Forget the Name of the One You Love
A novella by Scott Volentine
Copyright© 2011 Scott Volentine
All characters and events in this novella are entirely fictional. Any similarities to actual people or events are entirely coincidental.
License Notes:
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The following transcript was composed through the ink of my pen over the course of a month. What emerged grew into its own form; it gained a life of its own. As the pages stretched out I felt a piece of my soul crystallize before my eyes. I saw the parts of my heart that cower in the light of the sun; I saw the grand dilemma. What I hope is that the dilemma that became exposed through my art also will lead to an answer. It’s easy to put the question into words, but the skin will be torn from your fingers before the right words come for the answer. All we can do is try our best; and, trust me, I have tried my best. So, for your reading pleasure:
What you should be feeling is the moment and as you watch you will see it fracture all around you, you will see the truth gleaming out of the rip with all seeing eyes just for a second before it hides away again, but as you turn to respond to the one sitting beside you, tightly ensconced in your arms, an expectant grin on her face, still the knowledge remains of the monster lurking within you, the passion surging up to consume you, but don’t fight the flow because once it has opened up it will continue until you drown or learn to swim. The tributaries you travel will not be from a map and the current is always changing, so don’t expect an Indian guide to appear and blaze a trail for you through the hill side. The two of you walking arm in arm will remain two lost souls flailing through the darkness but as long as you remain together, you will never be lost.
#
“Speak up,” she says, my golden one, arms clasped beneath her breasts as she stares through the underbrush at me. I’m hacking away at the vegetation with a machete while she just stands there watching me. This has been going on for at least an hour; I am soaked to the bone with sweat. My arms feel like rubber and my breath keeps catching in the stifling sweet air of the jungle.
Between gasps I manage to choke out, “Whadoyou wamme tosay?” I mean, I couldn’t think of anything to say and hell if I knew why she thought it so important.
She glares at me and snaps, “You know!”
Not this again, I think, no more mind games. But the trap has been set, so, with a sigh, I let the machete fall from my hand.
This is the life. Any semblance of order is merely accidental, so, man, you just have to groove with it. Grab that saxophone you’ve got hidden away in your closet from back when you had dreams and blow your heart away. It’s okay if you’re rusty. We all are. Just groove with what you’ve got and let it grow and let it consume you. Let the music flow through you and release your spirit to the vapors.
This is all you can do, and it’s all I can do, so I grin as she, my jungle girl, stalks through the underbrush towards me, pushing a fern from her face, a glint of fire in her eyes, cosmic energy flowing to me from under her hooded lids.
All I can do is laugh. “Hey there beautiful.”
Silent as a leopard she darts toward me, flinging herself into my arms, collapsing both in fits of giggles into the soft foam of the earth. With a grin in her eyes, she pecks me on the lips and, laughing, she says, “Please, can we rest for a bit?”
All I can do is laugh and kiss her back—this one longer, our bodies sighing, lying back into the cradle of the earth.
#
Grab a seat up at hawk’s eye view for a second. Soar up through the canopy and let the ether take you away. From this perspective all earthly matters seem trivial. The last remnants of worry drift away. Alone, your spirit is free, but the calls of flesh summon you back. Dive through blue infinity and retrace your steps through the jungle. Spider monkeys duel in the treetops, screaming hollow threats at your silent passing. In the darkness, only their eyeballs shine with light. The rotten leaves on the ground muffle your steps. A silent specter, the travel lasts but an instant but all life reveals itself in this moment, slumbering where it belongs.
In this caress of sleep the light draws you onward in anticipation of the coming dawn, the beam of clarity bursting through the dreamscapes. In absence of the press of day all that exists are dreams. Let yourself float through all your detached visions of a better tomorrow, for when dawn parts your eyes, in the jungle you still lie, enmeshed within a bed built of foliage, your true lover equally lost as you.
#
Look inside each other but dare not speak, the fire needs making and all the tasks have been assigned. She will gather firewood while you play up the embers. Start with sticks and twigs to catch that spark, that flame of life sparkling within the coals. Let it grow and spread to produce the heat needed to cook breakfast. Throw bigger sticks on. Toss in some logs for effect. The power is growing and soon it will mature: in infancy cared by me, now big enough to support itself. The fire crackles as I turn my attention to the provisions we have stored within my sack: a pile of cans. I grab one labeled baked beans and pry off the lid.
“Hey, Amy!”
From across the clearing she pauses, stooped to the ground. Grinning, she laughs, golden curls flashing signals in the sun, tumbling down her shoulders into the space between her breasts, slightly exposed by her blouse, the top button hanging loose in the folds of green fabric. Standing up, she brushes dirt from her jeans. She looks over at me and asks, “Yes?”
“Could you bring that pan over here?”
Deftly, she grabs the pan from beside her and waltzes back across the campsite in tune with her own beat, banging on the pan with her knuckles, stepping around the fire pit. As if she were holding a Christian relic, she proffers the pan to me, watching to see if I will accept it.
“Thanks,” I say, taking the pan from her hand. I begin to ladle the beans in there. Once the can is empty, I toss it away and stick the pan over the fire.
Sitting back, I wipe my hands on my jeans and look into the eyes of my partner. She looks into me, and like a bomb I explode as her voice flows from her mouth.
“Now that that’s done, what else is there to do?”
“Well, we have lots of things to do. Water, for one. While the beans cook, let’s go search for a stream.”
“Will we be able to find our way back here?”
“Yeah, yeah. It shouldn’t be too much trouble. Here, I’ll mark some trees to leave a trail.”
“Okay. I’ll follow you.”
“I know. Well, no sense deliberating any more. Which way do you want to go?”
“I don’t know. Why don’t you decide?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, babe.”
“Hm… well,” Like a ballerina she spins on her heel, surveying the surrounding woods for any clue to the direction. Dumbfounded, she sighs, placing her hands on her hips. “Well, how about that way?” She points directly before her.
“Okay. Let’s go.”
Grabbing her hand, I dash forward to where she pointed, pausing, laughing, at a giant oak within sight of the crackling fire, etching an X with the sharpened blade of my machete. As we march forward I make sure to mark a tree every ten yards or so. And we search for water.
#
“I love you,” I whisper, though I know the thick branches muffle my voice. “Without you here I don’t know what I’d do. I remember the first time we met. Do you remember how we began talking as if we were just picking up a conversation from a couple minutes before? If I have to be lost in the jungle, I’m glad it’s with you.”
Too mushy, you think? Well, that may be so, but things like this do often happen to drift across your mind every once and a
while just when you least expect it, when the gentle murmur of a jungle stream pauses you in your tracks and you take a deep breath to ease your lungs and happen to look to your right and see your object of affection standing beside you heaving for breath as well.
Letting this moment drift away, I pull the machete from its sheath and carve a quick X on the closest tree. Motioning to Amy, I say, “I can hear a stream pretty close. Follow me.”
Nodding in understanding, Amy walks up to my side and grasps my hand as we cut our way through the trees towards the flowing stream. Sidling around a mahogany, I spy the glint of sunlight playing off the foaming water swirling by in a shallow ravine.
Amy laughs and runs towards the stream, ecstatic that our search has finally ended. She pauses by the water’s edge, standing with hands on her hip, considering what to do now that the water is in front of her. She turns to look at me, like a puppy that has found a bone it cannot even fit in its mouth, but then she grins broadly, a sparkle in her eyes as she begins to unbutton her blouse, the folds falling away to reveal her sports bra, the curves of her stomach.
“You better watch out for all the gnats and mosquitoes,” I say, walking up to her side, hugging her to me, kissing her forehead.
Looking up into my face, brushing her face into my beard, Amy laughs. “But, Jack, I want to swim in the stream!”
“Let me check it out first. Hand me the canteens and I’ll fill them up.”
I sling the bag off from my back onto the ground and Amy stoops down to rifle through it to find the canteens. Meanwhile, I walk over to the edge of the stream to examine it. Leaves float by sucked away downstream in a strong current. The stream is no more than ten feet across and I could easily see pebbles lying at the bottom, maybe three feet deep in the middle.
Just as I sit down on a mound of dirt to untie my shoes, Amy walks up to my side and plops herself down on the ground, her breasts jiggling slightly with the motion. I look over at her and see she is holding only one canteen.
“Where’s the second one?”
“I don’t know. Not in the bag.”
But these things happen. It’s no big deal. The other canteen is probably back at the camp. I hug her to me, her breasts imprinted on my chest, and, grinning, I say, “You did the best you could.”
She laughs and kisses me. I kiss her. She looks up into my eyes through her blonde veil. I reach up my hand and brush the hair from her eyes.
“This is perfect,” Amy whispers. “I wish we could stay here forever.”
“It’s all in the mind. If we want to stay here forever all we have to do is dream it.” A willing victim to my passion, I surrender my body to Eros. The curve of her lips, the smell of her body, the salt of her skin. A potion of madness to the one lucky enough to find it. The wind’s caress on bare skin, the heightened sensation of flesh, the blood pumping through my veins, the pureness of existence in our solace. The shudders of her bliss, the awareness of her power, her independence. Our shared moment, can half an hour be eternity?
The open air envelopes me in its limitless tranquility, the comfort of all creation closing in upon my singularity, the intertwining threads of knowledge hanging listless in the air to course through me in all its ferocious beauty, freeing my mind from its prison behind closed eyelids, the darkness tinted red like blood soaking in cloth. The stream’s murmur, the leaves’ rustling, the soft intake of breath, the rise and fall of my chest, the caress of grass upon my neck, the hair falling back from my forehead.
Both of us sunk in the fervor of bliss, the strength to do nothing. All that has ever mattered is this moment, this feeling. How could I banish this peace? Amy certainly seemed content to lie in my arms. Losing myself in the spots where our skin brushed each other’s, I did not notice Amy fall asleep as I felt myself begin to drift away.
#
And then everything shattered. A long hike cut short while my defenses were lowered. Some kidnapper, some rapist, some murderer had lurked up into the clearing in which we lay and stole my dearest Amy from under my nose. I don’t know what to think. All I know is the blind terror surging up from my stomach.
“Amy! Amy!” I shout, but it sounds like the jungle absorbs any sound that leaves my mouth, like a star has collapsed within my soul and all the air has vanished. Only a matter of time before I implode under pressure.
“Amy! Amy!” What should grace me with its presence but a green macaw, flapping up to a perch on a branch beyond my reach. The bird squawks at me in its avian dialect, reprimanding me for yelling. Well, perfect time for a shouting match.
“Fuck you, too!”
The macaw ruffles its feathers, acting all high and mighty up there. Grinning wickedly, I bend down and rummage across the ground for a rock. Clenching one in my fist, I rise back to my feet and take aim at the stationary bird. Directing all my energy to my arm, I wind up and let loose. A look of chagrin appears in the bird’s eyes for just a second before it disappears into the jungle in a cascade of feathers.
Mindless aggression. Taking the macaw out does not make me feel any better. As my mind tries to wrap itself around the fact that Amy has straight disappeared into the middle of the jungle, I stare blankly through the trees.
Vacuum seal my head inside a plastic bag. Make sure to cut a hole so I can breathe, but don’t make it too big. Don’t make this easy on me. Because it ain’t easy. That’s basically how I felt as realization surmounted my peak capacity for shock. As the pressure grew, throbbing on my temple, it felt like my mind was wiped clean of thought.
Sleepwalking on a high wire act, the trapeze artist flies by, brushing my hair with his foot. One inch lower my head would have been knocked off. So close. I yell my head off to let some steam out. Camouflaged birds explode from tree limbs scattered within ear shot, squawking in fear. The sounds of nature have turned against me, growing in a static pitch, vibrating against the back of my eyeballs. I fall down to my knees, cradle my head in my arms and try to think.
What I need is someone to talk to; to tell me what to do. There is nothing around to even hear me, except that sloth hanging up in that tree. Nasty animal. If it only moved, fungus would not grow on its fur. Stupid animal. Then maybe it could find love, maybe then someone would pay attention to it. But no. It is diseased, like all of existence. It will continue hanging there until the apocalypse melts the eyes from its skull, but even then it would not move. It can see the agitation boiling in my stomach but still it ignores me. It can hear me shouting for Amy but it plays dumb. Out of senseless anger I kick the tree to jar it from its contention, and I break my toe.
“Shit! Shit, shit. Shit!”
I am no longer coherent, but the pain of my crooked toe banishes some of the fog from my brain. Sinking to the ground, I rest my head between my bent knees, relishing in the pain as a distraction from reality. I let knowledge of my toe wash over my consciousness. I won’t be able to hobble out of the jungle in this condition, much too long of a hike. Good. That will give Amy time to return from where ever she went.
And then my mind hits a wall. Where could Amy have gone? Why did she leave me all alone? Every time I ask these questions the fog grows stronger. The imponderable truth of things has never been an easy concept for me to understand. All I know is that I am alone in the jungle, and my toe is broken.
“Shit!”
I want to yell until my lungs are ripped apart within my chest, until my throat bleeds and I choke on my own blood. I want to run through the trees until the sun explodes and its radiation consumes the earth. I want to cry. I do cry.
Looking up through my tears at the tree above me, I notice an X slashed into the bark, cut by my own hand.
Of course! Amy must have been hungry and went back to the camp! It’s all clear now. I knew she would never abandon me. Hopefully when I get back she’ll have dinner ready and then we can laugh about how freaked out I was.
Carefully pushing myself to my feet, tenderly putting my weight on my right foot, the nerves throb dully u
p from the broken toe, but it’s not a debilitating pain. I hobble over to the heap of clothing and sort out my shirt and jeans, pulling them on with haste, already covered with insect bites. Amy’s clothing remains heaped on the ground. Forlornly, not knowing what else to do, I cram the shirt and jeans into my bag. With a sigh, I turn and hobble back into the jungle.
#
Someone poured acid all over my foot, I think. How else could it hurt this bad? I’m scared to take off my shoe. I bet the toe’s only hanging on by a thread. But I’ve been showered with stoicism all my life. I can suck it up. I’m sure I’m almost at the camp.
The sticky air, burning in the shade, makes things worse. I douse my head with water from the canteen to wash away the sweat encroaching on my eyes. My footsteps muffled by layers of decaying leaves. I shimmy my way around an ancient tree, the trunk wider than an SUV is wide, brushing a fern away from my face. A sliver of smoke rises from the bed of coals in the center of the clearing. There is a shapeless mass of charred beans within the pan. Amy’s pack lies to the side. And that’s all there is. I don’t know what I was expecting. I was just hoping. Now I’m empty.
My bag slides from my grip. I don’t even have the energy to curse. I’ve been drained. That’s all there is to it. There’s nothing left for me to do. I won’t be able to find anyone for days in this condition.
Head hung low, I begin rummaging through my pack. I just can’t let this day get any worse. Luckily, I have just the thing, stored away for a day like this. If only I could find it. There is way too much useless junk in this pack.
Upending it, all my supplies tumble out, cans of beans, bug spray, extra clothes, a headlamp, a radio, some twigs, a box of matches, a toiletry kit. So many things I’d never need but not the one thing I do. Glancing back inside the empty pack I notice a hidden zipper, stitched near the bottom. Bingo.
I unzip the pouch and am relieved to have found my relief. A shoddy corn cob pipe—good enough for this purpose. Because what arrests my attention is in a plastic bag. The good herb, like the doctor prescribed for pain. I think I fit the diagnosis.