The One That Got Away (Part I)

Few people have the courage to make mistakes – let alone repeat them. Backlash. Backlash. Backlash. Now I know how to cast. Snag. Snag. Snag. Now I can feel whether my lure's hitting rocks or weeds. Attach no stigma to rejection or to failure! Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. It takes a certain masked sense of humour to live like this – a certain kind of bravado, machismo, confidence, daring. To stand apart: to dream and to give that dream life – to create; to be powerful; to have, thanks to my grandmother, a pair of eyes with a hue history has yet to see (though imposters are sure to follow); to be romantic (but not in a pathetic sense); to be distinct. It’s strange and stupid to want to this kind of segregation, to want to be alone. But it’s odd only because few people so desire. I'm one of those people; I proudly stand alone.

It’s not the distance so much as the place – no, it’s not the place so much as the people who aren't there. Or maybe the person who will never be there. Along Highway 11 the leaves are still primarily green. Autumn’s passion, not desired but inevitable, is yet to come; summer’s sprung to life and died, seemingly simultaneously, on a bronze or perhaps auburn or perhaps rust-coloured beach (my attention was elsewhere). People have told me that it’s simply a coping mechanism, to believe so firmly that my destiny is to be alone, to live alone, to dream alone (as if this is something undesirable!). Or maybe, until recently, I’ve met no other dream worth fostering. In my ecstatic moments I have a particular swagger. Soon I’ll be a lawyer, I think as I pass Bracebridge, but I look like someone’s who’s been in the woods for a few weeks: tough, resilient, unstoppable.

-              -              -

The kayak coyly slips into the water: long, slender, and smooth. My camera’s ready; my rods are ready, finely tuned, the drag set appropriately and the knots tied precisely. A few strokes. The newness of the endeavour doesn't faze me one bit. At least until water starts weighing me down – almost immediately, I should add. I open the scupper holes. Nothing. Still, I take a few casts into some weeds. On the third one, I lose my balance and fall overboard. Obscenities. I try to grab all of my gear and put it on the barely floating vessel, lucky that I'm able to stand on a sandy bottom. Opening the front compartment, I see that it’s full of water. Shit. There must be a leak. Walking the broken kayak back to Hutcheson Beach, a few gentlemen, sitting together, sipping bone dry cappuccinos, yell out an ironic: “Did you catch anything?!”

At the beach, humiliated, I panic as I realize that one of my rods is missing. It must have fallen out as I fell over. Damn. Damn. I’m sure it’s lost forever in the turbid waters of Lake Vernon. But I go look for it anyways. My feet move slowly as I retrace my steps. I have to pass the coffee drinkers again, but, unsurprisingly, they’ve run out of barbs. What I expect to be an arduous, ultimately fruitless task ends abruptly, pleasantly, in an anti-climax. Rod in hand, I make my way back to the parking lot, my demeanour, stoic, my Soul, dejected, worn-out, and the water, warm, thinking of how I’d sink all of my gear to be standing ankle deep in the cold Ocean again, tiny fish hitting my feet. I say goodbye to my camo-coloured, defected kayak. Within a few hours, it’s replaced by an orange one. Driving back to Huntsville, I cling to the faint and futile hope that someone’s effect on me is similarly interchangeable.

-              -              -

Introspection’s knocking on my door. I fear it might be accompanied this time. I need to ward off these evil spirits! Bang. Bang. They’re trying to break in. No, now they’re on the balcony. I put on my running shoes and sprint down the stairs, neon green laces flopping around. I’m still tentative but I’m moving. A weakened tendon and a weakened mind. A golf course. A truck delivering a refrigerator. Water (not as calming an influence as it usually is). Still moving, keys, clumsily tied to my pocket-less shorts, hitting my stomach with each stride. It’s humid; it’s very humid. Slowing my pace, I turn towards the forest and continue along the “Summit Trail”. It’s not much of a hike, but I’m rewarded nonetheless: at its end, a secluded spot overlooking Fairy Lake and two well-crafted wooden benches. A fine place to have a beer one evening. But not today. Sweat falls into my eyes, slightly deeper in shade than they were at the beginning of the day – an acute observation that could only be made by someone utterly remarkable.

I go back to my apartment, no longer harassed by the suddenly subdued spirits. I grab The Beautiful and Damned and run a cool bath. Fitzgerald’s style is rather, or should I say relatively, unusual in this book, and I’ve yet to figure out whether there’s some purpose to his madness or whether the desire to create something new, something different, superseded his desire to create something, for lack of a better word, great, and that, therefore, he experimented only for experimentation’s sake. One hundred and fifty pages into the novel and Anthony still hasn’t begun any meaningful work on his book. And I’m baffled that Gloria chose him to be her husband. She should be drawn to a stronger man, a man of action. Maybe she doesn’t want to be outshined. It’s no matter. After all, these are symbols, made-up scribbles, in front of me, not people (assuming there’s any kind of meaningful difference between the two). And so later, when I find myself, pen in hand, writing some gibberish, I feel ashamed that I can’t duplicate Anthony’s abstinence, instead stupidly and vainly trying to immortalize or, better yet, freeze a long-gone moment in eternity.

-              -              -

Alistair Overeem is a frightening man. He won the K-1 2010 World Grand Prix; he won the Strikeforce Heavyweight Championship; he won the DREAM Interim Heavyweight Championship. Few in this world can challenge him mano a mano; he’s aggressive, he’s confident, and he’s cut from stone. His Muay Thai is unparalleled, and it’s on full display in the early stages of his fight against Big Ben Rothwell. Kicks. Uppercuts in the clinch. And those brutal knees. There are moments when he looks unbeatable. But, as some believe, the fight gods are fickle, and they don’t care how much work you put in during your training camp; how many guys you beat up; how many sacrifices you made. In a split second, Overeem’s night is over: Rothwell lands a huge overhand right to Alistair’s left ear. First round KO. The better man dances; the other, despite his resume, is merely a loser, lying unconscious on the mat. The TV on, I fall asleep on the couch as Jacare Souza begins what turns out to be a masterful performance.

It’s New Years Eve. I’m wearing a black tie, a white shirt and a black suit. It’s an open bar event – I’m not quite sure where; it’s dark. I’m wearing sunglasses; I can’t show my eyes. I mustn't show my eyes. This much I’ve been told; I tend to agree: it’s a good instruction. There are plenty of girls dancing, moving as if one mass, differentiated only by the colours of their shoes. I’m sitting down, tempted by the vodka shots sitting lonely at the bar. My feet move of their own accord, and I raise my glass. I shouldn’t dance; I shouldn’t have another drink. I know it’s bad. But the taste...the taste! I need cold, clear indulgence, the only shortcut to a colder, more turbid overindulgence. A waltz first, then a tango. Ah, now I’m dancing! I cut in. The pretty ones always wear simple dresses. She isn't the best dancer but the most hypnotic by far. The song is almost over; the year is almost over. The countdown nears its end. 5. Her eyes. 4. Her touch. 3. Her nervous smile. 2. I tear off my sunglasses. 1. A conscience killing kiss. Thunder. My eyes open. It’s 2:27 AM, Saturday, September 6^th.

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