#54 ME AND HIM=US

My boyfriend and I seem to be on the outs again--what is it with us? I thought he was seeing someone else but do not have conclusive evidence and he dissembles when asked anything point-blank--you can never, ever pin anything on him so easily does he deflect direct implication. Last week I accused him of having a secret life for which he just cynically chortled and went back to his TV program with an air of lassitude; his prince in exile mode. He does not answer my questions or even acknowledge their flimsy existence. Tears give him a rash.

Today I asked him where he had been for the past four days. His answer was brevity itself: “I had to go out of town.” No other woman would let him off with this cryptic, elusive response but I, for reasons of my own, have to respect his gift; his powers of evasion, as if he were a spy, that most romantic of fictional characters. Then again, it just may have something to do with my cowardice, being unable to deal with confrontation, a paltry trait I admit to. After his terse response to my question, I go silent, he stays mum and we try to take it from there.

Me: “So do you want to get together later?”
Him: “Yeah, of course.”
Me: “Should I come over to you or do you want to come over here?”
Him: I’d like to get out, why don’t I come over there…if you don’t mind?” (Notice, he’s walking on eggshells.)
Me: “Yeah sure. Do you want to come now?” (Notice, I’m anxious to see him.)
Him: “If you’re going to be there. It will take me at least an hour on the bus, you know how the 49 is? But I’ll leave in about ten minutes.”
Me: “Okay, I’ll see you then. We can have lunch.” (He loves the rituals of the table.)
Him: “That sounds good. I’ll bring some leftovers from last night, I cooked a bunch of stuff...if you want me to…” (Peace offering.)
Me: “Yeah. Great. I’ll go to BevMo and get us a nice bottle of wine. Do you want red or white?” (Placating fool.)
Him: “Oh, I don’t know, whatever you want. I’ll see you in about an hour, hour and a half at the most. I’ve got a couple of errands but they should only take about fifteen minutes then I’ll get on he bus and be there in maybe less than an hour.” (Renewed enthusiasm, having dodged yet another bullet.)

And so after five days of silence and wonder, we resume our little hazy relationship. I know where he has been, he knows I know but appreciates not having to spell it out. He has been with his ex-girlfriend at her house a hundred miles north of San Francisco. He visits her about once a month ostensibly to help her around the yard that is too much for her alone. At first I was shattered by this knowledge not for a minute buying the yard bit. So much so I gave him an ultimatum: The old “me or her” thing. I even shed a few tears while delivering it. We were having Huevos Rancheros in the Mission. He refused to respond to anything so soap-opera(ish) but held my hand, patted my cheek and asked the waitress to bring a glass of wine, a solution I expect worked well with past girlfriends who were all alcoholics. Over time he realized asking for the dessert menu worked for me.

I didn’t make him state his choice explicitly but I knew if it came down to it, he would choose me. I’m infinitely more useful to him at this stage of his life and his finely-tuned survival instincts know this. He lives by skimming the water’s surface, on the lookout for whatever floating device he can grab onto. I’m it at this juncture: I have a room, a part-time job, a few credit cards and computer skills. He has a floor to crash on at a dour, eccentric friend’s ratty place, no money, zero computer skills and plenty of habits. I’m not exactly a place in the sun but can keep him afloat for at least a day which is as far as he’s capable of visualizing.

What do I get? Well, that is complicated, I might say to sound like a person of infinite dimension but have to admit that what I get is simply his company. I would be alone in my room without him. I would have to have a solitary lunch, probably a peanut butter sandwich and a cup of Chai Spice tea and would definitely not have a nice bottle of wine. I would not make an effort to style my hair, put on makeup or a decent blouse. I would not vacuum the rug or clean the toilet. I would be a paragon of sloth if not for him. I would also not play music or set a nice table. His presence guarantees me a relatively exalted day. He does not deprive himself if he can help it or approve of asperity.

When night falls and we watch the sun setting over the old Gothic church that predominates my view to the west, we will lie in bed together, stoned, talking of art, the mysterious powers of creation and the mystical insights we carry within. We will say things to each other we don’t, as a rule, say to others because no one would understand or find them fundamental. He says I have the true bohemian spirit in a time that is strictly devoted to materialism and I should be proud of that and not fret so much. We go to sleep listening to Haydn or Grieg or if I let him have his way, Mozart. We sleep the sleep of the innocent, all of our cares diminished considerably by lying next to the person who is, in a compelling way, our better half, our more opulent self.

In the morning we go back to being our prickly selves: He has to keep himself afloat for another day in precarious circumstance and I also have to keep myself above water with only a meager raft I keep nailing together throughout the day. The fact that his bulk threatens to sink me makes me edgy and caustic. He responds in kind and we ignore each other for a couple of days before we repeat the whole procedure. We both probably think we could do better but find that the magical bonds, whatever they consist of, have a way of melding us, at least for now.

It’s been several months since I gave him his ultimatum. We both prefer not to remember such earthly prosaic flotsam. He has not been home for several days and I’ve stopped calling. I fume and think he is quite rude: I asked him to let me know when and if he “had to leave town for a few days,” that I wouldn’t object, that sneaking away was not worthy of us. He was vague but half-heartedly agreed knowing some things are unavoidable but could not, from habit, make promises easily. It turns out there is a message on my cell phone with those very words, and the assurance he will call me in a couple of days. Surprisingly, this helps me enormously. I can use a break anyway.

He will always return to me, I think. I will skip lunch altogether today, avoid the mirror and read novels all afternoon. The fact that he is floating out there somewhere makes me happy enough. It’s all the assurance I need for right now; it gives me time to repair the raft.