Caleb J. Browne

Gabe turns the bedroom light off with the pretence of going to sleep, though he knows it won’t come soon. As he lies in bed, the cocaine drip from his sinuses ceases, settles, and pools at the back of his throat. He doesn’t do it often enough to enjoy the bitter taste it leaves. He doesn’t even enjoy it all that much, to begin with, but get two or three drinks into him, and he’ll empty his wallet and fill his nose. He stares at the stucco ceiling. Through the darkness and the intoxication, the patterns of the stucco blend and dance indeterminately. They form crosses and dots like a broken rosary. His hand habitually finds Laura’s contact on his phone and dials it. As soon as he hits the button, he hopes she won’t answer almost as much as he hopes she does answer. On the first ring, he holds his breath. On the second ring, he moves the phone from his face and lays it on his bare chest. On the third ring, he impotently reaches for the end call button.

On the first ring, Laura pushes her boyfriend’s arm off her chest. On the second ring, she lets out a curse when she sees “Gabe” on the caller ID. She curses because he called her, but she also curses because she knows that she will answer. On the third ring, she tells her boyfriend to go back to sleep and leaves their bedroom.

“Hello?” she answers in a tone indicative of the time of night.

“I’m sorry. I’m fucked up. I shouldn’t have called.”

“Okay, bye then.” She calls his bluff.

“Wait–”

“What?”

“I just–”

“Listen, I told you I needed space. So if you don’t have a reason to be calling, I am going to go.”

“Why didn’t you answer my text?”

“As I’ve said. Space.”

“It’s just contradictory for you to keep saying you need space and then for you to go and–”

“Contradictory?” Laura’s voice raises. She walks further down the hall away from her boyfriend and heads into the bathroom. “You want to talk about contradictions? You told me you want nothing to do with me and here you are.”

“I was just thinking about–”

“Stop doing that.”

“What?”

“Thinking.”

“There’s a story in the bible,” he pauses, expecting a snarky comment, but she lets the silence linger, “are you still there?”

“Unfortunately.” She stares into the bathroom mirror and counts the pores on her nose. She wonders why she humours him, why she answers him, and most of all, why she misses these calls.

“Okay. Well there’s this story where Noah—or maybe it was Moses? Not important. One of them. They’re up on a mountain top—I think it was Noah because I think he was looking down at his half-built ark—and they’re there thinking of all this work they’ve done, all this suffering they’ve been through at the behest of God, and they just sort of give up. They throw down their staff and more or less tell God to fuck himself. And you know what God does?”

“Not a clue.”

“That’s the problem.”

“What is?”

“I don’t remember. I’ve been through all this Sunday school growing up. I’ve probably heard this tale told in sixty sermons, but I have no recollection of how it ends. Well, I know Noah built the ark, but I have no idea what gets him back down the mountain.”

“And you are telling me this because?”

“Okay, so, the way I see it there are two options. Either I am God and you’re Noah, and I’ve had you build an ark and now you’re giving up on me. In which case, I don’t know what I am supposed to say or do to get you to pick the staff back up. Or, I’m Noah and you’re God, and I’ve built this thing between us on your command and now I am giving up on it, which means that you need to get me to pick my staff back up somehow.”

“Maybe God does nothing.”

“Huh?”

“Maybe God lets Noah sulk as long as he needs to. Maybe God knows that Noah will get over it with time and will resume his work. But here’s where the similarities between our stories end. Whether Noah is you or I, Noah is going to pick up his staff and go another way down the mountain. He won’t be returning to the ark. We won’t be returning to whatever it was that happened between us. That’s over.” 

“It’s hardly begun.” 

“It’s over.”

“Well, I guess we’ll drown in the flood.” Gabe chokes the words out through the cocaine-laden phlegm that has pooled in his throat. Laura thinks that he is holding back tears.

“You, I, and all the other animals two-by-two.”

“I’m sick of all these half-built arks I’ve been leaving around. I go from thing to thing thinking I’m bundling up for an apocalyptic flood and then the rain comes and it might be bad and stormy for a while but it’s never quite enough to drown me. So, I go on to the next thing thinking I’ll build something ocean-ready and repeat the process. But, I think one of these days the flood that comes will be too much to doggy paddle out of and I’ll wish I had finished an ark somewhere down the line. I really liked this one we were building. I had fun.”

“I did too.”

“I really did love you, you know?”

“Do you remember The Keyhole?”

“The Keyhole?”

“The bar that Kenny and I used to spend time at. It’s no longer a bar. It was hardly ever a bar, more like a toilet that served drinks. The south-facing wall was lined with slot machines; each had its resident gambler who sat from open until close or until they bled themselves dry. The bathrooms were so ill-maintained that most people would use the back alley instead. But there was a piano in the corner. I imagine it only stayed there because it’d be more of a hassle to get rid of it. It was never played or tuned and, more than often, was home to a small library of empty bottles and glasses. Anyways, one night when we were there, Kenny started moving all the empties from the piano to the bar. I kept trying to ask him what he was doing, but he was singularly focused and just ignored me. When he cleared off the piano, he started to play it. I had been dating Kenny for maybe a year at this point, and I had never known that he could play piano. Not only was he playing it, but he was playing it well. And I just stared at him while he did this and realized I didn’t know him at all. I could name all these superficial things about him but nothing of substance. I felt that that was wrong, that I should get to really know him, which I tried for two years and I never did figure out. And I don’t know that it was a problem with him. I don’t know that I know the man I sleep beside every night. And, well, you’re no different. Anyway, I saw that piano again. The new owners of the building had the place gutted, and the street was lined with rubbish. Amongst all that rubbish was that piano. I had thought of asking to take it but realised that would involve lugging a piano up three flights to my apartment. You know what I did? I carved a heart with Kenny and I’s initials on it. I’m still not sure why I did that. I haven’t talked to Kenny or much less been in love with Kenny in years.”