Writing My Wrongs

and she said:
you are a miracle but that is not all
you are also a stiff drink and i am on call
you are a party and i am a school night
and i'm lookin' for my door key
but you are my porch light

Day
His words, his words, his words. All of his stories have pace, and you can tell he writes from a broken heart, even though he is madly in love, the kind of love so descriptive you know that even though your best friend, you will try to steal that girl from him. I love his story of Willie, the best friend you always wanted, who spent a year traveling the talk show audience circuit, and you now know there is such a thing. Willie is always the one in the corner of your set, grinning with his tongue out, ball cap on backwards. The rally cap. The best friend you always wanted. Thinking of you from Burbank, when you’ve got eyes on the girl he left behind.

Night
We are three friends who barely know each other. We drink hot wine and stare at ourselves, waiting to jump on the next comment. One only has to start. The others will follow. I want him to talk about Willie and make her laugh, because she’s on my side of the booth, and she laughs with her whole body. He does and it brings her joy, and she leans into me because she just cannot take it, how great this moment is.

Day
But getting jilted before you can steal will set your sails south, you lousy fuck. And here’s a clue, one which the future ‘you’ has deposited into your joint time account. You hurt those you love at your own peril. Just see now if you’ll look back upon a happy childhood, a wonder year amongst the adolescence. You won’t, and it’s because of what you do now. Karma doesn’t wait til after the sin. She’ll gladly pay your future debt at any time, and let you live on credit.

Night
She leaves for a moment, and he captivates me with his words.

“She likes you.”

“She doesn’t.”

“She does.”

“You can’t tell.”

“She told me.”

“When does your girl get here?”

“She’s not coming anymore.”

She returns, and I’m empowered by his words. I stand from the booth to let her resume her place on the inside. But when she passes, I take her hand and pull her towards the center of the dining hall. A Gypsy Waltz plays. I will only ever dance with her one more time like this, months later, when it’s far too late.

He smiles from behind the carafe. For me. My rally cap.

Day
In your memory of 11 years ago, when he was already 6 years younger than you are now, you watch him captivate an audience with his words. Two graduate students laugh in the front row when he tells about the time Willie hitch-hiked pretending to be mute, writing messages to his hippie hosts on post it notes that said things like, 'Bless you,’ and ‘I never learned to tie my shoes.’

And when Willie returns to his own broken heart, they gasp, because the storyteller is the villain. And when Willie returns to the road, they suddenly realize that this isn’t a story, but a confession. And in spite of what he’s done, they like him more.

I marvel at the forgiveness they grant him for writing his wrongs so well.

Night
He tries to get me to leave with him, to board the train. I can’t.

“Did you read your poem to her? It was good.”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“And she waited.”

“What? You didn’t swing?”

“Struck out looking.”

He clasps my hand good-bye and jumps on the train, but turns around and faces me.

“You’ve got to tell this story someday, Brandon.”

He turns his ball cap around and smiles.

“See ya, Willie.”