STRANGERS IN THE NIGHT

Chapter 1 from the R.M. Dolin novel “The Dangling Conversation“

Chapter 1: Strangers in the Night

ISABELLE: “Murray stop! I’m so sorry; I tell him not to do that to strangers, but does he listen? I’m Isabelle by the way and he’s, obviously Murray. My friends call me Izzy cause they know I don’t like it. They say it has more pizazz, but I’m Isabelle; an homage to my great grandma who fought against Franco in the civil war. She’s my hero, my Abuela tells stories of her bravery and courage. Things don’t end well though, so, I’m hoping that’s not my fate. Evidence to date, however, indicates I’m trending in that direction.

“I’ve seen you here before, always this same bench, always alone. Why? Strike that, it’s none of my business and I have no right asking; it’s just I’m new and I too sit alone when I come here with Murray and was hoping maybe, if you don’t object, we can sit alone together. I promise not to talk, at least not too much. I mean I’m talking a lot now, which according to my dad, I do when nervous. Not that you make me nervous, well maybe a little. You don’t talk much I can tell, so we’ll get along just fine, once I stop yapping that is.

“The thing is bench spots seem hard to come by. I don’t get here until early evening, which I guess is why there’s never any vacancies. I don’t mind, like anything, probably comes down to who you know; what’s the protocol, do people have assigned spots like in school, or is it first come first served? You must come early or long ago staked your claim, because this is hands down, the best bench in the entire park; a perfect line through the trees to catch tonight’s blood orange moon. That’s why I came; I’m not really a walk in the park after dark kind of gal but the news tonight was all about the rare blood orange moon; besides, Murray needs his exercise. I don’t have a freaking clue what a blood orange moon is, figure I might as well come see firsthand; only way to learn, right, maybe even meet some neighbors?

“You don’t strike me as the moon gazing type, but what do I know. I’m guessing you’re not here for lunar lunacy, which makes you a regular? I’m not much for walks, you know, being a woman and all, but figure tonight I’ll make an exception, anything beats sitting at home watching TV during shark week or whatever other nonsense they’re pushing on the brain-dead masses. I have to say it’s good I came, need to get out, my apartment’s okay, but you can only stare at packed boxes so long before it gets sad; besides, the way the moon’s arching over the horizon and gently climbing those trees is really something. Just look at it, absolutely spectacular. I especially like the way it casts the park in a surreal glow; it’s like one of those fancy schmancy French impressionist paintings; not that I’m into art mind you, but doesn’t the place seem, I don’t know, mysteriously magical?

“Not sure why I’m talking such foolishness, it’s not like me at all. There’s just a lot going on in my life, none of it good and talking helps, even nonsense to strangers, but I’m sure we’ll get to all that eventually. No doubt you’re wondering, “what’s a young woman like me doing with an old lady’s name?” I get that all the time. I’m very proud of it though, my great grandma was from the Basques region of Spain. She didn’t just fight Franco, he was aligned with Hitler, Stalin, and Mussolini; that’s the trifecta of evil in the windmill she set out to slay.

“I just moved here and for reasons I’d rather not discuss, rented an apartment under an assumed name a few blocks away. It’s a strange thing about apartments, you never really “move in,” there’s always that thought you’re leaving soon and its never ever home; maybe cause you can’t hang pictures or paint walls. I used to have a house, but that’s a different story for a different moon that’d only bore you with clichés and obvious plot twists.

“They do a nice job with maintenance don’t they, the grass is groomed like a golf course and each tree trimmed to perfection; look how they cleared away branches so we can watch the moon make her grand entrance. I can’t remember ever seeing so many stars, like I can just reach right up and touch em. We’d get nights like this back home, but being up north, the sun sets late in summer, so nights are never this good; anyway, that’s far away and long ago. Just another one of those things you surrender in the city; I mean sure there’s lots to offer, but everything comes at a cost and metro lights drown life right out of night. City people have no clue what they’re missing, and ya know, there’s a certain sadness in that.

“Do you like flowers? I love how they line the pathways; it’s the best part of the park if you ask me, especially how lamps cast light shadows on em; gives off a kind of fairytale vibe. I like the way each lamp’s strategically set so where one shadow ends the next begins leaving a gentle transition you hardly notice. Life’s like that; so much just passes by unnoticed because we’re busy not paying attention. I mean the way we move from one shadow to the next yet strategically end up exactly where we’re supposed to be; then, for some reason we wake up from our fairyland slumber and realize, we’re not where we thought we were and have no idea how we got there. At least that’s how it works for me. I know flowers in the lamplight shouldn’t make me sad, but they do; not the same kind of sad as city people blinded by lights, but sad just the same. They are necessary though; perhaps that’s my metaphor, lamplights casting shadows on beautiful flowers to make me sad while at the same time calling me out to walk along their moonstruck wonder on a blood orange night.

“Murray likes the park even more than me. Mostly he comes during the day but sometimes at night. He prefers afternoons because the park’s full of kids who’ll toss freebies and tennis balls. Sometimes he brings them back for another round. Mostly he waits for them to chase him around, makes the game more interesting. We’re still getting to know each other so, don’t ask him if I’m neurotic, not sure I’d like the answer. If you need to ask, do it when I’m not around, just don’t tell me what he says. I always wanted a dog; my Ex doesn’t like em, so we didn’t have one. That’s the downside of marriage; everything devolves to the lowest common denominator. They never show that slide in per-marriage lectures, no, it’s all about compromise and compassion, but in reality, everything sooner or later devolves. Least common denominator, that’s the coded message embedded in happily ever after. And it’s not just Murray, if one spouse wants kids and the other doesn’t, you don’t, so, I don’t. If one wants to live in the country and the other doesn’t, you don’t; so, I didn’t. If one wants to be loyal while the other messes around there ain’t a damn thing you can do about it and you wind up making new friends on a park bench during a blood orange moon.

“At least I have Murray, not only does he keep me company, he’s my protector, well at least that’s the post-puppy plan. He may not look foreboding sleeping on your lap, but I’d not want to be you if he thought I was gonna get hurt. I got him cause my Ex is a narcissist, that’s just my diagnosis mind you, but its spot-on. He doesn’t know where I live and I’m hoping to keep it that way, but just in case, Murray’s my backup.

“The world can be divided into three camps, dog lovers, cat owners, and people without a soul. If you ask me, dog people should only be with dog people, otherwise, they’re forced to forgo an essential element of happiness. I don’t get cat people, so can’t speak to that. Back home we kept cats in the barn; we liked how they worked down rodents; never been a fan of rodentia. We never let barn cats in the house though; you can take two steps into someone’s house and know right away they have cats; or once did a decade ago. It’s disgusting when you think about it, almost medieval the way they have a designated box for doing their duty that’s usually kitchen-adjacent; and cat people let their felines walk all over the counters and other places where there’s food; it’s disgusting. Murray’s afraid of cats, some kind of puppy-trauma I’m guessing. But I sure do love him, he’s not only my best friend, he’s my only friend.”

KYLE: “I used to have dogs, none now, but for more of my life than not. You probably shouldn’t count on Murray to protect you; he doesn’t seem like the type in a pinch; he hardly sized me up at all before hoping on my lap. Could be he senses I’m part of the brotherhood. It’s important ya know, being part of something, that’s why God invented families and romance; even though we struggle to get either right. Sure, would be something though, huh, if dogs could tell us someone’s history; not sure I’d want him prying too deep into mine. Should we kick Murray loose of his leash and see if he scoots off, then you’ll know if you found your park bench.

“Before you set up camp, know that as far as I’m concerned, you’re welcome, but I don’t make the seating chart; not sure who does but it ain’t me. I feel obligated to tell you lots of people walk by night after night but you’re the only one to ever sit down. Not sure what that says about me, but clearly something. You’re a talker and I’m not; means I won’t have to worry about holding up my end of the conversation, so that’s a plus. It’s been a while since I talked with someone; suppose that says all you need to know about me.

ISABELLE: “My Ex was always saying, “slow down Isabelle, you don’t have to cram all the world’s words into the next half-hour.” He’d laugh, but I think it’s mean. That’s how he is and it’s hard always being judged.”

KYLE: “I don’t judge; I’ll pick up a rock every now and then, but before tossing I take a moment to itemize my sins, in no particular order mind you cause after critical mass, the whole becomes so much more profound than the sum of its parts. From there it’s painfully clear I’m the last person to be casting stones. Socrates says, “the unexamined life is not worth living,” but the last thing I want to do is dissect my disastrous shit-show; certainly not with a plethora of people lining for the privilege.

“I was married once, twice actually, so feel free to judge. Not sure what that says about me, but in my defense, there’s one woman who spoke to my soul like no others, yet I somehow never found a way to marry her. Doesn’t really help my case, does it. Bottom line don’t be hard on yourself, you’re still a minor league rookie compared to professional screw-ups like me. I did learn from each miss-adventure, and from the life that gets lived in between. What stuck most is realizing that as the road ahead grows shorter, you tend to only travel back over things that bring you happiness and peace; that’s all any of us are really chasing ya know, little nuggets we come to cherish. Mark that down as one of my pearls of wisdom; hard to come by, that much I know. That’s why you’ll find me here most nights.

“I don’t mind that you’re here, breaks up the monotony, besides, me and Murray are already best buds. He reminds me of a German Short-Hair I once had; damn good dog but out of control most the time. Bursting with good intentions so, you had to love him; heart so big his body barely contained it. They’re bird dogs ya know, but he was all heart. His biggest problem is thinking he’s a lap dog like Murray, always crawling up on top of me, and if I ever even think about not petting him, he’ll nudge me with his insistent over-sized paws leaving no doubt petting time’s far from over. Sitting on my lap is fine as a puppy, but once grown, it was pretty damn awkward; even borderline absurd. Each time I kick him off the couch, he worms his way between my legs and plops his big old head on my lap. Then, just stands there, sometimes for an hour expecting me to scratch his ears; if I have even an inkling of stopping, you know, to sip some wine, or change channels, he glares at me with big brown eyes until I’m guilted into getting back at it.

“We had our share of adventures though; craziest damn thing he ever does is one time we’re up at my cabin, I’m in the middle of morning coffee just enjoying the way hummingbirds dual each other for control of the feeders when all of sudden something catches my eye; I’m afraid to look because whatever it is, it’s on top of my skylight staring down at me. But how do you not look, so I do, and there’s ol’Butch, standing on my skylight like a gamecock rooster in a hen house. He has this way of looking at ya, he’ll roll his head to the side and stare through eyes full of eagerness and energy. Then, he opens his mouth and drops out a huge-ass tongue that he curls up in a way that looks like he’s smiling; probably is, never saw a dog always so damn happy, happy to be outside when we hiked, happy to be inside when I lit a fire, just always happy. Even up there on a skylight, looking down smiling in way that says, “get your ass up here, dude, the view’s amazing.”

“I’ve absolutely no idea how the hell he gets up there; there’s no snow drifted up the side wall he can walk up, he can’t climb trees as far as I know, and there aren’t any windows leading to the roof. It takes a good hour to get him down. You’ve no idea how hard it is to carry a seventy-pound mass of fury energy down an extension ladder without falling. The whole time he’s squirming and flailing like a cat in cold water; grinning so loud he can’t possibly realize we’re one misplaced foot from death. We manage to make it, but only after several tries and a whole lot of rope wrapped around us like some kind of Japanese bondage thing. He never reveals the magic he pulls off to get on the roof, but at least he never does it again. That’s just one of the many times we end an adventure with the same admonishment, “just cause you can,” I tell him, “doesn’t mean you should.” Of course, he apologizes by plopping his head on my lap and letting me scratch him behind his ears.”

ISABELLE: “Every time I ask my Ex for a dog, he makes up some lame excuse, like being allergic. I’ve never met a person in my whole life allergic to dogs. He’d say we can get a cat, but I don’t like cats. You either do or you don’t and there’s no in between. There’s a lot he doesn’t allow, like happiness and peace. While I can say why I marry him, I can’t explain how I manage to stay married as long as I do. I ask myself over and over until all I accomplish is driving myself insane. There’s never an answer. All I know is one day I just snap. Decide I can’t live like this. Even now I can’t tell you how I reach that decision, I just do, as if by the same sort of untraceable magic that got your dog on the roof. I’ve even managed to convince myself I’m not supposed to know. It’s like, I don’t know, like the universe needs to keep certain things secret. Besides, not every outcome needs an explanation or justification. I tell that to mom, but I’m condemned to damnation in her eyes with little cause for clemency. Me and Mom, there’s a level of complexity we definitely don’t need to dissect.

“She just needs time to adjust to my new reality, as do I. Time heals, right? At least that’s what they say. I don’t know much about healing, but it seems we’re not supposed to heal all our wounds. Some punishments are meant to linger, that’s what life’s taught me. But why should I be punished? I didn’t end the marriage, okay yes, I did, but only after he does. It’s all completely convoluted and certainly there’s no value talking about it. I don’t even know why I’m telling you. I don’t usually talk to people I just met, you know, the whole “stranger danger,” thing we grew up with. It’s not like we’ve known each other so long I can say whatever, because you’re easy to talk to. I don’t know if you are or aren’t, in fact, I don’t know you at all. Yet here I am, baring my soul like a sinner at Saturday confession; I’m not sure I can even stop yacking if I try.

“The thing is, I’m new here and you’re the only person I’ve talked to all week; even at the grocery store I don’t bother to say hello and that’s just rude. Do you think I’m weird? My Dad likes to say, “Isabelle, sometimes you talk too much.” My Ex says I never say anything important, which is why he never listens. I don’t really miss not talking; don’t think much about it. Besides, I have Murray to confide in. It does build though, the silence, until it all gushes out at once. I’m not boring you I hope, it’s just, well, talking to you is comforting. It’s weird I know, especially since we haven’t even been introduced but maybe that’s the reason, the more I don’t know you, the more I can say without consequence.”

KYLE: “You’re not weird, at least no more than me; we all are, in our own weird way. The thing is, Isabelle, if you keep coming to this park, you’ll likely find me on this bench most nights and sooner or later we’re gonna stop being strangers, so we might as well take the plunge straight away and see how it feels. But before we do, let me preface our- I don’t know- “acquaintance,” with a caveat; whatever you imagine as being uber traumatic in your life, I can most certainly assure you I’ve survived; may not have learned all the lessons I was meant to, but still the same, I found my way to the other side, and you will too. That being said, I’m happy to talk about whatever you want, until I’m not, and we’ll find out together where that sweet spot is; what kind of crap I’m comfortable discussing and what’s out of bounds.

“I’m Kyle, Kyle from Kansas; not anymore, but I was once upon a time. I am still an engineer, because, once an engineer, always an engineer; it’s not a choice so much as a destiny. I tried being a pirate once, but that’s a long-ago story for another night when our topic is discussing things that don’t end well. You’d be surprised to learn that like you, I’m new here and on some level, again like you, I’m trying to escape stuff; a whole mess of stuff that don’t amount to nothing to anyone but me but is big enough to drive me halfway across the country. If I’m being honest, I’m not sure where I’m from anymore. It’s pretty damn sad to reach this point in my life so uncertain about such important anchors; guess it’s why I sort of just drift. That’s how I explain my park bench, like I’m on some huge-ass ocean liner and this is the deck chair I’ve been assigned. Sure, we’re free to walk about the deck, but since we’re not really going anywhere relative to the vessel, we might as well sit in the same damn spot hoping whoever’s in control this doomed ship of fools knows what the hell they’re doing.

“Guess you could say I’m drifting outside gravity’s pull for now, but there are things, stuff I can’t get into that wouldn’t interest you anyway. Dark shit that’s eventually gonna pull me into its unwelcome vortex; soon enough all this serenity is gonna start spinning out of control. Until then I’m just waiting like an at sea sailor in the eye of a hurricane; a patient prairie cowboy who sees the shitstorm of his life meandering toward him resigned to the fact there’s not damn thing he can do about it. Don’t ask me about any of that though; if I told you, you wouldn’t believe me, if you believed me, you wouldn’t like me, so let’s agree we both have Pandora Boxes that shouldn’t be opened. What I can tell you, what I’ve learned on my rather random journey to this park bench, is that love is the only thing that matters; falling in love, being in love, finding a forever someone to love; these are the only things that matter, everything else is just a shit-show auditioning to become your next disaster.”