it until that moment.  Couples talking, flirting, groups of mentrying in loud and desperate fashion to attract attention, music blaring dancetunes; all of this hit me in waves. 

            "Are you okay?"  She asked. She touched my arm to get my attention.

            "Sure."  I said. I drank my beer and hoped for the nervous tension I felt building in mybody to resolve without action from myself.

            "To continue my thought,negativity is killing you.  You see, youare missing a fundamental point." She paused, lit a cigarette, brushed hair away from her face and turnedto me once again.

            "Go on."  I said.

            "The point you are missing isknowledge."

            "Knowledge?"

            "See, you don't know.  The knowledge of whether a particular womanwants you to win."

            I sat there, stupefied and silent,not understanding her point.

            "At the end of the day it isall about the chase.  Most women, and itis an extreme majority, are waiting for the man to approach them, to win them,to sweep them off their feet, etc., blah blah you get the picture."

            "And?"

            "You still don't getit?"  She pounded her fist on thebar.

            "Relax." 

            "I just can't believe you canbe this dense.  Okay, here it is insimple terms.  Say that girl in the reddress over there, yes, that one- say she wants you to take her hometonight.  How would you know?  Is she going to tell you?  Is she going to paste a sign on herforehead?  Is she going to mail you aninvitation?  I don't think so, noway.  She will wait for you to make amove as they say."

            "I understood what you meant.”

            She slapped my arm, hard and shookher head, a sad look in her eyes.

            "You just don't get it doyou?"

            "I get it.  I don't think you understand me.  I don't want the games.  I don't want to hunt for women.  I don't want anything at all.  If someone comes along that fits my life I'lljump at the chance, but not until.

            "How will you know?"  She seemed by her eyes to understand.

            "You just know."

            She shook her curls at me to signalagreement. 

            "You speak of love.  Interesting. I talk of meeting women to have fun and maybe sex and you argue on adifferent plane.  If you live your theoryyou'll be alone most of your days.       "

            "I know."

            We fell silent.  I looked into my beer for company and not findingany decided to just watch her.  She ranher fingers through her hair, slow and red into blonde curls.  Eyes stare at nothing, fingers do what theywill and I, feeling           helplessparanoia creep up my legs, sit like a stone immobile and watch her torture myaura.

            "Tell me what tosay."  The words came in a whisperedstream.

            "Say what you will."  She answered. She continued to curl her locks into abstract shapes.

            "Come home with me."

            She turned to me, eyes burning highswimming, and placed her hand on my leg.

            "What will we do?"

            "You know."  My breath came rasping out in staccatoprayers. 

            "Always say what youmean."

            "I want you to see everything,to understand everything."

            She nodded agree.  She stood up with an effort, near staggeredas she walked toward the door as I grabbed for the jackets and threw money downon the bar.

           

            II

            We came at last to my lonely,solitary abode, indeed, a prison.  Weentered laughing at several references made by myself in a deprecatory natureto my life, or to put it plain, my lack of one. Her presence upon entering banished the dust of exile that settles overme each day as I sit alone.  The way shewalked through the kitchen, not stopping to stare at my meager furnishingssomehow reassured me, brightened my hopes. And to tell you the truth, the word me meager is probably an understatedone-word description of my apartment. The shock I experienced when indeed the bare emptiness and dingy feelnot only failed to impress a negative attitude upon her, but rather elicited amere nod of her head as if to say 'All is as it should be' can be stated atsevere.  The few persons I've allowed toenter have almost in every instance commented on the lack of this or that item.

            Indeed, to tell you, I have fewpossessions.  I do not own a television,a microwave, or a computer.  In theliving room she encountered a single piece of legitimate furniture- a blackleather couch stolen from a garbage bin, worn to tatters and showing bits ofthe inside material in places.  She tooka seat in the middle, avoiding the deep recess to the left.  In front of her, in lieu of a table were twoplastic milk crates, on which she placed her purse.  The only other thing in the room is a plainwhite lamp without a shade, which sore and stabbing shoves its light into youreyes.

            "I like what you've done withthe place."  She said.  Her comment sounded offhand, which indeed Ibelieve she meant it to be.

            "How original."

            She shrugged my answer off andcontinued to look around.

            "I'll tell you something, whydon't you scratch me up a mirror or the like while I take in the, ah, sceneryas it were, or is.  I hate when I fail tomake the grammar agree."

            "I know.  Happens to me all the time.  I'll get that mirror."  I said. I left to the room with her staring intent and with great concentrationat my lamp. 

            Let me state a few things at thismoment that I failed to mention previous to this point.  I skipped over certain details I recognizedand saw in meeting her at the bar that negated surprise or wonderment at herrequest of a mirror.  With that said,I'll leave it to you, the reader, to figure it out.  (I hate when everything is told to me when Iread stories.  I'd rather leave somethingto the imagination.)

            I produced the requested mirror and placedit in front of her on the milk crates.  Iwatched her take a small baggie, closed with a rubber band from her purse andsmiled as she emptied in onto the mirror in silence, an almost reverent awe inher expression.    

            "Straight to business."  I said with a laugh.

            She looked over at me, with thoseblazing shining eyes and told me to quiet myself.  She turned her attention back to her task,with a focus in her eyes, such an intense concentration it scared me.  I watched her enamored with her while shewent about her business, which she talked herself through step by step.  I became bold enough to dare touch her as sheinstructed me in the finer points of cutting and mixing cocaine.

            "First, dump the baggie,remembering to tap it carefully so as to not lose one little piece.  If you tap it too hard the rocks will fly allother the place.  Then you start toseparate, pushing your favorites off to the side.  There, just like that."

            I just watched and stroked herarm.  Do whatever you wish Holly.

            "Make sure you save somethingfor later.  Most people forget this stepand end up scraping the mirror in desperation. It is pathetic if you askme."

            "Indeed."  I said. Indeed. (How you stare at that white death before you.  I doubt you looked upon me with such bright-eyedenthusiasm.  With quiet intense focus youoperate as if you were a surgeon and the death before you a patient, cuttingaway with delicate strokes.)

            "Cut the smallest piecesfirst.  Those are the easiest.  This way you can do a line while you cut thelarger rocks.  Those take time and asteady hand.  There, that line is yoursRyan."  She handed me a thin hollowglass tube.

            I did as she told me.  How can one disobey?

            "How is it?"  She asked. She leaned over and followed my lead.

            "It burns a bit.  Not bad stuff.  Oh, not bad at all.  I can feel it in the back of my throat."

            "Goddamn."  She yelled. "That is the best part. Drip, drip, drip."

And so on and so onand so on... etc. etc. etc.

            (Later...in my bedroom)

           

            "Your skin is smooth."  I said. I stroked her thigh with my fingertips, loving the feel of her skinagainst my hand.

            "As is your touch."  She said. She lay back on the bed and stared upward, looking for what I have noidea while I caressed her thighs.

            "Can I ask you something?"

            "Yes."  She answered. Her voice sounded distant, almost weak.

            I pushed my hand higher until I feltthe cotton of her panties.

            "Why are you here?"  I asked. I have a tendency to ask the wrong question; even to be conscious of itbeing the wrong question is not rare for me. This is one of those moments. Never make a woman explain herself. She just might change her mind.

            "Why do you want to know?"She sounded defensive.  I think I toucheda nerve.  (Yes, I meant that and I won'tchange it.)

            "Well, to be blunt I am a loserand you are a beautiful young woman.  Youcould have and always can have any man you want.  I mean, I am a slob, I dress funny, and I'maverage looking.  Christ, I don't evenhave a TV."

            "I don't watch TV." 

            "That is beside thepoint." I wanted an answer.  I'vealways wanted to know the answer.

            "Oh, right there.  Don't move from that spot."  She pushed my hand hard down into thewetness.

            "Don't change thesubject."  I said, but I didn't movemy hand.

            "Stop talking."  She said. 

            I did.  I just kept on rubbing with my hand.  After a few moments she looked up at me andshook her head.

            "That is not what Imeant."  She said with a smile.  I looked at her, a bit confused, but notcompletely in the dark. It dawned on me in short order.  I may be slow, but I am not stupid.

            "Oh."  I said.

            "You have lots ofbooks."  She said.  She sat next to me smoking a cigarette as shefaced my bookshelf.

            "Yes," I said.  I took my turn staring at the ceiling.

            "Which is yourfavorite?"  She asked.  She began to rub me, gentle and slow.

            "I don't know.  I have over a thousand books on thoseshelves; most of them so called classics. I can't really say which is my favorite. I guess it depends on my mood."

            "Your mood?"  She asked.

            "Yes.  When I'm feeling all right in the head, mostof the time I like Shakespeare best."

            "And when you're not feelingright in the head?"

            "You see the book on the bottomshelf?  Yes, the one without words on thebind.  That one is my favorite when I'mnot feeling quite up to par if you will."

            "Who wrote it?"

            I paused for a moment and lit acigarette.

            I did, but I didn't tell her.

            "A man that is no longer withus, so I'd rather not talk about him."

            "I'm sorry."  She said. She sounded sympathetic.

            "Are you happy?"  She asked me.

            "Yes."  I remained fixated on the ceiling above me.

            "Good."  She seemed relieved, almost happy with mysatisfaction.

            "Thanks Holly."  I said.

            "No problem.  I mean, I'm happy to help, but in the end itis your money.  We don't have tofuck."

            "I know."  I said. A tear collected in my eye.  Ialways get emotional.

            "I'll see you nextweek."  She said.

            "Same time, same place."  I answered. I watched her walk away and listened with a sense of loss as she softlyclosed the door.