How Long?
“Once in awhile we might pass on the street
We nod we smile and we shuffle our feet
Making small talk standing face to face
Hands in our pockets cause we feel so out of place”
November 22, 2003
This might be a long post. But it's an important one, with a lot of mystery unraveled and questions answered. There won't be any deep dark secrets that those who know me don't already know, but I've never written about these things quite so directly in this blog before. So bear with me.
I stopped at a restaurant in my old neighborhood the other night. I used to go in there a lot when I lived down the block, but since I moved, it's not convenient, and I hardly ever go anymore. I took off my coat and sat down at the counter, and said hello to the same girl who worked there when I was a regular.
"Hey, Jamie!" she said brightly.
I smiled dumbly as I tried to remember her name.
"How have you been? I haven't seen you in forever. "
I told her I'd been fine and that I was just on my way home, but decided I'd get off the subway a few stops early to come in and have some dinner.
"Well, I'm glad you did, it's good to see you.”
"Good to see you too."
She told me they had a new menu, then pulled one from a stack and handed it to me. She poured me a beer as I looked it over. It wasn't particularly busy, but she was occupied. So after I ordered, I just sat reading one of the papers that lay nearby while I waited for my food. But eventually she got a free moment and came over to chat.
"So what's new?" she asked.
"Not much." I told her about my new loft and my new neighborhood. I told her about the book I'm writing.
"What's it about?" She sensed my hesitation and said, "It's okay if you don't want to talk about it."
Lucinda Williams was on the CD player, and we talked about how depressing the song was, but how beautiful.
"Are you seeing anyone?" she asked.
"Not really. No one in particular."
She had tried to set me up with a friend of hers once, so I struggled to give her a look that said: "Don't try it." Then, out of the blue she asked, "How old are you, Jamie?"
I smiled and paused for a second before answering. Her eyes widened as she put her elbow on the bar and her head in her hand, waiting for an answer. I finally told her.
“Really ? You don't seem like it."
"That's what I hear," I said, and she laughed. "Anyway, thanks," I shrugged. "I think."
"Yeah, I mean, you look good. I never would've guessed."
"Well, now you know."
Her eyes narrowed into a squint as she said, "So tell me, how come you're still single?"
I cocked my head and asked, "What do you mean still ?"
"Were you ever married?" she asked and stood up straight.
"No, not really. I was in a long-term relationship, though."
She leaned back down on the counter and asked, "How long?"
I sighed. I'd only stopped in for a meal and maybe a hello from a friendly face. I wasn't sure I wanted to get into all of this. "A long time," I said.
"Five years?" I shook my head, no. "Ten?"
It seemed like she was going to just keep guessing, so I just told her: "Eighteen."
"Eight?" she asked, tilting her ear toward me.
"No," I said and tried to speak slower and more clearly. "Eight-TEEN." Then she asked me how old I was again. I laughed and said, "Yeah, no one ever believes it."
I told her how my ex and I had met when we were freshmen in college and that by the time we broke up, we'd been together for half of our lives.
"Wow," she said. "So you were married."
"I guess. Sort of."
"No," she said, shaking her head. "You were. I mean, that's longer than most marriages."
"True," I said with another shrug.
"So how long ago did you break up?" she asked, struggling with the math.
"Three years."
"What happened? Why'd you guys finally split?"
I thought about telling her the truth -- about how my ex had become an alcoholic stripper who'd been having an affair behind my back for the final three years of our relationship. But how all that came about is a long and complicated story with too many questions I can't answer. And besides, I'd already told her more than I wanted to, so I kept it simple. "You know, people change," I said. "They grow in different directions. It was just time. Past time, I suppose."
Then she asked what everyone who doesn't know the whole story always asks: "Do you think you guys will ever get back together?"
There was a time when, despite it all, I wondered if we might. When you're cut loose and flung out into a world where everything is strange and new, as exciting as it can be, you sometimes long for what's familiar. No matter how wrong it might've been, it's home. But I don't do that anymore. Now, when I look back, I see more of the reality and less of the illusion. So the answer to her question came easily: "No." As you move along on any journey, you invariably come to that place where it's a longer trip backward than it is forward, and so you press on. But sometimes, if the journey is long enough, you arrive at that mid-point feeling completely lost. No matter how flat the vista, or how infinite the visibility, it's too far to see either where you've been or where you're going.
That’s where I am.
