"WISHING FOR AN EDGE OF THE WORLD"

by Jamie S. Rich

There was a brittle clump of paper at the bottom of my pocket — a wad of receipts, gum wrappers, and God knows what else that had gone through the washing machine and become one crusty mess. I pulled it out and pressed it between my thumb and forefinger. The paper snapped in half and fell away from me, emitting a small cloud of blue dust as it dropped.

I had been stood up. Not by a date or anything, but my friend, Jerry. We were supposed to hit the clubs. I waited on the curb outside of my apartment for forty-five minutes, and there wasn't even a trace of his shitty, blue Malibu. So, I got fed up, and I left. See how he liked it.

It was a nice night out, actually. There was a vague layer of clouds over the sky. The air had a refreshing briskness to it that made my face tingle as I walked. I had lost my urge to dance in the long wait and slow burn of anger, so I figured I'd head down to one of the neighborhood bars to lift myself with spirits.

My favorite bar (and current destination) was a place called Transience. Sadly, it was getting less enlightening due to its growing popularity. This evening was particularly crowded, and I was unsure if I would even get through the door. I squeezed my way in, through the thick smoke and stitched-together bodies. I hovered around the bar until I saw an opening, and then slid in, taking a seat between some guy with bad hair transplants and what could have been a transvestite. I ordered a Midori sour and settled in.

I could see the entire room reflected in the mirror behind the bar. There was a compact-disc jukebox near the bathrooms, but its music paled in comparison to the symphony of voices spontaneously erupting from the crowd. I couldn't hear the individual conversations, but I could see them in the faces of the people in the mirror. I could tell the man with the hooked nose and kinky hair was chatting up the blonde with black roots. I could see that the Asian boy with eyeliner was having a fight with the older gentleman with the salt-and-pepper beard. And the mousy fellow in the Bugs Bunny tie, who was standing by himself next to a fake palm tree, had been abandoned by his girlfriend — the one who bought him the ridiculous tie and made him wear it — for some reason he didn't like too much. I could tell by his silence. And the neckwear, of course.

I thought of Jerry out there in the city by himself. Hopefully he was double-parked, pleading into my answering machine via the front-door intercom for me to forgive him and come out and play. I toasted myself in the mirror, wished Jerry a miserable time, and drank.

"Oh, my Christ!"

The man with the false hair was jumping out of his seat. His implants and jacket were soaked, and he was swatting at the back of his head. He looked like he was trying to shoo away a bug.

"What in the hell do you think you are doing?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. I swear somebody bumped me. I —"

There was a girl standing behind him, reaching out and almost touching him, but stopping short, as if she didn't know if she should or really wanted to. She was tall and thin and was wearing a sheer shirt that let her bellybutton peek out from just underneath. Her hair was a cross between auburn and cranberry and was combed down stylishly. She looked like the tasty middle of a very good dream . . .

. . . and she was apologizing and ingratiating herself to this horrible man. The injustice of it was immediately staggering.

"You what? What?!"

"I'm a horrible klutz. This is truly evil of me. I'm sorry."

"Damn well better be."

She finally touched him, placing a slender hand on his shoulder.

"I am sorry," she said. "It shouldn't be that bad, though. You should be able to clean yourself right up in the bathroom."

She looked straight at him when she spoke, straight into his eyes. He stopped fiddling around and looked back at her. His whole body settled. "You're right," he said. "No big deal, really." He chuckled a small chuckle, nodded to her, and, placated, he disappeared into the crowd, probably forgetting everything except for the depth of her eyes.

The girl sat down on his stool. The bartender came over, and she ordered. "Another Maker's Mark, please. I spilled mine."

She handed him the empty glass, and the bartender took it away.

I watched her in the mirror as she took a packet of cigarettes out of her back pocket. With gliding movements, she pulled one from the pack and placed it in her mouth. Lightly fondling it with her tongue, she looked around the bar.

"Excuse me," she said.

It took me a second before I realized she was speaking to me.

"Yeah?" I said. The word almost got caught in my teeth.

"Do you have a light?" she asked, miming the motion of clicking the wheel of a lighter.

"No," I said. "Don't smoke. Sorry."

"Not your fault. I see some matchbooks over there. Can you reach one for me?"

I looked to my left. There was, indeed, a basket full of matches. I leaned over and grabbed one, and I handed it to her. "Thanks," she said, and hit me with the eyes. A nice green. Like my Midori. Looking straight into me.

I turned away. I was scared I might be blushing.

She blew out a puff of smoke and settled onto the bar with a sigh. The bartender returned with her drink. She pulled a few crumpled bills from the front pocket of her white jeans. "What's your name?" she asked him.

"Robert."

"Thanks, Robert. I like you."

She took a drink and looked in the mirror, slightly craning her neck to see something behind us, off to the right. She chewed on her top lip and brought her gaze back down, meeting up with mine in the mirror. She caught me staring at her, staring at her reflection. I panicked. "You see that guy back there?" she asked. "The sweaty one in the hiphuggers and small T-shirt?"

"The one smoking the brown cigarette?" Shit — a boyfriend?! I was suddenly afraid I was about to get my ass kicked. 

"Uh-huh. Know him?"

"No, I don't."

"You're lucky."

She turned from the mirror and looked at me directly. I was forced to do the same, which didn't calm me down any.

"He's a jerk," she said. "He's been mean to me all night. But not full out. Some of his friends are here, and he doesn't want to say anything they can hear. He doesn't want to look bad. He wants to make me look bad, so he says things quietly, just for me. Things so he can feel big."

I looked at him again. He was smiling to a passing brunette and adjusting his hair. "That's no good," I said, breathing slightly easier.

"Yeah," she said, "but what's a girl to do? Say, do you know a good place to get brakes done cheap?"

"You mean, like, to kill him?"

She laughed and put her hand on my shoulder. "No, though that might be good. I mean, get brakes fixed. Mine suck. I've got to push the pedal all the way to the floor . . . with both feet."

"I don't drive, so I don't know."

"Don't drive, don't smoke, what do you do?"

"Fiddle about, mostly."

"Subtle innuendo follows . . ."

She took a sip of her drink. "Ugh. You want some?" she asked, holding the whiskey out to me. I looked at it, looked at the slender fingers wrapped around the perspiring glass. On the back of her hand, between her thumb and forefinger, there was a small tattoo of a cat's head with little twinkling stars around it. It reminded me of a cartoon I had watched as a kid, with a little girl witch and her magic cat. They'd fly around on her broom and sprinkle enchanted dust on people. The girl witch wasn't very bright, it was the cat who bailed her out of most of the trouble. I watched it every day. "So, you want any? Just a sip?"

"Why?"

"'Cause. Just take a little."

I took the glass from her hand and took a drink. As it went down, my throat felt like it was being scraped of all its lining. "My God!" I shrieked. "That's strong!"

"I thought so, but I wasn't sure. Figured a guy who likes cute little green drinks would be a good test."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence. I'll stick to my sissy drinks, if you don't mind."

I pushed the glass back to her.

"Don't get sore," she said. "Can't a girl have a laugh?"

"Of course," I said. "Laughter is most becoming on a girl."

The bartender came back around. I ordered another Midori. "You ready for something else?"

"Yeah," she said, "another Maker's Mark with a splash more sour and no cherry."

"And this one's on me," I said.

"What for?"

"For the pleasure of your laugh."

"Thank you."

She lit up another cigarette. I tilted my head to look at the cat tattoo again. It seemed to be winking at me.

"Tell me something," she said. "Why are guys such jerks?"

"Am I to speak from experience?" I asked.

"Oh, no," she said. "Not you. Other guys. I thought maybe you might know some."

"Interesting question. I have an interesting answer, but it will probably sound like I'm taking a sensitive-guy, feminist angle to chat you up."

"I don't want to know it, then."

The bartender returned with our drinks. I paid and tipped handsomely, trying to look generous, but I don't think she noticed. So much for impressing her subtlely.

"I'm just tired of being unhappy, you know?" she said. "From now on, I'm not going to do anything unless it makes me happy."

"Here's to being happy!" I declared, raising my glass. She clinked hers to mine, and we drank.

"You're okay, mister," she said, giving me a light shove. "You've got style."

She held me with those eyes of hers, and even if I was blushing, I couldn't find the courage to turn away. Instead, I gave her a big, drunk smile.

"Have you ever just wanted to take everything you are and put it into something else?" she asked. "So that you could get rid of all this  stuff —" she motioned around us "÷and get on with it?"

"I don't get what you mean."

She stirred the whiskey with a blue straw. "Never you mind."

I took a sip of my drink, drew out a piece of ice with my tongue. I shuffled it around in my mouth, felt its coldness against the back of my teeth. "I think boys are jerks," I said, "for no reason other than they've been allowed to be for so long. It's now become a part of evolution. You can take the man out of the monkey, but you can't take the monkey out of the man. That's why I try not to hang out with guys very much."

"But then," she asked, "who do you hang out with? Girls are worse. They're evil."

"But at least it's a sophisticated evil."

"Like, when I was a girl, I was into Duran Duran —"

"What girl wasn't?"

"But everyone else was positively terrible about it, as if it were a competition and if you could destroy the other Duran fans, Simon would pick you or something. They'd break into my locker and draw mustaches on my pictures and stuff."

"Yeah, but I couldn't even put pictures in my locker. If you were a boy and liked Duran Duran, the thugs would come after you and break your kneecaps. I had to pretend I liked Def Leppard and Judas Priest."

"Judas Priest was the first record I ever owned," she laughed. "Some kid in my apartment complex threw it at me. Like a Frisbee. He was trying to take my head off, but I caught it."

"You caught a record album? Ow!"

"We had a record player in the garage, and I listened to it all the time . . . Sometimes I think my life is that part of the record between the last song and the sticker, where there's nothing, you know?"

"Even though the needle is still looking for sound?"

"Uh-huh."

This time she turned away. I looked at the curve of her long, pale neck, at her downcast eyes, lost somewhere in the hickory stain on the bar. One moment, I was sucked in by the incredible sparks at the center of her eyes, the next I was astounded by the sadness surrounding them. "Hey," I wanted to say, "I hear something. It's not just silence there. There's a special song, a secret groove, and I bet you I can hear it." I wanted to lean over and whisper that in her ear, just for her, not for any of the others around us, something to share between her and me. I wanted to lean close and never separate . . .

. . . But I didn't . . . I couldn't. The bartender was yelling out my name. I had a phone call. I raised my hand. "I'll be right there," I said. I looked at her. She was smiling. "Who could that be?"

"A jealous girlfriend, probably," she said. "You're in trouble now, mister."

"I'll be right back."

"No rush."

I walked over to the side of the bar, and Robert handed me the receiver. "Tell him this isn't a personal phone," he said.

"Gotcha," I answered. I smiled and waited for him to go back to serving drinks. "Who is this?"

"Who do you think, pus-head?"

"Fuck you, Jerry."

"You're so goddamn predictable. Gee, where will the baby go when mommy's back is turned? Hmmm, I wonder."

"Why don't you fuck yourself and save the female population the humiliation?"

"Could you be more witty? Seriously, I'll be there in a bit and pick you up."

"No. No, you won't. I'm not going out with you tonight, Jerry. I can't be bothered."

"Don't act like a twist, man," Jerry whined. "I was a little late. So what?"

"You're always late."

"You should be used to it by now. Why fight what you can't change?"

"Eat shit, Jerry. You're solo tonight. Got me?"

"See you in fifteen."

"No, wai--*"

He hung up. "Bastard." I reached over the bar and put the receiver back in its cradle. I took a deep breath, tried to shake him off, looked over to take a good, long look at her before heading back into it . . .

. . . but she was gone. Two other people had taken our seats. Two frat boys from the look of it. Jerry had done it again. "Cunt motherfucker."

I navigated through the crowd. It was pretty empty back by the jukebox, so I decided maybe I'd hang there and check out the tunes. I had some quarters in my pocket, too, so might as well put them to good use, hopefully hear my selections before I had to leave. People were playing crap like Toni Braxton and stuff from Disney soundtracks, so I thought I'd liven it up with a little Naked Eyes and Stray Cats and The Vapors off of some '80s compilations. To keep in the theme of the evening. I was crouched down, going through my choices, when I heard a small voice behind me. "Who's here?" it asked, and, unbelieving, I stood up to meet it.

She had found me.

"Hi," I said, my voice cracking, startled.

"Never expected to see me again, huh?" she laughed. She was carrying a drink in each hand and a smile on her lips that made the oceans look dull.

"Yeah, seems I can't get rid of you."

"Who was on the phone?"

"Nobody of importance. One of those scientific anomalies."

"Here," she said, holding out one of the glasses. "This is for you."

"Why?"

"My turn."

I took the glass. "Thanks, but this is a Maker's Mark."

"So? Just drink it. It's good for you."

I took a gulp. A shudder ran through me. "Thanks heaps."

"Here, hold mine," she said, handing me her glass. She leaned against the jukebox and lit up a cigarette. She reached out, and I handed her glass back.

I watched her as she surveyed the bar's crowd, her green eyes almost not there. She could have been looking out, she could have been lost somewhere within. It was hard to tell. I took another drink. It caused every inch of my epidermis to shiver simultaneously. When it settled, I felt myself settle, droop slightly, loosen.

"Blank check for your thoughts," I said.

"Nothing . . ." she said. "Just . . . silly stuff."

"I'm sure it's not that silly," I said, taking a spot on the jukebox next to her.

"Pshhhh . . . wait till you hear it."

"I'll lay odds I won't think it's silly."

"I just want to leave. I want to get on a plane and fly and go anywhere. And I want the plane to have big guns so I can take down anybody that gets in my way." She looked at me. There wasn't even the faintest hint of a smile on her face. There was no sparkle in her eyes. "See? Told you."

"You're a poor judge of silliness," I said. "Or, at least, of the value of silliness. Sometimes silly is really damn good and really damn true."

"Ha! Listen to you. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to be smooth with me, mister."

I took another drink. My body accepted it quite naturally. "If I'm blushing, I can't feel it," I said, "but I know I should be."

"Did I find you out?" She smiled and leaned in close, but I couldn't look at her. "Did I discover your dirty secret?"

"No . . . you discovered that maybe I'm not very good at saying what I mean. I mean, I've meant everything I've said, I just think maybe I didn't say it very well."

"You say things just fine, I'm just not very good at listening."

"That doesn't bode well for our future. We'd have nothing but mush-mouthed, deaf kids."

She laughed and took a drag off of her cigarette. "Have you ever noticed that in a lot of his movies, things happen to Peter Sellers, but he doesn't really go out and make them happen, yet they don't hurt him, either?"

I didn't say anything. I finished my drink. The empty glass felt awkward in my hand, like a sweating fish. I closed my eyes. I was experiencing the sensation of a hot washcloth across my face, over my eyelids, and my nervous system sighed underneath it. The girl's voice played at the inside of my ears. I don't know if she was actually talking or if it was just an echo from deep in my head, coming back to me, a sweet message from the secret part of myself that wanted to tell me I was still alive, that I loved. I wanted to turn to her, put my hands on her shoulders, look into her eyes and, mirroring their intensity, say, "I know I can really love you and make you happy. And I would never do to you what he does to you. I would never bring you confusion or pain. You would always know I love you. If you trust me at all, even if just a little bit, put that trust in this. I will devote my life to making you believe that we are right. People try to deny that what is happening to us happens at all. When I saw you, I knew, and when you saw me, I think you knew, too. But when the doubters look at us, they'll recognize it in our faces, and that can only mean this is right," and then I'd kiss her and she'd laugh in my mouth, breathing her happiness into me, filling my body like a great bellows, sparking the end of our  loneliness . . .

I felt something on my left shoulder, a minor weight, insignificant at first, but then it pinched my skin, nearly broke it. "What the fu--*?!"

Jerry shoved me hard. "Wake up, assface," he shouted. "What a sot. You're pissed off your skull."

"Jerry?" I was disoriented. "When did you get here? Where's — ?"

"Where's here? Are you that drunk?"

"No, that's not . . ."

She was gone. She wasn't next to me. Her eyes, her laugh . . . gone. Just some ash on the floor . . .

"Ha-ha-ha, you drunk fuck! Faced!"

I looked around the room. I didn't see her anywhere. I saw the transvestite, the Asian boy, the man with the fake hair . . .

"Jerry, was anyone else here? Anyone when you came in?"

"What the hell are you talking about, you lush? There's a whole bar full of anyones."

"No, that's not . . ."

I saw her. Through the window, glass dotted with new rain. She was standing on the curb, tightening the belt on her leather overcoat. The sweaty boy was with her, and he put an arm around her waist, kissed her on her temple. A taxi pulled up, and they got inside. She didn't look back. I was willing her to, asking her in my thoughts to turn around, but she didn't. She got in the car first, and he followed, closing the door behind him, and the taxi disappeared.

"Hey," Jerry said. "Hey! Come on, milksop. Snap to it. I can't believe how plowed you a--*"

I punched Jerry full across the mouth. He didn't expect it, and it put him straight on the floor. People gasped and rushed over and tried to grab me, but I stepped through their grasp, right through their fingers, and out the door into I don't know what.

# # #

(c) 2002 Jamie S. Rich