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Last Tango in Paramus |
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August 2, 2000
Susan was Michael’s fiance. They met while he was in the army, stationed at Fort Hood. That they were moving back to Texas had a lot to do with her. Given his druthers, I think Michael…a native of Paramus, New Jersey…would probably have lived in New York. I think that’s why he came up from Philadelphia to stay with me for a few days. He wanted to hang out in his favorite City with an old friend before he took off for life in the Lone Star state. For her part, Susan was already back in Texas, making arrangements for the wedding. On Thursday night, I took Michael to happy hour at The Gray Lounge in the East Village. In spite of its name, The Gray Lounge is a vibrant place with a great jukebox and a huge backdoor patio. About 50 of my friends were there. (I’ve been hosting a weekly happy hour for nearly three years now and my guest list has grown to about 500 people.) Of these 50 attendees, at least ten of them were from France. (For some reason, a lot of Europeans…and French in particular…have been showing up. They are fun and they always laugh and share their cigarettes.) That is how Michael met Jacqueline. What follows is the story he told me on the way to the airport after it was all over. Jacqueline had been in New York for nearly a year. She worked in public relations (or "poobleek relations" as she would say) for a large French investment bank. Born and raised in Bordeaux, Jacqueline was a fit woman with cocoa butter skin, thick shiny brown hair, and dark sparkling eyes. When standing, her head reached exactly to Michael’s heart…a fact which he would later think was quite symbolic. As for Michael, he stood about six feet tall, was solidly built, and had wavy blond hair and blue eyes which generally reflected his happiness and optimism, but could narrow when he got angry. (We were roommates at West Point and my sloppiness had sometimes caused him to glower at me.) All I really knew about Jacqueline was what she did, where she came from, and that she had a fiance back in Paris. He was an attorney and they had met in true modern romantic fashion when his firm was retained by her bank. She was due to go back home for good in a week’s time. Her wedding would be at the end of the summer. "A toast!" I shouted to everyone present at The Gray that night, "To Jacqueline and to Michael. May you both live happily ever after." Throughout the rest of the evening, Michael and Jacqueline spoke casually at the bar, drinking vodka tonics, and laughing quietly in conversation as the party roared around them. When Michael and I left around 1:00 a.m., I asked him what they had been talking about. "Nothing really," he said as we got in the cab. He didn’t say much else on the ride back to my place. The next morning, as I got ready for work, Michael typed away on his laptop. "Who you talkin’ to? Susan?" "No," he replied quite matter-of-factly, "Jacqueline." "What’s that all about?" I asked. "I don’t know." "What do you mean I don’t know." "I don’t know why I’m writing her. It’s just kinda nice. She’s asking me about the kind of wedding I’m having." "You mean like what kind of flowers and music and stuff?" "Yeah. That kind of stuff." "Alright, man, I’ll see you tonight." But I didn’t see him that night. He didn’t get in until two in the morning, and by then I was asleep. For the rest of his visit, I hardly saw him at all. He just used my place to rest his head. "So dude, are you going to tell me what happened?" I asked him on our way to Newark airport very early on a gray Monday morning. "Oh I can’t put it into words like you can," he replied. "Try," I said. "Did you hook up with her?" "No, no, no. Nothing like that at all. In fact, that’s what made it so perfect. We didn’t do anything like that. It was a pretty sudden thing. After that night in the bar, we both just couldn’t stop thinking about each other. Not in a sexual way. Just in kind of a homesick way. The next day, I sat at on your couch and she was at work and we emailed each other from nine until five. Each time her name popped up on the screen, my heart would start pounding. She said the same thing happened to her." "What the hell were you two saying to each other? Dirty stuff? Dirty French stuff?" "No! Jesus no! Not at all. We were just talking. It was really about nothing, just nice talking. Nice sweet stuff. Stuff about New York and Paris and our lives. Nothing romantic at all. It was just nice. I can’t explain it." "So then what did you do." "Well that night we met at this Brazilian place in the West Village. I tried to go to that place Chumley’s you told me about, but it was too crowded. So we went across the street to a place called Casa. It was really mellow and quiet and nice. We just drank red wine and caipirinhas and smoked cigarettes all night." "You don’t smoke!" I laughed as I passed a slow-moving Toyota Tercel in front of us. "I know. That was kind of funny. But I liked it. I liked everything about that night. There was this cool, slow Latin music playing in the background and everything was pretty subdued and there was this nice candlelight between us. We just talked and laughed and sometimes we’d just stare at each other for a few seconds. Then we’d get embarrassed and look away." "That sounds really nice." "It was. It was so nice. And then, something really weird happened. Our cell phones rang at the same time. She was getting a call from her fiance in Paris and I was getting a call from Susan back in Austin." "Oh my God. That is weird. So what did you tell Susan? And what did she tell Arnaud?" "How’d do you know his name was Arnaud?" "I didn’t," I laughed. "It’s just that every fucking French guy I’ve met at happy hour is named Arnaud. So I just took a guess." "That is too funny. His name really is Arnaud." "Well I’m a funny guy. But you’re digressing. What did you tell Susan? And what did she tell Arnaud?" "Nothing. Neither of us answered the phone. We saw the names on the displays and decided to let them go to voicemail. We thought it better not to answer than to lie to them." "Well, that was smart," I said. "And besides, you weren’t really doing anything wrong." (I didn’t know if I believed that, but I was trying to be empathetic. The way Michael was talking was so much different than he usually did. He sounded like he was in a trance; as if he’d just awoken from some overpowering dream. And he sounded older. The way he was talking about this whole thing sounded strangely mature.) "I don’t think we were doing anything wrong. I mean, it didn’t feel wrong. It just felt nice. I don’t want to hurt Susan. I won’t hurt Susan. Getting those phone calls reminded me and Jacqueline of the reality of our situations. Of how we absolutely had no future together. It was so strange. I mean, Susan and I are always talking about the future. It was odd to be with someone knowing you had no future with them at all. Not only that, but you knew the clock was always counting down to the end. The whole time I just felt like I was in a movie. Like I was…awake. I was awake and constantly aware." "Aware of what?" "Time. I was constantly aware that our time was precious. But not just time. I was aware of stuff I’ve never had been aware of." "Like what?" "I don’t know. Like I said, I have trouble putting it into words." "You’re doing a pretty good job so far." "Well, I don’t feel like I am. I can’t really capture what it was. Jacqueline told me that it felt like she was exercising her heart. Like she’d been running along fine for a long time, but right now she was enjoying a sprint. She said maybe it was good to do that to remember you’re alive." "And you’re sure that your heart was the only muscle you exercised?" "Will you shut up. If you’re going to joke about this, I won’t tell you about it." "I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It just seems odd that you’re having this romantic dinner with this beautiful French girl and she’s saying things like you need to exercise your heart and you didn’t do anything more than talk." "That’s what made it so perfect. All we did was talk. I think if we had kissed, it would have ruined everything." "You didn’t even kiss?" "No. We didn’t hold hands or kiss or anything." "You didn’t even kiss her when you said goodnight." "No. Well, we did do that French thing where you kiss each other on the cheek." "Bises," I said. "Bises?" "Yeah, I think that’s what they call it. I took a year of French in school, remember?" "Yeah, I guess I do. Do you still speak French?" "No. I hardly remember anything. Same goes with what I learned in physics and calculus and pretty much every other class I took there. That’s why I work in sales. You don’t need to know much." Michael laughed. "So then what did you do?" "I put her in a cab and then took the PATH train back to your place." "So what did you do this weekend?" I asked. (Again, by the time Michael got home on Saturday and Sunday nights, I was already asleep.) "Well, we both woke up pretty late on Saturday, so we didn’t end up meeting until the early afternoon. We went over to the Museum of Modern Art and looked at all the paintings and sculptures." "You like looking at art?" "I liked looking at art with her. She was so excited to show me everything. She really knew a lot. Like I said, she made me aware of things I just have never really thought about. Art. Sculpture. Just being able to enjoy time with a girl without boning her." We both laughed. But then he stopped. "Actually, I don’t like to even joke like that when I’m talking about her." "Oh come on," I said. Michael continued. "In the gift shop, Jacqueline showed me a print of a painting by this guy named Magritte." "Yeah, he’s French," I interjected. "Actually, he’s Belgian." "Right. See I told you I don’t remember much." "Anyway, it was a picture of this man and a woman kissing. But they had these cloth bags over their heads so they weren’t really kissing. It was called ‘The Lovers.’" "Wow. That’s pretty intense. It sounds like you and Jacqueline. So close to each other, but not really." "That’s what I said. And when I said that she smiled and blushed and put her hand on my back just for a second." "Dude! You’re killing me!" I shouted. "I can’t believe you two didn’t kiss! It sounds like the passion was just boiling over!" "But if we had kissed, it would have ruined everything. Then we would have been cheating and the time we were spending together would have been wrong. I mean, we never said it out loud, but I think we both wanted to keep this time perfect. We wanted to create a perfect little time capsule that we could put in our pockets so that for the rest of our lives, every so often, we could pull it out, roll it around in our hands, hold it up to the light, or just squeeze it and remember." I let that thought hang in the air for a moment. "Michael, that was really beautiful. I mean it man. I’ve never heard you talk like this before." Michael didn’t know what to say. He seemed a bit embarrassed. "Can I steal that thought from you?" I asked, so as to soothe the awkwardness. "I’d love to put that thought in a story someday." "Sure. If you can make a profit off of my emotions, then I support you all the way." Now Michael had embarrassed me. "So anyway," I moved on, "what did you do after the museum?" "Nothing. She had to pack. She’s leaving today for Paris." "Today? Oh my God! That is so sad!" "It is very sad. Her flight is the same time as mine, but she’s flying out of JFK." "Wow…So you didn’t see her at all on Saturday night after the museum?" "Nope. But she was able to get all her packing done, so we were able to see each other on Sunday. It was really strange. I was so happy and so sad at the same time. I was so happy to be with her and so sad because I knew that within 24 hours, she’d be gone. I was also said because I spoke with Susan on Saturday night." "What did you tell her?" "Nothing." We were quiet for a moment. I could tell that, for many reasons, he didn’t want to talk about Susan right now. "So you were about to tell me what you did on Sunday." "Well, again, we both woke up late. But we had enough daylight, so I rented a car and took her for a drive. First, I drove her around my old neighborhood in Paramus, which isn’t as exciting as it sounds. But she was sweet and she said she was enjoying herself. After that, we drove up to West Point." "West Point?" "Yeah. I wanted to show her the view from Trophy Point. It is so beautiful. And I wanted to take her to a place that she would never go again, so that it would be…" "Your place?" "Exactly." "Did she like it?" "She thought it was beautiful. The views of the Hudson, the old stone buildings. She really liked all the fireflies dancing around Trophy Point. But she couldn’t imagine me going there. She said she didn’t like to picture me getting yelled at or marching around with a rifle." "Yeah, that all seems pretty weird now. Almost like it never happened." "It was weird to be back there. But it was so different to be there with her. It just seemed so nice with her. So peaceful. I never felt peaceful one single day during the four years we were there. But with her, I felt different. I could sort of deal with West Point on different terms." "You know, I wrote a book about West Point." "We’re talking about me here," Michael smiled. "Alright. Go on." "I’ll admit, when we were standing there looking out over the Hudson and the lights were just starting to twinkle across the river, I was tempted to kiss her." "So you had a moment of weakness?" "Yeah. And I know she would have kissed me, too. And it would have been nice right there in the moment. But it would have ruined everything. It would have cheapened everything. So I didn’t. And I’m glad I didn’t." "God! You have got some willpower my friend." "I wanted to keep it special. And, I still love Susan! I know I should have said that sooner, but I do. I don’t want to cheat on Susan. I love her and I love Jacqueline. Just in different ways. Or at least in different parts of my heart." "Hold on. You love Jacqueline? You knew her for four days! Not even that!" "So? For what it was and for who we were and for the time we had, I loved her. I’m telling you, it was perfect." "Did you tell her that?" "Well let me finish. So after West Point, we drove across the river to Cold Spring. We ate at Henry’s-on-the-Hudson. Do you remember that place?" "The place that’s kind of fancy, but where you can throw peanut shells on the floor? I love that place." "Me, too. That’s why I took here there. I figured neither of us would probably go there again, so it was someplace special. We only ordered soup and salad because neither of us were really that hungry. And when the soup and salad came, we couldn’t even eat that. Our stomachs were full of butterflies. She’d never heard that expression before and she thought it was really sweet. So we drank wine and smoked and tried to enjoy every single second we had together. I told her, that in a way, perhaps we would be better spouses because of this. Because we hadn’t really cheated and yet we could enjoy the thrill of each others company. We both wondered if this would be the last time we’d enjoy such a thrill as we are both about to move on to the next phase of our lives. The get married, have kids phase. And right after I said that, she got quiet and said that we should be silent for awhile. So we were." "How long was awhile?" "I don’t know. Probably only a minute. But it seemed like an hour. It was the most intense thing I think I’ve ever experienced. We just sat there staring at each other, thinking about each other, wondering what the other person was thinking right at that moment. My face was getting so flushed, I could feel it. And I could see her face getting flushed, too. Every blink or smile or twitch was loaded with a zillion meanings. I mean we literally did not say a word, but in those few moments we told each other that we loved each other and that we would miss each other and a bunch of other stuff that I really just can’t put into words. I don’t think there are words for it." "It’s like listening to Mozart’s music," I volunteered. "His music is in his music. Words can try to describe it, but they cannot replace it. Words can’t be the music. The music is the music. The meaning is in the actual music. To hear Mozart is the only way to know Mozart." "Exactly!" Michael exclaimed. "Where’d you read that?" "Nowhere. I just came up with that." "Are you sure you’re not gay?" "Fuck you! Finish your story. We’re almost at the airport." Michael laughed. "When we did finally break the silence, we talked about how strange it would be the next day, when we couldn’t talk to each other or email each other. And we talked about the possibility of running into each other somewhere in the world with our spouses and pretending that we didn’t know each other." "Now that would be a good story," I said. "You meet this girl and fall in love with her but you can’t have her, but you stay in love with her for the rest of your life and it hurts so much that you want to bust and then one day, a zillion years later, you run into her and she’s older, but still beautiful, but she’s got this husband and kids and even though the both of you want to bust out and tell each other how much you love each other, you can’t, and so you remain heartsick for another zillion years and then one day both of you are widows and you run into each other again and you finally do tell each other how you feel, but now you are so old that you only have a short time to enjoy each other." "Now that’s a romantic story, Jim. I say again, are you sure you’re not gay." "I say again, fuck you." "Dude, you are a good friend," Michael exhaled and smiled, as if to release a billion Watts of nervous energy. (Or is energy measured in calories? I told you I can’t remember physics. Whatever. He just kind of shook his body and let go a big sigh and a laugh.) "Where’d that come from?" I asked. "Why’d you say that?" "I don’t know. I mean you’re sitting here listening to all this and you haven’t once called me a jerk or told me that I’m a bastard because I’m about to get married to Susan." "Do you think you’re a bastard?" "No. I really don’t. I mean if I told her, I would be. If I had kissed Jacqueline, I would be. But no, I don’t. I think I really needed this. I think I needed to do one more sprint, as she said, just to know that I could. I think I needed to create that one perfect moment that I could put away and think about every so often. I think a lot of married guys cheat because they feel like there is something more exciting than the woman they’ve been with for years. So they go and bang some other girl and risk ruining their lives and hurting a bunch of people and then it turns out that the new girl isn’t all that exciting anymore after you’ve spent time with her. But these guys do it anyway because what all guys want is one beautiful perfect episode in their lives. It’s totally a fantasy. It doesn’t exist. And most guys waste all kinds of time and energy going after it. But somehow…like I’ve been blessed or something…I’ve had it. I’ve had the fantasy. And I still have it. We didn’t fight, we didn’t accidentally hurt each other, we didn’t disappoint each other. All we did for three days was love each other. We loved each other perfectly and then we walked away. It’s like hitting a homerun and then never picking up a bat again. The memory is untainted." "I wish I were recording this, man. You are saying some incredible stuff. But I still can’t believe you didn’t kiss her." "Let me put it in terms you can understand..." "What’s that supposed to mean?" I protested, somewhat indignantly. "Well you’re all hung up with this physical thing. You know how excited you get when you’re at home spanking off to Playboy?" "Fuck you, dickhead." "No seriously. You know how you’re there on your couch watching Cinemax late at night and you’re getting all excited and all excited and all excited and then, BOOM, it’s all over and you’ve got a giant mess on your hands? Well imagine getting all excited and all excited and all excited and then just walking away. The excitement stays with you." I didn’t really appreciate his analogy, but I knew he meant no real harm by it. "So is the excitement still with you?" I asked. "Yeah. But it’s not sexual. Not really. So my Jim analogy doesn’t really hold up." He paused. "And it’s not just an excitement about Jacqueline. I’m excited about Susan. About getting married. About starting my new job and moving to Texas. I’m excited about getting on this airplane. It’s like these three-and-half days have injected me with a passion for everything. And that’s what makes this so cool. That’s what makes this so much more a happy thing than something sad." "But what if she had said that she was leaving her fiance and wanted to be with you?" "But she didn’t. That is not her reality. And that is not my reality. Again, that’s part of what made it perfect." We merged onto the traffic loop that took us by all the terminals at Newark Airport. "So how did you end it with her?" "Well, we left the restaurant and drove back down the Palisades. We talked about silly stuff. I told her that I’d probably think of a million things I wish I’d said to her after I dropped her off. She grabbed my hand when I said that. She kept my hand for ten seconds or so. That’s as physically intimate as we really got. It was just the right measure of devotion, as they say. Just long enough. Just sweet enough. Perfect. I’m telling you man, this was perfect." "So how did you say goodbye?" "When we got to her building, I stopped the car, put on the hazard lights, got out, and walked around to open her door. She stepped out and we kind of grabbed each other by the forearms and stared at each other like we had in the restaurant. I remember I was more thinking about how this was ending so fast than about anything really profound. Then she hugged me and I hugged her back and we squeezed each other tightly and I was really aware of the warmth of her cheek against mine. And then she whispered, ‘Je t’aime’ and I hugged her more tightly and whispered ‘Toujours.’ Then she ran across the street and got to the glass doors and turned around once to smile and wave and blow me a kiss. And then she went inside and she was gone." We got to Terminal C just as Michael finished. "Oh my God. That is the most perfect love story I’ve ever heard." "Write it down," Michael smiled as he grabbed his suitcase out of my trunk. "I bet people would like the story. But whatever you write, you won’t be able to totally capture what really happened. Only she and I know every teeny detail. Like you said, the music is in the music."
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