I forgive you. I still don’t understand why you did what you did, but I know that because of you, I followed through on the biggest risk I've ever taken in my entire life. The only risk I’ve ever taken in my entire life. And even though it did not turn out exactly as I had hoped, I know now that I will never, ever regret it. I will be forever grateful to you—whether we’re together or apart—because of these last two weeks. I wish you well, wherever your life may take you. I hope you always remember the time we shared—I know I will.
Take care of yourself,
Ian
PS—I know it’s a long shot, but if you do receive this, I plan to stop at the Botanical Gardens in Christchurch on Tuesday morning before my flight. I’ll be there at 10:30, for a half hour or so. You know the spot—where this all began. Perhaps we can say goodbye in person... If you’re not there, I’ll understand.
One night I’m over at the Sharmas’ house to work on the diorama of the Kennedy assassination that Yashi and I are building for our American History class. We’re sitting at the kitchen table, debating the accuracy of our miniature replica of Zapruder’s Zoomatic camera when we hear thumping on the basement stairs. The door flies open and Yashi’s grandfather, Grandpa Raj, bursts into the kitchen. He’s panting a bit, with a big grin on his face. He holds up what looks like an old record in a cardboard sleeve. “Boys,” he exclaimed. “I have found it!”
“Found what?” Yashi mumbles while squinting at the tiny camera.
“My record,” Mr. Sharma exclaims.
“That’s great, Grandpa.”
“What record?” I ask.
“From my band,” he says, “back in India.” He gestures at us with his free hand. “Come, come! I want to play it for you.”
“Grandpa, we’re trying to finish our—”
“You were in a band?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says, beaming. “A rock band.”
“Cool,” I say. “Yash, have you heard it?”
Yashi shakes his head.
“Let’s go check it out.” I get up and walk over to Grandpa Raj as he turns to descend the stairs. “We could use a break.”
“Don’t encourage him,” Yashi says.
***
The basement is bathed in soft pink and green light, which emanates from a large, vintage-looking lava lamp sitting on top of the entertainment center along the far wall. Grandpa Raj is hunched over in front of it, placing the record on the turntable. Mrs. Sharma is sitting at one end of the frayed plaid couch along the opposite wall. I sit at the other end, and Yashi plops down in a polka-dot bean bag chair next to the rickety coffee table.
Grandpa Raj turns around to face us. “Ladies and gentleman,” he says in an exaggeratedly theatrical voice, “from Bangalore, please welcome, your favorite rock ‘n‘ roll band in all the land...The Spitting Cobras!
Mrs. Sharma and I clap enthusiastically while Yashi sips at a can of Sprite. Then there’s a moment of complete and awkward silence as Grandpa Raj fumbles with the needle. We hear the crackle of static, and he stands up straight, still with his back to us, and raises his head and outstretched hands toward the ceiling.
A roiling swirl of frenzied guitar feedback and cymbal washes pour from the speakers. Grandpa Raj’s hands shake, as if channeling the energy of some celestial being. The rush of noise ends and the drums kick in. He lowers his arms and begins nodding his head in time with the beat. A jaunty guitar riff introduces itself, and he slowly spins around and begins swaying to the rhythm. The singer starts the first verse, and Grandpa Raj lip-syncs right along, holding an imaginary microphone.
For five minutes we watch him slink around in front us, alternately lip-syncing and playing air guitar. He has the cadence of the vocals and the guitar notes down pat. I do hear a similarity between the husky young voice on the record and that of the gruff, paunchy middle-aged man preening in front of us. He certainly has stage presence. Mrs. Sharma grooves along in her seat, and I can’t help but nod my head. The song ends with the same swirl of guitars and cymbals, and Grandpa Raj turns his back to us and offers himself to the heavens once more.
Mrs. Sharma stands to cheer and applaud, and I join in. Yashi rises and nods his head. “Not bad,” he says.
“Thank you, thank you,” Grandpa Raj says, before executing a graceful bow.
***
Yashi repositions the Umbrella Man on the grassy knoll, which we made out of astro turf. We have to have the diorama done by Thursday for our class presentation.
“Your grandpa’s a freaking rock star,” I say to him. “Literally.”
“I guess he is,” Yashi says. “You know, next year we’ll have World History. Maybe we should do a project on The Spitting Cobras.”
Hello, Ice Queen. It’s the guy who you said you loved more than any other person you’d ever loved in your entire life...you know, the one you said you couldn’t imagine ever living without...the one you want to spend the rest of your life with...“The One?”
What a bizarre way to express your devotion...by not returning my calls. You must be sooooo distraught...though your coping mechanism of tweeting pics of you and random dudes at the bar to your “legions” of followers is rather puzzling. How many of them did you make out with? I’m sure you were thinking about me the whole time.
God, you’re cruel.
You are one of the most heartless, most...inhumane human beings I have ever met. Do you have no conscience? How can you not pick up the phone when I call? When you hear “The Final Countdown” ringtone...do you not smile? Aren’t you even the least bit curious about how I’m doing? It’s been four days. Four. Days.
You are so freaking stubborn.
And no, I’m not drunk...hungover, actually. I can hear you now, “Shock-ing.”
Anyway...would you believe that I got into a fight last night? Yup, a real, genuine street brawl. I met Brendan and a couple of his jackass friends at Hagerty’s, one of whom mouthed off to some meathead as we were leaving. Next thing I know I’m on my knees trying to pull the meathead off the jackass, when some other meathead grabs me by the hair, the hair, then throws me to the ground and starts pounding the back of my head. Don’t worry, I’m fine...just watched clumps of my hair fall out in the shower this morning.
Anyway...I know things have been rough for us lately, and I know...look, I’m sorry that...that I made you cry on your birthday. If that’s what this is about then...I just wish I could take back what I said. It was insensitive, and selfish and...just...stupid. I knew it as soon as I said it.
And of course...locking us out of your apartment that night didn’t help, either...that was...yeah...didn’t help.
Anyway, please call me when you get this. I love you. No matter what...no matter what trivial little thing one of us says that the other takes the wrong way. I didn’t mean it how you thought I meant it.
I hate trying to pour my soul out to you over the phone...just wish you’d pick up...
Saw on Facebook that you straightened your hair when you went out with “the girls” the other night...awfully spiteful of you...way to twist the knife...
God, this is so frustrating!
Anyway...didn’t do much this weekend, other than the brawl...um...oh, actually, I biked down to the lake on Friday. I stopped at the creepy totem pole thingy...and yes, I thought of that squirrel. God, that thing was demented. You remember how it turned around and sorta, like, taunted us after stealing the granola bar? Right off the blanket! Like, an inch from my face! Every time I see a squirrel now I just wanna...
Anyway...to happier times. Not that I’m drinking...I swear to you I’m not...
I guess what I’m trying to say is, I hope that we can get our revenge on that squirrel some day...
Give me a call...please. I love you so much...I’m sorry...sorry for leaving such a long message...sorry for everything...just...sorry...
The middle-aged woman’s hair was close-cropped, bristled. A buzz cut, I guess you’d call it. She was standing on the street corner with a mammoth, furry brown dog. Her face contorted in horror as she watched me fly through the air.
I watched, too.
From my vantage point, high up in the knotted and burled maple on the opposite corner, I saw everything. The first few times, I shielded my eyes with my hand, or clenched them tightly shut, or averted them to the clouds, which stretched long and flat across the horizon. At some point, I steeled myself enough to keep my eyes on the street below as it happened—pedaling my bike into the intersection, the white, unmarked cargo van approaching, not even braking. I gasped that first time, the breath sucked right out of me like a slug to the gut.
I landed a couple feet in front of them. She cried out, the hand holding the dog’s leash shooting up to her mouth to belatedly muffle her outburst. The dog had been sitting on his haunches, awaiting her command to cross the street. At the sharp crack of the impact, it leapt to its feet and sort of hopped back, all in one motion.
It’s odd; after watching it so many times, I'm still overcome with empathy for them. For witnessing such a traumatic event. And she still had her wits about her to immediately dig her cell out of her coat pocket and call 911. I wish I could meet her. Not to thank her, but to apologize. And to find out why she wears her hair that way. It’s not chemo; her cheeks were round and flush, and her hazel eyes shimmered with a vitality that was unmistakeable.
As for me, well, now I’m sort of...stuck. Not up here in this tree, but, you know, metaphorically speaking. I see that van whenever I close my eyes. I know the make, model, year, and license plate number. What I can’t see from up here is the driver. The woman with the buzz cut told the police she did not get a look at the person. She had been too concerned about me.
I know the driver is scared. Panicked, despairing, remorseful. I can sense it. I know that the driver has not yet told a soul about what happened, and that he or she continues to hide away in some dark, dreary room; the door closed, the shades drawn. Alone. Desperate to keep the memories at bay with the help of a bottle. Terrified to face the future.
I can sense it all.
Some day soon, I hope that when I close my eyes, I won’t see that van. Instead, I will see myself pedaling through that intersection, pumping my legs harder to pick up speed as I wave to that woman with the curious hair.
