Z: 12/23/02

Work Diary, 12/23/02

For years, and just before I moved into my current house, I would put
on my shoes and walk in the middle of the night. I'd never start out
before midnight, and more often than not, I was drunk or coming down
from a day of drinking.

I walked through my neighborhood, wherever that was at the time, though
sometimes I'd drive to someplace new, someplace I'd driven through
during the day and thought held promise. The promise seemed to rest
behind the locked doors and dark windows I passed (or, occasionally,
lit windows with vague shadows moving behind the curtains). When I
drove for my midnight walks, I didn't consider the consequences of
drinking and driving. Typically, by the time I got behind the wheel,
I'd reached what I thought was a state of pure clarity. Risky, yes, but
I stayed on my side of the road and parallel-parked with no difficulty.
Besides, I've always driven the type of car that blends with its
surroundings, or fades from memory as soon as it turns a corner. My
cars would hardly attract the attention of the police.

My partner believes I was out tom-catting, perhaps looking for a
figurative red light on some porch to entice me in for a few hours of
anonymous sex. The truth was much less sordid, even if I was approached
on my walks. This happened more when we lived in the city proper,
within walking distance of the State Capitol. Men would appear from the
shadows like some black-and-white gangster film, or beckon me from
their windows while one hand moved methodically below the windowsill.
But I wasn't interested, even if tempted.

Was I afraid? No. I had the oblivious courage fueled by alcohol. Also
I'm not a small person; coupled with a determined walk and a
straightforward stare, I probably seemed more imposing than frail. At
any rate, fear was not part of the equation. I could no more have
denied myself those walks than I could rob a bank. I was pulled into
them, sometimes pushed, towards a destination of some sort - not a
place, certainly, but something that called me siren-like with every
step. It was more human than a siren's song, but just as
compelling.

In fact, sex was sometimes an interesting sideline to my walks, but it
was other people's sex. Through sheer curtains and half-closed blinds,
I'd see couples sliding around, heads thrown back or arms at weird
angles. The choreography of sex is unmistakable: a flutter here, a jerk
there. The beast-with-two-backs occupies too much space to go
unnoticed.

A Peeping Tom I'm not, however. Seeing other people in the act was
coincidental and, admittedly, titillating. But playing the voyeur is
much like kissing someone with your eyes open - you never know if the
person you're kissing will have his eyes open, as well. I didn't want
to be caught out, instead preferring the insular bubble that allowed me
to move through the night unseen, a vampire who wasn't out for
blood.

What, then, was calling me? More importantly, what was I looking for?
How long would I walk before whatever it was manifested itself, or gave
me a sign? My time was running out, it seems, though I felt it more
than I knew it.

Here's how it went: After a particularly long walk in a city thirty
miles from my own, I drove home, frustrated and sick of what had become
an endless trek. Around 7:00 a.m., I drank some whiskey. Then I drank
some more, then more. There was a phone call, a woman in an office,
then a nurse. Someone gave me a pill, and I stopped shaking. My
partner's face came into view, faintly at first, then more clearly. I
slept, and woke up. I found myself in a hospital room with no mirrors
and a doctor who wanted to know how long I'd been trying to kill myself
(surely, I thought, a rhetorical question. I was wrong.). "You almost
made it this time," he said, staring down at his clipboard. "A few more
hours and you wouldn't be here."

Ah. One might think I closed my eyes, or let out a sigh as my lower lip
trembled and the tears came. But I did none of those things. I was too
happy. The cat was out of the bag, so to speak, covered in crisp white
sheets and in desperate need of brushing his teeth.

On my last walk, almost three years ago, I was barefoot. The night was
warm, and I hadn't been drinking. The walk was a conscious effort; I
should have been naked, really, for what I knew was the last time - a
baptismal jaunt, I called it. From my soles to my knees, I was hurting,
having stomped across the pavement and concrete and rock gardens until
I ended up against a pine tree. It wasn't that late - people were still
awake, watching television or fiddling with their yard sprinklers. From
where I stood, I could see into a house where two men were making
dinner. I had to look up, as I had so often, but this time I didn't
move on. The men were obviously lovers, moving closely against one
another while smiling and feeding each other pieces of food they held
in their fingers. The light coming out of the house was warm, diffused
by the steam on the kitchen windows. I liked the picture the men
presented: secure, happy, a bit disheveled after a day of working in
the yard or washing their cars. And they could have seen me, easily,
standing against the tree and watching them. I didn't mind.

Well, I minded a little. I still do, sometimes. But being noticed is
much nicer when you've allowed yourself to be noticed. I watched the
two men for a while, before I walked home to my own house, my own man.
The pain in my feet and legs was still there, but contained, and
bearable - a mute siren that was more distant cousin than blood
relative.

That's what I'd been looking for all along, that pain - physical,
mental, both. How many miles did I walk, numbed by a cocoon of steps?
I'd like to know how many miles, if only because it would give me
something concrete, something to compare to the number of times I have
wished I was that shadow again, that man walking down the street like
he had someplace to be.