Chapter 16 in the R.M. Dolin novel, "What Is to Be Done"
Read companion poem
Jake watches Preston’s rust-riddled Range Rover disappear down the driveway before returns unevenly to the courtyard, he didn’t intend to end this exceeding long, emotionally exhausting day drunk, but after Dwayne’s wreaking ball, it’s the station his train’s pulling into. “In for a penny, in for a pound,” he rationalizes while pouring fresh bourbon in his over-utilized glass.
Setting the depleted bottle back on the bar, Jake turns toward the kitchen. “Quando?” He calls. Getting no response, Jake ambles unevenly into the kitchen, “Quando!” he calls again with an urgent whisper. As he enters the hallway leading to the back bedrooms, motion detectors light up exposing the protective Lab curled on the hardwood floor in front of Sympatico’s closed door. “What the hell?” Jake asks man’s best friend.
Quando looks up but doesn’t budge. “Come on boy!” Jake whispers, but Quando doesn’t move. “I’ll toss your ball.” Quando raises one eye but cannot find the commitment necessary to lift his head. “So that’s how it’s going to be is it?” Jake staggers back to the kitchen, repeatedly bouncing off one hallway wall into the other with enough frequency to somehow walk a mostly upright. “Shameless I say, absolutely shameless. Oughta call you Dario, the way you sell out for the first pretty girl that comes along. To hell with you then, I’ll drink alone.” He glides his hand along the kitchen island to maintain balance. “And I’m letting the cat play with your ball.”
Jake abruptly stops as he’s about to transition into the tasting room hit with the memory of Quando doing the same thing as Emelia’s illness advanced. “At least you know what do when nothing can be done,” he mumbles. The transition presents a pivotal decision point, he could step through and continue his evening, or turn around and go to bed, bringing today’s intensity to a close. Rationalizing that he’d only lay there reliving drama, Jake decides to wait out his wave of reflection. Once settled in his courtyard chair, he lights a Cuban he traded with a Mexican who brings a box each time he comes north. Jake follows the smoke as it quickly rises in the cold night air before seamlessly integrating with infinity. Not wanting to stumble any deeper into his rabbit hole of remorse, he focuses all remaining cognition to any available distraction, meandering through half a dozen diverse topics, starting with how long it’ll take his rebuilt pump to drain the Still. From there he completes his confirmatory calculation regarding Miguel’s decision to keep his last card. Probability theory clearly stipulates he should have traded, but “better lucky than smart. Then again, who the hell’s calling me lucky?”
He thinks about Padre and the fallacy of believing he’d relieve his burden. He considers that annoying clerk at the plumbing supply store and how if he hadn’t had to wait for Vince to machine his part, he’d have been home to protect Sympatico. “Today just wasn’t going to allow winning outcomes.” Jake draws deep on his cigar and directs his brain to debate if he should start a batch of Mula or rye whiskey. “I got the corn,” he opens, “but really should make rye.” He takes another draw watching the exhale rise in the windless night. “Those barrels ain’t getting any wetter, and it’s four weeks to the barrel once I start, so it’s gotta be rye.” Happy that’s resolved, he moves on to the ANA and impacts of delaying Phase II . “On the other hand, the Quintanas were pretty clear about expectations.” Satisfied making Mula’s been decided, Jake turns back to the ANA. “No, it’s gotta be rye.”
Jake draws on his contraband cigar, slowly letting the discharge dissipate like waning serenity. With reluctant angst he once more drifts toward the dominate issue, “what the hell do I do about her?” Before a single CPU is cycled, he darts off in pursuit of any other thought. Beyond his control, his brain jumps back and forth between what he wants to think about and needs to deal with. “Focus damn it!” he shouts trying to intimidate himself into compliance. He needs a plan, that much is clear; but how the hell do you deal with someone so damaged. He once more reloads the debate when the sudden sound of Quando tapping out his happy cadence on the tasting room tile presents the perfect distraction. Before Jake can react, Quando shepherds Sympatico into the courtyard as if he’s half collie. His misplaced guest stops just beyond the tasting room’s double French doors unsure if she’s welcome in Jake’s domain.
She’s wearing Emelia’s dark blue dress with a bright white collar along with turquoise cowboy boots she found in the bedroom closet. Around her shoulders she drapes the blanket Dario used earlier to cover her depleted body. With awkward confusion, Jake works to reconcile seeing Sympatico in Emelia’s favorite courtyard costume. His mind instantly jumps to the countless nights they played Yahtzee and Cribbage or got lost in philosophical entanglements. On particularly spunky nights, like when Emelia donned her vintage blue dress and turquoise cowboy boots, they enjoyed parodying cliché scenes from cheesy movies. Jake marvels at how recovered Sympatico appears, especially given the desperate state she presented in the uber-hot tool shed. Her battered face and bruised body seem stealthily invisible to moonlight. So much so he loses track of the fact that the beautiful woman in Emelia’s clothes is not Emelia. It’s a moment of intense pleasure followed by consequential guilt for appreciating Sympatico’s beauty. Leaning on the philosophy of life according to Dario, Jake rationalizes a man’s in his nature to observe that which is observable and to appreciate that which should be appreciated. Torrents of thoughts and emotions square off in a mental tug-of-war; on one side memories of the fun he and Emelia shared on nights like this compete against the need to keep his evening in perspective.
Rather than join Jake at his table, Sympatico cautiously sets her glass of water on the table closest to the tasting room entrance slightly behind this man she’s still trying to decide about. She gingerly positions her chair such that it backs against the tasting room wall. Man’s former best friend plops down at Sympatico’s feet letting out a sigh while raising an uncaring eyebrow toward his offended owner. Jake considers joining them at what’s apparently become the ‘cool kid’s table,’ but decides if they wanted his company, they’d have sat with him. He considers starting a conversation, but for the same reason decides not to.
If Newton had gotten around to formulating a First Fundamental Law of Emotion; it would have held that whenever the mind and soul are confronted with two equally weighted options, they gravitate toward the one maximizing pleasure. His converse corollary would have stipulated that the mind and soul inescapably gravitate away from the option minimizing grief. This is why, when given the option between the past and present, Jake surrenders to his past. Perhaps the wine he shared with Dario has mellowed his perspective. One could argue it’s the celebratory beers he enjoyed with Hector and his crew that’s cast his mood. Closer calculus might reveal that where he’s thoughtlessly heading has more to do with the multiple late-night Bourbons he’s currently working through. It could just as easily be argued that Sympatico’s unexpected presence in Emelia’s courtyard dress conjures emotions caught in their own gravitational pull. Whatever the reason, Jake feels the full weight of his Fundamental Law of Emotion, manifesting his need to be in used-to-be moments.
“What a night,” he drunkenly proclaims. “Nice breeze, deep dark sky, a gazillion stars, bourbon excelente, and one damn fine Havana.” From the corner of his eye, he marvels at this beautiful woman in the midnight blue dress adorned with memories; it transports Jake to the many nights he and Emelia role-played. In more sober moments he would be reserved, but not when drunk and gripped by a fundamental law. “Tonight,” he announces with a brazenly bold but awkwardly inebriated gesture, “we are cast as two lonely strangers at a French Café. My role is that of a conflicted poet compulsively over-indulging in cigars and finely aged spirits in a veiled attempt to find metaphors in moments. You unwittingly play the unhappy housewife, wondering if this dashingly daring man is married, and if so, would he be otherwise willing.”
The first casualty of transgression is Jake’s inability to discern if the woman in the blue dress is on board with his game. The second slightly overlooked tidbit of useful information is that Sympatico doesn’t speak English. “Since this is Paris, mon amie,” Jake sings with velvety smoothness, eager to purse a happiness that for far too long was thought to have been forever lost, “there will be dancing.”
When Sympatico doesn’t respond, Jake adjusts his chair to provide a better profile. “Pardonnez-moi, Mademoiselle,” Jake charms with posh sophistication. “Parlez vous l’anglais?” In his role as a tormented poet, frustrated and bitter at a world he sees and feels but cannot describe, Jake’s too conflicted to look directly at his muse. Instead, he stares into the condescending night and assumes for effect, she does as well. “Is it not a shame,” he continues with pontificating charm, “that on nights such as this, kismet matters more than magic?”
Jake sees Sympatico pretending to be stoic, perhaps even for dramatic effect, offended; but of course, her character would. He feeds off her queues to further evolve their charade. “Au ma cherie,” he says with flair, “as much as madness molds moments, fate is the true force fancying fantasy. And on nights such as this, we could just as easily be sharing cocktails here in Paris, strolling along beaches of St. Tropez, or plotting our escape to old Algiers.” The further Jake dives, the more lost in character he becomes while conversely, his ability to discern obvious signals proportionally diminish. The more he enjoys his character, the less he’s able to sense any sensibility at all. He sees Sympatico fidgeting like a small pot on the stove nervously agitating to the random rhythm of a boil about to burst, but what he’s yet to appreciate is what that means.
“I compose sonnets to the stars on nights such as this,” Jake waxes elegantly. “Sonnets to shame even Shakespeare and Keats.” Jake decides his character would venture toward the table where the beautiful but unhappy housewife struggles to reconcile how far she’ll go. Careful to avoid eye contact, he staggers to the spot where he believes when she looks up, he’ll be framed by millions of stars piercing the deep dark sky, a spot where such a silhouette surely pierces the heart of this beautiful but unhappy woman. Once stabilized in place he attempts to pause for dramatic effect but finds the simple act of standing something of a challenge. “It’s true what they say.” He waits for his muse to review the living portrait already named, ‘Poet of the Deep Dark Night.‘ “Poets really are passionate persuaders of the heart.”
Sympatico continues to stoically try her best to ignore whatever this offensive display is supposed to be about. It would be good if she were able to ignore Jake’s antics, but sadly she’s not. It would be truly wonderful if discretion were the better part of valor, but regrettably it’s not; just as wisdom is not allowed to prevail in a way that can reasonably end this ruse before rapidly and regrettably reaching the point of absurdity.
Inexplicably, Jake now sees his character as Pepe Le Pew, the amorous skunk from a childhood cartoon, who persistently pursues his lover even though she offers no encouragement. “A ma chérie, it is a midsummer night’s dream is it not?” Jake’s now in Pepe Le Pew character, complete with an overdone French accent. “We are but two lost souls, cast adrift in a galaxy of stars. Looking forward to forever while pausing long enough to ensure we are no longer pursued by our past. Allowing ourselves to be consumed by the passions of here and now.” It’s no longer clear if Jake is his passionate caricature, a tormented poet, or a drunken genius unable to discern the mass of entropy boiling beside him but, what is clear is, falling prey to his past is in no way benefiting his present.
“Do you hear yourself?” Sympatico seethes.
“A ha!” Jake shouts as he catches his balance. “You speak English!” Again, it’s not clear even to Jake, if Pepe Le Pew, the Poet, or the man who’s been taking care of this battered woman since Saturday is the one most surprised by their collective discovery.
“I wish I didn’t. I have been spoken to many times by men who think they are poets but are nothing more than pendejos!”
Jake studies his muse to understand why she’s taking her character in such an anger-laced direction. “Not all knights are created equal,” he timidly offers in a feeble attempt to get things back on track. He laughs at his dual entendre, which causes him to again loose his pose.
“I don’t know what you think you’re doing.”
“Well I-,”
“If this is some pitiful attempt to seduce me-”
“No!” Jake shouts suddenly slammed to reality. “I mean, no!”
Sympatico glares at Jake crying. “I thought you were different!”
“I am different. Ask anyone, they’ll tell you.” Even the most disenfranchised among the ranks of men, gets that when a woman cries, you’re in deep cacca. The vital piece of information Jake’s yet to acquire during his lifelong journey, is that no matter what a man does when a woman cries, it only makes things worse. “And I ah-” Jake attempts to enunciate an explanation but like countless men before, hits the wall of a woman’s emotions straight away.
“I can’t believe I was so wrong!” Sympatico shoots out of her chair.
Had Jake attended the recommended lectures earlier in adolescence about what do in situations like this, he may have reacted more wisely. Instead, he goes with his first reaction; something discussed in the opening session of the lecture teenage boys are supposed to attend as always being a bad idea. Jake opens his arms and attempts to step toward Sympatico for a reconciliation hug but before he gets close, she grabs her glass and with seamless fluidity, violently tosses water in his face. With the same stealth agility she demonstrated at the Al Azar when simultaneously falling while bouncing back up, Sympatico spins in place with a blur of emotion and storms defiantly inside. Stunned by the ferocity of her anger, Jake watches her stomp through the tasting room as cold droplets of water drip down his chin. “We’re clearly working from different scripts.”
Sympatico is about to cross into the kitchen, when Jake regains something of a footing. “Emelia likes when I do stuff like this,” he shouts. “Says I’m charming.” Quando pops up from the floor with a quickness not seen since puppyhood, staring hard at Jake with judgmental derision before curtly following Sympatico inside. “Et tu Quando,” Jake shouts as he disappears into the kitchen’s darkness.
Alone once more, Jake grabs his bourbon on the way to the courtyard arch. “Probably need to apologize.” He paces back and forth. “How’d the fun get so lost?” He smiles at the brilliance of his humor. “How do you not find that funny?” As the deepening night descends on his defenseless frivolity, Jake stoically absorbs the stillness. “I should apologize.” He falls back into his chair and relights his cigar. “I oughta demand an apology.” He evens out the dry taste with a splash of bourbon. “Trouble with this world is nobody’s got a sense of humor anymore.”
To even the most casual observer, Jake’s drama is further evidence he should have attended the recommended lectures earlier in life where what do in situations like this are discussed. “At least I’ve got bourbon,” he laments while toasting the deep dark sky. “And Havanas.” He listens to the seductive sound of swirling whiskey sliding around mostly melted ice as he twirls his glass. “Dario’s right, ya can’t freaking fight fate.”
The distant moon descends early over the Jemez, bringing events to a clueless close before all the lessons have been learned. Lessons like passion, even misplaced and misrepresented, have context. Or that the past loops around our lives like a lazy lasso, making it impossible to discern where before and now converge. But the lesson that simply cannot be learned, even though it’s constantly being taught, is that damaged souls manifest themselves in a multitude of ways, making the context of their complex pathology as impossible to predict as is their consequence.
