Remy Sails Again
I wear a small two-tone medallion of an eight-point compass rose around my neck.
The Romans first used it. In the middle ages, the Arabs perfected the symbol. In all cases, ancient and contemporary, its use has remained constant for centuries. The compass rose indicates the four cardinal directions on a map: north, south, east and west.
In short, it shows the way. It is direction for the lost, salvation for the doomed. Sailors, overland explorers and later aviators placed their trust onto its faithful petals.
I thought it could do the same for me.
Hold onto the thread…
Her name was Remy. Her name still is Remy. I’m reasonably certain she didn’t change it. I know for a fact she isn’t dead. I only refer to her in the past tense because she has no place in my future.
In keeping with the nautical theme, Remy’s ship has sailed. It never made port and appears on the Lloyd’s List as having been “lost at sea”. I like to think it ventured into the Bermuda Triangle of relationships and disappeared…fated to resurface abandoned years later and cause us all to scratch our heads in bewilderment as to would forsake such a lovely vessel for the cruelty of the unforgiving sea.
Well, me, for starters.
And, by the way, her name isn’t really Remy.
I’d had that compass rose medallion for years. It used to sit in a small red box, resting lightly on a square of spongy Styrofoam, waiting silently on my bookshelf. One day, I took it out and put it on and silently prayed for a little direction.
The currents will shift…
Glide me towards you…
And then, like the waves in the song, Remy rolled gently into my life. At first, I was drawn to what I thought was a placid, glasslike surface of peace and calmness. Some time later, I was surprised to realize what I saw was the reflection of turmoil and chaos – a foaming, raging sea whipped wild and white by the wind of the roaring twenties.
All the warning signs were there. My internal compass, usually rock steady and unwavering, would spin dizzily in circles. I’d drown in this girl’s presence. I’d let myself be swept away by whatever nonsense she was carrying on about. Then, the giddiness would wear off and I’d find myself lying face down in the sand on an unknown shoreline covered in seaweed and naked except for my trusty compass rose.
Time we touch…
That was the worst part. To be perfectly honest, however, I don’t think we ever really touched. I imagine hugs don’t count. She may have touched my hand once. In this case, the word “touch” means “see each other” or “talk” or, more appropriately when it came to Remy, “collide in the middle of the night”. I usually went straight to the bottom with all hands.
Time we touch…
Right, sorry. It was like coming down from the best heroin high in the history of mankind.[1] I’d be the King of the World, a handsome Leo DiCaprio riding the majestic prow of the Titanic one moment…and then a bearded Tom Hanks losing his mind and talking to a volleyball the next.
Remy shipwrecked me – at least emotionally. I’d wait for days, weeks for a glimmer on the horizon. Nothing. Then a text message, maybe an email, the rare phone call…but always, always, always when Remy needed something from me. Just when I’d be on the verge of losing all hope, Remy would go drifting by in full sail and a new paint job – young and sleek and shiny and gorgeous.
Tho oceans away
Oh, but she did. Anywhere from four to twelve hours later, I’d be on the shore again – coughing up salt water and tearing mollusks off my thighs.
I’m not a very good swimmer and although I’m a great admirer of ocean-going vessels and own two coffee table books of famous shipwrecks, I eventually tired of fighting against Remy’s undertow. I’d had it. I’d lost my sea legs. And I really didn’t give a fuck.
Waves roll in my thoughts…
I made the mistake of doing just that. I let Remy take shelter in my mind’s safe harbor for a night on one of her cocaine smuggling runs. I figured that was the only explanation. Clearly, it was the lucrative drug trade that kept her away from me.
I fell asleep thinking about how embarrassingly off I was on Remy. I fell in love with the idea of her before slowly beginning to realize how awful she actually was.
For such a magnificent little racing yacht, she couldn’t hold anything close to a true course. The storms followed her everywhere. The small auxiliary engine meant to keep you going on no-wind days was seized. Her bilge pumps never worked so you were constantly ankle deep in shit. Even in calm seas, she bucked and rolled so fiercely you were perpetually in danger of being tossed overboard.[2]
I guess Remy needed a little time on dry land to wait out the tide. So, we went for a walk in my dream – through a shopping mall, of all places. Remy held my hand. I suppose she had spent too many long nights at sea.
“Do you have a condom?”
We’re standing in front of a drug store.
“No,” I squeak. You have to understand that Remy had been making a superhuman effort to jerk me around for weeks. The revelation now that she wants nothing more than to go for a raunchy romp through the garden of earthly delights triggers instant bipolarism.
What the fuck? She’s crazy. This is it. She’s going to smother me with a pillow then steal my credit card.
For now, she leads me by the hand into the drug store then to the family planning aisle.
“Lifestyles,” she insists, grabbing a box. “I use these all the time.”
I want to ask: with who? And when? And did you insist on an STI exam beforehand?
She buys a bottle of iced tea and a pack of gum as unlikely companions to the rubbers. I stand behind her smiling shyly. The guy behind the counter winks at me. Little do each of us know, this maiden voyage is doomed to end in disaster. Only one brave little iceberg managed to survive its drift into the warm south Atlantic.
I’m heading straight for it.
“Okay,” Remy sings. “I’ve got to make one stop. I’ll meet you outside.”
Fine. Five minutes later, I’m waiting by the door and Remy rolls up in her rental car. It must be a rental car because it isn’t hers. She’s talking on her cell phone. She’s smiling at me but something’s off.
It begins as a pinprick. A tiny, nearly imperceptible but searing pang of fear in the depths of my stomach. Slowly, it expands and swirls and bubbles up until I feel full and ill.
Soon, I’ll be on that shoreline again – carrying an incoherent conversation with sporting equipment.
Remy drives away, still talking on her phone. I see her eyes in the rearview mirror – calm, peaceful, soul-shattering.
The compass rose on my chest burns against my skin.
She waves.
I stand there. I hear Pearl Jam’s “Oceans” in the distance somewhere – wafting across the parking lot from some grunge afficionado’s open car window.
Please stand by the shore…
I will be there once more…
No, Remy. Not this time.
[1] The author has never done heroin. He has, however, read a book written by someone who has done more heroin than the entire population of New York State and California combined. This statement is made based on the expertise garnered from literature.
[2] Just to clear up any confusion, Remy is actually a woman – not a racing yacht. The author is employing the literary device known as a metaphor.
