Ryland

 

When I was a child, my mother used to take me down to the pier every weekend and spend an entire day devoting herself to doing whatever I fancied. Sometimes it was sailing, often times the aquarium, there were even the occasional bouts of watching sea lions frolic about.

Whatever the occasion, we had a tradition, she and I. She’d always take me to Dreyer’s after and let me stuff my face with ice cream till’ I wanted to puke. I must have sampled every flavor and topping combination my tiny brain could conjure up about a dozen times over. But not Katherine.

She preferred vanilla. Plain old, nothing added, boring as hell vanilla. I couldn’t comprehend such a thing in my child-like noggin. There were so many other flavors. So many different possibilities. When I told her so, she’d laughed and stroked my cheek in a way that mothers do.

“Someday, sweet Jacob,” she said. “Someday, you’ll get it.”

Sitting in my office- twenty years later- I finally got it. I leaned forward to brush the pads of my fingers over the framed photo of Brighton’s pretty face. This dirty little habit of mine was starting to rival Norma’s.

It all made perfect sense to me now, what my mother said. Vanilla was pure and unsullied. Cleansing to the palate, you had to savor it to appreciate it. I could sip at Brighton’s vanilla sweetness for a thousand years and never be fully satisfied. I’d always replenish her, though. I swore it. I’d break her a thousand times if only so I could put her back together again.

Piles of work were strewn about my desk, forgotten and ignored. Everything was out of order and inviting chaos into my life. Care factor? Nil. The drive for what I did disappeared off a ridge along the Pacific Coast Highway on a night not too long ago.

Today was July 29th. My birthday. Did it surprise you that I was a lion? It shouldn’t.

Birthdays had ceased to exist for me six years ago. I doubted Brighton had any special mark of this day on her calendar. But if she had, I wondered what she’d have gifted me. She was thoughtful and attentive. It wouldn’t be anything expected in circles such as mine. Seven fold ties or cufflinks made from the tusks of endangered species. No fine Cuban cigars or two-hundred-year-old bottles of scotch would spew forth from her hands.

Brighton would give something from the heart. Something that mattered.

I had an inkling of a few things that would’ve pleased me. Her waltzing into my office in white lingerie, getting down on her knees and sacrificing herself at my alter. Oh wait, she’d already done that. Still, there was nothing like a good old fashioned reenactment.

Would I have taken it all back if I could? That first day in the hotel room when I’d unknowingly altered my course so drastically. Probably not. I wasn’t a saint, never would be. Those memories with Brighton were a lot like a penicillin shot. Painful, but necessary at times. They still made something in the vicinity of my chest stir every now and again.

From what you know of me, I’d gather you’d assume I was more than a little twisted. And you’d be right.

I wasn’t always this way. Once upon a time, I was a normal twenty-four-year-old who brought women flowers and took them to dinner. I never even considered being anything other than respectful towards them.

That was how my mother raised me after all. To woo and charm and play by the rules. 

Then life happened. And brick by brick, my sensibly constructed mortar kingdom disintegrated before my eyes. My reality check was that life didn’t play fair. Life took. And people took. And every day that I woke up empty fucking took… something. I was forged in the fire of blood and misery. The sadist inside of me created someone in his image. Or perhaps he only brought to life the monster always lurking there. I’d never really know for certain.

But Brighton loved the monster. She’d admitted as much. So what good would it do to pretend I was anything else? Why show up with wine and chocolate when you know your girl wants leather and filthy words?

And yet there I sat. Thirty years old in my sad office with my sad paperwork. Alone.

I wanted her to text me. To say something. I’d been waiting all day. It was a foolish notion. She didn’t even know it was my birthday. I knew when hers was. I’d buy her the world, but somehow I doubted it’d make a lick of difference.

For the last six years, I’d been alone on this day. It was never an issue. Indeed, I preferred it that way. But tonight, I didn’t want to be alone. I wanted to be with her.

And I was sick of waiting.