Chapter 2 (Part 2, Cont)

His mother on the other hand had an off and on relashionship with a self proclaimed "cassanova" (Inconspicuously named 'Phil') who lived on my street. His house was a dusky bungalow, both inviting and creepy in a distinctly 60s fashion that I could never quite put my finger on, even reflecting upon it later. My only actual interaction with the man, beyond school yard rumors spread by pre-teens with an obsession with the word 'pervert' and the stange powers it gave them was a brief handshake at a neighborhood barabeque shortly after we moved into town and a brief glance, a secret moment of unspoken communication, a thousand pardons and guilty admissions several months later when my father returned home from the road and let him have it with a solid right hook to the head in return for his unwanted advances on my mother. Brian's mother had begun to see him shortly thereafter and was constantly on the rocks with him, more of less living there while occationally taking breaks to have sordid flings with men even worse then dear old Phil. To this day, whenever I hear the word pedophile (even though, as far as I know, he was not one) I picture his moustache. It was the stuff of nightmares or erotic dreams of the mentally disturbed.

Brian and I had come to an agreement some years before, at the genesis of our friendship. I would never ask questions about the various comings and goings in his family and he in turn would never question my seemingly random desisions at school or at play. This worked out fine for the both of us, and while it may seem strange to think of it this way, our friendship blossomed in our conspiracy of silence. To really stretch any sense of art in the prose here, you could say that we were nourished by the manure formed by the years of shit we simply ignored, rotting away underneath the facade of our typical male indiffrence.

Wow, someone should shoot me for just writing that.

Anyway, Phil was out of town on a buisness trip that week (Sex tourism in third world asia? Tongues wag!), his buissness now totally forgotten. Brian's mother was at another 'on' period with him, and things were about as stable as they ever got. I had made a point, ever since our shared glace, to never enter Phil's house when he was present, so the timing of everything worked out just fine for me. Our system was a machine of well-oiled perfection. I would start my jounrey by sneaking through a secret hole in my back yard fence, a tiny opening surrounded by rotted wood and nails threatenting tetanus. That opened up into a small thicket, which would eventually become a clearing and then an unsuccessful mini-mall. At the time however, it remained a thicket, and I would work my way through it, a hidden path discoverd through years of Brian's childhood, years which he quickly imparted to me as our friendship grew.

From there I would come to Phil's Fence, thick fence posts adorned in thick coats of a musky brown paint. I mean seriouesly, even his frikking fence was creepy! That fence also had a secret exit, although this one had been engeineered by Brian one day, quick work with a screwdiver and jigsaw, the result being a trap door of sorts. It was easy enough to find if you were looking for it, but who would be? After pushing through there, I would be in Phil's backyard, the home of a few clearly aborted attempts at gardening and not much else. From there, it was a quick jog to the back door from where I would administer our secret knock. Upon hearing my knocking, either Brian would let me in, or his mother, although she would usually let me in almost immediatly, not allowing me to finish the complicated staccato beat that Brian and I had pre-determined. She claimed that I was the only one who used the back door, so there was no need to wait it out. She didn't understand.

Promises Broken, Chapter 2

I am both blessed and cursed with a core group of friends that have been with me since (at the latest) junior high. It is a blessing in that we have had many years to build our relationships and ease into having each other into our lives and a curse due to, amongst other things, the familiarity-breeds-contempt factor. Not to get this all off on the wrong foot here as my friends are just that, my friends, but occasionally when you’ve been around the same group of people for years and years on end you begin to wonder how much of your continued association is due to comfort and proximity rather then a genuine desire to spend time with each other. This isn’t a frequent sensation, but it’s there none the less.

A particular event from the 8th grade to this day personifies the dynamics and personalities in the group. It was the day before our junior high graduation ceremony and to celebrate we had all arranged to get together at Brian’s house. It was a school night; Yes, Junior High Graduation was just as lame as it sounds. It took place 2 weeks before the end of the school year and only served to make the grade 8 students unbearably restless for the end of the year, an error in forethought that had persisted for some time at my school. At some point you would think that one of the teachers might wise up to the fact, although memories of hidden hip flasks and secret smoke breaks lead me to believe that perhaps our teachers were as restless as we were at the time. There was a silent pact of sorts, large sections of the final periods of the day being filled with conversation or reading or any activity where we didn’t have to learn and the teacher didn’t have to teach, an arrangement that worked out well for all involved parties. In any case, at the end of the school day my clique formed briefly to run over the basic plan before regrouping later that evening.

Brian and I met in the 4th grade, I the new kid and he the outgoing joker willing to take a new charge under his wing. This was the last of my father’s semi-annual transplantations of our family across the country although I had no way of knowing that, so at first my acceptance of his kindness was more of an automated response. If you want to befriend me, that’s great. It’s not like I’m going to be around for long, right? With his infectious energy however, I soon found myself emerging from my shell and discovering a brave new world of chaos and confusion. Brian it turned out, moved around more then I did, albeit only around the city, a result of his divorced parents and their various questionable lifestyles. His father was what the generous would describe as “a character”, the kind that seemed to be attached to every sitcom family: The crazy neighbor who was always involved in some zany get rich quick scheme or blowing up something with power tools. His fascination with “beating” the casinos also put his finances in constant trouble, and as a result his lodgings were less then stable, in a constant state of feast or famine.

Chapter 1 (Cont, Part 3)

In any case, the water levels had been high that year. People had been grumbling about the possibility of a flood, but nothing came of it. Still, the water had surged at its peak mere feet from the arches of the various bridges crossing the river and the various river walk footpaths had been well and truly submerged. As the levels had begun to ebb off, the damage done to the outlying area by months of raging current became more then apparent. While I hadn’t been back to the park in years it was clear that it was losing waterfront quite severely. The elements had carved out mini-cliffs along the water, large sections of former green space having fallen into the river and been carried off and broken down, never to be seen again.

I walked along the riverside, thinking of nothing in particular, stopping occasionally to examine particularly impressive damage: Trees half uprooted, buried drainage pipes revealed, that sort of thing. A slight breeze blew from the north but its bite was soft, merely brining a little color to my cheeks. As I continued to walk the sun fully set and my journey became marked only by the bright moonlight and the lights from houses on the other side of the river. The wind gained some intensity. It suddenly occurred to me that it had been quite a while since I had last seen any trace of another person, and took a moment to enjoy the solitude. Sure, there were the lights across the water, but they seemed so far away. For a brief moment there seemed to be silence: No cars, music, people… just a soft wind brushing against the water and trees, the last of the leaves softly rustling and occasionally surrendering to the inevitable and softly floating to the ground to join their brothers.

I closed my eyes and took a breath, a catharsis from the insanity that had filled the previous months. The world slowed down, if for a moment, and I allowed myself to feel completely contented. I don’t know what it was about that moment in particular. I’m not a nature-loving hippy or something. My solace is more usually found surrounded by friends and family, or engaged deeply in working. For some reason though, I went for that walk and on that walk had a true moment of relief. I don’t know what caused it, but I do have my theories. Perhaps it was simply the calm before the storm…

As I opened my eyes I saw a figure in the distance, like me walking upon the edge of the parkland, coming around the bend atop a ridge carved out of the terrain. As the figured advanced I began to pick out features in the moonlight. Medium length hair flowed in the breeze, light bounced off a leather jacket. Soon a profile emerged: An attractive girl- Do you mind if I don’t go crazy with descriptions? The last thing I would want is to go into all the nitty gritty physical crap only for you to say “What? That’s attractive?” I wouldn’t be crushed or anything- hell, everyone is entitled to their opinions – but it would kind of derail where I’m going with this thing.

See, here I was going along, telling a story somewhat proficiently and now I screw it all up by getting derailed by this. Maybe I just want my story to come across more universally. Already I feel like I’ve said too much about myself. I would rather that the reader be able to identify with me and what I’m saying. But hell, I’ve already screwed that up. First of all, your name is probably not Blake, and then there’s a slightly-higher-then-fifty percent chance that you’re not a guy either. And actors? I’ve really segregated myself from any target audience, haven’t I? Well… no, I’m getting too worked up now. Please, concentrate: Tell the story now, that would be a good idea, right?

So right- I’m in the park, walking alongside the river when I see an attractive well dressed female walking towards me, also alongside the river. Suddenly several things happen at once: The girl notices me and waves, revealing astonishing smile, a flight of geese fly above us, seemingly signaling some divine event and half way across the city a close friend places a package in a dumpster downtown.

Half of a second later more thing happen all at once: I fall surprisingly quickly in love, she falls surprisingly suddenly as the ground beneath her gives way and blocks away from the previously mentioned close friend my father unexpectedly suffers a heart attack at the age of 55.

Chapter 1 (Cont, Part 2)

But I’m getting a bit ahead of myself. Hell, maybe I shouldn’t have even started the way I did. I’m no good at these things, really. Have I missed anything important? Well, shit! I haven’t even told you anything about myself. Where to start? Okay… I’m an actor. That’s pretty significant, not right now, but later, later that will come up. Oh, and my name is Blake. I’m deathly allergic to cats, require at least 8 hours of sleep to properly function and I enjoy, despite my complete and utter lack of skills, playing video games. I live in Winnipeg, a city smack dab in the middle of Canada, significant in that it is close to nothing of significance.

But again, I’m getting ahead of myself.

The problem with telling a story is that you never know how much you need to share in order to make your whole tale make sense. Sure, I could rant on and on about all sorts of background information endlessly, but I’m libel to go off on plenty of tangents that have nothing to do with the story as it is, so better that I at least make the token effort to reign myself in. So, the question becomes a simple matter of deciding exactly how to frame what I want to say. I’ve already well and truly messed up any chance of creating a different ambience then my inane ramblings (sorry), so all it comes down to is thinking about what you need to know.

So, let’s check the facts here. So far, from what I’ve told you (dear reader), you know that:

A) My name is Blake
B) I am an actor
C) This story takes place in November
D) It has something to do with a girl.

Those of you who were taking particular attention will probably have seen that love has something to do with the whole thing, although I can’t think of many stories worth hearing that don’t. Even more attentive readers might have figured out that it has something to do with promises, or more specifically broken promises (not quite, but close enough) from the title. Wait, am I even allowed to make reference to that? Hell, maybe the title will change by the time I’ve finished this. Are there rules about this? Am I being a little too meta-story? See, I’m just not very good at this.

Anyway, that’s what is known for right now. Honestly, that’s not a lot. I’m sure in the hands of a more able narrator you would already be filled with information, but I’m afraid to say I’m the best you’re getting. Hell, maybe my slower pace will just allow you to better digest the nuggets of wisdom and wit that I’m soon to be lobbing at you. Yeah, that’s the ticket. Too bad I didn’t think about that before I started off on all this ranting, I might have saved myself some trouble and looked somewhat competent. And now here I am making self-loathing comments instead of telling a story.

Let’s try to get back on track, shall we? Here, let’s start with a certain day in November.

I honestly can’t remember what the exact date was (my memory, right?) but it’s not really important. This was years ago, and I was walking through St. Vital Park on a particularly warm evening. I remember pondering at the time if global warming had anything to do with the weather, and then wondering why no one talked about global warming anymore and if I should be worried about it. I don’t recall why I was at the Park- I had moved a few years before away from St. Vital, a suburb that practically defined what a Canadian suburb should be: Quiet, clean and polite. The biggest cause of concern was a few roaming bands of tweens on skateboards, occasionally causing some petty vandalism or hosting noisy parties after stealing away some of their oh-so-observant parents liquor. I grew up there with my parents, although my “wild” days were spent in front of a Nintendo or novel rather then discovering my adolescent body’s tolerance for alcohol.

Maybe I was back because of my history: The park and I had seen some good days together. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that my happiest moments were spent there (we’ll get to those later), but I did have some good times, memories worth keeping. Nothing too special: Skating on the man-made park with friends in the winter, playing Frisbee in the open area on hot summer days, one special day in 9th grade, reaching second base with Shelly Stevens deep in some hidden corner of the various thickets strewn around the park. Good memories. Happy memories.

I won’t bore you with more of that. All that really need to be known about St. Vital park is that it is a park (obviously enough) that is against a river. At this point I suppose I’ll have to back up a little bit: Remember when I said Winnipeg was not noteworthy? Well, that’s not entirely true. Along with being surrounded by a whole lot of nothing, it does have a few other points of interest: It is very close to being the geographical center of Canada (useless but true), and it is probably one of the only places in the world that might benefit overall from global climate change. As it is, Winnipeg is subject to weather between -40 and 40 Celsius (a quick Google later would reveal to all you followers of Fahrenheit to be the equivalent of -40 and 104. Don’t know where you crazy folks got the extra 64 degrees, but there you are) and that kind of weather means that ANY change can only be for the better. In fact, Winnipeg’s only real natural disaster fear is flooding, as the city is built around the Red and Assiniboine River, which converge right by down town. You see what I meant before? Did you need to know all that? Probably not, but at least I know that I’ve done my part to fill you in on the incidentals.

Promises Broken, Chapter 1

I should start with some sort of preface, but I’m afraid to say that I’m no good at these things. I don’t know if I even need to point that out, really, as I’m sure it will all become far too evident should you choose to stick with me. In any case, maybe the best thing to say is that I have a horrible memory. Kind of an unfortunate condition for a storyteller, but it’s still a story I want to tell regardless of my various handicaps (Oh yes, I have others, but I figure I’ll only bother you with them as they come up). I really wish it were something I could blame on drugs or blunt trauma to the head or something exciting, but sadly there’s nothing unusual to be said about my condition. I remember things poorly. That just reminds me, I need to send some forms in my suitcase to my tax guy. Should I do that right now before I forget again? No, I’m building some sort of momentum; let’s work with this.

So yes, I have a bad memory. By this, I mean that in general I simply forget things. Honestly, it’s more of an issue in everyday life. I’m famous for having to take not one, but two extra trips to the grocery store to pick up items forgotten. That doesn’t happen often, but it’s not something most other people have to deal with on even a semi-regular basis, so I feel it does a decent job of showing what kind of person I am when it comes to my memory. As far as remembering the past, which is what this whole thing is about, it’s like that too. Oh, I can remember the shape of things, but many details get lost in the cracks. Maybe I’m just trying to find an excuse for whatever inconsistencies or blatant errors that find their way into all this. Who knows?

Oh, and that tax guy thing? That’s classic me as well. For some reasons, while my memory is a piece of shit, my brain does choose to hold on to various little things and spring them on me seemingly randomly. That’s usually the reasons for those occasional third trips to the super market. Sometimes in the middle of the second I’ll suddenly remember want to try out some recipe that I managed to jot down while watching some cooking show on some sleepless night. But you know what? Those aren’t really good examples of what I’m trying to say. Those things are useful, at least somewhat.

No, I’m really trying to say is that I’m prone to go off on ridiculous side tangents (much like this whole pre-amble is shaping up to be) and I should hope that you might be able to bear with me. In any case, you’ve been warned, so I’ve done what I can do.

Maybe I should get on with the story.

Most of it takes place in November.

November, to me, is a sadly underestimated month. It has Remembrance Day, and then what else? And it’s not like Remembrance Day is a grand occasion: The ever declining amount of veterans (fingers crossed here) observe it as a vigil to their fallen comrades, but as the new generations (of Canadians at least- In case you were wondering what the hell Remembrance Day is, it’s a Canadian holiday in the middle of November celebrating the sacrifice of war veterans) are born away from war, it becomes more of a practiced ritual and less of an actual tangible event. Halloween colors October, and December is… well, fairly obvious. Does November deserve to be used simply as extra shopping days until Christmas? No, I think not.

I see November as an anvil. (Please, bear with me.) In my mind, November is the month where relationships are broken. Sure, spring is the season of new love, and in that light November is the month where that love is tested. Just enough time for the cracks in relationships to begin to show and looming family holidays make November the prime check point- Go no further until you’ve had a chance to think things over, this is your last chance. November is the month where couples weigh the chance of spending the holidays alone against the burden of buying presents and, lord forbid, spending time with whoever their lack of foresight managed to shack them up with. In that regard, Valentine’s day is less a about love then it is a celebration of surviving the hellish onslaught of stress testing that is December and January. November is the anvil that relationships are placed upon to be hammered upon by their built up history. At the very least it should be. I can personally think of several family dinners that could have been well served by a carefully observed November months before.

Maybe that’s just part of the way I am. I’m aware that the way I think is far from the normal for a lot of people. I don’t know why my thoughts go in this direction, only that maybe November has just revealed it’s true form to me amongst the corpses of failed pairings and twisted husks that were formerly called love.

That… that happened in November.

If only I could take that back.

Promises, Broken - Prelude

More then anything, I remember her face.

There’s not much left of the surroundings. The ground was hard (concrete?), I remember that much, and the air cold, leaving a slight sting in the air, both crisp and cumbersome. The sky, black with a few stars breaking through the cloud cover. Other than that though, not much remains. Except for her face. Her face, and her words.

Her eyes, light blue, the few rays of moonlight bouncing off them, quivered, threatening tears at a moment’s notice. Her nose, wrinkled cutely, but distressed. And her lips, red from the cold, quivering too, mouthing the words that I will never be able to shake, as long as I live.

“Don’t leave me. Promise me that you’ll never leave me.”

The rest is less clear in my head, as awful as that sounds. I held her, I’m sure of that, and I told her many things. That I loved her, that I would be there for her, that I would never leave. I lied.

And I’m sorry. So very sorry.