He was half way down the second flight of stairs when he realized he had forgotten something. Stopping suddenly, he spun180 degrees on the ball of his right foot and proceeded marching back up the stairs. Just before he landed on the last step, a cockroach scurried past, just missing his foot. When he reached the door he pulled his keys from his leather jacket, unlocked the door and headed straight for the futon. In one motion, he picked up his Walkman, headphones, and the large worn blue envelope that was half hidden by a stack of music text books. Placing the headphones on his head he again spun on his foot, faced the door, and left the apartment.

He walked out the side entrance onto 2nd Ave which he would then cross over onto Nicollette Ave by the Hyatt. The night was almost that of myth. It was Minneapolis in early October, the time when seasons change as quickly as Meryl Streep’s moods. One afternoon it is blazing hot, the next morning POOF! Frost. There were, however, a few milliseconds of the sacred season of Autumn, spaces between the mosquito ridden, sweat drenched nights and the cold that hermetically sealed everyone into their own flesh until sometime in late April. This night was one of those alcoves. The air was crisp and not at all confrontational. It blew into his open leather jacket and hair like the breath of forgiveness, leading him from the heat of the summer like healing hands.

Nicollette Ave seemed to open before him, the cobblestone streets and the streetlights beaconing him. It was this crossroad that separated the business district from “the hood” and the two worlds could not seem any more different than tonight. While cars had sped by him, or worse CREPT by him only two blocks before, here only taxis and buses were allowed. He could afford neither. It didn’t bother him as he loved walking the streets and because of that he felt like he knew the city like a friend. He loved Thursday mornings when there would be a Farmer’s Market and the local farmers would set up stands on alternating sides of the street. He remembered the first time he saw them with their wares, the colors of the fruits and vegetables so beautiful and varied. He then got in the habit of buying whatever he could for a few dollars that would get him through the week. But now it was night, and he had an appointment.

There was plenty of time. He left his apartment over two hours early. He planned to take his time, enjoy the walk, and even stop for a coffee at Moose and Sadie’s, his favorite coffee shop. But that was 20 blocks away. He stopped by the fountains by symphony hall and sat on the bench that faced the bar across the street. With the water turned off for the next two seasons, the space was so quiet, he could hear the laughter and blurred drunken conversation from the people as the doors of the bar opened and closed. He placed his backpack on his lap and stared at the bar. Couples came in and out. He wondered why he had never met anyone, why he was so awkward around people, especially women. Just then, a couple walked in front of him. The perfume of the woman, patchouli he thought it was, hung in the air long after they passed. He closed his eyes and inhaled, then got up and continued his walk.

Swinging the backpack over his shoulder, he felt a dull pain in his left wrist, then his knees. He realized that he shouldn’t have stopped in mid step back on the stairs, something he would have to remember in the future. There was nothing else to do but keep walking and hope that the cool air would keep the pain in his joints at bay.

The pain had started about a year ago, but he kept quiet about it. He had an allergic reaction to an antibiotic which almost made him go to the emergency room. That was a year and a half ago. As he was a student, he couldn’t afford to go to the emergency room. He recognized the symptoms from a girlfriend he once had. He laid in bed for three days after stopping to take the drugs wondering if he was going to live or die.

One month later, after he had gotten over the infection and all the shock of the allergic reaction, he began to feel his knees ache. He tossed it off as playing football as an overweight kid. Now in his late 20's he felt it was a simple matter of cause and effect. The pain increased over time and finally began to subtly go into his wrists. It was then that he began to take notice.

One month ago he was home to attend a friend’s wedding and began to ask his mother about their medical history. Rheumatoid arthritis had a place in both her and his father’s family. The symmetry of the pain made him realize where his fate was taking him.

Nicollette Avenue seemed surreal in its beauty that night. The city, or at least his little part of it, seemed at ease with itself. The air was cool and the breeze tossed his thick mane of auburn hair to the side with a soft caress. By the time he hit the library, however, he realized he needed to take another break as he felt his knees beginning to ache a bit more. If he walked all the way to school tonight without stopping, he would pay for it dearly the next day.

At the end of the avenue was an office building that at night was lit up to look like a Roman temple to capitalism. The excruciatingly narrow windows, green marble front, and the three dozen white pillars that encased the building were lit up in a series of white flood lights that gave the building an almost surreal quality. It was there, on the edge of one of the pools of water where he had watched models pose many times, where he sat and rested. He placed the backpack on his lap again and pulled out the blue manilla envelope. Reaching into his leather jacket, he pulled out the gold and purple case that held his hand-rolled cigarettes. Lighting one with the golden lighter he had bought a year ago as a personal dare, he took a long drag. The nicotine rush helped him forget about his pain for a moment. Then, holding the cigarette between the index and middle finger of his left hand, he opened the envelope and examined the contents. On the top of the pile was his acceptance letter to the music school. Under that were his awards from high school. His first composition for piano and sax were there as well, handwritten in Indian ink. Then there was the collection of letters and three photographs he cherished more than almost anything else. They were love letters, written years ago. He took them tonight because he felt so very lonely and needed the company. However, he didn’t read them. There was no need. In the same way the Bible had its own presence, these letters, written in longhand on various forms of paper, were his scripture, his places of hope.

He took another drag from his cigarette and looked up. Washington Avenue was beginning to fill up with lovers, many of them same sex, as the gay bars were only two blocks away. He stared at them, those couples, and was almost driven to tears. The one thing he wanted the most from the world sometimes was to be THAT loved. The men and women walked by, each union making him sink deeper and deeper into his sorrow. He was fat, 250 pounds and barely six feet. While he wasn’t ugly, he wasn’t a magnet for women. It was his shyness that allowed him to spend hours and hours alone in his room playing his piano and writing music. Choices were made and he accepted them. Music was his love to the point where he even sold his senior prom bid to put a down payment on a PA system for his band. He had had loves in his life, but he was shy. He was the funny fat guy, the clown. Love for him was an ideal, rarely attained, except for brief moments.

He dropped the cigarette just before it burnt his fingers. He had been sitting there in thought so long that he lost track of time. Looking at the watch on his backpack, he realized he had just under an hour and a half to the meeting with his sister. It was that thought that made him quickly shove everything back into the envelope, get up, and walk on Washington Avenue towards the school, to their place of meeting.

While he was a jazz student of keyboard improvisation at the music school, he also held an Economics degree from Washington University. It was his eldest sister, a woman with more issues than TV Guide, who also held the same degree and now held a six-figure job with Dow Jones. It was to his advantage that they were somewhat close; she was always looking out for him as her “kid brother.” While he was back home for the wedding, she mentioned that she had a few positions open for him if he wanted them. She warned him, however, that while the pay was good, they would require a great deal of time. He would have to give up doing music full time to do the job justice and not have her look the fool. He told her, for the first time, he would think about it and call her when he got back to Minneapolis. His wrists were really beginning to bother him and he even took the bottle of Oxycontyn his mother had got for some major root canal that summer from the fridge and placed it in his carry-on. While he didn’t take them, he knew there was a chance he might and kept them on his person just in case. Now, at the “temple,” he downed three Tylenol and went on his way.

Getting up and walking to the school, he began to mull over the future. Music was his love, his passion, but his body was rebelling against him. All those hours spent alone in his room analyzing Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring and Thelonius Monk’s music had led him to a dead end. There was nothing left. His illness, the destruction of his joints, was already in motion. He had had a great love, he had had a run at being a talented musician. It seemed that it was all coming to an end. He had agreed to meet his sister, who was already out here on a business trip, and talk about a job. They were to meet at Origami, the upscale sushi restaurant two blocks from the school, one block from the Mississippi, and cement the deal. That was tonight. Tonight, in one hour and fifteen minutes.

He stared at the school from in front of D.J. Hoyt’s bar and restaurant across the street. There was not much to it, just a brown door that opened to a small associated college in a quasi-renovated factory, complete with unused loading docks on the side. He did not have time to practice and there were no teachers there he could talk to. But this place felt more like home than anything he had ever known. Here, here he was able to give himself absolutely to his muse. He loved jamming and learning. But his body was giving out. It didn’t matter that his teachers seemed to love him and rave about him. The best days were behind him, as his aching knees and wrists attested to.

He pulled another cigarette out of its case and lit it, slowly walking across the street towards Moose and Sadie’s, the coffee shop one block straight ahead. The streets were absolutely silent and empty, sitting with a stillness that made it almost like a dream. Again, the nicotine from the unfiltered cigarette gave him a buzz. His mind began to wander. He began to walk up the incline of the loading dock towards the café. Closing his eyes, he remembered a friend, the letter, then....

The next thing he knew he hit the ground hard with his right knee. He let out a guttural moan as the pain shot through his knee and through the rest of his body. As it turned out, he had fallen off of the loading dock and onto his knees, the right taking the brunt of the impact, the left following in the hit via reflex. He was curled in a fetal position in the street, in front of a new SUV, cursing all of creation. After a few moments of excruciating pain, he got up and realized he had to rest and take some drugs if he was going to make it anywhere beyond one block from here. Somehow he hobbled to Moose and Sadie’s, taking the closest seat in the smoking section. The pain from his knees was enough to bring him to the verge of tears. He quickly reached into the bag to see if the letters, Walkman, and headphones were undamaged. Much to his surprise and joy, all of them were perfect. Turning the envelope with his fingers, he came up with a perfect solution.

Getting up, he saw if he could put weight on his knees. Barely. He gritted his teeth from the pain. Slowly, very slowly, he picked up the backpack and limped to the café. He made his way to the counter and ordered a “Depth Charge”, a regular coffee with an extra shot of espresso and asked that it be delivered to his table, tipping the worker he knew well $3. He hobbled to an open table in the smoking section and put his backpack on one of the seats and slowly lowered his large frame into the other. There was a sharp pain when he tried to straighten his injured leg. He opened his leather jacket and reached into his backpack for the blue envelope. Slowly, almost methodically, he lifted the lip, tilted the envelope, and the contents spilled into his hand. Sifting through the pages of manuscript and award certificates, he began to read the letters again.

*****

Dear Anthony,

I only have a few seconds to thank you for the letters you have sent. I promise to write you back a long letter, like the last one, in the next few days. You are beautiful, talented, and amazing. I really love you.

Love,
Steph

*****

Dear Anthony,

I just want you to know that I will never leave you like the others did. Please know that. You are beautiful, original, and the best man I have met.

Love,
Steph

*****

Luckily, he had to stop as the pain in his knees was now overwhelming. He had hoped it would somehow subside but it got worse. The only solution was obvious: drugs.

At that moment, the server placed the coffee concoction in front of Anthony and walked away. He reached into his bag and found the brown vial. By now he was in excruciating pain and could barely see straight. He read the label, “Dosage: Take as needed for pain.”

Great. This was just great. He had no idea how much to take. He figured that the dose for his mother would have been one pill. Since he was over twice her weight, when last he checked 250 pounds, he figured he should take double. Then, in a moment of absolute confidence brought on by ignorance, fear, and pain, he decided to take three tablets. Without a second thought, he downed the pills with a large swallow of the coffee. Closing his eyes for a moment, he wondered what he had done. But it was too late. Besides, he felt that it would take at least a half an hour for the drugs to kick in. Even then, how much could they do? He looked back at the bottle and closed it. Looking at the label again, he noticed a sticker saying, “Do not drive” on it. “Big deal,” he thought. “I haven’t driven a car since I got out here.” He put a cigarette between his lips, placed another on the table, lit the one in his mouth and placed everything but the letters and the cigarette back in his bag. Placing it on the floor, he gently moved his knees and almost cried from pain.

It would be over soon, he thought, taking long drags from the cigarette. He would change his life, get a new job, and place his dream behind him. In his youth, he never thought he’d say that. Now, here in the smoking section of this café, he said the words, believed them. What choice did he have? His body was going, betraying him. An artist, a musician, cannot ever hold the thought that their best days are behind them. No. Each day is a new set of challenges, a new point that must only lead upward. At his last music jury with the faculty, he barely held it together, his fingers not playing the notes he wanted. The pain was there, even after four Tylenol. While some days were better than others, there was no denying the downward spiral ahead. He had thought of suicide several times. That was nothing new, either. As an adolescent he had contemplated it several times, but never had the will to make the final cut. But out here in Minneapolis, his depression seemed to lift and he could see clearly all that was ahead of him. His teacher, Mr. James DaCosta showed him that he had talent, that he was good. What more could a man ask for than to be known as gifted. And that...

That seemed enough for him now, just to know, to truly know he was good and capable of great work. It surprised even him when he thought about it on his long walks home from school. It all seemed enough. A unique feeling, even for a twenty-seven year old former full-time construction worker. He felt at peace with his music. All his life he doubted, but now... now he didn’t. The path was there before him. Except for...

Except for love. He glanced at his watch. Only seven minutes had passed since he took the pills. He began to feel warm and took off the leather jacket from his bulky frame. Love. He had felt love a few times in his life, but being overweight for most of his conscious life left him shy and somewhat reclusive, hence his music. But he did love. He WAS a romantic, an idealist. Reaching out was hard for him because so many people stared at him and laughed. He wasn’t ugly, or so part of him thought, just overweight. During puberty, he remembered going to the mall and having girls call him “Fat!” to his face. A whole chorus of pretty girls, laughing at him. Even though he tried to joke about it, saying that Hitler must have gotten his ideas for world domination from adolescent females, it had left a mark. While he had never felt easy around females before then, that incident shifted his soul several degrees off of axis and he was not the same. Not ever. He went home, drank from a bottle of whiskey he bought from someone at school and cried alone in his room for hours, hating everything about himself and wanting to die. There was still a small scar on his right wrist where he tried to open an artery, lengthwise like he knew he should. But he was far too drunk to go that deep, though he did wear long sleeves in the early summer for five weeks to hide the wound from others.

When he awoke that morning, he realized he had spent some of the time writing a letter to a girl he was in love with. She was beautiful and laughed at his jokes. She was small with shoulder length dirty blond hair and smoked Marlboro lights. He had even been allowed to kiss her a few times and she, being more experienced than he was, French kissed him back. It was love. One night, while watching the sunset from the roof of her stepfather’s house, she took her left hand and touched his face, caressing his round cheeks saying, “You are so beautiful.” while looking straight into his eyes. The cigarette she held in her hand made a beautiful curtain of white curls appear between his eyes and the setting sun. At that moment, he loved her. His virgin heart opened and became truly hers.

It was then that the correspondence started. She was one year older than he and away at school in England. He wrote her religiously once a week. Those words were his saving grace. Alone in his room with his bourbon and his keyboard, he spent his senior year of high school playing music and thinking of her.

And she responded, though not with his obsessive regularity. Letters came and he cherished every single one. She was funny, elegant, and...and she still said he was beautiful to her. Those words, like scripture, soothed him. He was NOT obsessed, he was NOT bi-polar depressive, he was just...he was just lonely. No therapy was going to delete his history, no drugs make him believe that he was a GQ model or even that his memories were not there. No, he wasn’t crazy. He was just a lonely young man who wanted to feel beautiful. He remembered one day he had been through a rough week and began drinking vodka on the way home from school. He wore Ray Bans and was listening to Thelonious Monk on his Walkman at full volume. As he passed his neighbor’s house within a rather wonderful buzz, he grabbed a leaf off of the maple tree. It was the most beautiful burgundy. He then remembered how his neighbor Jack once explained to him how the leaves were always that color but the chlorophyl had to be stripped away for their true colors to be seen. Later that same evening, he placed the leaf into an envelope with his weekly letter. Her reply two weeks later was as he had hoped; written in her beautiful script, full of curves and seraphs, she thanked him for giving her the leaf as it was a reminder of her childhood in Maine. She said only he could be so kind and see the beauty in such a thing.

And then a few months later, she just stopped writing. There was no reason for it, at least none that he could find. The first month he thought that it was because of exams. Then he thought that she had moved, but none of his letters were ever sent back. Not one. This was before the internet and finding someone was very difficult. They had no mutual friends, her step-dad moved, there was nothing. Yes, it seemed odd to him but there was nothing he could do. Time had just stopped at her last letter. It was as if she was frozen in amber.

Somehow he got on with his life. He graduated high school and got a degree in communications. The classes were all a formality as he simply played keyboards with whatever jazz band would have him, wrote music, and silently wondered what happened to her. While girls didn’t openly mock him as they used to, he never felt comfortable around them. In time, he learned how to emotionally dance around things and, thanks to alcohol, even dated a few women. While some of the relationships even got passed the six month mark, he never felt that connection. Deep down he knew they would leave because they knew they could do better. Relationships between the ages of 13 to 30, he firmly believed, were nothing more than fast food via the drive through of the dating process. He wanted real food and decided to keep as busy as hell while he waited for his table to be ready. He worked construction. He did whatever gigs he could get. He saved up for school. His dream of being an exceptional jazz pianist was something that he would not allow to run away.

All the while he read and re-read her letters. There were only 15 letters, but they were his personal salvation from himself. For the past two years they didn’t leave the second drawer of his desk. Then, when he was packing for Minneapolis, he placed them in his suitcase. After he arrived, he read and re-read the letters more than a hundred times. It was the last letter that kept haunting him, the one with no return address. He knew it by heart.

*****

My Dear Anthony,

I am sorry that this letter will be so short, but I am just about to take my final exams here and they are a thousand times worse than anything in the states. I have received your last three letters in the mail. They were amazing. How did you learn to write so well? The one in the form of a script for a sit-com was amazing! I hope you don’t mind but I read it for a bunch of my friends and they now consider you a genius.

I have been dating a new guy for a while. His name is Philip. I am not sure how serious it is, but he is fun, though pretty jealous when it comes to me even talking about other guys. Don’t worry, I haven’t told him about you, my Precious. He comes from a wealthy family and during the past two weeks we have been doing spur of the moment escapades that I never even dreamed of before. All I can say is that I would have no problem getting used to that sort of lifestyle!

I am also very tired as I write this. My friend Rebecca and I were up two nights ago past dawn talking about letting go of things.. Her lover, Pat, broke up with her and said that there was nothing left to be said between them. Becky and I sat up all night wondering why the hell anyone would want to do that?! Maybe it is for the better? Maybe the silence grows into some sort of peace about things? She and I never did figure it out, though I still think about it. I have been thinking though, that what Pat said was right, that things should be left in silence.. Maybe. Then again, I have gotten NO sleep as of this writing so who the hell knows what I am saying???!?!?!

I must go Sweetie because I cannot fail those tests!!! I miss you and those gorgeous hazel eyes of yours. I remember looking into them and telling you how beautiful you were. Those were great times, ones I will always treasure. You are still beautiful and your letters are my tether to all things honest and whole about this world and about myself. I love you within all of my madness.

Take good care.

Love you always,
Steph

*****

He opened his eyes. Something was very, very wrong. He closed his eyes and took a long drag from his cigarette. When he opened his eyes again, he realized that no part of his body hurt, but also the realization that he could not feel his body. His knees didn’t hurt at all. He knew that they SHOULD hurt but the pain seemed to be somewhere else. He felt calm, as if his heart rate was slowing down just a bit. Riding these feelings of quasi-euphoria, he realized that it was the drugs hitting his system. This was all so much more than he had anticipated from three pills! Beautiful colors arose and descended within him and he loved it. Everything was beautiful for the first time in so very long.

When his cigarette burned to the point of touching his index finger, he realized that there was a blue envelope in front of him being held by two long cylinders. It took him a minute before he realized that they were his arms and another minute to realize they were attached to him. His brain had turned off, and his exterior world, body included, was in a place called “there.” While he had been drunk many times in his life, this was different. He realized that he could, if he wanted to, get up from the table and leave. But he would have to really, really, really want to. Taking one hand off the blue envelope, he looked up at the clock above the right hand entrance. He had one hour before his meeting with his... sister? Again he closed his eyes and drank from the silence.

Over the stereo speakers in the café, he swore he heard a song by the Indigo Girls that he knew. A female voice sang about a letter found in a desk and something about the Mississippi River. Then, in a flashing blue light, he knew beyond all doubt what he had to do and he could waste no time in doing it. He shut his eyes, drank the last part of his depth charge, and focused all his being on every memory of Stephanie, every word she ever wrote, every kiss she ever gave, every cigarette he lit for her with his gold lighter, everything. Even the pain. It all came up from within him like a tidal wave and pushed him up from his seat. He opened his eyes and the reality shocked him a bit, though it was still cushioned with the drugs. He grabbed the cigarette on the table and lit it. Taking a full drag, he was surprised that he felt no pain whatsoever. He clenched the cigarette between his teeth and put his jacket on, hoping he was not making a scene, though his now bifurcated brain didn’t seem to care much about embarrassment. He needed to leave and find the river.

Grabbing his backpack and making sure there was nothing left on the table, he turned and carefully walked out of the café. All the sounds were distant, which made each move seem more deliberate and mechanical than it actually was. But he was a man with a mission and nothing could stop him.

Before he knew it, he was standing on the path to the river, the Mississippi River that led to the place where he would sit and watch the water for hours when he first arrived here. After looking to make sure nobody saw him, he headed down the barely trodden path. He was amazed how lucid he was, even though his body felt like it belonged to somebody else. Working his way along the water’s edge, he found his spot. It was a beautiful autumn night, and the lights from the Hennepin Bridge made the water sparkle. Ironically, he was still aware he had little time and could not get too romantic about all of this. Then again, it was easy. He couldn’t feel a limb on his body. In the reeds he found a small broken boat, a child’s toy someone had left there long ago with a huge hole in it. He dragged it out onto the water’s edge and placed his backpack next to it.

Looking to his right, sitting by the weeds, were two cinder blocks. Near it he found a filthy piece of rope about four feet long. He tied it around one and with his free hand, put both blocks into the boat, one block covering the hole and the other alongside, its holes facing upward. He pushed it just barely into the river, as long as the rope would allow. The boat almost sank under its weight, the water reaching one inch below the edge of the tiny bow. He pulled the boat back and saw that it did not leak when he positioned the blocks that way. Moving the grey brick one inch to the left, he exposed part of the hole in the tiny boat's bottom.

He took out the blue folder and proceeded to take out its contents, one piece at a time. He started with the music: his first piano piece written as a freshman in high school; his first jazz piece, written when he was a junior in high school; his string quartet signed by his composition teacher; his acceptance letter and scholarship notification from the music school; and finally, the review of his first jury. He could make out the words “exceptional, amazing new talent,” “bright future ahead.” All of these he placed within the holes of the one cinderblock that faced upward. He then started in on the letters. One by one, he removed each letter from its envelope, scanning its contents one last time and placed them within the papers already in the holes. He finally came to the last letter, which he did not open, then placed it in the blue folder and held it in his hand.

Digging into his pockets with his soiled hand, he found his gold lighter and lit the blue folder on fire. When the flames began to take, he lit each set of papers within the cinderblock. When he saw the fire beginning to consume them, he tossed the rope into the boat, and with one primal scream, kicked it off into the slow steady current of the Mississippi. From the shores he watched the small vessel float down the river. A sudden nausea filled him. Taking his eyes off the scene, he bent down and washed his hands in the water. He stared into its blackness in his hands, and splashed his face with it. Even though the it was cold, he was not moved from his altered state. He had no more pain in his knees, though somehow, within his mind, he knew it would return and he might even have to go to the hospital. But now, in this moment which was all he could imagine, he had no weight, no history. An invisible thread had been broken within him and he was facing the horizon of his life from a different direction.

He looked back out at the river and saw the boat stopping and the fires going out. It was sinking and would not make it to land as he had hoped. Wiping his wet hands on his pant legs, he grabbed his backpack, threw it over his left shoulder and began to make his way back to the main road. He did not look back to see if the boat had sank because he knew he had little time and did not want to be late.

Copyright 2005 Brimstone and Blue Productions

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