The End of Love

Five years ago, when my son Blake was four, I'd take him bowling at Mar Vista lanes on Venice (now Bowlero! ).  He had a pretty short attention span and I was in pretty poor shape so we played only one string.  We'd eat some food, I'd give him a couple of quarters to get toys, homies or jawbreakers out of gum ball machines.  We played some air hockey.  He was little and had to stand on a chair.  He used to think it was hilarious when I "wasn't paying attention" (usually when I was celebrating scoring on him) and he would score on me.  I'd turn back to the table and wonder where the puck was and be incensed to see that he had scored while my back was turned.  He laughed and laughed.  Anyway, it was one of those times and we were eating some chicken fingers and watching random people bowl when Blake noticed a girl that was maybe nine.  He was smitten.  I smiled inside and out.  I knew that look.  He was completely transfixed.  She had long, golden hair and a shirt with a big, pink, sparkly heart on it.  Blake walked right up to her and smiled and stared up at her but said nothing.  The girl, annoyed, turned and walked away.  Blake followed.  She tried to lose him, but he stuck to her like glue.  She climbed on things that were easy for her to climb but hard for a little guy and he followed.  She complained to her mom, "Mommy!  This little boy keeps following me.  He won't leave me alone!"  At one point, she told him off.  "Leave.  Me.  Alone."  Blake's smile never dimmed.  It was as if she had professed her love to him.  He was so happy just to hear her voice.  I remember being his age and how that felt.

Blake, still smiling and exhausted, came up to me.  "Daddy, I love that girl but she doesn't love me."  He was not devastated.  He was just in a new situation that he did not comprehend and was looking to his father for guidance.  I said, "Yeah.  It's kind of a numbers game like that."

My first encounter with "The Girl" was in kindergarden.  Andrea Reback.  I wanted to marry her.  I used to write  "Andrea Kublin" and "Ronnie Reback" everywhere.  I knew it was customary in those days for the woman to take the man's name, but I thought you got to pick whichever one sounded better and Ronnie Reback sounded pretty good to me.  In third grade it was Stacy Hall.  I used to sit behind her and braid her long, blonde hair.  I wasn't into marriage anymore, but seeing stacy was the highlight of my school day in third grade.  Years later, when I was ten, I fell hard for Kim Bissonnette.  I loved spelling her name out loud,  "B-i-s-s-o-n-n-e-t-t-e."  I memorized her phone number and called it many times, but hung up, terrified, before she could answer.  "I love you." I'd say to no one on the phone.  I knew Kim would be my first kiss.  I had it all planned.  The scary funhouse ride at Shaheen's Funpark at Salisbury Beach.  Alas, I never got the opportunity.  Kim broke up with me before I knew we were dating.  The following year, I kissed my older brother, Steve's, girlfriend, Kelly,  while sitting in a neighbor's Saab.  I literally walked miles for more of those kisses that Summer - The Summer of Kisses.  There was no better feeling in the world.  In ninth grade I had my first legit girlfriend, Lisa Goldstein.  She was all that mattered to me.  I was fifteen.  My parents didn't get me.  My teachers didn't get me.  Lisa got me.  I got her.  We loved each other.  Call it what you will, infatuation, co-dependence...my dad called it "Puppy-love."  But to me.  It was Love.  For the next few years while I still lived with my parents, the girls changed, but my obsession did not and the argument with my mom was always the same.  "You can't make another person the center of your world."  She just didn't understand (and she was right).  I was fucked.  I was unhappy.  I was lonely even when I was with other people.  But when I was with a girl who enjoyed being with me as much as I enjoyed being with her, none of that other shit mattered.  So, for the next twenty five years or so, I fixated on "The Girl" and had little time to fix me.

I play poker.  Texas Hold-Em.  I'm a decent player.  When I play tournaments, I play "tight" which means I don't take big risks which means I don't win big pots.  I try to manage my chips so I am close to average.  It is a successful strategy to get deep into a tournament, but as the blinds and antes increase, the pressure mounts and one is forced to take risks.  I often find myself with only one bet:  All In.  I'm not a courageous man, in general, but the idea of risking everything in one move feels natural to me as long as I believe in the cards I am holding and if I am in love with you and believe that with all I am, I have only one move.  All In.  It is liberating to feel so safe with someone and to feel for them so deeply that jumping without even looking does not feel nearly as foolish as it must indeed be.  I did this again and again and again.  And I did it without regret.

I lived with some and married a few.  Breakups were as painful as falling in love was joyful.  Complete and utter annihilation.  An ocean of tears.  The ones ended by them were followed by weeks of bargaining and pleading for another chance.  I could not believe it was over.  The ones ended by me were fewer and less painful because I knew they were ending for a while.  But I always bounced back.  I never lost my edge.  My love light, while temporarily dimmed, would always return as brightly as it did when I first kissed Kelly.  If anything, my love grew stronger each time, adding nuance and greater understanding as a result of love's lessons learned.  I'd dust myself off, pick up my guitar and serenade my next great love.  These were not conquests.  These were entire lives lived in moments.  Sometimes a few days.  Sometimes weeks.  Sometimes years.  My friend Chrystal says there is NO WAY it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.  The pain is not worth it in her estimation.  I disagree.  If that were true, no one would ever have a dog or a cat for a pet.  Everyone would have a tortoise.  Each time, I knew going in that it was likely to end badly and I still gave all my heart.  I was adept at going from ecstasy to crisis and back again as this cycle continued, but I was always focused on The Girl and not focussing on becoming me.  So, I never figured out how to overcome all the difficulties in life that seem routine to others.  I figured I'd figure that out later.

My last great love affair was with a different Kelli.  You can measure the intensity of my relationships by the number of songs I wrote.  Kelli wins with five.  There is no close second.  And I believed there was a time when she loved me as much as I loved her, although that time was brief.  I was fortunate enough in those days to have a job where I travelled the world and I took Kelli with me a couple of times - once to Vienna and once to Paris.  In Paris, I rented an apartment and hired a chef to prepare us dinner.  There are times in your life when you are keenly aware that you are living moments which will be your best memories in the future and Kelli and I did that a lot.  I once rented a Porshe for the weekend and we ate lobsah' rolls from Kelly's Roast Beef on Revere Beach.  When we ended, I was crushed.  It took me years to recover and I still think of her kiss sometimes.  Soft like...I got nuthin.

I fell in love one more time.  She is the mother of my son and one of my greatest friends and supporters and I would not know what to do without her in my life.  When it was over, it was different for me this time.  I don't know if it was age or time or fatherhood (i think it was fatherhood), but it was different than any other breakup.  I always moved on, eventually.  But this time I felt like I had nowhere to move to.  I could get over her, but I could not fathom where to go.  We have a son.  I had no "Plan-B".  I still don't.  I don't know if I would want one if I did.  But I am pretty sure where my heart is at these days.  It has been nine years and the way I feel (and don't feel) remains unchanged.  No.  I haven't been celibate for nine years (thank you, you know who you are).  But my lovelight has indeed dimmed.  Which is sad, but not, at the same time.  I (usually) don't feel like something is missing in my life and it is wanting that causes heartache.  Another advantage is that I am forced to look within instead of to someone else for solutions to my problems and I have had some modest success in that regard.  Occasionally, romance falls out of the sky.  Right place.  Right time.  And it is great.  Really great...but it also reminds me of who I used to be and how I used to love.  Truly.  And deeply.  With reckless abandon.  And I get sad.  And I have to tell myself how lucky I am to have been so close to more than a few amazing, funny, witty, attractive, talented, inspiring and intelligent women who found me amazing, funny, witty, attractive, talented, inspiring and intelligent, and that there are people who never experience that kind of relationship.  Please do not tell me that I just need to meet "The Right Girl," because I assure you I am "The Wrong Guy." It is not that I do not want to love and be loved.  It is that I cannot.  Not in the way I once did.  And I can't imagine loving any other way.  It is who I was and I have no clue who I am now.

APART

You are the best thing that has ever happened to me,
And I have gone from starring role,
To day-player,
To background actor,
In your life.

I cannot place a value on a grin or sideways glance or wisecrack from you.

I have known despair,
Like a never-ending salt flat,
Badlands where nothing grows,
Except the memory of your smile.

You are why I cannot be,
Truly hopeless.

I brought you here,
I and another,
Who succeeds where I fail.

All I want is to be with you,
And I do not know how to do that.

I do not know how to do much of anything anymore,
But longing,
For understanding,
For love,
And to be a part,
Of you,
Again.

PEREGRINE - Chapter 1: Rome

I am Rome.  It's not my first name.  It's not my last name.  It's not short for anything.  It's not a nickname.  It's just, "Rome."  If I had a nickel for every smartmouth who said, "So, you're telling me it says 'Rome' on your driver's license and your birth certificate?  What about your passport?" I'd have a fifty-pound bag of nickels to smash into the next smartmouth's face who asks.  Fact is, I've never had a driver's license.  I'm sure there is a birth certificate out there, somewhere.  But I've never seen it.  And as far as passports go, I have six of them and none of them say, "Rome" on them.

That's what I like about Ian.  He never asked.

Ian was behind the bar when I first walked into Saints and Sinners on a Tuesday, four years earlier.  I hadn't had a drink in nearly twenty years, but I'd been thinking of one for a bit.  Driving by, I'd seen the Saints and Sinners logo - an angel and a devil; I had their twins as my companions, one on each shoulder.  I went in and ordered an Absinthe and never looked back.  Insofar as the  Angel and Devil are concerned, the jury is still out as to who won the day, but I drink without guilt and always walk out on my own two feet (or so I'm told).

Saints & Sinners feels like home.  That is of course if in your home your dad breathes fire, your mom drinks copious amounts of Jameson and your sister flashes her tits occasionally - all to a soundtrack of metal, hip-hop, classic rock and karaoke.  It's a place where everybody knows your name, but they call you lots of other things, instead.  Not exactly like Cheers, more like Cheers' younger, edgier brother who told his parents to fuck off, sold his father's Lexus and used the money to buy an electric guitar and a year's worth of drugs before moving to Norway to join a death-metal band he met on Craigslist.  I try very hard not to drink anywhere else.

It was a Tuesday again.  One of the other bartenders, Cooper I think,  had started a promotion in my honor, "Absinthe-Minded Tuesdays."  They didn't used to sell much of the Wormwoody stuff before I showed up.  Now, they kept a case of Mata Hari with my name on it in the basement.  I was sipping my second when Fate bellied up to the bar right next to me.   I knew right away it was Fate.  For me, Fate always comes in the same package - petite, blonde and way smarter than me.  And although I don't always learn from my mistakes, I'm pretty smart.

"Something to drink?"  Ian offerred.

"I'm looking for Rome."

She does get right to the point, I'll give her that.

Ian cupped a hand next to his ear, "How's that?"

Annoyed, Fate raised her voice, "Rome! I'm looking for Rome."

Ian pointed East.

"It's a little more than six thousand miles that way!  You want me to call you a cab? They can take you to LAX!"

Fate gave me a quick, is-this-guy-for-real look, then turned her attention back to Ian.

"That's clever.  I see what you did there."

Ian shrugged like a Parisian. I'm about to spit absinthe through my nose at this point.

"I'm looking for a man.  A man who finds lost things.  His name is Rome.  I was told I could find him here.  I wouldn't have come all this way if it wasn't important."

Ian leans in.  "Never heard of him, but leave a card.  If anyone comes in by that name-"

Fate puts a card in Ian's hand and makes her way to the door.  Ian watches her go out.  I follow her reflection in the mirror behind the bar.  She weaves between patrons and liquor bottles, never glancing back as she exits.

Ian looks at the card and hands it to me and we are both at a loss for words.

It's pretty hard to catch either me or Ian off guard,  but between the two of us, three eyebrows were raised.  Fate has a name.  Kelli Karson.  Detective Kelli Karson.  NYPD Detective Kelli Karson.  I turn the card over and on the back  is written the name of a hotel in West Hollywood and a room number.  I know the hotel.  And I know the fuck that gave her my name and the location of my office.  I'll deal with that shit in the morning.  For now, I finish my drink and Ian instantly replaces it with one he was already preparing for me.

Ian's eyes ask, what are you gonna do?

I draw a deep breath and catalogue the scents....anise, stale craft beer, kush and cigarettes, fresh-cut lime.  Cutting through it all like a floating scalpel is the scent that Fate always leaves behind - hope and sex and fear and the barest hint of Opium applied long ago, perhaps the previous evening.  I let out a long breath and take a thoughtful sip from the cloudy drink.  My head swims and I follow it down into the depths.  I know the bait hides the barb.  I know the pain of that steel piercing my flesh and I know the futile struggle for freedom only brings more pain, and yet...I am a fish, thrice caught.

Ian sees which way I'm gonna go on this one and shakes his head.  I know he is right.  Bartenders are rarely wrong when it comes to shit like this.  Fuck.  Detective Kelli Karson.  Why the fuck is an NYPD Detective on my tip?  I can think of a couple of reasons - none good.  I generally try to avoid the police.  I'm drinking buddies with one or two which is unavoidable if you drink in any great bar.  But professionally... I try to keep to myself for obvious reasons.

I'm on my third Mata Hari and I smoked a little Sour Diesel before I came in, so I'm not sure if I told you the part where I'm a heroin dealer or not.

PARIS - Her Voice

We both heard Her Voice at the same time and we both had the same reaction.

The world stopped being what it had been only moments ago,
When we'd been strolling,
Mosaic-tiled streets,
Passing locals,
Lovers,
Tourists and,
Adventurers,
Sipping aromatic espresso from delicate cups,
While time slowed to a sensual crawl.

Her Voice was faint and distant like,
A memory,
Of something that may or may not,
Have happened.

Ephemeral.

We had crossed the Event Horizon and Paris was gone.

Faint and distant though it was, there was only,
Her voice,
Drawing us like moths to an unseen flame.

We shared a glance and each saw our own incredulity,
Reflected in each other's eyes.

Both speechless,
We followed and,
Her Voice grew louder and,
Fuller and,
Alien in its sheer beauty.

The earth literally opened beneath our feet,
Her voice drew us into the depths,
Reverberating off curved brick and,
Into our love-filled hearts.

Tears welled up in our eyes for,
There she was,
Radiant,
Angelic,
Her breath visible in the cold, damp air,
Her Song carried on clouds of ether,
In a dream,
We lived,
Together,
In Paris.

All My Love,
-ronnie

ECHO PARK

That was definitely gunfire.

PopPop.......Pop.

 Then nothing.  Dead quiet.

3am.

The ghettobirds were overhead earlier - most of the night in fact.  They are not what keep me awake, though.  They usually lull me to sleep; giant, hovering white-noise generators protecting and serving from above.  Besides, you know what keeps me awake....

So I can't seem to shake this cold.  The floor next to the bed in my little sublet is littered with wadded up tissues and wrappers from so many Hall's "Triple Soothing Action" lozenges (the one with the picture of the honeydripper on the bag).  I'd just gotten the cough under control when the mewing started.

I'm not a "cat person" per se, but I got no beef with felines in general. And, over the years, I have met more than a few really cool cats.  Before it was called "The Hotel Angelino", the building that looks like a stack of pancakes next to the 405 at Sunset was a Holliday Inn (there's another one in Long Beach).  They had (maybe still have) a cat named ChiChi that had a very cool setup in the garage, under the hotel.  Loudly purring, he greeted all the hotel guests upon their arrival.  Before I moved to LA, I stayed there and met ChiChi.  He acts like a dog - comes when you call, likes his belly scratched, etc....  I used to visit him every time I was in town.

But this mewing cat outside my door sounds just pitiful.  His mew sounds like "Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease let me in."  Not constant.  Just enough to tug at my heartstrings.  I know it's raining outside and I know they just installed the steel mesh security door so you can't stroll in and out of the hallway at will, but I have no human food, let alone cat food and I'm subleasing and it wouldn't be cool and I'm already sneezing and coughing and your kind make my eyes itch.

"Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeese."

I held out for a long time.

"Pleeeeease."

...Maybe if I just go out and pet it....  Because now it is constant.

Fine.

So I throw on a pair of sweats and a hoodie, go out into the hallway and to the new steel mesh security door.  The thing is mewing nonstop.  I cannot see it through the mesh because the mesh is painted white and the hallway light is bright and it is dark outside but I hear it mewing and scratching on the mesh and I open the door and the mewing instantly stops.

There is no cat.

IMPERMANENCE

Everything is a sand painting.

All I have done,
Opportunities seized and squandered,
Lovers embraced,
Songs sung,
Possessions accumulated,
Food consumed,
Miles run,
Days wasted,
Depths dived and Heights scaled,
Dreams dreamt,
Fears - both faced and fled,
Poems penned,
Crimes committed,
Children hugged,
Tears shed,
Novels read,
Pets and Jobs and Television Programs and Sex and Concerts and Road Trips and Teachers and Friends and Family and Diets and Resolutions and Sunrises and Sunsets and Yoga Classes and Massages and Fights and Illnesses and Rent and Utilities and Worry and Lists Upon Lists of "Things" to do...

All sand.

PIECES

No, I am not okay.  I am not and have never really been okay.  The closest I have ever been was accepting my not-okayness and that, my friends, was pretty fucking sweet.

I feel as if I have never been me.  Not the whole me, anyway.

Like some IKEA furniture that got delivered with missing pieces and directions in Aramaic.  These missing parts are not cosmetic or optional they are functional and they are missing and the customer service number just rings and rings and rings.

I put together what is there as best as I can and it looks alright, but I wouldn't put any weight on it if I were you and it does not do what it is supposed to do.

If one more person tells me how great this office chair or bookshelf or dresser or workstation is, I am going to scream.  I'm going to scream because it is not an office chair or bookshelf or dresser or workstation.  It is what I threw together with what I had and it sucks because it doesn't do what it was designed to do.

The worst part is the hope.  The hope that the delivery person will just show up with the missing parts or that someone, a real person, in customer service will answer or that I'll find the missing pieces myself.  Fuck.  I'll check under the bed.