He had never really bothered wondering what ‘Love’ was. To him, it was something abstract, something individualistic and subjective, something that a hundred different people could give a hundred different answers for.
He found himself however, looking through dictionary.com searching for its meaning one Tuesday afternoon.
Love –noun
1.a profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person.
2. a feeling of warm personal attachment or deep affection, as for a parent, child, or friend.
3. sexual passion or desire.
4. a person toward whom love is felt; beloved person; sweetheart.
5. (used in direct address as a term of endearment, affection, or the like): Would you like to see a movie, love?
6. a love affair; an intensely amorous incident; amour.
7. sexual intercourse; copulation.
8. (initial capital letter) a personification of sexual affection, as Eros or Cupid.
9. affectionate concern for the well-being of others: the love of one's neighbor.
10. strong predilection, enthusiasm, or liking for anything: her love of books.
11. the object or thing so liked: The theater was her great love.
12. the benevolent affection of God for His creatures, or the reverent affection due from them to God.
13.Chiefly Tennis. a score of zero; nothing.
14.a word formerly used in communications to represent the letter L.
He decided that none to the 14 entries on the word 'Love' described what he felt the other day, walking past Starbucks to work and seeing Ms. Starbucks for the first time. Within the 5 seconds that he had walking the length of the coffee shop, he noticed her at the checkout counter; she was tall, had short hair, big brown pretty eyes, and a beautiful smile. Of course, he stared at her without breaking his stride, (he was sure she gets these intrusive stares on a daily basis) and thought nothing more of it the next day.
The practice actually went on for 2 weeks, him walking to work at the Cineplex nearby, noticing her almost every day (she was off on Thursdays and Sundays) in that same invariable starbucks suit; the green apron and black shirt. Sometimes she'd be at the checkout counter, and he'd enjoy that brief 5 seconds he gets to see her flash her smile to the customers, and sometimes she'd be preparing coffee at the back, and he'd only get to see the back of her head - on these days he'd slow down, only ever so slowly, to see if she'd ever turn around and he could see her.
2.a feeling of warm personal attachment or deep affection, as for a parent, child, or friend.
...was probably closest. He was not gripped and carried about in a whirlwind of Love at first sight; it crept up on him, ambushing him when his defenses were at their most unsuspecting. He had no idea.
The first time his emotional guards suspected something was wrong was when he found himself, one Sunday morning, (he'd decided to take Sundays off, coincidentally) waking up and thinking of Ms. Starbucks.
Ms. Starbucks. He didn't even know her name.
Ever since then he grew wary. He rationalized; she's someone I see every day, she's pretty, it’s only natural for me to think of her, and decided to think nothing more than that.
The next morning, when he walked to work he decided to not look at her. If I can ignore her, I won’t think of her he rationalized. So he kept his eyes looking straight ahead as he came up against the coffee shop.
Only 5 seconds.
He marched forward, focused on looking straight ahead.
5.
He looked at his watch; 11.32 am.
4.
Cough.
3.
Clear throat.
2.
Ms. Starbucks smiling at customer while she gives them their coffee.
1.
…Shit.
He was in trouble.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Thursday, May 7, 2009
The record player.
It was an old record player, the kind that played the subtle static in the background as it hummed the classic tunes of Billie Holiday. That became the center of his existence lately, coming home after a long tiring day at work, walking in at 11 pm sharp to this old run down bar in the middle of nowhere; the wooden chairs and tables falling apart at the seams, creaking under the weight of old age.
It must've been last week that he stumbled onto this place unknowingly. He was not particularly looking for anything, not consciously at least; he just happened to be drawn into this rundown bar, a place that no one wanted to go to. Maybe that was the attraction. The fact that everything about this place, the inconspicuous sign board that obstinately refused to attract customers, the cracked and chipped paint on the creaky swing doors that refused to look pretty or artistic in any way, the dust and cobwebs that stubbornly clung on despite having been wiped away a million times; all this that was seemingly designed by the invisible hand to ward off people inexplicably drew him in, so strong was his need to be somewhere where he was not wanted.
He remembered walking in to the bar, much to the surprise of the bartender, who seemed to be looking at him twice to verify if he was not a solicitor. Upon discovering he was a patron, the bartender looked almost disappointed, reluctantly asking, "What'll it be?"
When he had settled down on one of the worthless antiques that looked like chairs, it was love at first hear. The small record player, hiding in one corner of this resentful haven captured his heart like love captures the unsuspecting youth, still vulnerable, still unprepared to pay the price of the inevitable demise of a first love's naiveté.
He stayed till 2 am that first night.
And so it became a habit, or more accurately an obsession. When he was slaving at work, all he could think about was being there, relishing the heavenly sounds of Billie played by that essential record player, being the midst of all the other relics that had only the guise and half-heartedness of invitation. He was not welcome, not at all, but still, all he wanted to do was stay there. When there were no other sounds to interrupt his thoughts, he'd replay Holiday's psychologically remastered 'The very thought of you' complete with each endearing static, closing his eyes and sighing in genuine rapture.
And then, after work, that's when he'd make his way to the bar, sitting down at the exact same chair, and ordering the same neat whiskey, listening to the same song on loop, until the bartender had to switch off the electricity to shoo him away.
This went on for a week.
It seemed to be all going perfect until one day the Bartender gave him the worst possible news:
"I'm sorry mate, but someone bought out the establishment. I didn't think I'd find any customers here now, hell you're the first person who's come in since 2 years ago, and I wished there were more like you around, but the fact is, this place is a dump and I'm going to have clear it out by the end of the week for the new owners. I know how much you like it here, so if there's anything I can do just say it now buddy,"
There was only one thing he could think of. The record player stays. Let him come in until the end of the week to listen to it, that's all he wanted.
"Hell, I'll sell it to you buddy, you seem to really like it,"
But it wasn't the same, no. The record player belonged reluctantly to this place, as was everything else here.
He didn't tell the bartender that.
"Sure, have it your way. Enjoy."
Tuesday, change crept up on him. The old decorations were gone; the painting of the roses was replaced by its outline on the wall, the antique vases weren't where they were supposed to be. Wednesday, the bartender moved half the furniture, (though thankfully, not the half with his favorite table) and the place looked bare, only half as resentful as it used to be. By Thursday, the dust and cobwebs that decorated the walls of the place were gone, and Friday and Saturday breezed through, each time appearing less endearing than the day before.
On Sunday he walked in, and everything was gone, except his usual chair, table, and of course, the old record player.
The bartender looked at him, shook his head in a sympathetic gesture and went back to putting the glassware in moving boxes.
“You know, you’ve scratched my curiosity buddy. This place is a dump. What is it that you like about it so much?” he yelled from under the counter.
It’s just a place to go to, he replied.
The bartender stopped packing and looked up.
“Bullshit man. No one comes here cause it’s just a place to go to. Two minutes down this road, there’s a bar that’s overcrowded every night. No crappy record player, no dust and cobweb, no creaking crappy chairs and tables, just digital hardware and hot women all night long. That’s a place you go to. Not this one.”
The record player isn’t crappy.
The bartender shrugged his shoulders and went back to packing.
Four hours flew by, and before leaving he did something he had never done before; he stood up, and ran his hand by the side of the record player, lovingly feeling the smooth texture of the mahogany woodwork, the cool brass of the loudspeaker, as though saying his last goodbyes before finishing his whiskey and walking out.
Once outside, the abandoned, snowy pavement greeted him with a dark chill. He pulled the instrument out, and felt the cold steel against his hand, biting into his skin, but he didn’t care. Leveling the gun right below his left breast, he took a deep breath and pulled the trigger.
Inside, the sounds of Billie Holiday continued playing, the psychologically remastered 'The very thought of you' complete with each endearing static.
I’m living in a kind of daydream,
I’m happy as a king,
And foolish though it may seem,
To me that’s everything.
It must've been last week that he stumbled onto this place unknowingly. He was not particularly looking for anything, not consciously at least; he just happened to be drawn into this rundown bar, a place that no one wanted to go to. Maybe that was the attraction. The fact that everything about this place, the inconspicuous sign board that obstinately refused to attract customers, the cracked and chipped paint on the creaky swing doors that refused to look pretty or artistic in any way, the dust and cobwebs that stubbornly clung on despite having been wiped away a million times; all this that was seemingly designed by the invisible hand to ward off people inexplicably drew him in, so strong was his need to be somewhere where he was not wanted.
He remembered walking in to the bar, much to the surprise of the bartender, who seemed to be looking at him twice to verify if he was not a solicitor. Upon discovering he was a patron, the bartender looked almost disappointed, reluctantly asking, "What'll it be?"
When he had settled down on one of the worthless antiques that looked like chairs, it was love at first hear. The small record player, hiding in one corner of this resentful haven captured his heart like love captures the unsuspecting youth, still vulnerable, still unprepared to pay the price of the inevitable demise of a first love's naiveté.
He stayed till 2 am that first night.
And so it became a habit, or more accurately an obsession. When he was slaving at work, all he could think about was being there, relishing the heavenly sounds of Billie played by that essential record player, being the midst of all the other relics that had only the guise and half-heartedness of invitation. He was not welcome, not at all, but still, all he wanted to do was stay there. When there were no other sounds to interrupt his thoughts, he'd replay Holiday's psychologically remastered 'The very thought of you' complete with each endearing static, closing his eyes and sighing in genuine rapture.
And then, after work, that's when he'd make his way to the bar, sitting down at the exact same chair, and ordering the same neat whiskey, listening to the same song on loop, until the bartender had to switch off the electricity to shoo him away.
This went on for a week.
It seemed to be all going perfect until one day the Bartender gave him the worst possible news:
"I'm sorry mate, but someone bought out the establishment. I didn't think I'd find any customers here now, hell you're the first person who's come in since 2 years ago, and I wished there were more like you around, but the fact is, this place is a dump and I'm going to have clear it out by the end of the week for the new owners. I know how much you like it here, so if there's anything I can do just say it now buddy,"
There was only one thing he could think of. The record player stays. Let him come in until the end of the week to listen to it, that's all he wanted.
"Hell, I'll sell it to you buddy, you seem to really like it,"
But it wasn't the same, no. The record player belonged reluctantly to this place, as was everything else here.
He didn't tell the bartender that.
"Sure, have it your way. Enjoy."
Tuesday, change crept up on him. The old decorations were gone; the painting of the roses was replaced by its outline on the wall, the antique vases weren't where they were supposed to be. Wednesday, the bartender moved half the furniture, (though thankfully, not the half with his favorite table) and the place looked bare, only half as resentful as it used to be. By Thursday, the dust and cobwebs that decorated the walls of the place were gone, and Friday and Saturday breezed through, each time appearing less endearing than the day before.
On Sunday he walked in, and everything was gone, except his usual chair, table, and of course, the old record player.
The bartender looked at him, shook his head in a sympathetic gesture and went back to putting the glassware in moving boxes.
“You know, you’ve scratched my curiosity buddy. This place is a dump. What is it that you like about it so much?” he yelled from under the counter.
It’s just a place to go to, he replied.
The bartender stopped packing and looked up.
“Bullshit man. No one comes here cause it’s just a place to go to. Two minutes down this road, there’s a bar that’s overcrowded every night. No crappy record player, no dust and cobweb, no creaking crappy chairs and tables, just digital hardware and hot women all night long. That’s a place you go to. Not this one.”
The record player isn’t crappy.
The bartender shrugged his shoulders and went back to packing.
Four hours flew by, and before leaving he did something he had never done before; he stood up, and ran his hand by the side of the record player, lovingly feeling the smooth texture of the mahogany woodwork, the cool brass of the loudspeaker, as though saying his last goodbyes before finishing his whiskey and walking out.
Once outside, the abandoned, snowy pavement greeted him with a dark chill. He pulled the instrument out, and felt the cold steel against his hand, biting into his skin, but he didn’t care. Leveling the gun right below his left breast, he took a deep breath and pulled the trigger.
Inside, the sounds of Billie Holiday continued playing, the psychologically remastered 'The very thought of you' complete with each endearing static.
I’m living in a kind of daydream,
I’m happy as a king,
And foolish though it may seem,
To me that’s everything.
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