The Ice Age (10 page)

That must be why he once said, ‘I clearly find you very, very attractive,' with such a frown on his face.

He thinks I'm better off on my own, I thought. What an ass. But he is trying to do the right thing, leaving the money for me to make it on my own, and all. I watched some more TV and waited some more.

As luck would have it, I wound up watching some old Clint Eastwood movie where he plays someone macho in the extreme. This lady's really hung up on him. He ends up screwing her and flying outta there, leaving a bundle of bills on her nightstand as he goes. Now that changed my perspective on the whole ‘leaving me some cash to get by' thing. I was in no state to be confronted with a dose of Clint-sized chauvinism. Plus, the feeling I was conducting a stakeout was starting to wear thin. And I was hungry.

I left a note of my own, on the bed. It was kind of scrawly, too. Normally I have pretty good penmanship, but I was mad:

Dear Gunther,

Thanks for the wad of cash. Thanks for making me
feel like a fucking whore.

I was too frustrated and hungry to formulate any further sentiments. And I thought that sufficed. (I don't have a problem with prostitutes per se, or most people who are judged harshly just for the sake of it, and Gunther knows that. But I think I demonstrated my point.) I went downstairs to the diner and ordered a tuna melt. I ordered a coffee, but then canceled it. It made me feel even more like I was on a stakeout. I got a chocolate milkshake instead. With my new windfall of cash.

Eating made me feel a little better. I even felt vaguely OK with my potential new-found independence. Although that was a tricky one, because I'd always thought choosing to drift around with Gunther
was
a matter of independent choice. My first choice; my premium existence. However, being by myself and feeling I could call the shots was slightly comforting.

The waitress was nice enough. She had long, straight, mousy hair, and had on jeans and a red sweater: pleasant looking. She had that comfortable attractiveness of people who don't try too hard, aren't trying to outshine you, but keep themselves up OK. The lack of uniform was disappointing, though. As tacky as they sometimes are, I like uniforms. I like how they make our roles more clearly defined. They make waitresses seem that much more like nurses. I like the feeling I'm being looked after. But uniform or no, she was very attentive, given I was so young and dining alone. But I didn't want her worrying and thinking I was
too
young. That sort of thing draws unwanted attention. I was liking my freedom. I left her a good tip and called her ‘doll' on my way out.

By now it was completely dark out. I walked past the vending machine and thought about my vending-machine romances. They were little specks of nothing. I wish I could still be called upon to feel something for such basic things. Why can't I be moved anymore? Sometimes loving Gunther makes everything I see seem so happy and almost funny, like the whole world is a big sunny cartoon. When we're driving and I'm looking out at fields, horses, cows and crops, farmers, townspeople, other people in cars, I'm filled with the brightness of it all. Then there are times I can't give a damn for anything that isn't Gunther. It may as well be gray lumpy cold porridge. I don't care if it's people, or places, or time even.

The room was exactly as I left it, only darker. The thank-you note was there on the bed. Gunther's things were just as I left them. This was no real surprise. I caught myself in the mirror. I looked small and scared. And sad. I looked like a little rabbit in headlights. I switched on the TV. I watched something funny and didn't laugh. I rolled a joint. (Had he even packed spare underpants?) It occurred to me Gunther might be in trouble. It was weird how everything was still here. Except him. Something was wrong.

He's always been a weirdo, though. He moves in mysterious ways. And it's hard for me to judge these situations objectively, because, as I'm sure I've mentioned before, I find his absence very wrong, full stop.

I smoked my joint and channel surfed. I felt a little better. I'm not one of those people who wigs out on pot if they're feeling iffy. I guess I must associate it with the comforting rituals of Gunther and me. I was getting hazy and thought I could almost feel him again, out there, OK.

I watched a documentary on climate change. They'd assembled a group of experts who maintained that global warming was actually going to bring on an instant ice age. In our lifetime, probably. They bored down into the bottom of the ocean and brought up mud samples in chronological layers, like rings on a tree trunk. They could tell from the samples every time the Gulf Stream stopped flowing. Apparently when that happens there's an ice age, because the warm waters can't move warmth around the world. So places get cold and stay cold. And the Gulf Stream stops when there's not enough salt to sink down and force its current. As the earth warms up, the icebergs melt, filling the oceans with enough fresh water to thin out the salt until there's not enough of it to sink down and make the Gulf Stream flow.

I pictured Gunther and me sitting in a little shack, with a fire blazing around us. That didn't seem so bad. I wondered if it would still be worth his turning me into a vampire and living together indefinitely in those harsh conditions. That seemed all right, still. Independence lost any and all of its positive qualities. There's no pride in spending an ice age by yourself. That was for Gunther and me. Huddling for warmth with Gunther. That's the only way to go. I think I pretty much do that anyway. I need him near when this ice age hits. Need to know where to find him.

I'm not mad this time. Just wondering how he can stand the tension of this distance between us. Why he doesn't just snap back to our closeness like a stretched rubber band. I ache for him to come back. But I know he won't, not as quickly as I feel he should. Because he feels things in his own way. And this is him. This is just something he does. Now that I started with all the touching. Maybe I
am
a whore. It seems wrong making someone recoil from you in torment. Someone you care for a lot. I knew he was weird about it, and I just kept it up.

I'm not religious by any means, but I said what was essentially a little prayer to Gunther as I drifted off to sleep. I tried to mind-meld with him out there on his Gunther trip. I told him I was done disrespecting his wishes, done pushing him too far, compromising his Gunther space and crossing his Gunther lines. If only he'd come back.

I woke the next morning with the first rays of the blinding sun, poking through the cracks of the dingy blinds. I wondered if today would bring Gunther. Somehow it didn't feel like it would. But, being a new day, it still carried the faint promise of Gunther.

I went into town and walked around. There weren't many people about. And ‘town' consisted basically of one main street. There were a couple of diners, a gas station, a library. A knitting shop. I passed a couple of clothing stores that looked like they hadn't changed their window displays since the 1950s. The mannequins were dusty, and looked even more tortured than usual. Never mind about the clothes.

I had breakfast at one of the diners; eggs on white toast, bottomless coffee. I deliberated on pancakes, but wasn't happy enough. Nor was I feeling sorry enough for myself to warrant cheering up via comfort food. I had what I deemed a man's breakfast, minus the bacon (too salty, and pigs are just so damn loveable). Then I went and sat in the library.

I found a book on Egon Schiele, sat at a table and looked at the pictures. Egon is Gunther's favourite artist. He took me to an exhibition of Austrian expressionists on one of the rare occasions we stopped in a city. He's pretty good at locating retro movie theatres, too. He likes to try and get us a cultural fix every now and then. We once found an arthouse cinema in a town so tiny all it seemed to have in it was this cinema. We saw Betty Blue. Now there's a chick who latched onto a man and was truly crazy. I'm not that out there. Besides, I didn't feel like I was latching on until after the fact. Seems to me like I was invited.

I sat there and read about the life of Egon Schiele. He and his wife both got sick and died young. His artwork must have been pretty shocking for his day, because it's semi-pornographic by today's standards, but then, what a fucking bunch of prudes everyone is today. I don't think Egon would have cared either way. In his words (written in calligraphy on the inner sleeve of the book), ‘Art cannot be modern; art is eternal'.

I find Egon Schiele's paintings to be a touch haughty. I can see why Gunther likes him. But out of all those old expressionists, I like Richard Gerstl, who committed suicide young and left barely any work behind to show for it. Gunther says I have highly advanced tastes. But it's pointless to write about art when it's not there for people to see.

Checking the motel again for signs of Gunther was a compulsion I tried to but could not resist. I meandered a little, but there was no point in kidding myself, I really wanted to just make a bee line for the room, so that's what I ended up doing.

He was sitting up in bed with his ankles crossed, smoking a joint. He hadn't even bothered to take off his shoes. But then, in a dump like this, who cares?

‘Have a good time?' he droned, evenly. Goddamn the King of Cool. I just looked at him.

‘Spend all the money?' Just as cas.

‘No,' I stammered. ‘Some of it. I had eggs.' I shrugged. ‘And stuff.'

He smiled graciously. I knew he could tell I was upset. And it seemed like such a weakness, all this raw emotion of mine. He beamed down on me from that filthy rooms-by-the-hour motel bed, looking like someone had stretched a Buddha. All long and thin, exuding calmness, kindness.

He handed me the joint, in a slow fluid movement. I took it, and flopped down on the bed next to him. We both stared straight ahead in silence. God knows what he was thinking; I was wondering where the fuck he'd been these past few days. He couldn't possibly have dames everywhere. Besides, I don't think Gunther's libido's all it used to be. He keeps to himself, and I coax him out.

After we'd passed the joint back and forth and I'd had several good tokes, it struck me how perfectly the vampire scenario explained the unexplainable absences. If I had to duck out and slaughter some semi-innocent victims for the purpose of sucking their blood, I wouldn't tell my loved ones, either.

We switched the TV on and watched the news. Some little girl had gone missing in the next town over. And the next county had been swept by a tornado. There was an autoworkers' strike, and they were predicting a drought.

Gunther said, ‘Hungry?'

I said, ‘Yeah.'

Damn it how Gunther seemed to know his way around every town, no matter what a backwater it was, and how much he seemed like a piece of velvet on a hessian sack. Like a cat padding through his territory, he drove us to a well-decent little restaurant off the beaten track.

Hell, was it romantic. There were candles and red wine. No one seemed to care that I was way underage. I just sat across from him beaming. He returned my gaze with plenty of feeling, and that touch of kindly pity that seemed to be increasing as the evening wore on; seemed to be increasing in direct proportion to the rise in my romantic zeal. After all, it was nearly bedtime.

In the car, on the way home—on the way back to the sleazy motel—I told him about the ice age.

I explained the whole thing, with as much scientific accuracy as I could. I covered the mud samples, the Gulf Stream, the sinking salt, the melting ice caps, the increased global warming, et cetera.

He grinned sadly, with no hint of teeth, and said, ‘Is that what we have in store for us?'

I said, ‘Yes, it is!' and involuntarily leaned in toward him. I desperately want to share that phase of existence with him, bound together by love and necessity, watching this mad planet get its own back. That was definitely in store for us. He must understand that. There would be no disappearing for several days, driving off without a clue. He
could
do that, but he would lose all his warmth, all his shelter and safety; all that would undoubtedly become sacred.

When we got back to the motel, and I stretched out my arms toward him, he said, ‘I'm sorry. I can't do this anymore.' He drew back a half step. ‘I never meant to.'

Again, I only stared.

‘I'm old…er than you,' he said, by way of feeble explanation. ‘You know? You're not old enough to even know what you want. I can't take someone like that.'

‘And you're old enough to not want anything anymore,' I snapped.

‘I want things.' He sounded genuinely hurt. I didn't anticipate such flippancy could have an impact on Sir. Master of His Own Domain. Mr. Even Keel.

‘I want you to know my sincerest friendship. As I do for all my dear…special friends.'

Oh Gunther, ever the disarming one. Hearing him call me ‘dear' and ‘special' quieted me down. But I was still feeling princessy enough to fuss over the point of having to share him with the rest of these gourmet friends, and wondered how many we were talking. I'll always want to be his special #1, the way he is for me.

‘Friends are a very special thing,' he said.

I said, ‘I know.'

I crawled into the fetal position on one side of the bed and tried to sleep. I tossed off clothes intermittently, and strewed them on the floor. I wasn't sure how much to take off, now that the line had been drawn at ‘just friends' again. But I wanted to be comfy.

He turned the lights off and tried to sleep, too. It seemed so unnatural, forcing ourselves to stay apart like that. It was hard to sleep with the tension of it. He must have felt the energy coming off me the way, I was sure, I felt the energy coming off him, because by morning I was wrapped in his arms. We didn't get up to anything. Just held each other.

He got up even earlier than usual, and started on his morning routine. I could tell we were leaving by the nature of his preparations. Everything was going back in its place. Things were finding their way into orderly piles. I was still lying in bed, watching him.