Between the Two Worlds (Part 3)
Anything Can Happen on Halloween
“I’m Sean.”
“I’m Callie.”
We shook hands. I liked the way mine fit into his.
“I think we’re headed in the same direction,” he said as the train shrieked to a halt in front of us.
“I do too.”
He had a sharp presence and impressive posture, but he didn’t seem stern or rigid. He emanated a calming warmth. He was honey colored. He seemed intent, but not preoccupied. He had long amber hair that was pulled back into a low bun. I liked his nose. I didn’t like Rio’s nose, but I couldn’t admit it to myself while we were together. I was trying to learn to live with it. It was almost grotesque, and now I was free to hate it. I was free to enjoy a non-grotesque nose.
As we boarded the train together, I was aware that we were agreeing to be trapped for the next 30 to 45 minutes, which, if it turned out we didn’t like each other all that much, would be about 30 to 45 minutes too long. But I already liked being around him more than I liked being around most people, myself included.
Conversation flowed. He told me he was sound designing a play that opened next week. I told him I’d just been catching up with an old friend. We did the where are you froms and the how long have you lived heres. He mentioned that he went to Loyola University in New Orleans. I remembered someone from my hometown who would’ve been about 29 too.
“Do you know Alex Morris?”
“Yeah, I love Alex!”
I made a mental note to call Alex and get a Yes or No on the only question I couldn’t answer myself. Is Sean Brennan a psychopath?
The train felt empty except for us, but I know it was crowded. I remember that because we had to stand close while we talked. We stood facing each other, loosely gripping the poles, swaying like kelp, nearly touching.
“I get off at Franklin,” he said as the train crossed into Brooklyn.
“I do too.”
I told him about Jiu jitsu. He seemed interested, but not overly impressed. Half of the time, a male suitor is so blown away by this information that I can no longer continue to feel attracted to him. The rest of them respond with something idiotic like, I better not piss you off or you might beat me up, huh? to which I liked to say, Well no, because that would be an assault, or if I was feeling really sassy, What you’re describing costs hundreds of dollars per hour. I was used to men either stumbling on their deference or cutting their weiners off right then and there just to beat me to it. But Sean maintained his dignity and his dick.
Naturally, this led to me telling him about my side gig as a dominatrix. I braced myself for shock or discomfort. I was prepared to explain every granular detail and walk him through how to accept it as a completely normal and widely recognized form of release for people who can’t cope with the expectations placed on them by society. Instead he said, “I have a friend who does something similar.”
It was novel. And maybe it shouldn’t have been, but it was.
I liked the sound of my voice when I spoke to him. Or rather, I didn’t notice it. Like music in a film. If it’s working, you barely hear it. If it’s not, you can’t think about anything else. It was easy to say what I meant. I wasn’t performing for him. I didn’t have to.
“Do you want to get off here?” he asked, as the train prepared to stop at the station before ours.
“You read my mind,” I said. It was understood that this meant we’d have a longer walk together.
As we ascended the subway stairs, he pointed to a small grocery store and said, “I remember seeing you there once.” I remembered too because I smiled at him. And I wasn’t in the habit of smiling at strangers. Smiles were for cute pets and people I already knew. “I moved to the beach for the summer to work on a record, and I just got back the other night,“ he told me.
“I think I saw you at your car with a guitar.”
The jack-o-lanterns on the brownstone stoops watched on as we ambled through the neighborhood, not in any rush to part ways. We organically walked in the same direction.
I remember laughing together but I don’t remember about what exactly. Neither of us had to look awkwardly up into our brains to find new things to say. There were pauses, but they were warm pauses. Quiet smiles that acknowledged the unlikely enchantment that had enveloped us.
As the clock was striking midnight and the 30th bled into the 31st, Sean talked about his lust for Halloween and how the atmosphere had been especially mystical all week. “I feel like I can hear the spirits whispering in the eaves.”
I said, with great ownership over my borrowed phrase, “Well, the veil is the thinnest between the two worlds.”
He stopped walking.
“That’s the title of the invitation to my Halloween party.”
“Really? I’d never heard it until earlier this week.”
I had to resist the urge to name all of these coincidences as fate bringing us together. I wasn’t sure, but I thought I felt him doing the same thing.
The shadow hands of the tree branches ushered us along the quiet black night. I felt like it was only a matter of time before I could show him all of my selves.
“I live on Gates.”
“I do too.”
As we turned the corner onto our street, I pointed to my apartment.
“This is me.”
His eyes widened and he pointed just slightly to the left, one single lot over and said,
“That’s me.”
Our apartment buildings were identical. Red brick with hunter green accents. Two stories high, 12 units each. I lived on the top floor of 212 Gates, and he lived on the bottom floor of 232. We’d been unknowingly mirroring each other for the last 4 years. The properties were separated by an out-of-place standalone brick mansion with a mansard roof and a rocking chair porch. It stuck out in the neighborhood for being the most ancient building there. The lawn was unusually grand for Brooklyn, and right now it was covered with inflatable bats and Draculas the size of SUVs. The mansion divided our two complexes like a theatre curtain. Despite our proximity, it wasn’t surprising that we hadn’t seen each other come and go.
“I’m moving out this weekend.”
“I nearly missed you.”
“Yeah I know,” he said wistfully. I could see in his gaze that he was contemplating the regret he would never have to live with. “Do you want to go on a date with me?”
His question didn’t shock me - the romantic interest was palpable from the jump - but the wording did. Up to that point in my life, I don’t think anyone had asked me on a date. We should hang out… Let’s grab a drink… U up…? These were all advances I was accustomed to hearing. Half-hearted, designed to hedge against rejection. But no one had been bold and conclusive enough to ask the real question. Do you want to go on a date with me? It was novel. It shouldn’t have been, but it was.
I smiled. “Yeah I do.”
He took my number, and we hugged goodnight. I liked the way I fit into his arms.
I was settling into bed with my cat when my phone dinged. The message read: Sean Brennan, and a YouTube link followed. I clicked.
A young Tim Curry wearing a white tux with a bat shaped bowtie flourishes a pink satin cape while he stands in front of a clipart green screen of skeletons and pumpkins. He begins in a low croon, “I wouldn’t change places with anyone tonight…”
What in the fuck is this? I pondered as the video devolved into a resplendently tacky public-access style animation while Young Tim Curry growls an old truism.
“Anything can happen on Halloween…”
