Left Like Yesterday, Pt. 3

If you live in the Midwest long enough, you begin to love the winters- or at least, I did. The clouds, the grey-ness of it all, it made sense to me. I began to crave it, need it. It didn't affect me in any particular way. It was just as if it was a sunny day. Happily, I would wrap myself up in jackets and jeans, and trudge down icy sidewalks, jumping over black snow piled upon the edges hoping not to fall. The sky would stay, as always, consistently opaque, greeting me with the somber quality of a father watching his child. Those days the sun came out, it was a phenomenon- a paradox of the whole idea of a Midwestern winter. It was like summer was trying to break through, when really the calm, quiet security that blankets the essence of the locale should be given its peaceful right by the drifting sleep of the clouds. Between the snow, the clouds, the biting wind, you either love it, or you hate it. I loved it. It made the life around me seem so much more crisp, clear.

The winter of 1998 was a winter of change. It was gradual, and the transformations led into spring and summer, and culminated into autumn, but during that whole winter, I can remember feeling something changed. Wes and Alma's relationship didn't blossom like his and mine did. In fact, their relationship was a long and arduous process that took some unnecessary tolls and turns that could have easily been avoided if either of the two could have admitted to being hard headed and loosened up a bit. At first, they never hung out by themselves- I had to be there.

The day after the Fleetwood, I decided to head up to Rendezvous to get a cup of coffee and just chat with her. I stood in line behind two people, but she saw me walk through the door where she gave me a quick smile a wave. I felt a little bit of warmth seep through my body and a tinge of pride when the two people in front of me turned around to see who she was waving at, and it was hard for me to combat the smile creeping upon my face. When I approached the counter, she places both her elbows on the glass, and props her face in her two palms. "What can I help you with?" she says with a little witticism.

"Just whatever your biggest coffee is. Black. To go."

"Sure." She turns around, grabs a paper cup, a plastic lid, and turns back to me. "The coffee selections are behind you on that counter." She points behind me towards a counter facing the front entrance by a window. I turn to look, when I turn back around, she's looking a me. "So, where's your little friend?"

"Wes?"

"Yeah."

"He's probably still sleeping."

"Oh. Little bit lazy, huh?"

"You can say that."

I was about to speak, to tell her I'll talk to her later when she all sudden asks me something I would never expect her to ask me. "Hey, would you come to the art fair with tonight?"

"Pardon?" I was a little bit in shock. I didn't know what to say really.

"Well, tonight's the last night I have to be there to give a speech, and well, honestly, I've been so bored there these past few nights because Stephanie stopped coming, so, I don't know, I thought it would be nice to have some company. So what do you say?"

"Um... yeah, sure."

That's how I ended up going to the art fair. Of course, Wes, he wasn't so keen on the idea. "What do you mean you're going to the art fair? Are you serious?" I hear him say over the phone.

I'm pressing the receiver against my shoulder and ear as I button up my shirt in front of the mirror, I listen to his breathing, heavy as he walks down the stairs (I can hear his feet on the wooden steps). "Yeah. She asked me to go. She said she was going to be lonely, wanted some company, and asked me to go. I said sure."

"You know this chick for one night and now she's asking you to be a gentleman chaperone." He does a mocking whistle here. "You're building quite a repertoire with this woman, you know that?"

"Shut up." I rest the phone on my shoulder as I quickly put some gel in my hair. "Hey. You should come."

"No way buddy," he says almost indignantly.

"Why not? I think she likes you."

Pause. "What do you mean?"

"Well. She asked about you today."

"She could've just been trying to be nice."

"I don't know. Maybe. We'll see. I still think you should."

"I don't think so. I don't know."

"Hey, well, either way, come or don't, I've got to go. I think you should come, but I got to go."

"Yeah, I'll talk to you later."

By the time I arrived at the Union, there was a large line, but following Alma's instructions, I walked right passed everyone, stepped right up to the man at the door, told him my name, and he let me right in. The art fair was in the ballroom in the back. There were sheets hanging down from the high ceiling walls, starting from the large windows up where the roof makes and almost cathedral appearance. Draped ahead of the white sheets are elegantly framed paintings of multiple variety. I found Alma stand close to the front standing in the corner in a white, one piece skirt, cut off at an angle above her knees. Her back was exposed in a gaping "v" and a string tied around her neck that connected to the front of the blouse that clung tightly to her body. I was happy I decided to wear a white collared shirt with white slacks myself because I felt we matched quite well. Alma stood there gazing nowhere but doing it with such propriety it looked only proper and purposeful, you really didn't want to get in her way. One arm was cradled around her chest, tucked into her other arm that was extended at the elbow holding a glass of white wine that was opaque with condensation. As I headed towards her, I passed by a steward holding a tray of glasses, picked myself up a glass, thinking that we would clink glasses as we met or something. When she saw me, her eyes lightened up, but she didn't smile or anything. Quickly she stepped in my direction. In fact, I was so shocked by the action, I stopped moving. When she arrived to where I was, she grabbed my hand, pulled me close to her and whispered, "I am so fucking bored- let's get fucking hammered and wreck havoc."

I pull my head back from her, and I'm half smiling, my face in a furrowed brow wondering if she's serious. She's got this look in her eyes that she might be so, with her eyebrows raised, and a twisted grin, exposing her perfectly formed teeth. This is Aphrodite on a warpath, I remember thinking at that moment. "Bottom's up," I say finally, and we do clink glass, but we don't chug. We take a casual sip and give a small laugh. We walk slowly for a while around the art fair, Alma's hand wrapped around the arm I offered to her to take as we walked. Every so often we would stop so she could talk to someone- sometimes a student, but mainly faculty and board members. She said that tonight supposed to be the big night and that most of the students already came, and this was mainly faculty and board members and that's why she dressed a bit more formal this night. We passed by her paintings and she would explain her inspirations behind some, explaining how she went through different phases in life as an artist and how she always knew that she wanted to be an artist ever since she was a kid and learned that she could draw. When I asked her what artistic phase she's on now, she said she's in a phase that she called her "nothingness" phase. She said that she wanted to learn to use as little color and outline and shading as possible to made a painting. So she took me to this picture of a face and she said that she made this whole picture with was taking the pen off of the page once. It was impressive. The lines were squiggly and looked liked they were made by a child, but at the same time, if one looked even closer, you could tell that there was deep precision in every mark, and when you stepped back you saw this perfect portrait of this face. She said that she wanted to highlight the fact that simplicity is just as important as complexity.

"What do you like to do?" she asked me at some point in the conversation.

"Me? Like what do you mean, 'like to do,' per se?"

"I mean as a hobby. Music, books? Whatever."

"I don't know. I love listening to music, but can't play a lick of it. Can't paint, I love to read, but I ain't no poet. I don't know. I played basketball for a while, but quit that when I realized that I sucked."

"There's got to be something that you like doing to pass your time."

"I don't know. I'm usually hanging out with people. That's how I pass my time."

"So you're a people person."

"Not really. I only really hang out with Wes and whoever he's with. Kind of pathetic, huh?"

"Why?"

"I don't get it?"

"Why do you only hang out with Wes?"

"That's a good question."

"You don't know, do you?"

"No. I don't. Not really. Maybe it's because he's loyal."

"How about girlfriends?"

"Don't want to talk about those."

"Bad experiences?"

"Yeah."

"Tell me about it."

I cock my head towards her. "Not much luck with the opposite sex."

"It seems like all the opposite sex wants is sex."

"Alma, no offense, but if you're figuring that out now, you are way fucking behind," I say, trying to make it seem less harsh by laughing.

"Shut up," she says, shifting her weight into my body. "You know what I mean. I'm just not really all about the one night stand."

Chuckle to myself, maybe a little forced. "God it kills me."

"What?"

"How alike you and Wes are."

"What?"

"He's not a one night stand person either."

"Really? He seems like the kind of guy that goes around and just sticks his dick in anything that moves."

"Right? And it's not like he doesn't have the chance to, it's just he doesn't want to. I mean, it doesn't mean he hasn't had any, but it's not like you haven't."

"Yeah, but that's college, right?" she sighs. "Let me ask you something."

"Shoot."

"Why are you trying to hook me and Wes up?"

You know how in movies you see someone ask another person a question and that question creates an adverse reaction like coughing or something like that? I always thought that was bullshit. But, drinking my wine, being asked that question, I started coughing. After my fit, and being asked, maybe in comedic earnestness if I was alright, I lied. "I'm not."

"Steven."

"What?" She just looks at me. "What?"

"Never mind."

"I just find it funny how similar you two are, that's all." Looking at her from the peripheral of my vision as we stood in front of a more abstract piece of hers, I watched her reaction. "It's a bit weird how our conversations end up being about it him, yeah?"

"You started it. You sure you're not in love with him?"

"Only on Tuesdays."

"Oh, well it's Sunday. So I guess you're safe."

"Yeah."

"You know, he is cute. And I'm sure that he's smart- but he's just so god damn pretentious it kills me."

"Nobody's perfect."

"There you go again, defending him."

"He's my friend."

"You're only friend."

"I thought you're my friend too"

"Nah. I'm just going to get drunk and get you drunk and then use you."

I shrug my shoulders. "I can handle that."

We stand there talking for a little while longer when finally Alma looks at her watch and tells me that she has to go to the podium and get ready to speak. As she leaves my side, I start just perusing my surroundings when I spot Wes staring at a painting of the Chicago skyline during a fire red sunset (Alma's home town). I walk up to him and tap him on the shoulder. He's got his arms crossed at his chest, one hand tightly gripping the art fair booklet, the other hand scratching the stubble on his chin. He wore a grey sweater and brown corduroys, his hair shagging down over his face. When I tapped him on the shoulder, he leans back to face me. "What do you think about this? I thought the sunset was a bad choice," he says matter-of-factly. The pretentious bastard.

"Jesus Christ. What the fuck are you wearing. You stick out like a sore thumb."

"It said informal attire."

"They didn't mean dress like you live under a bridge. And I thought you weren't coming."

"I was bored. Plus, I thought you could use the help. I didn't want her and her cronies eating you alive."

"Thank you so much for your faith, but I survived so far. How long have you been here?"

"About thirty minutes. I saw you and Alma standing there. You guys are so cute together."

"Is that jealously in your voice?"

"Fuck off." Suddenly, there is clapping as an elderly women stands upon the podium. "What's going on?" Wes asks.

"She's about to introduce Alma for her speech."

"Oh, right. So, what have you two been talking about?"

"Why you so curious?"

"Is it a big a fucking secret? I'm sorry, my bad. I was just starting conversation."

I sighed. In the background the woman spoke in a monotone voice. "We talked about art for a little bit and then..." people started clapping as I finished the sentence. "...we talked about you some."

"What?!" he yells over the clapping.

I wait for the clapping to stop, and I can hear Alma speaking. I continue to speak to Wes in hushed whispers, but this time we turn to face the front so at least we can look at Alma and pretend that we're paying attention. "We talked about you some."

"Oh yeah? Fucking dandy."

"She said she thought you were cute."

"Bullshit." At this point, someone turns around an "shh's" as to Wes so eloquently responds with pushing his shoulder and flicking him off.

"I'm serious."

I see Wes combat a smile in his slight pause. "Well, I mean- she's pretty cute too. And smart, but she's just so..."

"Pretentious."

His head turns to me like a rocket. His lips a shut tight as his eyes zero in on me. "Yeah, exactly. Pretentious."

"Been hearing that a bit lately."

"What's that mean?"

"Nothing."

We stand in silence and we hear Alma speak. "... society desires a need for a fluid evolution of culture. To maintain an interest in culture among the youth there must be a motivation among the people of my generation, and the generations to come to express their cultures by studying the arts and by participation of the arts. I cannot express my gratitude to this University for what they have..."

"You know," Wes begins, leaning in so he could whisper to me. "It's not like I dislike her or anything. It's just she's always giving me shit, and it gets on my nerves- you feel me?"

"Buddy, no offense, but I have the impression that you do the same to her."

"Like when?"

"Like at the Fleetwood."

"Whatever."

"No, not whatever. I don't know how either of you two don't get it. You're acting like children squabbling over who wants to be leader of the tree house or some shit and it doesn't make sense."

Now he turns his body all the way to me. "Fuck that!" he says pointing his finger. People turn to look at us.

"Keep your voice down!"

"Fuck that!" he says whispering.

"Seriously man. Give me one reason why this is so hard for you. I really am just baffled. I mean, I've never seen you act so stupid in my life. Just get your head out of your ass and ask her out." He didn't say anything. "Oops. Wasn't supposed to know that, was I? Quit being a fag and ask her out."

"Fuck you. And don't say that word."

"What word?"

"'Fag.' You know I hate that word."

"Okay. Whatever. Quit being a fucking... fuck and just... man, you know... this whole thing, I'm not even involved in it, it's only been one day, and already it's driving me insane. Fuckin' a."

Silence again. "... thank you to everyone who came and spent their time here. I hope you enjoy the rest of the evening. Please drink some wine, listen to the music. I'll be around..."

"You don't know what you're talking about," he says to me right before Alma finishes speaking. Everyone starts clapping, and he joins in. I just stare at him at first in disbelief. Finally, he notices me looking at him, and looks back at me, raises his eyebrows and cocks his head to the podium motioning for me to clap by lifting his hands up by his head. I start clapping slowly, shaking my head. Finally, as the clapping dies down and as Alma walks off the stage, the same women that introduced her makes some announcements about the wine and the finger snacks, but no one was really listening.

Alma walked towards us, swaying her hips in a very animated and over-dramatic fashion, holding her thin plume glass up her face in a mock elegant fashion. She stood before Wes and blatantly looked him up and down, and then in a pretty well impersonated French accent, "Wes, what do we owe the pleasure?" she said, drawing out the last syllable on "pleasure."

Wes stood there in shock. I squinted at her, watched as her eyes, not as lucid, missing that spark is usually there, that somewhat predatory light hazed over and I realized that Alma was getting drunk. She was serious about what she said earlier. I move to her and grab her arm. "Alma, are you drunk?" I asked in a hushed tone.

"Let go of my arm. You're fucking hurting me," she retorts. At least her voice still has that bite to it.

I let go of her arm. "Are you drunk?"

"Getting there."

"Fuck."

"What's the big deal?"

"What's the big deal?" For some reason, I felt like a parent dealing with little immature children. "There are faculty around."

"Who cares." She wiggles away from around me and walks towards Wes. All I could do was follow and pray nothing would happen. "We didn't think you were going to show up."

"Yeah, well, I couldn't leave my friend alone among these deviants," he responds quickly.

"Oh, so we're deviants."

Wes sighs deeply. "I was joking. I was bored at home, and I figured why the hell not."

"Well, don't do us a service."

"Are you always like this?"

"Ask your friend here."

"Yeah, I saw. You two look so cute together." He said with a smile.

"I just bet you wish you could be so lucky."

"Why are you always trying to argue with me?" Alma doesn't say anything to this. She just takes a sip of her wine, and stares at him. "Don't think too much of yourself, okay? It'll kill you."

"Guys, come on," I say. "If you guys keep doing this, I'm going to leave."

"Awesome, I'll have an excuse to go, too," Wes says scathingly. I've never heard him be so mean in my life. I think even Alma took it a bit personally.

"Steven, you can't leave," she says, placing a palm on my chest. "You, on the other, are free to go to hell, for that matter." She looks back at me, moving her tone of voice back to being gentle. "Don't go, I have to go to the ladies room."

We watch her walk away, staring at how the shadows streamline perfectly along the contours of her muscles. After she walks a distance away, Wes and I start talking at the same time. "No, you listen to me," I say pretty harshly.

"What. What is it?"

"Why can't you just try to get along with her?"

"Dude! She was a complete bitch to me just then. I tried to be nice."

"Yeah, I'll admit, that go to hell comment was harsh, but why don't you compliment her. Tell her something nice. Try to make her feel good instead of always trying to look so indifferent, on the outside? Don't you think that maybe things would go by easier?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe? No, I'm pretty sure I'm right on this one." I try to make my voice sound pleading. "Wes, you're the nicest guy I know. I don't know why you're being so mean to this girl. I mean, it's obvious that at least I'm becoming friends with her, so can you at least respect that fact that she's going to be in my life at least? Please? For me? You're making me want to stab myself in the heart." I end with a nervous laugh.

His stare is searching. I don't know what for, but I can tell he's looking for something. Finally, there's the predictable Wes dramatic sigh. "Okay, buddy. I'll try to be nicer to her. But for you. But I swear to God, there's only so much of bitchiness I can take."

"Thank you," I say shaking clasped hands at him like he responded to one of my prayers. "And, anyway, it's not like I'm really asking you to take on bitchiness. If she becomes to bitchy, why don't you try talking to her like an adult about it? Or just walk away, huh?"

Wes laughs and smiles and puts his hand and ruffles my hair. I hate it when he does that. But tall people have that advantage. "When did you become my voice of reason?"

"When you decided to stop having some." I look around the ballroom towards the door where the bathroom is to see if I could spot Alma. "Sure is taking a long time. Do you see a line?"

"No. Not really. You know women. Take forever to do anything."

"Better than showing up looking broke."

"Shut up."

"But seriously. It's taking a long time. Do you think we should look for her?"

"I don't..." Before Wes could even get his sentence out, there was the sound of shattering glass right behind us. Instantly, we turn around, and Alma is standing in front of that painting that I found Wes. I can't see her face, but her shoulders are shaking, and in the sudden silence of the room, as everyone watched her, I could begin to hear her sobbing. I was turning to Wes to tell him that I thought that Alma was crying, but I turned to find him already in a quick step headed in her direction. I followed passing by people, explaining to them that she wasn't feeling very good. Don't worry, everything is alright, yes. I was talking to some faculty member explaining that she didn't feel good, helping him pick up the broken glass to put into another glass and I watched Wes usher Alma away with his arms around her shoulders and he was whispering something in her ear. I almost drifted off watching this. There just seemed something surreal about it. Finally, I excused myself, grabbed my coat from the coat check, and caught up with Alma and Wes as they were exiting the Union door. When Wes saw me, he snapped at me, his brow furrowed, his lips tight, and he pointed at my jacket for me to give to her. He didn't stop speaking to Alma. "Yeah, it's a beautiful painting. You have an amazing talent. My biological mother was a painter, you know that?"

"Your biological mother?" she spoke between sobs.

"I'm an orphan. Grew up in the foster system." I walked a few feet behind them, and in the crisp wind, I fought to hear what they were saying.

"Was she a good painter?"

"I don't know. I only have one painting of hers that I've seen."

"Do you like it?"

"Now I do." He paused. "Now I do."

They walked in silence for a while with me a few feet behind. Alma leaned into Wes and he guided her with a sure and steady step. As I watched them, I marveled at how natural they looked- at how this appeared to be rehearsed. It was as if Alma was made to fit into Wes' protection, her head upon his shoulder, their hair fighting the wind together. I could see every so often under a street lamp, Wes' thumb stroking the blade of Alma's shoulder in soft comfort, and this didn't seem new, it didn't seem exciting. It just seemed to fit. We were close to Wes' house, when we turned a corner and Alma stopped, paused, and then ran for some bushes. I don't need to tell you what she was doing and I'll save you the gruesome details, but I'll continue with the other- the whole time that ordeal continued, Wes stood by her, making sure she didn't fall over. I didn't want to really bore you with the bohemian details, it's just, I don't know, I was moved. And if you could be moved too, by seeing human nature working beyond the violence, and the anger, and the hatred, and see working where everything else fails, that part that we sometimes forget about, but when we see, gives us hope, and no matter how god damn cheesy it seems, we smile inside, because we know that for a moment, at least just for a moment, all is right with the world. And nothing, nothing can take that away from us. No hatred, no violence, no oppression and acts of tyranny and terror will take away those moments of love and peace that we share. But only if we chose to really appreciate them for what they are.

When Alma was through, she sat on the curb of the street, and Wes sat right next to her on one side and me on the other. I handed her a cigarette and lit it for her, and for a moment, no one said anything. Finally, Alma spoke weakly. "I'm sorry."

I don't turn my head, I look out my peripheral to see if Wes was going to speak. When I realize that he wasn't, I figure I should. "You know, this is the second time you've ended up apologizing to me."

She laughs a clogged laugh. "Yeah, I know. But I really am. I don't know why I do stuff like that. I didn't mean for you guys... thank you." She turns to Wes. "Thank you." He doesn't say anything other than a slight nod of his head. "I think I should go home."

I wait to see if Wes says anything. "I'll walk you home."

"No, don't worry. I'll be fine." She hands me back my jacket. "Thank you, once again. I'll be seeing you around, I'm sure." And she turns around, and slowly begins to walk away.

I watch her walk for a while before I turn to Wes, who's sitting still on the curb, staring at the ground beneath his feet. There is a dead silence, and for some reason there is a staleness to the air, like we just witnessed something tragic, something that never needs to be spoken ever about ever again. "Are you alright?" I ask him.

He looks up at me quickly, looking surprised like as if woken from a dream or if I came from nowhere. Finally, he stands up, pushing up from the curb with his right hand releasing a heavy grunt. "I'm fine," he says with a weak smile. "I'm going home. Got an early class tomorrow. See you later, right?"

"Yeah, sure." And Wes walks away home. I've never seen him use school as an excuse to go home. Ever.

There was something important that in that night that didn't become manifested until years later. It was, in essence, the beginning of the tragedy that is Wes and Alma. For every tragedy, the heroes must have a tragic flaw. For Wes, it was his depression that he liked to hide. For Alma, was alcoholism, which started in college, but didn't become heavy until those post years. We all have tragic flaws. Mine is the desire to fix everybody. But, when it comes to Wes and Alma, their tragic flaws worked with each other. Wes became more depressed as Alma's alcoholism became worse, and Alma drank as Wes would become more depressed. Of course, this was only known to the people on the inside. On the outside, Wes and Alma started off as the king and queen of Ann Arbor. In the end, Alma was the Pandora's box that ruined it all. But for me, I felt for Alma. I don't blame Alma one bit- I don't blame her any more than I blame Wes.

Sadly, those good moments that I spoke about would fade into the shadows of tall mountains of tragedies that would blanket the minds of the people that used to love one another. That night at the art show, Alma opened herself to us, and Wes opened himself to her. I would say that I wish the night would've gone differently. I could say that I wish that Wes didn't come, or that Alma didn't get drunk, or this or that didn't happen. But, honestly, if that specific chain of events didn't happen, I don't think Alma and Wes would have happened. When I heard him disclose the information about his mother to her, I knew that did something to him. I knew why he sat on the curb, nervous and scared. I knew that when he said that his mother was a painter, shared that secret with her, he also shared another secret: that he loved her. And truth be told, I think she got the picture.