Amanda, or Examination of Serious Coincidence Through Dialogue with the Dark Prevailer

Amanda and Chaz

A happiness beyond delusion; a sadness spun into a black hole; both contained within a bifurcated universe his father composed for him.

Andy is the last link – Keith linked to mother; Millie linked to Keith; Andy linked to Millie.

What are you talking about?

But Chaz never to Andy. Andy is the last link in the chain.

Seriously, Amanda, what are you talking about?

It’s what I was saying, Claire. Maybe you should listen, Claire. This is what I was saying: the chain of love. The connections.

Millie?

Millie was Keith’s dog. He left her behind when he left. Keith remained after mother died; Millie after Keith died; Andy, depressed kitty, after Millie died. But I have Andy with no one to follow.

Chaz? The broken penis?

That’s what he told me it was.

His limp dick?

Yes. Corpus cavernosum.

“She rode me so hard, it broke.”

That was his second big lie, but it’s hard to know.

You couldn’t tell it was broken, or whatever?

Is it the new man’s “headache” so to speak? Suspicious the next day when his “headache” went away. Plenty to plow me with. His lies were like that, you know, Claire, easily decipherable, easily believable as a way to spare my feelings. But so elaborate.

Get to the heroin part, Amanda.

Heroin does like whiskey dick, you know. Can’t decide if he was shooting up then.

“You don’t know me when I’m clean. I’m so different.”

Spinning out of control, spinning rather into uncontrollable happiness, of pleasure, of action. The one thing, perhaps two, to stop the spinning, the maddening spinning, of thinking to do this, or to do that, trying that then this. To stop that low, lower than low, the other side of uncontrollable happiness. To chemically orgasm for a minute then rest contentedly in that bifurcated universe his father composed for him.

What I know: clean is when he just stops talking. No, he texts me love bombs.

“Mommy, see me as I am. I am so in love with you. That rose bud about to bloom in your garden is our new love. The world ceases the moment I have not heard from you. You didn’t call. Call me.”

“The coat arrived from Amazon just five minutes ago. Thank you mommy. I {heart} {heart} {heart} you mommy. Cleveland is so cold. Forgot how much. In February I’ll be back in Florida to be with you.”

It’s already March.

He promised to come down in February. So I texted him on any detail of that and no answer. And I texted him before Christmas about a present of a winter coat just two days from Amazon; got the Prime.

“Thank you Mommy. Won’t need it in February when I come back.”

What I did get from him the last week in February?

“Great news. I’m going to be a dad.”

Huh?

That’s exactly the only three letters I texted back. We hadn’t Facetime’d in two months but he’s the one who doesn’t answer. I’ve tried to call. He’s at a meeting, at church, with his mom. Wow! Recovery, God, and Mom. How can I blame him?

And the other woman?

I guess she’s what you might call a recovery slut.

A what?

The program has a tradition of not entering serious relationships, so, of course, the addicts translate that to nsa sex. No chance to marry the slut, but she’s a fwb ­— friend with a baby. His job and spare time now to be devoted supporting a baby; the recovery-slut mother will never let him be a dad, not a chance. I spliced this from their Facebook pages, nothing from Chaz himself until I fooled him into answering his phone. He said he’s staying in Cleveland for now, then he said a mature, sober thing: he has no good choices, and this is the least bad choice. But not with her in Vermilion. He doesn’t love her.

He’s got a good job. He’s scraping together what he can for the baby.

Well, isn’t he heroic?

“I love you, girl!”

He actually said “girl.”

Girl?

Lost years. Last touch. So lonely. Lonely lullaby.

Yeah, “girl.” Something about him all along. After the winter coat gift, “Mommy.” But “girl” means I’m his pal. The first death of the relationship. Transition to friendship. I grieved but accepted.

The first death must have been finding out he was a heroin addict.

Yes. No. Hard to say.

All which lives must die.

He quit his job a week after moving in. Shift work was hard on both of us. True. All these, like, slits to my throat, but only slightly bleeding. None fatal. So to the letter.

What letter?

The letter, Claire, that’s what this is all about, really. The death of the relationship, any relationship. I opened it because I thought it was for my brother Charley, but it was for Chaz. From the DOT, and a camera ticket for not paying a toll up in the Panhandle. A picture of a man on a motorcycle. His tag recorded as on the bike he said was stolen a year ago. Five hundred ninety miles away from me, Google says. He should be here. To be with me on my birthday. I called him. I meant to say I was sending the ticket back in the mail, but I wanted an explanation. He thought I was extorting him, and I guess I was, but what was so wrong with an explanation?

“You're fucking stupid, Amanda. I don’t know what you are even talking about! You're seriously a fucking moron. You're being blocked. Take care of yourself. You will be hearing in regards to opening my mail and withholding it.”

It is either you or him.

“Meow,” a fat ginger cat, neither old nor young, announces himself as he enters the room. “Meow,” again Andy cries. He butts his head up against Amanda then rolls himself at her feet.

On his Harley Chaz enters the intersection of Liberty and Main in Vermilion, Ohio during a moment—so brief as to be unremarkable to the conscious mind —a flicker of light, a light so small but so intense, distracts him from the traffic light ahead that has turned red against him. He enters the intersection after the light turned red as may be his right to do but not by his social privilege; and at that moment, so brief and insignificant to the driver of the semi that he should think the light having turned green for his truck’s passage to enter the intersection of Liberty and Main of no consequence, does a semi-trailer truck and a motorcycle collide killing Chaz instantly.

Lost years. Last touch. So lonely. Lonely lullaby.

Amanda and Keith

First day at work and I was hit with “You’re a racist. I can tell.” A fat black chick said this. Well, all I had to do is go to Andy, our supervisor, who hired me himself, who is black and knows all about this black chick. He stopped it before it could begin.

Joe, I think I really do like this wine.

Pouilly-Fuissé. Can be much too expensive in this restaurant, but they know me here and cannot get away with that. All I say, as you know, to the sommelier, “A bottle of a special Pouilly-Fuissé I know this restaurant has just sourced.” A Chardonnay, drier than Pouilly-Fumé.

I like it.

About your house, it’s a good time…

“Hi. I’m Keith. I will be your waiter for the night.”

I am here, maybe refraction.

Excuse me, Keith. Amanda, good time to sell. So then, Keith, specials?

That nervous air sweeps briskly. Lullaby for two gives no tear. Hand glides across you, you feel something, and you have no tears.

Never mind. We came for the Lobster Thermidor. You’ll love it.

I’m sure.

“Yes, of course.”

A bit dimmer, the room grows colder.

Why are you following him with your eyes?

What? What do you mean?

Never mind. We have to say that the intersubjectivity of structural stasis and flux…

We can also proffer explanations to satisfy the criteria, but I have to say…

Andy, you know, the same Andy I told you about before, does not comprehend much, but he gets the whole intersubjectivity issue without saying as much…

Where’s the lobster? They know me here. Such things are so bad now. As they say, can’t get good help these days.

That nervous air rejoins. Hand glides toward but does not touch. The desired touch.

“We know you’ll enjoy.”

A bit dimmer, the room grows colder.

Kind of a dick, really.

Who?

The waiter.

The desired touch. He and you together forever; tears dried, fears subside.

I don’t think so. He is nice.

The sun rises, and your head is nestled in his chest.

Aviana

You will wait for him. You’ll wait forever.

Thank you so much for getting me out of that situation. Can I buy you coffee?

Sure. They have such good coffee here. Selection of tortes, too. Waiter!

No cakes for me. Foopa, you know. Sorry. Didn’t get your name?

Amanda. I gather yours is Mikki. From our creep bothering you. Two coffees, please. Cream, Mikki?

Yes.

Two white coffees. Uh… no sugar.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Of course, he’ll look straight at me when saying “Ma’am.”

Only that you did the ordering.

Or the twenty years between us.

Quality restaurant, polite and formal waiters.

Funny, Mikki, my husband, Keith, was such a man. I fell in love the moment I saw him because of that, I suspect. And his eyes. Smile. Large but graceful hands. Everyone in this world has so low expectations. Entitlements, but not rewarded expectations. Damn! That is the quietest baby. I’d never know he was there if I didn’t see you put him next to you.

She. Her name is Aviana.

Let me look. Ah! Eyes open and face smiling. I’m not just saying this, but she is the prettiest baby I have ever seen. All of ‘em supposed to look like Winston Churchill. This one is an angel.

His father’s looks but my disposition. He was a tornado, actually. That energy, the attraction, of course.

Been over year, almost two, since I had my own tornado. What could I have been thinking? Your age, not mine.

Your husband, though?

He died a decade ago.

Oh, sorry, Amanda. Her father died a month before she was born. We didn’t marry. I kind of wanted to continue the child support for my boy for a bit while Chaz got back on his feet.

You’ll wait for him. Search heaven. Search heaven for the love of an angel.

Chaz?

Not the abbreviation for Charles but spelled with a z.

In the Cleveland area? My tornado was named for his father, Chester, and his mother, Liz — Chaz with a z.

What?

He was to come back here to West Palm after recovery from heroin addiction. He’s still alive. He must still be alive, up there in Cleveland or Vermilion or wherever. Not the same Chaz. No.

Oh, Amanda… Chaz died in a motorcycle accident in Vermilion.

No, he didn’t!

Then a demon taketh thee to hell whilst an angel, eyes open and face smiling, doth remain here on earth.