Wordmongers' Masque
Philia.
“The music is too loud,” she sounds like she's shouting across the room, but she's standing right next to me, “but what I can hear doesn’t exactly sound good. What are we doing here, Jeff?”
That’s me. Jeff. Mr. Collins to... well. No-one. Just Jeff. Jay, if you’re feeling creative. For the most part, I’m just average. Sure, I’ll tell you that I’m the most charming and attractive guy around. And intelligent. Don't forget intelligent. But we all know the difference between ego and reality.
Right?
Well. No. Not entirely.
The girl standing next to me--Liz or Elizabeth Michaels--has the worst grasp on reality that I’ve ever seen. She lives her life without a care in the world. Someone slights her and she shrugs it off. Lost her purse? She’ll get a new one. About the only thing she can’t handle is being bored.
Like she is right now. You can tell, because of the way she’s standing there. Her hair is the most interesting thing she can find.
“Okay. Fine. Let’s blow.” She laughs as I say it. Like a school girl. Finally, I give. “What’s so funny?”
“You. ‘Let’s blow’ indeed.” She runs off, weaving through people and making her way to the door. No. Not weaving. She’s just walking and people are almost just moving aside as she walks by. Almost. She just gets the rhythm of the crowd.
Meanwhile, I’m bumbling by trying to avoid the press of humanity. Trying. I'm learning not to care. A lesson from Liz. She says I spend far too much of my time worry about the little things and not enough time enjoying the big ones.
I make it out of the club and find Liz has already pulled the car around. I say “the car”, but I really mean “my car”. It just started to make sense for her to have a key. Since she spent ninety percent of her time waiting for me to get places. Now, she just speeds up the process.
“Hop in. We’re blowing this popsicle stand.” She turns the music down just for a moment, in order to pass on her demand, then blasts it again.
‘Cause life has been insane
But today has been okay
Trip hop. Emotional trip hop.
She keeps the music up and we just drive. Eventually, she’ll stop. Knowing her, there’s a plan. Knowing me, I’ll go along with it. And then, knowing us, it will end in hilarity.
That’s why I bring a camera. Photographic evidence. In case I need to blackmail her ever. If I do, she is entirely screwed. Then again, I don’t really want to be on her bad side. She’s scary.
Behind the wheels of my Pontiac Solstice driving far too fast in a far too casual manner... How could that not be entirely frightening?
So, you can understand why I’m in love with her.
You can also understand why I’m probably never going to mention it to her. Ever. She’s one of those girls you love from afar, even if you’re right next to them.
Not to mention, her habits with men happen to involve a whole lot of loving and leaving. She blames society. I blame her. It’s a topic of constant discussion. She brings home a new guy. I tell her that he’s the one. She laughs. And then she leaves the guy.
One of those boy meets girl stories, I’m sure.
I just don’t know which one.
Finally, my baby stops. I mean the car, not the girl. From here, we walk. Tonight, Liz doesn’t have any crazy plans in mind. She’s not going to do something thrilling. We’re going to hang out. Like two old friends.
“What’s on your mind tonight?” Because clearly, something is. She’s always thinking, but that’s not what I mean. She’s just… not here tonight. Her head is somewhere else.
“I was just wondering... About life. Love. And everything else,” in a glimpse of her face from the moonlight in through the trees, I can see her biting her lip. It’s a cute gesture. She’s actually got a worry on her mind.
“Life? You know more about that then me. As to everything else? That’s my area of expertise. But I’ll bet that love is the one that’s got you floundering...” I sound like an all-knowing smart-ass. As usual.
“Jay,” she laughs, “you’re a nut. A nut who happens to be right, but a nut none-the-less.”
“So,” I stop her and we sit down in the middle of the path, “what about love troubles the great Beth Michaels, killer of men.”
She hits me.
I probably deserve it, too.
“I’ve just been thinking about...” she stops a moment, actually composing herself, “my mom.”
I suppose that deserves a bit of exposition. Liz’s mother and father split up two years ago. They didn’t hate each other. They just “didn’t love each other anymore”. Or, more precisely, he didn’t love her anymore.
Her mother wasn’t the same. She tried her hardest to keep living life normally, but she just gave up. Eventually, it was literal. She overdosed on a mixture of painkillers and vodka. Just like in the movies.
I know what you’re thinking. And no, she didn’t die. That would turn out to be a whole 'nother mess. Liz came home and saw her mother lying there. And she freaked out. Instead of calling an ambulance or anyone at all who could have helped, she phoned me. That was the most trying experience I've ever faced. Liz saw that night as the loss of her mother even after she did pass away.
“I... I miss her,” she gives me a weak smile. Probably the closest I’ve seen her to being weak then that night. Two old friends, perhaps. But two old friends with hidden emotions. We’re probably the two closest people on the planet, but... at the same time, we’re not. Friendship’s funny that way.
Love’s funny that way.
Her eyes look into mine and for a moment, I feel weak. Not because she’s better or more important. Because I can’t always help her.
Because, in the end, you can’t save everyone.
Love takes off masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within.
James Arthur Baldwin