A house. A small house, but a house nonetheless. Aching with the stench of betrayal, heartbreak, marijuana. A two-year-old. An eight-year-old. A thirteen-year-old. A sixteen-year-old. An eighteen-year-old with a knife. A spattered with blood: a macabre Jackson Pollock, a weeping mother. A policeman, and then several. It was in the news, in the papers, on Facebook. He is a bad person. A thug. Low class, street trash, drug-addicted son of a bitch. He has heard it all, and still, Vincent’s ringing I know bites him harder than any other dog of a word he’d ever experienced. He smiles sadly, looks at his feet. The truth of the matter is that Vincent doesn’t know. The truth is that Vincent wasn’t there that night, but he was there every night after that. The truth is that Ella wants, more than anything, to pretend it was self-defense or an accident. To pretend things like that happen to men like that because they were men like that.
The truth? The fact that Ella could get angry, could yell at Vincent eighty times over because the man just doesn’t listen. Could ask him if he thinks dealing is a career choice, if he thinks he can keep doing it the rest of his life, if he doesn’t consider the legal ramifications, if he doesn’t think it’s selfish. The truth is that Ella would never get mad. Partially because he isn’t an angry person, partially because he’s sure Vincent would tune him out completely if he did. Instead, he melts into the couch, sips his tea, and nods. “I know you know,” he says, his body a puddle of please, learn from me. He brushes hair out of his eyes, looks at Vincent, really takes him in. Two men, he thinks, from the same place, and yet, they couldn’t be further apart.
He listens to what Vinnie says, considers it, and places it in the box along with all the other Vincent says to pacify his own fear. Ella knows the man is afraid, has to be: fear and love, the only motivators. He sighs quietly, looks into his mug. He thinks, yes. He thinks, Vinnie, you’re damn right. He stays quiet, letting the silence diffuse with the lavender. In a way, Vincent is right. Time is an organizational tactic designed to give people obedience and satisfaction. There had to be more to life, however, than success, or whatever warped version of success that constantly occupied Vincent’s mind. As the few moments of silence subsided, Ella took a deep breath.
“Everything we know is relative, isn’t it?” Ella remains quiet, voice level. “Pretty philosophical shit if you look at it that way. But the truth remains that you do have limited time here.” He looks at Vincent one more, sips his tea, and shakes his head again. “Not being poetic about it,” he says, smirking slightly. He closes his eyes now, just breathes before continuing. “But if you keep chasing a finish line that you keep moving, you’ll never reach it. Where is the finish line?” He didn’t understand Vincent’s impatience, his ache to be what he wanted to be as quickly as possible. He didn’t understand the stubbornness with which Vincent chased an imaginary concept. “Sometimes, I wish you could’ve seen the look on my mother’s face,” he said, “I’ve never seen anyone look at me with more hatred, more abhorrence than she did that night.” He opened his eyes. “I remember being happy, you know? Finally, she was feeling something towards me.” He smiles gently, an offering of solace in the expression. “Come back,” he whispers, “To this, to all of us.” To me. "Whenever you’re ready,“ and he pats the couch.
the calmness had completely washed away now. he loved ella, and ella had supported him for years, in times when he lacked any. right now, though, vinnie just wanted to leave. life pulled him by the chains on his feet and he just wanted to be let loose for once. why can he catch a break? even from one of his best friends. someone who understood him on a plane no one else did. can’t they be alone together and not have this conversation? vinnie wants to grab his backpack, he wants to tell ella life doesn’t him the safe as it does for the other. he wants to leave and just go back to his place where he can watch television and forget about everything. but there he stands, in the doorway of the kitchen, looking at ella and feeling the disappointment and judgement like it was hot off the stove. sizzling from the top and there was nothing he could do.
there weren’t a lot of options at the time. his mama was going to get kicked out. his brother was already out of the house, in another state, working on his own. his sister was too busy getting suspended from school to give a damn about anything or anyone, but herself. vinnie had to step up. they came from different lives and ella can’t expect the same out of him. he wanted to get angry, he wanted to yell. wanted to cry on his knees and just ask him to stop. he can’t take this. he can’t take always being ridiculed for his choices. he was trying, he was moving in a direction away from where he might go. can’t ella just let him breath? he felt smothered--- grasped at the neck and shaken until his bones fell from his body and he was left motionless. he couldn’t breath and he felt useless. he wanted to be let go.
“ stop, “ he said quietly, looking at the floor he was standing on top of. he felt out of his body. he didn’t feel welcome here. he can’t listen to the things about ella’s mother, he can’t listen to the philosophical bullshit ella was always preaching. he was forgetting about the hot mug in his hands and was forgetting that ella was so far away because his voice felt pressed against his ears.
what gave him the right to tell him all these things? what made him think their lives were any the same? that he could compare himself to vinnie? they both came from shit places, both crossed over oceans to be here, but ella can never stand beside vinnie like he knew what he was waking up to every fucking day. no way he could tell vinnie to come back when he never fucking left. not when ella only knew him when he was like this. he’s been here the whole fucking time and he feels alone. feels abandoned. like there is no one by his side. no one willing to fight the battle he’s fighting. “ stop ! “ his voice was firm and he was gripping the mug tight. finally, he looked up at ella. his eyes bold, staring at him with no question--- he held nothing back. “ please, el, just give it a fucking rest. “ he shakes his head, a hand gliding over his head. he didn’t want to leave, but he felt so out of his own skin, maybe that was the best option. his fingers tapped on the mug again, looking at the wall. ella wasn’t his boyfriend, he can’t nag him like this. it wears him down. soon he’ll be nothing and he’ll break, right in ella’s fingertips. and he wont know what to do.
