Irretrievable

Chapter 7

Friday was a large disappointment. I was expecting something more fulfilling that would flourish into satisfaction. I was rather frustrated with the night’s result, yet I was not necessarily bothered by it, as if somehow I already knew roughly what would happen. Things between her and I were pulled taught by a lingering tension for a while afterwards, mostly because I felt no need to be around her any longer. It was gradual, the slow deterioration of a one sided effort to interact. She eventually gave up trying, I believe, and I noticed only after a while the lack of her presence. That was okay. It really began that very night even, at the bonfire. She pranced about in a feigned drunkenness and acted absolutely ridiculous. I hid my anger towards her with a crooked smile that bent at the corners in reluctance. I tried to lead her toward a group so I wouldn’t have to listen to her and only her, and I could hide my true reaction with more ease. I didn’t want her to see it; I knew she’d be hurt. And she was hurt. I could see it in her face in the following weeks each time we silently crossed paths or for a split second caught the other’s eye. I just gave a neutral wave when she looked at me long enough and that was all.

It dawns upon me now that you as a reader may be angered at me for having such a reaction. That’s understandable. I didn’t mean it, I didn’t plan it, I assure you I wanted her more than anything. She was a peculiar case in which the emotions she provoked within me actually settled in and had influence. She, and, by she, I mean her essence, her individuality, her seemingly perfected self, had sought me out and grasped me in a rather tight grip that even I could not break. She was an exception to what I thought was an imperfect ‘sea of fish’, if I may. But Friday night came around and plunged her deeper into that sea than I could have ever imagined. And it wasn’t because she was less of an individual than the rest. Rather, she was the most individual person I had been physically and emotionally attracted to and it was because of that not-so-mainstream characteristic I was attracted to her. She became such a figure of frustration to me because she was a beacon of hope in an otherwise hopeless world that perhaps could have proven me wrong. When she unknowingly snuffed her faint light, I embraced a darkened world for what it was, accepting that it was satisfactory. But it also meant that I embraced a world where people didn’t matter all that much, and that inevitably included her.

I regret what didn’t happen. I regret that a possibility was never indulged, and that something turned into nothing. It was at its basest level unproductive. Yet at the same time, I am thankful for that night, and appreciative of what did happen. It surely saved me a lot of unnecessary pain and suffering upon dwelling on the entity of someone else. Of course, it also prevented me from knowing the joys of connection with another, that thing they call love which apparently can’t be put into words. How could it, though? Love is a completely subjective emotion felt only when a person chooses to believe he or she is, as a matter of intuitive fact, in love. I love a good steak, but I think that is something different.

Yes, that is something different. It’s trivial, and that’s okay in my book. I still find joy in life but I suppose it’s a sort of cynical joy. I take things for what they are without embellishment, and often find a very filling humor in others’ attempts to discover the good in something that is clearly not good. Similarly, I’ve accepted the fact that most people are absolutely absurd and their indecency is rather funny. I overheard Maddie one day as I was walking in front of her. She was the one who was ranting to Phil in that history class I described long ago. She was complaining that her boyfriend of one month had not done anything for their alleged ‘one-month anniversary’, which in itself would’ve been a total joke had it happened. She also mentioned that she told her boyfriend not to do anything. At that point I had a good mind to tell her she was an idiot and that she overestimated the amount of affection people actually had for her. But I kept my mouth shut, knowing it would do me no good to lay the truth in front of her. I just laughed at her arrogance.

You see, I had finally understood that nothing had meaning unless I chose to give it meaning. It was a sort of freedom unique from that of speech or even independent thought. It was a freedom that allowed me to pursue whatever I desired, and disregard everything else. It was, and still is, personal liberation. I am unaffected by the fallacies of the world, simply because I choose to be. Of course, I still must deal with my own imperfections, because I know there are plenty, some glaring, but those shall be dealt with when I deem it necessary, because they don’t matter.

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Banks and I stood in a chilling night air on the track of a nearby elementary school. Everyone had left for home, slowly but surely. First the goers of the fair, the small children and their parents of dutiful attendance, then the staff, packing up their supplies and clearing the area. We had volunteered to help out for the night, but planned on staying a while afterwards. After a while only a handful of people remained, finishing the jobs left incomplete by the rest. We were on the far side of the track, opposite the school’s edge which was plainly decorated with shrubs and trees. There was a faint, yet appropriate light cast on the grey surface from a few lights that lined the track all the way around. We had with us a football, and that was all that was necessary. It was a simple activity that invoked as much joy as the more typical teenage endeavors of Saturday nights. We were both aware of the supposed absurdity of what we were doing, but in reality, we knew it was okay. The frigidity of the night, the late hour, the alienated notion of being at a school on a Saturday night; we did not care. It was fun, and that’s all we needed.

“Alright, short passes first,” said Banks, “Let’s just work our way up.” I agreed with him. After maybe two throws each, we were delivering tight, precise spirals into the other’s hands. The ball became merely a magnetized brown oval that was drawn into the embrace of our palms. We didn’t drop one pass.

“You know people would probably think this is ridiculous?” he asked me.

“Yeah,” I said with a chuckle, “and it is a bit ridiculous.”

“Absolutely. We can barely even see the ball right now.” It was true. The dim light coming from overhead didn’t do much to illuminate the scene. Like he said, to be there in the first place was in question and to be throwing a football in near darkness was silly. We enjoyed it.

“So are you over your little depression now?” he asked me.

“Yeah, I am. It’s over”, I replied.

“Can you tell me why you were even depressed, now?”

“A girl, Layla. Everything went wrong, but I think I’m over it now. You probably think the whole thing is dumb to begin with. That’s why I didn’t mention it until now.”

Banks didn’t stop tossing the ball back and forth; he hardly stopped to dwell on it. “No. I can understand it.” he said. “But it’s good that you’re over it, it was controlling you for a while.”

“You can understand it…Oh that’s right!”, I exclaimed in the excitement of having just
remembered some intriguing fact. “You never told me the story of her.”

The ball was flying faster now. We both had gained a grasp of the action that was in itself flawless. That night Peyton Manning had nothing on us. We were keeping it level, aimed at the chest of the other. The spinning nose of the ball would head directly for the spot where the ribs meet. And just as it was about to strike the chest, a pair of hands would rise up from seemingly nowhere, snag the ball from its seeking flight pattern and return it in the same manner to where it had come.

“I suppose you want know” he said with a hint of questioned tone, although we both knew he’d be telling the story. I nodded, just for excessive affirmation. He spilled out a vast amount of information condensed into just a few minutes. It confirmed what I had already knew: that he was deceiving everyone. Banks had most under the impression that he was some sort of unfeeling robot of sorts. Banks took little interest in women, because he didn’t want to. He would if he felt the desire. But most thought otherwise. I told him.

“A lot of people think you’re emotionless, or just plain mean…” I said. For the first time there was a sort of hesitation in him, but it passed quickly.

“What do you mean?” he returned.

“People think you don’t feel, that you don’t have emotions, especially regarding girls. I’ve heard them say it before. They think you’re…not human, that you don’t feel anything, at all…” At this he did not throw the ball back. He just stared at me. I thought he was quite literally going to engage in a passionate rage about such a preposterous suggestion. He did not, however. He simply began laughing. And it was a hearty laugh, a laugh that he was truly enjoying. I was surprised by his reaction.

“You aren’t mad?” I asked him, in a mild astonishment.

“No, man. I think that’s hilarious. They are all so wrong. I can’t believe I have them that fooled.” His tone was that of amusement.

“How are you not mad?”

“It doesn’t matter what anyone thinks. I know the truth and what they say is absolute nonsense. I define my world, they don’t.” I replied with just ‘yeah’ and sort of trailed off. There was a silence now and I pondered what he meant. He defined his world. How absolutely true. It was so simple, yet so perfect. I understood then. Banks pumped the ball forward as if pointing. I understood what he meant and took off down the track, pushing a yard of concrete behind me with each step. The ground before me melted into nothing. I picked my head up and looked backwards. Banks took a few steps forwards and heaved the ball. I saw it spinning through the air, somehow outpacing me with graceful ease. As it began its arching descent I lost it briefly as it passed through the gleam of one of the lights. But not a split second later it reappeared, much closer than I expected. I heard it more than I saw it, for it carried about it a subtle gusting whistle that told me where it was. I followed it with my eyes, then, directly over my shoulder and then the whistling ceased. The ball landed softly and silently in my hands and I slowed myself down to return to where I had begun. Perfect.

As I jogged back a smirking satisfaction could be seen on both our faces. That was a pass of perfection and it alone, even had there not been dozens more like it to be recreated later, made what we were doing worthwhile and made it absolutely not absurd. I tossed the ball back to him, and just as I was about to sprint down the track again, I heard something odd, like a faint smack against the pavement.

“What was that?” I inquired.

“It was a butterfly” Banks informed me. I looked at him with a mixed expression of confusion and doubt. He was right though. There laid, on the cold pavement, a small butterfly. It seemed to be struggling to regain flight, to right itself and fly away as if nothing had happened. It lay on its right wing as the left desperately tried to carry the rest of the creature away. The image was entirely poetic. It was quite possibly the most intricate, beautiful animal I had ever seen. Its wing consisted of swirling lines and colors that morphed into each other, never ending but always changing. There was really nothing we could do to help it. It had simply fallen from the air and could not leave the imprisoning pavement. Its desperate flap had slowed to a calm, less frequent wave, and with each wave it knew, and we knew, that it was dying. Nothing could be done and Banks and I soon enough paid it no more of our attention and continued throwing the football. The butterfly was a creation of absolute beauty, it was natural perfection embodied in a subtle creature of fleeting presence that catches one’s eye in utter intrigue and is gone again within moments. It quite literally had dropped from the sky, never to get up again. The butterfly, the image of absolute perfection, had died before my eyes, and that was alright.