four MARGARET part 5
My remaining possessions were arranged on the bedroom floor in an evenly spaced mosaic of folded clothes, coiled sound cables, books and periodicals stacked according to size. My amp and my makeup sat on the hardcase for my microKORG. A Ziploc freezer bag full of vital documents and financial records with my passport on top. Everything was staged in short piles and sub-collections laid at right angles. Components of a full-scale model ready for assembly.
These squared property crop circles were hallmarks of Vincent’s brief periods of relative sobriety. Anomalous blue-moon windows of time when he cut out alcohol completely and “detoxed” by only smoking pot, only taking pills, nodding off over spiral notebooks filled with obscure lists and cave-painting diagrams.
He would inevitably find himself feeling cooped up. Without household chores, creative pursuits or wild goose chases to occupy the non-stop hamsterwheel throwing sparks between his ears, Vincent would get weirdly meta and dissect and display the contents of a chaotic space, a congested closet or a cluttered kitchen drawer. The junk in the center console of our car, back when we had a car.
These behaviors also marked the only times I could manage to get a song out of him. I’m talking a complete and thoughtful original work, not just a clever chorus or a catchy verse or two. It was impossible to enjoy these collaborations entirely, knowing from experience each would never be more than a temporary genesis. A one-off at best.
We used to succeed often enough, as creative partners and a couple, to compensate for the times we didn’t work at all. When I sat down with Vincent and we connected words to music I could remember all the things we used to have. Anticipate things that felt like they were in reach. See evidence of the life I imagined we would be living by this time, back when I thought we were on track and growing like something solid and healthy. Vonnegut’s Nation of Two in “Mother Night”, but without the whole Nazi thing.
I ran a fingertip over the window and door sills. Vincent definitely was not drinking on the day this detailed cleaning went down.
Observing a wise and prudent protocol of suspicion I reminded myself of all the other times I came home to a Marine Corps-clean house, and fast-forwarded to the end of each instance. That familiar pattern began with a sense of fun or adventure lasting a day or two, a week at most. Then things would start slipping from splinters and cracks to total duck-and-cover collapse.
This progressive-disaster phase furnished a fresh new nightmare every day. I’d bounce a check and find our account drawn down or in overdraft, justified by one of Vincent’s manic mission statements about new creative goals. Weird friends coming around. Wads of Post-its scribbled full of schemes for ventures involving solar panels. A triple-digit library fine for language DVDs and K-Pop albums gone MIA during the research phase of his business plan to publish new songs in Korean.
Being pounced awake to do an acoustic mash-up of Paul Simon and Kesha at three. Meeting the downstairs neighbors at the door at four a.m., speaking to the police at five.
Surrendering our laundry room keys to the building manager after Vincent made friends with some homeless guys claiming to be fellow veterans and invited them to wash their clothes in the basement. He gave them laundry soap, brought a bottle down from the apartment and recorded their oral histories until he passed out and woke to find those bums had stolen his equipment and defecated in one of the washing machines.
The next morning, always another maybe. Another apology, another corner up ahead he was scouting today, plotting to turn tomorrow. Another promise for me to believe, shiny enough to appear genuine and new and sneak past my better judgment. A wish-list mirage packaged just right to become the latest poor fucking decision I’d make, sinking once again up to my neck in a mess I’d soon spend long nights dissecting with my jaw clenched, backstroking through endless cold regret.
And now we were here. Like this. Again. I took a deep breath and refused to believe I was witnessing anything but a temporary display. I knew this now. I would be truly and certifiably stupid to pretend I didn’t know exactly how and why me and Vincent had to end.
©2017 J.R. Schaefers — all rights reserved.
