Time Without Duration

After that night — those glances, the windows rolling down — at the barbecue restaurant’s curbside pickup area — after we recognized each other’s existences again — formally, measuredly, like nations do — it would be another week before we met up to talk. I, for one, didn’t know exactly what to expect, and so I tried to calm my pulsating nerves with perfect compartmentalization and room-temperature nonchalance; all psychic weight attached to the moment, the situation to come, could wait. I was prepared to assign meaning, depth, and effectiveness accordingly once I’d crunched the emotional numbers — or, had a better grasp — later, later, of course.

I used to think it was the Holy Ghost, or Jesus, shaking my shoulders when I’d get the jitters before something like this — one of the Higher Ups guiding me toward a result — a certain fate — and that my compliance with their omnisciently-informed desires for me, or, conversely, my blatant disregard for them, was a far-traveling karmic event, the results (either way) of which I could defer to receive at a later date. These days, though, I’m pretty sure that I alone am responsible for my choices and that God and his entourage are probably busy elsewhere, performing miracles for those who deserve them, or ignoring us blatantly from a distant, galactic Bacchanalia. Relying on one’s own convictions and gut is the only true path forward, unfortunately — prayers and wishes remain our only desperate, unclear chance of appeal. This is all to say that on that night, one week later, I had the fucking jitters — the shakes, the colds, the badbadbads — but it was probably just my own head’s garbage getting in the way of clarity, of perfect coping, prediction, and resolve.

The terms were set; concessions, of course, were made, but we eventually agreed on the arrangement. I would drive, and she would bring beer. I would be sober, so that she could get fucked up. We would finally see each other again, mostly because I wanted to. This was all fine; in fact, most things are fine if you just tell yourself that they are over and over. How could they not be? It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine. It really does end up being fine — whatever it is — after hours of repeating the mantra — usually.

Because I happen to be extremely antsy when there are impending emotional events on the table, I made sure to set the meet-up for less than twenty-four hours from the end of our phone call. I spent the intervening hours brushing my teeth six times, showering thrice (hot, medium, cold), and fluff-drying my flannel shirt with a combination of added scents: Downy dryer sheets, long and short spritzes of the cologne I used to wear, and several exhalations of actual cigarette smoke — from my mouth into the metal chamber. I shut the door and let the machine do its thing. I needed to smell cool, but cute — dangerous, but safe. I needed to smell like I did at the time when she loved me the most. I couldn’t recreate my eighteen-year-old je ne sais quoi, but I could, as I proved to myself that afternoon, send myself into a nightmarish tailspin in an attempt to possibly trigger a brief olfactory response in someone I hadn’t seen in years, so that they might love me once more, and subsequently forever and ever because I, for the first ten minutes of small talk, smelled like April Rain or Meadow Fog or Whatever The Fuck. That would be enough, right, to seal the deal?

By the time I got out to my car to leave, I smelled like nothing — sweat, maybe — but even that would have been a stretch, as my pores had been all but scrubbed off and chemically scorched during the showers. I was so vigorous, so thorough. It felt good, though, to be clean. With my clothes and jacket on, and especially in the dark of the car, I would appear completely normal — a relief. Underneath it all, I was bright red and soft white — splotchy, burnt, damp, itchy — extremely, overwhelmingly irritated.

S.M… Sierra M. Sierra Maddingly. S. Maddingly. The drive to Sierra Maddingly’s house took twenty-four minutes, and was seventeen-point-six miles from start to finish — those are the kind of stats I like to keep — I have to keep them. I stayed in the middle lane the entire way there, excluding on and off ramps, and the two-lane stretch at the end of the journey which led to her parents’ driveway. I hadn’t pulled up the driveway in years, but of course, had driven by once or twice — who doesn’t drive by? We all drive by from time to time.

I was more worried than I needed to be as I slowly approached the garage, and the brick steps which led up to the front door — I didn’t want to get stuck interacting with her parents, having to run through a list of the preceding years’ most curated bullet points. To have to account for what I’d accomplished since they last saw me would be an embarrassing and painful reminder that I’d done nothing of note. Some people out there — y’know, wherever — Yemen surely, Angola probably, Guam even — would kill to have the opportunities I’ve had, and yet, I piss the years away because exerting effort, betting on one’s own future, is hard and requires effort. I’ve squandered my potential, and have thrown away my time. My life, as it is regularly and publicly presented, is simply an illusion for other people to enjoy, if they so desire.

Her parents were out of town, thankfully. Running into each other — each desiring to feast on a half-slab of ribs from the same restaurant at exactly the same time — each party being willing after all these years to chat — required the catching of lightning in a bottle — or, a duality of cosmic serendipity and a perfect, broody storm to exist on that night, somehow, some way, fused together into an invisible sigil that floated above the barbecue joint. With her folks out of town (they never leave — where did they go?), her hand was forced — she had to drive all the way from Dubuque just to watch the family dog (who, stunningly, is still alive). She couldn’t (wouldn’t) account for what she’d gotten up to during the week between us running into each other and her deciding to finally call me, but I think I’m glad, in the end, that I was kept in the dark. There were local guys — I don’t know — local girls, too — that she was still friendly with in the area. Briefly, my eye caught a glimpse of a many-pieced puzzle on the dining room table that someone had made impressive progress on — maybe that’s what she’d been doing the whole time.

When I saw her again at the front door, and past the threshold into the foyer, she looked even better than she had from out of my window, and out of hers — like an actress who gained weight for a role, but ended up looking all the better for it — filled-in, less obnoxiously perfect. She looked real for the first time in a long time, but that may have been the result of seeing her most often as a frozen product in and of my mind. I said her full name out loud, quietly, as I trailed behind her into the kitchen.

. . .

“How’ve you been since —”
“Since last week? Fine, I guess.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Um… exactly what… it’s supposed to mean.”
“Okay — sure — yeah. Anyway —”
“I mean, like, I don’t take daily inventory of how I’m feeling. I just exist.”
“Yeah, I guess same, really. Hm. You’re so… snappy.”
“I’m not — Jesus, dude — you doubted my being fine. I said I was fine — I’m good! I’m great. Everything has been amazing at my parent’s house — I’m growing as a person every day —”
“Alright, I get it. Sorry.”
“It’s fine — or, it’s whatever. I just gotta grab the beer, one second.”
“What’re we drinking these days?”
“Craft stuff, mostly.”
“Nice — gonna need a bottle opener, I guess.”
“I’ve got one on my keys.”
“Of course you do. Oh nice — a variety pack. Do you want me to like, carry that, or —”
“No. Go.”

. . .

There was always a rush with her. Go. Go. Go. Go. Why? We whipped out of the kitchen, back through the hallway into the foyer, and out the front door. Smelling like nothing, I slowly backed out of the driveway with Sierra finally (finally, finally) in the passenger seat. I felt like I had smoked some sort of synthetic marijuana from a strip mall head shop — everything felt uniquely in focus, and I felt a dull, sickly buzz as the result of the amount of small things I was noticing, trying to account for, and control. I had tried to perfectly angle the passenger seat using the automatic levers and buttons on the far side of the bucket seat — I wanted her to be positioned above me, slightly, and to be propped up at a good angle for conversation, but still be comfortable enough to sink back into the seat for the long drive ahead. These considerations were very important — they always are — and can make or break an otherwise excellent evening.

Back out on the two-lane road that runs past her parents’ house, we began talking more — just little bits, though. It felt like we were mumbling in different languages — maybe we were — while I got my bearings again. Being next to Sierra, being shoulder to shoulder with her, was always the purest distillation of joy, to me. I wanted to be her equal — or, I wanted her to see us as equals — I wanted to be more than just another human to her. I wanted her to recognize her own power, and to recognize mine in turn.

She popped the cap off of the first bottle and dropped it onto the floor, where it quickly clinked its way into the dungeon of detritus that had gathered beneath the passenger seat. I would never clean it up — especially now that the cap of Sierra Maddingly’s Beer #1 was somewhere in the mix with the straw wrappers and rotten shredded lettuce. The stink of it all subsides if you constantly rotate in new air fresheners — those hanging trees, or the ones that clip onto the air vents. Sierra had slammed back more than half of the bottle, obscured in intermittent darkness, by the time I even began to wonder if she had yet taken her first sip. All was well.

I kept imagining her hands being cold, or her face being too hot, and so, like a mad scientist, I kept adjusting the temperature of the air coming from the vents, and the fan speed in order to perfect the power level of the blast. I moved the dial from Face to Feet to Windshield to Face/Feet and back to Windshield. I was regulating. I was obsessing. I don’t think she cared either way, or in any way, about what was coming out of the vents. I wanted the moment, the atmosphere, to be just right — to loosen us.

. . .

“Sierra?”
“Yeah? What’s up?”
“Where should we, uh, drive?”
“That’s your thing — you’re supposed to pick.”
“Oh, alright — I’m just gonna head up to — well… no, you probably —”
“It doesn’t matter to me. I’m good with whatever.”

. . .

In that moment, I felt a slight warmth — perhaps nothing warmer than a sniper’s red dot, but it was something to go off of — The First Something — The First Anything. I decided to head up to the Wisconsin border, for lack of any better ideas. Her parents still lived in Loves Park, and I in New Milford — the prospect of crossing state lines, for no reason other than the slight enchantment of a change in legal code and more Potawatomi town names, was fodder enough for a good time, I always thought.

Prior to that evening, and the evening at the barbecue restaurant, I hadn’t seen Sierra in five, maybe eight years. Ten years? No, surely not a decade — but a number of years all the same — far too long. I had theories about why we stopped dating — what happened back then — but it was all too difficult to prove on my own, given that I would be the only one who could confirm my own rightness or wrongness, and I didn’t have all of the answers or information I would need to be able to do such a thing. I lived in an impossible, fading web of half-truths and guesses. I lived there full time.

I put on some music — a playlist I’d made at some point of songs her and I used to enjoy back in the day. I made sure to set the volume so that the songs would be pleasantly forward in the overall mix of the car, but not so abrasively loud to the point where we couldn’t easily converse over it. I was surprised, honestly, when she didn’t seem to react to the first few tracks that played.

. . .

“You don’t remember this one?”
“Oh — no, I don’t.”
“What! Shit. We used to love this song — or at least, I thought we did.”
“You might have — I don’t know. I usually just listen to podcasts these days.”
“Oh, rad — yep, I’m very into podcasts. Which ones do you —”
“Mostly horror ones — like, serial killer shit.”
“God, I can’t stand that stuff — it’s like, why do I want to be scared while I’m driving around at night — why do I want to hear what some fucking freak did to an innocent kid or young couple, or whatever?”
“I find it all pretty… informative.”
“Are you… uh, currently planning something? Doing some research?”
“No — I mean, like — if I can understand the motivation behind the crimes, and these men — and sometimes you can’t, but that’s neither here nor there because some psyches just can’t be unraveled — then I can better look out for those kinds of situations happening to me. I don’t want to be a victim of anything like that, obviously — no one does. So… it keeps me prepared, or at least aware.”
“Painfully aware, I’d imagine. Hm. Yeah — not for me.”
“Doesn’t have to be — you asked.”
“Okay, I gotta step in here —”
“What?”
“I gotta step in here and ask — did I do something, like, to make you mad? Did I piss you off somehow without realizing it? I feel like you’ve been kinda cold since, like, minute one of this whole thing. Why aren’t we just talking — I’m dragging you along the fucking path here — the conversational path — why aren’t we having a good conversation? It’s just so — it’s so terse! Or curt — I don’t know the fucking word! Did I do something? Tell me.”
“Dude. No.”
“Oh, please don’t do that — don’t do “dude” with me — which, according to my mental records you’ve already done tonight anyway, earlier —”
“Okay, can you just turn around and bring me home? This is —”
“No, no — I’m sorry. Sorry, seriously. Fuck. I really didn’t mean to go off like that. Can I explain myself for a second? I’m just gonna — yeah — okay, sorry. I think it’s just that I built this up in my head to be, like, a big thing — you and I back together in some capacity, after all this time, and I just wanted it to feel natural and warm and like, I don’t know — I wanted, as a stretch goal, for you to take an interest in me, quite honestly. I’m trying to get to know you again, because I’ve missed so much of you. I’ve missed who Sierra Maddingly has become, and that, to me, fucking sucks. It’s miserable! Think about that. I will never, ever, ever, ever get to experience those years of you — those years where I had to guess where you might be, or who you were with, or what you were doing — I will never get to see you growing and changing and being happy during those years, and that hurts me. It literally hurts my heart — like, pain — real pain. I’m sorry — I don’t mean to ramble on for so long, but I just literally have to keep going until you understand that I didn’t mean to get mad before — or, frustrated — that’s a better word for it. That’s absolutely a better term for it. I was frustrated — but not even really with you — more with myself. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah… I guess…”
“Okay, good. Fuck. I feel so much better getting that off of my chest and like, starting a dialogue — whatever they say — uh, opening up the communication channels with you — that’s really all I wanted here. Basically, when I saw you last week, I fucking knew it was meant to be — I don’t mean us — not us being meant to be — that ship obviously sailed, even though, like, you’re always safe with me and can always rely on me to be there for you whenever, but like, yeah, the moment itself was meant to be — it was supposed to happen. I remember you not really believing in God back then or being very spiritual, very tuned in to that stuff — is that still the case? For me personally, I do believe some things are meant to be in that way, and that there are forces at work. Sometimes. It’s hard to know for certain. All we can do is try to keep moving forward in time, right? That’s the whole thing — our only option, besides, y’know — bowing out entirely. It’s exhausting, y’know? Pushing all the time, that is.”
“There’s the Wisconsin sign.”
“Oh, nice — yeah — so… I don’t know, it’s hard to say what we should do moving forward. What should we focus our efforts on in this life? Some people are builders, but I think I’m honestly just here to love and let live — and to forgive, which I do with regard to you and that whole —”
“John. Can I talk?”
“Oh, God — yes, please — I’m all ears — the floor is yours.”
“I thought you would have… chilled out… by now — like, as an adult. But I was wrong. You are super fucking neurotic and this is really, really unpleasant for me.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? I’m over here thinking that we’re making huge breakthroughs and shit —”
“Not at all. I just listened to you breathlessly spout off random crap at me for like, five minutes straight and —”
“Okay, a bit offensive — but I was literally just about to transition into talking about us, which is why we’re both here, until you cut me off.”
“That’s not why I’m here.”
“What? That doesn’t even make sense. Obviously that’s why we’re here.”
“I knew you hadn’t changed the moment you started talking — ranting, really — at me. This is exactly why things ended. You… have a bad… personality. I’m sorry.”
“What the fuck! I literally have a great personality. That’s so, like, absurd to say — to think! To say that aloud is just… incomprehensibly shitty, no matter how you slice it. Defend yourself. Defend what you just said.”
“I don’t have to. By the way, turn the fuck around please. When we ran into each other last week, and I saw your face and smile it made me like, momentarily happy. Like finding an old stuffed animal in a storage bin and giving it a little squeeze. It was just nice to reconnect with a familiar face. And I was bored, honestly — really fucking bored. I’ve been sitting around at my parents’ house all week, bored out of my mind with nothing to do — so, seeing you became an option — more than it ever would have been at any other moment. Lucky us, huh? Here’s the thing, dude — you’ve been obsessed with me for like, years. Do you think I’m dumb? Everyone you talk to about me eventually reports that fact back — you know that right? It was kind of flattering — kind of — but now that I’m here with you, seeing the way you still are, it’s very creepy and makes me uncomfortable as fuck — retroactively — that’s how I feel about it now. So, no — we’re not making breakthroughs — I don’t think you’re some genius — you’re not a cool guy, honestly. Do you want to know why I slipped away from you, and felt the need to duck the whole group back then? Because I didn’t really like you very much — I don’t like being around you — even now, as it turns out. You talked about missed years, missed opportunities — you had all of these years in between to become a different person, an improved person — but you didn’t change — you didn’t seize any of the days. You are trying so hard to come off as normal, rational, and considerate — to be the lemme-rephrase-that guy, to get your agenda over on people, to sell them who you want to be seen as — but you are calculated as fuck. Sorry to call you out, but… it’s just… complete sociopathic bullshit. You are entirely see-through.”
“Okay. Great.”
“That’s all you’ve got, John? I can’t believe you have nothing to say. I could never believe that.”
“I have… lots to say. I have sifted and scoured through the fabric of space and time and all of my memories trying to figure out the secret combination that would help me understand —”
“See what you’re doing? Stop talking the way you do. Stop it. Enough, man! Manipulation 101. Don’t you see it, motherfucker? Open your eyes to your own self.”
“Seriously — what — what are you talking about? I honestly don’t know what in the past fucking five years or so has poisoned you like this, but it has a very powerful, seemingly all-encompassing hold on you. It seems like it’s replaced your decency on a molecular level. You are beautiful — literally, blindingly so — and have other great qualities, too — lots of them! And I want to know them all, intimately. But somewhere along the way you read some New Age bullshit therapy books and think you’ve got me pegged — I am not who you think I am — I repeat! I repeat! I repeat! I repeat! I am not who you think I am. Can we please, please, please, please start over? Sierra? I’m sorry.”
“I mean… no. This is it — turn the fucking car around now please, like I already asked.”
“Okay. Goodbye.”
“What?”
“Give me a second, I need to find a better spot.”
“To turn around?”
“No.”
“Then… what?”
“Fuck you. Shut up.”
“Are you serious, dude?”
“Shut the fuck up. Shut up —”
“Fuck! Fuck! No! Don’t — don’t do this to —”

. . .

She was not… happy… for some reason — whether or not it was with me or mostly just with herself — despite my best efforts to mend all of the issues that came up regarding the past, it didn’t change a thing. I played the right music, I came in with a good attitude, ready to open a dialogue between us and finally settle the score. I just wanted to leave that stuff in the past and have a nice night, in all honesty — would have been the first one in a long time, for me. Together once more. A boy can dream.

At some point — and I don’t remember the exact time, obviously — I browned out — after we’d been talking for hours and just hashing things out, it took a turn. Something in her just… I don’t know how to describe it — broke? It could have been a product of too much nostalgia — too much thinking about the past, dredging up old feelings — I don’t know — I honestly don’t. She just kind of snapped. I saw some odd look, y’know, some odd light in her eyes for just a few seconds… it was completely different than how she’d been looking at me before. I guess that’s actually a common precursor to breaks with reality — someone acting one way and then in the next, just being totally gone — a seamless transition. Anyway, though, yeah — you know what happened next. Revisiting that moment for me is just… pain — like, real pain — it literally hurts my heart. She opened the car door and jumped out. It happened in, like, half of a second — less time than that, even. There was nothing I could do — I could barely even perceive that she had undone her seatbelt — and then… just like that… she was already gone. It makes me sick — brained on the crash barrier is just… a horrific way to go. I’m glad, in a weird and selfish way, I guess, that we got to work everything out between ourselves before she… took her final bow. She told me she loved me, which is obviously the hardest part. To have that ripped away, right after — and I mean right after — it’s been given to you? There’s nothing in the world like that. Nothing. Just, if you could, make it abundantly clear that I’m heartbroken, and driven completely mad by the thought that I could somehow have stopped this. If I’d just… I don’t know. Whatever.

This was originally posted on Spencer LaBute’s Substack, Circumambient Light.