by Astor W. Heinemann
The telephone rings a few times, he doesn't feel like getting off bed to pick it up, but he does it anyway. It was Elena. Happy Birthday!!! came out loudly over the earpiece, he had to move the phone off a few inches away from his ears, he had been drinking heavily the night before and loud sounds felt like hammer blows on his head.
What? he said. Happy birthday, you drunken fool! It doesn't matter that you didn't call me on my birthday, I'm still gonna bug you. It was just like Elena to be that way. He said thank you and apologized for forgetting her birthday just a few days before. I didn't even remember it was my birthday today, I must be getting old. And like everyone, he was getting older, but at 22 he already felt like an old man, heavy drinking always takes it's toll eventually. We gotta do something tonight, and there's no if ands or buts about it. He hesitated for a bit, then said 0k. She said they'd go see a movie and that she'd come to Greenwich Village, that he didn't have to go all the way to Long Island, after all, it was his birthday, he shouldn't have to. At six in the afternoon she'd be buzzing his apartment.
Lee laid on his bed, belly up, watching the ceiling, paint peeling off, spider webs at the corners where it joined the walls. He lit a cigarrette and thought about Elena while the smoke filled the small room. He was working on his third book, he felt lucky to have been published so early in his life. His new book was not a work of fiction, it was based on his life and mostly around his relationship with Elena in the last few years.
He got up and off the bed, sat at the window with the fan at full speed fixed on his bare chest. It was a hot mid-summer day, the sun at one in the afternoon was as a broiler cooking pedestrians like bacon, sizzling and crackling. All kinds of bohemian characters walked around Greenwich Village all the time, but today it seemed that the more bizarre of them all were out. He wondered if they'd still be out there at night. He didn't relate to these people and the only reason why he moved there was to be close to his editor and because it was the center of the art scene in those years, he always felt out of place ever since he moved there from the Long Island suburbs and he missed seeing Elena.
Telephone rang again, he paced across the room and picked it up. It was his father. They had a short pleasant conversation, it had been a while since they spoke. After he hung up the phone he thought about his father for a bit. He felt real close to him, though they never spent much time together or had much in common. Nostalgia filled his heart as he decided to wash up and go down the street to Mr. Chow's to have something to eat and hang around his peers for a while.
After about an hour of intense philosophical arguments he remembered it was his birthday again. None of his buddies mentioned it and he questioned himself as to why he even bothered hanging around these guys. Sure, they were fun and interesting, but they didn't mean anything to him, and he sure as hell didn't mean anything to them. They were a group of artsy poets and painters. Over the years, many folks come and went from this group. I'll see you bums later, he said, only one or two of the group even acknowledged he had spoken and replied just with a casual glance in his direction.
He stood outside the place for a bit, lit up another cigarrette and felt the city move quickly below his feet. Standing there on the sidewalk, looking around, he felt static and a bit blue. Visions of Elena filled his mind and all of a sudden it was pleasant. He looked forward to their date...he hesitated for a second, thought about it, is this a date tonight?
With fresh thoughts of her, he went back to his place, sat down at the typewriter and wrote for a few hours, Chivas, a small desk lamp, ash tray with several cigarrette butts and a half way burnt one letting smoke up, like a charmed cobra peeking out of an Indian canister, a stack of empty pages and yet another stack of written ones decorated the old small desk, while the light breeze from the fan blew his hair around lightly.
The buzzer rang, he had lost track of time being completely engrossed in his writing. He didn't invite her up because she would see the suitcases. Putting his shirt back on, racing down the stairs, opening the door to the street, then he saw her. Standing there with her awkward pose, like she was letting the whole weight of her body loosely rest on her legs, shoulders relaxed, arms hanging down at her sides, a big smile on her face, his face lit up and she hugged him. She had brought a present, a record he had talked about buying sometime ago.
They walked the few street blocks towards the theater, having a pleasant conversation, same as always, he cracked some witty jokes and she laughed, as she always did, until her eyes teared up. She picked out the movie, it was a french art house film called simply Kiss. Elena had always been a very independent woman and wanted to pay for her ticket, but he insisted that it would not be gentleman-like for him to allow that, so she let him pay. At the snacks stand he ordered two popcorns and two sodas. She said she didn't want anything, he insisted, but she still declined, so he walked in with two popcorn bags and two sodas for himself.
Sitting close to the screen, their heads rested on the back of the chairs, the movie started, it was boring for him, but he didn't pay much attention to it anyway. He spent most of the film just watching her face flickering to the rhythm of the scenes, she either didn't notice or didn't want to acknowledge he was looking at her, he tried to move his arm close to hers, but hesitated because she wasn't returning the gesture. This memory would be fixed in his mind for a long time, her profile on again, off again.
As he walked her to the subway his mind raced with thoughts of kissing her. He had never dared to tell her about his feelings, and now it seemed pointless. He weighed whether he'd rather remember her like that, pure and spotless, or would a single romantic rendevous be more dear to his heart. Finally there, they stood silently facing each other for a long time. She was nervous, stared at her shoes and held her arms behind. He couldn't take his eyes off her, yearning to lean forward and steal a kiss, before it was time to say good bye. A final good bye she didn't know about and he didn't want to experience. So he just said good night and kissed her on the cheek. She hugged him and, as if she knew this was the last time they'd be seeing each other, held on to him tight for quite a while, then walked away without looking into his eyes. He stood there, waiting for her to get on her train and thought to himself that this is how he wanted to remember her.
Years after he had arrived in Paris he still remembered her all the time. One afternoon while sitting on a sidewalk coffee shop he thought he saw her walking by across the street holding hands with a tall, handsome man. He yelled out her name, but there was no response. His thoughts went back to that last night and he felt it was better that way. If it was her, he would still have that night at the movie theater, the last images of her at the subway station.
Ende.
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