Free-Floating At The Freehand Hotel

Once again, on a plane. Once again, hurdling through the air at a speed the human body hardly knows. Once again, counting the paces made by stewardesses sandwiched in-between rows of side-by-side seating. Once again, my muscles tighten with every shift this tube makes mid-air. Once again, displacing air, moving toward the Land to see the sunrise against the water’s edge. Eight seats away, she pushes a cart on which my medicines rest, waiting for my lips to drain their contents. Seven seats away now and moving at a snail’s pace. . . Flight delays, but the Jim keeps pouring. A gate change only means a whole new bar. The terminal is teeming with life yet so devoid of spirit that I think I’ll drink enough for all of them. . . Ripping a vape in the handicapped stall, this is my own personal corner of the airport. . . A woman stuffs her face with an egg salad sandwich and shoves her dog in a bag. . .

“I haven’t eaten all day, like not even breakfast.”           

Egg salad spittle is flying all over the place. A light was catching her face so perfectly that I could see bits of food ejecting from her mouth. Her boyfriend stands masked, facing her. This time the mask protects him. One bright spot in this abysmal landscape is the surprisingly well-behaved children. A father plays keep away with a small stuffed pink sloth. The child, a girl, giggles, and laughs, doing her best to keep up with wherever her father moves it. . . Delta oversold the flight; passengers hrmph and pout, visibly displeased, they scowl and exhale deep breaths. . . I could have sworn I saw her at gate A9. I thought I saw the brightness of her eyes darting across the terminal and the sly smile she wore before laughing. I miss that eruption, the subtle affirmation her eyes gave. It turns out it wasn’t her, and I wondered how long I would mistake her smile for someone else. At least I have these little moments where she is alive, these little moments right before I remember and cry a little inside. If she were here, she would probably tell me that if nothing else, at least I have that, and she would be correct.

Labor day in The Land meant The EDM festival was taking place across several venues and would surely make for a lively downtown scene. I was there for the weekend to get tattooed and tend to my garden. I shot out of gate C16 with a gut full of booze and stars in my head. No soul was there to greet me, and I was quite content with the concrete spreading a smile and the feeling of asphalt arms wrapping themselves around me.

Free-floating in a fever dream, free-floating at the Freehand Hotel. Hostel living in the most affluent country in the world. A four-bed mixed dorm, two bunk beds, each fitted with a curtain for privacy. A view facing east in a room fit for one but housing four bodies. I arrived in the dead of night. The sun was the only thing dead as the streets of The Land were jumping. River North: a hellscape of drug dealers, the homeless, finance bros, and industry workers. All of the best and worst society has to offer where the tourists become blessings in disguise.

Checking in at the front desk, I asked for a private as I would be drunk for three days, and I thought it best to shield any bystander from the horror. All booked up, okay, I can manage. After throwing the bags in the room, I took a trip downstairs for a drink or two and allowed whatever might come to come. I was drunk a few whiskeys in when I saw a man, or young man really, rolling a joint at a nearby table. I think it best to submerse yourself in situations, and there are plenty of situations at 19 East Ohio street. I leaned in and struck up a conversation with our young weed smoker. His name was Mason, and he was 20 years old. From a town outside of New Orleans, this was his third day in The Land. The wonder building inside his chest is enough to move mountains and is probably what drove early explorers to keep sailing. Mason moved here to become a sushi chef, and the certain earnestness in his goal was refreshing and reminded me of when I first moved there. As Mason sparked the joint, I saw myself in him through the smoke and background noise of extras shouting or yelling profanities. Something took me over in the moment, and I made a promise to myself to look out for this kid for the duration of the weekend. I asked him questions about what he had seen and what he had done, but I wasn’t expecting much. I told him I would take him on a tour of the neighborhoods where I once lived and give him a crash course in train lines and connections. Mason was green, malleable, and a mark for those more corrupted. I met Luis my first few days in The Land, and the whole happenstance of meeting Mason was a sign from something to give him what Luis gave me. Mason seemed to trust me, which was a sign of his innocence and a blind spot, Mason could trust me, but he certainly couldn’t trust any other stranger on the street.

We smoked a little weed, and I snuck him drinks from the bar. We smoked a couple cigarettes and let the night come to us. I needed bottled water as I was not going to drink from the led-infested pipes of the Freehand, so we walked out to the 7/11 around the corner on State and Illinois. Walking through a group of corner boys, whispers of cocaine and heroin, Percocet and weed were murmured to us underneath the breath of the salesmen. Before the door, I heard a woman’s voice breakthrough through the whispers as she was selling the crown jewel of drugs, at least for me, Adderall.

The pharmacist and I walked down into the shadows. Off the main drag and out of sight, she produced a pill bottle containing the pink oblong pills that would be my fuel for the next few days. She drove a hard bargain, but after some haggling, I was able to get a deal. I returned to Mason on the corner and explained that if he ever so desires drugs, this is a decent place to find them but not the best place in terms of quality. We returned with a couple bottles of Dasani and four 30mg pills. We sat in the front of the Freehand again and met a guy named Jimmy. Loud and off-putting, he worked in the area but was at the hotel to cruise for females. Frankly, he disgusted me. He had the air of a drug addict looking for a fix who would do just about anything to get it.

At 2 am, we called it, Mason was drunk and high, and he had to roll sushi the next day. I slammed the last tall boy and discarded my cigarette, entered the elevator, and crashed into bed with only a few steps in between. Judging by the luggage I nearly stumbled over there were indeed three people sharing the room, plus myself. One of the roommates was already in bed, and the other two had yet to return. I paid all of it no mind as I could use some sleep. I would occupy one of the bottom bunks, and the other two yet to return would take the tops. Before I drifted, I heard the sweeter sounds of femininity enter the room.

The sun was battling and doing his best to break through the window shade. I peeked behind my curtain and found a room in disarray; I was most certainly sharing the space with three women. I shut the curtain and receded into my hovel. After a quick pep talk to myself, I stood to rise and heard murmurs of brunch.

“There’s food here?”

“Uhm…no, we have reservations at a place around the corner.” a voice from above on the top bunk said.           

The voice contained a certain twang. A fluent English speaker, but something was different, not so different, but still enough to notice. I crawled out from the bottom bunk, peered north, and locked eyes with a woman. A simple proposition, I’ve met many women, but this one was as different as the accent I picked up on. Laima, and yes, I asked her to repeat her name at least once more. She had dark hair with light features, tall for a woman, and was as pretty as the subject in a Volegov painting. A mystery behind her eyes made me want to dance.

“Are you here for the music festival?” She asked.

“No” I said. “I lived here for years, and I use any excuse I can find to come back. I’m getting tattooed and spending a few days. Are you here for the festival?”

“Yes, we are. My friend Sara is the one in the bathroom. I don’t know the other person, but I think she’s here for the festival too.”

She said, or at least I think she said. She was speaking; I know that for certain, but all the attention I could muster was spent thinking about the number of lumens her eyes emit when laughing and what it sounds like. I imagined Laima naked in a field of wildflowers with her hand outstretched, ready to take mine.

Back to room 1011 on the tenth floor.

After a soft prodding, I discovered they were from Toronto, the Great White North. Laima was born in Latvia and moved to Canada when she was ten years old. After some time, I met Sara, and we three talked for half an hour about this or that, life in Canada vs. America. They asked for some recommendations of establishments in The Land, so I suggested a few. They were both 30 years old and wanted the festival in small doses. They claimed they were no longer built to last concerning day-long festivals and all the trappings of such. I was still hell-bent on hearing Laima laugh, and I wouldn’t leave that room until I heard it.

“If you guys want, I bought some Adderall from a lady by the 7/11 last night. Might help to get the gears going.”

There it was, the sound, the sweet orchestra of cascading unevenness, a peal of involuntary, unencumbered laughter. After a few more breaths, we made plans to grab drinks later. They set out for brunch, and I set out to go under the needle.

I’ve had the same tattoo guy for going on seven years now. I have more pieces than I can count, and much like the booze, once I start, I can’t stop. My right arm is about finished, and my left is almost there. Something about the pain after the first 30 minutes makes me feel alive. Then, the slight bleed comes on, and the artist drags paper towels against the skin, wiping away the blood and excess ink. I could get tattooed every day, but because of the distance between the Valley and the Land, I have to make a trip of it.

Red Line Grand station to Sheridan, the north side, past my first apartment in Lakeview, past Addison, and Wrigley field. Taking my time through Graceland Cemetery on Irving Park, memories smack me in the face, and I see the steps Alina and I made years past illuminate in front of me. The Adderall is coursing, and I am suddenly thirsty for a drink and a cigarette.

My left arm wrapped in protective gauze, I stepped out of Deluxe Tattoo and met the sun, sweating from an elevated heartbeat, I made my way to the Brown Line. At the Freehand, a rumble was underneath the surface, a light tremor of Saturday night on his way. An explosion of sorts was scheduled, an abrupt descent into chaos brought on by the abundance of dysfunction and white knuckles straddling the line. By seven pm, I was on my way out, on my way to Zanies Comedy Night Club to see Joe Machi. The show was at nine, and Old Town is a stone’s throw from the Freehand, so I had a few at the Ale House. I met a couple of ladies sitting at the part of the bar that angles 90 degrees before it connects to the wall. They had dead soldiers all in front of them, and one could tell they were tying one-off. Night had begun to fall, and the streets of Wells and North were starting to saturate as if the lungs wouldn’t expand without a proper audience.

Ahhh, the crisp air of The Land in late summer. I jumped a train back to The Freehand and set up shop out front. The crackheads were rushing to their next fix and a couple even offered incoherent conversation. I feel for these people, not a feeling of remorse but rather one of pity. Life is hard, and some people fall through the cracks. I’m not exactly sure what quells this particular problem, but I can’t imagine giving them drugs and tools to do drugs is helping them all that much.

Mason pulled up to The Freehand on foot at about 11 pm, and we repeated what we had done the night before. He rolled some pot, and I bought him drinks. We ran into Jimmy again, and I was hoping he would find someone to take home as I really didn’t want to struggle through another fake conversation. The night was about over, and I was drunker than shit. Mason and I were standing on the curb, smoking cigarettes, and talking about where we came from.

Before we headed inside and up the elevator, we talked with two gals also staying at The Freehand. They were smoking cigarettes, too, and I thought it prudent to meld our couples. After brief introductions, we discovered they were from Calgary. They had questions about life in America and why we love firearms so much. I have a couple ideas but nothing that hasn’t been thought of before. When they asked about conspiracy theories, a favorable wind blew my way, for here is where I shine. I made sure to premise that of these theories, I wholeheartedly believe none. They are more of a source of entertainment. However, the United States Government is a band of blood-soaked war criminals, and I wouldn’t put it past them to design the atrocities they commit. The gals entertained my ramblings, and I would suspect they have a conspiracy streak themselves. They knew some of which I spoke. The time had to be at least 3 am, and the streets were thinning. The homeless duke it out for the coziest spots underneath or behind dumpsters, and the drunk finance bros were face down in cocaine or a woman. I told Mason I would meet him at the bar in the lobby at 10 am and take him out to some neighborhoods. We entered the elevator with the Infowars gals and said our goodbyes. I thought about asking one of them up to my dorm room, but I thought that sometimes a conversation is enough, and my vision was beginning to turn sideways.

Mimosas at the Broken Shaker. The sun was up, but you couldn’t tell from all the cloud cover. The rain was spotty, a little here, a little there. The Land is best seen underneath a gloomy sky and the reflections cast by the puddles collecting on Division street. Sundays are my favorite day of the week. Everything moves slower than the other six days, and time seems to inch along. Mason surfaced well past 10 am, but I didn’t mind much as I have the capacity for several mimosas before beginning the day.

Grand to Jackson, Jackson to Division. The stair set was how I remember. The bulbs near burn-out still flickered like the fireflies in Fara Sabina. Mason and I emerged from underneath the ground, and the sky opened up. We walked down Milwaukee Ave, and I showed him the restaurants that used to enslave me and the streets I used to run. Wandering over to Oakley and McLean, we passed under the 606 trail while I reminisced on my time in The Land. I walked past all the homes I used to peer into, hoping I could one day get to where they were. We stopped across from Lazos on the corner of Western and Armitage and had a couple of Cubans with a couple Kola Champagnes. I’m not sure what Mason gleaned from the tour, but I hope he received what I intended to give. Let them keep the Hancock, the Sears, Millennium Park, and the Mag Mile. I’ll take the grime in the streets of Wicker Park and Bucktown.

Back at The Freehand, I faced bankruptcy inside of my bunk bed. The last two days started coming around to collect on the debt. My body had a hard time paying the vig, let alone the principal, but with a soft enough pillow and time staring at the ceiling; I eventually paid in full. My Canadian roommates were back in the space to prepare for the final night of the festival and wanted to go out with a bang. Sara set out for the grocery store to gather a few things, so Laima and I had the space to ourselves just chatting and lounging around. The room was quiet. She was on the couch with her headphones on, and I was half-stretched in my bed, thinking I should ask her to come lay down with me. There was a thickness to the air. Something was telling me that she would oblige, and even if we didn’t end up having sex, it would still be a chance worth taking. A voice inside my head screamed to invite her in, and she would say yes because it was a curious longing that I perceived as the thickness—undeniable and entirely energetic, enveloping, like being in the arms of a nuclear reactor. There was something so free-spirited, enchanting, and enthralling about Laima that I knew I had to discover everything I could squeeze out of her in our limited time together. Before I worked up the courage, Sara returned, so my proposition would have to wait. We all napped a bit after Sara’s return, and because I woke up before them, I left a note on the table reading,  

“Bar – J”

Before everyone took their slumber, we agreed to grab a drink before dinner and before they set out for the last day of the festival. I went down the ten flights to the bar in the back of The Freehand and ordered a Schlitz, and a shot of JB. I took my drinks to the main lobby, where others were imbibing, talking, eating, and listening, alone and in large groups. The girls said they woke up too late and were already late for dinner, so they needed to make a quick getaway to the festival. They asked for a couple of recommendations for bars we could patronize when we met up later, and I had a few ideas. The time was about 8 pm, and I was settling in. I could feel my laces loosen. I was in The Land again, and I had my health. I have the beginning of what I hope becomes a career, and if not, well, I’m fucked, but I could think about that later. This night was about placing my hand in Laima’s and feeling her lips against mine.

Sitting in The Freehand’s lobby, I wondered what the hotel might have looked like 70 years ago. I imagined smoke filled every corner of the room, and the men were better dressed. In times such as these, I feel I may have been born in the wrong era. Suffice it to say, I’d like to smoke indoors and have a few drinks with strangers making worthwhile conversation. Today, most of them are buried in a phone, wholly uninterested parties sharing in social settings. It would be a lie to say I wasn’t guilty of this at least once in my life, but if given a choice, I would destroy the phone in your pocket. Write a letter, you lazy prick!

A woman sitting solo on the long L-shaped couch was beginning to pique my interest. She had been sitting there about as long as I was, and since no one had approached her, I thought I would. She had brown skin but of the lighter varietal, and judging by appearance alone, I would say she was Hispanic or possibly Italian. Something about her said that she was waiting for someone. If she was, I imagined a man slathering himself in aftershave and preparing for their night out. I grabbed my beer can, the classiest of receptacles, and set my feet in her direction. She hadn’t noticed me yet. I take the advantage of surprise and formulate my sentences before I can say,

“Hello, my name is Jack. I noticed you sitting here by yourself, and I’m also sitting by myself. Can I buy you a drink?”

“Sure, yeah, that would be nice,” she said in a thick accent.

Her name was Victoria, and she was from Mexico City. She was 25 and moved to Atlanta only a year ago. When I asked why she was in The Land, she said she felt spontaneous and wanted to see it over the Labor Day holiday. In a moment, I wasn’t quite sure what I was more attracted to, her long dark hair and dark eyes or her willingness to skip town for a weekend. Her broken English turned me on. I was hopeful she would whisper dirty words with incorrect pronunciations into my ear. However, at this interval, I was far more interested in our hotel lobby conversation. Victoria came to the States of her own volition for a career opportunity, and I thought to myself that that is braver than anything I’ve ever done. Every time I go somewhere, there’s an expiration, but for Vic, she was home and home for good. Exploring all the rooms in this enormous house she had just moved into. She’ll learn the differences in flavor concerning the North, South, East, and West if she does not know them already.

When Vic asked me what I did for work, I hesitated as I’m still new to this whole writer thing, and I’d rather not come across as arrogant or perceiving myself as King Shit on Turd Island. I told her about L&L; like most people, she was impressed, as if it’s challenging to open a vein over a keyboard.

I bought Vic another drink, and our conversation turned to Marijuana. I had visited the pot store in Logan Square earlier that day while showing Mason around, so instinctually, I offered her a toke up in my dorm room. She obliged, and we took our little party to room 1011 on the tenth. Vic liked to laugh, that much was clear as day, and it was refreshing to see a woman so free whose eyes held that little sparkle that is nearly impossible to describe. We stepped off the elevator, and I led us in the room. She parked herself on the couch, and I checked for any and all roommates that may be quiet enough to hide behind privacy curtains. The room was empty save for the Mexicana and the Italian. The light was low, cast by the lamp on the table adjacent to the couch. I pulled out the small weed vape pen and pulled it while smiling at the woman free as a bird who landed on my windowsill. I passed it to her, and she breathed in deeply, coughing slightly on the exhale. She met my smile with slanted eyes, and I let out an audible chuckle. Vic looked like an angel underneath the soft light emanating from the bulb, burning bright enough to make out her features and locate the real estate where I would place my hand before kissing her. My fingers would extend just passed her hairline, gently resting my thumb on her auricle. At this point, I just needed to pick my moment, like jumping off a cliff, unsure if the water is deep enough to catch me.

I waited a half step, and when it was my turn to speak, I instead made a move for her lips.

“What are you doing?” 

“Ohh, uhh, yeah, I don’t know, I guess I just wanted to kiss you?” I said with upturned hands. 

“It’s okay, I just wasn’t expecting it” she said, laughing.

I also laughed because if I hadn’t, I would have asked her to pull out a gun and shove the barrel in my mouth. We laughed a little number, ha ha ha, funny funny. All in all, it was humorous because I felt it was such a sure thing, but she hadn’t even the thought. We took another pull or two from the vape and finished our drinks. Surprisingly our conversation post-failed attempt wasn’t clunky or awkward. We acted like it never happened.

After another 20 minutes, she parted for her room as she was leaving early the next day. I walked her to the door, and after it shut, I let out an enormous volume of laughter inside the empty room.  

Well, I said to myself, “Another drink?”

Back at the bar downstairs, I felt as loose as a salsa dancer. I stepped into the Broken Shaker with a silent soundtrack only I could hear. Marechià by Nu Genea played inside my brain as I order another shot and a beer. I peered around the lobby, scanning for anyone I may have met at this hotel over the past few days, but I was coming up empty. Mason was still rolling sushi, and Jimmy was probably out somewhere picking up a prostitute or anyone dumb enough to fall for his swindling. Laima and Sara were still at the festival, but I thought they should be back soon. I had a couple darts on the patio and guzzled another. The Adderall was coursing through my body, and my mind was moving a mile a minute. There’s something to be said about getting back on the horse after you fall off. It might be a long way down, but the joy of riding that horse far out measures the peril of falling off it. Life is meant to be lived, go live it.        

From a barstool, I looked toward the door and saw Laima and Sara returning. I watched their eyes dart around the room, presumably, searching for me. I found them and showed them to where I was sitting, drinks in tow. Sara, the more boisterous of the pair, voiced her desire to see the city by night and drink at the places I used to. I was game, and Laima was shooting glances in my direction, smiling with her hair down. I had a place in mind and a late bar afterward. Before we left, I introduced them to Malört, and the reaction, as expected, was one of disgust, but sometimes tradition doesn’t go down so smoothly.

Autumn in The Land, booze, and a beautiful woman. The Uber ride over revealed their exact level of intoxication, and I could tell the night was setting up to be something. I was in the middle seat with Sara to my left, yelling and drinking the wine she snuck into the Uber. Laima was to my right, pushing up against my leg, and my hand was accidentally resting on her left knee. When we finally arrived, the driver was probably happy to see us go and stumble our way into a bar and out of his car. Before we stepped inside, I hoped Mike still worked there, and I could say hello. Although it had been a few years, I was skeptical he would remember me.

The Canadians entered with me trailing behind a few feet, giving the girls a little space. I imagine Laima was telling Sara what was most likely going to happen between her and me, and it’s essential to be a ghost when necessary. When it comes to matters of love, the hands-off approach can often prove beneficial. I grabbed the three corner barstools and saw Mike smiling ear to ear from down the bar.  

“Jack! How long’s it been?” 

“Too long, Mike. How the hell are you?  

“These are my friends from Toronto. I had to show them Delilah’s before they go home.”

Laima asked me if I knew everyone in The Land, and while in obvious jest, I felt a shot of confidence as she made me feel “cool” or whatever the equivalent word may be. We ordered the special, a shot and a beer, and I must say, Canadians constantly surprise me. Americans will frequently shit on The Great White North, but you won’t hear anything like that from me. These two slammed the shots almost before I did and even tapped the bar with the glass before doing so. Sara stepped away to relieve herself, and as soon as she stepped into the bathroom, Laima threw herself at me. Maybe it was me doing the throwing, or perhaps both of us, but either way, my mouth was on hers, and my hands were exploring her lower back. She tasted like bourbon and beer mixed with spit. It was a flavor specific to her, her smell, taste, feel, sight, and sound. Sara returned, and I couldn’t keep my hands off Laima. It was almost as if I had to touch her, or I would shrivel up and die like a spider crushed underneath a boot or newspaper. Sara made it clear there would be no threesome that evening, and I could at least appreciate her forwardness. If nothing else, it meant she approved of her friend and me. Laima and I resumed kissing, little pecks shared over slurred conversations between bourbon shots and beer sips. Underneath the red fairy lights, Laima danced to the DJ, Sara joined in, and I watched the Canadians twist, move, gyrate, swing, laugh, and smile. Nothing, synthetic or natural, is more beautiful than a woman who flows so freely that there may be a war going on outside, but you would have no idea.

We said our goodbyes to Mike and hopped in an Uber to take us to my old neighborhood and our final stop. A 5 am bar across the street from the McDonald’s, only a block from my old apartment and a few blocks more from the park and the bench I would sleep on when Alina threw me out. Packed as usual; the time was maybe 2 am, and I could tell the night was beginning to get to Sara. Her eyes had a glassy sheen, and I felt partially responsible. She probably didn’t need those last couple bourbons. Laima was still hanging in with me, but we figured it was a good idea to get Sara home. Plus, we could now fumble around in the dark together.

We piled into a car and made our way for The Freehand. In the back of the Uber, I thought to myself that this was the get back. I used to lay on a snow-covered bench high out of my mind and completely alone, cold, colder than the Atlantic, and laid completely bare. Since I’ve seen the bottom, I care not to return to it. Sara and Laima were symbolic in that The Land still loved me. When it put something in my lap, I embraced it. I imagined The Land was smiling as I was barreling toward The Freehand with Laima’s hand in mine.

Back at the Freehand, we were a three-cubed drunken mess. Twenty-seven missteps from the lobby to the room. Upon arrival, Sara forced us to brush our teeth with a strange Canadian toothpaste I had never seen before. The three of us then crashed headfirst into my bunk, and I thought maybe the threesome was back on. The fatal mistake was Laima was in the middle, and I was on her left flank. I needed to be in the middle if I was going to give them equal attention. Laima and I began to kiss, and I was suddenly aware that I wanted to give her my full attention, and yes, I am also aware that, in a moment, I chose against a threesome. What can I say? There is no logic in love. After a few minutes of learning about her through the sole use of my hands, I was beginning to remove her clothing article by article. She took a beat to check on her friend, but she was sawing logs, dreaming of the Great White North. Laima kissed her forehead, and we moved to her bunk.

On the second story bunk, I held Laima’s head in my hands and kissed her with everything I had, moving to her neck and chest, taking in every smell, sound, and flavor, feeling for the things that make her body unique. The tiny imperfections that set her apart from every other body walking the street. Lightly grazing my hands over the top of her skin, taking note of the heat pouring from her surface. When I kissed her in the dark, it felt as though we were melding into each other, pressing our bodies against each other until the two became one. I felt so free with her in my arms. “Can’t Do Much” by Waxahatchee was playing on repeat; the only thing to stop us would be the sun.

Laima nestled her head into my chest, and I found myself on the top bunk in her bed, her pillows strewn about, her body on mine. Her tongue, her hair, her hands, rummaging around my shoulders. We channeled our frequencies and clutched our antennae. I grabbed her by the nape, and with a soft yet commanding grip, I poured her face into mine. Flipping her over, I heard a moan that felt like ecstasy. She was sliding her hands up my wife beater and dragging her nails through my chest hair. I gripped her left leg at the ankle and threw it over my shoulder. I had her right leg pinned, and her panties were off. Deep dive into the Latvian flower I chased like a bee after peonies.

The time was 5 am, and Sara had a 7 am flight, so alarms were buzzing and blurting out obnoxious tones, and as I nibbled Laima’s earlobe, I could taste the metal of her earring in my mouth. Four souls had the cabin, but only three beds were full. My flight wasn’t until noon, so after seeing Sara off, we resumed our intimacy, and I recall distinctly feeling like I could stay inside that twin bunk bed forever. My life outside could wait, hell, the entirety of outside could wait. The world could turn off, and so long as I was next to Laima, I’d say the world wasn’t all that worth it anyway. Shortly after Sara parted, we finally fell into a sweaty slumber where our body parts tangled like a blackberry bush left unattended.

We awoke to the sounds of The Land and a rainy day brewing a storm. The bed was warm, and she was warmer. We had a severe case of bedhead, and the smell of sex rattled around the room. Our breath tasted of rotten apples and tartar sauce, but there was no sight I would have rather seen first thing than her face impressing against a pillow. I love the soft sounds a woman makes when coming out of deep sleep. The little pouts as they shift, a comforter covering the naked delight underneath. Wrapping myself around her body with half-open eyelids, the sun was smashing against our window. She pushed herself against me, bare, she pulled me inside of her. She spoke at a volume only I could make out; she asked me why I didn’t invite her into my bunk the day before to cuddle, and of course, I explained how I wanted nothing more than that. Still, I was worried if I risked too much, I could lose the bet entirely, so I decided to play conservatively and see what time had in store. I’d say I made the right decision; I was setting my face in the place just above her clavicle as she spoke, giving her little kisses on her neck and spreading my arms and hands all over her like ivy spreads over Whitman College.

Laima and I pushed to the brink, finally decided to get up and start the day. My flight was still at noon, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t consider changing it, but it was time to leave. We still speak now and again, and I often think of her when I think of The Land. I threw my stuff into a bag and made my way to O’Hare. During the cab ride, I realized that this eventually has to stop. I have to stop having these drug and booze-fueled moments of extreme passion. I want there to be a day where I don’t have to leave someone in bed hungover and wishing I could stay.

The fact is that’s not me at the moment, and all wishful thinking will get you is disappointment without any action. So, for now, I suppose I stay stuck in the trenches of momentary love broken up by long stretches of solitude and an ever-evolving dependence on the things that fucked it all up in the first place.

The aeroplane was cramped, full of bodies with at least a cent of life left in them. I was in my usual seat, an aisle as close to the cockpit as my wallet would carry me. The seats were beginning to fill up, and the numbers entering the plane were thinning. I was next to a soulless seat, thinking I could stretch out and eventually keel over mid-air when I’ve had too much drink. In my head, I was set. An empty seat and a few hours to drink until my fear of flight subsides.

A nun emerged from the passenger boarding bridge. She was adorned in full habit with a 4-inch cross wrapped around her neck hanging about her midsection. Something was telling me her seat would be next to mine, and strangely, I must admit, I almost wanted it.

“Hello, This you?” I said, pointing to the seat next to me.

“Hello, yes, it is. Sorry I was late to the gate.” said the Nun

“No problem at all, here, let me get out of the way.”

“Thank you, I’m officially no longer a resident of Illinois! Do you live in Washington?”

“Uhh, yes, I live in Washington. Are you officially a resident?” I asked with a smirk.

“I am! There’s a new convent that just opened in Pasco. I’m going there to live and help Father McCarty.”

The Nun appeared pure. She entered our aisle with a smile, seemingly eager to engage in conversation. Rather refreshing, and to me, cast her in a favorable light. I’m not a religious man, never have been. I’ve always disliked superstitious spirituality, but I firmly believe in a God. I believe God to be other people. The Nun is God, Laima is God, Mason is God, and the person you’re thinking of in your head right now is God too. I’ll let you determine precisely what that means.

The Nun settled in the seat next to me, she couldn’t have been a day over 35, and I felt something coming from her, like she was put in that seat by something. Maybe it was a sign from Delta Airlines, or perhaps it was just a coincidence. Either way, I wanted to pick her brain about faith and piety. Religion gets a bad rap these days, and some would say rightfully so, but despite the vile things many say about it, I think it to be somewhere in the middle. I spent some time in the church at a young age, and despite attempts made later in life to find faith, I just kept coming up empty. I’m not sure what that says about myself, the church, and the two together, but either way, the Nun is trapped in a seat next to me for the better part of 3 hours, and I’ve got a couple questions.

Liftoff, mid-air, penetrating through the clouds and rising faster toward the sun. At a certain point, when I looked out of the window, I could make out the earth’s curvature. Above the clouds, now next to the Nun. I thought about the past several days and that maybe I should start a conversation with the Sister. I was a couple whiskeys in, and she was reading her bible. I drank straight from the mini bottle, and she cracked the spine, opening up to a familiar page as this wasn’t her first time through. She must hate me and hate more every action I’ve ever taken, every word I’ve ever written. After an hour or so, she turned to me and asked if there was anyone I would like her to pray for while doing her rosary. i said a boy named John.

I rolled up my sleeves, and she caught a glimpse of my tattoos. She was present for all my drink orders, and I hadn’t held back when she asked if I was religious. I told her no, but I have a reverence for believers. The Nun drank apple juice, and we began to talk more than we previously had. I asked her opinion on Atheism, and her answer surprised me and was one I would tend to agree with.

The Nun put it like this: “To believe is to have faith, and a pre-requisite of faith is to know that what you believe is real. For the atheist has a faith, has a belief and the fact they know it to be real proves the power of faith.”

She continued: “The Atheist has faith, and if we are to be intellectually honest and fair, we must say he uses the tools he so ardently rails against. Faith is the tool the atheist or the pious use to guide their lives. They just happen to be opposites.”

The Nun wasn’t fucking around, and I appreciated that. She was honest, she could have gone on a whole spiel about the power of God’s love, but instead, she existed in this realm that the religious, atheist, and agnostic can all exist in. I was beginning to like the Nun; her habit showed her level of dedication, and her words showed her grasp.

Later in the flight and on my fourth whiskey, my pockets were beginning to sag as I always store the dead soldiers in my pockets so when the stewardesses come around for trash, I have nothing to give. Then I ask that same person for more whiskeys. This usually works because the person who travels down the aisle with the drink cart is not the same person who comes around looking for garbage. One must be smarter than the flight attendants. The Nun picked her bible back up, and I was staring at the words on the back of the tray table. Our flight was drawing to an end, and I could begin to see the earth below from the Nun’s window. Before we landed, we resumed our conversation, and I thought that maybe the Nun and I weren’t all that different. She was traveling across the country because she felt a pull. She might say that pull was “God’s grace” or “a calling,” but whatever it is, it exists inside her the same way it does in me. What calls me isn’t God, or maybe it is if God is other people.

The Nun and I collected our bags and stepped off the plane shoulder to shoulder. We walked the tarmac conversing about the weather, doing my best to answer her questions concerning southeastern Washington. After breaking the threshold of security, the doors to the outside world were waiting for us, and before I held the door for her…         

“Would you like to meet Father McCarty? I would say you two have a lot in common. He might have more tattoos than you.”

The Nun gave me a quick rundown on the Priest, and from the sound of it, we sure did have much in common. I had mentioned earlier in the flight that I had always wanted to attend a Mass in Latin. I do not speak or understand it, but I’ve always thought Catholicism is better expressed in Latin. Father McCarty holds mass in Latin, and upon The Nun’s introduction and notification, said a Latin prayer in the parking lot of the airport. I held the Nun’s hand while the Priest spoke a language that sounded made up, and I appreciated his gesture. I parted from them with warm smiles and kind salutations. I hope the Nun is finding her way and Father McCarty still holds Mass in Latin. I hope Laima is holding the world in her hand like an oyster and Mason is rolling sushi like a Japanese man. A tiny seed of myself still lives in The Land and, I go back every so often to water it.

Covert Art: Oleanders Flowering - Volegov