Surprise Contact

I stood on the tiny platform last evening waiting for the train to take me to New York. My Goddaughter texted with reckless abandon on her lime green cell phone while my uncle spoke about a frustrating job search. On the tip of my left index finger, I held a drying contact lens.

The story begins the previous Wednesday evening in my bathroom of many vanities. I was already late for my meeting with Justin, a young man I hadn't seen since I had been in the seminary some eight years prior. I stood like a statue in that bathroom because the right contact I had attempted to put in my eye caromed first off my eyelash and then off the side of my reflexive left hand. It fell into oblivion, completely transparent against whichever surface on which it had landed. After combing the bath mat and running my hand across both the sink and tile, I decided on a course of action. I leapt onto the hardwood floor in the hallway and grabbed the flashlight with the hope that reflection might offer some clue as to its whereabouts. The search continued for at least 10 minutes during which time I sullied my recently showered self by crawling across the bathroom floor. After those ten minutes, I admitted defeat and grabbed my glasses.

I dressed and reentered the bathroom to brush my teeth. There on one of the many vanities the listless contact rested, weary from its battle with my lashes. I cleaned it, despectacled myself, and quickly set the contacts in my eyes.

At the conclusion of that enjoyable evening, I returned to the apartment and - at least I thought - removed both contacts, cleaned them, and placed them delicately and deliberately in their respective carriers. Soon after, as a result of both my sleepiness and a couple excellent tequila drinks I had imbibed earlier, I fell fast asleep.

Fast forward to yesterday, Saturday, October 2nd. I had the opportunity to spend my actual birthday with my family for the first time in 8 years. They bought for me tickets to attend the UCONN - Vanderbilt game, which UCONN proceeded to win in convincing fashion. Sometime just before the second quarter, I rubbed my eye lightly and noticed it went blurry. A result of the beer I had drunk while tailgating coupled with being tired, I decided. And I thought nothing more of it for the remainder of that day - though I thought the persistance of the blurriness, as well as the resultant migraine, odd...

Until I removed the not-so-moist contact and stood on the tiny platform with it clinging to my index finger.

As the train arrived at the tiny station, I wondered how to store the contact. I considered placing it in the three quarters full water bottle my aunt had sent with me on my return trip. But that seemed inadequate and risky. I considered holding it the entire ride back to the city, but I figured it would, given time, simply drop into the disgusting void that is the floor of a MetroNorth train. I took my seat aboard the train with no good solution. Being tired and out of ideas, I inserted the contact into one of the pockets of my wallet, understanding full well that I was destroying the only left contact I had.

The doctor had given me two left contacts to try, along with a right one. He had explained that the contact in the left eye had a weight that adjusted to my eye to address that eye's astigmatism. And it wasn't an exact science to design a contact for an eye with astigmatism. The problem was I had already lost that other contact, which meant that the one in my wallet was the last left contact I had until I could return to the optometrist.

I slept most of the way back and arrived at the apartment late that night. I unpacked and started recharging the myriad technical devices in my care. Only when I extracted my wallet from my jeans did I remember that a sad contact sat within its confines. I pulled the hard and creased disc from the wallet, and I somberly carried it in my outstretched left hand to the bathroom of many vanities where I would attempt - though most assuredly fail - to resurrect it with the Opti-Free Contact Cleanser. I opened the right side of the contact case to see a contact floating therein. I then unscrewed the left side expecting to see the ripple of clear liquid. And I did. Except that I saw a contact listing in the ripples. So, that meant I had removed the contacts I had worn that previous Wednesday night.

That's when I realized the story had actually begun on September 15th. I sat in a small room in Seattle, the night before I was to travel east. I had just spoken to my grandfather, who had reluctantly informed me that Buddy, my dog, had run away nearly 36 hours earlier. I sat at the small desk, shell-shocked by the news. I hadn't noticed the tears until they had moistened my goatee. Being the pragmatist I am, I had suddenly realized that such emotional catharsis could put my contacts at risk. Normally, I wouldn't have been wearing my contacts, but I had just had a follow-up appointment with my optometrist to check on the efficacy of the contact lenses. So, I retrieved the lens case and extracted the right lens. I then pulled at my left eye. The tears continued to flow as I tried, in vain, to pluck the lens from my eye. At a certain point, I realized that the left eye had lost focus. But the lens was not on my finger. After an unsuccessful search, I had concluded that the lens was lost...

Until that moment when I stared with bewilderment at the contact in the left side of the contact lens holder.

It's Personal: The More Things Change...

I've been quiet. Too quiet...

I've posted but one entry in the month of September. And only 50 all year on this, the 273rd day. I wish I could say that my journal had seen more fanciful swooshes with a pen, but alas it is as sparsely populated as this blog.

Where have I been? There and back and there and back and there and back again. Flying across the United States on Delta or Continental or Midwest earning magical miles that might serve me well on some future vacation to God knows where. In Connecticut. In New York. In Seattle. With stops in San Francisco, Las Vegas, Salt Lake City, Denver, Cincinnati, Atlanta, Minneapolis, and a host of other American cities.

I've learned to become a renter again. The myriad keys jingle jangle on their respective rings. A key for the top lock. One for the bottom. A key for the mailbox. One for the front door. Another for the laundry. I've not yet received the one that will unlock my frazzled mind.

And I've learned how to rent a property. Ants that might be of the carpenter variety. The final water bill listing more than a grand in owed debt, which made me think either the house had hit an iceberg or there was some kind of mistake. It happened to be the latter, though I wonder if I'd be covered if it were the former.

I've relegated myself to dog loving status rather than dog owning. Alas, Buddy is no longer mine. After an 'incident' with a slow moving car, Buddy went primal and high-tailed it at what neighbors described as 'mach 1' to some remote part of Milford, a good two miles away from the grandparents' house. By the grace of God, a woman saw the missing dog poster and called to let us know she had contacted the local shelter. Buddy returned home shaken and a bit scratched around the edges but otherwise fine. Still, I knew I needed to find him a good home. It just so happened that my grandparents' neighbors had lost their dog of 13 years this past year, and they also just so happened to adore Buddy. Well, the decision was easy enough. They, with their fenced yard and two daughters, now have a puppy with whom they can play.

I also find myself, for the first time since I was in the seminary, without a car. Who needs a car in New York anyway with subways, planes, trains, buses, and taxis aplenty. The 2006 Subaru Forester will now carry my parents through thick and thin, especially on their hilly roads in the midst of ice and snow.

I can count a new job and new boss, though I wisely choose to say no more about work within this blog.

And I've begun to move along in those more personal aspects, which will also remain deep within the recesses of the journals I keep.

I have reconnected with family. A niece who, when last I saw her, decided to bring to me penguins and monkeys and phones and bears from her pile of toys. A mother who has returned from the swamps of Florida to battle the soon-to-be-frigid northeast. The old man, who battles with some mysterious and some not so mysterious ailments, all the while cheering that the Red Sox will not be in the playoffs this year. An uncle who has, through remarkable will power, lost so much weight that some don't even recognize him. A brother who works and coaches and sleeps and eats... and who is one of the most devoted fathers I've met. And the list goes on...

And the beat goes on...

A lot of change. And with that change, I give to you yet another look for 'A Life in Days'. I'm somewhere in the top right of that picture... I think. New York is a big town, after all. Everything close is either on your doorstep or a 20 minute walk. Otherwise, it's a $2.25 subway ride away. Unless you're going to Newark International, in which case you want to catch the NJ Transit train from Penn Station for a mere $15.

The night grows long. The bed awaits my precious slumber that I might rise early to get to Grand Central for to journey to the outer reaches of Connecticut. There awaits a game in which the real Huskies have the chance to overcome 'Mr. C' and his brother (and sister) Commodores.

Until next I write...

3WW (Demure, Offend, Volatile): Stupid Is...

‘I don’t mean to offend…’ John didn’t finish the sentence.

‘Well, you have. Good night, sir,’ the butler said curtly and shut the door with assertive finality.

John stared at the lion knocker attached to the ornate white door and considered his options for reentry. He would not allow an arrogant butler and an overly sensitive young woman ruin his shot at redemption.

He knocked, loudly. The butler answered discourteously, ‘Have you no concept of the negative?’

‘What?’

In vernacular common to those raped by your kind, no means no. Good night, sir.
John anticipated the next move and wedged his right foot into the center of the door. The adrenaline dulled the pain he felt from his old football injury.

‘Good God, sir. What do you think you’re doing?’

‘I’m coming in,’ he growled. ‘Move!’

The butler attempted to push the door, but his strength paled in comparison. John leaned back to his left and catapulted his upper body at the middle section of the door. The butler reeled backwards and hit a mahogany table sending the kaleidoscopic glass piece crashing to the bamboo floor. John stood over the middle aged man as if the victor of some ancient battle.

John did not make eye contact with the butler. ‘Just tell me where he is. You know I know this house. And I’ll tear it apart to find him.’

Obviously distressed and suddenly demure, the butler spoke in whispering tones, ‘the master of the house is in the bedroom.’

‘Thanks,’ he said under his breath, remembering the manners his mother had hammered into him.

He climbed the stairs, unsure of his next move. He never really thought about next moves; he simply made them.

At the top of the stairs stood the young woman.

‘He doesn’t want to see you,’ she attempted to say with attitude. She couldn’t hide her fear.

‘Listen, tramp, if I want your opinion, you’ll give it to me.’ He wasn’t particularly adept at delivering the one-liner.

She stepped back as he approached the top stair.

‘Look, bitch, are you gonna try to do somethin? If not, get the hell outta the way.’

The only motion she made was backing up against the wall.

He didn’t knock. When he entered he saw the giant of a man in his specially crafted wing-backed auburn chair. His hair was grayer than he remembered. His jowls had begun to sag like misshapen breasts. His eyes were closed.

‘Hello, John’ he bellowed.

It was the only voice that could give John pause.

‘You are a volatile prick now aren’t you? I’ve asked not to be bothered, but you obviously have something pressing to share.’ He kept his eyes shut.

John said nothing; he couldn’t think of anything to say. He had never practiced the lines in his head. In fact, he had never imagined this day would come. He had assumed death would come first.

‘ Look, son, you have about five minutes before my security detail comes up here and breaks your legs. I’ve personally asked them to wait at the front door for that long to give you the chance to talk, shoot, or do whatever else you came to do. But if I know you at all, I’d imagine you’re wondering what the hell to do next.’ The old man paused. His voice became suddenly soft, but no less commanding. ‘You’re not that bright of a guy, John. So, let me save you some of your precious brain power. The woman I killed wasn’t your mother. She treated you like a son, but she wasn’t your mother. And I’m not your father. It’s embarrassing enough that you’re related to me in some sense, but at least it’s not by me inseminating another woman. Let me put it straight, John. You’re a mistake, a science experiment gone wrong. I cloned myself; you’re the result. And you’ve been a pain in my ass ever since. A thoughtless, useless bastard. Well, I think it’s time I declare the experiment concluded.’ His eyelids parted to reveal fierce pale blue eyes. ‘Times up…’

The old man stared into the eyes of the head of his security detail. John had disappeared.

‘Find him,’ the old man ordered.

Sunday Scribblings (Dangerous): Remembering and Forgetting

He smiled at the waitress as he departed. A cute girl. No more than twenty, he guessed, with her blonde ponytail reaching the center of her back. She was studying biology, wanted to become an endocrinologist. Whatever that happens to be. He remembered a time when he could woo a girl like her with his irresistible charm. Alas, that charm had dwindled with age. Now, young girls simply felt sorry for who they considered to be a man well past his prime. They smiled at him, certainly, for he was kind. But the smiles were as limpid as he. They were but the shadows of erotic glimpses that women once stole.

He stepped from the diner, noticed the street lamps flicker and thought of Memory. The tune played in his head; he could remember only the first line. He passed in front of a Rite Aid. In the doorway laid a black man in his sleeping bag. There were newspapers strewn about; he recognized the Sunday Funnies from a few weeks back. The latest Cathy. He read somewhere that Cathy would end soon.

He found himself on a street alone in the city. Not where anyone wants to be. Towards him walked a band of strange young men, their hats turned sideways and their pants falling from their respective waists. They shouted obscenities at no one in particular, mock fought along the sidewalk as he passed. He felt their glares but made certain to avoid eye contact.

He retrieved the key from his pocket and unlocked the door. The smell of something rotten wafted from the apartment. He checked the refrigerator but found nothing. Upon further inspection, he knew the trash to be the culprit. He carried the trash to the proper receptacle and returned to his apartment for the evening. The television kept him company as he dozed. Memories of his ex blossomed in his mind; he half dreamt of lost children and broken promises. He awoke to find himself drooling on an ochre couch pillow. The bed called him, and he complied. A too large king bed with seven pillows of differing shades.

He listened for the sound of his ex snoring but heard only the central air. The bed proved too large. He moved to the leather couch with a sheet and a single pillow. Television didn’t help his cause. He clicked the power button after a time and the room went dark, apart from the lone street lamp that shone through his window. He stared at the barren room and wondered how he’d recover this time. He then had another thought he’d never contemplated. What if it all ended? What if he didn’t have to worry about lost children and empty beds any more? But the thought automatically gave way to another. ‘Danger, Will Robinson,’ he repeated to himself. It saved him for another night as he finally dozed into thoughtless oblivion.

Sunday Scribblings: View from Inside

I see a row of cars, their license plates opalescent from the tawny street lights. A tree that could be maple covers the dully illuminated sign indicating my temporary residence. Cars criss-cross the newly repaved junction; they become fewer and fewer as the night progresses. The towering building across the street sits idly; there are no signs of life in the pale marbled lobby.

I feel better now with the three alit lamps sporting their energy saving bulbs. The air conditioner rumbles and squawks noisily. The clock reads 12:09 a.m. The hallway has long since quieted; I no longer hear flip-flopping footsteps pounding along the corridor. The door knocking enjoyed by what I can only imagine are middle school aged brats seems to have dwindled to Doppler Effect giggling that may belong either to a budding young female or a yet budded young man.

I must admit a sense of loneliness in this singular room. The regularly sized bed acts as the centerpiece around which all the other furniture fits. It is flanked by faux wood end tables upon which sit what I can only call ribbed cylindrical lamps that have most likely never actually been in style during any decade. Opposite the bed is a long unattractive bureau that resembles the end tables. Upon it sits a rectangularly ribbed lamp and a television that I cannot watch. Adjacent to the bureau is what passes for a kitchen: a miniature black refrigerator and a microwave that I never use. I stare at the lemon yellow rectangle on the wall, a reminder of the mirror that I shattered for fear of seeing more than I could bear.

The staff does not ask questions. Pay enough money, and you never have to worry about questions. They simply place the trays of food for breakfast, lunch, and dinner at my door. And then they retrieve said trays like clockwork. Each week, I place the laundry bag outside the door; I find freshly laundered clothing awaiting me when I open the door later in the evening. If I need any toiletries or clothing, I simply make a list. They dutifully obtain and bestow.

It has been two years to the day since I stepped foot from this hotel room. Within the first three months, I contemplated multiple methods of suicide. I could jump, but a fall from the third story wouldn't kill me unless I dove head first. And I can't willingly dive head first. Drowning in the bathtub seemed overly difficult. They serve only butter knives even when they bring steak. Electrocution could work, but it freaks me out too much. So, after the third month, I decided to blind myself. Except I can't even get contacts because I'm afraid of touching my eyes. Suffice it to say, that didn't work either. I had to find another obsession.

I started peaking out the window at passersby, playing 'chicken' in a way. I'd stare long enough to see if people actually noticed. There are those who seem to have that sixth sense. And if they attempted to steal a glance, they'd see only a lightly swaying curtain where my eyes had been. Yes, it has come close a number of times, but I've been careful never to let it happen again. Not after what I did.

I was visiting for work from the east coast. I had just had dinner with a friend and walked to the bus stop to wait for the bus that would take me back to the hotel. At the bus stop was a young couple who didn't seem to speak much English. We exchanged smiles and waited. We three heard a man approach; he had the look of a vagrant. He started to yell, which seemed to scare the couple a bit. I glanced back at him disgustedly, but that encouraged him to yell all the more loudly. He got closer to the couple. When he turned towards me, he looked into my eyes. At that moment, I silently wished him dead. Except it was somehow conveyed to him as an order he could not disobey. I watched as he lost control of his body and fell to the ground writhing in momentary agony. Within two minutes, his body ceased all movement. All at once, the bus arrived, the woman screamed, and the vagrant breathed his last.

I have looked not one person in the eye since.