Growl In The Morning

Once fully awakened, going back to sleep is never easy.

I remember the morning I really woke up. I looked at the black flags hanging on the walls, the clothes strewn across the floor that served double duty—apparel by day, carpeting by night. I stared up at the ceiling, at the familiar cracks that showed how the house had settled and where the building materials complained about it. The yellow mark in the corner had grown to cover a good third of the ceiling, so it wasn't really in the corner anymore, but you could still tell by the sag where a long ago leak had begun. I wanted a cigarette. And a shower. And several aspirin. Maybe with a rum chaser. The cigarette—that I knew I could get within seconds, well, maybe more like minutes if I could force myself out of bed. The shower and the aspirin would have to wait until I got home.

I glanced over at the tangle of blankets, arms, and long brown hair and considered asking the big hunk of hairy man lying there if he had any aspirin around, but decided against it. Growl. Stupid nickname, really, but I wasn't about to make him show me how well he earned the name by waking him prematurely. Before the sun was high in the sky and beginning its slow descent into the western hemisphere, he was a grouch. Not in the mood for one of his moods, thanks.

I stood up, stepped not at all gingerly over the bulk of my lover and off the mattress to the floor, wondering if he'd ever get a real bed. One with a box spring, headboard, and everything; a bed like mine. He'd apparently lived here for two years, and still slept on a mattress on the floor and although he had drawers lined up against one wall, there was no dresser to insert them into. Not like my room, with its matching headboard, end tables, dresser, and bureau. No matching curtains, duvets and pillow shams here. I doubted he even knew what a pillow sham was, or a duvet for that matter.

I found cigarettes on the coffee table in the living room; right underneath a Playboy magazine and next to three empty smoke packs, a small chunk of hash, and a nearly empty rum bottle. Two overflowing ashtrays and more beer bottles than I could be bothered to count flowed over the remainder of the small table, making it difficult to find a good spot to rest my feet, but I managed. I lit the smoke and sighed deeply. Filled the need. Too bad they didn't taste good anymore. I glanced at the rum and felt a wave of nausea compete for attention with the steady thrumming in my head.

The toilet flushed deep in the bowels of the house and in a moment, an unfamiliar face greeted me. She looked awful. I wondered if I looked like that too, and prayed I didn't, but had a pretty good idea that I probably looked worse. I had a vague recollection of being sick last night. The washed out girl with dark roots smiled wanly at me. Prettier than the girl from last weekend.

"Got a smoke?"

I know she was trying to sound human, but I couldn't help thinking about frogs. I gave her a cigarette and thought about asking her if she'd ever been frog hunting, but thought better of it. She probably would've said, "Yes, yesterday as a matter of fact," she looked that young. A few more months of this Sweetheart, and you'll never be asked for I.D. in the bars again. God, was that me sounding so cynical? Upbeat, positive, I'm-going-to-be-somebody, me?

"I'm Terry." I said and didn't offer my hand. Handshaking was for the real world; the one I stepped out of to be here in the land of the bohemians. The world I left behind every Friday night at 4:30 p.m. on the dot. The one with the door attendants and the manicures and the silly frosty drinks and the snide comments about anyone not of our circle.

"Stacy. I'm going out with Todd." Better. Less croaking. She only sounded fifty-something now instead of a hundred.

Most of Todd's girls knew better than to say they were "going out" with Todd. He was gorgeous. Stupid and immature, but gorgeous. And a womanizer. Poor Stacy. Cute little thing, if you looked past the big dark mascara stains under her eyes. But maybe not so bright, if she couldn't see that Todd was a total idiot. Oh well. Her problem, and one that would be over in less than twenty-four hours anyway. No point getting involved. Of the two roommates, Growl shared the house with, I disliked Todd the most, just for being Todd. I disliked the other roommate, Wanna Be, because he didn't like me. That wasn't his real nickname. That's what I called him. He looked just like Jim Morrison from the Doors when the band was still in its prime. It was because of Wanna Be, who's real name is Michael, I think—anyway, it was because of him that I met Growl. Growl. God, what a dumb name. Cameron Brooks. Nice name. Sounded entrepreneurial. The name of a man I would normally have dated if I hadn't met Growl, or if he went by his given name and gave up his Harley and construction job, and started attending business school and lost a little, no change that . . . a lot of weight. If he went by his given name of Cameron Brooks, he could play my game. Suave, cool, sophisticated, future-dweller by day, and wild, passionate, Harley riding, in-the-moment man by night.

Anyway, the Jim Morrison Wanna Be tried to pick me up in the bar one night when I was out with a girlfriend and I thought it might be fun to hang out with a famous person's look-a-like. If he'd looked like Jimmy Durante, I might have had a different opinion, but luck was with me that night. Unfortunately, Wanna Be was Boring. Capital B, B, Boring. But his friend Growl was so funny. He made me laugh and open up and almost fall in love. Somehow though, it seemed that I was considered Wanna Be's date, and so Growl and I maintained all outward appearances of acquaintances merely connected through a mutual friend. Ha! We all knew there was a fire between the great, grizzly Growl and me.

"He is so incredibly good looking. Are you going to sleep with him?" Amanda asked as she leaned closer to the mirror to apply another coat of lipstick.

I wiped the wet counter with a wad of toilet paper I'd had to take from a stall since there weren't any paper towels left in the dispenser. I set my suede purse on the now dried counter and joined her in leaning towards the mirror to fix some tiny smudges under my eyes, being careful not to let my purple suede skirt brush the edge of the counter. I had to give two women dirty looks and bump my hip at another one for trying to squeeze past me to the sink. I was not about to spoil a brand new outfit just because some half-wits couldn't wait their turns. I shrugged and scrunched my nose in distaste at the idea of it.

"I don't think so. Not my type." I replied.

"Not your type? Jim Morrison is not your type?" Amanda looked incredulous.

"For one thing he's not Jim Morrison. If he were, well . . . I don't know. Maybe. And for another thing, when things are really great in bed, you're having such a good time, and getting into the moment and you close your eyes to let other sense take over anyway. So really, anybody could be Jim Morrison at that point. Besides . . . he's just cute, not model gorgeous."

"Well. Sleep with him anyway, okay? For me. Because I would if I were in your shoes. Then you can tell everyone you slept with Jim Morrison."

"Sure, if I ever get into the habit of using my sex life as interesting dinner conversation with friends and family, I'm sure everyone would be so impressed, especially if I tell them I only did it for a friend."

I didn't sleep with him. I was drawn to the less handsome Growl. Growl was hairy, big, bear-like, and not much to look at. But he was so much fun. He had such a quirky way of looking at the world, and he didn't have to be rude to anybody to get a laugh. A week later, I found out yet another reason for why he was justifiably called Growl. He made me purr and devoured me like only my wild gypsy man could.

Nine months later I woke up, needing a smoke, a shower, and some aspirin. I looked at Todd's girl of the day, and I glanced around the small, aging house and noticed it as if for the very first time. It was disgusting. I always knew it was a mess, but in the back of my mind, I blamed the still jealous Wanna Be and Todd for it, not Growl. It hadn't been swept or dusted in probably . . . years, and never washed except to maybe clean up someone's puke stain. Black flags (one of which sported a picture of the Doors) adorned the walls along with a few sexist pictures of nearly naked women advertising beer. Twenty or thirty year old furniture tattooed with burns and rips covered most of the available floor space. Odd looking pieces of metal that either once had been, or would one day become, part of Growl's Harley-Davidson took up a corner next to the best stereo system I have ever seen or heard in my entire life.

The bathroom was truly disgusting. I always used it quickly and brought a bar of soap over every time I dropped by. I had never been served anything other than beer from the kitchen, which was fine by me considering all the cockroaches I'd found the one time I tried to clean for them.

My head pounded against my brain, and the stench of old beer, old pipes, old cigarettes, old furniture, old dreams took up the beat until I thought I'd jump out of my skin. I thought about my posh apartment over on the Upper West Side and about my own roommate. Antoine. His latest series of paintings was going on display at the Ten Two Gallery thanks to a little bit of string-pulling by his current lover, Andrew. They threw themselves into their roles of being actively and proudly gay as only two men could who had spent a lifetime pretending to be straight. I found it immature. Who cares who sleeps with whom as long as you're both consenting adults? It was revoltingly pathetic. I thought about the writers and producers and budding actors, artists and entrepreneurs and all the other pieces of plastics that made up my circle of friends. And Amanda. Whom I'd lied to when I said I never saw those creeps from the bar after that night. All the people who made up the world I came from. The world I'd built for myself. Me. Dark, mysterious, beautiful Terry. Chic. Vogue. A top designer at a trendy little boutique on The Avenue. Really nothing more than a glorified sales girl who got to help cut things out from time to time.

How much had I really changed from the little girl I mostly forgot about? Gone were the days of thin rubber boots and ineffectual crocheted mittens in the middle of winter. Gone were the golden days of my youth, spent drifting from one town to the next, one father to the next with my nomadic mother whom I hadn't spoken to in over three years.

Suddenly I felt ashamed. I felt so ashamed. I stubbed out my cigarette and my silent partner of the dark roots did the same.

"Do you like this life?" I asked her. I reached for another cigarette and offered her one. She nodded, blushed, and looked confused. I didn't know if she was nodding for the cigarette I held out, or if she was answering my question.

"I mean . . . waking up in this filthy house, wondering if anybody knows or cares where you are and hoping that maybe today you'll find happiness?" I waved the matchbook around while I talked and the girl . . . whatever her name was again, bobbed her head in time with the match pack. Must have done some weird drugs last night, I surmised. She wasn't all there. Or maybe she was just as stupid as Todd. Maybe he'd met his match and I was wrong about this one. But I was pretty sure I was right. Just another slash on the dash of Todd's rusted pinto. She never did answer my question and I was glad. I didn't think she'd have anything particularly sparkling to add to the conversation.

I took a deep drag off the smoke and shook my head. Listen to yourself, Terry. You're so mean. You think mean, degrading thoughts of nearly everyone you know. Okay, not nearly everyone. Forget the nearly part. It's everyone you know. I sighed and stood up, regretting it the moment I did. It got my brain pounding all that much harder. I woke up hung over, tired, sick to death of my life, of my duel life really and completely lost on who'd I'd become or how I'd gotten there. None of them knew about my slumming. Not one of my nearest and dearest, ta-ta, toodle-doo friends even knew Growl existed. I never once invited Growl to my apartment, to meet my friends, to be a part of my life . . . in the nine months I'd been with him. Slumming. That's what I called it. Was that what it was?

The girl scratched her neck nervously. I'd been staring at her. Stacy. That was it. Poor Stacy. Poor little, out on your butt today, Stacy. And poor Growl. Slumming. God, who did I think I was? Was that other life my real life, if I couldn't face the humiliation of sharing it with my supposed soul mate? I'd called him that once. Or was the Black Flag world my real life and how could that be if I was too humiliated to share it with my nose-in-the-clouds friends?

"I'm a bitch." I stated it simply. The girl nodded, blushed, shrugged.

Ignoring her, I forced myself up and sneaked into the bedroom as quietly as possible where I dressed, kissed Growl without waking him and left. Left Growl. The man I loved. I'd said that to him once. No goodbye. But I thought he wouldn't mind. He was so easy going and never once questioned me about my time away from him. He just accepted that I'd be there now and then and that I'd be gone now and then.

And then I left my posh life. No good-byes there either. I can't say which world was the hardest to leave behind - or the most invigorating. I had no idea where I was going or what I would do when I got there. I just headed out for somewhere different. Somewhere new. Where I could be different and new too. Redefine myself, my life. Nine months of living my upside down ways. It was time for a rebirth. Is that what mom was trying to do?

I have a good steady job now. No more art shows and opening night parties. No more tittering laughter behind a fake, jazzy background where everyone smokes cigarillos and sips dry, horrid wine all the while hiding the black flags, the hard rock music, the tokes, the jokes and the working poor.

I'm a secretary at an oil and gas firm that I've been with now for several years and my husband works hard at his accounting job. My daughter is in grade three, my son is in grade five, and we take our vacations in Disney Land or sometimes, Hawaii. I even play baseball with a women's league when I can find the time between the community car pools, karate lessons for Cameron, and ballet for Kate. I have a lovely life. A very lovely, very real and vivid life.

With the passage of time, I find its gotten a lot easier to wake up in the mornings. I know what's coming next. It's all structured and predictable and . . . what I wanted.

Sometimes though, I can't help thinking about Growl and I wonder . . . when he wakes up—does he find it's just so damn hard to get back to sleep?