“When you have big eyes, you shouldn’t roll them so much.” He says.
“Why?” I ask.
“Because it makes people feel stupid. You make me feel dumb Auna.”
“How am I supposed to respond to that? Thanks for the advice?” I laugh.
“You’re welcome.” He smirks.
“I wasn’t actually thanking you; it was hypothetical gratitude.”
“One day when you’re talking to an important person with a low IQ, you’ll thank me.” His dark eyes sparkle with wisdom, or so he thinks.
He leans over the bar, “So beautiful, tell me about this new man. Are you happy?” He is genuinely curious. He has this way of calling women beautiful so platonically, it’s as innocent as a grandmother complimenting your prom dress, but yet, not ingenuous in the slightest.
“I don’t know Raj. It’s sort of an odd sensation, a tingling all over when I see his number light up on my phone. I can’t quite explain.”
“Odd, eh? Like heroine or more like herpes?” He retorts.
“Like neither. Get your head out of the gutter.” I try to smack his arm.
“But why…. It belongs there.” His vowels slowly drool over consonants, his voice sing-songy in a masculine way.
“Like butterflies. Like lemonade on a hot summer day. Wholesome. It’s effortless. You should try nice on for size. It might fit. Are you still dating, that woman?” I pry.
“Of course not.” He pauses, and then continues. “Okay, maybe. But back to you. Whatcha been writing doll face?”
He knew my soft spot… my favorite topic, and he was an avid reader of my articles and blog, but I couldn’t veer of course, “She isn’t healthy for you. Is she still pushing for more?”
“Oh boy is she. Screw her research on stem cells she is the new expert on diamonds. She even took up fly-fishing. Can’t she hold out the baby talk for awhile?” He whines.
“How old is she? I ask, pushing his buttons.
He counts on his fingers like a kindergartner, then stares at his feet in shame, “She turned 33 a few weeks ago.”
“Well, duh. Her clock is ticking and is only getting louder. Dude, if you don’t want to be in this, then gets out.” I say.
“What’s so wrong with playing it by ear.” He answers honestly, visibly exhausted in his batman sweatshirt.
“Playing it by ear doesn’t have ovaries.”
“Ha. You’re a funny one.” He says.
“I’m serious Raj, you should consider ending it. If not for her sake, then for his own.”
“It just sucks, the whole alone thing,” He says in complete vulnerability.
“I know, but it’s better than staying miserable.” I reply.
He face reverts from sullen to excited instantaneously, “So, I want to meet this nice man of yours.”
I know at this point he already knows his answer in regards to his love life. It just took some courage, and I could tell right now he couldn’t find any.
So I talked about some cool articles and my big authorial dreams, because for the last three years we’ve been friends, I’ve learned that he cares. He is one of the few who actually give a damn. Maybe it’s the Gemini in him, maybe it’s the way he was born. So I give him permission to change the subject so he can listen to the details of my budding relationship, my woes around work and pretty much anything else I felt the need to share with my loyal, free therapist. Our interactions always ended with, “You know I love you, right?”
And I’d respond, “Yeah dude, love you too.”
And that was that.
A brilliant investment banker from New York, he wears flip-flops in December. He has two pet cats and randomly inserts quotes from Shakespeare or statistics from the Economist into elevator conversation.
Eccentric, they all are.
April 17.
Slung over various limbs I’m balancing three bags, they’re overstuffed with clothes, shoes, books, a bottle of vino and lord knows what else. I’ve reached floor 25 and cursing whatever reason the buildings electricity went out. The stairwells are empty and the echo of my heavy breathing is reminding me I need to visit the gym. My guess is that this is a screwed up fire drill and all 600 residents must be in Vail or the Rockies’ game.
And I’m so irritated because for the first time, in a long time, I was actually going to be on time to dinner. I’m notoriously late. And now karma had her plan and insisted I trek down 28 floors. Grrr.
When I’ve finally pushed open the last door on the ground floor I’m greeted with dozens of worried faces. John, the guy who works our front desk is breathing through oxygen tubes and firefighters with intense black masks are whispering things of gasses being found in an apartment. John finding a dead body. I’ve entered the twilight zone and unfortunately I don’t really have enough minutes to figure it out. Running out to 16th street there are cameras from TV stations and orange cones blocking off the corners, my car is in the middle of all the drama. My only option is find a cab two blocks over. Sweating through my cute top and running mascara, I book it to 17th.
It was Tuesday and quite possibly already one of the worst days of my existence. My life at the magazine had reached its end. It was a shocker. And I was trying to identify my new existence; a student, a writer. Who knows? Climbing into my car, late to a birthday dinner, I run into a dear friend from the building. Sitting on the bench waiting I tell her how much I adore her jacket. Then she sits down next to me for no apparent reason.
“Isn’t it sad.” She says.
“Yeah, totally sad.” I glance at my watch, not in the mood to recount our building’s newest drama.
“My boyfriend is really upset. We saw him earlier that day and were going to meet up for beers.” She has tears in her eyes.
“What are you talking about?”
“You know who it was, right?” Surprised I’m so nonchalant.
“No, who?” I figured it was one of the older workaholics, who commuted and gave up their families, one of the people I’d never met. So it didn’t really affect me.
“It was Raj.”
Silence. Then face fell into my hands.
“What? No.”
“Yes, they found him that afternoon. He was such a troubled soul.”
“What?” I repeat.
“Yeah, we’re all really bummed.”
I started crying. Raj had sat up on my leather couch so many nights, complimenting my orchids, toasting Pellegrino; we explored the innards of our lives; our decisions, our futures. I knew he was depressed and I often asked him about it. He would shush me and say he was fine.
I weep and through my tears tell her, “I saw him on Friday and I was on the elliptical glider. I brushed him off. I was busy. Then he emailed me to hang out. Oh my god he emailed me, and I never responded.”
“An email wasn’t going to save him. There’s nothing you could have done.” She says.
“I know an email wasn’t going to save him, but maybe I’d get another beer or another talk, or a hug or something. I’d get a few more minutes of him. Now there’s nothing.” Then it wasn’t just silent tears, I was sobbing.
“It’s going to be okay.” She comforted me, I know she meant well, but each of us had a special relationship with Raj. During my darkest hours he always picked up the phone. I could knock on his door at 2am, an insomniac like me, he never yawned at my bailiwick, he’d give advice, and he’d tell me stories of his childhood and his family back home.
I started missing him Tuesday night, and I don’t think I’ll ever stop.
People always say that suicide is selfish. Religiously, I want to agree. But something deep inside holds me back from being angry. Sure, there is that plea I could tried to save him.
But, life isn’t simple. And while it sounds crazy, death is very simple. A person just leaves. Everyone loved being his friend, but at the end I don’t know if he had any. He mastered the art of loving people, because maybe for some reason he never felt loved. I’m convinced wherever he is, he knows love now; he is hanging out up there watching out for the rest of us.
He wanted out, someplace new… a mood antidepressants won’t fix, a place where planes can’t fly.
He wanted out and so he left us. I wish I could hug him again and at least say goodbye.
