#3 - Chapter Three "It Hurts to Say Goodbye"

 

"It Hurts to Say Goodbye" 

Chapter Three – El Siegel 

I had a dream last night. 

      I remember it as separate scenes, flashes of people and color and feelings, pieces that weren’t woven into a clear, simple tale. I remember I could travel back in time. I held Faith in my arms, my hands caressing her dark hair, then my fingers touching the softness of her cheek, feeling each other’s warmth.  

      The dream was short, and it seemed real. Somehow Faith knew I had returned to the past to see her. We accepted that moving between the here and now to the before and then, and then back again, was almost normal. But she said I’d only be able to do it a few more times. 

      When I woke up this morning, the dream was still real. For just a few seconds I felt okay. 

      But then the sunlight broke in from the window, and I was tied up in twisted sheets, and I realized. It was a dream. I would never see Faith again, and the pain from her loss returned again. Now this was the real world. 

      I didn’t know how she died. Of course it was terrible, horrible, filled with shock and pain and agony.  

      Yes, I felt so much pleasure being with her. It lasted almost five months. During those five months, we had an understanding, we saw each other at least once or twice a week, and we talked more often on the phone. Faith was exciting and she was a constant discovery. 

      I can’t remember exactly when, but it started to feel wrong. Faith was young, brilliant and beautiful, and she had her entire life before her. I’m old, not much to look at, and I’ve already lived good years in my life, and I failed at one commitment, my marriage with Deborah. I didn’t want to fail at another. I didn’t want to hold Faith back with my false culture and phony sophistication. I wanted her to be free to discover life with her generation. 

       But I didn’t do anything. I just couldn’t give her up, couldn’t lose her. I needed her; I needed what she gave me – affection, caring, and maybe real love. But I felt guilty, and I still do. Was I honest with her? Somehow I feel I could have done more, I could have helped her more. I don’t know how, but I’m carrying that guilt around with me.    

      Now I’m alone again, and I feel the same terrible pain. 

-0-

Tragedy doesn’t make a single visit. I don’t know who can claim credit for this cliché. Suffice it to say that I hit a series of bad luck. One bit of bad luck after another, and in every case I bore a measure of responsibility. 

      There was my divorce from Debbi. Yes, we’d grown apart, and we didn’t feel the same pleasure in being together. Maybe we knew each other too well, and maybe we could have just continued making do, pretending, I don’t know, for appearances, for our friends and family, or most of all for our son, Patrick. I’m not good at remembering dates, but it was a little more than a year ago, after more than twenty years of life together, we agreed on what’s called an amicable divorce. 

      I was alone again. I wasn’t used to it. 

      Then came a surprise. I’d worked for eleven years for the Dutch chemical company Zout Chem International. I directed the company’s communications for North America from the U.S. subsidiary in Philadelphia. I was a big deal. I worked hard, obsessively from morning to evening. My team and I, we were successful in promoting our products. I was irreplaceable. Well, not quite. There was a big decision. The U.S. unit was reorganized, and my department was eliminated. Was it my fault? Sure, you could always do more, and maybe I was a little bit too opinionated. At least, with a European company, I was given a civilized departure package. 

      I had more free time than I knew how to fill. 

      One day, I complained to a friend, who had also worked for Zout Chem, and he told me about a poetry group that met every week – on Wednesday nights – on the second floor of Gertie’s Pub, a bar-restaurant in center city Philadelphia. He knew that I dabbled in writing and enjoyed beer. At every session, one or two stars recited from their published works, and then other poets could recite poems during open mic sessions. 

      I enjoyed it. The vib was loose and easy. The poets and the poetry lovers did their share of drinking, and everyone was supportive of anyone who had the courage to stand in front of the crowd and present their work. Back then, I always came alone. 

      That’s where I met Faith. 

      Gertie’s Pub, I’d seen Faith recite her poetry there four or five times. She usually arrived after the session was already under way and took a seat at the bar. When she stood at the lectern in front of the crowd, she appeared confident but not pretentious. Her black hair and dark eyes shined under the lights, and she recited from memory, rather than reading from a scrap of paper or a smart phone. 

      At several of the sessions I smiled at her and said “Hi.” She always smiled back at me. Then, one evening after the session, I saw her sitting at the bar alone. I walked up to her and simply told her that I enjoyed her poetry. She turned, looked up to me and smiled. She asked me when I would recite my poetry.  

      I answered, “That’s kind of a complicated question. I guess when my poems are good enough.”

      “I think I’ve heard that excuse before. If we all waited that long . . . ” She stopped for a few seconds, seemed to be studying me and asked, “You got someplace to go?”

      “Not at all. That’s why I’m here.” 

      “You want a drink and maybe a bite to eat across the street at The Saturn? It’s quiet and cheap, and we could talk.” She stopped for a second, and then, with a light laugh, “Oh, of course, I mean with me.”         

      I didn’t think. “I’d be honored.”  

      Still, I was surprised. At the time, I was sixty-four years old. (Since then I added a year.) I have a bald head, and a bit of hair in a ring around the back and a short beard, all salt and pepper. Every time I look, the salt is winning out against the pepper. I wear horn-rimmed glasses. I think I looked like a lot of old guys, and I’m sure I have several thousand doubles in big cities on the East and West coasts. 

      “Great, that’ll be great,” Faith said. “But first, I want you to know Bruce, Bruce Moore, the guy running our group.” 

      Faith pulled me to the far end of the bar, right up against Gertie’s front window. Facing away from us, talking to a few people, people I assumed were members of the poetry group, was a big guy. From the back, he looked more than six feet tall, and like me, he was bald. 

      Faith reached up and touched his shoulder, and he turned to face us. “Hiya, Faith. Good to see ya made it. How ya doin’?”

      “Okay, really okay. Not bad,” she said. “But, I wanna introduce you to someone interested in . . . I guess I can say that. He’s interested in poetry.”

      Immediately, this big guy grabbed my hand and shook it, while he patted my shoulder with his left hand. “Welcome, welcome! Good to see you again. I’m Bruce, Bruce Moore. I’m kinda a fixture around here. I’ve seen you at some of our sessions, and I’m glad to finally meet you.”

      Moore studied me for a few seconds. He had a big, friendly face, a big frame and a big presence. And now that I think back to that evening, he seemed like a big Teddy Bear. 

      I said, “I’m El Siegel, and, yeah, I am interested in poetry, getting more interested every time I come and hear your members recite their works.” 

      Moore said, “Well, El, it’s good to meet you in person, and I’m really glad you like what you hear. Ya know, our poets really put the hearts into their works, like all real poets, I’m sure. Hope you keep coming back, and if I can help you in any way, just ask me. I mean that.” 

      I was surprised. “Thanks, I will.”

      For an instant, Moore looked straight at me.

      Then we shook hands again. 

      Faith and I took the wobbly staircase down, squeezed through the crowd and the noise on the main floor and walked out into the narrow street. It was a warm and pleasant evening. The street felt like a festival, jammed with people standing around, talking, laughing and drinking, and some smoking. 

      Inside The Saturn, there were only about five or six other customers. It was quiet, without the blasting sounds you find in most bars. The only lights were tiny lamps on each table and fluorescent fixtures over the bar to make it easier for customers to choose their poison. We didn’t see any servers, so we just took a small table against the wall away from the entrance. 

      Faith jumped right in. She joined her hands under her chin and looked directly at me. “I knew it would happen sooner or later, and here we are. You look like good people, and interesting, so I told myself, what the hell.”

      We were quiet for a while. Then, I said, “I ought to tell you, just so you know. My name’s Elliott Siegel. But my friends call me El. I guess it’s easier to say.”

      “I already knew. The word’s out on you. Well,” and she waited just a second with a comic’s perfect timing, “I ought to tell you, just so you know, I’m Faith, Faith Gruen. But I guess you heard my name before, when I’m introduced to recite my poems.” 

      The waitress appeared. She told us her name was Dottie. She was middle-aged. Her face had fine features, her blouse gave me second thoughts: she was attractive. I ordered a Guinness Stout. Dottie was smart; when she looked at Faith, Dottie didn’t say, “And your daughter?” Actually, she didn’t have a chance. Right away, Faith said she’d take the same thing. 

      When getting to know someone for the first time, I believe we’re allowed a few silly comments. I could tell Faith agreed with me. She said, “You aren’t here, here at The Saturn for the music, are you?” 

      The slight tension evaporated. I answered, “Actually, I am.” 

      “Well, you made a big mistake. I can’t help you. I honestly can’t, and here I’m telling you the truth, I definitely can’t sing at all,” and Faith laughed at herself. 

      I said, “I’d say your poems make up for it.”

      Dottie arrived with our drinks. She waited for just a second to see if we wanted anything else. We told her no, and she returned to her post, leaning on the bar.

      Faith and I raised our glasses. “Cheers,” Faith said. “I hope we become friends.”

      We both took polite sips, and the cold ale felt and tasted good. I looked across the table at Faith’s bright face. “I do too.” 

      “What you just said before,” and Faith was suddenly serious. “I wanna tell you, it’s never good enough. I’m talking about our poems. I’m always thinking I didn’t capture what I wanted to express. So, a lot of times, when I’m reciting, I’m looking at people’s faces, trying to read their reactions.” 

      “I guess you saw mine.” 

      “Yeah, actually I did. I thought I saw understanding. Really, and your eyes didn’t stop on  . . . on my sweater.” Her light laugh seemed natural. “You looked like someone who thinks and has something to say, maybe in poetry. Maybe you don’t know that yet, but I bet you do.” 

      There’s another cliché. In a nutshell, it says beauty can be enhanced by personality. Faith had a fair complexion that contrasted with her black hair and her perfectly formed red lips. She was bright and engaging, and she was turning more beautiful before my eyes. 

      “Well, I been around a while,” I answered. “You see, of course, I’m not a spring chicken. I picked up a few things along the way.” 

      “I’m sure. I’m sure you did. And by the way, I noticed your eyes are blue.”  

      So she noticed, even behind my glasses. But one of the things I learned was that I should know my place. I didn’t want to make the mistake of the old guy that thinks a young woman can fall for him. An offer of friendship can stop there, and that’s possible, and it’s not bad at all. Or if friendship wasn’t meant to be, its chance can just evaporate.

      “But I’m wondering why you showed up at Gertie’s.”  Faith cocked her head to one side in a cute way. “What brings you to Gertie’s, anyway? Did you just stumble up the stairs by mistake? Or you in love with the printed word?” 

      “I’m gonna surprise you,” I said. “First of all, a friend suggested I stop by, thought I’d like it. But mostly, it’s a question of time. I got the time, plenty of it, why not do something I always wondered about?”

      Faith said, “Most of the people I know, including yours truly, we don’t have enough time. You know how it is, trying to earn a living, and all the rest. I do admin for a law firm, just two blocks from here, by the way, and there’s always something they need right now, especially at the end of the day. That’s why, too often, I get to Gertie’s late.”

      When Faith asked me how my writing was going, I explained I couldn’t get going, that I couldn’t think of what I wanted to express. So many of the poets at Gertie’s, from young people like Faith all the way up to old folks like me, they seemed to have favorite subjects, and they could make them real by describing their emotions, and sometimes descriptions. But me so far, I just sat in front of my computer, dumbfounded, and I tried to feel poetic, staring at an empty screen, and nothing came to me. 

      Faith told me that, when she was a kid, poetry didn’t come easily to her. At just thirteen years old, she tried to write her first poem, she admitted, but she didn’t know how to express herself. I couldn’t imagine a thirteen-year-old thinking of poetry. She told me she kept a journal, and she was scribbling down the “very special events” of her life. So, she asked herself: Why not use the ideas she was already expressing? Around that time, she was reading more and more poetry, like the beatnik poets from San Francisco’s North Beach. So, little by little, after a lot of work over a lot of time, her writing became natural. 

      So, Faith suggested that maybe, the best way to start for me might be to write about the ideas I find important, not necessarily as poems, but just in a clear expository style. And, at the same time, read as much poetry as I could get my hands on. She told me that at some point, there could be a natural transfer, and the words would start to be more poetic.  

      There was certainly no promise I would succeed. That was up to me and the amount of effort I was willing to devote to something new. I decided I would give it a try. I don’t know if my memory is playing tricks on me, but I sensed something, something like a vague idea of a poem struggling to get out, get free from my subconscious to my conscious. 

      It was easy to listen to Faith. But more than that, I realized she was giving of herself and trying to help me. Now, when I remember that moment, I feel the sweaty heat of guilt; we were talking for the first time, our first conversation, and she trusted me, already, that soon. Was I sincere and honorable? 

      So, here I was, talking to a woman half my age, and I made an important commitment: I would write a journal. I certainly had the time. Just like a lot of things in my life, my journal became an obsession. I wrote everything down. In fact, the account you’re reading right now is based on that journal. I’ll admit, sometimes recording what happened hurts. At the same time, recounting the events I go through eases the pain. 

      Where were we? Let’s get back to The Saturn. 

      Faith raised her hand and waved to Dottie. We saw her across the room, still leaning against the bar. She came right over to our table. She told us we needed refills. We agreed, and both of us ordered a burger and fries.  

      I said, “Faith, I wanna tell you something. I’m glad we’re here. I’m glad we’re talking. And it doesn’t really have to do with poetry.”

      She looked at me with her dark eyes. “Me too.” 

      “And, like I said, I’m gonna try what you’re telling me. Strange though, I have all these theories about human creativity, about how rich our minds are, all that kind of stuff. A lot of my theories have to do with marketing, coming up with ideas about how to get people to buy products or services, no matter what they are. But really, now I’ll try your method.”

      “I got even more theories, you know,” Faith said. “About all kinds of things, but mainly about poetry. It’s been my world for a long time.”

      “What keeps you interested? No, I know it’s more than that. I know it must be a passion. But how can it last? For so long?”

      Faith leaned back in her chair, and then she moved toward me. “It just grabs you. I think it’s the same for a lot of poets. We, everyone, we all need to be appreciated for something, admired for something. When I stand up there, I can feel it. People are quiet, and they’re listening. I don’t think it’s wrong to be proud of something we can do. I want people to understand, to feel something when they hear my words.”

      She stopped talking and drank the last sip of her ale. And maybe she wanted to give me time, for her words to sink in. “But there’s more,” she went on. “When I’m writing, really writing, I can be on a high. It’s such a pleasure. I feel a control and a power. The words come, and I feel powerful. Maybe it’s the endorphins, I don’t know. Sometimes I can’t even tell where the words are coming from, I’m writing new thoughts, and I didn’t think of them before, that I didn’t even put in words before. And yes, I write them out, just to have them. But when I recite, I know them, I don’t have to read them.”  

      Faith picked up her glass again, saw that it was empty, and pretended to frown. “And you know what? When I’m writing poetry, I don’t think about anything else, not about the lawyers at my job, not about when my rent’s due, not about a lot of other stuff. It’s just about poetry, the poetry that takes me away from everything else.” 

      Suddenly, Faith twisted in her seat and smiled. Dottie was carrying a loaded tray and walking toward our table. She stopped and expertly placed our hamburgers and our two Guinness ales, and a supply of paper napkins, on our table. 

      Faith and I were certainly hungry, because we dug in immediately. Faith was a careful eater, taking small, careful bites and avoiding getting ketchup on her chin, or her sweater. Me, on the other hand, I chomped away at my burger and fries. Okay, I was hungry and I dove right in, but I wondered about something.

      “Faith, you asked me why I showed up at Gertie’s,” I said between bites. “But you, what got you to Gertie’s and the poetry club there?”

      Carefully, Faith placed her hamburger on her plate. “Well, I told you that I love poetry. Even when I was a kid, I told you all that, I was actually trying to write poetry. Well, I guess it was about five years ago, I realized something was missing. I was on my own, I only knew a few other poets. So I thought I’d look for a group of poets. Something I didn’t realize, Philly, like a lot of other cities, has a bunch of poetry groups. So, I visited some of them. But I didn’t find just the right vib. 

      “That is, until I came to Gertie’s. At Gertie’s I really found something. Maybe it’s honesty and loyalty. Maybe it’s the openness and freedom. But really, most of all I guess it’s really just a lot of fun, all that other stuff and a lot of fun. 

      “And all that, it’s thanks to Bruce Moore,” she said. “It’s Bruce that created ‘Wonder Words.’ That’s the name; that was his name. But really, all the important things happened before I got there. I just know Bruce made ‘Wonder Words’ a real poetry club. For a lot of the group, well, I don’t know how to put it, just to say, people have a lot of respect for him.” 

      While Faith was talking, I was eating. I didn’t realize how hungry I was, and I was starting to feel a bit sticky. I ended up with ketchup and mayonnaise in my beard, which I kept trying to wipe away, not that successfully. 

      Laughing openly, Faith asked me if she could help. She dunked a paper napkin in her ale, and then dabbed at my beard. “There, that’s better.”

      Then, I didn’t know why, the words just came out, I asked her, “Can I see your hand for a second. I’d like to try an experiment, just an experiment.” 

      She didn’t hesitate. She reached across the table with her right hand. 

      It was a small, fine hand. I grasped it and held it for maybe fifteen seconds. I felt an electrical charge between us. 

      “Yes,” Faith said. “I felt it, too.”

      Suddenly, she glanced at her smart phone and shouted. “No, it couldn’t be. It couldn’t be. And I gotta get going, gotta be in the office early tomorrow. It’s past midnight. El, I gotta go.”   

      Hurriedly, I paid Dottie, with a healthy tip. 

      At the entrance, we pulled on our jackets, and I opened the front door. Only a few of the celebrants remained on the street. 

      As we stood in the middle of the street, in the middle of the dying celebration, Faith said, “Please wait a second.” She approached me, closer and closer, until our faces were almost touching. Then her open hands rose until she was cradling my cheeks in her palms. Her face advanced, and her lips touched, first, my left cheek, and then my right cheek, each for maybe ten seconds. 

      There it was, each time I got a jolt of electricity.  Then she said,  “That was just an experiment,” and she turned and ran from me. Maybe twenty feet down the sidewalk, she turned, waved, turned again and resumed running. 

      She looked beautiful, but just a bit sad. I carry that image of her always, in my mind.  

      As I began walking home, to my row house in Queen Village, I felt a bounce in my step. It was the beginning of something. I didn’t know what. I was elated. I knew, at least, I’d have company once in a while.