“I can’t stay here with you anymore. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t believe you! It was nothing. And it’s over. You’ve got to
forgive me. I’m never going to see him again. Don’t overreact and run
away now, not when we’re having such a wonderful time.”
She could see that her words were of no use. I had turned to
stone, withdrawn so deeply inside my own irrational jealousy and
anger that it was as if she was trying to carry on a meaningful
conversation with a pet rock—an idiotically self-righteous and
immature pet rock.
What had come over me? Why was I running from the one true
love of my life, the love that might redeem me? Because I realized at
that moment that love could never redeem me. Hanging out with
Charly was not going to cure me of myself, could not permanently
shut up that albatross of a broken radio. Indeed, at the moment she
was like a sunspot flare-up, making it squawk louder.
The very fact that I could not deal with this turn of events
proved I was not yet worthy of her. More than anything else, I had
Charly to thank for this moment. She had been my homeopathic kick
in the ass, my springboard up and ultimately down into the abyss.
“So it’s over?” she said, shocked. “Are you going back home?”
“No,” I replied. “I’m going out into the wild. I’m going to meet
my maker. I’m going to lodge some complaints.”
That night, while Charly slept a fitful sleep in our bed, I shuddered on
the balcony and witnessed the first sunrise I had ever seen over the
ocean in my life. In the half-hour before the sun peered over the
horizon, the sea glowed a magnificent deep-red. A giant ocean of
blood. I stepped over the wall of our balcony and walked into the
ocean. Floating in the water, I imagined that the shadows all around
were no longer the reaper. He had been replaced by benign, black-
robed Greek Orthodox priests; I was being baptized. The black
turned to blood and then to water around me as the sun rose higher
and I allowed myself to drift gently back to the shore.
BIG AMERICAN BREAKFAST
32
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