Café Abandon

It isn’t an empty airport. Not a bus terminal in the small hours of the morning. True, it is a liminal space. A threshold. A place between here and there. But it is not empty. And it is certainly not quiet. Perhaps this space is best described as a somewhere between a dive bar and nightclub. Or better yet, both. It is filled with trepidation and excitement for the journey ahead, despair for those who failed, and…something else.

Those who have returned, who found courage under the deepest challenge of their life and abandoned what was most dear to them, sit at the bar and stare ahead, unsure of what they have lost, know not what they feel. Not the sad ones talking with the bartender, or maybe a barstool away, waxing poetic about heartbreak or loss or some other mundane sadness. These are the ones staring into their watered-down whiskey, neither a smile nor frown upon their face. The ones you don’t talk to. The ones you don’t dare talk to.

They’re here too.

And all the while the band plays on. For, at Café Abandon, the music never stops.

A green olive pokes its head through what little is left of her martini. She knows I’m there, waiting for the rest of her story, the hard part, the part you don’t talk about. She doesn’t care. So few of them do. For absence and loss are cousins at best.

It is almost daylight outside, though no hint will ever make it past the door. Jazz standards ooze from the cabaret at the far end, drifting toward the bar. She lets out a sigh followed by a deep breath.

And the band plays…

I’m Through with Love

And I need to care for no one,

And so I’m through with love.

Six, four, seven. Three numbers I’ll never forget.

It seemed a little trite to me. The whole second chance, Fantasy Island, start over from the beginning bullshit. If I could have turned back, I…but…that was never really an option. This place doesn’t…I mean, he warned me…told me there was no…

Once I had made my decision, had taken the first step, I was carried down. I was on this long escalator diving into a casino. The casino. The casino where we had met.

She was there, of course. Sitting at the same slot machine where she had won god knows how much. Where she had turned around to see me staring. Where she had lit up the room with her smile, grabbed my hand, and taken me on a spending spree that would leave us in a penthouse suite in each other’s arms, her winnings not nearly enough to pay the enormous tab that would show up in the morning.

All I had to do was walk away. Turn around and go back the way I had come. Pretend I had never met her. Start over again, this time without her. Fully wipe her from my life.

If only.

For there was no exit, of course. And there was no starting over.

At the bottom of the escalator, I looked for its partner with no luck. No rising escalator, no stairs, no exit signs. Just flashing lights and gamblers as far as the eye could see. I walked in the opposite direction of where she was dropping tokens to get as far away as possible but kept ending up with fucking Clara just at the edge of my vision. As if the whole scene was designed to drive us together, rather than apart.

I walked that place for hours. Put down too many drinks. Lost what little money I had. I asked any number of official looking people for the way out, but it was a dream without a map.

And the whole time, Clara kept pulling at the damned slot machine.

I gave in.

I walked over to her, fully expecting her to have no idea who I was. If this was some second chance, some magic Fantasy Island lesson-to-be-learned thing, it would be just like the first time we met. I would be standing behind her, looking over her shoulder when the jackpot hit, and it would start all over again...

I began to wonder if what I needed was a second chance after all.

If only.

She sensed me behind her and turned, stared dead in my eyes.

This is your fault, she said. I said I never wanted to see you again, and I meant it.

It hit me like a shock wave. I stared back, my heart racing, feeling for all the world like I’d just been caught red handed in some crime, though maybe with no idea of what the crime was. Maybe.

In shame, which is all I ever feel anymore, I turned my back on her and walked away. There are no straight paths in that place, at least not for long, but I put her behind me as best I could without looking back.

Put her behind me.

I’d been trying so long.

In that maze of a place, though, I never had a chance. Every time I turned a corner, there she was in the distance, at that same machine. No sign of an exit. No stairs. Just that damned escalator coming down from above.

And yes, I tried. I tried tried tried to walk up the escalator.

That place is a dream. Not a nightmare. Just a dream. A normal, pedantic, everybody-has-it dream. A shaggy dog story with no ending and no way out, and in the middle, always Clara.

I know this isn’t what you…you don’t care about any of this. All you want to know is…alright. Here’s how it works. You go up to the craps table and bet it. Just bet it. All of it. They won’t take less. If you win, you can…but you won’t win. There is no winning. You lose. Everyone loses. And when you do…

Except, here’s the thing. Before you can bet it, you must have it. That’s the curse, even more than…because they know. They know if you have it to bet or not. When I walked up there, when I gave in the second time, stopped looking for a way out and just accepted that this maze of dream was my new home and sat down at that cursed table, they knew I had nothing to bet.

The croupier did not speak, but the words poured from his eyes. Come back when you’re worthy.

The next time I walked up to Clara, I didn’t wait for her to speak.

“I know I should have trusted you, but it wasn’t that simple. Everything you said that night, everything you did was like a steel pipe to my shins. Like I didn’t matter to you at all. Like I was just a clever story for you to tell, a story with no feelings, no care, no love. You’ve said over and over again that you didn’t mean anything by it, that you did it for our sake. That you were wildly uncomfortable, and that you just needed to make conversation, get him to believe in you, in us, that a few jokes at my expense were a small price to pay, but…damn you it was never about the stupid stories. It was that…I mean…it was always so easy for you to sacrifice me, to throw me under the bus, any bus. I was always the first to go, had be the strong one, the one who could take it, but the minute I…even just a…it just became so brutally clear that you never loved me for me. Our love was always and only about you. And I just can’t…couldn’t, I mean…I had to get out before I disappeared altogether.”

“And yet, here you are.”

“What does that even mean?”

“I mean that after all I did to hurt you, after bowing down like a fucking dog to all those assholes, after making a fool of myself night after night, licking one boot after another, flirting with men that made me want to fucking vomit, while all I could think of was getting home to you, to getting back to our quiet apartment where we could finally be alone, away from all that bullshit, after destroying you by daring to make a better life for us, after breaking your heart by giving up every ounce of integrity I had left so we might be able to put all the crap behind us and finally be what we’ve been working for, after you finally gave up and kicked me on the way out for good measure, why are you putting me through this again?”

“Because I was trying to…”

Except I didn’t even know what I was trying to do. I loved her and I hated her and I cared for her and I despised her and I wanted her and I wanted her and I wanted her…

And I broke. I got down on my knees and apologized. Apologized for not trusting her. For taking myself too seriously. For not being strong enough. For needing more than she could give. I groveled at her feet. Told her how lonely I had been. How much I had missed her. How I couldn’t stop thinking about her no matter how hard I had tried. How I was ready to give up on love forever rather than live with the pain of missing her.

And I forgave her.

And she forgave me.

And we kissed.

I thought, alright, this is it. This is the Fantasy Island moment. This is when the exit appears. When I turn around to see the up escalator was there all along, just waiting for us to walk out hand in hand, my capacity to love still intact, lesson learned, all that.

If only.

You see, Clara was never one to…I mean…she talked a good game, but she never really liked to go home early, snuggle in quiet nights at the apartment. She reveled in…well, just reveled, I guess. She dragged me around the casino, played a little this and that, kept me up late which I…you see…I mean, I didn’t even care. I thought I had lost everything, and yet, here she was, holding my hand, dragging me around that cursed place, and I thought…I could stay here forever, happy, in love…love…

Because of course she did. Of course she took me to the table. That table. Of course she won and won and won. Of course she kissed me and held my hand and smiled and beamed and told me how happy she was that we were back together. Of course I melted and dreamed about us staying happy forever.

And of course I felt the voice coming from the croupiers eyes, telling me we could be.

I stared back at him, then at Clara. She had started flirting with the others at the table. Let herself be the beauty everyone stared at. Was pretending not to know me to a complete stranger who had given her his attention.

And the voice told me we could be happy forever. That love is forever. That love takes sacrifice. That one must dare. Must risk. That for the chance to love forever, one must risk losing love forever. One must risk. One.

And I took the bet on a six. A good bet.

Then a four turned up and I wondered what I had done.

The next roll was the end of my life.

Six, four, seven.

The croupier swept the table. Whatever voice had come from his eyes was gone. Whatever connection the two of us had was gone. He was simply a croupier, and I just another loser at the table, a strange emptiness seeping into me, wondering what to do next.

I turned to Clara, but she was gone. She had always been gone. A chimera, a ghost around only long enough to bring me to that place. To the edge of the great abyss in which what little love I had was now forever falling.

And now I’m…you see it’s not really…like you, I came here to abandon my heart. I thought I could forget her, rid myself of the pain. I thought I would rather never love again than feel the heartache of losing her.

Never did I imagine I could lose one without losing the other.

If only.

She lifts the olive from her glass, held aloft by the bamboo pick, and stares as the jazz combo brings the song to a close. A smattering of applause dots the bar and dance hall.

She is not unusual in the place, lingering on as she explores her new emptiness. They linger on the way in, and again on the way out. Café Abandon makes space for that. For lingering. Such is the heart of all liminal spaces, if they have a heart at all.

Yet there are others who return. Not to pass through, but to remember. Because it is all they have left. Perhaps they have some vain hope of retrieving what they have lost. Perhaps they are just drawn to the last place they felt whole. Perhaps they have no place left to go.

They are the dangerous ones.

At a side door, a sort of de facto smoking area still protected from the morning sun, one such man is deep in conversation. His friend seems anxious, a student not yet ready to enter, hanging on every word of the old and wizened teacher. One who no longer has anything to lose.

And the band plays…

Down in the Depths (on the Ninetieth Floor)

And here am I, facing tomorrow,
Alone in my sorrow,
Down in the depths
On the ninetieth floor

The monster is at the top of the stairs.

At the top? I thought you said…

It is in the catacomb, yes. But the stairway doesn’t go down. It goes up. It goes up in both directions. On the way there, and, if you’re lucky, on the way back.

Up in both…?

You’re not listening to…alright…how do I…when you walk down stairs, you don’t really look at them, right? You sense them rising behind you, I suppose, sort of looking over your shoulder. But you don’t see them. Not really. Maybe you see the underside of another stair above you, but not the stairs themselves. Not when you’re going down. Now, imagine that in complete darkness. You walk with no view at all, stairs beneath your feet, and simply know that you are walking down.

Walking down…?

For a time, yes. Long enough for you to get comfortable. Distracted. Soon enough you’ll find that you are walking up, with the stairs rising in front of you. The first time I noticed, I thought I was lost. I thought I had turned myself around and was walking back up toward the entrance. Not an easy thing to do, even in darkness, but there was no denying that I was rising. I stopped, shook my head for a fool, turned around, and once again descended toward what I thought was the catacomb.

So the stairs do go down…

No. No. That stairway does not go down. It goes up.

After just enough steps to get comfortable, I found that I was rising again. I tried to envision the steps before and behind me. Imagined some sort of rising and falling stairs, maze like, splitting off into different directions, unseen in the dark. Something that would make more sense if I could only see it.  

Methodically, I turned myself about once more, this time counting the stairs as I descended. One, two, three…by fifteen I realized I had lost track of my direction and had once again been rising. This time, I persevered. I continued in my upward direction, still counting, assuming that I would soon enough either begin to descend in earnest, or find myself at the top, at the entrance where I had begun.

You counted…

I counted. I counted. Two hundred fourteen steps I counted, and no sign of descending. I was lost, tired, confused, and on the edge of despair without ever losing my count. I had risen over ten stories, far more than I had descended at any point since entering that cursed place.

Ten stories…

Two hundred fourteen steps. After that, I gave up. I turned back, determined to count my way down to zero as I descended, at least get back to where I had started counting. Two hundred thirteen, two hundred twelve, two hundred ten. Yet…

Yet…?

Yet, somewhere around two hundred four, I realized that I had been rising once again.

You…

Some stairs only go up.

And the monster is…?

At the top of the stairs. Yes.

And you can…

Yes. Yes. But slowly. The way you might approach a wasp. Or perhaps wasp isn’t quite…no…it is much larger, but in spirit, the monster is much like a wasp. You must show it that you are not aggressive, though also not afraid. The monster has a terrific sense for fear.

How does one…?

I suppose it is individual. To the person. Or creature perhaps. In my case I had to…you see…well…it’s not easy to…you see a person…we all…

It’s alright. We’re safe here. Just take your time.

We are safe nowhere.

Just take your time.

Many of us are good at naming our fears. We have words for them. Metaphors for them. They are difficult to name, but they are nameable. Anxiety comes in many forms, but we can…like being afraid of people. Of being watched. Stage fright, perhaps. That’s one. It’s fairly common. I had it. Many others do as well. But walking up to the monster and saying, I have this fear of people, this performance anxiety, would mean nothing. The monster would see right through it. Such words would only anger it. It would tear you apart from the inside out.

But you said…

I said the monster feeds on your fear. Not your fears. Your fear.

I did not really fear performing for people. I feared something else, something that performing before people brought out. Something unnamable. Were you to approach the monster with a fear of heights, for example, and confess such a fear, face that fear as you stood before it, the monster would raise its brow. Smile perhaps. Laugh. Then it would make you feel the real fear, the terror that standing at great heights brings about. Feel it so deep you would never rise again.

Then how do you…?

You must accept fear. You must approach the monster with the humility that can only come with knowing fear. Not knowing your fears. Not facing them. Not admitting to your fear of spiders or of rejection. You must recognize, know the fear that lies behind them. The true fear. The beast within. You cannot offer a sacrifice until you hold it in your hand. Until it is yours to bestow. You must know fear, accept fear. Only then can you approach the monster.

And it will cleanse you?

…

But you said…

…

Surely there must be some…

I said it will set you free. And it will. The monster will set you free. Free from your fears. Free from the protective layer that your fears provide. The fragile shell that keeps you from something…far worse. It is true that you will never fear another thing. You will see through such charades as gimmicks, cons meant to temper your actions. Your foolishness. For fears are like pain. We all desire to live without pain, but pain is a powerful tool. Without it, we cannot assess our own damage. Without your fears…

And you have done this?

I have done this. I laugh at you. At the world. At fools that fear snakes and sunburn and sex. Who fear dirt and damage, and yes, even pain. I look upon you as a parent looks upon her child, with compassion, yes, but also hubris and pity. For I have seen what you cannot imagine.

And you fear nothing?

I fear…everything.

Such are the early morning hours at Café Abandon. Furtive, pensive. A time for quiet conversation away from the crowds. A nightcap when there’s no one to go home to.

Evenings are different, of course. Tourists fill the dance hall, day trippers out for a night on the town, curious about this strange place they know little of. Wanderers landing there by accident, the lights and music drawing them to the vibrant nightlife. Strangers and friends obscuring the view of the chosen few dotted throughout the place, those who came with intention. Who know why they are there but are not yet sure they have the courage.

At the back of the dance hall, two smartly dressed men. Not impeccably dressed, but thoughtfully. One might go so far as to say innocuously, though perhaps they stand out as a little less casual than most. They are neither stylish nor sloppy. Well-cut suits that would not be out of place in the board room, yet subtle enough to pass almost unnoticed at their café table now that they’ve relaxed their collars.

And the band plays…

I’m a Fool to Care

Why should I pretend?

I’ll lose in the end.

I’m a fool to care

Do I miss it?  It’s hard to say. I’m envious of people who feel, even when that feeling is…well, let’s say unconstructive. Yet, I don’t think I would choose to go back. To become who I was. I don’t miss that guy. Not often.

Not that I’m…I should be clear about this. I’m not a good person. In no way am I a good person. I’ve done things that…well you know. Of course, you do. I suppose I’m preaching to the choir. You don’t ask me about mine and I don’t ask you about yours. Rules are rules.

If you want to know if it helped, in the work I mean, it’s not even a question. The answer is an unequivocal yes. I don’t think the old me could have even considered such a…profession. How the rest of you do it is beyond me. If you want to know if it was worth it…well…I don’t know, friend. I don’t know. How do you measure a thing that isn’t there? Something for which there is no name.

I mean…the bigger ones, the obvious ones, they have names, of course. But they’re not the real…the real loss was something else. The anger, the hate…they were just collateral damage. The real loss was something closer akin to…well…maybe the closest word is…care.

I can hardly remember…I mean…what I mean to say is that though I can recall the events, the pieces and parts of my before-life, recall how it felt. I can recall the idea of how it felt, but only intellectually. In my head, but not my heart. That’s…that’s gone.

My father and stepfather were both cruel. My mother spent most of her time halfway between this world and the next, staring and staring and staring. My brother beat the shit out of me as a matter of habit. Well, that’s the way these things go, I suppose. Like father like son.

I was cruel too.

I did far more than my share of damage for its own sake. As a child, it was mostly our dog – she was the only one left. And later, I learned to hit other boys, to have my way with…even before I knew how to…it was certainly rape. Violence, or the threat of it, was always there. Not that…I mean…well, damage is our trade, of course, but this was different. There was a joy to it. An emotional payoff. Damage for its own sake. That’s something I can no longer even envision.

And I had a son.

And I was cruel to him, too.

Eddie and I weren’t close at the end. Well, fathers and sons and all that. Not that I didn’t…In my own way I loved him more than I loved any creature on this earth, more than…but no, we weren’t close. If we had been, maybe none of this would have…but then we wouldn’t be here, now, would we?

It’s funny. There was a time when you couldn’t have dragged this out me for love or money, not with imminent death staring me down between the eyes. Not even with the kind of punishment that…well…I shouldn’t say that. Who knows what a man will do under that kind of pressure, eh, Friend?

But that was then. Now it makes no difference. Now I’m…well…let’s just say I used to be a person. Like you. Now I’m…something else.

Eddie didn’t have it in him. He just couldn’t take the loss. She broke his heart and he took his life and what more is there to say? Is it heartless to say it like that? Careless, yes, but heartless? I loved Eddie, but it wasn’t love that drove me to kill her. It wasn’t for love that I revenged myself upon her. Not from my heart did I destroy her from the inside out. It was not because I loved but because I cared.

Not for Eddie, but for myself. I hated not her, but myself. I blamed not her, but myself. I went there to kill not her, but myself.

It was ugly. As ugly as I have ever…I can’t overstate the brutality with which I avenged my son’s death upon that woman. The cool, dispassionate, and professional work I do today was nowhere to be seen. This was personal. I made it personal. I made her hurt, suffer. I fed of her pain, took it inside myself, felt the power surge with each cry, each whimper, each time she begged for death. It was the culmination of my…

They say all good things must come to an end. So too of the rest.

As I stood over the last remnants of my…mess…as I burned away any evidence of my rage, I hungered for more. I saw myself looking for another excuse. Another place to put my anger. To feed this insatiable hunger I had. I looked about the room, at what was left of her, and knew that it could never be enough. That I could never be satisfied. Find closure. In a moment of weakness, I saw myself for who I was, a man burdened by care.

I know how that sounds. That a man so cruel, filled with so much hate, so much anger, so much rage, could also be a man with care sounds ridiculous on its face. People who care don’t cause pain and suffering, don’t hurt those around them. People who care nurture and cure. They don’t destroy.

And yet, what was it but care that drove me? How can you hate if you don’t care? How can you hurt if you don’t care? I’m not talking about damage. Damage is easy enough. Easier, without question. But to hate…that is something else entirely.

That is what I saw in my moment of weakness. That brief moment, perhaps the first time in my life when I saw myself for who I really was. Not a monster. Quite the opposite. I saw myself as a man burdened by caring too much. A man who hated himself so much he could not help but hate others. A man who felt every slight, every vaguely spiteful word as a personal affront, and spent his life turning that hate back out toward everyone around him. A man who cared so much he would destroy the world for his so-called honor.

And I walked here.

And I sold my soul to the devil.

She beat it out of me. It was the fight of my life. The fight of…you know that feeling when…you ever lose a fight? Of course you have. That feeling when you know, when you face it, face that you’ve lost, there’s always this…this angry…like you’ll be back soon enough. That it isn’t really over. That someday you’ll be back and make them pay, right? Well, this isn’t that.

Not even close.

She doesn’t let you lose. Doesn’t let you give up. She beats it out of you. And I’m not talking about physical pain, though, that too. I’m talking about real pain. The kind of damage you can’t touch but chips away at you until there is nothing left. She beats it out of you and she beats it out of you and she beats it out of you. Doesn’t let up until it’s gone. Until you don’t care anymore. Until you can’t care anymore. Crying uncle doesn’t count. Saying the words doesn’t count. Losing the fight isn’t enough. She just keeps going. Long after you can’t take anymore, after you’ve given up, after you’ve promised her anything and everything she could possibly want, she hits you again. Kicks you again. Drags you to depths you could hardly fathom let alone survive.

Because she doesn’t believe you. Because somewhere deep inside you still care. Somewhere, you’re vowing revenge.

Not until you stop caring what happens to you, what happens to her, what happens to anyone, not until you’ve lost the last remnants of what makes you human, does she let up. Does she reach out her hand. Does she stand you up and usher you out.

No compassion. No empathy. Just a damned devil doing her job. A damned devil holding the door for me as my soul languished in her pocket.

Back at the bar, they were waiting for me. For the perfect recruit. A man who could damage without care. Who would never let the memory of today’s job get in the way of tommorow’s. It’s a good life as far as it goes. I don’t have to tell you that.

But the price. The price was high.

Do I miss it? It’s hard to say.

I suppose caring is for fools.

I suppose.

The well-dressed gentleman raises a glass to his companion and drinks without a proper toast. His companion nods quietly. Whether he, too, shall seek out the catacombs of Café Abandon before the night is through is yet unknown.

The same may be said for you.

If he stays until morning, drags his feet in hesitation, he may well meet one of the regulars, a lonely woman who has breakfast no less than twice a week. There was a time, before she abandoned her vanity, that she would rather have starved. Not so today. Today she eats with a different sort of abandon.

And the band plays…

My Funny Valentine

Your looks are laughable

Unphotographable

Yet, you’re my favorite work of art

Heavy sigh. Can I say it like that? Heavy sigh. I suppose it is not a thing you are supposed to say out loud. Heavy sigh. It sounds strange, putting it into words, but it’s how I feel all the time. Heavy sigh. I think about how sad I am to miss the attention. Heavy sigh. I think about how glad I am to be left alone. Heavy sigh. I think about what I used to be. Heavy Sigh. I think about what I’ve become. Heavy sigh. And, of course, I think about...I mean...all the time now, I think about...and what they...and who I...and what’s left but...heavy sigh?

Well, at least I can eat.

I don’t really blame Dr. Skyler. I’m not even sure if I believe in them, honestly.

It was right over there. It sounds like I’m crazy, but it was right over there. Right. Over. There. It was hard to see, like it is now, but if we were to walk over there at this moment, we would only find that wall. It won’t change as we get closer. Believe me. I’ve tried. But once upon a time, in this place, that vague shadow dripping down the wall covered a hallway. Sort of. From here, it looked much the same as it does now, except maybe that shadow was a little darker. Or maybe my eyes were a little tired. Or maybe I just wanted it more. Maybe a lot of things. But when I walked over, when I dared to walk over, I discovered that the shadow on the wall was really an opening, a hallway leading to a back room.

The old lady had suggested I wander over there. The owner maybe? She certainly talked like she was the owner, though she never said the words. I’m certain of that. She didn’t say much at all, really. We’d been talking for at least an hour. Well...when I say we, I really mean I’d been talking for at least an hour. I was moaning about my latest breakup. Another in a long list of men that couldn’t see past my...you see, I’d always been...it was just so hard. At least, that was how I used to feel. That no one could see me for who I really was. That I would take a chance on someone. Someone that looked at me with need, with love in their eyes, hope. I would feel that need and let them fall for me. Take a chance on them. And we would...well...let’s just leave it at a kiss.

But I couldn’t find love. Infatuation, yes. Lust, certainly. But love? It was like they could never see past the...it sounds arrogant to say, but I really was beautiful. Stunning. People turned when I walked into a room. Stared. And it created this barrier. Like they were so stuck on...sorry. I’m doing the thing again. I don’t mean to treat you like...there’s a time and place for that, but I don’t suppose this is it.

I’m not exactly sure what you mean by catacombs. That wasn’t my experience at all. Not that...I mean, I get it. I can understand what you mean. Intellectually. But I’ve never witnessed it the way you, the way the others have talked about it. You all talk as if there is this maze of tunnels and caves thrumming beneath us, as if there is some secret lair that you go to if only you can get past the bodyguard. But where is it? Show me? I don’t see it, do you?

Where’s the bouncer?

I talked to the old lady, and she said I should visit her friend. Dr. Skyler. Dr. Mackenzie Skyler. An old friend who had been a little down on their luck. A genius who hadn’t been sufficiently recognized. A miracle worker she couldn’t bear to see waste away in a forgotten retirement. A friend she had made space for in the back. A strange place for a doctor’s office, certainly, but she had the space, and they needed a home, so why not? Why not go visit them? Why not see if they can help you? They have helped so many.

I wandered the hallway in and out of shadows until I came to their door. The name looked like it had been on the glass for decades. Not grimy exactly - the frosted glass was clean - but with an underlying level of grime that looked like it would never quite come off. As if it was cleaned once each year, and the cleaning never quite got everything, so that the foundation of muck got a little thicker each year.

I expected to find a haggard man, sad and weary, perhaps four times my age. Maybe with an ancient secretary that spent the day chain smoking. That was what the door made me feel. I could not have been more wrong.

I’m getting full. Finally. Want any of this? Sorry, is that weird?

Heavy sigh.

It’s funny. I used to eat so little because I was always worried about my figure. Worried about losing my...my super power. The one thing I had that made me special. The thing I didn’t want but couldn’t dare to lose. I would dream of eating whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, and stare at my full plate, wishing I could enjoy it, but also proud of my will power, so to speak. Back then, I would stop eating long before I was full. These days, I keep going long after. I haven’t quite found the...what’s the word...equilibrium, I guess?

Where was I?

Oh, right. Dr. Skyler.

It’s not that they were cute, exactly. Though, perhaps attractive is the right word for the wrong reasons. Or the right ones. I was certainly attracted to them. Had trouble looking away. Wanted to be in their presence. But I wouldn’t say they were conventionally attractive in the sense of handsome or cute or pretty. I just immediately found myself wanting to stay near them. Maybe part of that was how they didn’t seem to stare at me, didn’t seem to be affected by the way I looked. Their eyes didn’t dive deep into mine, nor did they shy away. It was like they were just talking to a normal person. Someone they neither liked nor disliked. That was pretty unusual for me. Then. Now that’s how everyone treats me. Well, maybe more on the dislike side.

They asked me why I had come, and I said I didn’t know.

They asked me what they could do for me, and I said I didn’t know.

They asked if I was lost, and I told them...I told them I was. That I was a lost soul. That I didn’t know who I was. That I had spent my life looking at myself through others’ eyes. That I couldn’t help surrounding myself with sad puppy dogs who thought they needed me but never really cared. That I had been subsumed by other people’s desires only to become so small and buried that the greatest of archeologists would not be able to bring me back out. That I was cursed with magic. That my curse brought men and women to my door in such great numbers that I no longer had any space for myself. To know who I was. Who I wanted to be. That I had learned to spend my life in service to others who cared only for winning my affection, for the prize of my beauty, and no care of what, if anything, lay behind.

And more.

Much, much more.

And I stared at them with expectation.

And I was disappointed.

It was not so much that they looked confused, though certainly a little, but that they seemed not to care. They suggested I had wandered into the wrong office. That I must have confused them with a therapist they knew with a similar name. They began to write directions on a monographed notepad, even as they wished me luck in my search.

I almost left. Almost gave up. In a heartbeat I had unburdened my soul to a complete stranger who could not have cared less. I looked up, sheepish, told them I was sorry. I apologized for coming to the wrong office. That the old woman had sent me and must have muddled the directions.

That changed everything.

They said, “Ah. Well. That is significant. Geraldine does not refer patients lightly. Let’s go back to my examination room and see what we can do.”

And I was well and truly lost.

In the examination room, we sat in the dark and talked. For hours. Talked for hours. It was part of the technique. They said it was important to talk about change before seeing it. To understand the potential for change, to understand what was underneath the skin before studying the surface.

Heavy sigh.

It was exactly what I needed. What I thought I needed. For someone to start to see me from the inside without so much as glancing at the outside. Not just see past my looks, but miss them altogether. It was not only refreshing, it was...there was a freedom it brought with it. You just can’t imagine what my...what life had been like before they...

Mostly, I talked about myself, about my life, about my boredom. But we talked about them too. Dr. Skyler. Mackie, their friends called them. Minutes felt like hours and hours felt like minutes. Time was meaningless in that place as we sat in the dark visiting each other’s souls. If I’ve ever fallen in love, really fallen in love, that was it. That was the moment. There. In the dark. No stares. No kisses. No gentle caressing of the hand. Just soul communing with soul.

Heavy sigh.

After they turned the lights on, the talking stopped. They stared at me with interest. Not the way so many had stared at me in the past. Not with lust or desire. This was more of a scientific study. As if they were a plastic surgeon preparing to change my face, which...I should be clear here...was not what I had come for. At least...it was not what I thought I had come for. I had come for...I think...maybe...I don’t really know. I hated that my looks kept people from really seeing me, but I don’t think I was ready to...you know...lose them. They were me. I wasn’t ready to lose me. I just wanted to help people see past what was on the surface. Sometimes.

After what felt like hours, Dr. Skyler said they could help me.

“People see what you want them to see. Your surface, your face, your body, they are refractions of your soul. Projections that start from within and settle into a new state on the surface. Your inner beauty has created an outward projection that is quite natural, but also distracting. I can help you with that. Draw your soul to the surface where we might gently change the refraction. You will look different to others, but not entirely different. You will still be you, but in a mild iteration.”

“Surgery?”

“Of a sort.”

We stared at each other in silence. Not a dreamy stare. Not a gaze. More of a study. An examination.

“We’ll begin tomorrow.”

And they showed me the door.

I went home and dreamed of them, of our connection, of their face, what I imagined to be their heart. I dreamed of being loved for who I was. Of joy. And when the time came for my first appointment, I came back.

And I came back. And I came back. And I came back. Appointment after appointment. I counted the hours and days between them. I thought of nothing but Mackie. The space between our meetings became nothing but waiting. Desire.

And the surgery...I mean, it wasn’t...what they did...what they...how can I...did I have a soul? Do I have one now? It happened so slowly. Each time I felt...well, I suppose...a little...different, perhaps. Not that they...

The change wasn’t noticeable. Not really. Not to me. What I noticed was...something else. Something closer to...well...love, I suppose. Each time I left their office it was with a lift to my heart. At home, I would dream of coming back. Of looking into their eyes for one more moment. Of falling into that abyss and drifting inside pure joy.

And they let me. Love them, I mean. They let me love them. I thought they loved me. I thought we were in love with each other. But this place...it’s not...they never loved me. They hungered for me. They ate of me until they were sated then dismissed me.

That’s what this place is.

Each time I came back, I fell in deeper. Each time the connection between us grew. Each time we grew closer until we were one person. Until we could no longer keep ourselves apart. Until their magnetism at last drew me into their arms. Until we kissed. Brought our bodies together. Felt our skin become one as we melted in...

We had been building love for weeks. It feels unfair to say that we did not make love until that afternoon. The love was made long before then. We consummated, yes. Brought our bodies together in sexual congress. To call it merely anything is to dismiss perhaps the greatest moment of my life.

Or the worst.

Yet.

It was merely a moment within our journey together. We had been climbing a mountain together, watching the view grow as we traversed a path ever higher, each step offering a wider vista long before we reached the top. But we did reach the top. We did, at last summit the peak. And where is there to go from there but down?

Heavy sigh.

The next time I came back, we shared physical intimacy again, but it was not the same. Good, but not the same. There was something missing. Maybe they were distracted. Maybe their heart just wasn’t in it. I had deceived myself into thinking we were in love, and that had carried me through, but looking back, I think it was as soon as that next day that our intimacy turned toward the clinical.

I thought I had been subjected to their so-called surgery for weeks, thought that our time together had been the actual work, but they had only been preparing me. They had been filling me up so that they might empty me out. Drawing my soul to the surface with the illusion of love. Now the time had come to drain it. Not all at once. I think that would have killed me altogether. They always left just enough to keep me coming back. Left some small amount of hope, enough memory of the illusion that I could dream of calling it back. But there was no calling back. They had drawn the disease as puss into a wound, draining it, day by day. There would be no putting it back.

Each time we met after that, I felt a little emptier, a little sadder, and, yes, a little more desperate.

The day came, of course. Of course, it did. This place...this....I mean...that’s what I was here for, right? That’s what you’re here for. But it’s not...

The day came when I reached out and they shuddered. When they hadn’t just lost interest. When they could no longer pretend to love me. When their work was done, and the mere sight of me filled them with disgust.

And I was cured.

I came out here, to this very table. I’m not a drinker, never have been, but I have, from time to time, allowed food to fill the emptiness I have felt inside. I ordered a small meal and stared at the shadow on the wall. The waiter paid me no mind. At first I...but it soon became clear. The stares were gone. The attention was gone. I was invisible at last.

Regret crept in. I felt as if I had lost everything. I had dreamed of people looking past my looks to see the real me inside. Never had I imagined they would cease to see me at all. To dismiss me. To look at me with disdain. In a panic, I rushed back to Dr. Skyler’s office, but it was no more than you see right now. A wall with a shadow. I knocked on the wall. Pounded on it. Screamed for Dr. Skyler until a waiter asked me to leave. I screamed at him. Told him to find the old lady but he had no idea what I was talking about.

I sat on the floor.

I cried.

And I picked myself up, came back to this very table, and ate my breakfast. The whole thing. And then I ordered another, which I nearly finished as well.

I’ve been back a few times a week ever since. I suppose I keep hoping for...that the old lady might...that second chances can...but I don’t suppose such things exist. Certainly not here. Though you can’t argue that the food is good.

Heavy sigh.

She looks wistfully at the shadow in the corner as she picks up a soggy french fry, dips it in ketchup, and lays it back on the plate.

Back at the bar, a neatly dressed, if unstylish man, nurses a scotch. Though it be not yet midday, no daylight makes its way to the bar. One would hardly know the time without mechanical assistance. He’s not the only one at the bar, though perhaps the loneliest.

And the band plays...  

Don’t Get Around Much Anymore

Darling, I guess

My mind’s more at ease

But nevertheless

Why stir up old memories?

I used to love a good scotch. But this place...this...this...this dilapidated neighborhood three side streets from hell...it just...well...they said they’d take everything. They were damned right about that.

The bartender nods. She’s heard the story a thousand times.

She’d left me three times before I came here. Three times she had told me she was done with me forever. Three times she said she would never forgive me again. And not for...I mean...not really for the cheating, though that was always...but it was more than that. It was the betrayal. Caring for myself more than her. Not being satisfied with her. With us. That was what she could never forgive me for. That she could never be enough for me.

Unforgiveable.

Until it wasn’t.

And she would come back. And we would start all over again. And we would forgive each other, and we would be enough. For her. For me. For us. Three times she left me forever, and two and a half times she came back.

If only she’d...I was ready. I was finally ready. I thought I could change. On my own. I thought, this time, this time is different. If only she comes back, I’ll be a new man. We’ll get married. Settle down. We will be all we need in the whole world. We will be the whole world. If only she comes back one more time.

And she did. Not to forgive me. Not to give me another chance. She came back to bring me here. To change me for good. I could change or I could go to hell.

Looks like I did both.

Gods, I thought I could do it. I thought...alright, she’s challenging me. Daring me to do this...this...I didn’t even know what, but I was ready to do anything. Take any challenge. Any dare. Climb the tallest mountain, swim the deepest sea, endure torture for her sake. Prove to her that I had changed.

And they were....gods, they were laughing at me the whole time. They let me...well...that’s what this place is, I suppose. Does the professor even exist? I’ve been here every day since she left, and I’ve never seen him again. Not since...well...since...

I thought I would...I expected challenges. I expected monsters to fight. Beautiful sirens I would spurn with a strength unknown to ordinary mortals. Hairshirts and fasting and dragons to slay. The professor told me it would be the greatest challenge of my life, and I was prepared. I would prove myself, prove I was as strong as she needed me to be. That I was worthy.

Bunk.

He brought me there, of course. To the place that would be the challenge of my life. Told me to wait. To wait until I had proved myself.

And he left.

And I waited.

And I waited.

For hours. Days. Weeks. For ten thousand years I waited, and still he did not return. If he ever returned, it was after I had gone. Some ten thousand years after I had been abandoned to dwell alone in that place with naught by my own thoughts, he had still not returned. It was not a prison, not exactly. I was free to roam. There were books and music. There were wide expanses for me to wander and comfortable places upon which to rest. It was not a prison but a home. A lonely home.

I learned to cook. To clean. To stare into the void and be at peace with myself. I lost desire not only for women but for adventure. For change. I began to cook the same simple meal every night for years at a time. Decades. I learned the comfort of simplicity. Of stability. I became a sea turtle, swimming the same journeys year after year, satisfied with his lot. I knew that if I was ever again given the chance, I could at last become the man she wanted me to be.

When she appeared through an open doorway, I couldn’t believe it. She was ten thousand years gone, and yet standing before me. I smiled at the ghost and reached my hands out, tears in my eyes. A reunion after lifetimes. She hardly noticed, more interested in the wallpaper than in me.

My heart dropped.

She told me she was getting bored. That she had been waiting over an hour. An hour! She was still the woman who had brought me here. Who had left me only days ago for having yet another affair. No. Not me. Some other man. Some man I used to be. She took my hands not as a gesture of forgiveness, of reconciliation. She merely took them as you might take a child’s. C’mon, honey, it’s time to go.

And I let her. Let her story be true. Let myself believe that I had been in my prison home for hardly more than an hour. Not because it was true, but because there was nothing for it but to believe her. I wanted nothing but for her to be true. To surrender myself to her.

She tried to chastise me, of course. For my latest philander that had brought her to leave. My wandering ways that had driven her to madness. To bring me to this cursed place. To give up on me. Abandon me to the gods.

I told her she was right. That I had been a fool. That the philandering adventurer was dead. That I was a new man. A man who could be satisfied with quiet nights at home. With cleaning dishes and mowing the lawn. With a book and a pipe. With a newspaper in the morning, box lunch at work, and dinner and tv before bed. Playing golf on Saturday and making love on Sunday. A man ready for the diamond ring and the house in the suburbs.

She stared at me in disbelief. Suspicious. She hardly believed such a change could come in less than an hour. That such things take more time. But I had been sitting for ten thousand years. The change had not only come, it was set in a stone that could not be eroded but for another ten thousand. Whether or not she believed me mattered not. The change had come.

And in time, she accepted her new man. Reveled in the change she had desired for so long.

Until she didn’t

Because she didn’t love me. The new me. The solid and stable husband. She may have hated the man I had been, but she despised the man I had become. She thought if she could drive the adventurous spirit from me, if I could learn to care more for her than myself, that we could be happy forever.

Well, she got what she wished for. She got what she wished for and left me because of it. Left me for good.

For her, the only thing worse than a philanderer was a bore. The bore I had become. The bore I am today. The bore I had become over ten thousand years. For what is man with no desire, no ambition, a man of contentment? What can he ever be but a tedious, prosaic, and insipid bore?

I admit it. Look at me. Do you see a man of action? A man of adventure? This place stole that man from me. Took him apart, piece by piece, over ten millennia. That man is dead. And though I mourn him...well...if I am to be truly honest, I have no wish to bring him back.

They took that as well.

He finishes the scotch and asks for another. It has no deleterious effect on him. Nor does he desire any. He is simply passing the time.

Soon enough morning will turn to day and day to night. Travelers will find their way here. The wise ones will leave without exploring what lies below. Others will not be so lucky. They will explore, against their better judgment. Though they know better, though they have been warned, they will seek a cure that can never be better than the sickness. For the call of the catacombs is strong, and the siren song of the band seductive.

And when the burden lay heavy upon your soul, what is left to do but abandon?

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