Ash Wednesday

by Ethan Hawke

  “I wanted it to be a great honeymoon.”

  “I know. I did too.”

  Taking one small step forward, she bent to pick up her bag, but I reached for it, hoisted it over my shoulder, and moved into the bedroom to pick up the others.

  “Let me take some,” she said politely.

  “I’d prefer it if you didn’t,” I answered, hefting up the fourth and last bag.

  We walked out of the hotel without saying another word. I was loaded down with luggage, and Chris was carrying the cat carrier.

  Outside, the crowds were now so dense it was difficult even to step out of the hotel. The pulse of the city was being rhythmically beaten out by drums and brass horns. Every high school jazz band in the state of Louisiana was marching by, slapping their drums and belting out squealing attempts at “Dixieland” and “When the Saints Go Marching In.” I tried to hold Christy’s free hand and fight my way through the crowd, but it was awkward. One of the bags kept slipping from my shoulder and falling down to my elbow. I could see Christy say, “Let me help you,” but I couldn’t hear her voice at all. A forty-year-old guy directly to our left was holding a sign high above his head and shouting out its message, HUGE-ASS BEERS. People were swimming around us, struggling to get to him. After wriggling ourselves a few steps forward, new sounds took over. A man was preaching through a megaphone, his arms desperately extending out into the crowd. People covered their ears as they tried to get away from him.

  “When God looks out to our world he weeps, he weeps because lust for power has corrupted human dignity!” the man screamed in a hoarse voice through the electronic amplifier. Three assistants in black suits stood by his side handing out pamphlets.

  Still holding Christy’s hand, I tried to make our way to the corner, only twenty paces away. Behind me Christy’s eyes were watching the world around us with a resigned despair. Hundreds of shirtless fraternity brothers were in the balconies above us. To the left was another long terrace, this one elegant and beautifully crafted with sashaying men and women in tuxedos and ball gowns.

  “One, two, three, show us your tits!” the fraternity brothers shouted in unison, exploding into heaving showers of laughter. Two girls in front of us lifted up their shirts and shook their breasts up toward the men. Their tits were painted like eyeballs, with nipples as pupils. Beads by the thousands came raining down on us. One of the necklaces hit Christy’s upturned face and she stumbled forward, barely holding on to Grace and grabbing a swelling welt on her brow.

  I met her eyes. Sometimes I’d catch it, an odd glance while we were in line at the movies, a dark empty stare while driving, some simple inadvertent expression of a blistering resentment. It was clear in these moments that she hated me. At certain other times—making love, obviously—Christy’s affection for me was easy and effortless and I was aware of her sincere desire to hold and care for me, but with equal frequency it seemed that the affection was only a momentary confused compassion and in reality she felt me more as a cumbersome weight.

  People don’t want to hear what really being in love is like, ’cause it sucks. It’s like a diamond; it looks pretty from the outside but inside it’s hard, angular, and sharp. Truly loving somebody else should never be confused with a good time. Loving somebody is just as painful and disappointing as it is getting to know yourself. It’s probably the only thing worth doing, but that doesn’t mean it’s gonna be a picnic.

  “I shouldn’t have left the hospital,” Christy said behind me.

  I could’ve punched her in the face. Every friggin’ step I’d taken today had been wrong.

  Grow up, I screamed at myself as we continued pushing our way forward through the crowd. Straps from the bags were digging into my shoulders. There are a lot of people in the world, and it seemed that most of them were shmooshed together in the French Quarter. When I was a teenager, my father told me the reason I was turning into such a prick was that I didn’t really believe that everyone was equal, and that was going to be my major source of suffering. I looked around me in the chaos of lights and floats and wondered, Could we all really be equal? Don’t I get any special help?

  The whole time we had been in the hospital waiting area, the whole time the doctor was speaking to us, Christy had looked to me and seemed to ask, Do you offer any assistance? Her every glance implied that a real man would handle this better, would make things right. I provided nothing but my own insecurity. I should’ve made some calls to other OB–GYN clinics or something. There’s got to be someplace closer than Houston. Christy’s hand was limp and cold in mine.

  In the maze of streets and people, I got turned around and couldn’t remember whether the car was to the left or the right. My hands were shaking; I was totally powerless. In front of me was a young woman in a beautiful long black evening gown, her hips, her back, and her ass all curved like a panther. I couldn’t see her face. “Everyone is an oracle of God.” I remember my dad telling me that. What the fuck did that mean? The woman turned around, and she was older than I thought but still seductive as hell. She went left and, hoping it was the direction of our car, I swung after her.

  “Hey, nice pussy, babe,” I heard. I turned around and saw some preposterously skinny redneck laughing hard directly to Christy’s left. The dude was shirtless with about fourteen tattoos spread across his arms and chest. Chris tried to jerk away. The guy was laughing his fool head off, as were two of his cronies.

  “What did you say?” I said, turning around.

  “I was just telling your lady what a beautiful pussy she’s carrying.” His friends were all losing their lunches with laughter. And I can’t tell you why, it was the first time in several years I’d done it, but I dropped the luggage, hauled off, and nailed that guy three quick times in the face: bam-bam-bam. Blood from his nose splattered on my clothes, and I could feel two or three bones in my hand break. He dropped on one knee and I grabbed his long hair and hit him one more time hard across the temple. My whole arm from my wrist to my shoulder went absolutely numb. One of his friends hit me hard across the back of the head. A thrill of adrenaline shot through my veins and I felt ten fuckin’ feet tall: my vision was keen, colors were bright, my reflexes sharp. Oxygen was flowing into my lungs like a drug. For the first time all day I was feelin’ good. I went to hit his buddy before he thought about hitting me again, but somebody else clocked me from behind. I went blind but I didn’t fall.

  “Don’t fuck with me!” I remember yelling, over and over. Then I tackled the motherfucker. People were tripping and falling and pushing and trying to separate us. Christy was shrieking in a voice several frequencies higher than all the other noise. I just kept throwing punches, not knowing anymore who I was hitting. Somehow a couple of older men came in between me and this redneck asshole. Everybody was yelling and cursing. Christy was standing in front of me, yelling, “Stop it, stop it, stop it!” like a screaming eagle.

  Our bags were all spread out on the ground getting kicked around. But that stupid cat case was tucked under Christy’s left arm like a football. My face, my arms, my knees: Everything was cut up. I must’ve looked terrifying. One of the guys came at me again, but as he got close Christy got right up in his face and released some unintelligibly witchlike shriek that came up from her intestines and scared the piss out of anybody who heard it.

  “Fuck off!” She grabbed one bag, I grabbed the others, and we split, leaving the assholes behind.

  As we got away from the crowd, the realization of what an idiot I was started flooding in.

  “Where’s the car?” Christy kept asking me. I just pointed, hoping, still unsure of the direction. Christy led us forward while I stumbled behind, trying to hold on to our bags while keeping the other hand in a tight grip on my nose, where blood was flowing like from a faucet. We moved much more easily through the crowd now, my appearance frightening and scattering people in different directions.

  “This way?” C
hristy asked.

  I nodded. Through a break in the crowd I could see the Nova. Green, red, and purple lights were glittering in the chrome and reflecting off the windshield. The poor cat was terrified. Desperately the three of us made our way to the car. An explosive noise broke out from behind us. I turned around and could see a faint swirl of red and blue police lights accompanied by frantic shouting and running people. My first thought was that they were coming after me.

  They weren’t; it was only midnight.

  Wild errant partyers were scampering around us with beaded necklaces and popcorn flying through the air. Cups of warm beer were being hurled at the cops. Eventually, through the crowds, sirens, and splashing water, I could hear the pleasant surreal clopping of a great many horses.

  Blood was still dripping through my nose and over my hand, my head was as light as helium, and my vision completely blurred.

  “Give me the keys,” Christy said, reaching out to me.

  “No, no, no,” I said, my voice stuffed up and nasal. “I’ll drive.”

  “Jimmy,” she said, with her hand still extended, “don’t be an asshole.”

  “Listen, I can drive!” I shouted out, as I dropped the bags on the sidewalk, fumbled with the keys, and pushed my way past Christy to the driver’s-side door.

  “You’re gonna get us in a wreck. You don’t know what you’re doing.”

  There was no way I was gonna let her drive. For chrisssakes, the woman was experiencing pregnancy complications! I was driving; that was final. I sat down in the seat, dragging the bags in after me and hurling them into the backseat, just missing Christy and the cat. Christy settled in beside me. We both looked out as people moved by us, always in the opposite direction: some walking, some running, some dressed in outrageous costumes, others naked, everybody but us drunk, laughing, and playful.

  I turned the key in the ignition. It always takes at least three tries. On the fourth I got nervous.

  “Oh, Christ, Jimmy,” Christy said under her breath.

  On the fifth try I was miserable. I paused, giving the starter a chance to rest, and wondered if my nose was broken and how it would look.

  On the sixth try the car started, and the muscles in my back relaxed into a more sustainable level of extreme high tension. The engine sputtered along for a few moments and then fell quietly into its normal gentle rhythm. We were now ready to roll and I threw the gearshift into first before I realized there was nowhere to go. About fifty yards ahead and coming straight toward us was the full procession of police. Bullhorns were calling out unintelligible announcements in a high electronic cadence. A light show of blue and red spinning sirens accompanied the mass of officers. Only now did I realize the full extent both of the police issuing forth to reclaim the streets and of the illegal nature of my parking spot.

  Leading the armada of cops was a shoulder-to-shoulder row of foot police, each carrying a clear plastic shield covering his torso and face from the gallons of flying beer. Behind them was close to a full division of marching police officers, followed by another hundred or so cavalry officers on horseback. The horses, beautiful well-groomed animals, lifted their proud hooves high above the garbage and succeeded in being very intimidating. To the sides of the police force were scattershot religious groups using the situation as an opportunity to evangelize. Two large banners pronouncing GOD HATES SIN, PROVERBS 6:16 were being hoisted above the crowd by a local church group. One guy in his early twenties was moving with the flow of people carrying a fifteen-foot-high wooden cross belted and strapped to his chest. Sweat dripped from his pale face—it looked like any moment he would collapse and probably take a few people with him—but he continued stumbling forward, all the time balancing this giant motherfuckin’ crucifix.

  There was no way I could move the car; people were flowing around us like a swarm of bees. I looked over at Christy. With her hands neatly folded in her lap, her hair barretted off her forehead, her skin shining with sweat, she looked like a little girl. How the hell did she get here with me? The cops marched steadily toward us. At odd times people would bang on the hood of our car or stand momentarily on the bumper to get a glimpse over the sea of heads. Christy finally looked over and made eye contact with me. The dress she was wearing was left open around the beautiful shape of her neck, exposing her elegant collarbone. She was twenty-six years old. It’s amazing anybody lives to thirty.

  “Move it along! Move it along!” the cops were shouting. They slapped the metal hood of the Nova as they passed. Where was I supposed to go? The horses clomping by the car were hypnotizing, the sounds of their hooves reminded me of being a kid: clippity-clop, clippity-clop. I reached over to take Christy’s hand but she didn’t even notice, she was so transfixed by the scene around us. About forty yards behind the horses came the fire department, idling their gargantuan red trucks forward. Men were walking alongside the fire engines, dousing the street with water and creating rivers of trash that coursed toward the gutters. Our windshield was splashed and sprayed by a fire hose that blurred our view as if we’d passed through a car wash. Still the noises and shouts were coming from all directions around us. I withdrew my hand and set it in my lap. The inner channels of my sinuses were suffocating in blood; every breath I took was like a death rattle.

  “Move it along! Move it along!” the fire guys shouted at us. I looked over and tried to offer Christy a consoling smile. She didn’t smile back; she looked at me flatly without expression. I had no idea what she was thinking. After the fire department came another long entourage of marching policemen and a convoy of about a hundred squad cars, all of whom continued to remind us to “Move it along!” I would be happy to oblige, I thought, if there was anywhere to go. This whole procession had lasted almost half an hour. Then, as the last of the foot police passed, trailed by a few squad cars, the boulevard opened behind them, wide, empty, and sparkling clean.

  I threw the car back into first, but I guess, because of my clobbered, swollen nose, I accidentally slipped into reverse and backed the car into the curb. Without saying a word or even looking over at Christy, I jammed the gearshift into first and we rattled off, leaving New Orleans behind us.

  The clock in the stereo flashed 12:32 A.M. Ash Wednesday had arrived.

  LOVE COOL LOVE

  I like it when things break down. There’s something about a flat tire, or a train getting stuck, or long weather delays at the airport—any time when the earth stops turning the way it’s supposed to—that releases me. I am a child again, curious, confused, not knowing what will happen next. For a moment, a space, a breath, I’m not responsible. All I have to do is respond—until time catches up with itself, the tire is changed, the train starts rolling again, or the snow melts, and the weight of accountability is hoisted back up on my shoulders. Sometimes I wish for a tornado or a hurricane, even a war. Anything to stop the inertia for an instant. Being an adult, the awareness of opportunities that have been compromised, the stunted growth I feel in my bones, is simply exhausting. A disaster striking can be a relief—as long as it isn’t your fault.

  In this way there was something about the unyielding awfulness of this particular Wednesday that I liked: I didn’t deserve this, it wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t my fault. From the back of the police sedan, all I could see was the flat landscape and billboards lined up like dominoes.

  Advertisements from the Church of Christ were posted along the highway:

  NEED A MARRIAGE COUNSELOR?

  TRY ME,

  GOD

  I hated Texas.

  The police officer was quiet. Through the chalky glass I could see the back of her neck. Little twists and curls of reddish hair were spilling down from underneath her hat. All around us I felt I could sense the molecules bristling, as if they too knew this was not where I was supposed to be. I could hear the temperature and feel the movement of light. I was aware of myself sitting numb in the center of a maze. There w
ere many paths to take, but one was just like another and they all were part of the same larger pattern. The noises around me collected into a dull hum much like the static of a television with the antenna ripped out. Somehow I had failed our child. It’s easy when sickness or weakness falls on you to feel that you are being punished. I looked out my window at the open morning sun. The sky was smiling in a mocking fashion. Only in Texas is it stark raving hot at 8:27 A.M.

  I remember Jimmy ranting. “Listen to me. I don’t care if this baby lives or dies, I love it—like I love you. Its dying doesn’t change anything.” I wasn’t listening. I was petrified, watching the speedometer and holding on to the armrest as we shot in and out of our lane. Jimmy’s silver Nova was flying like a comet.

  “We can handle it. We’re resilient motherfuckers, OK?” he was yelling over the rattling Chevy engine. “I gotta believe in this. You gotta believe in this,” he continued.

  “Watch where you’re goin’,” I said quietly. For about the last nightmarish twenty-four hours I’d been resisting what I think might be described as a full-blown anxiety attack and I was exhausted.

  “Who’s driving, me or you?” he snapped.

  “I didn’t want us to get married, Jimmy, I never did.” I wanted to hurt him like I hurt. He had tricked me into unbridled happiness. I had let my guard down, and punishment was the result. Jimmy’s nose was crusted with blood. He still dressed like a teenager. Gray cords and a sheepskin-lined corduroy jacket was his everyday uniform. It was so terrifying to be alone with 100 percent of the responsibility.

  “Why do you quit so easy, huh? What is your mental problem?” He was looking over at me, his brow creased and wrinkled with scorn, his expression unbalanced and deranged. The dawn light outside the car was just beginning to break across the horizon. He was so tired his eyes were frosted and glassy and his hands were trembling slightly with weakness. “You know what it is? You’ve got some major fuckin’ self-worth issues, you know that? You are a goddamn dynamo! You are a goddess, a Thoroughbred! You are the Muhammad-fuckin’-Ali of chicks. But you don’t know it. Inside your head you’re like, It’s not gonna work out. Everything is shit.” He mimicked me in a high whine. “That’s why you don’t eat right. That’s why you smoke. You’re proving to yourself how incapable you are. You’re scared to say Hey, everybody, I’m happy!” He rolled down the window, wind rushing into his face as he screamed out toward the sky, “My life is fuckin’ awesome! I kick ass! You think that’d be like tempting the gods with hubris or whatever, but that’s bullshit. You are the most killer piece of ass I’ve ever seen. You’re smart, you’re wicked powerful, you scare the shit out of me. I gotta tell myself to buck up just to look you in the eyes.”