A Collection of Copies

Isme walked up to Biddy’s on E. 91st Street. The tiny dive bar nestled in the quiet residential block was her go to in these times. Its dark green exterior wood panels and unassuming awning are the only things that made it stand out from the other closed doors on the block. Two of the three lights that were meant to be shinning down on the Pub’s header sign were out. Been that way for years. Would be for years to come, she assumed. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t the type of place you looked for.

On a cloudy and bitter night like tonight, Biddy’s was the only place for her. The wind whipped at her back and she pulled the door open. The bartender, who was leaning on the far end of the bar watching the horse races at on the small out of date TV, looked annoyed at the sudden gust of cold air. He sighed and put down his tiny betting sheet next his half full beer. He strolled over at his own pace, putting his stringy, long grey hair in a ponytail. Isme took off her coat and looked around before taking her seat at the opposite end of the bar next to the window with the door at her back. She was the only one there. Not at all surprising for this place on a Tuesday.

The whole serving area was maybe twenty feet long wall to wall. There were two high tables haphazardly strewn in the middle of the floor from whomever moved them last. There was meant to be three stools at each, but one was broken and under the ATM machine in the corner. Everyone who came here knew not to sit on it. There were two more tables attached to the rear wall. Each with 2 stools on either side, as they tried to sell you on the laughable notion that four people could sit comfortably there. She’d tried it and they could not.

“What can I getcha?” The awkward bartender asked. His skin looked a bit clammy as a few stray strains of hair escaped from his ponytail and tried to overrun his face before getting tucked back behind his ears.

“Gin and Tonic. Hendrix.”

The bartender grunted and made his way to the backbar. Stopping to look at the screen again. He shook his head. Cursing under his breath he grabbed a glass and started making the drink. Isme believed his name was Gary or Greg. She’d met him several times but there was always such a large gap in between encounters that she doubted he would remember.

He served Isme her drink and went back to the opposite end of the bar where the TV hung loosely above the dart board. He didn’t bother to tell her how much he owed her. You don’t come in here for just one.

She looked out the small window to her left. It was starting to sleet a little. She knew it would be a sloppy walk the five blocks back home. She didn’t care. The perfect ending to the perfect day.

Isme hated how quiet it was outside. She hated this neighborhood altogether. She moved away over a dozen years prior, but practicality escorted her back here eleven months ago. Now the quietness of the neighborhood left her solely alone with her thoughts. The last place she wanted to be.

“Come on!” Gary or Greg shouted at the horses in the 5th race. Judging by his clothes and overall appearance, Isme didn’t think Gary was too good at this gambling thing. “Damnit.” He said, tossing his sheet back down on the hard bar top before ultimately picking it up.

“Buy you a shot?” Isme said tying to console.

“Why not.” He responded reaching for the shot glasses.

Isme knew it was going to be one of those nights. It didn’t have a choice.

---

Isme was on her forth drink when the door opened again. She was intrigued by the prospect of another guest. She enjoyed people-watching and even more so enjoyed the opportunity for stimulating conversation.

“You holding this seat for someone?” The new voice spoke.

Instinctively Isme looked up. All the gin in her system immediately rushed to exit her mouth; she had to tighten her stomach and throat to keep it down. She could not think of a single person alive that she wanted to see less than the man standing three feet away from her. What was Metis even doing here? There was no way he lived in this neighborhood, she thought to herself.

“I’ll take that as ‘no,’” Metis said shedding his overcoat and jacket. He removed his Yankee baseball cap and placed it on the bar. His dark hair was buzzed close around the sides and slightly thicker on the top, just as she remembered it. The hair on his chin and upper lip was kempt low but not overly manicured. He looked arguably the same. Isme was slightly perturbed by this. He had to be in his fifties at this point maybe even closing in on sixty and yet no one had bothered to tell his body which budged against his dark grey V-neck sweater. The deep, dark caramel creases of his collar bone and upper chest pulled her eyes to distraction. Looking down to avoid detection, she noticed the black Chelsea boots sticking out from under his jeans. He always did know how to dress.

Pulling the stool out he slid past her. A whiff of his cologne lingered annoyingly in the air under her noise. He smelled old and familiar. Like wood burning in the sand by the ocean in her summers of yesteryear. He smelled like home.

“Bourbon. On the rocks. Thank you.” Metis said to the barman.

“Got Knob creek.”

“She’ll do.”

The barman grabbed the ice scoop and paused in midair at the announcement of the next race over the TV. Apparently, it wasn’t the one he was waiting for and he continued making the drink.

“How have you been? How’s the kids?” Isme finally was able to get sounds to emit from her mouth. Although, she was convinced her voice didn’t sound like that the last time she used it.

Metis just shrugged causing his shoulders to compete with his chest and traps for space.

“They are not kids anymore.” Metis said flatly. “The youngest just graduated College. My oldest opened a start-up. Claims he’s love now.”

Metis said the last statement with an air of trepidation. He’d prefer his son put all his energy in business.

Isme eyes studied him.

“It’s been what? fifteen years?” Metis guessed.

“Twenty.” Isme corrected.

He nodded

“Twenty years.” Metis repeated.

The bartender came with his drink.

“Thank you.”

The bartender just grunted.

Metis took a sip and then held the glass in front of him while he swallowed. This place, with this company, and this drink; it all seemed surreal.

“So how are you holding up?” Metis asked putting the glass down and angling his body towards her.

“What do you mean?” Isme asked confused.

He just stared. She sighed. He must know, she thought. She didn’t want to talk about it. To anyone. Especially not to him. It was her turn to shrug. Metis decided not to push it and remained quiet. She was thankful.

“I cried, when I heard your father died.” Isme stated, taking advantage of the silence.

“Shame he never got to meet you.” Metis responded sincerely. “He would have loved you then. Maybe even been proud of me.”

“Metis he was-“

“Please don’t.” Metis stopped her immediately holding up his hand. This was her nature he knew, but for them and their history, it seemed disingenuous. “We’re far beyond the years where’s its cute to lie to each other in the name of being consoling.”

She wanted to protest but his tone was stern. As too was his face. Stern and weathered. When he frowned, she could see it. Isme could detect the damage that the years had produced. Hundreds and hundreds of tiny lines aged him before her eyes then rejuvenated him when his faced relaxed again. She couldn’t help but wonder what the years had been like for him.

“Well, I’m sure he would be proud of Gillian as well.” Isme offered.

“I asked you not to,” Metis answered.

“Well wouldn’t he be? She’s amazing.” Isme sad with her normal blind optimism in the best of people.

“And you would know that how?” Metis said locking eyes with her. Isme could see his anger still burned right there beneath the surface; even after all these years. A fire that raged on deep within but looked unlikely to be contained for too long. Isme decided to make her exit.

“Ok well, I was just on my way out.” She started.

“Listen, I came here to find you. Let’s sit… Please.” Metis face was kind again. It had reverted back to its mid-thirties condition.

“I’m sorry…What?” She asked. His statement echoing in her head. “You came here why?”

Metis smiled. A smile she hadn’t seen in over two decades. It warmed her insides like hot tea on a cold winter day.

“I thought I’d find you here.” Metis said looking around. “In this place.” He returned his gaze to her. “As much as you hate to admit it, you are sentimental.”

She was silent. This was the place she’d gone to alone to have a drink when her best friend and stepsister died. The place she’d come to when she was forced to sell off her shares of the business. The place she’d come when she first heard the diagnoses. This was her place to come when she needed to have a drink away from it all.

“I hadn’t realized the divorce was finalized.” Metis said sympathetically. “Until I saw his pictures up.”

“Signed two weeks ago.” She said breaking eye contact to take a large gulp from her glass. “Now I understand the rush.”

The old Isme would have went on and on about how happy she was for him. Glad that he could find happiness even if it wasn’t with her. She would have poured it on thick, topping it off with her usual “positive light in the universe” drivel. This Isme, however, seemed a bit too worn out for the theatrics. Like an old boxer slurring her words after a lifetime of punishment. In her case, the punishment was emotional.

“So, what now?” Metis inquired.

Isme took a breath.

“Well, now I focus on myself and my businesses. My charities are having a record setting year. I get to concentrate more on helping people; that’s what’s really important.”

It all sounded good. And she said it with the proper amount of confidence. But this little place. This tiny dive bar. It was too compact for anything to exist except truth.

“I remember you preaching to me about being happy, Isme.”

“Yes. For you.” She said without hesitation.

“But not you?”

“I am happy.”

Metis tiled his head to the side. It was the first time he could remember that she’d lied to him. It was a bit of shock. Isme’s life was always one based on honesty, as such she had never developed a skill for lying. The dishonest sentence stuck out like a sore thumb. Metis wondered if it was him she was lying to or herself? He wasn’t sure what she got out of either.

“Well that’s the spirit.” Metis said deciding to go along with her embellishment and trying desperately to keep any hint of sarcasm out of his tone.

“Are you?” Isme asked. It was a rare moment when the façade came down slightly and the real Isme peeked out into the world.

“Am I what, happy?” Metis questioned the real Isme.

She nodded. Metis shrugged again.

“My best chance at happiness left when you did. Haven’t known it since, really.”

Isme stared at him in bewilderment. “All this time and you blame me for your happiness?” The wall had gone back up.

Metis often compared talking with Isme to watching a play at the edge of the theatre. A theatre whose curtains closed too slowly. Every now and then, between the scenes, you would catch the eye of the stagehand setting up all the props up for the next scene. It would only be a brief moment. Just a second of time in which you saw what was real, what they didn’t want you to see. And then in a flash the curtain would be drawn and when it opened back up, they would proceed to sell you a curated version of the truth. This was talking to Isme. Glimpses behind the curtain, but no more.

Metis didn’t bother responding. Maybe when he was thirty, he would have felt the need to defend himself. He’d long ago accepted the fact that he was responsible, either directly or indirectly, for everything that happened in his life. Even Isme leaving.

“Never was the same. That’s all.” He responded flatly speaking mostly at his glass.

“Oh, come now,” Isme poked fun. Fully wearing her ‘we are friends first and always’ hat. Of her many hats that one and the ‘I just want what’s best for you’ hat infuriated Metis the most. “Your string of beautiful and successful women is well documented Mr. Metis.” She continued teasing.

Metis thought to explain it but realized she would never accept the upfront answer. He went a different direction.

“You know a few years ago I got this new place. Beautiful townhouse down on Perry St.” Isme felt she knew this somehow. “Since I’ve gotten the new place my family and friends are always coming to visit me. So, I am always making them these little unique keys to my place, for them to use during their visit.” This didn’t sound like Metis at all. “I got different colors. Fancy key heads. Usually engrave it with their Initials.”

Isme tried to keep her smile inside but couldn’t hold it.

“Trying to convince them they you are welcoming?” She said. “Believe me. If they are your friends, they know better.”

“Probably.” He smiled. “Anyway. I’m running late out of the house one day, and I don’t see my keys, so I grab one of the copies. When I get back, I stick it in the door, and I have trouble turning it. I struggle a lot, then finally got it to work with a little jiggle and angling. Some trial and error, you know? But this perplexed me.”

“Why?” Isme was confused. It was common knowledge to her that copies sometimes are not accurate.

“I don’t know. But it kept playing in my head… So later on that evening I gather up all the keys that I’ve ever made, no less than a dozen at this point, and I try them all. None of them worked.” Isme was far more fascinated by his intrigue in this subject then the story itself. “Well I mean they ‘worked’” Metis corrected with air quotes. “But none of them without difficulty. Not one.”

Isme stared on. Figuring eventually, he would have to get to a point. Metis was known for these moments of rambling.

“So, I’m staring at all these brand-new, color coated, engraved, shinny new keys. Keys that for all purposes were better keys than the old beat up one that I held on my keychain. But none of them really worked; none of them moved smooth thru the cylinder like the original. The original doesn’t require any work, because the original was made specifically for that door.”

He made this last statement with a triumphant air. Like it was all supposed to come together now. Isme just stared blankly at him.

Metis shook his head.

“What I am saying, Isme. Is that I don’t mind you referring to the shiny new girls that came after you, much as I don’t mind the copies of the key the locksmith made. But I do mind you trying to sell me on the idea, that the copy works better than the original. Because despite your infinite wisdom, you do not know that. Only I would know that…. All I’ve had, is a collection of copies.”

Isme perceived his meaning. She would argue it was a roundabout route to get there, but he did arrive. In spite of it all, Isme found it difficult to believe.

“Metis, you’ve always romanticized me. I am not that great. Obviously.” The last word seemed to be a nod to her current situation. “But look at the amazing women that you got after I left. You wouldn’t have got them if I was around.”

This was Isme’s ‘I only care about other people’ hat. Which was very similar to the ‘I just want what’s best for you’ hat with slight nuances.

Metis approach to this was always to combat it with sincerity. Life had taught him that honesty was rarely the best policy, but in his dealings with Isme it was only one that allowed him to sleep at night.

“There are parts of me that died the day you left.” Metis spoke slowly trying to stay even keeled. “So many dreams and … it hurts just to remember. Things laid to rest that will never be resurrected in me, again. Things that are just… lost.”

“Metis. For me as well. But I’m sure you had-“

“What?” Metis cut her off. His face bore the frustration. He could pour out his everything to her nearly a quarter century later and she still wouldn’t accept anything he was saying. “What did I have? Mm? Tell me... I mean you know everything, right?”

Isme leaned back. It wasn’t that his tone was loud. More that it was sharp and harsh. Metis immediately regretted it reading Isme’s face.

“This is the point, Metis. You needed to find someone who didn’t frustrate you like I do. Who would just take whatever you say.” She reached over and touched his arm slightly. Her hand against his skin sent waves of energy through his soul. “You going to tell me you didn’t have more fun and more experiences with someone who’s not as stubborn as me? More sex? more laughing without me being serious all the time?”

Metis met her gaze again. The anger that was so prevalent in the previous moment had all but drained from his face. With it too, the fight. She saw him. The same eyes he had when she told him she was leaving. Lost. Confused. Broken. He looked away, turning his attention to what little there was to see in his environment. He gestured to the room with scoff. Then motioned his hand back and forth between the two of them.

"You traded us in… for this.” He stared disappointingly at her. “We were visionaries. Out to set the world on fire together. Start a revolution, remember?” She nodded. “And now? Now we’re just whispers of ourselves, barely audible over the roar of our own regret."

His words struck a chord of truth. Isme could always tell what he actually believed and what he was taught to believe. There was subtle difference.

"I wasn't strong enough " Isme finally said openly.

"You're the strongest person I know.... always have been,"

"Did you come here to make me feel worse?" Isme asked feeling attacked.

Metis sighed. "No, I didn't. But I didn't come to make you feel better either." He admitted

"So why did you come? To make my situation about you? To be selfish?"

Metis had to acknowledge her point. He had made this about him. Or “them” rather. It was not his intention to talk about this. His plan was to sit with her, so she didn’t have to be alone today. Maybe tell a joke or two and leave. As soon as he saw her, however, all he could see was the life he could have had. The life he should have had. Metis feeble attempt not to bring up the subject of them crumbled the second she mentioned his father.

"No matter how I feel about you,” Metis began. “These are the not times you should be alone.... I remember after Dad died and I lost everything in the savings...” Metis trailed off. It was a place he didn’t access often. I place he preferred not to remember. “It was just… a dark and lonely place."

"Wasn’t Julia around?" Isme said missing the point by a country mile.

Metis sighed. "The point was that I was alone, and I came here to ensure that you didn’t have to be. And he died before I met Julia."

“Oh, you’re right. Well there was … I forget her name.” Isme struggled to recall.

“There wasn’t.” Metis stated flatly trying not to remember too much.

"Oh Metis,” She smiled. “You're never really alone, though." Isme threw out, albeit in a teasing manner.

Metis just gaped at her. He wondered if she’d always been like this. Always had this ‘know it all’ arrogance. Her thought patterns weren’t new, but had they always been this pronounced? Her process was simple: She'd convinced herself of a narrative, naturally void of any ancillary facts. Then, though typical confirmation bias, ignore everything that went against her point. From the outside looking in, a bystander would wonder why Metis would even pursue such a woman. But what the bystander wouldn’t know, is that it was all an act. A very thorough and meticulous act created solely to protect herself. What the bystander also wouldn’t know, is how it felt to have her look at you and you feel like a King; like a god, capable of anything and everything.

Metis was hollow when she left. He’d thrown into the void everything he could put his hands on over the last twenty years, and it still wasn’t full.

"I had an idea, a dream if you will.” Isme began somberly. “A dream of experiencing life with someone and just that person. Having my first kid be their first kid. Having that experience together. Which, obviously, I couldn’t have with you. It would have been just another kid to you. Not to mention my fantasy of my little family would have had to been shared and tied to your ex-wife forever. The woman whom you told me you were done with and then when we had our hiatus you got back together with and had another kid."

Metis was visibly tired of telling the same story, although he hadn’t told it in decades. Even after all this time, it bothered him tremendously. Maybe not so much her interpretation of the story, that was her opinion. But the concept that someone felt the gall to dictate to him what he’d experienced. Especially being that he’d only experienced it because she'd vanished.

"We didn’t have a ‘hiatus.’ You disappeared. And her and I never got back together. It was one night. I was alone. Sad. You'd gone without a word. It was a slip. Add to it she was on the pill… It was a one in a million shot.”

“We always talk in circles.” She said. The familiarity of where this conversation goes causing de ja vu.

“Because you never accept anything that you didn't come up with in your own mind.” He countered.

They both stopped. They shared a knowing expression. They’d had this conversation before many times. It only ended back where it started. A grand and majestic staircase that led nowhere.

"Well at least you got more time with your kids. This asshole is filing for full custody."

Metis didn’t know this.

“He’ll never win, Isme. Not in this state. Besides, I can’t imagine you being anything less than an amazing mother.” Metis reassured her.

Isme nodded along slowly with this; barely noticeable.

“How did you do it … with the kids?”

"I could have done better.” Metis lamented. “It would have been better...” Metis resisted the urge to say what he felt. He changed directions. “I felt so empty inside for a long time. Sometimes I would snap at my kids for the slightest offense. It was bad for a while." Metis admitted. “I didn't know what to do with the hollowness and the worse part was I couldn’t express it. Not in front of the kids, or anyone really. I had to smile while my life collapsed around me every morning when I woke up and realized the reality of you not laying on my chest and every night when I longed for your touch."

“You think I wasn't hurting, too?” Isme asked flatly.

Metis just shook his head. “You could have stopped it anytime you wanted.”

Isme blood started to boil. She didn’t need this. She came here to get away from feelings not to feel guilty about someone else. Why was he putting this on her right now? What did he want from her after all this time?

“I thought I could do better!” She blurted out loudly. The bartender turned from his horses momentarily. But glancing at their cups still being half full he turned back around. “I thought I could do better.” She repeated softly.

Metis inhaled deeply. Holding it in for a moment he savored the smell of the air. The spilled whiskey and cleaning product hovered just outside of the range of his cologne. Further in the background he could smell the sleet laden wind seeping under the bar door. He closed his eyes and exhaled.

“I waited twenty years to hear you admit that.” Metis said more to himself than anyone. “It feels… exactly how I thought it would feel. Thank you for telling me.”

Isme instinct was to reach out but she stopped her hand short of his shoulder. Her instincts hadn’t served her too well of late.

“Metis, you’ve had a good life without me. You publish books, you have your businesses, and you had a beautiful wife. What are you complaining about? I made the right choice."

"Have you always dreamed of being a martyr? Or is this just a subsequence of being stubborn?" Metis deadpanned. His tone was different. More subdued and yet more stable. “I wrote two books alone. I could have written four. Could have won the Pulitzer prize and Hemingway award for the second one. I still feel it. I had all the pieces. It was all there, right beneath the surface, but I couldn't access it. I couldn't break through. Couldn't …feel… as deeply as I wanted. My writing was pedestrian after you.” Metis’ voice began to break slightly but it was no longer regret she heard. “You took something from me... and whether you want to say it or not you took something from yourself. Replaced it with, what?”

Metis smiled calmly.

“You replaced our beach in the Seychelles with divorce papers and a dive bar. With shit memories.” Metis said smile still playing on his lips.

Isme looked at the man. Broken and battered. She wouldn’t take responsibilities for his life and choices, but she couldn’t help but wonder.

“Metis, that was twenty year ago, darling. What about now.”

Metis bobbed his head from side to side, shaking the thoughts loose.

"It took a couple of years for the emptiness to subside. In those moments after the kids had gone to bed, or when they were at school."

“This is very encouraging stuff.” Isme poked fun. Metis smiled.

“You always claimed to be a realist. So, it should be real. The point is that you'll get over him and this. Like I did. It may take you a while, longer than you expect, but you will. I guarantee it.”

Isme managed to muster a smile. That’s what she’d figured.

“I never loved him the way I loved you.” She said genuinely. She didn’t know why she told him that, but it was the truth. A truth she’d made a full-time job out of hiding from.

“Given what we sacrificed... That’s disappointing.” Metis concluded.

Isme agreed.

“So, what now?” She asked.

“Now?” Metis looked out the window at the worsening weather. “Now I guess you go on convincing yourself that you did the right thing.... and I go on collecting copies that don't quite fit.... I keep praying that one day, when I’m on my death bed, my son comes to see with the love of his life. And not how I went to see my Dad, with an empty void behind my eyes.”

Metis shrugged. He still could remember the room. Pale colored walls except the one adjacent to the window which was half yellowing due to the sunlight. What was left of his father lay there. Skinny and winkled. His breathing labored. Isme had left him three weeks before his father past. He remembered what his father asked him. Metis quickly shook the memory out of his head downing what was left of the Bourbon.

“There's another option.” Isme offered.

“What's that?”

Isme peered into Metis’s eyes for a moment. There was another option. Always have been.

“Tell you in a sec.” Isme said trotting to the restroom. The condition of the bathroom was even worse than the condition outside of it. Which was saying a lot. A single exposed bulb illuminated the vandalized, comment covered walls. Isme would have never sat on the unevenly installed toilet even if the black seat wasn’t broken and hanging off to the side. She did the bathroom squat without touching a single surface and then turned on the sink after to wash her hands.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the rare section of the mirror that hadn’t been written on with a Sharpe. She looked tired. She looked old. Isme ran her fingers through her hair a couple of times taming it. She pulled at her shirt a bit until her cleavage was showing just a touch. Despite his selfish rhetoric, Metis had made her realize something true. No one ever loved her like he did. Like he still does, it appears. At the time Isme thought she could do better. Not necessarily with the man, but with the circumstance. That circumstance was long over with. And what was left is just the man who was always more than good enough for her.

The more she thought about it, the more she worked herself up at the legitimacy of it. She’d taken her shot at what she fantasied would be the ideal man and situation. And She’d done it… somewhat. But now she still had a real shot at happiness. Metis was wrong. That wasn’t the only option. There was another: They could right the wrong. They both still had a lot of life left to live. The other option is; they find way to move beyond the past life. And they spend the rest of the current life together.

Quite frankly, Isme thought, it’s the only option that makes any sense.

Isme threw open the bathroom door with a purpose. She knew no matter how much she’d hurt Metis, when he thought about it, he would agree. He was a man of reason and understanding. He would take her back. They would get to go to the Seychelles afterall.

Isme was a few steps to her chair before she realized that Metis had gone. Her first thought was to roll her eyes. He used to do this when they were together. Sneak out to smoke a cigarette so that she wouldn’t see. But then she noticed both his coats missing and drink gone. Had he closed the tab and left?

“Did he go to smoke?” Isme asked the bartender breaking into his trance like stare at the screen.

“Who?” The gambling addicted barman asked.

“Jez buddy. The guy I was sitting with.”

The bartender looked at her like she imagined he would look at one of his horses, if it started running backwards mid-race. Befuddled and disoriented.

“Ma’am you’re my only customer so far.”

He watched her scrounge around in her head and struggle to reconcile with that statement. She’d been a strange one all night. ‘It takes all sorts,’ he thought. Anyway, he reckoned she’s going through something. They always are in here. He’d pour her one on the house.