Christopher Tolian
Gasoline and Perfume
She climbs back into the car, bringing a burst of cold mid-November
rain.
Bitter scent of exhaust and gasoline from the city outside clings to
her,
standing out sharp in the frigid air. Cinnamon vanilla. Faint, exciting
smell of her. More tasted or imagined. A light, almost sweet musk and
the
pale salt of sweat.
Her presence is so real, so immediate. “Ready?” She laughs at my nod.
“My
choice right?”
“Just no McDonald’s.” She laughs again.
Our poorly heated Toyota cocoon falls through the early evening city.
Streets and signs and people and skyscrapers smear together into an
impressionist collage. We catch Lake Shore Drive.
The car stops in front of a Thai restaurant with black slatted shades
and
gaudy gold letters pronouncing its name in no language I understand. My
companion is out of the car and headed through the door before I can
even
find the handle. With her goes that curious scent.
“Come on slowpoke.” Her voice carries on a soft ripple of laughter.
“I’m
hungry.”
I finally find my way to the door. Inside she orders a bottle of white
wine.
The music, scents and the dim lights shoot the alcohol to my brain.
“Do you hear the words?” She leans forward on one hand, elbow resting
on the
black mat. Chin cradled in curled fingers.
I look at her, taking a moment to realize what she’s talking about. All
around us, people are speaking in half a dozen different languages.
From the
light singsong tones of the Asian dialects to the melodramatic rise and
fall
of romantic French and Italian. The ordinary English and Spanish. All
mixing
into one low murmur of a thousand voices whispering of a different,
exotic
world. A multicultural purr that defines the Chicago I know.
And the music. A strange mix of gypsy jazz and blues, looped under a
keening
muted trumpet solo. A solid backbeat in odd time. We order and sit in
silence, breathing in the scents of so many different people and spices
and
roasting meats.
She sits there. Something about her eyes. Eyes are not the windows to
the
soul. They are separate, almost an entity of their own, held so far
above
the rest of the body. If anything they are a reflection. A perception
of the
spirit. The life a person has lived. Their experiences colored by their
emotions and personal prejudices. Hers hold something I’ve never seen
before. There is a passion there, uninhibited as a child's.
“How old are you?” She could be any age. Hair not yet gray. Face
displays
the imperfections of life.
She laughs, gazing at me over the rim of her glass. Grey eyes, blue
eyes,
green eyes all jumbled up in her own. “Older than you.” She looks
away,
putting a cigarette to her lips. ”Come on, I’m full.”
She grabs the brown paper bag full of white cardboard carryout.
We walk past the Salvation Army store. Men and women in tired old
clothes
pass in and out the door. Mingle uncomfortably with the hip kids
pausing on
their way to the clubs to pick up the cool corduroy bellbottoms and
other
things Seventies.
“Huh. The rich and poor both buy secondhand these days.”
“The poor have no choice, but the rich buy everything secondhand so
they
don’t have to bother putting any life into it. The trendy buy their
readymade character, built in memories. It’s like buying a picture
frame and
leaving in the store filler to give the illusion of things worth
remembering. A life worth living.” The words such a rush. I don’t feel
my
mouth forming them.
She throws me a look. “Kinda pompous, don’t you think?” I shake my head
and
she laughs, spitting tiny diamonds into the night air.
Back down the street, we search for the car, passing storefronts and
cafes
with names like Gypsy Cove, Voltaire’s, The Pink Frog, The Alley. Our
breath
fogs into the air among a hundred other frosted breaths. In the Toyota,
the
scent again pulls me under, making everything a dream. Vanilla,
cinnamon, a
musky sage. She turns to wink at me. Slamming the car into first gear,
her
hand brushes my thigh, sending my head to reel once more with a
hallucinatory emotional flux.
Our tiny red rocket speeds down a narrow, crumbling expanse of
blacktop. A
late autumn storm tosses waves over the breakwall along the lake. North
through the Loop with its towering concrete facades, through the rich
neighborhoods cowering behind an invisible gateway, hiding from the
rest of
the world. Those barely hanging on in the crumbling kingdoms of the CHA
housing complexes.
Just beyond the glittery hotels and the wrought-iron fences we suddenly
come
upon a working class neighborhood. Tree-lined streets front the brown
brick
bungalows and whitewashed cape cods. Ladders and paint and cars in
various
stages of abuse. A little neon sign proclaims our destination as we
pull
over behind a beat up Cadillac. “DANNY’S” in fiery cursive sputters in
the
misting rain.
The bartender stands behind his dark oak barricade. Black hair covering
eyes
that completely fail to register our entrance until my friend walks up
to
get a bottle of red wine. His dark silk shirt sticks to his body in a
dozen
lurid ways as the heat from the gas registers throw moisture into the
air.
We wind up a staircase and pass room upon room, decorated in every
imaginable style, filled with every type of person. On the third floor,
in a
back corner facing the roofs across an alley, we find an empty space
for
ourselves.
Stick figure shadow stains dance across a crimson lit stage on the
wall.
Music drips through fevered perception to mingle with tribal rhythms
hidden
among the softworn paisley couch and low table.
She stands in bittersweet grace as she peers though dirty glass. She
doesn’t
like the view. Lakefront skyline rises with the moon above black water
and
shades of dim brown and gray. Sips her drink, letting it play with the
incense smoke of her addiction.
Pale eyes ask so many questions. Light brown hair caresses pale cheek
framing classic features. Earth-toned wool drifts above high, laced
boots.
Swirling tattoos trace the slender curve of her arm and hand, idly
stroking
the black cord around her neck. Her hands. Slender, delicate. Clear
nails. Clean. I glance at mine, squeezing the cigarette. Dirty,
calloused. Scarred and scraped from the factory, stained with oil from
my
machines. So different. I cringe at the self-deprecation. Prejudice.
Imagined?
My forest-colored eyes catch hers through the stainglass softening of
early
midnight and too many drinks. Distant bells chime as she crosses the
hardwood floor to pour me yet another glass of wine. The red-amber
fluid
numbs my tongue, lighting a fire behind my eyes.
Ashes dust the table beneath the green glass ashtray next to a tin of
unfiltered cigarettes from Indonesia. God, my mind is wondering. What
were
we talking about? My face must have given me away.
I look up at her. “Only a little sometimes?” Repeating the last phrase.
Brilliant.
Wispy smoke wraps us in a shroud of ghostly ivy. I try a smile again.
She
giggles at my attempt. “Yes.”
I look at her. Those eyes ask so many questions, see so much. “What’s
‘only
a little sometimes?’”
She gazes back, so intense. “That I get scared.”
I know she wants an answer to something. But what? “Me too.”
Cold air swirls in through an open door somewhere, bringing her scent
to me
again. What is it that smells so familiar, triggers so many mixed up
emotions? She looks away, back towards the window and the slow fading
moonshine. Silvergold highlights the shy beatitude of her tilted smile.
“Then why am I talking to you?” It comes out as a quiet murmur, but
carries
so much meaning, so much frustration. She turns to face me and looks up
through her eyelashes.
“Look,” I try again, this time actually managing to keep most of the
alcohol
out of my voice. “I’m sorry. I want to help. But, I need to know what’s
going on.” Her eyes speak so eloquently of the hurt. I pray that it’s
not my
fault.
“You want to know what’s going on?” A harsh drag from her cigarette.
“Never
mind. You’re too --“
“Too what?” I cut her off. I’m so sick of people feeling like shit,
asking
me for advice and then turning around and backing off, brushing me off.
“Too what, huh? Too stupid to understand? Ignorant? Just cause my
collar’s
blue and my boots have steel toes does not make me less than you. So
do not
tell me I won’t understand. Just fucking tell me what’s wrong.” Maybe
that
was a little harsh.
Those eyes linger on my face as her mind lingers on my words. In the
silence
I light another cigarette, feeling righteous and shit upon and angry at
myself all at once.
“Prick.” She spits out the word. Goes to stare out the window at the
coldwet
city, the icy lake beyond.
Enough of this shit! “Goddamnit, woman! Get your ass over here and
let me
talk!”
She turns around so slowly that I expect to see a gun aimed at my head.
Cigarette falls from her lips as she bursts out laughing.
"What?" She finally manages, bending to pickup the smoldering tobacco
in
its brown paper. The embers add their fire to that already in her
eyes.
”Did you just say ‘damnit, woman?’” Another giggle escapes quivering
lips.
“No. I said get back here and let me talk.” That wasn’t so bad. She
bounces
back to the couch. Forgets her anger as fast as any child lets theirs
pass
into memory. Her smile is ironic now as she grins next to me.
“Sometimes I get scared of being alone.” All serious and pleading.
I can see that. Faint lines at the corner of her eyes. The huskiness
of her
voice. An old soul worn out by the search...for what?
“But the life you’ve lived so far is so...” I grope for words; nothing is
appropriate. Nothing accurate without destroying the myth of her
timelessness, agelessness. Myth. Odd word choice.
“What? So full?” Her sarcasm smacks me down.
I paraphrase the rebels and anarchists she so admires. Philosophy of
the
wild. “You have to experience it all. Truth is nothing without
experience,
right? Just words. And words are hollow.”
I pause, remembering the feeling of being wide-eyed and naïve. When
such
grand ideas seemed so pure and reasonable. Add a little life into the
mix
and purity takes on a tarnish and grand ideas are only ideas without
action
to back them up. And words, words are still mostly hollow. But, there
is
still something. Something that pulls at me. Ecstatic being, living
for
the moment. Sometimes life needs to be lived and action really does
follow
ideas...or ideas follow actions.
“A mad wild rush into it all....”
She finishes it up, “Let it take you, consume you and you’ll come out
the
other side of transcendence.” She looks down at the smoldering stub of
cigarette clenched between white fingers. “Yeah.” Quieter, “Yeah.
Something like that, right?” Almost inaudible, “Used to seem that way
sometimes.”
Her eyes glow, sparking. “Listen.” The intensity is tempered by a deep
sadness. Regret. “Living a good life, living well...having meaning in
your
life and that philosophy are not the same thing.” A laugh. “The voice
of
reason.” Her eyes catch mine. “It doesn’t work you know. It’s all a
myth.” That word again.
I sit silent for a moment. “I don’t believe you.” Pull her to her
feet,
both of us teetering. I lunge at the door and through and back down
the
stairs into the blaring cold. “Come with me.” Ideas follow action.
The city pulses. A deep throbbing industrial beat that batters at
coherence. Alcohol just tops it off, pushing me one more shuffling
staggering step closer to the edge. But, she has to see this. I have
to
see it. That it really does work sometimes. There is happiness to be
found
in the moment. In experience. Action. The doing of life. There has
to be.
Otherwise, how is any of this worth it?
We stumble through the cold, her hand warming mine, my pulse matching
hers
as a subtle warmth spreads. She giggles. “Where’re we going?”
“Not sure. But somewhere,” I glance back and grin. “To do something.”
She laughs out loud at that. “Reassuring. Very.”
A doorway, warmth spilling out on vibrant strains of music. I veer in.
Darkness. Tiny pools of light scattered among dark tables, dark faces
turned toward the dim stage lined by votive candles burning low.
Piano,
violin, guitar and trumpet vie for control of a loose, haunting music.
We
drop into a couple of empty seats.
“What is this place?” Her eyes wander over the audience. The
intensity of
their concentration matching that of the music pouring from the
musicians.
“The music is beautiful.” She turns toward me. “And the people here...they’re beautiful too.”
I agree. The passion that flows is not easy to take. Ambrosia for the
senses. Grand ideas. This is beyond that. This is divine. Here
something
exists that has no definition. For all I know, it has come into being
only
for us; right now, right here. The light diffuses in the heat, giving
everyone a copper sheen. No one is anymore than the next, all beauty
and
sublime grace. The tilt of their heads, eyes half closed, lips parted
and
moist.
I look at her. Age gone, despair gone. The charged atmosphere filling
her
with a light that takes her beyond where she thinks she is. Her beauty
is
enhanced and I realize I want her. I want to show her that there is
happiness in the now. I want her to show me.
She turns to the band. The piano stomps out a chromatic swing while
the
guitar flashes blue-tinged flamenco. Violin weeps out over and through
the
chords, pulling out notes into a mourning wail. The trumpet softly
rasps
under it all, a scat chant calling all to listen. So many musics
combined,
it sings out a universal praise of humanity. It shivers with
restrained
potential and spills out over into bliss. Seduction, arousal and
climax
over and over and over. I begin to sweat, hands shaking I find myself
being
led out of the light.
A dark alcove. I peer into those ageless eyes and see a fire. Desire.
I
reach for her. Our mouths collide, all tongues and teeth and hungry
lips as
the music rains down on us, the notes amber and scented wine. Her
breath
cinnamon hot, spiced sweat as I find her neck, follow the elegant
curves.
The world fades and all we are is the moment. The music leads us as we
grope in the dark, clothes and fingers tangled. Slick skin and
straining
muscles. Her body glides on mine, obliterating everything. We burst
through the ceiling that was never there and spin round and round each
other, touching and tasting and feeling for the first time in
forever. I
am in her and am her. I let her in and feel that connection, that
spark,
that tickle deep down in the soul that is so shocking in its rarity.
Its
depth and completeness. The overwhelming vulnerability and temporary
yet
utter trust. Here is my body it is yours, ours, mine.
Her breath ragged in my ear. I pull her into me, through me as her
muscles
contract and release. A flowing liquid rhythm pushing me over into
ecstasy.
I come into her, shivering and alive, and know that I have kissed the
face
of god and lain naked in the arms of heaven. In her.
We tumble to the floor as the music ends. Silence.
The trumpet sounds a muted tone that stretches out into forever and
doubles
back, echoed by the violin. Piano and guitar sketch chords that trail
glitterstars. I lead her back to the table.
Quiet, hushed. Her eyes downcast. A smirk plays at the corner of her
mouth. “Well...” She gazes at me, bewilderment and confusion. “I don’t
know
what just happened.”
I light a cigarette, passing it to her. Put another to my lips. Watch
the
flame dance, paper curling back as the tobacco catches. “Forgot to
think.”
Exhale a pale blue stream. “Thank you. I thought I had forgotten what
life
felt like.”
She shoots me a devils grin. “Living for the moment, eh?” Looks up at
the
stage. “The music reminded me that there is more than just getting by,
more
than following dreams. There is being. Ya know?”
“Yeah. Let life get in the way and then you start missing it.”
“Rushing to catch up and never quite getting there.”
I run with it, realizing a truth, riffing on a tangent: “All these
choices
we make. Everything -- the good things and the things that leave us
nauseous
and looking for the razor blade -- all these things add up to who we
are.
Take any of that out, deny any of it and you become something less.
You
become gray, a nonperson.” Heavy drag of the cigarette. Maybe this is
part
of her answer. “You don’t have to be proud of it all, but don’t deny
it.”
“Why not?”
That stops me for a moment. A hell of a lot of people are just fine
with
being gray. They’re happy. I light another cigarette. They maybe
even
know that they aren’t real and are just fine with it. Can that be?
Jesus.
Fuck. “Because then it isn’t worth it. Then all that suicide bullshit
makes sense. Then just fuck it all. Fuck yourself and everyone that
loves
you. Psychological, emotional suicide. That spark, the fire, was
never
there in the first place.”
“Something divine. Being human. Really truly living.” She looks
away,
sighs. “Perhaps.” Meek, little girl semi acknowledgement.
I shake my head. “Damn, we are seriously piss poor philosophers.
Always
talking about things we’ll never know and trying to prove the obvious.”
We both laugh, the light back in her eyes. I notice something. “Why do
you
wear that ring around your neck?” A perfect whitegold circle on a black
cord
knotted so that it lies flat against the base of her throat. She pauses
to
consider, a finger caressing the ring.
“I gave it to a friend a long time ago.” She gets a small smile at the
corner of her lips, “A long time ago...but, it somehow ended back with
me.
Why do I wear it?” She gives me that mischievous look again. “I wear it
because it reminds me that promises get broken. And that others are
kept and
that there is never really any relation in the reasoning of the two.”
I see a man behind the bar, tucked back under a staircase that rises
into
the smoke. I look at her. She really is beautiful. “I’ll be right
back.”
I return with a couple of dark green bottles. The labels say cider,
but the
pale liquid tastes like tequila. She waves a finger, eyes watering
from the
fiery liquor.
“Jesus, damn.” She sputters. “I have a question for you. Something
that I
have been thinking on since I met you.”
I look at her sideways. “Yes?”
“Why do you work in a factory?” Eyes drill in. I can see her
assessing,
weighing me against some scale of blue and white that I’m not privy to.
I shrug. “Had a kid at eighteen. Decided not to be another statistic
the
county could use and got a job.” I smile. “No, it’s not my passion.
But,
I get to see a tang...a tangig...damn.” I giggle, the alcohol biting me
in the
ass. Finally. “Instant gratification. I see what I made at the end
of the
day. A real thing to take pride in. Besides,” I grin. “I’m not one
for a
shirt and tie.”
She just looks at me, taking a long drag from her cigarette. “Oh.
You’re
smart enough to be something bigger.” She shrugs it off. “Clichéd
answer
though. Maybe --.”
“Maybe you should listen.” What the hell? Bottle slams down on the
table,
the liquid swirling violent like my insides. “I said it isn’t my
passion.”
“What is your passion?” Lips tight, eyes narrow. Dangerous.
Please, please don’t take away what happened. You gave me the world.
You
gave me life. Please don’t do this. But, I’m not mad anymore. I’m
silent.
Fuck. How do you explain that life is your passion? Work is work
and
mine doesn’t consume me like most. I have time to live. Or at least
chasing down life for the brief moments like tonight when I can feel
it,
feel everything. Or maybe I’m just bullshitting myself. And the
absurd,
hysterically ironic thing? None of it really matters. All this
philosophy
is only so much bullshit. Actions speak louder than words and both are
so
far above thought and ideas...jesus. Fuck it. My head pounds.
She laughs. “You look lost.”
“I feel kinda lost...” My head spins. The smoke and music and
conversation
only emphasize the scent that has been driving me crazy all night. And
with
her sitting so close and the room so hot and the air so heavy, it is
overpowering. I put my head in my hands and let out a little moan.
“Maybe we should go.” Concern creeps into her voice. Oh, the poor
little
boy can’t handle it.
Fuck. “Yeah…yeah, that might not be a bad idea.” I feel my thoughts
slur
even before they become words.
Out into the cold night. The scent washes me once more. Gasoline and
perfume. We climb back into the Toyota and speed down the streets.
Autumn
storm turns winter. Angry lake tears at the breakwalls.
My building looks so small hidden among the towers and campus buildings
along Harrison and Halsted. She pulls up, and helps me out. I stagger
through the gate and up the stairs, fumbling for my keys. All coherence
gone. A jumble of half-formed memories. And that damn scent driving
me
crazy crazy crazy.
I open the door, leaving the keys to fend for themselves in the dirty
hallway. Half drag her in after me. Long brown and gold hair matted
from
the rain and dark and fog. The phone rings.
“Please wait.” But she’s already back through the door, taking the
scent and
the light with her.
I grab up the phone. “Fuck you.” Slam it back down, missing the base by
a
good foot. I turn and lurch through the door, trying to see her through
the
dusty dark. Back down the stairs. I finally catch her at the gate.
The rain comes hard. Lightning streaks the sky above the antennas and
radio
towers, bringing the whole street into glaring clarity. The furtive
movement
of the night inhabitants.
She spins as I grab her arm. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
The
thunder punctuates her whispered words.
I regain a moment of clear thought. Run past her to open the car door.
She
looks at me with that smile. Her scent blasts my mind once more.
“Thanks.” I close the door and turn back towards my apartment.
Through the gate and up the stairs. I rescue my keys as I place the
abused
phone back on the hook. I hear a knock. It takes a moment to register
and
comes again. Taptaptap. I hope and pray and hope. The door opens
without me
realizing I’m going through the motions, my numbed brain on auto.
Tiny laugh lines train the rain to follow their curves off her face.
Without
a word, she leans into me and our lips meet. A fire runs through me.
Her
scent. An angel. A goddess. A strong woman.
She puts her arms around me and speaks into my chest, ”I’ve never had
anyone
do that for me before. Thank you.”
I grope for words, my mind failing me. ”You deserve so much...”
She lets a low, quiet sob, slip through her lips. ”I can’t drive
anymore. I
don’t want to drive anymore. Please don’t make me. You reminded me
that
life is here; you just have to live it. Really live it full on and
throw
yourself into it without too much thought. That’s the only way to
catch
that little patch of divine set aside for you.”
I can’t answer. The only moment in my life when I can feel, actually
feel
the physical passage of time as my neurons fail to fire, fail to make
the
connection with my mouth. The only thing I can do is silently stroke
her
hair.
“Promise me you’ll call...promise.” She looks up into my eyes. Tears
blend so
perfect with the rain and pain and anguish. She turns and disappears.
I lift the phone, dial a number. It rings. I know there won’t be an
answer. A click and a long tone.
“Hi. It’s me.” My voice breaks. I pause, listen to the crackling
silence.
“You just left and I didn’t want you to.” I light a cigarette. “So,
when
you get this, please come back.”
I hang up and crawl onto the windowsill, watching the sun beginning to
rise
way out over the city and lake. Up from the street below, I catch a
hint of
gasoline and perfume. Like sex with an angel and wild, haunting music.
Like catching the divine.
©2004 by Christopher Tolian
