He had requested the basement. A dark, slightly damp space used to house his father’s aging, yet exemplary record collection. After moving the records to an agreed upon location in the far back corner, he proceeded to turn his postgrad spot into a temporary fortress from reality. His california king, his stereo, and his TV, plus the other bedroom essentials strewn about his newly inhabited sanctum helped capture the essence of the young visionary. The greatest perk about the spot were the windows lining the wall to his left allowing natural light to bathe his favorite part of his room, a spot he colloquially dubbed The Altar. The altar was nothing more than an old desk he had carved when he was a 12 year old boy scout, but beyond the nostalgic value it showcased invaluable personal relics. His Bible, his writing pad, a lamp from his trip to Morocco, a picture of his family, and an red cup from a neighborhood gathering a few years back. Resting against the desk was his trusty guitar.
It was his inner chamber. His sanctum sanctorum.
He’d often pick up his guitar, strum a few bars then sing mellifluously to a woman who was not there. Well, not there in the room. She was a few houses away, a residual crush from his awkward years before college. Celeste. Her name summoned the infinite beauty of the cosmos, the elegance of the Eagle Nebula and the explosive passion of of the interstellar supernova. He had never understood the feelings he harbored for her. The first time he’d met her in the backyard of Mr. Benedixit Terram’s enchanted estate he had stood next to his mom listening to her interminable chatter with a neighbor about the water bill. His father was inside watching the game and even though he wasn’t a baseball fan, he decided anything was better than this dross. On the way inside he locked eyes with Celeste by the soda table. He stood there in some sort of paralysis trying desperately to speak. She broke the suspended moment by offering him a Pepsi; quivering hands met nearly filled red cup and the next thing he knew he’d spilled half its contents on her. Mortified he stuttered something indecipherable and she laughed nervously, patting frenetically with a handful of embroidered napkins; then still laughing she assured him it was alright. He couldn’t help but stare at her, it’s like his eyes had quixotic minds of their own. After making sure she was cleaned and dry, he offered to walk to her back to her house so she could change. They talked for a while, sipped more soda– uneventfully thank God– and eventually said their goodbyes. He had made sure to hold on to that red cup.
That was the summer before he’d gone to school. Now 4 years later he still found himself mesmerized when he’d see her leave her house. Whereas she used to be rail thin with an awkward bun and glasses too big for her face, she now was nothing short of a radiant heavenly body here on Earth. She was perfectly proportioned, like something off of God’s work table. He had dated in college, but nothing came close to this. The first morning he’d seen her she was on her way to sunbathe, a demented joke by Cupid himself. At risk of feeling like a complete creep he’d hopped in the pool just to get that perfect sight out of his mind. Over the next few weeks he’d see her, running errands and such, but what he never caught was her eyes surreptitiously looking in his home’s direction.
In the cool of dusk he’d pull out the guitar and begin singing the poems out of his writing pad. One night the spirit overcame him and the words just began pouring out:
“Terrestrial angel,
How sweet of thee to bestow on me,
The holy honor of holding you against me,
My heart is yours so completely,
This was Heaven’s work, you complete me.
Enchanted fire raging inside my chest,
Won’t your embers touch my mind,
Send logic into a swirling torrent,
And take away this loneliness abhorrent.
I beseech you lovely girl,
To take my hand in thine.
If you will have me, then I will sure make you mine,
Our soul’s can etch an illustration,
Unlike any seen on earth,
A billion billions, that is your beauty’s worth…”
The words were sweet in his mouth, like he had kissed a thousand honeysuckles. His fingers had exhibited a dexterity that he hadn’t known possible. She had been the muse to the most beautiful song he’d written and he was very aware that he was still smitten. No, not smitten, but inundated by the thought of her. At his altar he opened his Bible and sought God for her.
The next morning, the 3rd Friday in July he heard the familiar faint rap of his mother’s knuckles on the ancient door. He was off work that day and she had asked him to help her with the new orchids she wanted to plant. He donned his basketball shorts, old sneakers, and University cut off shirt and ventured out into the stifling midsummer heat. He had never been an exceptionally muscular fellow, but his early twenties had revealed some expansion he didn’t expect and those extra sinews certainly came in handy. The true reason he had accepted his mother’s request was that he had been fighting this psychotic idea of going to Celeste’s house and giving her father back his rake. It was nothing more than a ploy to say hi to the clear cut love of his life. If he could stay occupied with his mother, then he’d dodge an awkward bullet.
“Hello Missus Davis”. He froze. It couldn’t be. Although more mature and sans braces, the texture of the voice was unavoidably familiar.
“Oh my goodness, Celeste! My love! Look at you! Honey look who it is!”. He already damn well knew who it was. He centered himself and turned around slowly, as coolly as he could, “Hello Celeste, seems like its been forever”.
If she had been a heavenly body from 150 yards away, she was nothing short of a galactic marvel in person. She was magnanimous in beauty, everything in its right place. He offered an awkward smile. He was stuck.
“Celeste, honey, please come in. Its hotter than the devil’s oven out here. Come in, catch up. I’ll get us some iced tea.”
Praise God for mothers…
bryce's labyrinth 