Prettyboy

18: Roarin' In The Summer (Pt. III)

And. 

Where I left off, I cannot bring myself to continue. There seems to be a hitch with this, expressing my opinion and recounting what happened in Italy. See, the trouble with writing your memoirs is that you are forced to relive the most beautiful moments of your life, but not in a way that you can relish your memories. You are not the center of the attention anymore; you realize time has gone by and you hanker back to a time you cannot physically relive anymore, not even spiritually. And you are forced in this realm of make-believe, the knave you are, you are convinced that reminiscing will be the same as reliving.

It only makes you envious of the person you used to be.

So much for Oscar Wilde saying that 'to become a spectator of one's own life is to escape the suffering of life.' I beg to differ.

Early August had reached us and we had taken a valiant plunge into the sea. Early August. Back in the US: the sun scraping. We had left Massachusetts once again and were roughly twenty minutes away from New York City. 

He said he would meet a friend there. It suited me fine because I was thinking about getting back to The Studio, get some work done. 

In the backseat of the car, I had his scrapbook, completed. I couldn't let him know that yet, however. It was the only work of art I had been proud of, ever. A photograph of him on the grand piano marked the end of it and I knew I had to start a new one.

Gerard was driving so wordlessly; he had turned the radio off previously, which only made me doubt he was in excellent spirits. But I completely comprehended that, in a way. I felt the same.

"I'd love to have you in The Studio sometime," I announced, point-blank, hoping he'd ease up a bit, but his grip was still tight around the steering wheel. 

"Mhm."

My sigh came out inadvertently, made it seem as though I was vexed. I was ready to break the misunderstood silence when he said:

"You know, it doesn't have to be like this."

I was taken aback by his statement. I think I had heard it some time in Italy as well but paid no mind to it. He might have said that.

"Doesn't have to be like . . . What?"

"You know exactly what I mean. You know exactly what I am driving at."

I did. But instead, I decided to play stupid.

"I don't have an idea, Gerard. Give me an inkling. What are you driving at?"

"'Kay, look," he began with a sigh, "it doesn't have to be like this anymore, Frank. I mean, if it's in our hands, which it is, then why not? You know? I mean, did you have a good time this summer?"

What could I say? I couldn't lie. I can't think of one person who would lie in that situation.

"I sure did. For sure."

"Then," he began as his complexion changed, his eyebrows drew together, "why should we wait for so long again? Wait until next summer, I know that's what you're thinkin' 'bout right now. But it ain't right. It doesn't feel right. Not to me."

Right then I wasn't thinking about waiting another year. I knew that was imminent. Patience was key with the botch I had made out of things. And I knew what he had in his mind but, no, it could not, not ever, make headway. Even though for a moment, I did think for a split second that his envision could work. And then it backfired, lickety-split, when I realized that we were living two different lives, the two of use. That we could plan and work like that. Who would think that?