For Once

For Once

Daniel Yetman August 16, 2011

The covers bounce lightly against Deacon’s chest as he breathes hard—out of his mind, still in a lucid state. He perspires heavily and almost convulses; his eyes roll back into his head like he’s possessed. He murmurs softly uttering few tangible words; a pitiful wreck he lies asleep with nobody around to wake him. He dreams alone, as he has done his whole life but recently he has begun to resent his isolation. He has been alone since he was a kid; his memory is an anthology of moments sitting alone, at home with the TV on Saturday night or at school, recess, where he killed time by walking in circles around the school for fifteen minutes until the bell rang.

His foot twitches as he begins to wake, at first it seems as though he is going to arise slowly, take his time and ease into consciousness but after several moments of shifting he shoots straight up in his bed, and stares at his alarm clock with bloodshot eyes and hair nearly long enough to cover his face. Perspiration rolls of his skin and causes his shirt to stick to him. His eyes are glued on the wall across from him; blankly he keeps his gaze fixed. It takes several moments for him to collect his thoughts; he coughs twice and takes the first icy step out of bed.

Deacon drags himself to the bathroom where he closes the door behind him even though he lives by himself. He stands half bent over the sink, keeping intense eye contact with himself—he almost expects his reflection to walk away or twitch but it doesn’t. He fills the sink with cold water and submerges his face; it feels like a thousand needles are sticking through his cheeks but oddly enough it is refreshing. He holds himself there for close to a minute before taking a gasp of air afterwards. It has become a ritual that he has performed nearly every day for the past ten years.

He towel dries his face and then steps on a digital scale. He leans and contorts his body, putting all his weight on his heels and his arms behind him like a skier. He still finds that he is up nearly a pound this week.

Breakfast is as routine as every other aspect of his life, he pulls out three pieces of whole wheat bread, spreads on a sparing amount of jam and about a tablespoon and a half of peanut butter. He also pours 150ml of 1% milk into a small white bowl and mixes it with two small handfuls of a whole grain cereal. Like every morning he eats it and finds he’s still hungry for more, thinking of the pound he has put on he drinks about 500ml of tap water to fill his stomach.

Normally on a Monday morning Deacon would sit at home until 11:00am thinking about all the things he should do after work (but he knows he’ll never get around to). He would leave his apartment ten minutes after the hour and return home again that night just after 8:00pm. His social interactions have been slowly dwindling—Deacon has been losing his desire to be around other people, often he becomes so lost in his mind that he may go an entire day without speaking to anybody, or at least encoding the conversations into his brain.

Unfortunately he has today off meaning that the whole day is empty, there are so many possibilities—he could finish all the chores he has been putting off, catch up on some reading, go out in the world and interact, go shopping, meet a girl. Likely though he will sit at home until he goes to bed, sitting in front of a computer killing time and curse himself for wasting his life.

He sits down the office chair next to his laptop; he spins around to face the picture window. He puts both his hands behind his head and considers his options. The sound of thunder outside allures him however, and he considers leaving the small apartment that he has come to call home. Absentmindedly he walks towards the door, plucking his jacket off a chair and steps into the rain. Deacon seems to wander without destination, if only to get away.

Water runs down his forehead and soaks him beyond recognition. He blinks away the pain and continues to walk straight down the road; the only other walkers are a few dog owners who look absolutely miserable. One woman in particular, who is walking a Scottish Terrier, seems like she is going to blow away in the wind. She stands just over five feet tall and can’t be anymore than 100lb’s. She’s young, but not too young, attractive and it can be assumed that if she was smiling she would have a perfect set of teeth. Deacon walks by her using his peripheral to capture her. He would have liked to have said hello but such an action would be out of character.

He walks for nearly an hour before he finally decides to take refuge from the elements. He finds a coffee shop on St. George Street that seems to consist of mostly artistic couples who wear thick black glasses and speak of politics. Feeling out of place he shyly slips towards the counter and orders a medium Café Latte that warms his hand and will probably burn his tongue if he tries to drink it.

Sitting down at a booth with black leather seats he watches the couples around him, taking a break from their interesting lives and sitting down to reminisce of adventures past and future. Watching the hand actions and body language, Deacon mentally creates a script for them and fills in his own storylines.

“Oh yes, I got back from Paris last weekend, it was simply a bore.”

“But didn’t you have time to visit the Louvre this time?”

“Sadly not this time, I didn’t cross over the Seine the entire time I was there.”

“That’s a pity, hopefully next time.”

“Next time indeed.”

Deacon takes a glance of his right shoulder to the rain that falls. It keeps the streets clean of human activity. A single rain drop, that’s significantly larger than the rest, sticks out from the others stuck on the outer window. It seems to cling helplessly and then, in a single moment, it blows away into the wind. Deacon shutters pensively as the he begins to realize how cold he is. A sip of Café Latte seems to warm him temporarily.

Without warning a hand slaps the table, waking him up and almost sending him through the roof. The hand belongs to a man with short, curly hair and a fleece sweater harboring raindrops. He’s a tall man, at least several inches taller than deacon himself, and he’s built solid with the appearance of somebody who works outdoors for a living. The man with a crooked smile slips into the booth elegantly and crosses his fingers on the table while fiddling his thumbs.

“I see I wasn’t the only one who needed to get out of the rain,” he says.

“I didn’t think I would see anybody I would recognize here.”

“I saw you through the window and thought you could use some company, by the way you owe me for the coffee,” he says holding up his cup.

Deacon throws a loonie on the table callously. The man sitting across the table from him has been a sole friend in many nights of need. Since high-school the two have had a back and forth that has provided valuable for both of them over the years. Mark has always been one step ahead of him in matters of endearment and has provided insight on nights where he was battling a broken heart. But Deacon has stayed a realist with insight on every day matters which from time to time Mark seems to miss; more than once Deacon has picked up the puzzles pieces of Mark’s life, rebuilding him. They were once equals but now the man sitting across the table is much more successful. Relying on charisma and extroversion to make up for his faults he worked his way through life, climbing the rungs of society’s latter—finding his place in the world’s hierarchy.

Mark’s reddish brown hair used to be kept longer, past his ears but now he keeps it short, kept neat and out of the way. His smile, which has been one of his most relied upon traits, is odd. It’s not so much charming as it is alluring. He has the smile of a car salesman which isn’t too farfetched considering his tycoon history.

He wears an all black sports coat left upon in the front, exposing a white shirt with a design across the front consisting of a series of black cubes.

The two talk about sports and then they talk about the world—tornados, shooting stars, earthquakes—and as the clock shows no bound they become more existential asking the big questions which time and time again seem to have no answer. But mostly they talk of women, broken hearts and lovers past. They talk through their first round of coffee in a matter of minutes but by their second round they drag it out only sipping to wet their throats. By the third round they drink so slowly that it takes nearly an hour for them to empty their cups. Deacon holds his between his thumbs and forefingers tearing away at the cup nimbly—subconsciously.

There is a lot of laughter and if the table had flesh it would be badly bruised from the number of times it has been slapped across the face after each and every anecdote.

“No, no, no, remember that time in grade ten when you bet me I couldn’t steal a kiss from Lisa Green during the end of the year school trip? And then I spent three days chasing after her—”

“Yes, I kept telling you that I overheard her friends say she thought you were cute,” interjects Deacon.

“Right, and then after nearly five minutes of talking to her I finally worked up the courage to pull a move but as I went in to kiss her she took a step back—”

“And you landed flat on your face in front of her and half our class.”

The conversation continues steady until a certain name strikes down Deacon like a lightning bolt.

“Remember Erika Kane?” Mark asks.

Deacon freezes cold and shutters a little bit as if an apparition has passed through him. “Yes, I remember Erika.”

“You loved her didn’t you?” It almost isn’t a question, more of a statement.

“No.”

“You acted like you did.”

“Lust.”

Mark turns his head as a parakeet does; quizzically.

“I feel like you’re lying to yourself.”

“I wasted nearly ten years of my life on her, stuck in a torturous loop, a never ending cycle.”

“What ended it?”

Deacon looks down towards the table then returns his gaze, revealing the esoteric features of his face.

“I just decided it wasn’t worth the effort anymore, I buried it so deep I would never find it.”

“And that worked?”

“For a while,” he responds.

“And now?”

“Now it is.”

Mark stares back at him with reverence and apprehension. He opens his mouth and half utters his next sentence before trailing off. He looks down at the row of coffee cups on the table and the Styrofoam that Deacon has been shredding unknowingly.

“When was the last time that you saw her?”

Deacon thinks for several seconds. “Once, three years ago and once four years before that,” he finally responds.

“And it is?”

“It is.”

“Curious...”

“What is?” Deacon asks skeptically.

“Do you want to see her?”

“No… Why? What do you mean?”

“Just do you want to see her?”

“Hypothetically?”

“Yes hypothetically.”

“Maybe.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes.”

Mark stares off prophetically, like a man much wiser than himself. He glances down at the table, at the increasing number of Styrofoam shreds. He rubs the back of his right wrist with his left hand and pushes down on the end of his ulna. It’s an idiosyncrasy that he had developed years ago.

“Okay then, let’s go.”

***

The rain, that was pounding the rooftops of every building in the city less than an hour ago, slows down until the rain drops start falling so rarely one wonders if they are falling at all. The sound of water against tin roofs is like a tractor engine.

“Here we are,” says Mark.

“But how?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Deacon looks at the house they are parked outside of—pink, wooden siding with the paint chipping off around the edge; a white fence that looks like it hasn’t been maintained for years; a gravel driveway with no tire tracks in the gravel; and a roof with metal shingles, a dull burgundy. Three pigeons sit on the roof, two as a pair over the doorway and a third by himself at the house’s peak.

“What do I say?”

“Tell her you love her, that you’ve always loved her.”

“And what will she say to that?”

“She will say she misses you.”

“And that she loves me?”

“No, that she misses you.”

“Then why should I tell her how I feel?”

“She already knows, and you are not a conversationalist.”

And so Deacon stepped out of the car with a light foot, careful not to disturb the gravel path. His footsteps are slow and fleeting, and he edges his way to the dying grass of the front yard and from there to the cobblestone path leading to the backyard where it can only be assumed that a garden lies in wake. Deacon cognates images of orange Lilies and pink petunias with butterflies callously dancing from flower to flower while all types of song birds—Jays, Vireos, and Warblers sing in the gentle lifting fog or a tropical storm.

His heart starts to beat through his chest as he lifts his left hand which now weighs a hundred pounds. He knocks lightly on the door but to him he feels like he is pounding—a thousand farm animals calling and ramming against the door, willing to stop at nothing to break down the door.

He holds his breath as he waits for her—the girl, now woman, who has held his heart since the beginning of time. And when he runs out of breath to hold and he is still standing on the porch alone he feels his heart sink and a thousand memories of familiarity flood his mind. He turns his back to the door and looks at Mark, who is still sitting in the car, and gives him a look which reminds Mark of a dog watching his owner drive away without saying goodbye.

Deacon takes a step back and then a second but before he has time to take a third a shrill but beautiful voice calls from the second floor window.

“Helllooo!” The voice drags out.

Deacon turns around, petrified with fear and surprise.

“That door won’t open, one of the hinges broke last week, come around back!” She says excitedly.

Deacon does as asked; he hustles around the house, using the cobblestone path he crossed earlier. The path doesn’t lead to a garden as he fantasized but a relatively plain backyard in all accord. Centered is a picnic table painted the same burgundy as the roof of the house and slightly behind it is a rusting swing set with one of the three seats missing.

The lawn’s grass is dry and dying, a yellowish brown patted down in locations that are more highly trafficked. The butterflies he imagined are replaced with little blue caterpillars ugly by definition and destroying the few flowers the yard presents. There is however a beautiful white terrace with white lattice and ivy flowing to the ground. Deacon can imagine her on nights she feels restless, walking outside holding a glass of water with two ice cubes and staring at the moon—the same moon that he too stares at when he himself feels restless.

Then like a princess out of a fairy tale she bursts through the back door onto the terrace, the sun catching in her golden hair. She descends the steps until she reaches the bottom and stands face to face to Deacon, her eyes slightly below his. She smiles while he stands dumbfounded.

“Hello,” she says simply, causing Deacon to swallow harder than he meant to.

“Hello. It’s been a while.”

“Too long,” she adds.

The two find themselves at the picnic table before too long; they share stories of the years that have passed both of them by. He shares anecdotes of loneliness, adventures that before seemed quite mundane but now come to life by the tip of his tongue. She laughs in all the right places and shares her own stories of misadventures and solemn nights.

When it is time for him to leave Deacon stands up from the table and she remains seated. He pauses before walking away and reflects upon Mark’s advice.

“I love you.” It’s a statement he makes with confidence.

She doesn’t say anything at first; she stares at him contently, “Oh…”

“I have always loved you, and time—the time that should have torn me away from you and made me weak and turned me into a wiser man seems to have missed me because here I stand a teenager in my twenties with words that have been kept off my tongue for too long. I don’t know where you’ve been for the last ten years but to say the least I miss you, and I love you and I’m running out of things to say but now I’m afraid that if I stop speaking this moment will end and I will never be back here, staring into your eyes. I’m afraid if I stop speaking you will forget about me and my heart will never beat again in the manner of which it is right now.”

“I have missed you too,” she says as if it is the only thing she heard.

Deacon stands, heart beating and surprised, and she sits calm and collected. After a few calm moments she turns towards the house—her house.

“Chloe!” She shouts.

A little girl with fair skin and blonde hair comes running into the backyard, her hands and knees covered in mud. She sits on her mother’s lap with a look of endearment—Deacon is captivated in awe, jaw held open and his body again petrified.

The walk back towards the car is a long one, the sound of his heart echoes in his head. He doesn’t say anything to Mark and likewise Mark sits silent.

“I ran into her a couple weeks ago, we talked like no time has passed. She told me about it. I thought you should know…” Mark voice drifts off.

“Who is the father?” Deacon asks.

“I don’t know.”

“Is there a—”

“Not as far as I know.”

“Take me home.”

And without argument, that is exactly what happened.

***

The rain falls hard on a clear night. The city sleeps soundly unknowing of the unsettlement brewing from within. Deacon lies on his bed, staring at a ceiling which never seems to return his affection. He has abandoned thoughts of sleep hours ago—his thoughts now are of surviving the night.

He picks up his frame and slithers out of bed, his eyes nearly shut he makes his way to the kitchen by memory, avoiding every chair and counter. He pours himself a glass of water with two ice cubes and after careful consideration he puts in a third.

He walks onto his balcony and lets the gentle breeze blow at the edges of his face. He stands, leaning against the edge as only a man with thoughts of love does. He looks up towards the sky in time to see the moon pull away from the clouds. Simple in design and elegant in stature, the moon hangs in the sky, a sign for lovers eyes.

A hang falls on his right shoulder and a chin rests on his back.

“Is everything okay?” She asks, concerned.

Deacon turns back towards her, kisses her passionately and lingers in her eyes. “ For once.”

All rights belong to the original author, as defined under the Canadian Copyright Law.

DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com