fourteen- This is gravity

“Around 8,” he replies to the phone held between his hard shoulder and smooth Old-Spiced cheek.

“It’s 7:30 now, so I should be there in twenty minutes.”

Pearl District under the layered sunset is a confused convergence of daytime warriors and nighthawks.  The long vibrant strips of parallel north-south streets, intersected by east-west streets named in order alphabetical, in the tumult of twilight hour never know whether it should come alive or go to sleep.  If New York is like a Christmas tree, Portland is like a Charlie Brown Christmas tree with the Pearl District as one of its slender branches, spotted unevenly with lights and decorations.

Still there is excitement in fluctuations as you move through it end to end.  The many restaurants, varied, advertise with the scented air aggressively occupying the sidewalks in front, invisible fog.  The warring eateries engage in biological warfare for each passing olfactory.

The storefronts are lit up lively with a sense of self-love.  The small businesses each hip and interesting, demand to be taken seriously or taken for whatever it is.  The name brand, chained and incorporated, beg to be taken less seriously, trying to appeal to the massive young Portland demographic more interested in Mom and Pop’s, Thrifts, and outdoor hookah joints that serve fantastic crepes.  (Look up: The Pied Cow on Belmont and 33^rd, really fantastic crepes.)

The apartment buildings, different makes and models, are peppered along the streets: formal erections of marble and iron, wooden houses seemingly painted by children born with a flare for the flamboyant, and modern marriages of steel and glass.  Henry is standing on NW 10^th in front of one such construction, The Modern Pearl.

Looking down the street, semi-bustling and erratically bright, Henry decides, “I think I’ll walk instead.”  He ends the call and starts for the other end.

The first intersection is Lovejoy.  Henry often thinks about his parents, still living in the same house, perpetually in a state of renovation, in his hometown of Evelyn, Washington.  They had been married for most of their adult lives, almost 80 years between them, and have gone through two separations and an eventual and inevitable renewal of vows that cost staggeringly more than their typically rich “white” wedding in their early twenties.  Each had an affair with a much younger lover and each decided it was safer to brave the daily battles inherent in a cracked marriage than to suffer the irreversible consequences of a long war in divorce court. 

Locard’s Theory or Principle of Exchange explains that in any and every contact—when two objects meet there is an exchange of evidence: each takes something and each leaves something behind.  If the two separate, you can always trace one to the other.  Locard was a criminologist, but he may as well been Dr. Ruth. 

Mr. and Mrs. Hurt first met in high school, they met millions of times thereafter, each time they lost a little and gained a little, took a piece of the other and gave a piece to the other.  The definition of a relationship is that it’s a perpetual swapping of selves.  It’s two people square dancing ad infinitum, mixing and mangling, losing and finding, spinning, stirring till they are individuals no longer.  They are mutants, changelings, two deformed jigsaw puzzle pieces, out of 500, that perfectly fit together.  Henry’s parents knew that if they set foot on that courtroom floor they would leave loveless and limbless, not knowing themselves from each other.  The bodies and body parts of themselves would be scattered, dead and everlastingly disconnected. 

It’s not that they weren’t willing to leave each other and it’s not that anyone isn’t willing to leave their other of diminishing significance; it is that no one caught in the centrifuge of love is hopeless enough to risk losing their self.  For their self currently lives in their other; swimming in their blood, whispering in their voice, grasping in their touch; two lovers live vicariously in each other.  This is truth immense.  This is gravity.

The next intersection is Kearney, the north side of Jamison Square Park.  Henry has been drawn to parks since he was a boy.  He didn’t like playgrounds, they were too developed, too much pavement and too many structures.  He liked the freedom in grass, verdant and vast, and the protection of the trees, strong solitary towers. 

The worst mistake, the most wrong of misconceptions is that a fortified island of a man is guarding, in his core, all tender emotions and affectations most vulnerable.  That he must have been hurt to hide so skillfully.  This is what many have thought of Henry.  This is the scapegoat, the reason most consoling and illuminating to those girls and women who discovered they could not be loved by Henry Hurt.  This is what others convinced themselves when they would not be loved by him any longer.  It is a careless lie.

Henry is not a consequence.  He is an incident.  There is no deep meaning behind his proclivity to self-preserve.  There was no crime committed against his heart.  There was no actor of that crime.  Henry is because he is.  He is a relic of human design.  The last of a dying breed; a beast most civilized.  Henry is man in its perfect form.  He is unadulterated.  He is unyielding.  A nocturnal flower under eternal sunlight.  He will survive everything, but all who love him will not.  Audrey will not change him.  He does not need to be saved.  She will die in his wake.  At least, this is most likely to happen.

Henry passes Irving and then Hoyt.  With each crossing he gets closer to Audrey, waiting for him at the Chinese restaurant they walked to when they first met.  Every step towards her is admittance, a confession.  But he is not a romantic, he is a lover.  He’s commitment-phobic.  He’s a flirt-oholic.  Henry is man in its purest form and men are acquisitive.  But before he can acquire, a man often has to chase.  Henry is a chase-oholic.  He’s settle down-phobic.  He often wonders if he will ever become domesticated, if he’ll ever want that land-locked life.  Before he can think it through, he usually meets someone new.  Another chase, another starting line, he’s as competitive as he is fast.  And he does fall in love.  But he does fall out of it.  He’s forever-phobic.  He’s a lust-oholic.  He smiles at every woman he passes, whatever her age or attractiveness.  He smiles to announce his presence, to maintain his prevalence.  He smiles as he crosses Glisan, an eager explorer excited to know what he might find on the next block of the enchanted Pearl District…

What he finds on the corner of Flanders and 10^th is a phenomenon: someone he met only a couple of times, and determined was not of his kind, holding the hand and the enamored glazed gaze of an abounding beauty he used to fuck frequently.  Standing on the corner seeing Nick and Chloe for the first time in weeks, a quote from a book comes to mind, “Then wear the gold hat, if that will move her; if you can bounce high, bounce high for her too, till she cry “Lover, gold-hatted, high-bouncing lover, I must have you!”  He remembers later that it was from This Side of Paradise, a book on a summer reading list he had to read for high school.  He imagines Nick in a gold hat, bouncing high above the ground as Chloe cheers him on.  He feels defeated watching them walk into a place called Vino Paradiso, arm around waist and ever more enamored. 

But that feeling changes to shame and the shame quickly into anxiety.  He recovers his phone from his pocket and finds Chloe Clarimonde.  Another chase begins.  He readies himself at the starting line.

The text is short, three words “black lace slip”.  He laughs as he presses send, whirling around like a boy freed onto a verdant park.  He grins up at the sky salted with low-flying stars.  He shoves his hands in his pocket smugly then feels a hand on his shoulder.

Still smiling he returns to the sidewalk to find Nick standing expressionless in front of him.

“I was just thinking about you.”  Henry nods his finger at Nick’s chest.

“We saw you, before we went inside.  How’s Audrey?”  Nick reveals no emotions.

“That’s nice of you to ask.  I was worried you were still mad at her.  How’s my girl?”  Henry returns his hands to his pockets.

“What do you want, Henry?”  Nick shakes his head slightly.

“I don’t want anything from you, Nick.”

“Don’t text her again.  Don’t.  If you see us, keep walking.”  Nick is tense now, his face stiff and his left hand almost clenched.

“I respect you Nick.  I respect you now more than I used too.  But in all honesty, No.  To everything you just said,” Henry replies with a sneer.

“I know you, Henry.  I know who you are, the kind of guy you are.  You get off on this.  Standing toe to toe, making whatever’s in front of you move out of your way.”  Nick steps forward.

“I’m not moving, asshole.”  Nick tightens his jaw, his eyes focus on Henry’s.

“You don’t have to, Nick.  I’ll—“

“Fuck you,” Nick interrupts.  “You’re losing.  You know it.  You couldn’t hold on to Chloe.  I bet Audrey’s slipping from you too.  You’re not right for her.  You don’t fit her.  I knew that.  She’ll realize it soon, and then you’ll lose her too.  I can’t wait.”  Nick grins into Henry’s smug glare.

“It’s funny, Nick, how you think it’s still a secret.  We all know you’re in love with her!  I’m sure Chloe knows too.  She’s an idiot sometimes, but she wises up.  Good luck with that.  And Audrey?  Audrey knows, Nick!  She’d just rather be with me!  You’re a funny guy, Nick.  We should be friends.”  The sarcasm falls heavy.

“Just go, Henry.  This is pointless—“

“You know who you remind me of, Nick?  Jay Gatsby.  You’re so funny.  God, I haven’t read that book in years.  One of my favorite endings.  Do you remember?  Remember how Daisy stayed with Tom?  And Gatsby ended up floating dead in his own pool of blood—in his own swimming pool!  That was a real funny ending, Nick.”

“Get out of here Henry!”  Nick’s hand is clenched tight.

“Oh and you’re right, Nick.  I don’t fit Audrey.”  Henry leans in close, his mouth right next to Nick’s ear.

“That’s why I push it in—hard.”  The whisper is sinister. 

In a flash Nick’s closed left fist drives into Henry’s face, into his smugness, his condescending grin.  He feels Henry’s nose break against his knuckles, his blood wetting the taut skin.  He steps back, ready to take any retaliation.  He drops his fist realizing there would be none.

Henry chuckles defiantly, straightening himself on his feet, his hand covering his wound.  He looks at Nick, and smiles.

“I don’t think I want to be your friend anymore, Nick.”  The smirk returns.  “I hope you’re prepared to see this through.  I’ll try to play fair.”

Nick is speechless.  He knows what he’s done but is unsure of what comes next.

“I’ll see you around, old sport.”  Henry smears some blood off his nose.  He tastes it then points to Nick.  “Tell Chloe I said hello.”  He brings the finger back to his nose and with a sniff, “or maybe I’ll tell her myself.”

Before Nick can reply, Henry turns and walks off.  Left there on the corner of Flanders and NW 10^th, it is all still unclear.  What is clear is that Henry was right, Nick will see him around.  They are bound now, to each other by their common goal.  Whether it is Audrey or Chloe, Nick no longer knows.  But he does know this: their contact was momentous.  They each lost something.  And they know owned a piece of each other.  How it will end, neither man knows.  Different they are.  They must both see it through.

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