holes in my chest. Drywall over a bad frame. And downstairs, say I give the new waitress a smile just to piss off Craig and she smiles back, and I keep that, along with the two hundred in my pocket, and out I go past Seymour at the door whoâs waiting around hoping one of the girls will ask him to walk her home.
âHave a good one, Seymour,â I say.
âPeace,â Seymour says. âPeace,â Seymour always says.
This is back before we knew each other at all, when I kept my distance, and hated him for no other reason than his being a guard.
This is back before I knew Seymour Strout was the gentlest bouncer ever born to bounce.
And here, right here, is my favorite part of the night. Stepping out into the fresh air. The parking lot all quiet. Only a few cars left. The smell of the ocean. The sound of the waves breaking across the wide beach. Sometimes the rain coming down hard, but not tonight. No reason to run for it tonight. So I take a minute before I pull on my coat. I let the air dry the sweat on my neck, under my arms. Let it cut away the dullness. Let it sharpen my eyes and light me up.
Then I see a flash of my mother in her cell. The cell Iâve never seen. Always there when Iâm coming out of the bar. A quick stab, likeâs itâs been thrust into my eyes. Always. Every time I step into the night, there she is, forehead against the bars, as with every prison cliché in the world. And holding on tight with her fists.
Then there is my father asleep in his single bed. On his back, snoring, lips parted, eyes fluttering, hair a mess.
So letâs say thatâs how Iâm feeling coming out of The Owl. Iâm falling from a high like this one. Iâm dreading climbing into the truck and pulling on my seat belt and above all the sound of the slamming door.
Letâs say that.
But letâs also say, because it is the absolute truth, that on this particular Saturday night in October of 1991 sitting on the hood of my truck beneath the single street light is Tess.
Is Tess.
Is Tess.
Is Tess.
I want to write those two words forever.
A long ribbon winding through these pages.
I wanted to wait. I wanted to draw it out for you. Build the suspense a bit, but here I am
now
, here in this room with the late sun falling the way I like across the clearing and I cannot wait any longer.
To hell with you.
The cross is in the ballpark
.
I want Tess back.
I want her on my truck in the lamplight. Twenty years old. Dark brown hair a little longer now since summer, pushing out from beneath a black wool watch cap pulled down over her ears. Boots on the bumper, elbows on her knees, unlit cigarette between her fingers and those narrow green eyes and that half smile, with her head cocked to the side.
Oh, for a while you think youâll have unlimited moments like these. Soon you realize youâre wrong. Not soon enough, but you figure it out.
I want this one back, goddamn it.
There is Tess.
Is Tess waiting for me in the cool, rainless night looking just like herself. More luminous than ever. Posing for me with her cigarette between the two middle fingers of her left hand the way she did back then so that she could cover her mouth when she smoked.
There she was.
Here she is.
And I cross the parking lot with all the symptoms. Thudding heart. Singular focus. I stop in front of her and neither of us speaks for a beat or two because we have to play this thing out for posterity, for the record books, for the film on which we imagined our lives were then recorded. And I think, Maybe sheâll say, Got a light
?
Those days sheâs theatrical. But instead she raises her chin, squints and looks down her nose at me. She squints and I could kneel right there in the parking lot. Wrap my arms around her ankles.
Ecstasy is an inadequate word.
She does not ask me for a light. I stand before her, and she is so much like a queen up there. And I mean a real queen. Not some kind of
âHave a good one, Seymour,â I say.
âPeace,â Seymour says. âPeace,â Seymour always says.
This is back before we knew each other at all, when I kept my distance, and hated him for no other reason than his being a guard.
This is back before I knew Seymour Strout was the gentlest bouncer ever born to bounce.
And here, right here, is my favorite part of the night. Stepping out into the fresh air. The parking lot all quiet. Only a few cars left. The smell of the ocean. The sound of the waves breaking across the wide beach. Sometimes the rain coming down hard, but not tonight. No reason to run for it tonight. So I take a minute before I pull on my coat. I let the air dry the sweat on my neck, under my arms. Let it cut away the dullness. Let it sharpen my eyes and light me up.
Then I see a flash of my mother in her cell. The cell Iâve never seen. Always there when Iâm coming out of the bar. A quick stab, likeâs itâs been thrust into my eyes. Always. Every time I step into the night, there she is, forehead against the bars, as with every prison cliché in the world. And holding on tight with her fists.
Then there is my father asleep in his single bed. On his back, snoring, lips parted, eyes fluttering, hair a mess.
So letâs say thatâs how Iâm feeling coming out of The Owl. Iâm falling from a high like this one. Iâm dreading climbing into the truck and pulling on my seat belt and above all the sound of the slamming door.
Letâs say that.
But letâs also say, because it is the absolute truth, that on this particular Saturday night in October of 1991 sitting on the hood of my truck beneath the single street light is Tess.
Is Tess.
Is Tess.
Is Tess.
I want to write those two words forever.
A long ribbon winding through these pages.
I wanted to wait. I wanted to draw it out for you. Build the suspense a bit, but here I am
now
, here in this room with the late sun falling the way I like across the clearing and I cannot wait any longer.
To hell with you.
The cross is in the ballpark
.
I want Tess back.
I want her on my truck in the lamplight. Twenty years old. Dark brown hair a little longer now since summer, pushing out from beneath a black wool watch cap pulled down over her ears. Boots on the bumper, elbows on her knees, unlit cigarette between her fingers and those narrow green eyes and that half smile, with her head cocked to the side.
Oh, for a while you think youâll have unlimited moments like these. Soon you realize youâre wrong. Not soon enough, but you figure it out.
I want this one back, goddamn it.
There is Tess.
Is Tess waiting for me in the cool, rainless night looking just like herself. More luminous than ever. Posing for me with her cigarette between the two middle fingers of her left hand the way she did back then so that she could cover her mouth when she smoked.
There she was.
Here she is.
And I cross the parking lot with all the symptoms. Thudding heart. Singular focus. I stop in front of her and neither of us speaks for a beat or two because we have to play this thing out for posterity, for the record books, for the film on which we imagined our lives were then recorded. And I think, Maybe sheâll say, Got a light
?
Those days sheâs theatrical. But instead she raises her chin, squints and looks down her nose at me. She squints and I could kneel right there in the parking lot. Wrap my arms around her ankles.
Ecstasy is an inadequate word.
She does not ask me for a light. I stand before her, and she is so much like a queen up there. And I mean a real queen. Not some kind of
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