30.
September 1st. I couldn't understand why the date mattered, or why it had any bearing on anything, but it did. The world felt different. I was standing on the front porch, taking a break from the tension and it was a little before noon and the world felt different. Something had shifted overnight. I was ignoring it.
It was the mid-day and I was standing staring at the rustling leaves and sipping from a bottle of Merlot. I was never a fan of merlot, but it was that, cognac, or chardonnay. I thought I might walk to the beach. Walk it for the thousandth time. Walk to the park. Walk it for the thousandth time. Walk to the boardwalk. Walk it for the thousandth time. I wanted nowhere. I stayed on the porch, stared at the leaves, sipped the merlot.
There were no pills. Only coke.
It had been an argument.
Bev had climbed into the shower. Stumbled in.
Marie sat on the toilet and talked her down and when Bev was done she had opened the shower curtain and reached for a towel and fell out of the shower, knocking over the towel rack, the toothbrushes, and her purse, which spilled the entirety of it's contents across Marie's lap and the bathroom floor. Among the lipstick, the wad of balled up ones and fives, the bobby pins, was a corner of a plastic bag, tied off with a hair band.
Bev had laughed and tried to shovel everything back in and Marie let her and apparently said "I'll be in the kitchen."
I sat in the living room with cognac and Nick Cave and Marie had come out.
"We need to talk," she said, still stoned but sobering.
I had followed her out to the porch and as she relayed the last twenty minutes to me we could hear Bev stumbling and stomping around and then the attic door opening and closing.
Marie wanted to kick her out at first. Then she wanted to get her help (whatever that meant). Then she thought she might ignore it.
I only listened. I didn't know what to do. Maybe it was nothing, I thought. Maybe it was just now and it wasn't forever and maybe it was never really a problem to begin with, and maybe, just goddamn maybe, it was none of our business.
Maybe I was hiding.
Marie had slept with the anger of loss and I thought it was unjustified, but it wasn't my place to judge that either. In the morning Marie had gone to the attic and for fifteen minutes I had heard nothing. I had a bowl of granola cereal. Then yelling and Bev had said loudly what I was thinking and I thought that might mean I was wrong. Marie came back downstairs and took a shower. I finished my cereal and when Marie was done showering she came to me in the kitchen and said "I don't know what to say," and then she got dressed and left.
I showered and put my cutoff sweat shorts on and took the Merlot out onto the porch and told myself Marie wasn't upset because she had fallen in love. The fall had begun.
In September you could still swim, though you never want to. You could still barbecue, but you never want to. In September you waste days and you are a criminal. Winter hides just behind the next couple of calendar pages and then in December you think of the last day you laid in the park and the long warm month that followed it and 'why didn't I go one more time?'. You get drunk on summer and when you're drunk the night will never end and the summer will never end and there's plenty of time left and then you're out of time and you look around and you think 'fuck'.
Bev came and went. Marie painted and came and went. I didn't write but I laid on the couch and watched Marie paint and drank wine and sometimes the thought that I was lying in rubble would come close to the front of my mind, but I never paid it much attention, and before long I'd be thinking about something else.
Three days later I was shitfaced and around three I decided to walk to the bar. I didn't know if it would be closed or not, but I figured I'd give it a shot, worse come to worse, I'd get some air. The whole fucking house had been silent and odd and I was tired of it. After Tom, and after Bev and Marie and myself, and now this. I was fucking tired of it. Fresh air would be fine enough.
During the week the streets were empty and with my water bottle of wine I moved down and through them and I know that people looked out there windows and saw me and thought "there goes that fucking guy," and "does that piece of shit live here now? fucking great" and a million other things. The summer was dead and they wanted me gone. Drunk and stoned and music and arguments and fucking and "goddamn", they must have thought. "Goddamn, it's supposed to end in September."
I could not have fucking cared less.
I walked heavy and loose down the street and to the bar I had grabbed a burger at a month before. The bar Bev had thrown shit looks at some girl before that. It had become mine. The sun was warm. The walk was long. The air was clean. The tension was nowhere, as long as I ignored it in my chest.
Through the neighborhoods and across the main drag and down the strip and down the hill. The lake was still beautiful and I was still in love with it then. I still am now. I can't blame the lake.
When I got to the bar I wasn't entirely surprised to see Bev there.
"Hey," I said, pulling up to the bar next to her.
Her hair was pulled back but barely. She was high and she tapped her fingers against the bar in a beat I couldn't comprehend. As I sat and spoke she laid her head on my shoulder.
"I love you," she said.
"I know, Bev."
The bartender came to us. It was someone I didn't know and I thought that maybe the college kids had left. Maybe she was an owner. Maybe an owner's kid. to fill the weird spot in the season. Always making up backstories. "What can I get you?" she asked.
"Two beers. Whatever's cheap."
"Sure. PBR?"
"Sure."
She nodded and took two cans out from under the bar and handed them off and walked off.
"You okay Bev?"
She kissed my shoulder. "I fucked it all up."
"Why?" I drank from my water bottle, cracked my beer and set it in front of me. I cracked Bev's beer and set it in front of her. She drank from hers.
"I fucked up Tom. I fucked up you and Marie. I fucked up, I don't know."
"You didn't fuck up Marie and I," I said. "We love you. We're just worried about you."
"I don't know what to say. I love you. I love Marie."
"We know."
"No. You don't." She drank from her beer. "You don't."
"Of course we do. What do you mean?"
"I mean, you and Marie, you'd fucking, I don't know, you'd rot without her. You'd cut your arms off for her. She is everything for you. Right?"
"Of course."
"I mean, she's your wife. She's the girl for you. She's, everything."
"Right."
"That fuck's me up, man." She kept her head on my shoulder and drank more.
"Why?"
She was silent for a moment and sighed. "Nothing. Forget it."
She looked forward and I looked forward at the mirror behind the bar and at Bev and Bev let tears roll down her cheek and her fingers tapped a rampant alien code against the wooden bar.
I kissed the top of her head.
It was the mid-day and I was standing staring at the rustling leaves and sipping from a bottle of Merlot. I was never a fan of merlot, but it was that, cognac, or chardonnay. I thought I might walk to the beach. Walk it for the thousandth time. Walk to the park. Walk it for the thousandth time. Walk to the boardwalk. Walk it for the thousandth time. I wanted nowhere. I stayed on the porch, stared at the leaves, sipped the merlot.
There were no pills. Only coke.
It had been an argument.
Bev had climbed into the shower. Stumbled in.
Marie sat on the toilet and talked her down and when Bev was done she had opened the shower curtain and reached for a towel and fell out of the shower, knocking over the towel rack, the toothbrushes, and her purse, which spilled the entirety of it's contents across Marie's lap and the bathroom floor. Among the lipstick, the wad of balled up ones and fives, the bobby pins, was a corner of a plastic bag, tied off with a hair band.
Bev had laughed and tried to shovel everything back in and Marie let her and apparently said "I'll be in the kitchen."
I sat in the living room with cognac and Nick Cave and Marie had come out.
"We need to talk," she said, still stoned but sobering.
I had followed her out to the porch and as she relayed the last twenty minutes to me we could hear Bev stumbling and stomping around and then the attic door opening and closing.
Marie wanted to kick her out at first. Then she wanted to get her help (whatever that meant). Then she thought she might ignore it.
I only listened. I didn't know what to do. Maybe it was nothing, I thought. Maybe it was just now and it wasn't forever and maybe it was never really a problem to begin with, and maybe, just goddamn maybe, it was none of our business.
Maybe I was hiding.
Marie had slept with the anger of loss and I thought it was unjustified, but it wasn't my place to judge that either. In the morning Marie had gone to the attic and for fifteen minutes I had heard nothing. I had a bowl of granola cereal. Then yelling and Bev had said loudly what I was thinking and I thought that might mean I was wrong. Marie came back downstairs and took a shower. I finished my cereal and when Marie was done showering she came to me in the kitchen and said "I don't know what to say," and then she got dressed and left.
I showered and put my cutoff sweat shorts on and took the Merlot out onto the porch and told myself Marie wasn't upset because she had fallen in love. The fall had begun.
31.
In September you could still swim, though you never want to. You could still barbecue, but you never want to. In September you waste days and you are a criminal. Winter hides just behind the next couple of calendar pages and then in December you think of the last day you laid in the park and the long warm month that followed it and 'why didn't I go one more time?'. You get drunk on summer and when you're drunk the night will never end and the summer will never end and there's plenty of time left and then you're out of time and you look around and you think 'fuck'.
32.
Bev came and went. Marie painted and came and went. I didn't write but I laid on the couch and watched Marie paint and drank wine and sometimes the thought that I was lying in rubble would come close to the front of my mind, but I never paid it much attention, and before long I'd be thinking about something else.
Three days later I was shitfaced and around three I decided to walk to the bar. I didn't know if it would be closed or not, but I figured I'd give it a shot, worse come to worse, I'd get some air. The whole fucking house had been silent and odd and I was tired of it. After Tom, and after Bev and Marie and myself, and now this. I was fucking tired of it. Fresh air would be fine enough.
During the week the streets were empty and with my water bottle of wine I moved down and through them and I know that people looked out there windows and saw me and thought "there goes that fucking guy," and "does that piece of shit live here now? fucking great" and a million other things. The summer was dead and they wanted me gone. Drunk and stoned and music and arguments and fucking and "goddamn", they must have thought. "Goddamn, it's supposed to end in September."
I could not have fucking cared less.
I walked heavy and loose down the street and to the bar I had grabbed a burger at a month before. The bar Bev had thrown shit looks at some girl before that. It had become mine. The sun was warm. The walk was long. The air was clean. The tension was nowhere, as long as I ignored it in my chest.
Through the neighborhoods and across the main drag and down the strip and down the hill. The lake was still beautiful and I was still in love with it then. I still am now. I can't blame the lake.
When I got to the bar I wasn't entirely surprised to see Bev there.
"Hey," I said, pulling up to the bar next to her.
Her hair was pulled back but barely. She was high and she tapped her fingers against the bar in a beat I couldn't comprehend. As I sat and spoke she laid her head on my shoulder.
"I love you," she said.
"I know, Bev."
The bartender came to us. It was someone I didn't know and I thought that maybe the college kids had left. Maybe she was an owner. Maybe an owner's kid. to fill the weird spot in the season. Always making up backstories. "What can I get you?" she asked.
"Two beers. Whatever's cheap."
"Sure. PBR?"
"Sure."
She nodded and took two cans out from under the bar and handed them off and walked off.
"You okay Bev?"
She kissed my shoulder. "I fucked it all up."
"Why?" I drank from my water bottle, cracked my beer and set it in front of me. I cracked Bev's beer and set it in front of her. She drank from hers.
"I fucked up Tom. I fucked up you and Marie. I fucked up, I don't know."
"You didn't fuck up Marie and I," I said. "We love you. We're just worried about you."
"I don't know what to say. I love you. I love Marie."
"We know."
"No. You don't." She drank from her beer. "You don't."
"Of course we do. What do you mean?"
"I mean, you and Marie, you'd fucking, I don't know, you'd rot without her. You'd cut your arms off for her. She is everything for you. Right?"
"Of course."
"I mean, she's your wife. She's the girl for you. She's, everything."
"Right."
"That fuck's me up, man." She kept her head on my shoulder and drank more.
"Why?"
She was silent for a moment and sighed. "Nothing. Forget it."
She looked forward and I looked forward at the mirror behind the bar and at Bev and Bev let tears roll down her cheek and her fingers tapped a rampant alien code against the wooden bar.
I kissed the top of her head.
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