Blinded (12 page)

You listen but can’t begin to hear anything. You move toward one of the walls to try to hear better.

“Can you hear me?” you shout into the phone. “Where are you? Are you okay?”

Nothing. You close the phone and wander up an immense staircase, hoping to get away from the beats. The phone buzzes again.

“Yeah?”

You hear music and the phone cutting in and out. Jasmine’s voice cracks and you can barely make out “trying to find” or something like that.

“Are you still here?” you shout as you head up the stairs.

All you get are jumbled noises, probably the same that you hear all around you.

She’s somewhere in this huge club. There seem to be multiple levels.

You enter a room playing hip-hop with a small group on the dance floor and a larger group around a bar. It’s dark and you can barely make out any faces. You try and look for Jasmine’s outfit, for long legs that match her, for the blonde hair that’s impossible to not notice.

Looking around, you wonder if you missed out on a whole other part of life. Is this a typical Friday night for all of these people? Who are they and where do they come from?

Twenty-somethings not looking for anything. Not worried about time and consequences and fears and responsibilities.

You stand at the edge of the dance floor looking like a spectator, a bystander. That’s what you’ve done most of your life. Even in high school and college. Always watching. Looking on as others did it all. Watching people get drunk at
parties. Watching your friends as they climbed in bed with some nameless girl for a harmless night.

But was it really harmless?

You’ve always believed that no, it’s not harmless. But you’ve been curious. Why is it that you’ve obeyed the rules and walked the straight line and still have little to show for it?

You have a wife and two children waiting back home
.

And a job in jeopardy and a career that’s flatlining. A mother who’s slowly losing her mind to Alzheimer’s. And a faith that’s dwindling.

You know your place in the world
.

You used to. But not anymore. Not for some time.

In the shadowed corner, a couple makes out without a care for watchers. A trio tries to dance as one on the floor. A man sitting at the bar shakes his glass and wipes his eyes.

It’s the dead of night and this is where the soulless dwell.

You have to find Jasmine and make sure she’s okay and then get out of here.

A side room contains another bar with television monitors showing sports. You feel the vibration of your phone again.

“Where are you?” her voice shouts above the music.

“Some room in Exit. Are you okay?”

“I need to find you.”

“I’m on the second level. In a—it’s just a small bar with television screens and tables in it.”

“Just—hold on.”

“Is everything—?”

But the line is dead.

You go up to the bar and order a beer. Your throat is raw and your mouth dry and your head throbs.

You sit on a bar stool and wait. The beer tastes good and you finish it quickly and order another.

A figure comes down the stairway wearing tight dark jeans and a silk camisole top that looks more like a teddy than a shirt. You see the blonde hair bound to one side and then see Jasmine’s eyes looking at yours.

When did she change?

You stand and before you can say something she gives you a hug. You’re immersed in her sweet smell and you close your eyes and want to stay like this for a long time. Your mouth and your nose and face all inhale her blonde hair so soft and so silky.

“I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Did I miss something?” you ask as you look her over.

“Oh, God, I need a drink.”

“We should leave.”

“Everything’s fine.” She grins. “You’re here now.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Just—just stay by me.”

The look she gives you makes you feel confident, like you’re her protector. For the moment, maybe you are.

The prince and the princess
.

“What do you want?” you ask and get it for her as she sits on a bar stool. You can hear the thumping beat from music in the other room.

You bring her the martini and sit across from her.

“Are you okay?”

She nods and takes a sip from her glass. She lets out a sigh and then curses, finally saying, “No I’m not.”

“What’s going on?”

“Where do I start?”

“Where’d you go? Who were those guys that just came and took you?”

She shakes her head and looks up at the ceiling for a moment, as if she doesn’t want to think about it. She takes another sip.

“And when did you change? I was at your apartment.”

“Look—it’s a long story. I got away from those guys for the moment. Does it really matter?”

You’re confused but more than that you’re once again mesmerized by her smile and her lips and her cheekbones and those eyes and all you can do is shake your head.

“Are you okay?” she asks, coming next to you and wrapping her arms around you.

You don’t resist. You’re too tired and too sore and too bewildered to resist the contact.

“What happened at my apartment?”

“We got there and Amanda was showing me around and your ex—or someone—was waiting in your bedroom closet. He had something—a small bat or something like that—and just like that I was out. I woke up and he was gone and so was Amanda.”

“Did you—what’d you do? Did you call the cops?”

You shake your head. “No. I just—I don’t know. I was the one who hit him in the club. I’m not—”

“It’s fine. Really.”

Jasmine still stands beside you and rubs the back of your head as though you’re a child.

You suddenly feel a lot more awake.

“You don’t know what happened to Amanda?” she asks.

“No.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if Riley came here looking for me.”

“Look—I don’t know—what exactly happened? Where did you go?”

“Those guys who showed up at 345. They’re just—I know them and they’re fine. Just—look, I can’t get into it now, but it’s okay. Things are okay.”

“Somebody shoved a gun in my face and dropped me off in the Bronx tonight.”

Jasmine sits back down and takes a drink from her martini glass. The comment doesn’t exactly shock her the way you thought it would.

“Literally?” she asks.

“Yeah. A lot of people seem to be looking for you.”

She shakes her head, looks back at the stairwell where she came from, then finishes her drink.

“Well, you win the prize.”

“What prize?”

“You found me.”

“That’s fine, but—”

She stands and takes your hand and urges you up.

“We’re dancing.”

Anyone watching would look at you and your puppy eyes and wagging tail and shake his head in disgust. No explanation about the men and going missing and calling in fear and then showing up here untouched in new clothes and oblivious to everything.

She just doesn’t have one care in the world
.

And for tonight, for now, you sorta like that. You want that attitude to rub off on you.

You want to walk forward without baggage weighing you down. Without a care in the world. Without the burden of responsibilities.

So you follow her. No more explanations necessary.

T
HE MUSIC IS ALMOST LOUD ENOUGH
to overpower your mind, to not let you think of anything else.

Almost.

But some things are stronger than volume and liquor and even mad desire.

Memories. Branded on your heart and your soul.

And you think back to the most unlikely of memories to come visit you in this New York club named Exit.

For a brief second, you remember holding her.

When you held her in your arms, you believed that everything in the world would change. That everything was okay. And that regardless of what happened, things would work out. Life had meaning.

You named her Olivia.

Her cheeks were silk and her lips were so tiny and so original. She had soft dark hair and Lisa’s features in miniature. Hands that fit in your palm. A tiny voice that could still belt out tears. And the most precious and adorable face you’d ever seen.

You were smitten, you were in love, and you believed that you couldn’t love anything more than your daughter at this moment.

And things did change.

Olivia changed everything, as did Peyton.

And things with Lisa got better. You saw her in a different light, a different context.

But even all of this couldn’t prevent life and its busyness from creeping in.

From life and its lure drawing you closer.

From your own self and your own weaknesses.

You’re sacrificing it all—for what? For what?

What are you doing, Michael?

You know better.

You know so much better.

But you keep going.

What is it about you that doesn’t have the
stop
button? What is it about this night and this woman you’re following onto the dance floor?

T
HIS MUSIC IS DESIGNED
for people looking for people. The beat propels you forward and the music incites feeling and emotion. Simple straightforward lyrics like “I will surrender” and “burning with desire” and “watch you fade away” and endless, ridiculous words about needing and wanting and hoping all make you think that you truly want and need the woman dancing across from you. Jasmine’s long legs and arms sway and turn and twist in suggestive poses and for the moment you don’t care how ridiculous you look.

The memory of Olivia evaporates in the swarm of dancing fools around you.

A couple of hours ago someone was shoving a gun in your face because of this woman. Then somebody knocked you out. Now you’re at a club with her.

And for some crazy reason it seems justified
.

“I can’t let you go,” the voice sings, with the chiming trance music following.

You see men looking at Jasmine and checking her out. She seems oblivious and takes your hand and smiles at your reluctance. She slides and slithers up to you and bounces back and forth. Her blonde hair whips behind her and you move and let yourself go.

One song passes and the room seems to turn and twirl around you.

You find yourself moving with Jasmine. She’s as tall as you are with her heels.

“If you could read my mind,” a woman’s voice sings.

Jasmine raises her eyebrows and you laugh at the insanity of this. The utter craziness of this.

“Should I turn and walk away?” the singer asks.

But you’re staying.

You’re an absolute idiot.

But staring at the face and the smile, it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.

A new Madonna song comes on and you wonder how long Madonna can continue to release music. You were going to clubs when Madonna was fresh and hip, and she’s still making everybody dance and gyrate on the dance floor.

The song ignites Jasmine and she moves away from you
and shakes her head and moves her body to the beat. You watch her as she is lost in her own world.

When the song ends, she comes up to you with a glistening forehead.

“I need to use the ladies room,” she says. “I’ll be right back.”

You nod, then add, “I’ll come with you.”

She leaves the dance floor and starts downstairs, then notices that you’re following.

“I don’t need a chaperone,” she says as she licks her lips.

“Yeah, but maybe I do.”

She laughs. “I’ll be fine. Seriously.”

You reach the bottom of the stairwell and she stands there, annoyed that you’re still following her.

“Just wait here, okay?”

“I just don’t—This place is huge.”

“It’s fine. I’ll be right back.”

You watch her descend another set of stairs that have signs for the restroom. A funky, wild song comes out of the door you’re next to. You meander into a glowing, red-and-orange-lighted room with a whole assortment of characters dancing and laughing. The bar is lit up and the bartender is laughing and asks you what you want. You order something and then drink the cocktail and wait for Jasmine and watch the crowd.

You don’t feel like Michael anymore. You feel like someone else who doesn’t have a name or a face or an identity.