At My Fingertips 3
Prologue
Certain
things in life are well defined, while others are left in a gradation of
uncertainty. Take a cigarette, for instance. Come on, humor me, for once.
Please? Alright, where was I? Ah yes, the cigarette. Passengers are absolutely
allowed to bring cigarettes on all flights. On the other hand, a lighter is
universally unaccepted.
I never
thought about this until I flew with him. As a pragmatist, he gently placed his
sacred lighter in his check-in luggage. As a sanguine, he brought a box of
cigarettes in his carry on, certain that he would find someone with a lighter
or a match to bring him back to life at the airport smoking room. As a cynic, I
am unsatisfied with the simple reasoning that lighter are prohibited due to
their flammable nature. As a histrionic, I avoid the very thought of him
succumbing to lung cancer by obsessively focusing on the layers of reason for
the allowance of cigarettes and the injunction against lighters.
With
all that said and done, I wonder if that was the exact moment when he realized
the hole in this equation of ours. Unfortunately, as it turns out, that hole is
me.
Arjuna
At my fingertips there is the world.
Today, the globe seems smaller than a Ping-Pong ball. If lack of connection is
no longer an issue, then why am I alone?
At this moment, I am sitting in Time
Square. The air seems suddenly cleaner. Granted, it is only six am. But, isn’t New
York the city that never sleeps? With an unlit cigarette twirling between my
fingers, I continue to read my tattered paperback. The truth is, I don’t smoke,
can’t smoke, especially with these lungs of mine. The truth is, I am in love,
addicted with the smell of the cigarette. It reminds me of the skin I can’t
touch through the screen and the lips that I can’t kiss through the web.
He’s on the other side of the universe,
in a place untouched by 21st century technology. Although he denies it, he
moved to avoid connectivity, which leads to us and ultimately me. He couldn’t
handle the world at his fingertips. So, he took his cigarettes and his journal
with him on an infinite journey to places that are in desperate need of wells
and schools.
“Am I selfish for wanting to take him
away from those who needs him for concrete reasons?” the words echoes in my
head.
We stood behind the front door of his
already empty apartment. I wanted to collapse, but knew that it would not even
leave him quivering or confused about his plans for the next few years.
Instead, I picked up the box from the ground and lifted his duffel bag, which
he promptly pulled away from me. That duffel bag smelled just like the
cigarette I’m holding to my nose. The smell of his brand of poison reminded me
how much I procrastinated to fill that box with what little was left around his
apartment. His name is Jack.
 |
| Is it selfish to ask for forever? |
The box is still unpacked, abandoned
below my bed, waiting for Guntur to come over and persuade me to sort it
through with some vintage wine and gossip.
I smile, knowing that whoever is
reading this would suggest that I should just forget that charitable prick and
go for Guntur instead. He and I will never be together for a layered cake of
reasons. As he shifted uncomfortably in my couch a few months ago, I knew
something was wrong. Gun’s face turned red with embarrassment as I told him how
his breath smelled so potently of vodka. He took the few throw pillows he had
given me for my twenty-third birthday and placed it in front of his face as a
shield. He was clearly drunk out of his mind, a sin that he would have to
remedy the days to come.
Guntur grinned to confess “I met
someone new, now I can move on”. Clearly guilt-ridden to have left his fiancé,
he took his water bottle, which was definitely not filled with aqua, and
consumed it to emptiness. He looked up to the ceiling when within a moment’s notice,
his eyes rolled to the back in his head. I called 911, thanking the heavens
that we were in New York City and not Jakarta. We spent the night in the
emergency room. They pumped his stomach, draining the alcohol from his system.
He smiled the entire way through, knowing that he would never be happy. Guntur
finally admitted his love for men. Instantaneously, my new best friend was set
free from the straight line that dictated his life socially and religiously.
Yes, ladies and gentleman, my best
friend is gay. We have encountered many who have characterized his preference
as temporary as the color of his newly found rainbow that would run from his white
shirt to create a pool by the bathtub drain. And as I continue to stick my bum
on this sidewalk, all I could think about is how selfish I am at this moment. I
want Jack to abandon his sacred mission to return to my arms and the only thing
that could calm me down, unfortunately, is Guntur’s embrace, which will never
be as passionate as if I were a boy. As I review my train of thought, I want to
slap myself as I gradually become aware that Jack’s absence has awakened a
desire for Guntur to somehow love me romantically without my having to transform
to a man.
Spots began to form around me. I rose
to welcome the rain that streamed through with minimal warning. On most days, I
would have brought with me my trusty book bag containing a wind-resistant
umbrella. But this is not most days. It is a tragic day that finally allowed me
to admit my troubled existence. The rain, which brought with it the concern of
falling ill or damaging the handmade friendship bracelet Jack gave me a year
ago, washed away my existential worries. I look up, much like Guntur did, and
felt lucky, for once, that I am wearing my spectacles, which shielded my eyes
from sour raindrops.
Walking away from the crime scene, I
direct my stubborn feet towards the post office. Within minutes, a letter idly
awaits its long journey to the other side of the world. How poetic, I just
broke up with Jack by means of a hand-written letter. Practically skipping down the
block with damp clothes on, I bump into a familiar, yet unforgiving sight of
the woman I had become. I pull up my soaking hoody, with full knowledge that my
hair would not forgive me once the sun emerges.
The day seemed as quiet as it began. I
trail down Broadway towards Grand Central, in hopes of meeting someone new. The
cigarette is still stashed in my pocket, where the dampness accelerates the
paper and tobacco’s decay. The sunrays create halos above building tops,
blinding my eyes, transporting me back in time.
*All photos are supplied by the author
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