***
It doesn't matter how hung-over you are or who you slept with the night before, Central Park is always a place of beauty (except for the odd hobo and midnight robber). This is where my mind winds down after a rough night and when I bought my Upper East Side penthouse a couple of years ago, it was on the top of my list - to be close to the park.
I grip the thermos coffee cup in my hand like it was a sacred object and take in the green, as much as I can under my hangover helmet. It's a bit sad to ruin this rather serene moment with a phone call to someone as depressed as Stephen, but a promise is a promise and a friend is a friend. I'm just about understanding this and it's about time, because I don't have many close friends left, and the ones I have are basically in meaningful or meaningless relationships - meaning they don't have much time to hang out with me. Not that I have much time to hang out with them either, being a workaholic and all.
I take a deep breath and sit down on a wooden bench. I scan the surroundings, but my vision is lagging slightly and everything around me seems to happen in slow motion. It's Sunday morning so there are basically only two types of people about - tourists and joggers. Not far from where I'm sitting, two squirrels are arguing about an acorn. I like squirrels, they remind me of Christmas. I watch a male jogger run by, his legs so hairy they seem tattooed. He's old but fit, clinging on to the years by his fingernails or by the hours spent in the gym. A young blonde woman power-walks past me the other way, looking pretty in her pink track top and her iPod strapped to her midsection like a life vest. It's the rush hour of jogging and although this is not Los Angeles, people sure want to look good. Good for them and good for me - gives me something to look at. I kind of envy these people who start the day feeling fresh and healthy, but I can't for the life of me go out for a jog. I was never a big eater and the extra pounds stay off anyway, so I might as well do something more fulfilling with my time. Like work. Or drinking. Or sex.
I take a sip from my piping hot Americano and dial Stephen's number. Am I ready for a crying man? We'll see.
Stephen picks up and says: “Hi Jack, how are you?” like he didn't just call me in desperation. This is the problem with being too polite, you end up wasting people's time asking things you don't really want to know nor care about. Being in advertising for almost all my working life has taught me that there are times for sugarcoating and times where you go straight to the point. You have to be able to choose your strategy based on the situation. With friends I don't waste time on the how are you-bullshit if I got something important to say. If they’re real friends you don't need it. But since he asks, I'm going to tell him.
“I’ve got a hangover from hell and I just slept with an elderly lady trapped in a young woman's body. I've been better. I guess you didn't call me to ask me how I was?”
An insecure chuckle follows. Stephen is one of these guys who doesn’t know how to react when somebody says something unexpected or crosses a social boundary - it's a typical defense mechanism of his. Then he gets to the point.
“I'm losing it, Jack, I'm on the verge of losing everything. Jeffrey still hates my guts and nobody understands why. Maria is distancing herself by the minute, she’s probably already preparing the divorce papers. Her parents think there’s something wrong with me. Maybe there is. Maybe I wasn't supposed to be a father.” Stephen is already on the verge of tears and pushing out the words in haste, like he's about to break down any second. I understand him though, it's got to be tough wanting something so badly and for so long and then getting there only to find out it's not what you thought it would be. I can sympathize, having worked my ass off my whole life to reach my peak at 33. It's all downhill from here, as Irish songwriter Paul Kelly sang.
But I just can't see Stephen and his childhood sweetheart Maria breaking up, I just can't see it. They are simply not good-looking enough to part ways at this stage, because they know they won't be able to find someone better. I'm joking. Half-joking. But I do feel that a break-up is close to impossible - they're just one of those couples who weather the inevitable storms. Although you can understand they hurt with all this crybaby business, especially Stephen who comes off as the culprit. He's feeling far worse than I do in a hundred ways, yet full-blown empathy is hard to find when you're really, really hung-over. I promise myself to do my best though.
“Fuck, Steve. This is a baby we're talking about here! Your son! I don't know much about babies, but I know this: they grow the fuck up. He might be feeling strange about you right now for whatever reason, but that won't go on forever. It can’t.”
“I don't know Jack. The whole situation is freaking me out.” Stephen sounds resigned, but at least he's not crying.
“You're giving up too easily.” This probably doesn't sound so convincing from a guy who’s allergic to relationships, but I’ll try it anyway. “You have been a couple for, how long is it now?”
“11 years,” Stephen says.
“11 fucking years!” I say, loud enough for everyone in Central Park to hear. “That's history man – that's a serious connection. It's not something you break just by a couple of baby tears.”
I smile at my own elegant way with words. This is where I'm at my best, saying what people want to hear, without necessarily believing any of it myself. That's the art of advertising, folks.
I continue: “You're just overwhelmed by the situation. I mean, there's so much stress involved in raising a baby, so much pressure.” I don’t know where this comes from, but suddenly I'm Doctor Phil, which should work on a softie like Stephen. “I think you and Maria need to spend some quality time together, go on a weekend trip, get a room, eat, shop, drink and fuck. Get back to the basics and find the love. It's there, it's just hidden behind all this baby-pressure.”
Stephen’s silent. Is he actually listening or just holding back tears? Then from somewhere deep down he speaks.
“Jack, you're a genius. I bet Maria's mother could babysit for a few days and we could go on a short vacation and really get some time together. I can't believe I didn't think about it before, but I guess all I could see was darkness, not solutions. You should’ve been a psychiatrist or something.”
Stephen is now doing the I'm so grateful I'll say anything-routine and I actually appreciate it. I don't know if I’d make a good psychiatrist, though - I like the sound of my own voice, but the never-ending noise of other people's problems would kill me.
We don't need to talk more now. He's feeling better and I want to finish my coffee and meet up with Mike for a chat about my date from hell. So I wish Stephen the best of luck with his angry baby and we say goodbye.