Through the eyes of a friend

The door opens with a whoosh of air, and I'm surrounded by a comfortingly exhilarating calm of an aroma found only in coffee shops and bookstores. No matter where you’re from or what you call them, whether you drink coffee, tea, or a variation, coffee shops have become so much more than a place to consume beverages. The coffee shop has become a place where we work, we read, we find fellowship and inspiration, surrounded by an atmosphere we cannot generate anywhere else.

“OK, but why do you want to leave?”

“Why do I have to go?”

“Yes, because you don't have to go. There's plenty of work here, you have a place to live, and you know where everything is.”

Right now, in Phil's life, that was all that mattered. It was all he could let into his life: a place to live and work; his heart was too wounded. The unexpected direction of this conversation was interrupting the unwinding atmosphere of our favorite spot.

This was supposed to be a relaxing break in the day. Not wanting to take transportation, we met at the coffee shop within walking distance of the office. One could usually rely on Philip for that type of one-sided, nonjudgmental conversation one desired when they’ve had a crap-day and need to think of nothing but want to talk about everything. Today was different. Philip seemed to have a planned dialogue. Clearly, he was determined to confront me about the whining attitude I'd adopted two days prior. To be fair and honest, I can be an Olympic-class whiner sometimes. I took a long sip of my caramel macchiato and let out a heavy sigh.

“Why, what?” I tried to play dumb, although I could tell he wasn't going to drop the matter. Reaching across the table, he squeezed my arm and gave me his best eye-rolling-half-grin look.

“You know exactly what. Why do you want to leave this time? I mean, you do this all the time. You've lived in 22 of the 50 states, and it made sense when he was alive and you were doing it for his work, but these emotion-based moves you're doing now make no sense. You uproot your life, get a new job, a new apartment, spend money, let's be honest here, you don't have, and once you get there (wherever there is), the grass is never as green as you hoped it would be. It's time to stop running. Take a minute and ask yourself if these emotional moves have ever made you happy?”

Ignoring his critique of my physical-life decisions, I tried to focus on the question I thought I could answer: “I don't know exactly; does anyone know what happy is? That's what I'm still trying to figure out. A few times, I had it, or thought I did.” He let out a long sigh and gave me another eye-rolling look. He asked again, “Figure out?”

“Figure out what my version of happy in this post-death world looks like.” Phil stopped for a minute and looked a little shocked at my flat use of the word, death. My mind immediately went to his grandmother and then to my husband. Both are gone.

Of course, I knew he was right. Moving around the country like I was in the witness protection program made me educated, but it also made me broke. It didn't make me happy, but I didn't know how to stop or where to stop. Was stopping even an option after all this time? What would that reality look like? After spending so much time moving here, there, and everywhere, the moving had become a big part of my identity. More than where it was, who I was. The plan to leave was in place: the location, the new job, and the apartment were decided. I knew the deep-cornflower blue sky and shamrock-green grass world filled with the best Sunday afternoon jazz and savory-tart white wine wasn't really waiting for me, no matter where I'd land. Those colors live only in my mind and the Pantone® books locked in my desk. That was the world I kept looking for, but was consistently let down. Phil could see the faraway look in my eyes. I had to say something.

“Nothing fits. I don't fit anywhere! Snippets is the best word to describe me now. My life is just like the project I'd been working on, only, the project finally came together where my life well... My life is a box of random puzzle pieces all coming from different puzzles tossed onto a table waiting to be sorted and put together. I keep trying to force them to fit together, but they won't.”

“You're so creative. I'm certain you will...”

“DON'T.”

“Don't what?” Philip was fiddling with the napkins. “Don't tell me I'm creative! Everybody says that. What does that even mean? What am I supposed to do with that? People throw out words like creative and strong thinking they'll complement or shore up the person they’re comforting, only it's not comforting or helpful. It's like saying, everything is going to be all right at a funeral; only it isn't, and the person saying it knows it isn't. Creative is just something they call you when you do something others didn't expect of you.”

“You're going to give me a migraine if you keep going on like this. Besides, you can't move.”

“Really, Phil, why? (This conversation was exasperating.) Why can't I pack it in and move? Are you afraid you'll have to start a real life if I move out?”

“OK, that was cold even for you.”

When his grandmother died, she left Phil a rather spacious, two-story walk-up on the edge of town. At the time, I needed a temporary place to park my stuff between moves. When he offered me to take one of the bedrooms, it seemed to be a perfect fit. The contract was supposed to be only 15 months; it was now approaching 3 years due to supply chain and vendor issues. Everything in the house was modern, but in an industrial style. His grandmother had plans to open a bed-and-breakfast, so she had the place redone after her husband died. The bedrooms were designed with an en suite, like a hotel. The kitchen had it all: a true chef's kitchen. This made it easy to share the place without getting in each other's way. Despite the delays, my job was under a tight deadline. Time for anything outside of work was at a premium. Most days, I ate at my desk, if I ate at all. When I was on a job, a normal allotment of sleep was 4-5 hours. This job was no different. Philip and I had been housemates for two years and 3 months. He wasn't in a good place after the death of his grandmother. On top of losing her, on the day of the funeral, his partner of 7 years took off without a word and was not coming back. Still, he was right; poking that nerve was going too far, even for me. Honestly, sometimes my limited social skills really hurt the people I love. It was a mean thing to say.

“I've got to get back and wrap things up before they send out a search party.” He nodded. Getting up to leave. I turned and started to apologize, but he dismissed it with the slightest trace of a smile and a wave. This was the reason we could be friends. We knew we could speak the truth to each other, even the truths that would sound mean to others, and the relationship would not only survive. It would thrive.

Walking back to the office was calming. Dropping into the chair at my desk, I loaded a box with the few personal items I'd collected. Miscellaneous tiny toys that reminded me of a world outside of myself and books by authors I'd read and re-read since college. Talking with Phil had worn me out; I didn't have it in me to face the rest of the team and the inevitable goodbyes. I was a contractor, and my part of the project was signed, finalized, and done two days prior, but some people still acted as if life as they knew it would unravel if I left. I tried not to think about that. They knew I was leaving, and that would have to be enough. I left a note on my desk, one last note and one last look as the doors to the elevator shut out the view of rows of cubicles. Downstairs, exiting the building for the last time, I felt the pull to look back but didn't. It was just another ending, another move, another place.

Back at Phil's, I tossed my keys in the dish on the table under the window. A note pinned to the board on the wall read, 'Went to the store...BBL'. Time for a shower. Phil always lingered at the store...so I knew there was time for a long, hot shower before he returned. Yoga pants and an oversized sweatshirt, my hair in a messy bun, I was foraging in the fridge by the time Phil came back.

Not finding anything, the top half of me was still immersed in the fridge: “Pizza?” Standing up, Phil smiled and handed me a container of Chinese rice noodles from our favorite Chinese takeout place. It was one of the few trustworthy places to get food that met all of my many culinary health restrictions.

“How'd you know?” I laughed, and we both slumped onto the couch.

“Seems like a Harvey kind of night...yes?”

“Yes, please.” Clearly, he knew me.

An old black and white movie, good Chinese food, and a friend who's not afraid to tell you the truth about yourself; it doesn't get much better. I loved that not once did he bring up that today was my birthday. I didn't know it, but the job that brought me here gave me the one good friend I'd needed for so long. Funny, the way God does these seemingly little things that are more important than we could ever imagine.

On the screen, Elwood P. Dowd had just finished my favorite quote: 'In this world, you must be oh so smart, or oh so pleasant. Well, for years, I was smart. I recommend pleasant.' Phil was looking at me, not the movie.

“You could stay and write that maybe-graphic-maybe not novel you’re always talking about.”

“OK.” I laughed. A lifetime of mulling it over, hemming and hawing, and it all came down to 'OK'. Seems strange, but just like that, I was happy, content. Even the rice noodles smelled better than I could remember.

For whatever reason, this day was different, maybe because it was my birthday, I don't know, but Phil had convinced me I should get out of my head and just go for it. The movie was over. Phil picked up the empty food containers and headed for the kitchen. Getting a pad and pen, I curled up in the oversized chair next to the window and started writing. I heard him say, “I'll leave you to it then.” But I was already too into the page to respond. It felt like I'd come home for the first time in over a decade.

People come into our lives and immediately form an opinion of who we are, and some even form ideas of who we will be or who they'd like us to be. Right or wrong, it is inevitably human, and we are all guilty of doing it at different times in our lives. How we accept these opinions into our lives can have a lasting impact. Before that day, I didn't know it, but Phil looked at me and saw a writer. Phil saw the person I’d forgotten. I looked at myself and saw only pieces of a wounded human.

After that night, talking with Phil; I cleared all the old work-files from my computer. It felt like clearing a thick pile of dust bunnies from my brain. I phoned the job and the apartment agent at the new place to tell them I wouldn't be coming. Shutting any doors to my old life as soon as possible was necessary, as leaving escape routes open at this stage could be dangerous. After researching some new software, I decided pen and ink was the way to go. The familiar smell of paper and the feel of the pen on the page were comforting, almost like the coffee shop. Multiple times in the past, I'd begun to write, sometimes sketch, different forms of this book, but each time I let something derail me. In the past, the need to write would grip me, and I'd write a few paragraphs, ideas on a page, then ball up the paper and toss what I considered the weaker ones in the bin. The more promising scraps would get hidden in a file with the hopes of becoming more at some distant point. Life gets in the way, I would tell myself, but the truth is, I got in my own way. We make time for the things we really want to do. Too many times I convinced myself that I couldn't do the things. I'd convinced myself that I couldn't do it or that it wouldn't be good if I did do it. I blamed my circumstances, but circumstances can't decide anything. Circumstances are only the results of choices I make.