The Next(14)

She wanted honesty, but I felt immediately guilty and pressured to compensate her in some way she'd value.

"You look beautiful."

"Coming from anyone else, that would be flattering," she responded.

Fair enough. Part of me strained to hear the soft padding of Ruben back  up the fire escape in front of my window. Or the faint terse arguing of  The Perfects across the courtyard.

Refocus.

"What did your therapist hope for us to do tonight?"

"Just talk."

"With what result? To reconcile?"

She sized my directness up. Since day one, I was never clear whether she appreciated this proclivity in me.

Marzoli would appreciate it.

Johanna looked away from me toward the closed curtains, as if there were a view to be lost in.

"Possibly," she said softly.

God, she really was beautiful. If only she knew and appreciated that she  was beautiful-not in a Vogue cover shot way, but in an ageless,  exquisite, incredibly inspiring way.

"In my mind," she continued, almost at the level of a whisper, "when I  used to picture our future, I would picture us as the Layworths."

"As who?"

"The Layworths," Johanna repeated, moving toward the curtain. To my  terror, she pulled it open with one swift movement before I could stop  her. "Your Mr. and Mrs. Perfect."

She pointed her hand toward the Perfects, and I followed it across the courtyard.

But there was nothing to see. Ruben was nowhere to be seen. Mr. and Mrs.  Layworth, as the Perfects were called, were not to be seen. No children  were jumping about the living room or kitchen. No lights were on in the  rest of the apartment at all. It was almost as if everything I'd seen a  couple minutes earlier never occurred.

The curtains on the bedroom were drawn shut. Were Mama and Papa Perfect  having makeup sex already? Could Mr. Layworth transition that quickly?  Scarily, my intuition said yes. I could only assume Ruben had succeeded  in crawling back down the fire escape, across the wall, and up our fire  escape while my curtain was closed. I disliked the little twerp, but my  intestines knotted at the idea of him being entangled in the damned  domestic cracking of the Perfects' perfection.

Johanna continued, "I used to picture us one day achieving what they  achieved. Of you successfully at the top of your field, like Nicolas  Layworth, and me at the top like Sophie Layworth. With children. Happy  children. Beautiful three-bedroom apartment. A home in the country.  Money. A powerful and creative circle of friends who can do things for  us, and who we can do things for. A perfect life. What the Layworths  have."

She gazed out across the courtyard with a faraway look, as if gazing  over her coffee plantation in Africa, and sighed, "That's what I used to  want."

When I first met Johanna, I met this woman. This woman who spoke with a  faraway, melancholic peacefulness of hazy dreams. She seemed to me to be  a fulcrum between a distant tragic past and a distant hopeful future.  She believed embracing both of these enriched life's tranquility and  excitement. She had once been a beautiful haiku, made unfathomably  profound by its very simplicity, and she'd inspired song after song from  my feverish fingers.         

     



 

But too much New York, or too much hope and too few results, or, most  likely, too much proximity to me changed her. The faraway look gave way  to ambitious immediacy and speed. Dreams gave way to pragmatism and  steps on a ladder. She evolved from a profound but ambiguous haiku to a  detailed Excel spreadsheet, loathing lack of clarity. Our problems  developed because I did not and would not evolve along that path. But  then, my path hardly gave me cause for self-righteousness. Aside from  completing "Paralyzed," I was not writing any songs at all, was I?

But when she sighed, gazing over her coffee plantation in Africa, and  whispered, "That's what I used to want," that timeless Johanna emerged  again. Perhaps her missing what we once had revived the poetry in her,  or perhaps it was, in fact, due to some successful intensive therapy. Or  perhaps not being near me. This exquisite abandonment of desiring all  that Manhattan ambition told her she ought to desire made my heart  alight on some warm ancient breeze.

But my heart had fucking jumped the gun, for the tenor in her voice  suddenly hardened as she completed her thought, "And it's what we can  still have. We can still become the Layworths. We can still have the  apartment. If you just get on some goddamn anti-depressants and start  writing again, we can have it all. We can have gorgeous children. The  second house in the Hamptons. You and me."

I bit my impulse to describe how marred the Layworths' perfection really  was underneath because I realized I'd need to reveal my prolonged  observation of two men frothily fucking the shit out of each other.

"Johanna, you don't even know the Layworths."

"I know that I've got five years left to have a baby before I end up  like that … " She indicated the Beached Whale. "And you end up like one of  them … " She indicated the Couch Potatoes. "Look at me and tell me that's  really what you want to become."

She was valiantly fighting back tears, stiffening her shoulders,  swallowing hard, and I was saddened. She'd become much too much of a New  Yorker to cry openly and freely anymore. To my surprise, I found myself  suddenly very protective of my neighbors. Sure, I could smear shit over  their lives in my silent monologue, but that was reserved only for me  and my vituperous abuse, not for anyone else.

Marzoli's words leaped back into my brain and out my lips. "You don't know anything about them."

"Do you still love me?"

Fucking awesome question.

"I haven't written a song about you for a long time."

Fucking rotten answer.

She absorbed the response like a crash test Honda against a brick wall  at sixty miles an hour, but in excruciating slow motion. In spite of the  cruelty of what I said, her slow response did her credit. It was  acknowledgement that she was vaguely aware of how much she'd changed  since we met, and not all the change was for the best. Johanna's tears  finally fell. It was not a kind of "hold me" cry.

She grabbed her purse and headed to the door.

"I wish you just wouldn't have answered."

Ouch.

"Johanna … "

She stopped me with a look of sudden sternness, punctuated by opening  the door. She suddenly spoke with a firmness and coldness that would set  aspic.

"I'll come back in two weeks. You're not thinking straight. I can see it  in your eyes. You'll change your mind. We can have it all. I know you  want it too. I know you at least want to try." She put up her hand to  stop my response, "Don't say another word. Two weeks."

Johanna pulled some bills out of her purse and placed it on a stack of dusty music on the piano.

"This is for your Verizon bill. And why don't you think about cleaning up this dump? God!"

Fuck … you mean I didn't have to put "Paralyzed" out into the world after all?

Johanna exited in full Manhattan stride once again, leaving the African  coffee plantation millenniums away, and a carrot forty years in the  making hanging from the door frame right in front of this ass's muzzle.

I could bite it. I could bite it this time …

Yappity yappity yap yap.

I turned to the window. The Couch Potatoes had brought home massive  hamburgers from Galaxy Diner and were slathering mayo on the buns. The  Beached Whale hefted her body out of the futon and lumbered down the  hall. The Perfects' apartment remained in darkness with the bedroom  curtain closed. When Johanna looked at these folks, I knew what Johanna  saw. But she had no idea what I really saw.

The Beached Whale lumbered back into view.

In contrast to Johanna, the Beached Whale had none of the feminine  habits New York women had. She did not toss perfectly conditioned hair  back with a laugh, she did not tuck locks of highlighted strands behind  her ear to guarantee everyone's unobscured view of perfectly blushed  cheekbones, she did not move her lips to form controlled lip-glossed  smiles or measured expressions of concern, she did not keep her cell  phone at her side and glance discreetly at it every five minutes for  that next thrilling tidbit of communication, and she did not run her  fingers through her hair to punctuate every sentence.         

     



 

The Beached Whale sank deeply into her couch, positioning herself on her  side to watch television, propped up on her left forearm and hand. She  placed a bowl of popcorn in front of her and began munching in the  flickering light. One dim floor lamp highlighted her features, obscured  only by the soft gauze of a lacy curtain.

The lacy curtain began to lift on a night three decades ago in Northern California …

Paul and I woke up at two in the morning at the same time to a sliding  closet door being slammed shut followed by equally hollow terse words  between Mom and Dad. Some fragments shot through the dark, through the  door, and bounced down the stairs: