[ 12.19.18.00.01 ]
...I wanted to scream at her. I wanted to yell into the phone as loud as I could, "What the fuck!" Instead, I sat there calmly as possible. The world began to blur as the tears clouded my eyes before they reached the pressure required to overflow and trickle down my face. I did not wipe them away. My hands tightly clutched the suede leather arm rests of my new chair. How could I argue with her about this, really? She was telling me all the things I would say if I were to do it myself. I listened and felt the tears become a steady stream. She described to me how her left hand was now useless after slicing through her wrists. Her call waiting went off and she asked me to call her back in 10 minutes. . .
The phone had barely gone silent when I stood up and began to frantically pack. The night before I had just been laid off. There was no way I could get the funds to go do some kind of super man rescue. 4 dress shirts, 4 pairs of boxer briefs, 4 paris of socks, one nice shirt and two pull over sweaters. Macbook Air, iPad, and Mac-Mini, 2 airport express routers, (3) 7' ecat 5 cables, DVI to HDMI cable, the new Apple TV (black mini edition), and the 27inch SamSung and of course the iPhone 4. I was packed. I took the regular sized Russian winter coat and left the full trench on the hook. I was packed and in the car. An SMS to Q telling her to expect my company.
It was raining as I pulled away from the house and into the evening streets. It would turn into a blizzard for the rest of the drive. But it did not stop me. I just had to keep moving. As if somehow the fact that I was moving would make it all better. 10 minutes later we are talking again. Once again I felt the burning desire to be a hypocrite to shout, to scream. Instead I simply said, "Who's going to kill me now then? You are carrying my bullet."
"You will find someone else." she said and in that moment I had a flash in my mind of being like the immortal man who was cursed to take photos of death in X-files, because he had cheated death from taking him almost 100 years before. It is not every day that you meet the one who is carrying your bullet. It's definitely not everyday that they die before you do.
The call waiting had been her mother. Her mother a drunken waste of life who has only leeched off her family and brought them misery for the past decade suddenly had money. Always before she was borrowing from us. But this time, the one time I wanted that woman to be flat broke and perhaps sober up to the realities of her situation, she had money. She was going to send it in the morning so her daughter could buy the pills she needed to finish the work at hand.
At that moment, I pulled over at a gas station and filled the car. I left it running, feeling oddly reckless in my own ways as I tried to come to terms with the situation. I had already lost one lover to cancer this year. I just was not ready to lose her too. The moments we had shared in Yalta, Prague and Novosibirsk. She had become my traveling companion, my partner in nefarious situations. We'd shared strippers and cam girls together. Late night raves, and crazy mountain horse rides. Ocean piers in the freezing rain at midnight and roses stained with our mutual blood in a pack of friendship. I was not ready for her to go.
Her phone died. I tried calling back every hour on the hour for the next six.
Driving. Driving. Snow covered roads. Blizzard snow fall. 4 to 6 inches of snow on the road. Fog so thick that even with my new cars fog lights I could see only 1 car length. I refused to stop. I had to keep moving. Just keep moving. Utah had become Idaho, Idaho had become Oregon. The snow kept falling and the fog kept me in a blanket of darkness. I kept the music loud in hopes it would drown my thoughts. But over half of my music was tied to memories of her. Damn lovers. How they get into our music, our minds, our souls.
On New Years Eve, Vika took the pills her mother had paid for. The one single act of mercy, pity, or maybe even love her mother will ever do for her.
As I sat in silence upon the couch in Seattle, watching the minutes slowly pass as if I were in a vacuum, my phone rang. It was my mother. Being in a snarky mood, I answered, "You have reached Colten brothers mortuary. You stab 'em, we slab 'em. How can I help you?" To which my mother began to sob, "My mother's dead! My mother is dead!"...
R.I.P. My cherished Vika.
R.I.P. Beloved grandma.