Wretch of Clay

“Goddamit, Max, would you just —!” Conrad called after the brunette, catching up to him outside the diner. “You’re so fucking … God, if you could just, for one damn minute, get out of your head and — You were dead, you son of a bitch!” The declaration was accompanied by a sharp shove to the shoulder delivered with one hand.

“You were dead and gone and it was important, ok,” The blond continued, frustration and anger simultaneously freeing and tying tongue and mind, voice rising. “It was important to me to get that useless shit. To get it and and to have it and to keep it out of the hands of anyone else. And you know what it did? It sat there and it reminded me — every goddamn day it reminded me — that you were gone and that thought killed me, Max. Every. Fucking. Day. It killed me. So yeah, I broke your damn door, because saving pieces of you was more important than preserving your precious fucking privacy because I needed something of you because ….” He turned, still checking his words for the moment, hands running over his face and back through close cropped hair, and when he faced the Italian again the defeated air about him was almost palpable. It had to be said, even though he had as good as said it before.

"Listen to yourself," he said with an eerie calmness despite his storm, a sea of smooth silver upon which the other was afloat. "You sound like a child, petulant because you can’t have what you want— what you think you deserve. Conrad, you have no idea, no speck of a clue how much of a burden it would be to be around me all the time, to see my face staring at you from a mutually shared doorway. You’re lying to yourself. What about when I die next time? Or the time after that, or the time after that? What about when I die for real? You, a policeman, want to occupy your time with me, the gutter-rat that you are supposed to be catching? Just that thought alone makes you crazier than me."

The cruelty of those words delivery, though far from negated, was somewhat lessened by the Italian’s perceived factualism of them. He disliked the thought of severing any ties that could prove (that had, indeed, proved) beneficial to him, but perhaps, in that moment, he disliked the idea of being yelled at in the street more. His ire-tinged compassion for the blond dulled into something more like resignation. Love and pain were all the same in extremes, right?

His anger faded as quickly as it had flared to life. Emotional and mental exhaustion took over, rolling to the forefront of the cop's mind like a fog, obfuscating senses and causing him to proceed with special care. The ire and frustration that had marked his outburst disappeared, replaced by a soft, apologetic tone. The evening, though miraculous in its beginning, had become nothing short of a disaster and though the need wasn't manic, he had expended that emotion at the night's start, he wanted to see some of it salvaged.

"I'm glad to have the letter, Max. I am. And the other stuff ... It's yours, it belongs with you. I never looked at the journals, if that matters at all. And I'm sorry for yelling and pushing you. That was -- Maybe you're right. Maybe I'm not thinking clearly. Maybe we should just go our seperate ways."

He dutifully followed where Grace lead, secretly pleased when she slipped her arm through his; for all his character flaws and eccentricities, the cop was still a red-blooded man and he appreciated a beautiful woman. At the bandstand, he stood patiently by as the current number was finished and Grace worked her magic on the band’s leader. He met the pianist’s eye and offered a small smile and nod of the head, stepping forward when it was indicated that he would be allowed to momentarily take over.

A murmured thanks was spoken to the departing piano player and Conrad slid onto the bench, thumb quickly unbuttoning his suit jacket for comfort. He thought for a moment, hands positioning themselves properly as he had learned in childhood lessons. Head bobbed in acceptance of Grace’s suggestion as fingers began to pluck out a tune from the ivory and black keys. It was the musical equivalent of drumming one’s fingers, aimless yet obviously building to something. 

Inspiration hit in those first few moments and his hands took off. The perfectly poised posture was gone, shoulders rolling forward as the blond relaxed, one foot tapping in time to the tune he coaxed from the grand standing piano. It began as a jangly, ragtime sort of thing, a decade out of date yet still catchy and upbeat. Hands moved down, now hitting the lower register, and the tune morphed, becoming more contemporary, more jazz-like. It was apparent that the man’s skill lay not in rote and memorization, but in improvisation. There were recognizable snatches of notes in what he played, most of it being from Grace’s own catalogue, but the arrangement and register was new.

He stopped, letting his playing drift into nothing, and, again, the flush of embarassment colored his cheeks. Smiling sheepishly at the piano's rightful player, he slid off the bench, relinquishing control of instrument and band. An apology was mumbled to all members as he slunk off stage, feet pointed to the bar Grace had suggested.

"I think I can manage that alright," he said, following her from stage to floor, a hand instinctively going to her elbow to keep them close. "So, have very many amatuer piano players made asses of themselves for you or am I the dubious first?" A sardonic, self-depricating grin accompanied the question. He might have been mortified, but he wasn't going to let a musical faux pas ruin the whole evening.

He was glad, though that word didn’t seem to quite fit but it seemed close enough to be the truth, that Maximo had been taken care of by what family he had. The thought of him being as close as Lake Michigan compounded an already absurd situation. Conrad thought briefly of the pauper’s grave he had visited, believing his friend lay beneath its soil, and the conversations he had held with himself at its foot, the promises he had made.

"Yeah. I do have that." The cop knew he should be grateful, thankful, to have even gotten so much as the illegibly garbled attempt at a letter. But more than intimacy, he supposed he wanted recognition, validation, of the grief he had lived with for all this time. Both wishes were startlingly selfish and brought with their realization sharp pangs of guilt. What was the hurt and trauma of a broken heart to a chest full of lead?

"Try lowering your expectations, maybe one day you’ll be surprised," the brunet said, tongue sharp like the pangs that came creeping back to his chest.

“Goddamit, Max, would you just —!” Conrad called after the brunette, catching up to him outside the diner. “You’re so fucking … God, if you could just, for one damn minute, get out of your head and — You were dead, you son of a bitch!” The declaration was accompanied by a sharp shove to the shoulder delivered with one hand.

“You were dead and gone and it was important, ok,” The blond continued, frustration and anger simultaneously freeing and tying tongue and mind, voice rising. “It was important to me to get that useless shit. To get it and and to have it and to keep it out of the hands of anyone else. And you know what it did? It sat there and it reminded me — every goddamn day it reminded me — that you were gone and that thought killed me, Max. Every. Fucking. Day. It killed me. So yeah, I broke your damn door, because saving pieces of you was more important than preserving your precious fucking privacy because I needed something of you because ….” He turned, still checking his words for the moment, hands running over his face and back through close cropped hair, and when he faced the Italian again the defeated air about him was almost palpable. It had to be said, even though he had as good as said it before.

On his turn, he ordered a simple BLT with a side of coleslaw and gave the girl an apologetic smile as she took their menus and turned away to place their orders. The Italian’s stare was met and maintained, Conrad fetching cigarettes and matches via touch rather than sight. One was tucked in the corner of his mouth, lit, match extinguished and discarded in the provided ashtray before he ventured to speak.

"My aunt’s house on the shores of Lake Michigan, after they let me out of the hospital. She’s my next of kin, though she probably wishes she wasn’t. Who knows. Maybe the loss of her sister has hardened her… her eyes were so deep and sad when she would say goodnight or bring me a meal or medicine. I was too mortified to even look at her most of the time." The deeper currents of the Italian’s tone were a stew of complication. Though it was easily translated that he felt remorse, pity, and embarrassment, those emotions were not reserved for him as much as they were for others. Regardless of him being a factor in the cause, he felt bad that his aunt was denied the happiness of a complete family; he felt bad that Conrad was that attached to him to be so clearly upset at his exit and entrance. But indeed, the pity was not for his manipulation, but rather for Conrad to even have those feelings at all - the weakness of co-dependency and fundamentally needing another human being to connect with on a level deeper than friendship. The need for love, that need he so sought to eradicate from feeling himself, regardless of how successful that may or may not have been.

He was glad, though that word didn't seem to quite fit but it seemed close enough to be the truth, that Maximo had been taken care of by what family he had. The thought of him being as close as Lake Michigan compounded an already absurd situation. Conrad thought briefly of the pauper's grave he had visited, believing his friend lay beneath its soil, and the conversations he had held with himself at its foot, the promises he had made.

"Yeah. I do have that." The cop knew he should be grateful, thankful, to have even gotten so much as the illegibly garbled attempt at a letter. But more than intimacy, he supposed he wanted recognition, validation, of the grief he had lived with for all this time. Both wishes were startlingly selfish and brought with their realization sharp pangs of guilt. What was the hurt and trauma of a broken heart to a chest full of lead?

'La double maîtresse / The double mistress' by Henri de Régnier, illustrated by George Barbier. Published 1928 by A. et G. Mornay, Paris.

It was a continuing struggle, too, to keep his hands to himself. Surely affection played some small role in it, but that self-same selfish desire to be reminded of the real and the physical carried the larger burden by far. In a small way, Conrad was glad for the still chilly night air and the overcoat it had forced him to don; its pockets kept him from being overly friendly, overly attached, overly annoying to the affection-shunning Italian.

He broke that barrier once. A bare hand reaching out and landing on Maximo’s back, it’s slight weight guiding the other back to the path the blond had chosen after the brunette had wandered too far astray.

“Not much further,” the cop answered, gesturing with chin’s jerk to the diner that lay just another block up. Conrad didn’t really think of it as ‘their’ diner, though they had been through its doors a few times before, drinking coffee as they each struggled with bouts of insomnia, but he supposed it could be counted as such. It was close and it was familiar and he was almost certain they could find a semi-private booth and, with enough of a tip, a waitress willing to leave them be.

"Toast," he said. The request was simple enough, but the awkward pauses between compounding additions made way for slight irritation from the girl.

"And an egg.

"… Fried.

"……. Hard.

"………… On the toast."

"……………. With another piece on top. Like a sandwich."

On his turn, he ordered a simple BLT with a side of coleslaw and gave the girl an apologetic smile as she took their menus and turned away to place their orders. The Italian's stare was met and maintained, Conrad fetching cigarettes and matches via touch rather than sight. One was tucked in the corner of his mouth, lit, match extinguished and discarded in the provided ashtray before he ventured to speak.

It was a wonder how easily and quickly they fell back into the rhythm of their interactions. Conrad’s memory of his emotional outburst (pure, unadulterated truth, all of it) faded, felt as if it belonged to another person in another time, though it was his and only minutes old. How odd it was the way time worked and distorted and eased and comforted. 

“O friend, In the garden of thy heart plant naught but the rose of love, and from the nightingale of affection and desire loosen not thy hold …” Conrad laughed again, struck by the absurdity of everything: This night, this conversation, Max’s return, his own maelstrom of emotion. It would be some time, he knew, before the surrealism of the evening wore away; before reality fully, finally returned, but he was getting there. Every minute spent at the Italian’s side undid days of torturous grieving and sorrow. 

Turning onto the street, he passed beneath the glow of street lamps, past the blur of foggy clots of spirits and slithering trails of lights, the sea of stars that fell to Earth in a sluggish dump of rain-like moonlight rivulets. Through the primordial postulations posed from the anhelous atmosphere, Maximo walked in a delirious direction, not any which way that could have been useful to the question he had previously answered. If the sky was falling not another soul would have known, and this made him happy. Happy to be moving in the ditheric division between consciousnesses, the systematic separation of the torporific troposphere.

It was a continuing struggle, too, to keep his hands to himself. Surely affection played some small role in it, but that self-same selfish desire to be reminded of the real and the physical carried the larger burden by far. In a small way, Conrad was glad for the still chilly night air and the overcoat it had forced him to don; its pockets kept him from being overly friendly, overly attached, overly annoying to the affection-shunning Italian.

He broke that barrier once. A bare hand reaching out and landing on Maximo’s back, it’s slight weight guiding the other back to the path the blond had chosen after the brunette had wandered too far astray.

“Not much further,” the cop answered, gesturing with chin’s jerk to the diner that lay just another block up. Conrad didn’t really think of it as ‘their’ diner, though they had been through its doors a few times before, drinking coffee as they each struggled with bouts of insomnia, but he supposed it could be counted as such. It was close and it was familiar and he was almost certain they could find a semi-private booth and, with enough of a tip, a waitress willing to leave them be.

He glanced up at her follow-up question, caught so off-guard by it that a wry laugh escaped his lips before he could even think to check it. “I - I would love to,” he said quickly, hand dropping from his neck to add emphasis to the words, “But I’m a terrible dancer. I would just step on your feet and I couldn’t live with myself if that happened …”

He dutifully followed where Grace lead, secretly pleased when she slipped her arm through his; for all his character flaws and eccentricities, the cop was still a red-blooded man and he appreciated a beautiful woman. At the bandstand, he stood patiently by as the current number was finished and Grace worked her magic on the band’s leader. He met the pianist’s eye and offered a small smile and nod of the head, stepping forward when it was indicated that he would be allowed to momentarily take over.

A murmured thanks was spoken to the departing piano player and Conrad slid onto the bench, thumb quickly unbuttoning his suit jacket for comfort. He thought for a moment, hands positioning themselves properly as he had learned in childhood lessons. Head bobbed in acceptance of Grace’s suggestion as fingers began to pluck out a tune from the ivory and black keys. It was the musical equivalent of drumming one’s fingers, aimless yet obviously building to something. 

Inspiration hit in those first few moments and his hands took off. The perfectly poised posture was gone, shoulders rolling forward as the blond relaxed, one foot tapping in time to the tune he coaxed from the grand standing piano. It began as a jangly, ragtime sort of thing, a decade out of date yet still catchy and upbeat. Hands moved down, now hitting the lower register, and the tune morphed, becoming more contemporary, more jazz-like. It was apparent that the man’s skill lay not in rote and memorization, but in improvisation. There were recognizable snatches of notes in what he played, most of it being from Grace’s own catalogue, but the arrangement and register was new.

Being a devout fan of jazz and all its variations, Conrad couldn’t very well pass up the chance to experience the music live, close to home, and performed by one of his favorites at that. It was a rare thing for the blond to miss one of Miss Holiday’s shows and, this time, he had resolved to approach the singer and tell her how much he enjoyed her performance.

The crush of the crowd already forming was intimidating, and provided an easy excuse to not immediately rush to the star’s side. Conrad took a moment to hang back, light a cigarette for his nerves, and to run over what, precisely, to say.

An opening presented itself as the crowd shifted and moved and, strengthening his resolve, the burly blond took it, using his size neatly to his advantage. “That was a great set, Miss Holiday. You’re a - a fantastic singer - one - one of the best.”

He glanced up at her follow-up question, caught so off-guard by it that a wry laugh escaped his lips before he could even think to check it. “I - I would love to,” he said quickly, hand dropping from his neck to add emphasis to the words, "But I'm a terrible dancer. I would just step on your feet and I couldn't live with myself if that happened ..."

The start of the Brit’s continuing words brought a skeptical furrow to Conrad’s brow which then faded to a look of mild agreeance. Hard as it was to enact the simplicity of the shared wisdom, the blond knew it was true. He was about to say as much when the other suddenly stood and began to move to the dance floor. The unexpected move and invitation shook Conrad from his brooding, eliciting a bewildered half-smile as he tried to decline, a litany of excuses forming in his mind and dying on his lips. 

Leon’s insistence and mad smile were infectious and before he knew it Conrad was on his feet, his stubbed out cigarette joining the Brit’s as he circled ‘round the table and fell into step behind the brunette. At first, the jostling elbows and overstepping toes and buzz of laughter and conversation were overwhelming and Conrad lent real consideration to the thought of backing away in order to return to his brooding. However, before he could put that ill-conceived plan to action, a pretty petite blond had drawn him into an impromptu Charleston, forcing his concentration and attention outwards and even managing to draw a smile from the morose man as he tried to keep up with her spirited moves.

Departing from his partner with air kisses bestowed beside ruddy cheeks, the reporter pointed at the blond when he was re-found.

“Maybe! Just a bit!!” came Conrad’s wry response, his smile growing. “You’ve got some good mov—“ The compliment was cut short by the return of his previous dance partner who grabbed him by the hand and spun him about. He caught a glimpse of her friends, all laughing and agog at her forwardness, before being pulled into another round of frantic dancing. 

His spinning taking him near Leon once more, he said, “I seem to have found an admirer!! She’s very —“ Again, his words were lost as the distance between he and the Brit grew. It was comical, to say the least, the sight of the unusually tall cop at the mercy of a girl on whom he had a foot and at least sixty pounds. His dancing was somewhat clumsy and not always in time with his partner's, but what he lacked in finesse he seemed to be making up for with enthusiasm.

And yet, and yet. This wasn’t an official meeting; hell, it hardly qualified as a social visit. A creeping respect wormed its way into this flux of thought, forcing a secret satisfaction that his quote had been recognized and likewise answered. The reporter wasn’t fishing and Conrad doubted he had any clue as to the explosive stories sitting across from him. He had been drawn here by the blond’s own rudeness and stuck because … Here, the cop drew a blank as he knew it couldn’t very well be the pleasure of his company.

There was also something incredibly alluring of unburdening himself, just a little, of saying the words out loud that he had kept unspoken and secret. Evidence was mounting at an alarming rate to show that saying nothing was wreaking untold damage, seen and unseen.

"Your problem is that you’re doing it all wrong," the brunet quickly continued, “‘Getting out’ is hardly a cure for morosity of mind and spirit when you see the rest of the world going about their business and cutting up with the friends they still have left. What you need to do is partake, experience it for yourself; you can’t be expected to dwell in the realm of ghosts when your physicality is stuck amongst the living." With a sharp inhale and harsh release of that breath, the reporter snuffed his cigarette. A wild-eyed look lit his face and he stood, taking a few steps back toward the bustling floor.

The start of the Brit’s continuing words brought a skeptical furrow to Conrad’s brow which then faded to a look of mild agreeance. Hard as it was to enact the simplicity of the shared wisdom, the blond knew it was true. He was about to say as much when the other suddenly stood and began to move to the dance floor. The unexpected move and invitation shook Conrad from his brooding, eliciting a bewildered half-smile as he tried to decline, a litany of excuses forming in his mind and dying on his lips. 

Leon’s insistence and mad smile were infectious and before he knew it Conrad was on his feet, his stubbed out cigarette joining the Brit’s as he circled ‘round the table and fell into step behind the brunette. At first, the jostling elbows and overstepping toes and buzz of laughter and conversation were overwhelming and Conrad lent real consideration to the thought of backing away in order to return to his brooding. However, before he could put that ill-conceived plan to action, a pretty petite blond had drawn him into an impromptu Charleston, forcing his concentration and attention outwards and even managing to draw a smile from the morose man as he tried to keep up with her spirited moves.

He fell back on old habit, perhaps spurred on by that heartaching passing resemblance, quietly quoting the lines that sprang to mind, “I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o’er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils …" Eyes slid to the crowd beyond his unexpected guest, those dancing daffodils crowding the floor, then came back and lowered out of embarassment.

And yet, and yet. This wasn't an official meeting; hell, it hardly qualified as a social visit. A creeping respect wormed its way into this flux of thought, forcing a secret satisfaction that his quote had been recognized and likewise answered. The reporter wasn't fishing and Conrad doubted he had any clue as to the explosive stories sitting across from him. He had been drawn here by the blond's own rudeness and stuck because ... Here, the cop drew a blank as he knew it couldn't very well be the pleasure of his company.

There was also something incredibly alluring of unburdening himself, just a little, of saying the words out loud that he had kept unspoken and secret. Evidence was mounting at an alarming rate to show that saying nothing was wreaking untold damage, seen and unseen.

Up close, the stranger’s resemblance to the departed Italian was superficial and Conrad cursed himself twice over for being a sentimental, romantic fool. The man was handsome, but the features weren’t arranged correctly, nose and mouth differing in length and placement and set.

Though he wished fervently for it, a hole refused to appear under his seat and swallow him and his shame up, so he was forced to stay and deal with the repercussions of his mindless actions. Dutifully, he lit a match, avoiding the man’s eyes as he put it to the other’s cigarette.

"You looked like someone I know," the blond explained, weakly, putting the match out. "Knew. Someone I knew." It was the first time he had spoken of his friend, out loud, in the past tense. The words brought a dull ache to his chest.

He fell back on old habit, perhaps spurred on by that heartaching passing resemblance, quietly quoting the lines that sprang to mind, "I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils ..." Eyes slid to the crowd beyond his unexpected guest, those dancing daffodils crowding the floor, then came back and lowered out of embarassment.