Page 167 of I Dreamt That You Loved Me
Gabriel and I settled into a rhythm. Every morning, we had breakfast on the deck. Then I’d head to the studio, and he’d vanish to the front porch to work on his music, and we’d meet up again for a late dinner.
Gabriel needed to write two more songs for the album, and I needed to finish my canvas by the following Thursday when Jack was sending a courier to pick it up.
There were a lot of heated phone calls on Gabriel’s end, culminating in a meeting in the city on Friday from which he emerged victorious. Barry would not be producing the album, and to appease Gabriel, the label assigned a new A&R executive to oversee the recording process.
All in all, it was a happy and productive week. On the creative side of things, anyway. But my emotions were wreaking havoc on me.
I found the Moleskine notebook sandwiched between Henry Miller and Toni Morrison on Gabriel’s bookshelves on Friday evening when I was waiting for him to come home from thecity. He’d called from a pay phone earlier, jubilant, and said he wanted to take me out to dinner to celebrate.
So I was all dressed and ready to go in a black cotton dress with sky blue embroidered flowers when I plucked the notebook off the shelf. It was the one I gave him before he left with everyone’s phone numbers written in it.
I guess I should have known that if Gabriel was in possession of a notebook, he would fill it.
When I flipped through the pages, a photo fell out. I plucked it off the floor and sat on the orange velvet sofa with Otis curled up next to me and the notebook on my lap.
It was just me in the photo, in my leopard print coat, in Tompkins Square Park with russet leaves on the ground. The camera caught me mid-laugh. I remember exactly when this photo was taken.
It was a few months after Gabriel signed the record deal and we were walking to Loisaida Avenue for some strong Spanish coffee. Gabriel had been up all night working on a song for the album and he was punch-drunk, telling a rambling story about the time he was in high school, and a guy in his class thought he was Jesus.
Fake Jesus claimed that he could walk on water. Turns out that he could because the lake in Michigan had frozen over but not all the way. The guy ended up with hypothermia and lost his pinkie and ring finger, so whenever he held out his right hand it looked like he was pointing a finger gun. After that, everyone called him Trigger Happy.
Gabriel wanted to write a song about it. I was doubled over with laughter when he said, “Hey, Cleo. Check it out.” When I looked over at him, he snapped the photo.
Now, I set it aside and opened the notebook, fully aware that these were his private thoughts, and I had no right to read any of this. But curiosity compelled me to read it anyway.
I’m so fucking sick and tired of the whole goddamn world.
I don’t want to be here anymore.
But I don’t have the guts to leave.
Tried and failed.
Tried…
and failed.
I sucked in a deep breath and flipped to the next page when I should have returned the notebook to the shelf or better yet, burned it. I knew by the dates at the top that these words were written years ago and that his head was in a better place now, but it was still hard to read. And yet, I persevered.
Spent the night in jail for being drunk and disorderly. I wasn’t drunk but I threw empty 40s at a BMW. Messed up the kid’s paint job.
Some punk in a polo spit on a homeless guy and then his friends started beating the shit out of the poor guy just for being alive. No provocation whatsoever. Where is the humanity? You won’t find it on the streets, that’s for damn sure.
As the cop was arresting me, the punk in the BMW shouted out the open window, “Get a job, you worthless piece of shit!” I told the cop he was arresting the wrong guy, but he cuffed me and threw me in the back of the cruiser anyway and the real criminals got off. What a world we live in. What a fucking world.
As soon as I got out of jail, I joined the homeless guy on the street. These are my people. I told him I was homeless too. Not a lie. I’m homeless. Before I left, I emptied mypockets and gave him all my cash. He said, God bless you. It was a good moment, but it didn’t last.
Now I feel empty again.
What would Cleo think if she saw me sleeping on the streets? She’d be angry (hurt?) that I traded in a good life with her for THIS. But there’s a lot of relief in that, too. I was such a drag before I left. Who needs that kind of bad energy in their life? Not Cleo. She deserves better.
*
I REMEMBER
I remember the scent of her perfume, spring rain and wildflowers and how everything she wore looked like art.
I remember her messy shelves, weighed down with well-loved books and the souvenirs she picked up in her travels (with me, apparently) and how she sat at her sewing machine making thick curtains for the windows because the light hurt my eyes and my head was pounding.
