I tried to think but couldn’t, especially with everyone at the tables around us watching.
“Alex, please. Let me…”
I stood, put the ring back in the box, dropped a hundred dollar bill on the table and did the only thing that came to mind. I walked away.
Thirty-One
The world became so quiet; so colorless as I walked back to my car.
It was as if I had fallen asleep on a dirty train and dreamt about my future wife, just to be woken by a homeless man asking for money.
I got in my car, set the ring down on the seat next to me and started driving. I didn’t know where I was going. I didn’t care. I just got on the highway and drove as hard and as fast as I could toward the mountains. My mother’s house and the city of Golden passed by my window at over a hundred miles per hour. I knew a cop would tag me as soon as he saw me, but I really didn’t care. I found Lookout Mountain Road and started up the winding curves.
When I got to the top I turned off the car and walked out onto the granite boulders blanketed in night and looked at the lights of the city. Then my phone rang. It was Jo. I pitched it as far as I could and watched the light of the screen flash once, twice then smash against something on the forest floor. I thought about the diamond ring. I went back to the car and got it. I opened the box. The single stone held by the split, diamond encrusted band now looked like an eye staring back at me. I snapped the box shut and squeezed it in my hand. I thought long and hard about pitching the ring right into the shadowy forest beneath me, but my mother stopped me. It had been as much a gift from her as it was a gift from me, so I walked it back to the car where I wouldn’t have to look at it, opened the door and threw it in as hard as I could. The box bounced off the passenger door and landed on the seat. The ring popped out and fell to the floor. Then I slammed the heavy metal door shut.
I walked back to the cold granite edge and sat down. My legs hung off into the sea of darkness.
I played over and over again in my mind what had happened, trying to figure out where I went wrong, but I just couldn’t figure it out. I just didn’t understand why, if everything was going as well as it seemed to be going, she would say no. NO! I sat there until my ass was so cold from the rock that it hurt and my mind was numb. Then I got back in the Cougar and went home.
I drove up to my apartment and saw Jo’s car parked out front on the street. I was so angry at her that I actually had to choke back tears. It was 2:30 in the morning. I was exhausted and still hadn’t figured out what to do, so I just turned around and drove to my mother’s house.
As I pulled up the motion-activated light came on. The spare key was still under the old bike seat on the porch so I let myself in. I kicked off my shiny black shoes and hung my suit coat on the back of the kitchen chair. Then I unbuttoned my dress shirt, pulled it off and laid it over my jacket. As I dropped onto the couch like a felled tree the light in the upstairs hall clicked on. I pulled the pillow up under my neck and closed my eyes. It felt so nice to close my eyes.
“Hello?” my mother called from upstairs.
“Hey mamma. It’s just me.”
“Alex?” I heard her walk down the steps and up to the back of the couch. “Is everything alright?”
I took a deep breath and again almost start to cry, but I caught myself.
“She said no.”
“WHAT? Something must be wrong. Did you talk to her?”
“I don’t know mamma. I’m just tired. I’m not trying to be rude, but I just need to get some sleep.”
“Okay honey.”
I felt the warmth of a blanket lay across me and a hand on my shoulder. Then I slipped away.
I woke up late the next day, sometime in the afternoon actually. A note from my mother was propped up like a tent on the kitchen counter.
Alex,
I’ll be home this evening, probably sometime around 7, and we can talk then. Help yourself to anything in the cupboards or the fridge. If you want to wash up there’s fresh towels in the linen closet, and I think there’s still a box of some of your old sports clothes on the shelf in your bedroom. Try to take it easy and I’ll be home soon.
Love,
Mom
I found the box, most of which was old and useless, like cleats and pads, but I did find a couple of tee shirts and a pair of joggers that smelled decent, so I carried them with me to the shower, dropped all the clothes I was wearing into a pile on the bathroom floor, including the utterly ruined pair of dress slacks, then climbed into the shower and turned the water up so high my skin turned bright red. I just leaned against the shower wall. Then I sat down in the bathtub and let the water spray in my face.
When the water ran cold I climbed out, toweled myself off, put on my old shirt and joggers and went into the kitchen for a bowl of frosted flakes. I fiddled with the note on the kitchen table while I ate, trying to decide how much I wanted to talk to my mother about what had happened. I didn’t really want to talk to anybody right now, I just needed some time to think.
The rest of the afternoon I moped around the house, flipping through the pages of books I usually enjoyed, trying to find some quiet from my own thoughts in this utterly silent house.
About half an hour before my mother was supposed to be home, I put my wrinkled and worn dress clothes back on and went out to the car to find the wedding ring. I set the tiny box in the middle of the table and penned a quick note.
Hey,
Thanks for letting me crash here last night. I’m covering a story out of town for a while, something kinda last minute. I’ll drop you a postcard in a few weeks to assure you I’m alright. I just need some time to clear my head. I love you,
-Alex
Then I folded the note and slid it underneath the ring.
Since my apartment was exactly where Jo could find me, I was in no rush to get there even though I needed to pack, so I took the long long way home, west through Golden up into Boulder East through Aurora and then down into Denver. It was like I was taking a tour of the city. On Federal I stopped at a tiny, hole in the wall Vietnamese restaurant that I had wanted to try for a while and had a bowl of minty-warm, amazing pho noodle soup. Then I crept my way home like I was trying to avoid the police who I knew were staking out my flat. Jo was still parked out front. She must have been here all day. I parked towards the back of the parking lot across the street from my place, and watched my kitchen window, waiting for the lights to go out in the apartment. Three hours passed when I jerked myself awake. The lights were out. Here we go.
I crossed the street and climbed the stairs as though using the elevator might alert her to my presence. Taped to the front of my door was a note.
Alex please, I NEED to talk to you.
I crumpled it up and tossed it over my shoulder into the hall.
I waited and listened. Nothing. I slid the key into the lock and slowly turned. I felt the dead bolt slide back. Click. I turned the handle and pushed the door open. Nothing. I kicked off my shoes by the door and quietly walked across the wood floor.
There she was. Lying with her leg stretched across my side of the bed like she always did so she’d know when I came to bed. I wanted to touch her. Her brown curls splayed across my pillow. Her small fingers half curled. Her perfect foot hanging off the edge of the bed, begging me to lay the back of my hand across its sole like I always loved to do. But, none of this is mine any more. Maybe none of it ever was; maybe that’s where I went wrong. I took too much from you, too fast. But, I didn’t mean to TAKE anything. I thought you’d given it to me… Obviously not. But if not then what was this all about? What was the fucking POINT! I clenched my fist. Then I stopped, opened my hand and took a deep breath. I need to go.
I went to the bathroom, pulled the door shut and flicked on the light so that a thin beam stretched out into my apartment giving me just enough illumination to see what I was doing. Then, somewhat indiscriminately, I filled a duffel with two pairs of everything I could fit in it, went to the bathroom a
nd grabbed some deodorant and my toothbrush. I walked over to the small box sitting on my dresser. From it I took out my blue passport. I thought that my honeymoon was the first time I’d finally get to use this thing, I thought as I dropped it into my bag. Then I walked to the front door.
I stopped.
I looked back at Jo wishing to God that I hadn’t proposed; wishing that now was two days ago when we were both so excited to see the play, excited about the future. But it wasn’t.
I went to the kitchen and wrote Jo a note. I didn’t want to just disappear for three months without her knowing where I was. I wasn’t leaving her forever, not unless she wanted me too. I just needed some time, and three months didn’t seem like it would hurt either of us.
Jo,
I don’t know exactly what to write, but I want to say I’m sorry for everything. I probably rushed you and I wish I hadn’t. I wish…well, I wish for a lot of things, but wishes obviously don’t come true in the real world, so I’m going away for a while. Don’t worry, this isn’t the end, not if you don’t want it to be, I just need some time to put myself back together. We’ve been together so much lately that I’m not sure I know who I am any more without you around, so I’m going to go and try to figure that out. I’ll see you in a couple of months. The apartment’s paid for, so stay as long as you want.
-Alex
Thirty-Two
Colombia was such a mixed experience. I was excited to travel, to see something outside of my little box, to be shooting my first serious correspondent story, but most of me knew that I was just running away. Overall though I was just ready to get to work and think about something other than my miserable situation.
The flight was bumpy as hell and when I landed it was raining. I collected my bags and went to the bar at the edge of the airport. My contact was another Scripps photographer named Matt Brennon. I didn’t know what he looked like. I was just hoping he would have some camera gear or something.
I found the bar on the edge of the airport where only two men sat with their backs toward me. I wasn’t surprised that the bar was nearly empty since it was only eleven in the morning.
“Are you Matt Brennon?” I asked one of the men.
“I’m Brennon,” the other answered.
I reached out and shook his hand.
He looked me up and down like I was the one who hadn’t shaven in four days.
“I’ve got a car outside,” and I followed him.
He opened the passenger door and climbed through to the driver’s side of his little green Peugeot. Then he jerked out of the parking lot, put it in second gear and cut off three people as he pulled out into traffic.
“This your first time in the field?”
“It’s my first time out of the states.”
“Shit.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Let’s hope not. The gist of what you need to know is that the water’s safe, the food is good and cheap except for Mondongo, and don’t take anything from strangers ever. Want a piece of gum?” He asked reaching in front of me to the glove box, fishing out one of the dozen or so yellow packs and putting a piece in his mouth.
“What’s Mondongo and why am I not supposed to take anything from strangers? No, thanks.”
“Mondongo is tripe soup and people lace shit with a local drug called burundanga that will knock you out. If you’re lucky you’ll just wake up with all your shit gone.” Then he reached into the back seat, swerving the car into the next lane of traffic, retrieved a yellow envelope and handed it to me. “That’s your credentials, the key to your room and a contact card with numbers for police and the US embassy. Have you ever covered protests before?”
“Yeah. That’s no problem.”
“Well, just remember. You’re NOT in the States anymore. The police are generally reliable, but things can go south in a minute here so keep your eyes open. Don’t carry your gear around with you at night, and don’t ever go into the mountains. Never go into the mountains. They’re mostly controlled by FARC. Last week a good French shooter, with ten-years experience in-country, was shot and taken prisoner. We still don’t know where he is. Any questions?” He asked pulling up in front of a lime green and orange stucco building with the word ‘hostel’ painted on the front.
“How will I get ahold of you if I need something?”
“I’m a journalist not a baby sitter. If you need something either contact your editor or the embassy.”
I climbed out of the car and shut the door.
“Okay, thanks…” Then he drove away.
The number on the key read 14 so I went up to my room. The bed was clean and the walls were thin. I could hear a couple in the next room having sex like it was on TV, so I put my stuff in the closet and went downstairs to look around. Backpackers talking in several different languages went in and out of the lobby along with about a dozen people painted in Colombia’s national colors of gold, blue and red.
The air was thick and humid with the mixed smell of wet leaves, ground coffee and diesel, and the buildings were all the pastel colors of the rainbow. At the end of the street stood a man selling watermelons and bananas. I walked around for a while keeping a small map in my head of where I was in relation to my room so that I would be able to easily backtrack when I was done exploring. It didn’t take long before I came to the stone wall surrounding the city where three red and black horse-drawn carriages sat waiting to clop tourists around town. After passing my fifth fruit cart I decided to stop at one with hanging pineapples, oranges, bananas, pears and apples and buy a fruit shake. The day was getting hotter, so I decided to drink it on my way back to my room. I turned the key to number 14, kicked off my shoes and laid down on the bed. I didn’t even have time to pull the covers over me before I was asleep.
When I woke up, some hours later, I pulled out my map and took note of the areas where Dan had said rallies had been taking place. I also oriented myself more with where I was. The sun was beginning to set and I was hungry so I set out to find some dinner and do some more exploring. One of the restaurants just a few blocks from my room was playing some decent jazz, but when I looked at the menu I saw that it was easily outside of my budget. So, I sat down at an outdoor table just a few doors down where I could still hear the music and tried to decipher the menu. They had some photos so I ordered by pointing and enjoyed my meal. That night I had a hard time sleeping so I wandered the streets.
Cartagena by night was very different from Cartagena by day. The air was full of music and much cooler but still comfortable. People laughed and drank and stumbled around trying to find their rooms while I walked and thought about how much Jo would love to photograph this building or eat that food. Even in this place where no one knew my name I could not escape how hurt I was at being turned down. How could she lead me on like that? How could she sleep in my bed and laugh at my jokes and make me fall so much in love with her just to say no to being my wife? Maybe I’m not what she’s been looking for. Maybe it’s because I don’t have a good enough job. Maybe if I had gone to a better school I would be making more money. Maybe maybe is all I could think about.
Cartagena wasn’t all tourism though. Down one side street I found two young boys sleeping, curled up next to each other on a cardboard box. They broke my heart so I took the rest of the cash I had in my pocket and handed it to one of the boys who rolled over and looked at me as I walked by. “Gracias,” he whispered obviously trying not to wake his friend. Then I went back to my room finally ready to get some decent rest.
I was on no real schedule. Some days I would barely have time to grab a cup of tinto before heading to a rally where I would shoot for 12-14 hours just to return to my room and spend another 2 hours doing a quick edit, writing a handful of captions and sending the photos off to Dan, and at other times it might be days before anything happened. Sometimes the rallies would be just a few hundred students carrying signs around a park, and other times thousands would clash against police barricades. One evenin
g I spent four hours photographing two teens as they went around the city spray painting “resistencia estudiantil”, on buildings and street signs.
Somewhere in those sweaty, manic weeks my anger, frustration and heartache slowly washed away leaving behind only the pain of how much I missed Jo. I missed the warmth of her body curled up next to mine. I missed finding her pink soaps and frilly lotions laying at the bottom of my shower. I missed pulling my laundry out of the drier and finding a single tiny sock clinging to the leg of my jeans. I would sit in my stark, hostel room and roll around in my mind what my life was looking like without Jo in it, and it was as two-dimensional as a photograph on a wall. I used to work hard in class so that I could get done and spend time with Jo; I used to cook so that I could eat with Jo; I used to keep the car clean so that Jo could be proud being seen in it, but without Jo around none of that mattered. I was ready to go home.
I had about a week and a half left before my scheduled flight, and I was getting bored with the shots I was getting. I overheard that students at a local Catholic school were going to have a sit-in to protest a new curfew that the police were imposing on school and university campuses, so I decided that I was going to try and embed myself with the students. I sent a wire off to Dan with an update on what was happening and where I was going to be, then I headed downtown.
When I arrived, dozens of busses and armored police vehicles were opening their doors and releasing a cloud of men and women in riot gear onto the street, however the police were in the minority. Apparently the news about the sit-in had gone viral, and thousands of students from all over the country were converging to rally for education reform and a lowering of student fees. It wasn’t just university students who had come to the rally either. The youngest person I saw carring a sign couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven years old. I knew this was the story I had come to photograph, so I put my camera to my eye and began clicking off frames.
If I Lose Her Page 22
