Miles (17 page)

Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend

More than cool reason ever comprehends.

The lunatic, the lover, and the poet

Are of imagination all compact.

One sees more devils than vast hell can hold,

That is the madman.

A Midsummer Night's Dream

"Hello?"

"Young
man, I've been calling all afternoon."

"Hi,
Unc.  Where are you?"

"The
Schloss.  Where've you been?"

Pause. 
"I took a walk."

His
pause.  "To Hyde Park?"

Giggle. 
"No, not that far."

"I'm
having some trouble putting my affairs in order.  I don't think I'll be
back down until some time next week."

"That's
okay.  I'll be fine."

"Are
you sure?  You can come up here and miss some more school, if you'd
like."

"It
sounds fun, Uncle, but I'm actually looking forward to going back to
class.  It'll keep my mind busy."

His
second pause.  "I understand.  You really like that university
place, don't you?"

"Yeah,
I do.  A lot.  I don't know why, though.  They work us like we
were serfs there!"

"Have
you thought about just staying on there at the university itself?"

"Well,
yeah, I did, for a while, until my Literature teacher breathed on me about
it.  He said I should go someplace totally foreign to me.  A whole
new world, he keeps saying.  Sticking around wouldn't be much of a change
for me.  Besides, I think I'm ready for some new geography, now."

Mutual
silence.

"You're
right.  Pretty smart guy for being seventeen."

"Sixteen,
Unc."

"What's
a year or two between family?"  We both giggle.  "I should
set fire to this place for the insurance money."

"Well? 
Why don't you?"

"That
little rag would probably sue me for that, too."

"Who?"

"Veronica. 
Or Sybll.  I should call her Sybll to her face and see if any more hidden
personalities fall out of her hair.  Psychotic wench."

I
giggled again.  "Should I ask what she's suing you for, Uncle
Alex?"

"Hah! 
The usual!  'Mental anguish' or some other twaddle!"  I heard a
wine bottle pop.  "I personally think she smelled some of that money
you've come into, and flipped when I said no."

"To
my money?"

"No,
nephew, to marrying her.  What you do with the money is your affair."

"A
responsible adult would keep it their affair until I finished college, or
started a career, or got married.  Something like that."

"Oh,
yes!  Now you sound like some of those mummies we're related
to."  I laughed.  Uncle Alex didn't.  "Have you even
picked out a college, yet?"

"No."

"What
are you going to take up, besides space, once you break down and pick
one?"

"Writing,
or poetry.  Something like that."

"Something
like that.  Fine.  Something like that, someplace presumably in North
America.  Right?"

"Well,
yeah, I guess."

"You
guess.  You guess you'll take up writing or poetry or something like that
at some college or university someplace in the Western Hemisphere."

"Fine! 
I'm going to the University of Geneva!  I'm going to major in French
language, and minor in 16th Century English Literature!  Is that okay,
Unc?"

"I'd
go to the Sorbonne myself.  Paris nightlife rather puts anything in
Switzerland to shame."  He took a short drink.  "The point,
dear heart, is that you can't possibly be expected to have any idea about what
you want the rest of your life to be, or where you want it to take place, or
why
you do, which is the only really important question you can ever ask yourself. 
Not at your age, despite that brain of yours.  Even if the rest of your
life begins next year, or whatever."

Uncle
Alex wasn't drunk, but it didn't sound like it was his first bottle of wine or
champagne, either.  The only time he became overly contemplative or
philosophical was after a full bottle of wine.  I loved him when he got
like that.  Unc talked about things no one else wanted to think about,
much less talk about, and he did so in such a brutally common-sensical way that
it drove anyone who tried to argue with him nuts.

"I
think the rest of my life began a few days ago, Unc."

I
looked at the bits of flock that had fallen from the grate inside the bright
and crackling fireplace, and suddenly thought of Brennan.

His
third pause.  "You're a clever little bugger, aren't you?"

"I
hope so, Unc.  I can't do a whole lot else, except hit a baseball and
write poetry nobody understands!"

"Send
some of it up to me.  I'll read it.  If I don't get it, I'll hit a
bottle of port.  After that rot, I can figure out anything.  Even a
prenuptial agreement."

"Really?"

"No,
not at all.  Can't stand the stuff.  Just wanted to lead you
along.  Yes, of course, I mean it!  Send them first thing the post
office opens.  And don't send anything you haven't copied."

I
realized Uncle Alex was the first relative to ask for some of my poetry to
read, and it made me feel like I was Czar of the Russias. 
"Okay.  Thanks, Unc."

"No
problem.  By the way, happy New Year.  I'm getting drunk to bring in
the new decade.  You should, too.  It'll make the old one look
better."

"A
friend of mine is spending the night here."

"Then
get drunk together.  Incoherence is much more fun when you share it with
someone."  His fourth and final pause.  "Is it that teacher
friend of yours?"

My
second but very large, fearful, and defensive pause.  Uncle Alex was
pretty clever, too.  "No.  It's one of the guys I play baseball
with."

"Well,
don't play tonight if you're going to get drunk.  Bats and baseballs and
beer don't mix, unless you've got upper deck seats and there's a Yankee fan
close by."  We laughed together.  "And don't you dare touch
that Corvette.  Do you hear me?"

"Oh,
yeah?  What if I got all the cash I could earlier today, and I'm planning
the ultimate road trip, a crime spree across the country?  What
then?"

"Set
the house on fire for the insurance.  There's better money in it, and it's
a whole hell of a lot easier to pull off than armed robberies, of which the
only worthwhile ones are Federal offenses, and who needs that?"

"There's
a much better grade of cell-mate in a Federal prison, Uncle Alex."

"Ah,
yes, Club Fed.  Think of all the interesting senators and bankers you'll
meet."

I
heard the front door open and close.  "My friend is here." 
Brennan waved at me from the kitchen with a large Army backpack slung over his
shoulder.

"Go
start your drunk.  Call me sometime tomorrow.  Late."

"I
will.  Take care." 

Uncle
Alex grunted his reply.  We hung up without saying "I love you"
or anything else awkward.

*

"Are
you ready to go?"  I put my hands on Brennan's arms.  They were
shaking.  "What's up?  What's the matter?"

He
shook his head with a smile.  "Nothing.  I'm just cold."

"Do
you want a different coat to wear?"

"I'm
fine.  Thank you, though."

"Okay,
how about another hug to warm you up?"

He
blushed and smiled anew.  "I'd like that."

"Me,
too."  I held Brennan until he stopped shaking.  Our arms
reluctantly withdrew from the other's body, but we kept standing very close and
face-to-face.  "How come you only put hugs on your Christmas
card?"

The
blush on Brennan's face began to look permanent.  His arms began to shake
again.  "I was too scared to ask for a kiss."  He lowered
his head to my shoulder, with his lips close to my neck.  "I still
am."

Brennan
took a step backwards.  "That's okay," I sighed.  "I
guess I'm scared, too."  I wanted to wrap my arms around his entire
body like Nicolasha did to me on the last day of school, but Brennan beat me to
it.

It
was just as good as a kiss.

*

The
movie theater was surprisingly crowded.  I didn't think very many people
would be interested in a Woody Allen double feature on New Year's Eve, besides
me and my reluctant companion, who had never seen any of Mr. Allen's films
before.

The
local screen had only just converted itself into a revival house, of sorts,
instead of what it had been, a last port of call for films that everyone had
already seen, or had no intention to in the first place.  It was actually
a homey sort of place, not too big, not too small, clean, featuring good sound,
seats that weren't completely useless, a nice downtown location in the business
center of the neighboring suburb to our north, and the trademark of excellence
of all real movie theaters - a single screen.

We
sat in the back row, taking up the four-seat aisle on the far right for
ourselves.  An older couple sat in the row in front of us. 
Movie-going couples of all ages filled the big aisle in the middle. 
Everyone enjoyed the management's quaint slices of free angel cake and cheap cold
duck and the overheated warmth of the dark auditorium.

Brennan
and I were the only pair of young guys watching the movie as a couple, which
derailed my train of thought, even thinking the word ‘couple’.

"Manhattan"
was fabulous.  Brennan laughed throughout the whole movie, and seemed to
enjoy the Gershwin music as I much as I did.  The black-and-white
photography that filled up those loving Panavision frames blew me away, but not
as much as the fact the film hadn't won a single Oscar.

During
intermission, I waited for Brennan to come back from the men's room before I
went myself.  I don't know why.  It embarrassed us both.

I
was excited about seeing "Love and Death."  Nicolasha had once
mentioned in class that the soundtrack was entirely made up of music by
Prokofiev, something I wasn't sure would work in a Woody Allen film, but wanted
to check out, nonetheless. Well, what did I know?  It was great! 
Lieutenant
Kije
was always a favorite of mine, and I doubted I would ever hear it
again without thinking of Woody and the Grim Reaper dancing together through
the woods as the film ended.

Brennan
remarked on the music more than once.  I was excited about digging out my
Prokofiev records and listening to them together. 

Near
the end of the film, he quietly thanked me for bringing him to see the double
feature.  I took a deep breath and reached behind his shoulders, leaning
over to whisper a reply in his ear.  I didn't say anything, however. 
I kissed the side of his ear and ran my closed lips across his neck for a
stolen moment before straightening myself in my seat and returning to the
business on the screen.

Brennan
didn't move a muscle for a couple of minutes.  "Thank you," he
finally whispered, smiling at me in the near dark as he ran the palm of his
warm hand over mine for too brief an instant.

Dad's
old Omega said the New Year would start in less than an hour, but it had
already begun.  For me, anyway.  For Brennan, too, I hoped.

*

We
sat on a large strip of cardboard we found in a dumpster near the town's
commuter station and perched ourselves near the top of the incline where the
train tracks were laid.  There were people everywhere in the park below,
our suburb's largest: families, couples young and old, partiers, cops to keep
the partiers in line, and a few singles, who looked as lonely as I vaguely
remembered feeling earlier that day.  No one seemed to mind the thin layer
of snow they were standing or sitting in (if they had brought lawn chairs), or
went the economy route, like we did.  Everyone was in too good of a mood
to give any notice to the vile wind chill, which helped us to run to the park
in good time before the fireworks began.

Mom
and Dad and me had never done this, I groused.  We should have.  Damn
those asinine parties we had instead, cells of attorneys and nurses refusing to
coagulate.  Shabby substitutes for this here.

We
counted out loud with everyone else to midnight, and contented ourselves to
shaking hands and patting shoulders with rue we could see on each other's
faces.  We weren't alone, or in the dark.

"Happy
New Year, dude."

"Happy
New Year, Brennan."

We
did sit very close to each other, for warmth and for the fun of doing it. 
I had given Brennan my beret to wear.  Dad's greatcoat kept me a lot
warmer than Brennan's Army surplus field jacket was keeping him.  Brennan
continued to scan the crowd of spectators below us, anxiously looking for any
of our baseball buddies.  I ran Handel’s
Royal Fireworks
through my
mind as the multicolored explosions launched themselves into the starry black
sky above us.