MY AMERICAN MELANCHOLY

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I am awake.

The light in my eyes burns, but I force them to stay open. I don't dare close them again fearing I'll return to see Neena continuing to move inside me. Though now more than ever I feel that's where she belongs. I am still clutching the key she gave me. For three hours now I've been letting the key dig into my palm the way a thief would make a wax impression before returning it to its unsuspecting owner.

Neena is indeed inside of me. I suddenly feel driven by an obsession. In the reality of daylight, outside my dream world, I feel possessed by her. Moved by her. It's become unlike any feeling I've had for another person. To make amends and return our lives to their original state is consuming my entire thought process. I have been taped together at each end and my mind has no where else to go except around and around.

The street I am parked on is perpendicular to her mother's, but I can still see the house clearly. Third one down Vine on the opposite side. The drive out to Walnut Creek was tedious, especially on only an assumption that she's here, but she can't afford to go anywhere else.

And I can't move forward without knowing where Neena's staying. My mind is locked on her, and in order to shoot straight I need a stationary target.

I open my hand and look at the key. It is a copy, well used over the years since I first gave it to her. Now it's useless to me, unnecessary. There is a storm drain across the street and I toss the key toward it, skimming it like a stone against the pavement. It tumbles and rings out like the hammering of an out-of-tune xylophone. Finally, it disappears through the grating.

Every time I hear a door open or a car approaching I instinctively slouch, hiding behind the steering wheel. Still not her. It may never be her, but I'm willing to give it another hour before I start to worry.

Twenty-two minutes go by before I hear a door slam shut. My eyes widen as I stare at her through the steering wheel, coming out of her mother's. She looks beautiful, more so than I can ever remember. I want to take the time to ponder over what is so different, but she is on the move. Once she is several doors down I get out of the car and walk slowly down the other side of the street. No distance feels safe but I don't want to lose sight of her. Can't lose sight. At the corner she turns right and I need to run out in front of traffic to cross the street and catch up. It's amazing how much you can tell about a person just by watching them walk. Neena tends to wave her right arm more than her left, and she never looks at people's feet as she passes them by. A long time has passed since I last noticed that.

We walk steadily for at least a mile, stopping a few times when something catches her eye. She looks through the glass quickly then moves on. At one point she actually makes her way into a shop and I have to stand uncomfortably on the corner waiting for her to come out. I pace, hands in my pockets then out. I watch the traffic and count the number of people walking by, worrying that I'm attracting too much attention with my obvious loitering.

She exits and we continue down the street, but now I notice she's carrying a white handled shopping bag. From what store she exited with it I have no idea. My attention has been volleying between our recent conversations, my mind to busy to notice. I begin to think she had it with her when she left her mother's house, but I can't be sure. I quicken my pace and stop in front of the store she'd been in. A hardware store, a very odd place. Not like one I've ever seen. It looks more like a warehouse, shelves stocked with cardboard boxes, the lighting is harsh and haphazard. Shadows are lingering everywhere inside. Through the distorted glass, toward the back of the store, I see someone move, a man. His arms are flailing in aggravated conversation. He turns and steps into a patch of light, his face finding mine. Nelson. I swear it's Nelson.

I pull my face away from the glass quickly, losing my footing and falling. Both elbows break my fall. Part of me wants to go in to demand answers, but now is not the time. He's obviously aware I gave him up. Spoke his name.

I break into a crouched run until I'm clear of the store front. Neena is getting away from me. I need to keep up with her. She is my priority, my life. I cannot let her go. After one last hard stare at the face I believe is my partner's, I tear myself away and run to regain my safe distance behind her.

She turns back on to the main street and heads for the BART station. I realize that if I don't catch up to her quickly I'll lose her inside. She approaches the door. I look up—the light is still green. The traffic is too heavy for me to dart out and hope they'll stop, but I have little choice. I put my hand out trying to halt the driver in a green Toyota . He doesn't even see me and races by through the light as it turns yellow. Two more cars follow the Toyota 's lead, past me and through the yellow light. Neena is closer to the door, disappearing in the crowd. I wait, and wait, forever it seems, for the red. A car honks at me as I step out further. The traffic in the other direction has started to move. I now have the walk signal but the impatient drivers aren't yielding as they turn.

Neena is inside now. Gone from sight. I stare straight ahead and move forward, like navigating an archery field in a blindfold. My walk becomes a run as I approach the curb. When I'm safe on the other side I hear the windswept hum of the BART entering the station. Its sound is unmistakable, unique. However this time it brings me no reminiscent pleasure. This time it is the sound of defeat.

I push through the lines at the same time I dig through my wallet for what I hope is a forgotten BART ticket. I dig but find nothing expect two old slips of paper with case numbers and unfamiliar names scratched on them. To my right I see a group of teenagers jimmying one of the gates. One pays, gives the spinner a hard shove backward and breaks its grip on the gears. Now they all ride for free.

Including me.

I walk to the last car with my head low and my hands busy fixing my hair. I take a quick peek inside to make sure Neena isn't. Just as I slip in the warning bell rings and the door slams shut. I move to the end and glance through the small portal into the next car. No sign, so I slide the door open and move on.

I find her in the fourth car facing my direction with the white bag between her feet. She's reading a book, paying little attention to what's going on around her. This is going to work to my benefit. With her mind on a book, a bomb could go off and she wouldn't miss a word. I glance at the cover. Something I don't recognize which bothers me. Neena's predictability is starting to wane. What outside force is working on her? I can't bear to think that her life is moving on without me. As easily as you can switch lines on the BART, two lives can start moving in different directions. And when two straight lines cross once, it's a geometrical guarantee they'll never cross again. I'm not certain if I'm ready to break that rule. Or even if I'm willing to try. Not just yet anyway.

She switches at Piedmont, bag tightly in hand. This trip is starting to become clearer—we're heading into the city. In my mind, the list of possible destinations becomes shorter with each stop. All I can find to do it stare at her through the portal, wondering what's in the bag, who she's going to see, what his name is.

We get off at Van Ness and exit onto the street at the exact spot where we first met. As she crosses to wait for a bus I look between my feet at the gouges in the cement curbing, now more than twelve years old. I force myself to picture the curb as pristine as the day it was laid. If I change that in my mind then I change us. If I alter it then the accident never happened. We never met. I'd have sat in front of her never knowing the pain the woman behind me could invoke, even twelve years later.

The 6 comes and she gets on. The 6 . She's heading back to our apartment. My mind races for excuses. She forgot something. Maybe she just wants to reminisce. But I can't imagine that nostalgia alone is driving her to return to the scene of our crimes.

I want to stay close but I can't get on the same bus with her. Behind her bus I see a 71 pull up. Different route, but it'll get me within five blocks of home. Close enough to her, and safe enough for me. I stay behind her most of the way up Haight Street until she pulls off toward Parnassas. My bus becomes overcrowded the further down Haight we go. I feel squeezed in, unable to reach the door even if I tried. I try to stay focused on Neena, but it's hard. I feel at any moment the bus is going to hit someone starting another whole chain reaction of pain and suffering.

We stop at a corner, I don't care which. I wiggle and push toward the back door. No one seems to even notice. The twisted panic inside me is hiding from view. If I were bleeding, if I had a huge hole in my chest large enough to crawl through, I know they'd get out of my way then. I struggle, pulling myself forward until I reach the top step. The green light above the door finally comes on and I grab the handle.

It swings open and I fall out onto the sidewalk. Two homeless kids sitting on skateboards ask about my well-being and for whatever change I have in my pocket. I reach in and toss them the scraps of paper with the case information. I move quickly toward Cole Street as they yell at me to kiss their asses and fuck off. I suddenly remember one of the names on the scrap is that of a drug dealer. Still an open case, but not mine any longer.

I walk on, though I have to be careful because I'm getting close to Parnassas. The 6 carrying Neena could come rushing down the street any minute. I wait on the corner by the laundromat until the bus appears. I'm watching from inside over the top of a row of washers. Neena steps out, the white bag with her. In a split second I think of twenty different places she might be going, but I stop kidding myself. I know where.

She begins pushing buttons on the call box one at a time. By her composure I can tell she's calm, undeterred, most likely Finally, one of the neighbors answers and buzzes her in. She swings the gate wide and goes in. The gate starts to slowly close behind her. I feel jealousy fill me the moment she disappears. She's entering our domain with such little effort, the same one that warded me away so easily.

Twenty minutes go by. I am antsy, fidgeting with the hot and cold button on one of the washers. I debate, wanting badly to “come home” only to catch her inside. I could confront her about being there, accuse her of…what? I don't know what. She's given me no reason to distrust her until now. That was until I saw Nelson inside the hardware store.

She comes out after twenty three minutes. Empty handed. She crosses the street and in a matter of someone's rinse cycle a 6 comes down and sweeps her away. I give the bus a good two minutes to get far enough over the hill before I go outside.

I glance up the street. Gone. I cross and head to the gate. My hand is covered with perspiration as I fumble with the key. My desire to find the white bag sitting on the dining room table and not in the trash can is driving my hands into a fit of inaccuracy. I feel only the bag and its contents can fully explain her visit.

Finally I get the gate open and take the stairs two at a time.

It's like the apartment walls have been injected with soundproof foam. The only noise I'm aware of is the violent beating in my chest. The constant wrap wrap wrap helps me focus. Nothing else matters right now except how Neena is making me feel. There is deception in the air. Toxic. Too many parts per million. Enough to kill me where I stand and breathe.

Nothing in the apartment appears to have been touched. It looks as it always does. Dishes in the sink, trash by the back door waiting to go down, dining room table covered with unopened mail and unread magazines, bed unmade. I circle the place once more, taking inventory. The feeling that my home has been invaded won't leave me. Except nothing is missing. This time something was left behind, and if I don't find it I fear it'll come to me in the middle of the night. When I am most vulnerable.

I stop in the bathroom to open the linen closet again. One more shelf I forgot to check, but nothing. No white bag, no mystery contents. I force the door closed with the edge of a yellow towel caught in the jam. It looks like a terry cloth tongue taunting me, poking fun at my failure to solve this little mystery, or my inability to let it go.

I go to the sink and splash cold water on my face. Its bite against my skin steals my breath. I inhale sharply and sense a bit of moisture from my mouth rush into my throat. I look up into the mirror and cough once, spraying drops of saliva onto my reflection. What a sad sight. This is not the person I was, not the person I am .

I cough again, but this time my reflection doesn't.

He's mocking me. Showing me up. He can control himself better than I.

I don't like it. Making me feel inferior, and over myself no less. How dare he. How dare I.

I try to focus on Neena again, the reason that I'm back home, my whole reason for this obsessive morning, but here he is, here I am, caught in a staring contest. Neither of us blinks.

I'm going to win. Goddammit, I will not be beaten.

After we share five shallow, panicky breaths it ends in stalemate. I can't take anymore of this and finally will him to go away.

And that's exactly what he does. My reflection takes his eyes off me, cocks his head in a moment of deep contemplation, and walks away. As he reaches the reflection of the door, his hand extended to the knob, he stops and glances over his shoulder at me. His eyes are saying too much and I can't bare to look for another second. I turn away, hanging my head, and listen to the door close behind me.

He has won. I'm forced to admit to myself that he always wins. I just wasn't aware of it until now.

©2008 by Tim Kenyon
Not to be reprinted or reproduced without permission by the author