Authors: Edward Lee
Shifters (2 page)
Truth,
he thought now.
he thought now.
He stared past his Smith-Corona, feeling like the displaced soothsayer of Shakespeare’s play.
How can one define truth?
How can one define truth?
The question bid any poet’s quest. Locke had spent a decade pondering that, writing about it, even reveling in its premise. He wanted each of his poems, if only minutely, to touch the flesh of that question.
Locke wasn’t sure what truth was, but he was sure what it wasn’t. Truth was not any physical reality, it was not something you could see or hear. It was not solid. It was not tangible. Locke knew that truth existed somewhere
between
the lines of life, and exploring those spaces was what gave his muse power.
between
the lines of life, and exploring those spaces was what gave his muse power.
Or at least it had.
Until now.
His work desk was a big old black metal eyesore. Bookshelves surrounded him like ramparts. Pictures lined the wall facing him, the great poets: Keats, Shelley, Jarrell, Seymour, and a sullen kerchiefed Edgar Allan Poe. Locke liked the idea of being looked upon by these great men as he worked. The pictures enlivened him.
But there was one more picture, not on the wall, but right up close on the desk. A small photograph in a flat gold frame.
It seemed to radiate at him now, more than a photograph but a providence of some sort, a piece of his past and a piece of his future.
I don’t love you anymore,
the picture seemed to say.
the picture seemed to say.
It was Clare.
The picture had been taken at Concannon’s, on her birthday. She smiled brokenly into the lens after having just downed one of the barkeep’s notorious “Birthday Shooters.” And sitting right next to her, with his arm around her, was Locke.
She was beautiful—she was
resplendent.
She was the only woman Locke had ever loved in his life.
resplendent.
She was the only woman Locke had ever loved in his life.
And now she was gone.
(iii)
Who knew what love was? How could it be defined? Locke didn’t know. He’d been infatuated in the past, many times. He’d even been
involved
a couple of times. But he’d never felt strongly enough about a girl to voice the cryptic words
I love you.
involved
a couple of times. But he’d never felt strongly enough about a girl to voice the cryptic words
I love you.
Until he’d met Clare. It was a strange rapport, an instantaneous one. He’d walked into Concannon’s one night last October to have a beer and shoot the shit with Carl, the barkeep. The night felt funny: mild, warm, when it should be chilly. 45th Street was desolate when traffic should have been backed up to the freeway. And Concannon’s, when ordinarily it would be packed at this time of night, was empty. Except for her.
She sat up at the bar chatting with Carl and drinking a shandy. A little lemon wedge floated in her glass. Her pose stunned Locke in the entrance. Who was this beautiful, beautifully dressed woman all by herself in the bar? She looked opulent, regal: a long dark-jade organdy dress, Ferraganno high heels, big bright gold earrings. She had short tapered blonde hair with perfect bangs, which gently sifted each time she tossed her head to laugh at one of Carl’s notorious jokes.
“What’s the difference between a rooster and a lawyer? A rooster clucks defiance.”
Of course she laughed; she worked for a law firm.
But what was it about her, outwardly? Locke remained seized in the vision of her. She looked classy without looking overdone. Where most beauty in this town was fake, she looked
real.
Had providence put her there, just for him? Locke considered this—he
believed
in providence.
real.
Had providence put her there, just for him? Locke considered this—he
believed
in providence.
He walked up. “Hi,” he said, rather stupidly. “My name’s Locke.”
Her head turned. Huge blue eyes beamed. Locke nearly swooned at the scent of her perfume.
“My name’s Clare,” she said, and smiled at him. “It’s very nice to meet you.”
(iv)
Good conversation commenced instantaneously. Locke, of course, told her that he was a poet. Her response had surprised him. “What are your themes?” she’d asked. Usually girls in bars replied,
Oh, really?
or
I wrote poetry in high school.
“Societal naturalism,” Locke answered. “I try to do with words what Munch and Ryder did with paint.” That’s when things really got going; Clare had minored in art, she even did a little painting herself. Through their discourse he discovered that they shared many of the same views, tastes, and ideals. He was also happy to learn that she was here to meet some friends, (girls who hung out in bars by themselves were usually bad news in the long run). She was a paralegal for one of the firms in Queene Ann, one of the big ones.
Oh, really?
or
I wrote poetry in high school.
“Societal naturalism,” Locke answered. “I try to do with words what Munch and Ryder did with paint.” That’s when things really got going; Clare had minored in art, she even did a little painting herself. Through their discourse he discovered that they shared many of the same views, tastes, and ideals. He was also happy to learn that she was here to meet some friends, (girls who hung out in bars by themselves were usually bad news in the long run). She was a paralegal for one of the firms in Queene Ann, one of the big ones.
They’d talked for a solid hour; Locke’s enthusiasm never lapsed. She fascinated him, not topically, but in some more oblique, deeper way. She was far more than just some attractive girl he’d met in a tavern. She was scintillating, diverse, abstract and intelligent. She was
cool.
Eventually her friends arrived, they were cool too, and even though the initial introductions had been quick, Locke could tell that her friends liked him, which made him feel even better. Later, Clare and her friends had left; Locke didn’t want to push anything. “Do you hang out here much?” she asked before departing.
cool.
Eventually her friends arrived, they were cool too, and even though the initial introductions had been quick, Locke could tell that her friends liked him, which made him feel even better. Later, Clare and her friends had left; Locke didn’t want to push anything. “Do you hang out here much?” she asked before departing.
“Most nights I stop in for a few.”
“I’d really like to see some of your poetry. Why don’t you bring some in? I could meet you tomorrow night after work.”
“Sounds good. I’ll be here.”
Her friends waved. Clare smiled again, donned her coat, and bid, “Goodnight, Locke.”
“Goodnight. See you tomorrow.”
She left the bar. Locke stared after her. Her perfume lingered about him like an aura. His beer got warm as he sat, thinking. His thoughts seemed to carry him away.
Carl snapped his fingers in front of Locke’s face. “Locke, Locke. You check out to the Twilight Zone, or what?”
Locke roused, looked around. “Clare,” he muttered.
Carl poured him a cold McEwans. “I didn’t think you had it in you, buddy.”
“What?”
“Clare,” Carl said. He flipped a Marlboro Light in the air and caught it perfectly in his mouth. “She likes you.”
“Oh, yeah? How do you know?”
“She’s in here three or four nights a week after work. Guys hit on her right and left, but she always gives them the brush-off. Every time, Locke. You’re the first guy I’ve seen her talk to for more than two minutes.”
“Is that a fact?” Locke pondered this. “You say she’s in here three or four nights a week? I’ve been hanging out in this john of yours for five years, and I’ve never seen her.”
“That’s because you’re a denizen,” Carl informed him. “You come in too late. She’s here a lot. She’s a nice girl.”
You’re telling me.
“And she’s never with a guy?”
“And she’s never with a guy?”
“Nope. Never. I’m a barkeep, I know everything. If she was dating anyone, I’d have heard about it.”
“But guys hit on her a lot?”
Carl laughed. “As good-looking as she is, what do you think? She’s got guys trying to pick her up all the time, but she shoots ’em down like Sopwith Camels. Until tonight, that is. Until she meets Concannon’s renowned resident poet.”
“I wasn’t trying to pick her up,” Locke pointed out. Suddenly he craved a cigarette, and regretted that he’d quit years ago. “I was just being the charming, level-headed, and deeply intelligent guy I always am.”
“Right, and my name’s Dick. Take my word for it, Locke. When you work this side of the bar long enough, you start to get a knack for seeing things that other people don’t see.”
Locke nodded, frowning. He had a knack himself, for being cynical in the light of the positivity of others. “Okay, Carl. So tell me, what did you see?”
“That girl’s nuts about you.”
Locke paused in the middle of a sip of McEwan’s. Carl’s observation seemed to remain alight behind his eyes, like details of a nice dream. Locke didn’t know how to interpret Carl’s mystic analysis, but that didn’t matter. Locke
felt
something, and whatever it was, he knew it felt awesomely real.
felt
something, and whatever it was, he knew it felt awesomely real.
That’s all he wanted. That’s all any poet wanted. To find something in the chaos of society that was
real.
real.
And what he said next he didn’t so much say to Carl, or even to himself. He said it to the world. He said it to fate, or to oblivion, or perhaps even to God.
He said: “I could fall in love with her in the wink of an eye.”
TWO
Shorn Heart
(i)
Locke fell in love with Clare Black in the wink of an eye.
It was almost too easy, it was almost
too
real—the spontaneity through which their relationship commenced, and through which they’d not only become lovers and best friends but also each other’s confessors. Locke was a poet, and poets were almost always obscured from the conventions of life. Though he’d accepted his reclusion for a decade, he was never happy with it. It was Clare that had brought him back; her outgoingness, her sociability, and her vast circle of friends had welcomed Locke back into a world that he thought had abandoned him forever. No more of the brooding, recluse poet. No more sitting alone in Concannon’s, speculating his creative visions on bar napkins and wondering why he felt so different. He wasn’t different, he was just misguided. The vibrancy of Clare’s love had built him back up again. With her, he’d never felt more real in his life.
too
real—the spontaneity through which their relationship commenced, and through which they’d not only become lovers and best friends but also each other’s confessors. Locke was a poet, and poets were almost always obscured from the conventions of life. Though he’d accepted his reclusion for a decade, he was never happy with it. It was Clare that had brought him back; her outgoingness, her sociability, and her vast circle of friends had welcomed Locke back into a world that he thought had abandoned him forever. No more of the brooding, recluse poet. No more sitting alone in Concannon’s, speculating his creative visions on bar napkins and wondering why he felt so different. He wasn’t different, he was just misguided. The vibrancy of Clare’s love had built him back up again. With her, he’d never felt more real in his life.
And he thought the same went for her. She was in the legal profession, which was hectic, highly pressured, and relentless. All of her closest friends were in the same business too, and this left her without advice and conjectures that were unbiased. Now, though, whenever she had a bad day, she could relate to Locke in a scope of feeling that she didn’t have elsewhere. He was the only aspect of her life that did not have a deep root in the same occupational realm. Locke became the diversity that she needed, and had never had until now.
They had lots in common, but not
too much.
Locke knew too many couples who had too much in common; staleness set in eventually, and the relationship went to hell every time. But he and Clare were different enough yet the same enough that, regardless of where they went or what they did, the harmony between the two of them never faltered.
Love can’t be this easy,
he’d wonder to himself a million times. But apparently it was.
Verity,
he thought. That must be the difference. Most relationships existed through compromises, but Locke and Clare’s differences only augmented each other. Their love evolved as a machine whose most intricate parts never failed.
too much.
Locke knew too many couples who had too much in common; staleness set in eventually, and the relationship went to hell every time. But he and Clare were different enough yet the same enough that, regardless of where they went or what they did, the harmony between the two of them never faltered.
Love can’t be this easy,
he’d wonder to himself a million times. But apparently it was.
Verity,
he thought. That must be the difference. Most relationships existed through compromises, but Locke and Clare’s differences only augmented each other. Their love evolved as a machine whose most intricate parts never failed.
It was impossible to describe. Clare’s love for him erased his sins, his errors, his inadequacies. He felt reborn in it: she was the ray of light that his darkened life had been yearning for, for longer than he cared to remember. The more involved he became with her, the more complete he felt, the more perceptive, the more real. He seemed to fit into every aspect of her life without a hitch—soon they became a fixture of the city’s social heart. With every week that passed, their love only became more sure of itself, more convinced of the very same truth that had joined them in the first place. In the spring they’d driven down to Portland to visit her family. It was more of the same: full acceptance. Her parents had thrown a big party; Locke met all of Clare’s relatives, who, like all of her friends, proved to be among the most congenial people he’d ever met. Her parents, who were even more congenial, thought Locke was great. At the party, Clare’s mother had taken him aside and said: “You’ve really done a lot for her, and we love you for that.” Locke wasn’t sure what she meant, but then she went on: “You’re the only boy she’s ever dated who’s been good for her.” Locke couldn’t hope for a better mark of approval. And then, later, Clare’s father had taken him aside. “You’re a great guy, Locke,” he’d informed him. “And that’s what Clare needs—a great guy. I really hope things work out for the two of you.” Locke was flabbergasted. He was
brimming
in elation.
brimming
in elation.
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