August 13, 1998

In the past 48 hours, I've been visited by two ghosts from my past. First, Angel called me. Then so did my ex-wife.

I hadn't spoken to Angel in five months; Andrea in at least a year.

To catch you up, Angel just had major surgery done. She went to the doctor because of pain in her abdomen. The sawbones told her she was four months pregnant. However, upon further inspection, it turned out she had a cyst the size of an NCAA football on her right ovary. Both that organ and the adjoining fallopian tube were removed.

Aside from that, she's doing well. Her job as a jewelry designer / salesperson is even better than she expected. She just got a new apartment--a house actually. And she's been dating a construction worker named Andy for the past four months. Oh well, people move on. Our conversation made me miss her though. We made vague plans to see each other soon, but that probably won't happen.

Andrea, my ex-wife, called me after I forwarded her my story "For Sentimental Reasons." You may recall that that was the report in which I expressed the loneliness I continue to feel with Andrea gone from my life. I also recanted the story about my great aunt and her West Point fiance who was killed in Korea.

Andrea actually e-mailed me first to tell me that, while the story was sweet, there was no chance of us ever getting back together and that she never, ever wanted to hear from me again.

(Note: I'd been e-mailing and leaving messages for Andrea for the longest time; never getting any response.)

"I don't want you to contact me anymore - not even once" she wrote. "I want to try to get on with my life and I think you'll be more successful, too, at forgetting about me if we don't communicate."

Well, after a rapid email exchange in which I referenced funny and/or positive things from our past, she called me up at work. (Ten minutes earlier, she never wanted to have contact with me again. Now she was calling me. I guess I am a good salesman.)

We laughed together on the phone, talking about the good old days. (Conspicuously absent was any discussion of those many nights of tirades and tears.) The words were measured, but kind. It was really nice to have a normal conversation with my long lost best friend. That's the worst part about a breakup of a long-relationship; it's not just a wife or a lover you lose, it's your best friend, too. When you lose your best friend, who do you turn to? That's why I bought Jack.

Anyway, when we hung up, I felt happy and sad at the same time. It was nice to be civil and even friendly with the woman who I once spoke with in intimate tones. On the other hand, speaking with her caused me to lament all the things that might have been.

On my way home from work last night, I stopped in at a piano bar called The Broadway Grille on the second floor of the Crowne Plaza Hotel on 49th and Broadway. I'd been there before for happy hour with guys from work. It's a good place to be lonely. As I drank my dinner half-listening to aspiring performers belt out decent renditions of "Old Man River" and "Summertime", I wondered if I would ever be able to shake my love for Andrea. Would I ever stop missing her? Was she a tattoo on my heart that, through painful surgery, could be removed? Or was she a permanent scar? On top of that, I had such a feeling of homesickness for her that I started to tear up just as some gay guy was singing "That's why the Lady is a tramp!"

An old woman was sitting a few feet to my right at the bar. She asked me why I was crying.

"Oh I'm not crying" I lied as I blotted my eyes with a napkin. "My contacts are just getting irritated by this cigarette smoke." (I don't wear contacts.)

The woman said "oh" and resumed staring at her drink.

By now, the place had quieted down a bit. There were only eight to ten people sitting at tables and six to seven people at the bar. Now drunk, I wandered over to the piano player and asked him if he would mind if I sang a song.

While it was not a show tune, the piano player was able to accompany me on my rendition of the Linda Ronstadt song, "I've Done Everything I know."

"Yes I've done every thing I know to try and change your mind,

And I think I'm gonna miss you, for a long, long time."

I pictured Andrea sitting there in the audience. That song was for her. Maybe seeing me singing--seeing my heart breaking on stage--would have won her over.

When I was done, I went back to the bar and ordered a whiskey sour (not my normal drink.) The old woman was still there. "Sounds like you been hurt bad" she said taking a drag from a cigarette.

"That sounds like a line from a movie" I smiled, still looking at my drink.

"Well, you know what they say," she smiled back, "the whole world's a stage."

"They say a lot of things" I quipped. "Most of the things they say are bullshit."

"Now that sounds like a line from a bad movie" the old woman cough-chuckled.

I ended up telling this old woman about Andrea. Then I told her the story I told you about my great aunt and the one boy she always loved but could not have because a war separated them forever.

"The image of her dancing with you but thinking about him is so sad" the old woman smiled, but with a tear. Then she sniffled up her runny nose and made an abrupt U-turn.

"But that story is bullshit!"

"I swear to God it's true!" I protested.

"I'm sure it is" the old woman replied, "but I mean it's bullshit that your great aunt was denied her one true love. If he'd lived, they would have probably been married and divorced in five years. Or if they'd stayed married, he'd be old, bald, and fat right now with a bad back and bad gas after big meals. They'd fight all the time and he probably would have cheated on her many times over. When she was dancing with you, she remembered a fantasy...a fantasy of what might have been. Those what-might-have-been fantasies are always better than what actually was or what-would-have-been. The same goes with you and your ex-wife. You miss the good times. But you're forgetting about all of the bad times that caused you to get divorced in the first place."

"Maybe you're right" I said, swirling the melting ice cubes in my empty glass.

 

Broadway Jim Jenkins