This evening has concluded a week that has brought forth every chap I ever seriously loved. My birthday assisted a few in using their opportunities to reach out, but for the most part it was purely coincidental. These spontaneous moments of outreach came in all forms- email, texts, phone calls, and one even met with me to toast my 52nd birthday. One of them just appeared in a dream, but upon checking his uploaded photo on Myspace, I saw it had changed to a photo taken when we were together. I’d say that counts.
The funniest call came from my often-nomadic Irish partner-in-crime from my days as a nineteen-year-old in Hawaii. Given the chosen year, and my current age, I’d say that took place around 1943. Last I’d heard from him, I received a cryptic message on my home machine, saying if I didn’t hear from him in a few days it meant something bad happened. I assumed this to mean someone put a hit out on him. He also informed me to call or email to ensure he was missing (I don’t have either updated contact numbers or email addresses).
I wasn’t sure if it was an inebriated ploy to get me to try and track him down or he was really on the run from some “friends” in Providence. Last time he lost his cell phone at a laundromat in Seattle and I received phone calls from the place for weeks, asking if my friend would ever come and pick up the missing phone. When I received a call from another pay phone at another train station or bus depot in Oregon, the Irish Chap revealed the phone was a lost cause. He didn’t care.
Nothing in his life seems secure to me, except for his faith. He’s never worried about the next job, next home, or next adventure. After recently reading one of my blogs about meaning to revisit Hawaii, he said he was relocating so I could visit. I told him about my recent love of New England and Martha’s Vineyard, and he offered to relocate there and I could be his part-time girlfriend. With his impulsive nature, I can never be too sure if he means it or not. It’s not something I want to risk.
What I love most about our infrequent conversations is his undying kindness, even if the flattery is brought to an abrupt halt with him insulting my musical tastes and performances. But this is a man who routinely sang “I’m Easy Like Sunday Morning” while intoxicated and threated to kill James Taylor if given the chance. He also thought I was a fool for not wanting to see the Drop Kick Murphey’s. We were never a musical match.
The Nomadic Irishman also has an impeccable memory for all my other heartbreaks and crushes over the years, and will ask about the lawyer-who’s-not-a-lawyer who hated and banned my use of Secret deodorant. In a monologue, he often retorts that he would gladly pay to smell my armpits in that given moment. Laced with an Irish brogue, that kind of charm and candor can even inspire tender giggles from someone as cynical as me.
When I discussed my recent sadness in my prospects and ended flings, he’ll always promise to board the next flight to New York and kick the arse of anyone who’s bringing me grief. We may not have a future together, but I can almost always welcome the freshness of his candor.
My heart may have been stampeded a few times, my lyrics may often reflect the vitriolic fervor that swarms my soul, but this week brought me something else. Perhaps the origins were with a “Former” who toasted me just before the stroke of midnight on my birthday. He articulated how certain people come into our lives at a certain point to get us to where we are today. I just may be beginning to see the light in all of these years of turbulence. This, of course, does not mean I want a return of all the “Formers.” It’s just nice to see their placeholders on the time line of my life.