Is there a proper ending to this All? For Henry, it is more about the saying of Sorry ... or the realization of it, methinks.
One train of thought is that this All was a certain amount of conversation with himself - The "You" that was inside of his head throughout, despite the continuation of secrecy and aliases.
Ultimately, it is for little "you" to disagree or enjoy (perhaps both).
One train of thought is that this All was a certain amount of conversation with himself - The "You" that was inside of his head throughout, despite the continuation of secrecy and aliases.
Ultimately, it is for little "you" to disagree or enjoy (perhaps both).
The picture below is of me and our wonderful family
(I'm the one lurking on the far left).
Chapter 31: Spain. Ottawa. An Ending.
To the motioning of final morning, a skip of shower in order to pack the remains of what was into a knapsack. To the tiny elevator taken within bad breath. To the tiny Toyota approached and 4-door clicked and opened. To the Off ramp ridden at a very high rate of speed. To the airport quite willing to let us ciggie smoke; to the weather not the matter but nonetheless clear and of the azure variety of sky. “It was not anyone’s fault.” Sure sure, I gave my blushing divorcée by way of sitting down and having the option of peering out the rounded window of aeroplane leaping off tarmac. No further thing from her but curl and soon snooze. And I could perhaps very well lie and believe myself and You a lengthy rigmarole devoid of the for real hugs applying Eduardo’s cologne, Francesca’s fragrance to my dirty neck. Suggest that Norman was not his Psycho mother.
“This wasn’t too bad,” a raven-haired host had given and thus squeezed me into near acceptance, towards a thought before flight. Not at all, left my then and there lips and grazed her left earring. “You have to believe me,” and perhaps I finally did, maybe do. Perhaps the paranoia is but a dream and this conversation with You has never really happened, that I be free enough to forget the dumb connect to Valencia’s big Gulliver tethered to that diminishing of Spanish soil below contrail.
If not for a gold Fallas button clipped to scrap of paper flipped over and over in my Now hand; the black of blouson, the checker of a pañuelo folded and stuffed into my tiny Cooper Street closet.
These be the things that prevent me.
These be some of the What that makes up the silence of the return, the sleepy bickering on the Paris shuttle. The stutter that was a bar stool at certain Oak the very next many day. The beginning of the explain behind the punching in of an alarm code corresponding to a second-generation Armenian’s marriage anniversary. “Thank you and sorry for the multiple apologies,” the last of my Spanish give to a collective couple of left hands gold-ringed for life. Fantastic. Próxima parada Paris.
And I very almost reached over, woke X up in case she had forgotten what to do when faced with in-flight emergency, maybe perhaps cared for one last crack at rousing that there great big Gulliver; she rubbed an eyebrow with her left hand, and You’ll know some of the rest just as soon enough as I fast-forward from Fonzie to my right of not talking about it; sitting at the end of his wood and observing the degree of hugging and groping that occurs amongst fellow restaurant staff, our industry of sketchy cooks and nubile servers, the adjectives that we were, are.
As I opened my mouth, could not tell him about You. “I’ve had a thing for asses ever since,” I did bring up Spain, sipped my new girlfriend and left out the part about getting off a final Air France in Montreal without having ever gone to sleep. Eastern Standard Time and a bus ride down Quebec Highway 20, Ontario 417: their blue Off ramp signs, ours of a green that let one exit and shepherd a way to the eventual lights of my Ottawa.
The almost secret steal of romance before that Greyhound pulled into the bus terminal. “Wake up, honey, we’re here.” The not so far taxi ride home together, into the further removed from Spain.
“It’s weird. I’m 33 and I’ve never really appreciated the shape of the ass so much.” So Fonzie he smoked, and listened to this say of mine out the back door of his Royal Oak as I contemplated shaving my head and donning a toque ripped of its pom pom. Still that same iffy month of March within the Jesus Years.
-
She and her layered fuchsia lipstick in the back of an Ottawa cab with the yellow of paint, black of pinstripe. Bank Street, or Elgin. Whatever.
Fonzie still without his real name; an Ef walking the somewhere streets of the Lower Mainland while others continue to fit the basic description of a rerun cartoon. “You’re still not gonna take a hit off this, are ya?” Because this bummed ciggie be quite fine enough; I refuse his Mary, smoke nicotine for thought in the present back alley behind my neighbourhood Oak. Sway back inside to the glow of the very real people I have still to invent.
And this is the really exciting part where I talk of my father.
Finish off situation brother Clay, and state the fact that the Fonz is there if I ever done need him to deflect away from stating the truth. I could lie, but I definitely do not need contractions to hide the fact of not speaking out loud about my mother and or certain ex-girlfriend. This is me talking; the contrast, and this time of Now outside the Jesus Years. Next to Fallas happening once the more. Continuing towards reconciliation, and the soon to happen phone calls that will end with promises of tomorrow beyond that last good kiss bye - my want for her to be have been awake, to be the one person I told more of this entire to than You.
And this is where I say that I am so very sorry - the ending is not to come nor could be in any way given away even if so wished.
This one be for some other to take for a walk down the middle of Bank Street now that the snow is mostly fully gone and all the hidden goodies have begun to appear themselves to we the Centretown heroes. To grab a tasty burger from that place I may or may not have mentioned next to the Oak and have a sit on the corner at MacLaren - wait for me to walk on by, for it shan't be long, and follow me forward without a word. It’s Ok, it’s not as if we will necessarily know each other.
I could very well hold open a heavy oak door, maybe perhaps even accept a handshake in exchange for a ciggie o-mine. It’s alright, and in the air as to whether or not to feel comfortable watching Betty blue dress step under the arch into the first room and have a stool beside the me, possible more. To just hear her, enjoy a pleasant evening blessed with the prior knowledge that this will be my life for the foreseeable, all to be of course remembered to varying degrees of accuracy. A smile or snicker when Betty maybe raises her voice and leaves just then before the when short Barney strolls or friend Fred drives in from the burbs to join this imaginary party that most surely will happen.
Flexibility need be only on the exact date of this wondrous All to be or not to be, for this may or may not involve a few tasty burgers purchased, a few Now warmer sits waiting on that corner of Bank and MacLaren. And still, I will not know person that it be there on near stool amongst certain blend that is the Royal Oak. Whether for the better that they never actually meet me and compare notes on evil, thoughts construed into compassion for iffy dialogue in the Now month of March.
Trust me, I say and wave in front of my face, incapable of seeing You and all.
Enter some plausible words here, I wish of others in the Now. To listen and then begin to tell without question marks what must be on the wanting mind of say to me now that I am cured, a standing member of the Parliament Club.
With X safely walking the streets of my Centretown.
With Betty blue dress denying me her God sandwich, withholding me information on the sly. Sure enough, I’ll give, with the alarm code to the High School Bar and Grill playing the role of the What on my mind one year-plus withdrawn from TV, the beautiful cinematic performances of this world.
And X’s name will never more than once or thrice most probably come up. And I will walk home through the mix that be the change of season, the vanilla chocolate lampposts that line Somerset, Moses going through the city’s garbage at whatever-in-that-evening: the smell of his girlfriend on his lips, the bouquet of my new girlfriend on mine. I suspect it will be quite wonderful.
When it occurs to me who killed the Kennedys’ chances of letting go of the past, why Teddy drinks while my tiny world involves when perhaps the phone call from Ef will arrive via the outreaches of Vancouver; as his advice and the reality of a set of keys courtesy the flip of a late night coin seep into my wanting ear. As I suppose whether or not to finally dial him up to properly round out this stretch that is childish.
As her real name is whispered by this spot in the road, others perhaps already knowing the full christian behind my specific letter for her and the invisible hem towards the loss of well-crafted television crime dramas that involve the legal process; the longing for a Sunday afternoon Subtitle that more than compensates for the lack of lumbar support that passes for old theatre charm - my membership to the Bytowne Cinema no longer be valid, but is walked past in the occasional foray down the beggars of Rideau Street and other locations that I just up and assume that others will have the familiarity to picture in their head for me, possess the peer of sight for some creativity towards famous helpings in the say of “It wasn’t all bad.” Not at all, leaves my Now lips and ponders a knowing ear squat all lotus and patient on the melting corner of Bank and MacLaren, near odour and the promise of greatness, sweet aroma. Me.
“Snap out of it, Hen.” Give me a taste, I return towards the Fonz in the universal gesture of finger-rolled spliff. We be out back by the regular dumpster and leaving others to hang ass on the concrete corner the while, waiting for the imaginary that is mine. The future. Just give me a taste, I importune to that person I’ve named Fonzie and then pause, gaze up into brain for thought. Accept his instead ciggie offered, because I absolutely believe every of a thing that a bartender does tells me. Fair enough, I decide to continue inhaling nicotine, rubbing the long shirt sleeves for warmth in the month of March, Centretown, Ottawa. The begin of somewhere firecrackers spelled all different in the distant Right of swim across an Atlantic; fresh graffiti in my hometown washroom courtesy me.
Hen says Sorry, put in the scribble of understand, as I made love to the past and never looked back.
Somehow ... this sums up my good-bye.
*
I will be posting an epilogue soon; a final say of thoughts and feelings as to 'The Jesus Years' and the future ramblings to come from youmeandthegatepost.
Many thanks, and yes, The Jesus Years love you.
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