by Joan Brady
For as long as I could remember, I defined myself by the work I do. Now when people asked, “What do you do?” I wanted to have a better answer than, “I’m a nurse.” I’m more than a nurse, I must be. It was time to find out just what else I was. Joe had started me thinking differently, and I knew he was right. I wasn’t happy and hadn’t been in a long time, but I had been too busy to notice. The time had come to find out who I really was and what I really wanted.
Then there was the matter of the apartment. I couldn’t believe I was giving up my little corner of the cement jungle and moving into an even smaller, less modern little cottage on the beach. But I was and nothing would stop me now. I was intrigued by the things Joe was teaching me about myself, and I had to admit that perhaps my style of living and my priorities had been a bit shallow. When you’re as empty and unfulfilled as I was, it’s easy to take risks. Nothing left to lose makes for bold moves.
I hadn’t heard from Joe in almost two weeks again and I wondered if biweekly appearances were going to be his pattern. But then I knew someone like Joe would never be ruled by things like patterns. He was a free spirit and he seemed to bring out the free spirit in me, a free spirit I hadn’t even known I possessed.
I was in the “beach house,” as I liked to call it, on the first of the month, unpacking cartons. I couldn’t imagine how I was going to fit all of my “stuff” into my new dwelling, since it had just barely fit into the old, more spacious apartment. Not that I owned all that much, but what I had apparently was more than the average beach bum had. And it seems beach bums don’t need big closets. Where was I possibly going to put all of my clothing? I must have been out of my mind to think I could live here comfortably.
That’s when a loving voice filled the room. “Ego lies at the root of all your problems. Remove it and you make room only for happiness . . . and maybe even some of your clothes too,” it added humorously.
I didn’t have to turn around to know that Joe would be standing behind me, leaning against the open door and smiling that easy grin of his. It amazed me that he never startled me with his sudden appearances. Somehow it always felt perfectly natural for him to just materialize out of nowhere and spout something profound. I wondered how he did that.
“Your mind is wandering, Christine,” he said, grinning as he stood silhouetted in the doorway.
“I know. It’s just that you’re always so full of surprises,” I defended myself.
“You call this a surprise?” he teased. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”
“Well, do you have any magic that will make twenty square feet of clothing fit into ten square feet of closet space?”
I wasn’t even mildly surprised when he said, “Sure.”
He walked over to the bed, which was piled high with clothes, and began to sort through it. Ordinarily, I would have been a little embarrassed, a little self-conscious, for any man to sort through my things like that, but Joe was no ordinary man. He held up a pair of my old jeans to me, the pair I’d bought two years ago when I’d gone on a crash diet and lost fifteen pounds. They had fit perfectly then—for about two weeks. I hadn’t worn them since.
“You don’t need these,” he said gently as he dropped them onto the floor in what was to become the “get-rid-of” pile.
“Wait!” I demanded. “Those are great jeans! Okay, maybe they don’t fit right now, but they will again someday.”
“When?” There was no judgment in his tone, just sincerity.
“When I get back on my diet,” I answered, perfectly logically.
“Diets don’t work,” he said. “Don’t you know that by now?” Next he picked up the turquoise, strapless dress I’d worn to my cousin’s wedding three years ago. Oh, what memories that dress held. I had met a friend of the groom that night and we really hit it off. We had drunk champagne and danced the night away. I’d had such fantasies of romance for us, and for a while they came true until the night he gave me the same “I never want to get married” speech that countless other losers in my life had given me. At first I told myself he was only saying that because he just hadn’t met the right person yet; he hadn’t met me. It took two years of heartache before I finally realized he meant it.
“When’s the last time you wore it?” Joe was asking.
“Three years ago,” I muttered, as he held it precariously over the “get-rid-of” pile. “But it has such good memories,” I pleaded, as he let it drop on top of the size six jeans.
“Memories don’t look good on you,” he said, as his eyes crinkled in the corners and his lovely mouth sloped into a gentle, almost teasing smile.
The remainder of the morning was spent with me defending almost every garment before it ended up in the “get-rid-of” pile. Eventually, I had nothing left but my comfortable jeans, several T-shirts, a few pairs of shorts, and a couple of uniforms for work. Joe smiled proudly as he closed the closet door with room to spare while I looked forlornly at the pile of discarded clothes on the floor. Of course, what Joe had saved was all I ever wore anyway, but somehow I felt deprived.
“Tell those clothes good-bye, Christine,” Joe said with just a trace of a smile before picking them up in one armload and tossing them into a giant plastic trash bag.
“Good-bye,” I said to the clothes that had been a part of my identity, my psyche. “What do we do now?” I asked, not really wanting to know the answer. “Give them to the Salvation Army?”
“If you like,” Joe answered a bit distractedly. He was already looking through my box of tapes and CDs.
“If I like?” I repeated a little surprised. “I would have expected a different response from ‘God,’ or a Spiritual Being, or whatever you are. I thought you were supposed to encourage gifts of charity. You know, for the poor.”
“You’ve already given a gift of charity—to yourself—by getting rid of part of the old you. You gave to the poor—the poor of spirit. Yourself. Anything you do with those clothes now is superfluous.”
We went through my tapes and books and other belongings in the same fashion, discarding things I hadn’t even looked at in years, but still had some crazy urge to hold on to. Joe pointed out to me that you could “outgrow” certain music and some books, and I had to admit he was right. Grudgingly.
Finally, everything was put away and the place looked neat and orderly. Actually, it was a little too neat and orderly for my taste. I felt a little depressed.
“Don’t be sad, Christine,” Joe said soothingly. “Now there’s room for you to grow. Now there’s room for the new Christine.”
“I liked the old one.”
“No you didn’t. You’ve been empty and unhappy for a long time and you thought by filling up your time and your life with material things, you would find joy. But it didn’t work, did it?”
“I guess not.” There was no denying he had a point.
“This is all just an exercise in getting you ready to find out who you really are and what really makes you happy. You should be excited. You’re about to finally start living.”
I wasn’t convinced. I still wanted to believe I’d fit into those size six jeans again and dance in a champagne haze in that strapless dress one more time. Most of all, I wanted to believe I’d fall in love again, but the sound of Joe’s laughter brought me back to the present moment.
“You’re a tough nut to crack,” he teased, “but don’t worry. I won’t quit till I’ve convinced you there’s a better way.”
“I’m hungry,” I said. “Let’s go out for a bite to eat.” I thought how out of character it was for me to suggest going out to eat to a man. Usually I’d wait for them to suggest it so I wouldn’t sound too interested in their company. But Joe was different. Besides, I was comfortable with him, and there was certainly no need for pretense with a man who could hear my thoughts and who had just helped me organize my underwear drawer.
“It’s your soul that’s hungry,” he said, “not your stomach. But let’s go anyway. It’ll do you good to get outside.”<
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As usual, he was right. My stomach wasn’t hungry, but my very being was yearning for something that would probably not be found on a menu. My soul, as he had said, appeared to be malnourished.
I followed Joe out to his motorcycle, which was parked in the alley between my beach cottage and the one next door. The salty sea air invaded my nostrils, and I felt better already. Like a well-trained motorcycle mama, I waited for Joe to kick-start the Harley before climbing on behind him. I swung one leg over the smooth leather seat and rested my foot on the side pedal, careful to avoid the fiery heat of the exhaust pipe.
Joe looked back at me and smirked as he revved the engine. “I see you’re no novice at this,” he said with what sounded like admiration in his voice. “Maybe I won’t have to teach you everything after all.”
I smiled smugly and didn’t say a word as I finished fastening the strap of the helmet he had handed me. I wrapped my arms around his trim waist and locked my hands across his flat belly as he popped the clutch, and we took off amidst flying gravel and the unmuffled sounds of a 1340cc engine.
As any experienced motorcycle rider knows, the passenger must have complete faith in the driver and the two bodies must ride as one. I’d had plenty of boyfriends who had criticized me for not being able to give them total control of the ride. They always said I resisted too much, that they could feel me pulling the opposite way in a struggle for balance, as we rounded corners and wound our way along curvy roads. Maybe they were right. I never was able to go with the flow and trust their ability. I remained hypervigilant no matter how many times they told me to relax.
Come to think of it, maybe I had done the same thing in my relationships with them. I was always afraid to give up control, even for a ten-minute motorcycle ride. But I was not going to make that mistake this time. This time was different. I really did trust Joe and I was going to prove it to him.
I closed my eyes and leaned into him, my face against the softness of his well-worn T-shirt. Riding with Joe was like dancing with a very good dance partner. The kind of partner who makes a novice look like an expert, merely by relaxing and following his lead. Joe was making me look like an expert “biker chick,” and I stifled a giggle at the thought of it. If they could see me now.
Joe must have felt my suppressed giggle against his back, and he glanced over his shoulder at me and smiled. “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,” he called into the wind, and I felt the hard muscles of his stomach flex as he turned and spoke. I had no doubt that Joe was in complete control of the massive machine that carried us to our destination, and I had no desire to try to control things myself. I studied the shiny, straight black mane that fell from beneath his helmet and pressing my nose to it, lost myself in the fragrance of freshly shampooed hair. It was as though all of my senses had suddenly come out of hibernation. No detail, no matter how minute, escaped me. There was the sun glinting off his Ray Bans and the tiny lines that peeked out from the corners of his eyes as he squinted into the wind and sunlight. I studied the trace of black whiskers that were already growing, in spite of being freshly shaved this morning. I closed my eyes again and basked in the way the sun warmed us and the wind cooled us. It was a little slice of heaven, being with Joe this way.
I felt the bike take a sharp turn and slow to a halt. Apparently we were there, wherever “there” was. It could have been the Helmsley Palace for all I cared. I only knew I never wanted that ride to end, but Joe was revving the engine again in a signal that it was time for me to dismount. I watched him park and put the kickstand down as I removed my helmet and tried to fluff up my now matted hair. Joe laughed at my typically feminine primping and said, “Old habits die hard,” as he hung both our helmets on the handlebar.
He sauntered toward me and casually slid a protective arm across my shoulders as we made our way up the front steps of The Surf Side Bar and Grill. “You’re doing an excellent job of enjoying the present moment,” he noted as he guided me through one door and then another to an outside patio. White wicker furniture was punctuated by oversized, brightly colored beach umbrellas, and we chose a table on the far end of the patio against the whitewashed railing. “Just don’t hang on to those moments too long or you’ll get stuck in them and miss the next one,” he finished, as he pulled out a chair for me. Easy for him to say.
The patio overlooked a rolling stretch of beach complete with sand dunes and seagulls, and I wondered why I’d never seen this place before. Joe was right. Here was another very enjoyable moment, one that I would not have wanted to miss. Then from out of the blue, I remembered something he had said this morning as I was pondering my cramped closet dilemma. It was something about the ego being at the root of all my problems. I turned my glance from the serenity of the beach and fell into his waiting brown eyes. It was as though he had been expecting my question.
“What was that you said this morning when you first showed up at the beach house?” I asked. “Something about my ego,” I added, straining to remember.
Joe smiled his easy grin and said, “I thought you’d never ask.”
“Tell me, Joe,” I pleaded. “I really want to learn this,” I added a bit impatiently, though I really had no clue what this particular lesson was about.
“Okay,” he agreed, “but please understand that your impatience is robbing you of the pleasure of living into the answer.”
“What?”
“Never mind. Your mind still isn’t disciplined enough to be receptive to that concept. It’s better if we get down to the business at hand.”
“What concept?” I wanted to know. I didn’t want to miss anything, but talking with Joe was sometimes a sensory overload.
“The one about living into the answers,” he said, matter-of-factly. “But as I said, you’re not ready for that yet. Let’s talk about the ego thing first. Ego is at the very root of all your problems. Do you understand that?”
“Sort of,” I said a little tentatively, too proud to let him know that I had no idea what he was talking about.
“Your ego is causing you problems right now,” he said gently. “You won’t even tell me that you don’t understand what I’m talking about. Really, Christine, how can we possibly communicate if you’re not going to be perfectly honest with me?”
“I think I’m being pretty honest,” I said, pouting.
Joe wasn’t fooled for a minute. “There’s no such thing as being ‘pretty’ honest. Either you are or you aren’t.”
It was time to eat some humble pie. “Okay,” I agreed. “I haven’t a clue as to what you’re talking about.” And suddenly I understood perfectly. My ego had been getting in the way of progress without my even recognizing it.
Joe’s face melted into a smile, and for the hundredth time I noticed how perfect his teeth were. “That’s very good, Christine, now you’re getting the hang of it. But don’t be distracted by superficial things like your perception of perfect teeth. Keep your mind on the lesson at hand.”
“Sorry,” I said, no longer astounded or even mildly surprised at his ability to hear my thoughts. “It’s just that I’ve always been a bit self-conscious about my own crooked teeth, so I fixate on people who have straight ones.” I noticed the trace of a frown on Joe’s face and decided to drop the extraneous topic of teeth. “Let me see,” I said, on a more serious note. “If ego lies at the root of my problems . . . and I don’t see myself as egotistical, then no wonder I haven’t really resolved anything yet. But, Joe, tell me, how am I egotistical? I mean besides the fact that I didn’t want you to think I was too dumb to understand what you were trying to teach me.”
“There’s an important lesson in that example,” he warned. “Don’t be too quick to discard it.”
My next thought was interrupted by the appearance of a very young and very leggy waitress. She wore white short shorts that did nothing to dull the tan on her magnificent legs and a yellow halter top that did nothing to hide what was beneath it. She smiled at Joe, and I tried to ignore the fact that
even her teeth were perfect too. Without taking her eyes off Joe, she asked if he was ready to order. I didn’t like the way he smiled at her and the way she maintained direct eye contact with him as I ordered my BLT on rye with just a smear of mayonnaise. She didn’t ask what I wanted to drink, but she catered to Joe’s every whim as he ordered a cheeseburger, fries, and coke. I didn’t like it one bit.
Joe watched our willowy waitress sashay back to the kitchen with our orders. He finally turned back to me and nonchalantly asked, “So what do you think?”
“I think she’s hot for you,” I said. “And I think she should learn some manners,” I added before I could stop myself.
“Not what do you think about her,” he said, laughing. “What do you think about you?”
Then it hit me like a ton of bricks. Right in the ego. I was jealous! And my own self absorption was to blame for this miserable feeling. “I guess I am egotistical,” I said in quiet amazement, still uncomfortable with this unfamiliar image of myself.
“Don’t worry,” Joe said kindly, as he cupped my folded hands in both of his. “The hardest part is admitting to it. After that it gets easier.” Then those brown velvet eyes of his took on a teasing glint as he added, “You did ask for another example.”
I couldn’t believe it. Joe had just conjured up the whole flirting waitress incident in order to provide me with another example of my unleashed vanity. Was there no limit to this man’s power?
“So besides this whole ego thing,” I said pensively, “the lesson here was that if I didn’t want so much to be the apple of your eye, you wouldn’t have the ability to hurt me, right?”
“Something like that,” he said with a nod. “The main point is to live honestly with yourself, so that no one and nothing threatens you.”
“That sounds like a pretty tall order to me,” I returned, feeling a bit overwhelmed with all I had yet to learn.
He leaned forward and his eyes took on an intensity I’d not seen before. “Christine, if you know exactly who and what you are, complete with shortcomings as well as talents, then you never have to waste your time or energy trying to be anything else.” He paused long enough to be certain I was digesting what he said. “And the next step,” he went on, “is to embrace your shortcomings and wallow in your talents and to love everything that is you.” He was quiet again for a moment, before adding his conclusion. “The way I love you,” he said, lips curved into a gentle smile and liquid eyes shining with sincerity.
