The French Café
by
And suddenly, I no longer hated Jimmy. He was so open about his emotions and
thoughts and crushed dreams; he was a completely different person.
In the meantime, Michael and I had two sons
and Jimmy had no one. They never had
children because the Ice Queen didn’t want any.
Perhaps she knew she wouldn’t be staying. Jimmy threw himself into his job, working for
a company that provided cars for movies and television, as well as doing side
work on racing cars. I didn’t mention
that he was also an awesome drummer and on Saturday nights when he wasn’t
playing with his band, we would hang together and go to different clubs or
concerts or just stay home talking and playing video games. I saw him as someone I had never known
existed. He had insight and depth, and
he was kind and funny. I was
shocked. Had he been this person all
along or did it take a traumatic event to create this person? I knew the answer. Maturity had changed us all and we finally
related as adults. I became very fond of
him and felt super connected. And the
feeling was mutual, which leads me to the next part of this narrative.
After several years, Michael and I decided to
move to Florida and Jimmy drove a trailer with some of our possessions,
including our oldest son and his snake.
When we finally arrived, Jimmy stayed with us a few days before
leaving. By that point, it was all I
could do not to throw myself on the floor, cling to his leg and beg him not to
leave us. He was my buddy and our last
connection to Brooklyn. I cried for
hours after he drove away, nobody more surprised than me that I could feel this
way. I tried to blame it on the newness
of everything and that once I got used to my new life, I wouldn’t miss
him. But that was not true. I did miss him and we spoke at least once a
week on the phone.
A year went by and Jimmy came to visit. Michael had to work, so I was the one who
showed him around. When he left, there I
was again, sobbing like a baby. And I
came to the realization that I really loved him. I wasn’t in love with him, but he had become
part of my family.
One of his gigs at his regular job sent him
to Miami for a week to drive cars around for a magazine shoot for a large
German car manufacturer. Michael and I
took a mini vacation and joined him for the weekend. After lunch, Michael had a headache and went
to rest at the hotel. That left Jimmy,
me and a convertible to go touring around Miami, which we did. Me, in my short skirt and tanned legs, Jimmy
driving a vehicle that made him feel powerful and rich. This little adventure added another dimension
to our relationship, fun and possible attraction. How could this be? I decided not to overthink it because it felt
damn good to be desired by someone other than my husband (shame on me),
especially when that someone had a history of dating beautiful women. It was an amazing weekend, memorable for the
rest of my life for so many reasons.
As the years went by, Michael became
depressed and pulled away from his friends.
I kept the relationship up with two of them, one of them being
Jimmy. It felt so good to hear his voice
saying, “Hi sweetheart,” when I would call him.
“Take care, honey,” when we hung up.
The years progressed, and Michael and I
divorced. My conversations with Jimmy
grew more intimate and every year, I would travel back to Brooklyn Heights to
stay with my brother and Jimmy and I would meet up for dinner. Afterwards, we always went to this French
café in Carroll Gardens for coffee and dessert. One year, we held hands walking, later just
holding each other close. Another year,
we kissed. Another year, we were almost
together, but Jimmy had found a girlfriend he cared about and neither one of us
wanted to jeopardize that relationship.
After all, my life was in Florida and his was here.
And then one year, we met for dinner and
Jimmy complained about stomach pains and just not feeling quite right. And the next thing I knew, he was diagnosed
with colon cancer. I was terrified, but
he wasn’t. He beat it and remained
positive through the whole ordeal. And a
few more years passed, and he was suddenly diagnosed with bone cancer and then
prostate cancer, and now we near the end of my story.
Poor Jimmy suffered terribly the last year or
so of his life and he died way too young, only in his early sixties. Our phone conversations became more sporadic
and he could no longer meet me on my trips to Brooklyn. Shortly after he died, I visited my brother
and decided to pay tribute to Jimmy by having coffee at the French café, but I
couldn’t find it. I kept walking up and
down, around corners, back to where I started and where I thought I remembered
the café was located. Finally, I went
into a neighboring business and inquired.
I was informed that the café had closed two months ago, which was about
the time Jimmy had passed. I started to
cry, upset that I couldn’t fulfill my desire to pay tribute to a person I
loved. I left the store and slowly
headed back to my brother’s house, tears rolling down my face. But then I realized how significant and
symbolic it was that the café was no longer there
because my friend was no longer here. And so I must say, there is most definitely a
connection between life and death, although we may not always understand
exactly what is being conveyed. In this
case, I know I did.
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