Blinded (3 page)

That’s not true. Maybe it’s more like you really
shouldn’t
do this.

But you stay on. And on the fourth ring, on what should be voice mail, on what should be you hanging up and tearing up the business card and waiting for your wife to call, you hear her voice.

“It took you long enough,” she says.

You feel a head rush and can’t say anything for few seconds. Does she know it’s you calling?

“I haven’t given my number to anyone else, Chicago boy.”

And you suddenly realize that this might not be a con, or an indecent proposal, or anything other than a stranger like you in a strange land.

“I didn’t expect to get you.”

The laugh she gives is gentle and friendly. “I’m here. For now.”

You can’t speak. You have no idea what to say.

“You were more talkative in person.”

“Yeah.”

“So I’ll make this easy.”

Here it comes
.

“I’m heading over to Atmosphere. A great lounge in the Village. I’m sure you can find a cab to take you there.”

“Probably.”

Again, you hear her laugh. Not mocking. More playful, like she finds this shy childhood conversation amusing.

“And I’ll be with several friends, so don’t worry.”

“About what?”

“I won’t bite.”

And before you can say anything, she hangs up.

Again, you’re left with the phone in your hand.

Your forehead feels sweaty, but the air conditioner is cranked. You go over to the windows and open the drapes, revealing a New York just ready to turn on.

Go on out, a voice tells you.

You deserve a drink.

Make something out of this abysmal failure.

You hear Barry’s voice.
Okay, then have a few more. Take your mind off things
.

Besides, she’ll be with several friends.

There’s nothing wrong with going out and having a conversation and enjoying yourself. Nothing at all.

You go near the window and stare out at the city and the
activity and you feel lonely and you hate being all alone. There’s something about the silence, even with white noise around you, that feels hollow. That feels threatening.

You don’t do well alone.

Tonight, you’re not going to be.

P
ERHAPS IT
’
S THE CITY
, the seeming endlessness of the Big Apple.

Perhaps it’s the end of a long month, or a bleak end to a long account, a quick conclusion to a long conflict.

Perhaps it’s the fact that you and Lisa haven’t been communicating well lately and that the children have been more of the focus than the two of you. You can’t communicate when a thousand other details drain and bombard you on a daily basis.

Perhaps it’s the fact that your mom is slowly dying of a fast-moving disease. You have seen and heard about it, but when it lands on your doorstep with its dementia and delusions, there is nothing you can do. Nothing. And when you have to explain to your mother, an only child to his only
parent, that she is indeed your mother, it tends to weigh you down.

But all the
perhapses
in the world can’t fully explain this restless feeling that walks the sidewalk with you.

Sometimes you feel like the world is passing you by. There is a better world out there and you’re not in it. There is always someone younger and wealthier and happier. Someone more beautiful and sexy and witty to be with. A more put-together snapshot that should go out at Christmastime to hundreds of your close friends.

It’s the myth and the lie but sometimes you bite on it and get caught in the hook.

A billboard shows you the results of a new diet pill. In fact, it shows you three results, women all tanned and toned and sweaty in their bathing suits barely there. The billboard is as big as your house.

Another advertisement shows a lingerie model in a black outfit that would make Lisa laugh and roll her eyes and say, “In your dreams.”

Dreams. Yes, in your dreams.

It’s easy to be restless.

Sure, you can look away. You’re not going to gawk in the middle of Times Square.

But it’s not just that.

This restless feeling is a culmination of many things.

The business trip. You get your morning paper, see five
men’s magazines with the latest blonde or brunette doing her best to look sexy in a provocative pose and outfit. You never buy those magazines, not even the tamer ones that try to offer other variations of themes like sports and “men’s topics.” You’d be embarrassed to buy a magazine like that. But sometimes, every now and then, you pick one up and look. It’s nothing too blatant or perverse. But it’s enough. The images stick with you.

And then you’ll be on a plane. In a city. In a restaurant or a hotel. In a meeting or waiting room. And an attractive woman can come out of nowhere. Sometimes just cute, sometimes alluring. And you feel a slight pull, a tiny tug.

This is the restlessness you feel. The feeling that you can’t look, you can’t touch, you can’t act. You know this and you accept it, but sometimes it’s hard.

It’s the city and your mind and the fear of things
.

Yeah. The fear of things.

What are you afraid of, Mike? What are you really afraid of?

You wonder again if you’re alone and anonymous and if your actions and mind can be seen from the heavens above.

God doesn’t care about your doubts and fears, does he?

If he doesn’t care about things like a job and a family, why would he concern himself with something like the random thoughts of a restless mind?

There are ways to make this restless feeling go away. Temporarily, yes, sure. But sometimes something temporary and fleeting and passing is better than nothing at all.

V
ELVET WALLS LINE THE THIN HALLWAY
.
A
steady, heavy beat moves with you, not fast enough to dance to but not slow enough to be just background. The main room is cozy with a packed, ornate bar and beds that pose for couches around small, modern tables. There are still a few empty chairs and places at the bar. Your first sweep of the room doesn’t find her, so you decide to get a drink and play it cool.

Someone might find out that you don’t belong. That doesn’t prevent you from ordering a gin and tonic, or leaning against the bar for a moment, or casually glancing around the glimmering lounge. Then you spot her; she sits on a loveseat by herself, across from a redheaded woman leaning over the table and talking nonstop with her hands waving over their drinks. She sees you but doesn’t smile or wave or acknowledge
you. Instead she looks back at her friend, who keeps talking. Then she looks your way and motions you over.

You feel like such a little kid.

“You decided to venture out,” she says with a smile.

“Why not?”

“I like the jeans. Big improvement over the tie.”

A thought automatically runs through your mind, something about how stunning she looks. You keep it to yourself. She is wearing a different outfit, a short khaki skirt with a black off-the-shoulder top and tall black boots. The sight of her takes your breath away, literally, because you know you’re not only talking to her but that she asked you to come here and be with her.

“You should have let me get that for you,” she says, glancing at the drink in your hand. “We’ve got a tab.”

Her friend is an attractive, round-faced woman with expressive eyes that look friendly.

“This is Amanda,” Jasmine says.

“Here, have a seat,” Amanda says, urging you to take her place.

“No, that’s okay—”

“No, really, it’s fine. I was just telling her I had to take off.”

“You really don’t have—”

“Give me a call later, okay?” Amanda asks.

She strides away, and you sit down awkwardly.

“Am I interrupting?”

Jasmine looks after Amanda and shakes her head.

“We were just chatting. She might be back later. It’s early for New York.”

“I thought you said you’d be with friends.”

“I was. And more may be coming. This place is home anyway. I know the owner.”

The table between the two of you is small with three burning candles in the middle. You sit on a round chair that resembles an ottoman while Jasmine sinks back into her loveseat. For a second she glances at you and you feel a wave of chills wash over you. She’s probably used to doing that, affecting men that way.

“No more wine?” she asks as she gently rubs one of her crossed legs.

“I figured I’d be a little more adventurous.”

“That’s really stretching yourself,” she says with her red lips curling in a grin.

Being here is really stretching myself
.

“Still drinking wine?” you say to continue the conversation.

“For now. Sometimes I get in different moods, you know. I get tired of the same old thing. That’s my motto. Tired of the same old thing.”

“I can relate.”

She studies you for a second.

“So what bores you the most?” she asks.

“About what?”

“About your life?”

Monday morning meetings with the VPs
.

It’s scary how quickly your mind answered her question.

“Boring meetings at work.”

“You know what it is for me? Small talk. Chitchat.” She curses, and the word coming so casually from such a beautiful woman surprises you. “Everybody has things they
really
want to say, but never say them. You know?”

You nod and feel an anxiousness rising in your gut.

“For instance, I could try and say something about Amanda leaving, but frankly, I wanted her to go. I asked her to leave when you got here. And I think, if you were going to be honest, you’d tell me you’re glad that she left.”

“She didn’t have to—”

“You didn’t come out tonight to meet my friends,” Jasmine says. “See, there is polite chitchat. What you were about to say. Which is nice and polite. But tell me something, Michael. What did you really think when you first got here?”

How hot you look
.

You open your mouth but nothing comes out.

Jasmine laughs. She knows what you’re thinking.

“Okay, let me ask you another question. What’s the most adventurous thing you’ve ever done?” She asks as though you’ve been friends for half a dozen years.

You think of your children. Olivia and Peyton. Deciding to venture into fatherhood is by far the boldest and craziest
thing you’ve ever done, but you’re not going to tell her that. You don’t want to mention them, nor do you want to say the name Lisa. Why complicate things?

And by the way, why’d you leave your ring back in your hotel room?

“I spent a couple weeks in India,” you say.

But you don’t mention it was on a missions trip after college. No need to let her know this. She doesn’t look like the church sort of girl anyway. Leaving out this bit of information is sort of like not wearing your wedding ring.

“Let me rephrase the question. What’s the
craziest
thing you’ve ever done?”

“Crazy as in?”

“As in insane. As in breathtaking. Exhilarating. Intoxicating.”

She gently licks her lips, and you can’t help but stare at her for a moment. This can’t be happening. Something is wrong with this picture. A woman like her usually doesn’t look back and smile and talk to you. She usually is unmovable and touched up behind the pages of a magazine or on a Web site. The seductive glance is for show, for the camera, for the allure of the picture and the enticement of the customer.

Am I a customer?

She picks up on the silence and continues. “I once went streaking in Times Square.”

“I had some streaking moments in college.”

“Times Square,” she repeats.

“You just decided to run naked through Midtown?”

She laughs. “The cops grabbed me and put a coat over me. They let me go. One tried to ask me out on a date.”

“You win. That trumps anything I’ve ever done.”

“Don’t you ever want to just abandon all reason and go where the spirit leads?”

Maybe that’s what I’m doing now
.

“I don’t think my spirit would lead me to streak in front of several thousand strangers.”