"Whoever speaks to us from the depth of his loneliness speaks to us of ourselves." --Simone de Beauvoir
JACK
He was Jack... or John... or perhaps even Jim. I couldn't really make out his name, muttered to me through the teeth clenching a cigarette, and felt uncomfortable asking him to repeat. We met in Boston. I had just gotten off the train at South Station, and, having stepped outside onto the platform, was momentarily pausing to shake off the excess energy of one city, while getting ready to accept that of another. It was precisely during the course of this peculiar ritual that I first heard his voice.
"Excuse me," a remarkable raspy baritone behind my back was scarcely audible above the dissonance characteristic of all major cities' train stations, "Can I bum-a-smoke?" I turned around. He was sitting in a wheel chair, leaning over the side, wearing a preposterous wool overcoat in the midst of a hot August afternoon. He was half the man I expected to see. Quite literally--three of his limbs were missing--both arms and a leg; scars covered most of his face, almost to the point where it resembled a grimace of a prankster who put on a poorly crafted diaphanous mask with intention of frightening random passerby. He would have hardly been called a man - a freak, a living organism at best. And only his eyes--poignant, intelligent--reminded of the fact that this indeed was one of God's unfortunate creatures. No, he was not a homeless beggar looking to acquire, blame, or decry, nor was he some wretched glazed-eyed alcoholic longing to misplace his loneliness and affectations. This was a bright sensible gaze of a coherent man. Shaken up by the sight, I reflexively pulled a pack of cigarettes out of my pocket, took one and handed it to him, only seconds later realizing the indiscretion of my gesture - he had no means of accepting my offering.
"Put it in my mouth, will ya?" Nodding in agreement rather sheepishly, I placed a cigarette in-between his teeth and lit it. I must admit to having felt queasy and somewhat squeamish, for I was afraid that his disfigured lips would touch my fingers. The disgraceful reaction was beyond my control, and I despised myself for it. He knew it too, and he didn't seem to mind. "Good God, this tastes good!" he exclaimed, blowing out a generous cloud of smoke away from my face. "What's your name, sweetheart?" "Um... Anya," I muttered uncomfortably, and, at a moments' acceptance of the fact that I will not be able to walk away so easily now, lit up another cigarette--this time for myself--and scrunched down on the cement floor beside him. And suddenly another painful grimace... "You've got to be fucking kidding me! No-no, that's impossible! No!"
I was beginning to think I had made a mistake regarding sensibility and intellect reflected in his gaze, and kick myself for not having walked away when I could, instead of striking up a conversation with a lunatic. "Are you Polish? Czech? What? Tell me! How did you get a name like that?" "I'm Russian," I replied politely, "Why? What about my name? It's not so unusual." "Go into my pocket," he said firmly, pointing his gaze downward towards a half-ripped protrusion on the left side of his overcoat, "There is a picture. Take it out." Intrigued and unable to resist the unhealthy curiosity which always seems to get me in trouble, I reached my hand inside and pulled out an old tattered black and white photograph of a young woman.
"You see, Anya, I am not a religious man, at least not anymore", he said, dropping ash on the sullied collar of his overcoat, "But I think today you were sent to me by God. I hope you don't mind my saying so." "That's all right," I smiled, finally beginning to re-gain some of my composure. "Blasphemy doesn't bother me - I am quite at odds with the Old Man myself." "We are in good company then," Jack's face attempted something akin to that of a smile, his stern stare visibly filling up with light. "That woman on the picture... her name was Anya too, you know. I say "was" because I am no longer sure if she is even alive - it's been over twenty years now. She was my girl... my bride...
"My life is one endless film noir," I noted silently and cynically to self, studying the crumbled paper face of my namesake.
"You'd never be able to guess it now," he continued, "but I was quite a ladies' man back then - devilishly handsome. I received a fine education, but never made good use of it. I followed a childhood dream, you see, settled down in Nantucket and became a fisherman. My father was a fisherman too, you know, and I never knew my mother. I loved the sea and the sea loved me... Oh, yes, I was one lucky bastard! There were times when we sailed about for weeks on end, and I didn't care if I ever saw land again... I think she was the only one who really ever waited for me, and she was my only reason for coming home...
She was a daughter of these nice Polish immigrants who settled down on the island in the 60s. I'd known her since my school days, and I don't think she ever knew what she meant to me - I was a real piece of work back then, you know. I took everything for granted. I'd traveled about very often, been to many places, and I'd known a great deal of women--I was not the marrying type, you know--but, in the end, somehow, I just kept coming back to her. And she always forgave me and she always took me back. She had a real pretty face, no lie. Them Eastern European girls are quite the lookers... Well, what am I telling you this for? You know... Look at you! Same features. Same round pale face. Same intensity in the eyes... Ah... What did I know back then?.. She suffered a lot because of me, the damn fool that I was, but it came back to bite me on the ass, oh yes, no doubt about that... What I put that girl through!.."
My new acquaintance shuddered and threw a distressing glance in my direction. He was far caught in a world of reminiscence, and it was notably causing him a great amount of torment. "Do you wanna know what happened?" he went on after a long pause. "If this is hard for you, please stop." "Ah, you're a good kid,"--his eyes smiled at me benevolently-- "I'll tell you want happened..." Always ready to sell my soul for a good story, I nodded and took out two more cigarettes out of the pack.
"This one time I was away from home for a long time, and it suddenly hit me, you know, I thought, what the hell am I doing? What am I waiting for? I'm gonna lose this girl if I keep at it like this. And then when we got back, I got this real nice rock for her, you know, and I wanted to bring it to her right then, but then I went out and got drunk with some buddies of mine instead, and I thought I'll give it to her in the morning. And in the morning a buddy of mine was not feeling so hot, and he asked me to go on the boat instead of him, and I agreed. And that was the day we had us a little fire accident, and I don't remember much of it, but when I woke up, I was already this way. They said I was out for two weeks straight. I don't know why He (looking up) wanted me to go on this way, you know, but I guess he decided to wake me up. May be it amused him."
"What happened with her, with your girl?" I asked solemnly, no longer sure what would be the appropriate way to react. "Ah, whadda ya think? They said she came to visit to the hospital, but they didn't let her in - I told them I didn't wanna see nobody. I couldn't let her see me this way. They said she cried. They said she refused to leave. And I said, "Tell her he's a fucking cripple now." And then I got transferred to another hospital, the one out of state, and I stayed away from home for as long as I could. I couldn't face my buddies, and I couldn't face her. When I got back a few years later, I did try to look her up, but she was gone. They said she married some schmack and moved away..."
A thick veil of silence ensued and hung above us in humid mid-day air. Jack seemed to have grown catatonic, and I set quietly beside him, afraid to break his meditation. "And what happened to the ring?" -I finally uttered, fracturing our silence, unable to hold a pause for a moment longer. "I asked them to put it on me," he said, sinking his teeth into the side of his collar and moving it aside to reveal a thin silver chain starting at his neck and disappearing into the folds of his overcoat. "...Take it!" I looked at him in complete shock and disbelieve, "No, no, oh, God, you misunderstood me! I just wanted to know if she ever found out about the ring!" "I know what you meant, kid," he said, raising his voice, "No, she never found out about the ring, and it's been a fucking weight around my neck for too long now. I want you to have it. Take it the fuck off and keep it!" He was suddenly getting infuriated and pushing his wheelchair towards me.
I backed away, "Listen, I can't possible accept this. This means too much to you." "It doesn't mean shit. I have no use for it. I just didn't know whatta hell else to do with it, but now I do. You reminded me of her, and I'm happy now, and I want you to keep it. You'll have a hell of a story to tell yer friends." "Listen, I should be going now," I abruptly got up on my feet and was picking up my bag of the floor. "Take it, take it, just fucking take it," he was now practically yelling at me; and I was suddenly aware of the trains pulling up to the station and passerby turning their heads towards the commotion.
"I am sorry, I can't, I can't, I have to go," I was chanting awkwardly and remorsefully. "I am sorry, I am sorry," I was steadily moving backwards, still locked into his gaze, not yet sure of the proper way to end our strange acquaintance. "I'm sorry, I am so sorry," I was muttering under my nose, jumping three steps at a time, running downstairs into the tunnel to catch a subway line heading north, leaving him in his wheelchair, leaning over the side, leaving behind his disfigured face, his remarkable baritone, his tragic story, and his preposterous wool overcoat in the midst of a hot August afternoon.