Friday, October 1, 2004

It’s the little details that punctuate an argument. You remember a skeptical look, an exasperated gasp, an angry swish of a coat hem, a door slammed shut. You cringe when you think about these things, so you retreat to better times, to moments when ill will had no place in conversation. I took the prophet’s advice and found my way back on the main road, vainly trying to juggle driving with deciphering his riddle.

“Pick five and you will find what you seek,” went his cryptic advice.

I came to a stoplight, red and still as my own thoughts. I sighed. Wondered. Thumbed my steering wheel. And then I remembered a time when Muse and I ambled about on a crisp fall evening. We had just left a party where Mark Twain–the loud, witty, tipsy man of the hour–gave a snappy toast under a canopy of stars and joviality. It was the perfect Boston evening. Brisk. Busy. The hum of pedestrians and cobblestones and vendors. We went to a drugstore for Cokes, which at the time fizzed with tempting novelty. The night wore on.

By the time I had finished reminiscing, I arrived at a town that looked vaguely familiar yet altogether different. With the exception of a few windows, you could tell most of the residents were asleep or gone. There was a convenience store on the corner of what appeared to be the main thoroughfare, and through its windows poured a garish fluorescent light.

“Where should I go?” I asked myself. “I need to find Muse.”

I parked my car and entered the store, hoping to find directions and a Coke. The woman at the counter, who looked the very picture of boredom, waded through her sea of crossword puzzles to ring up my purchase.

And then, in a moment I won’t forget for a long time, intuition struck.

“I’d like to buy a lotto ticket,” I said, fishing for my wallet again.

“Yeah? Which one ya want?” she asked with some impatience.

“Pick five, please,” I replied. “I’ll choose.”

I picked my five, 11-56-21-13-2, and then I gave her my money. No dice. Nothing magical happened.

“Shit, maybe he was wrong,” I muttered.

But then I saw her. I saw Muse framed in the reflection of the door. She was the end of my trip, the beginning of my penance. I slowly turned and walked over.

She wore a bemused look, her hair was a little tousled, but she was grander than ever.

“Why didn’t I see you before?” I wondered out loud.

“You weren’t looking for me, were you…” she sighed, more of a sad question than an accusation.

“I was, believe me I was, but I got caught up in the little details,” I said softly.

She looked down at her hands.

“Your coupe–,” she began. “It was stolen.”

“Like I care about that,” I replied, and truthfully so. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Look, I’m sorry for the things I said.”

I glanced at my five numbers, my failed attempt at winning the lottery.

“You know what I realized?” I asked.

“What?”

“It’s something I’ve always known. It’s just that I never told you enough,” I admitted.

“Oh?”

“You? I need you. You’re my winning ticket, my pain and my salve. I said some nasty things to you, and I apologize.”

The lady at the counter apparently mistook reconciliation for loitering, so she chased us out of the store. It didn’t matter, though. It was the witching hour, but I wasn’t alone anymore. I had found Muse. We walked arm in arm to the car, cobblestone to pavement, measure for measure.