ancient curses
"There was a man here, looking for you.""Did he say who he was?"
"No. He just said that he'd come back another time and maybe then he'd catch you."
Those words. I hear those words and the first thing I wonder is if someone's told him where I am. An automatic mental flip-flip of the memory rolodex, who knows? oh god, I was there, who mentioned him? who sees him? who? spiralling down and up through the years in a rush.
Why I don't automatically think it might be good news at this point in my life I just don't know. Could be it's still a reaction like a kicked-dog instinct sharply honed over many years. One that, while no longer strictly valid in such an extreme sense, has left it's own nasty residue. A kind of shivery slice of anticipation to live on like a ghost inside my room.
It doesn't occur to me, even after that initial twist, that it might be something good, something fantastic and life-changing. Something deserved. I'd learned my lesson well that good things don't magically come to any of us, except maybe those who you can instantly see have no right to them.
It can't be an angel, a genie or a leprechaun with wishes. It's not someone you used to know or used to work for - who's decided the company can't do without you anymore. Name your price, we want you back. Not someone who owes you money. No one with unexpected wealth or gifts.
When someone comes looking for me in the place where I think I'm finally safe, something oily with cold and featherlight wings begins to flutter in my stomach. For a moment, all sound ceases and the only noises I hear are wave upon wave in my head that deafen me, leave me swaying, before I breathe breathe and there's silence inside me once again.
Broken arms and cracked ribs. Split lips, a blurry eye. Fists. Guns. Silence. Working temp, a different place every week and coming out at five to find cards on my car. A car behind the bus. A car at the end of the lane. Thumps behind walls and soft little cries. Shadows moving fast ahead of you in an alley. Footsteps tap-tapping on a deserted walkway as the ocean continues it's melody in the background. Unceasing. Uncaring.
These painful, heartbreaking things - witnessed and endured both - of a violent and angry youth linger far in the background. Mostly forgotten. Mostly accepted. All looked squarely in the face. Mostly gone.
Yet, nothing frightens me as much as "he's looking for you" and I wonder briefly if those four words will ever loosen their grip on me. Or, even if I should wish them to.
August 14, 2004