Better Late Than Never

by Mike Welch

There are traces of guilt in my blood and flecks of blood in my stool. The guilt doesn’t hurt too badly. But every time I turn around before flushing, the blood really worries me.

It’s been a problem since I was 10, if you can believe that. I put it off all these years because I have a real aversion to being probed. And by 16-years-old, there were still no ill effects, and I began rationalizing: if it hasn’t killed me by now, it must be harmless.

But I’m moving to a new state, and I want a clean bill of health, like a foot soldier. So I’ve resolved to get the problem taken care of before I leave Tampa and my secure job, which will pay doctors to remove the blood from my stool. I must get probed within the next two months.

But I told The Little Red-Haired Girl I was leaving, forever, in three days. I feel guiltier for not feeling guilty, than I do for lying. Maybe I’ve turned callous or something and maybe I’m bleeding because UN-used guilt is burning my stomach wall like a clump of undigested pizza I shouldn’t have eaten before going to bed with a belly full of beer at 4 a.m. and maybe blood drains out that hole and into my stool. And maybe my conscience drained out the hole too; but I don’t feel as scummy as I think I should be feeling. I think the blood is probably leaking down from my broken fucking heart: I lied to protect myself. Along with more lascivious reasons.

See, her and I had this agreement, vaguely spoken, that, if we would never see each other again, we could finally have one night of fornication. Thus avoiding the full weight of her guilt, or the possibility of her liking it and wanting to do it again. At the last dramatic moment before I move, we will fuck, despite her boyfriend, whom she still will not leave, despite me. Can you believe that in almost two years of this drama we haven’t slept together? There were several close calls: the first time, as we were about to conjoin, she said, still smiling: “I’m going to cry after this.” So, I pulled her pants up, knowing it wasn’t the right time. I often wish I hadn’t done that.

I still love her very much; it’s nearly defeated me.

So, I’ve stayed away from her the last couple months. It’s too hard.

But she showed up last weekend, when your boy, the SEMI-FAMOUS AUTHOR, came down from New York for the reading I set up at OUR BAR. Jesus; insanity. One of the most amazing weekends of my life. SEMI-FAMOUS AUTHOR has been such an influence on me and it’s always a charge to meet one’s inspirations. Especially when they’re thanking you for hooking them up with a beachfront hotel room, and a free bar tab. SEMI-FAMOUS AUTHOR and I got along really well. Like some mild, personal literary fantasy.

At the reading he groped all the women and danced like a fool and talked loudly, and blew up the motherfucking spot, brightened the room, like a rock star should. He was a character, drunk and lecherous, charming and disarming, insecure and bullishly brave, fun and worth all the attention he was asking for.

The Little Red-Haired Girl was not exempt from his unruly love techniques. They danced drunk and furious and clumsy like two kids spinning each other around forever, or until one of them inevitably falls and gets hurt. I didn’t see much, as I was busy running around, choreographing the evening, making sure the band played on time, or that the local authors didn’t drone on too long. But I’d stop at intervals and watch SEMI-FAMOUS AUTHOR and The Little Red-Haired Girl interact. She looked genuinely scared of his enthusiasm at times, but they danced for quite a while. Even when SEMI-FAMOUS AUTHOR kicked over three pint glasses while dancing, and the loud shattering attracted the attention of everyone in the bar, SEMI-FAMOUS AUTHOR and The Little Red-Haired Girl didn’t concede a moment to embarassment. They just kept on spazzing out, on a pile of sharp glass. It was scary and someone should have stopped them.

The Little Red-Haired Girl’s best friend slid up next to me and we watched their dance getting faster and faster as they ground thick shards into the wooden dance floor. “I wish her boyfriend was here to see this.” She huffed, annoyed at The Little Red-Haired Girl’s flirtation.

“I wish he could have been there all the times she spent the night at my house.” I said, immediately feeling weak for displaying such bitterness. “Sorry, they’ve been giving me free beer all night.” I told her.

Later, as SEMI-FAMOUS AUTHOR began his drunken, boisterous reading, he bellowed for The Little Red-Haired Girl to join him at the microphone. He asked her, the woman I love, the only woman I’ve loved, to kiss him in front of the entire patronage of OUR BAR.

She said, ‘no.’ He begged her. It was hilarious. She offered him her cheek. No. He pulled a 20 from his suit pocket and hung it out, tall before her eyes, shaking it like a sandy beach blanket. “I will pay you to kiss me. C’mon.” The crowd at the bar urged her on, save those who know how much I love her. But when she finally kissed him, and the bar erupted in a cheer, it didn’t upset me. He’d schmoozed all the women that evening. That was his deal. Watching SEMI-FAMOUS AUTHOR kiss The Little Red-Haired Girl moved me: my two inspirations kissing. My immediate life had come full circle. Could things get any weirder?

She sat down and he held his novel close as he read; in the other palm he held the audience. He was so damn funny. I felt so proud to have brought him to poor, uncultured Tampa.

After the reading, he and I came back to my dark apartment for bong hits. He apologized for trying to screw The Little Red-Haired Girl.

“I just don’t control myself very well when I’m drunk.” He said, blowing blue smoke toward my high living room ceiling. “I’m an alcoholic. Explain that to all your girlfriends tomorrow morning. Especially The Little Red-Haired Girl.” I told him not to worry. I was actually proud; like he’d autographed her for me or something.

“She’s crazy about you though.” He contunued. “You should go out with her.”

Everyone responds that way when I tell them how much I love her and how well she treats me; they tell me to ‘go for it’ as if it’s my lack of bravery. It’s irritating, like they’re blaming it on me.

But when SEMI-FAMOUS AUTHOR said ‘go for it’, I was more amazed than annoyed: I mean, here’s my favorite writer, who, not 24-hours ago, was to me but an idealized amalgamation of his literary characters. And now he’s waxing drunken philosophic in my apartment and letting me behind-the-scenes of a romance that’s been defeating me for almost two years.

So, I guess: yes, things can get weirder.

“She told me you are ‘perfect’.” He said, passing me the bong. It was fucking heartbreaking. And that’s when I decided that I couldn’t ever speak to her again.

So last night, on the phone, I lied to her, told her I was leaving Florida two months earlier than I actually am. We will see each other for the ‘last time,’ tomorrow night. This lie will enable me to do two things: 1) avoid her for the next few months, thus keeping my poor heart from breaking the rest of the way; and 2) have sex with her NOW. Christ, I can’t wait.

There’s a good chance she’ll change her mind at the last minute. She’s capricious, unpredictable; all of those torturous, romantic traits that make people compelling. I have no idea which way this will go.

But I do know that it will be dark in my apartment when she knocks, because I plan to keep the lights off. And when she enters I will greet her in the dark and close the door behind her, and we will hug like we usually do, but she will squeeze me much harder because she thinks she’s losing me. And after a couple minutes of hugging I will ask her, quietly:

“How many people are there in the world tonight?”

And she will say, “How can you manipulate me like this if you really love me?” if she realizes I’m lying.

But I’m hoping she will answer: ‘Two’. Then I’ll ask her, “Who are those two people?”

And I hope she will say, “Me and you.” And later, if we’re dancing so blindly as to knock over a pint glass, I won’t even pause to clean up the beer. “Ah, just leave it there.” I’ll say. “I’m moving out in a couple days. What do I care?”

And I expect that my heart will be racing, pumping guilty blood to my extremities.

I’ll keep you posted.

Michael Welch