Part 17

Yanick Champoux (7/9/2002)

For what seemed an eternity, I stood there, transfixed.

I was a Bedouin, who after a trek of a thousand miles between unrelenting sun and merciless sand had finally reached the outskirts of an oasis.

I was a sailor, who after having clung for days and nights to a piece of shipwreck not to fall prey to the hungry circle of sharks, was seeing the green line of coast at horizon.

I was a babysitter, having tried everything but breast-feeding to put an end to the steadfast wailing that had been the toddler's leitmotiv for the whole night, hearing the parents's car pulling in the drive-way.

I had been through Hell, and Paradise was before me. Beth would understand. She would help. My misfortune was perhaps not at an end, but it would be suspended for a time, for asylum was but a foot step away from me.

I opened my mouth to tell Beth of my gratitude, of my relief, but what came out instead was most of the liquor and beer that had been used to christen Joe and I's new brotherhood, along with some peanuts and chips that had played the role of confettis in the same ceremony.

Had I been sober, I would have been crushed by shame and guilt. But had I been sober, I wouldn't had been sick in the first place. Had I been high on peyolt, I would have seen in this a proof of a Great Design, and of the Universe's Creator wisdom. But I was merely drunk, and thus eschewed metaphysical considerations, preferring to look befuddled by my sudden gastric outburst as I slowly felt first on my knees, and then on my face.

The last thing I heard, before oblivion mercifully decided to punch my card for the day, was the grunting voice of the panzer in a nightgown.

"Your father used to do that, too."

Next thing I know, I woke up.

Only, words badly convey the process involved. Waking has only two syllables. Had the word being crafted to resemble the actual motion of going from sleep to consciousness, it would had been made of at least thirty-eight syllables, and would have comprised several spittle-prone phonemes. In my mind, the slumbering soul was a submarine, generally separated from consciousness by hundreds of feet of plankton, schools -- nay, whole academies -- of jelly-fishes and a thick super-tanker-class oil spilling.

It was when I was reaching sonar distance of the surface that I took in the fact that I was in bed. A clean bed -- which precluded the notion that I could have somehow managed to crawl back to my apartment. The bedsheets were crisp, cool, and even with my eyes still glued together I could sense their impeccable whiteness. Over the bedsheet I could feel the soothing weight of a comforter. Around my head, the gossamer touch of a pillow as deep and as soft as memories of one's first love.

I became aware of a warm presence, lying at my side. Through the contact, I was feeling the thumping of a heart, the tidal movements of breathing.

With great care, for I could feeling a headache rumbling at the back of my head like an approaching summer storm, I opened my eyes. And couldn't help but to smile.

"'morning, Love."

Beth. Full name, Bethlany Midas. Her first name was the consequence of the inability of her mother to choose between Elisabeth and Melany as her daughter's name. Her last name, or so I gathered, was the consequence of her mother not being able to resist handsome Greek men in full traditional garb, and her father not being able to resist shaved gorillas in a dress.

I remember my first encounter with Beth as if it was yesterday. How could I ever forget? She slammed open the door of my office and all but cried. "I need help to find Love."

It took no more than one single look at her big distraught brown eyes to know that of all things I desired in my life, helping her in her quest was the one I desired the most.

Do I need to say that, thank to me, Love was indeed found? Two months later, Beth and I were tying the knot. A quick turnover, but it was motivated in part by an ardent, reciprocal passion, and mostly by the edict of a mother that wasn't fond of playing chaperone that speculated that I was either to marry her daughter right there and then, or get lost.

The first times, even considering the unlikely biological cause for my loved one, were blissful. But, alas, it is one of the laws of this world that a fruit, however sweet it may be, can't stay ripe forever.

Bethlany was a soft, peaceful creature. Her dreams were made of a cozy home, Friday nights spent playing bridge and picnics on Sunday afternoons. My reality was made of cheap booze, shady characters and incriminating pictures. Our souls were cut out of the same fabric, but it was obvious for anyone with eyes that our worlds were different. And in the long run, irreconciliable.

Neither of us wanted it, but we had to part. Part before we come to resent each other, before our love became tainted by regrets. We came to this decision together, and we agreed it was the sensible and logical thing to do. Later, however, I caught myself wondering more than a few times if, as sensible and logical it might have been, it had been the right thing to do. I never had the heart to answer myself.

So we drifted apart. We still were seeing each other, but not too often as those reunions were too stirring and, in a way, too painful.

But the time was not for melancholy. Returning to the present, I reached out and scratched Love behind the ear. The big St.Bernard, always a sucker for this kind of ministrations, thanked me by a big sloppy tongue-slurp across the face.

I got out of the bed and dressed up. Clothes -- not the Fish's but old clothes of mine -- were neatly folded on the treasure chest sitting at the foot of the bed.

Taking a deep breath, feeling more nervous that I should have been, I opened the bedroom's door. Coming from the floor below, the bewitching odor of baking muffins and the siren song of frying beacon immediately assaulted my senses. Behind me, the sudden squeaks of springs and sound of four paws hitting the floor told me Love had left the bed. With a resonant whoof, he made clear that standing one more second between him and breakfast was tantamount to a clear confession of a life-long desire to become dog-carpet.

My breast harboring no such desire, so I moved forward.