“No. I realized I’d rather spend the rest of my life trying to become a successful actor, even if it meant failing, than succeed at anything else.”
We glanced at each other. Struck once again by the absurdity of his bandage, I almost burst out laughing, but thankfully restrained myself just in time and avoided having to do the MMO procedure. His bandage looked as though it were hiding some huge protrusion, some horrible deformity. But I was not disgusted, as he smiled softly, and leaned his head toward mine, clearly to kiss me. I could not imagine, at that moment, anything he could put on his head that would disgust me. I closed my eyes.
But the kiss never came.
When I opened my eyes, his face was transformed; frozen in an expression of pain. His eyes were vacant.
With the movements of an old person, he turned away and went to sit on a bench nearby. I sat next to him and asked him if something was wrong.
His voice was faint. “I was almost happy with you this evening,” he said. “Normally, I am never happy. I sometimes try to be; I often seem to be, but I never am, and probably never will be, and undoubtedly never should be.”
“And now, you are no longer almost happy?”
He chuckled sadly and said, “No, not almost at all.”
“Are you merely not almost happy or are you actually almost not happy?”
“Neither. I am way past ‘almost.’ I’m downright unhappy.”
“Why are you suddenly not almost happy anymore?”
“Because, I just realized how to make you happy. And the thought of it makes me shudder.” He paused. “I will do it, though. Not right away, mind you. I’m not ready yet. But before long. And our relationship will change.”
“For the worse?” I asked, choosing to ignore the more obvious questions.
“I can’t say.” He got up and faced the river.
To his back, I nagged: “Would you mind clarifying why you’re not almost happy anymore? It didn’t come through clearly.”
He looked at me, seeming slightly hurt, and finally answered: “Because I will be sacrificing my happiness for yours.”
He turned away again, but before I had a chance to come up with an appropriate response, he spun back, and, with forced cheerfulness, said, “Hey, do you want to go dancing?”
“Right now? Where?”
“At a nightclub, for instance.”
I agreed. He took me to a nightclub that he said he went to — sometimes frequently. He danced. I didn’t. I suppose I shouldn’t have agreed to go if I wasn’t in the mood to dance, but I didn’t know I wasn’t until I got there.
He knew a few people, some of whom danced with him. The fluidity of his movements, which I had noticed before, was even more apparent in his dancing. I watched him for a long time. I overheard people talking about him. They referred to him as the Liquid Angel. Suddenly, a woman he was dancing with tried to kiss him and he slapped her. I think I was more shocked than she was. She merely shrugged, rolled her eyes, and danced off, apparently unfazed. He continued dancing as if nothing had happened, while I delicately touched my cut, remembering the man who had slapped me in the street.
After a while, I started feeling neglected, even though Damon did not seem to be enjoying himself a great deal dancing. The expression on his face was very intense. He sometimes closed his eyes and shook his head in a way that resembled someone trying to forget something. Eventually, I no longer wanted to be there, but I couldn’t get myself to interrupt him, so I decided to just leave; he had been rude anyway, by ignoring me, so I tried not to feel guilty about not saying good-bye. Looking at him one last time, I saw him for what he really was: a stranger, to whom I meant nothing, and who should mean nothing to me.
I left the nightclub and stopped at a pay phone in the street. I left a message on his machine saying I was sorry I left without saying good-bye, but that I had suddenly felt very tired and dizzy and hadn’t wanted to disturb him.
I went to the park by the river, to think and try to relax before going home. After the subway incident, one might have expected me to be weary of dark and deserted city places. If I hadn’t been so preoccupied by my own thoughts, I might have actually noticed that the park was dark and deserted. I might even have cared. And perhaps been reluctant to wander there alone at such a late hour.
It wasn’t until two young men were blocking my path, clearly menacing me, that I realized my mistake. I, who had never before in my life been mugged or bothered violently by strangers, was greatly surprised to find myself involved in such situations twice in one week. Tonight I learned that it was much worse to be the victim than the rescuer.
My attempt to use my pepper spray was awe-inspiringly brief this time: I reached into my bag for it, but one of the men, as if reading my mind, plunged his hand into my bag as well, grabbed the spray, and flung it aside. It was at that moment that I felt myself slipping into a strange state of shock. I made only one more attempt at saving myself, by darting between the men and heading for the park’s exit. This didn’t work, of course, and that’s when my state of shock became full-fledged: my brain started forming strange expectations as to what would happen to me.
In retrospect, I realize that the men were about to rape me, but at the time, when they pulled off my pants and unzipped their flies, it seemed unquestionable that they were going to pee on me. For some reason, I was convinced, right then, that all vicious attacks began by getting peed on. I could almost recall hearing evening TV newscasts, frequently reporting stories such as, “After getting viciously urinated on by the five assailants, the tourist was robbed, and then stabbed to death.” Of course, I can only relate this painlessly (even, somewhat, lightheartedly), now that it’s in the past.
I wasn’t sure what would happen after the initial peeing process. Perhaps the robbing and stabbing processes. Thankfully, I never got to find out, because a stranger came to my rescue. It is probably distasteful of me to mention that he was very handsome; or to have even noticed it, I’m sure; and for it to be the first thing I mention. But he was. In a TV actor sort of way. And as he was wrestling with my attackers, a commercial of sorts ran through my head: the new way for young singles to meet! Rescue someone, or get attacked and be rescued yourself!
The struggle lasted a long time. I was of no help, having lost all my strength and presence of mind early on. Finally, the attackers gave up and ran away, and the stranger was left with barely a scratch. He did, actually, have a scratch, on his hand, which he was looking at. He touched it and groaned and said “Ow.”
“Is it broken?” I asked.
“Yes, the skin is almost broken.”
“No, I meant the hand.”
He looked at me with mild shock, and said, “No. But the skin is scratched, chafed, almost bleeding. And how are you? I trust I interrupted the ceremonies in time?”
Not believing my ears, and still without my full mental faculties, I said “Hello?” Although I did not like his last comment, I did not want to dislike him. He had possibly just saved my life.
“I hope they did not get very far with you?” he said.
Instinctively, I looked down at myself, and, seeing no trace of urine, replied, “No, I don’t think they did.”
“Fine. Do you need help with your pants?”
“No,” I said. Sitting in the cold dirt, I kept turning my pants over and over in my hands, having apparently forgotten how to put them on. In truth, I felt as if I had never known, never owned that piece of information. The man was standing near me, and I wanted to fool him, make him think I knew very well what I was doing. I maintained a frown of know-how and determination on my face for as long as I could, until I no longer could, and then broke down in tears. He squatted next to me and gently, effectively, helped me into my pants without uttering the slightest wise-ass comment. I felt a surge of gratitude and was restrained from expressing it only by my embarrassment.