It’s been three years. I’ve had four different jobs, lived in five different places, done a million different things. It’s been three years. Monica still lives in the same apartment. I stand outside her door five minutes, thinking and rethinking my actions. I can hear a television inside. Finally, I push aside the second-guesses and rap sharply on her door. What am I doing here?
“Who is it?” calls her musical voice from within.
Pause. “It’s... It’s Rubin Valentine.”
Longer pause. “Hold... Hold on.” Longest pause yet. Door unlocks and opens.
It’s like a scene in a movie, with the light accenting every perfect feature: big blue eyes, smooth cheeks, long blonde hair, full lips half open to reveal teeth the color of milk. I’ve remembered her like this for three years and thought it was confabulation. She looks like an angel.
“Rubin, what... What are you doing here?”
“I’ve been asked a lot of questions this week, and that’s the best one so far.” I can’t read the emotion in her eyes. “Can I come in? I really need to talk to you.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“I don’t do very much that is a good idea.”
She sighs in defeat and steps out of the way to permit me entrance. I have a hard time looking her in the eyes as I pass. I had a feeling nothing would be changed, the setup of the room would be untouched, but alas, she's rearranged. The old couch Dr. Filth and I collected from curb-side was gone, replaced by a newer model without the worn arm-rests or disgusting floral print. It’s facing the same 13-inch television though. The room may have a different look, but it feels the same. Simple and innocent living, a good Christian martyr.
“How have you been?” I ask, sitting in the blue rocking chair that had been her only furnishing when I knew her. It’s rickety and off-balance, but familiar. I feel comfortable in this chair. I have at least one ally.
“You cut your hair,” she says.
I touch my pompadour, stiff with grease. “Whole new me,” I say. “Still working at the vending place, I hear.” I fold my hands in front of me like I’m praying.
She just nods.
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately, a lot of soul-searching.”
“Rubin Valentine has a soul?” Monica asks sarcastically. “Careful, that would imply there is something beyond what you can see.”
“Figure of speech,” I manage to get my eyes to her face at last. “Do you remember my friend, Tommy Guilt? I think you met him once or twice. Real skinny, real stupid?”
She nods, slowly at first, but then more assured. “The one with the cocaine problem? How is he?”
“He killed himself last week,” I say, pausing for the shock to register.
“Oh my god, Rubin, I’m sorry.”
I wave her words away. “Everyone is sorry, I’m not really looking for that. What I want is for none of this to have ever happened.”
“What, with Tommy?”
“With everything. You know how people say they would do it all over again? Well, I wouldn’t. II would try hard in school, go to college, get a career, and been married long ago. Squirt out some pups right away.” I stand up and start to pace. “You know, do things right. I’ve lived on the edge of a knife for so long, and what do I have to show for? Not a damn thing. It shows the value of the status quo. They beat you in the end.” All this shit that’s been turning over in my head, she could have given it to me, could have been my second chance.
“Rubin, what are you talking about?”
“Nothing,” I snap. “Everything. I don’t know.” I circle back around the chair and sit down. “Are you seeing anybody?”
There is hate in Monica’s smile. “Come on out and say what you mean. Have I fucked anyone else?” She gets up and begins pacing herself. “There have been no other men since you bet a co-worker you’d be the one to wrestle my virtue away from me. I’ve seen people here and there, but I guess you left me with... with a... lack of trust. Hope you understand. So anyway, what did you spend that ten bucks on?”
I had been hoping at least the final detail had escaped her. I probably spent the money on booze. “I’ve done a lot of bad things in my time, you were far from the first.”
“That’s so reassuring,” she says, her voice dripping with venom.
“Imagine how I feel.”
“So tell me, Rubin, has there been anyone else with you?”
I tilt my head thoughtfully. “Not really.”
“Not really? Does that make us a major item?”
I’ve left this poor girl bitter and sarcastic. Maybe this Monica could have a future with me. I wonder if she still clutches that Jesus conviction. “I’m a different person than I was, Monica. I assume you find that hard to believe, but it’s true.”
“You know what happens when you assume.” With a flick of the wrist, she snatches the TV remote off the coffee table and falls backward onto the couch. “Rubin, I’ve done fine in my pathetic life without you coming back for soul searching. As much as I’m sure you’re convinced, you didn’t ruin my life. I haven’t been suffering through the last few years, thinking you’re every knock on the door, or every telephone ring. I’m doing just fine.” She points the remote a the television, but it doesn’t turn on.
“At least look at me,” I say. I’ve harbored an image of Monica whiling away her days, attempting to maintain some level of normalcy, always on the brink of tears, trying to make sense of this terrible thing I did to her. “I think about you every day. Not like love, or obsession, but you always cross my mind. ‘What is Monica doing right now? What has she done with herself?’ I can feel your tears and hear your dreams and your sobbing answering machine messages in my head. I think about how I stood there listening to them, sometimes laughing, sometimes just pressing ‘stop’ when I didn’t want to hear any more.” I lean back to get her expression on this revelation, but it remains unchanged. “That's my albatross. Sometimes, I just lay awake at night and want to cry, convinced that if I could, everything would be better.”
“But it never is better, is it?” A scalpel goes right through all my armor to my heart. I’m struck silent. All I can do is look at her. “What have I done with myself? I moved on, got on with my life. What was Monica doing right then? It sure as hell wasn’t thinking about Rubin Valentine.”
“You became a liar.” She takes in a short breath with her nose and I brace for a retort. I don't let go of her with my eyes. “You front you're so unaffected. This isn't about who got beat.” I lick at the grit on my teeth under my lips. “I don’t care if you hate me, Monica. Even that'll give me the closure I’m looking for. You can hate me with no end, and I’ll deserve it, but at least be honest with me.”
She looks away and sobs. “I do hate you, Rubin. I hate you so much it hurts.” She turns her back to me and sobs again. “I have tried so hard to let that go. I can't understand why you'd do that to me. Did I deserve that? Because of my stupid convictions?” In a moment, she banishes the tears and turns back to me, her puffy eyes full of rage. “Maybe I was too trusting, maybe I was too innocent. Maybe it was all my fault. Maybe I should be thanking you for showing me the truth. Maybe, maybe, maybe, but I’m not going to. Every time you cross my mind, I’m filled with a blinding rage. I want to find you and scream at you. I want to shake you and demand that you tell me why you thought it was all right to do that to me.” She leans forward menacingly. “Tell me, Rubin, what did I do?”
I shake my head and twist my lips. “Is that one thing you haven’t learned, Monica, after all this time?” I ask, hands spread before me. “Not everything is based on whether or not you deserve it. I chose you because I could do that to you, not for any other reason. I did what I did because... I felt like it.”
This makes her sob again.
“Look, I didn’t come here for forgiveness. I’ve got a ride out west, Arizona. I’m taking off. I’m going to see the desert again. Maybe visit my friends in Seattle again. I just want to tie up some loose ends before I go.” I stand up. “I’m sorry, Monica, I hope some day you can forgive me.” She doesn’t look at me as I go to the door. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“Rubin?” she says, not looking up as I turn the doorknob. I wait expectantly as she sniffles and finally, “Fuck you.” Then she fades before my eyes like she was never there. I stare at the spot a moment and walk out the door.
A cold rain is starting. It feels good. I'm sweaty and gross, and the drops leave track marks in three days worth of grime, stress and thought. By the time I get to my car, I’m laughing out loud. There is a drought again this year, and this rain will be welcomed. It’s beading up on my windshield. I’m feeling open.
I’m thinking about Tommy, Monica, everyone, everything, and I’m laughing like a madman. In the rear view mirror the apartment building fades from view just like Monica. The road is long ahead of me, and tomorrow, I’ll be singing while I drive.
END
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