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Secrets escape one by one, no matter what you do to prevent it. Take as many precautions as you like; soon enough your elaborate veil falls victim to reality and you are left standing naked and ashamed, with the tatters of your veil at your feet. Out of reach.
“Jeff, you look like hell,” Mick remarked as the two of them shared a quiet word over evening cups of coffee in a dimly lit restaurant.
“Mm, yeah, thanks. Getting over a cold.” Jeff fidgeted noticeably, coughing into his fist to prove his point.
Mick was not impressed. “I saw you three days ago, man, and you were fine.”
“I’ve just got a good immune system. What is this, an interrogation? Piss off.” Jeff crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue and leaned backwards in his chair, while his conscience chided him. Of course Mick was onto him; how long did he realistically think he could get away with this weak charade anyway? He had forgotten to shave this morning and the jeans he had on now were the same ones from yesterday. He hadn’t eaten for a while either. Those actions just took too much time and energy. He felt scuzzy and greasy, but he had to admit also in the past – on the road especially – he could go for days without really showering. But this was different. He wasn’t on the road now.
Something odd was definitely transpiring here, though. A week ago, the arrival of sunset usually sent Jeff out of his apartment to seek entertainment. Friends, clubbing, shows, anything. But now as the sky started to darken, always on time, Jeff’s muse awoke from its daylight slumber to whisper seductively until he couldn’t take it anymore. Until he dropped to the floor, cross-legged, with a pen and paper and guitar. For hours on end he would pace, picking out melodies, humming, using every object around him as an instrument to contribute to his motley symphony. Come sunset, the coffee table became a drum set. Silverware was bent, mutilated, malformed, to create all sorts of new sounds. He beat the soles of his feet against the floor, the palms of his hands against the hollow body of his guitar. He strung rubber bands together to form a space-age makeshift sitar. He even whistled, clapped his hands, and thrummed deep in his throat to imitate a bass line.
When it was actually happening, it didn’t seem all that extraordinary. In the dark, Jeff slipped into some sort of oblivion that absolutely refused to release its hold on him until the sun rose again. Until the world began moving again with the arrival of a new day. But when he felt himself again, out goofing around in the warm April sunlight, winking at random girls and slavering over glittering new guitars that he could probably never afford, he realized that the things going on at night… They were almost supernatural. Almost heaven-sent.
Mick had remained silent the whole time Jeff brooded. He could see by the glassy, unaware look in his companion’s eyes that he was doing some serious soul-searching at the moment. Not an uncommon event. So Mick wisely kept his mouth shut and waited for Jeff to return to the present. He knew if he tried to ask anything before then, a response was not likely.
Jeff’s senses came back slowly. Unusually slowly, actually. He blinked twice, shook himself. Wisps of dark hair tumbled into his eyes, giving him a sultry but vulnerable look. Most of all, Mick thought, he looked distressed. Exhausted in every sense of the word. His old spark had dimmed, and now his bright eyes were stormy.
“Buckley?” Under the table, Mick nudged Jeff’s foot with his own.
Jeff nudged back harder, a smile growing on his pale face as they traded kicks beneath the table like children. It rattled and their mugs clinked as they laughed.
“Seriously, man.” Mick waved a hand, his tone slightly grim. “You never pick up your damn phone. You never go out anymore. And, as previously stated, you look like an inmate on death row. What the hell is going on here, Jeff?”
Jeff didn’t know what else to say so he finally just told him the truth. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t?
“No… I don’t have any idea.”
Mick pursed his lips disapprovingly and shook his head. “Not good enough, Jeff.”
“I just…” He stopped. “I’ve been having some trouble sleeping lately.” That was the truth, sort of. It omitted large chunks of actual fact, but it was like… an abbreviated truth. Jeff had been having trouble sleeping. Those parts about being possessed by the physical need to write and going into that wonky state of mind and all that… Mick didn’t need to know that right now.
Jeff jumped a little when he felt Mick’s hand on his wrist. His bandmate’s dark eyes were cast down guiltily. Jeff knew what he was going to ask before he asked it.
“I’m clean, man,” he said vehemently. “You don’t even need to look. I wouldn’t lie!”
Mick held up his hands and shook his head, looking doubly guilty at Jeff’s reaction. “I know! I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have even… I’m sorry, Jeff. I’m sorry.”
Jeff sighed and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Yeah… I know. Me too. Didn’t mean to flip out.”
“Have you tried sleeping during the day?” Mick asked tentatively.
“No.” Jeff shook his head and took a long gulp of coffee. “I think that would just make it worse.”
“But Jeff, you’ve got to sleep sometime. You look sick. You’ve got to get some sleep.” Mick made a face of pity.
Jeff tilted his head back and said curtly, “Look, I’ll figure it out. It’s not your problem.”
“I’m just trying to help, Buckley! I’d rather you not die from lack of goddamn sleep!”
“Look, man, this is just a temporary thing. I’ll get tired enough and just crash sometime. Something’s bound to happen.” But the truth was Jeff didn’t want anything to happen. By now, he had almost enough material to record a whole album. And critical though he was of his own work, nearly every song he had produced in the last few nights was worthy. He had to get into the studio, and soon.
“Right. You can’t go without sleep forever.” Mick seemed reassured by this, and Jeff nodded and smiled. The tension dissipated like smoke.
But it was nearly seven PM, and the sky was turning indigo at the edges. Jeff drained his mug and handed Mick a twenty for dinner and the coffee and stood up. Mick opened his mouth to protest, but Jeff gave him The Look and his mouth snapped shut again.
“Sorry, man. I’ve got some unfinished business I need to attend to before it gets dark, capiche?”
Mick nodded and winked his silent goodbye. Jeff saluted him and strode out, breathing the near-night air deeply and relishing it on his face. The last rays of the sun were a diluted yellow, retreating from the streets quietly as storefront and streetside lights blinked on.
There was one place in particular Jeff was looking for, one with a battered hand-painted white sign out front on the tiny lawn. If memory served correctly, it was at the end of this street and to the left a little.
As he walked, he wondered exactly what he was thinking. He hadn’t been to a place like the one he was going to now in nearly seven years – not since he moved out of his mother’s house and went to college. After college, he never even gave it thought. He passed them sometimes on the street, glancing at their wide open doors, their sparkling, multi-colored windows. Sometimes he would watch as neatly dressed people filed in through those doors and feel a pang. Sometimes he wanted in. Most times he did not.
Now was one of those times he wanted in, and for a very special reason.
Jeff stopped in front, glancing guiltily at the white sign for a split second before making his way up the paved walk to the double doors. They were closed, but from behind them he could hear a low, murmuring, seductive voice. He pushed one open as quietly as he could, and stepped into the warm, dim interior of the church. It felt like a rebirth the moment he was inside. It felt foreign and he told himself he was trespassing on territory, into a place he did not belong, and yet he felt welcome and soothed.
He kept to the back for a moment or two, close to the doors in case he needed to escape. It had been so long since he last went to mass that everything looked strange and unfamiliar for a moment, but then the Father’s strong, lilting voice reached his ears and he realized that his long absence from the church had done nothing to curdle his memory. He knew every word to every prayer.
As the organ started up – an old hymn Jeff couldn’t remember the name of but recognized immediately, of course – he padded as inconspicuously towards a pew in the middle as he could. He slipped in next to a willowy, bright-eyed woman in a dark skirt. She didn’t even acknowledge his presence as she sang – off-key, but powerfully. Jeff gripped the back of the pew in front of him with nervous hands and sang along, almost whispering at first but then louder.
Everything was muted as he sang, his eyes dropping closed. The present ceased to be as Jeff took a trip down memory lane, wiping dust off everything and brushing away cobwebs of disuse. He saw his mother kneeling before him to straighten his tie and smooth his collar. His mother’s hand in his, leading him into the narrow passageway between pews. The musty smell of the Bible, open in his lap, as he slumped in his seat and made faces at the girl in the pew behind him.
Though Jeff felt inexplicably at home in this place, once the hymn had ended, he felt a stranger again. He regretted his place in the pew. He regretted ever seeking the church out. He had wanted to come here to pray, ask God what was happening, but this was the wrong place. He’d get no answers here.
He turned and fled, too bitter to look back.