Weekends with Claire (Part II)

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Geo: 43.8131, -74.6578

While at the wedding with Claire, she told me that the following weekend, she and her siblings would probably be heading up to the family's log cabin up in the Adirondacks of New York. "You can come if you'd like." Of course I wanted to go, but such a passive invitation dissuaded me from immediately accepting, so I told her to let me know when they decided for sure. A couple days later I was "cordially invited" to the cabin for the weekend. A cordial invitation?! Infinitely more significant than a passing mention! The forecast was for gloom and rain, which would only mean that we would just have to stay indoors, eat, drink, and watch movies. Terrible. After my time in Newmarket with my Rare Company, I made the drive back through the wooded and twisted country roads of western New Hampshire and Vermont, the two-block towns and early fall New England colors, to Albany to ride along.

The cabin was awesome! It was a kit that her grandparents had bought and constructed in the 70s on the shore of Raquette Lake. Wide open kitchen/dining area and an adjacent living room (no walls between, so it was really all one large room), bathroom and two small bedrooms downstairs, and one large hostel-like room upstairs with a number of twin beds. The whole family shares the cabin, and it sounded like a vacant weekend was pretty rare, at least during the summer and fall seasons. I was on self-assigned fire duty for the weekend and immediately got to making a fire to heat the cabin. Next step (which should have been step 1): open a beer. Actually, I just remembered that I cracked one open on the long dirt road leading to the cabin, so I'm in the clear. Phew.

Her sister and boyfriend (the sister's boyfriend, not hers) showed up just minutes later, and we drank. It was cold - we needed whiskey to keep us warm. Put on some music and were just plain loud and obnoxious. And drank a little more. Went outside after nightfall to try to start a fire at the pit down by the lake. Across the channel we could hear men shouting and laughing and blowing some kind of horn, thus beginning a cross-lake dialogue of hoots and yells and fog-horn jingles. We decided that a visit was quintessential, so we strapped on some life vests and under the guise of night quietly canoed our way toward their fire as they continued to yell for us with no response (a surprise attack!). "Permission to come aboard?!" as we approached their banks, surely evoking some "WTF?!" responses. "Permission granted!" Only male voices had been heard from their side, so of course they are going to grant permission to a female voice, a mermaid rising from the depths of Raquette Lake! One of them met us at the dock and accompanied us to the fire. Four men - Jeff, Dave, Troy, and a man that was known as Matt Damon, all likely in their 40's. They offered us beer and I passed round the whiskey (Turkey 101) and I'm sure to a sober observer we were quite the octet of ridiculous loud voices and laughs.

We crossed back over the lake while their shouts and horn blasts continued to our long-extinguished lakeside fire (which had hardly been a fire to begin with). How long did we stay? Maybe an hour? 30 minutes? Though I don't remember (nor does she), Claire sprinted from the canoe to the cabin in such a hurry that she did not eve bother to remove her life vest. It was discovered the next morning on the couch. I don't quite remember even getting out of the canoe. Most of the night after the fire is a blur. And by blur I mean absent. The evening shrouded by a large black veil, interrupted here and there by small piercings, allowing glimpses of the night's events to shine through. Quite the night could be reconstructed from the handful of punctures that I retained! We both woke in the middle of the night, unified in a need to consume some jello from the kitchen. As we tried to quietly walk down the stairs, though surely sounding like a herd of bison tiptoeing over a field of bubble wrap, we were both amused and surprised at how there was not even a hint of hangover in our bodies. Marvelous! Many hours later, while preparing breakfast, it hit me, and I realized that the only reason we felt fine earlier is simply that, at the time, we were still heavily feeling the effects of the Turkey, now almost thoroughly exhausted.

Though the morning was still overcast and dreary, the four of us garbed ourselves in flattering raingear and headed down to the canoe to paddle around the lake and fish. Oskar at the bow and myself in the stern were responsible for paddling through the rain and light but chilly wind. Paddling Miss Daisys. An hour out on the lake and nothing caught but a few snags and a stick or two. Back at the cabin I quickly rekindled the dying fire - the whiskey wasn't warming me quite quickly enough. Lazy afternoon (what other kind of afternoon is there?) on the couches sleepily watching 1967's Cape Town Affair. We started with American Graffiti but were all bored to tears, despite the delectable and dreamy automobiles. More music and food and drinking (what other kind of afternoon is there?) The brother and his girlfriend arrived in late afternoon. More music and food and drinking (noticing a trend yet?)

The second night at the cabin was much more mellow than the first. The half dozen of us were lounging in the living room chatting - the siblings talking about old times and old friends while the three of us fought slumber. Against my better judgement, I took a pillow and rested my head against the couch, knowing that I would fall asleep. And I did. When I awoke, the TV was off, the room was dark, everyone was gone, and a blanket had been put on my lap. What time was it? How long had I slept? Long enough that they had put on Dirty Harry and got quite a ways into it before the rest of them started dropping like flies. Claire had also fallen asleep on the couch and when she woke up it was just the two of us, but rather than wake me she just left me with the blanket and went to bed. Thanks! However, I don't think it had actually been too long because it was her footsteps that woke me as she was getting ready for bed.

Morning. How can you drink all day if you don't start in the morning?! However, I think my liver was speaking up and whiskey was actually distasteful (blasphemy!). Catfish, a documentary about a woman who fabricates about a dozen different Facebook identities, was on the agenda. At first the documentary evokes mystery and curiosity, then becomes somewhat shocking and disturbing, and then simply melancholy. Though I cannot fully understand the woman's motivations, it is sad to me the measure to which people will go to feel loved and worthy and noticed. Are there times in my life that I have been so different?

The brother and his sweatshirt-clad lady left first thing in the morning. By the afternoon, the booze and food were all but gone, so there was nothing to do but go for a tramp through the woods (I was in front and my jeans quickly became like lead from absorbing the raindrops and clearing the path for the rest behind me), re-winterize the cabin, and clean up so the next family members could be greeted by a sparkling cabin. Back in Albany late that evening, we were about to get some food when Claire got a message that her expectant cousin had just given birth! Pretty much along for the ride, I accompanied her to the hospital so that she could meet the newest addition to her family. For a newborn, she was actually pretty cute (everyone knows that newborns can often be... hmm... let's just say not that cute). Claire didn't want to stay long, and we were given the perfect opportunity to leave when the nurse announced that they were about to take her to the nursery. A well-needed meal and lots of history on the drive back to her mother's house (yep, I met the whole fam damily). Thus ending my second (really, third) weekend with Claire.

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Lots of "dear diary" shit lately. Sorry. Then again, if you're still reading this, I guess something kept you hooked. Now for something different, though. Simply put: Claire makes me sad. Overall, and only as be an observation and not in any way a judgement, she is so incapable of giving or receiving affection. That last night at her mother's house I asked her "Why is it so difficult for you to receive affection?" "I dunno... I guess my sample pool is just so small that I don't have much to base it on." That broke my heart, whether she is simply not shown affection of whether she simply rejects it. I see myself as the kind of person that really likes to meet, to connect with people, to deeply see them, to be with them in their shit and their insecurities and let them know that it's ok to feel loved. And I guess I'm not all that different, since it wasn't until just a few weeks ago (Sobbing Joy) that I truly came to believe and embrace the fact that I myself am worthy of being loved. And maybe that's why it's so sad for me to see others who reject it. I tried so hard during the different times spent with her to just show her love, for no other reason than that. No agenda. No expectation. Just to love the shit out of her. The times that I did put my arm around her or touch her neck, despite her hard, rigid face that had "fuck you, I'm tough" written all over it, I could sense the gentleness and appreciation in her. Behind the face and beyond the shell I swear I could feel her body and soul melt a little, not in a romantic way, but a sigh of relief, a simple rejoice at being acknowledged. Maybe I'm just projecting or hoping, but it felt like, in those situations, it was something that she wanted to enjoy and wanted to embrace but some pride or hate or hurt prevented her of doing such. Or fear. Like something so beautiful and lovely being placed in front of you, free of cost, but for some reason you hate it and just want it to go away and leave you to your solemn, secure state of being. Who told you you're not worthy?

Similarly, a few times I would kind of poke or prod or play a little to try to peel her shell off a bit to try and reveal whatever affectionate interior she had. The afternoon after our fishing trip I was lounging on the couch playing guitar while the others were making sandwiches for themselves. "Hey Claire," I started, sweetly but a little teasingly, "you wanna make me a sandwich and bring it over here?" Just to see what happened. I was expecting a cold look or a "make it yourself" comeback. But not a word. While I continued to play guitar she got a plate, toasted some bread, made up a full sandwich with plenty of fixins and some potato chips, and brought it to me on the couch. It surprised me a little. Another time when we were sitting around I looked across where she was sitting in another chair and propositioned her, "I think you should come sit over here and massage my calves..." She kind of made one of those "phh" sounds and rolled her eyes a bit, but then got up, sat next to me, and proceeded to massage my calves and ankles. Again, I was surprised. Perhaps it meant that under that crass and crude exterior really was an affectionate woman, or maybe I'm just reading way into it and she's just nice. I dunno. Any females reading this - any thoughts? Am I an ass for attempting such an 'experiment' in the first place?

A lot of women like to go for the guys that have issues, guys that are fucked up a little, in assured hopes that they will be able to "fix" them. And guess what? They can't. Though I've seen some of my female friends do this over and over, I never really understood it until now. I think that Claire represented that same kind of person for me. Broken. A project. A really quite amazing person with so much to offer but with locks and codes to which I felt like I must have the key. I'll be the one to bring about a change! It was difficult for me to leave. It was difficult for me not to be able to reach her on that level. It's silly, but it was difficult that she did not break, did not cry, did not open up and just let me see her, see her shit, see her true, meek, kind self. That I couldn't melt that heart of stone. The next morning at her mother's house, she was leaving for work at the same time I was going to get back on the road. We stood in the driveway and shared a deep, close, lengthy hug. She even rested her head unto the nook of my neck. It was probably the softest and most vulnerable she felt out of all the time I had spent with her. A woman roughly in her 50's was walking by and said with a smile, "Now you don't see that too often on this street!"

"See you around." It was a lie. More to myself than to her. I knew I would probably never see her again. I felt a little foolish. I felt a little defeated. I felt sad. I felt a little like I had just lost something. I followed her down side streets and to the highway, playing cat and mouse as we sped down the interstate, and as she took her exit with her arm waiving out the window, though she would not have seen them (nor wanted to have seen them), solemn tears trickled down from behind my sunglasses.

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