The chatter of the restaurant guests is all that I can imbibe, as Lucien's metaphysical backwash is now silent in the bathroom, and I'm not really sure when he'll be back to fill the empty gaps again, so for the time being, I'm learning a lot by eavesdropping on the other guests. For example, one family is preparing to sell their house to buy another one, even though they don't need it with their healthy neighborhood and fulfilled needs. Another family is discussing the poor grades of their youngest child as said youngest child complains that they're being unfair and misinformed and that if they confiscate his baseball bat then he'll hit them with it before they can. And then there's a couple much like Lucien and me, eyes bright yet shadowed in the eaves, smiles hugging their lips to try and cover the manufacturing of melancholy gearing in their muted souls, because a dinner date is supposed to be an escape from the underworld in which they've been residing, but depression is perpetual, unwilling to be hushed by people who just want to experience neutrality again at the least.
I sip my champagne quietly as I continue to listen to the conversations around me, reserved in a web of solitude now that Lucien is partying in the bathroom and has been in there for not much longer than a minute, and it feels odd to be without company now that Lucien has always been by my side for a week or so, and that odd feeling shoves me into a cramped box and orders me to curl smaller than the box actually is, with the anxiety poking nails into the steel with a robust force spun by years of practice in the dictatorship of my mind, and I'm not sure if I will be free before Lucien returns.
The lighting stacked against the restaurant's walls is as dim as a premonition floating through my head in the current moment, a premonition that I wish to neglect but a premonition that I cannot neglect, no matter how arduously I labor to, and Lucien isn't here to save me from it, because Lucien is affiliated with that premonition, and now there's only one thing to aid me in distracting myself from it, and the thing is now entering in through the front door as if a guest, though they've been tasked with the job of entertaining the guests.
The restaurant apparently has hired a smooth jazz band for the evening, and about two minutes after Lucien leaves for the bathroom, that's when they appear seemingly out of nowhere, their instruments toted faithfully in the musicians' arms as they carry them towards the stage, where they then assemble their setup for a convivial show.
They're joyful men, always smiling whenever they do anything, which would certainly be an amazing prospect to reach, but it's just not logical from the standpoint of a metaphysical writer, as I thrive off of my darkness while simultaneously endeavoring to fortify myself against it enough so that it won't consume me, a tricky game for both a writer and the writer's visual proteges. Even so, happiness is the final paradise for someone like me, and most people would relinquish their writing ability to obtain it, but the musicians already have, for they're wallowing in the opportunity to enact what they love and be jovial while doing it, in addition to being able to woo others with their music, when all I do for people is propel them towards an urge to hire a psychiatrist for me.
The musicians, once they have arranged all that they need for a spectacular show, wield their instruments and puff out smoke rings of sound, a river for the ears, a tonic for the restless soul, and I find myself entranced in its steady flow of only minor fluctuations, forgetting all about Lucien and about our dinner and about life in general.
But good things can't last forever, and they usually don't even last for longer than a minute when they're the best things, so when the song closes, I am reminded that Lucien has been in the bathroom for far too long to being performing the bodily functions, far too long to be performing anything, and his goal of celebrating my blog's success in his perspective has been annihilated, as he's deserted me in the open space of the restaurant to sit there all alone like my date has either abandoned me prematurely after finding me a bore or has never bothered to show up at all, and the former may be correct based on the common location to claim they're going to, the bathroom.
However, Lucien doesn't seem the type to drop someone without so much as a warning, as that's extremely unkind of him, and though he gives no shits about what other people think, he doesn't go out of his way to actively harm them, so there must be something amiss, and he's in the bathroom to clear his head.
He had been nervous when he departed, so that piece of the investigation informs me that Lucien isn't in there for any bodily activities, rather to find a place to hide from whatever it was that he saw out here that wouldn't be in the bathroom where he is, but I have no fucking clue why he's so anxious about that sight. Yeah, he was nervous about being at dinner with me, but that passed once we began to talk, so I really don't know if it was something I did or if it was something that he saw that unnerved him to the point where he brashly stood up from his seat, slid out of the booth, walked past the thing of whom he's so afraid, and burst into the bathroom, where he most likely is now, and I'm not certain when he'll emerge from his cocoon of safety and bits of fear dashed into the mix.
Many people have thrown pitying stares my way, which I have quietly deflected by swiveling my head away from them so that I don't have to address their sickening sympathy that doesn't mean shit to me when my friend is in trouble, but that trouble is so flimsy that I'm not sure it's present, so I'm debating whether or not I should journey into the bathroom to drag Lucien out of hell, and I don't need the falsified stares of old people to shove roadblocks in my way, but eventually it reaches the point where those stares of wrinkly deterioration in corporeal form are quite displeasing, and they offer me an incentive to search the bathroom for my friend crumbling within the plastic blue of the stalls.
Cautiously I levitate from my position at the booth, speaking to the wall if I ever were to speak because Lucien obviously isn't here to absorb my words that are fruitless anyway, and without moving anywhere else, I already snare the attention of those same old people who were staring at me earlier, but I don't allow that to hinder my motivation. Lucien is worth more than the folks who ruined our economy, and with that in mind, I troop towards the bathroom where my companion will be, and I simultaneously ignore the focus drilling into me from all sides, which I usually wouldn't be able to ignore, but now that Lucien has granted me more confidence in myself and my skills, I feel as though I can do anything in this moment.
The hostess prepares to object to my visit across the restaurant with the misconception that I'm leaving the place without paying for the paltry meal of a sip from my champagne glass, but when she observes that I'm crossing over to the other half of the buildings, to where the bathrooms are, she halts herself and only watches me stride over there with less and less apprehension weighing me down, when it should really be the opposite, because I am clueless as to what Lucien is doing in the bathroom, yet I'm proud of myself for going to investigate the matter, as that's something I would never even consider doing on a regular day.
Gulping down a profound ball of air, I push through the door to the bathroom to find that there is only one person in here, my conjecture based on the stifled sobs that still burst through the veneer that my companion has constructed out of a phobia of people judging him for being the weak fool he judges others for being, but I'm perhaps the least biased out of all of them, and that's why he's chosen me as his unspoken protege.
Instantaneously after I enter the bathroom, I want to flee it, as this is too much for me to handle, this unbloomed freak show of a self struggling in its bonds, but it's my duty to help Lucien, because he won't confront me out of his own volition, and though it's difficult for me to do so, I must aid my companion when he won't ever aid himself.
"Go away, Allen," Lucien yelps, already knowing that as his friend, I am requiring myself to come to his side when he is jittering inconsolably in a fucking bathroom stall.
It's my chance to be as stubborn as Lucien is, and I don't really give a shit if he despises it, because that's what I had to endure when he was in this position, too, so I negate, "No, I'm not leaving you."
Lucien bangs against the plastic door of the stall, rattling the entire framework coating the bathroom in cohesion, frustrated with my obstinacy. "God damn it, Allen! Just go." His voice is as hard as the material dividing us, and because of that, I cannot see his face, but I know that it must be as exasperated as I am when he's just like this to me.
"I'm never deserting you, Lucien." And I'm staying forever. I will. Lucien Carr is too precious to lose in any way.
"You're almost as stubborn as me," he laughs, but it's a worrying laugh of mixed emotions, none of which are pleasant ones. "Why are you in here anyway?"
"You mean it's completely normal for you to randomly abandon me at the table as you flee fearfully?"
"I'm fine." From the foot-long gap underneath the stall door, I can see Lucien scuff his shoe against the ground, nervous. I have no idea if he's a good liar -- because if he is, then I wouldn't be able to tell, because I have no evidence to compare -- or if he's a bad liar, but that barely matters, because "I'm fine" is the lie that no one, not even the best of liars, can pass off as genuine.
"You seem pretty upset to me, on the contrary."
Immediately after I finish my sentence, Lucien fires back, "Damn it, I didn't ask you to get involved. Why do you feel the need to invade matters that don't concern you?" Now he's completely exasperated with me, when all I want to do is assist him. Why won't he let me?
"Because I love you, Lucien Carr."
Shit. Why would I say that? He probably only thinks of me as a friend at most, and we've only known each other for a week. It doesn't matter if I've been head over heels in love with him since the very moment I saw him. Even if I were comfortable saying this to Lucien, I would wait for a while, not just release a secret while Lucien's already emotionally compromised. Fuck. Why must I ruin him more?
Lucien is silent for a few moments, then inhaling and exhaling deeply to compose himself in order to create something of a thin cushion for the blow he's about to deliver. "Allen, what you know about love is Hollywood propaganda and this honeymoon phase of friendship we have here. You don't know what you're talking about. I'll forgive you because you're innocent of mind, but I must tell you that you can't possibly love me."
"And why the hell not?" I clasp my hands on my hips to signify that I stand with my position. Who doesn't love someone as magnificent as Lucien Carr?
"I've been trying to help you grow as much as I possibly can, but there are some things that I just can't teach you."
"That's a fucking shitty excuse, and you know it, Lucien. You're a writer. You, of all people, should be able to use your words to convey what you need to convey."
Lucien doesn't respond, rather unlatches the door to the stall and almost smacks me with it because of how close I was standing to it. The ocean of his eyes is slowly being consumed by red irritation from the gallons of water it lost, but he doesn't seem to notice. All he does is look me through the soul, as earnestly as possible, and apologizes. "I'm sorry to bail on one of the only nice things I've given to you, but I can't fucking do this. I'm sorry, Ginsy."
He then turns away from me, slips out the bathroom door, and renders me speechless and frozen in the middle of the room.
I eat my dinner alone tonight.
~~~~~
A/N: oooOOOh the m y s t e r y
accidentalism: events occur by chance instead of by a cause
~Dacrabby