Entre Chien et Loup

Define what you mean by “good.” I still think of it in simple terms. 

I button up my white shirt, tighten up the dark blue tie. It’s going to rain today. I’ll put on my Tilly hat. Winds howl despite the brave sun, telling us plainly what’s to come. Better be prepared.

See? It’s better to be prepared. Good is relative. I understand, it’s clear, and when the sun hides from us this afternoon, when the atmosphere fills with dust, I’ll be prepared. I’ll put on a beige raincoat and my camouflage Tilly hat. I’ll put on my woollen suit. There won’t be any snow; my leather shoes will do.

And what’s “bad”? A little more complicated? 

Someone loses their wedding ring on our front lawn three days ago. Lena wants us to keep it. “It’s probably four hundred in resale value.” She’s the one who found it. Bad, bad. No, I know to whom it belongs, I saw them looking for it yesterday. 

Across the street, through the arched brick doorway, up to the third floor. The dog answers in a low growl. No one else is home, it seems. The apartment below is really noisy. Someone ain’t too happy. 

“Hey Diesel! How ya doin’ bud?” 

The growl turns into a whine. We’ve met before. 

Back at our place, Lena brushes her teeth. She jokes that since she found the ring, she should get to keep it. “That’s not good,” I tell her. Better. I think I’ve made my point.

There’s no need to drag it out. Lena needs to say it out loud. She would bite herself if she lost an opportunity, any opportunity. That’s good, I guess. Well, yes, of course it’s good, you would tell me. When she sees something that must be done, she does it exactingly, cleverly. 

Are some things neither? Neither “good” nor “bad” cannot be too bad, don’t you think so? If it defies a category, it doesn’t help us: that’s not very good. In the end, neither “good” nor “bad” lives up to its name. I feel lukewarm.

 That’s better than very hot or very cold. In fact, my Tilly hat flops over my head, the wind drying the beads of sweat on my forehead. The walk is mostly uphill. I get a good deal of exercise. I feel refreshed.

I observe my reflection in the subway car’s window. The neon lights above reveal the bags under my eyes. Normal, it’s alright. Lower, a stain on my tie. Toothpaste, and I don’t know how it got there. I have an extra tie shoved in a drawer. 

I raise up my arm, meaning to hold on to a safety bar. A station is coming, and I like to be prepared. The cuff of my starched white shirt is too tight on my wrist, it pulls on my chafed, hairless skin. The train stops a little too abruptly. A woman with elegantly messy grey hair drops a bag. People exit the door, shuffling slowly yet aggressively. The woman fastens her bag over her shoulder and exits the car at the last second. I sink in the back of the car, lean on the opposite door. 

I walk out of the subway car at the next stop. I exit the station door into the still sunny day. A short walk, still uphill, and I arrive at my office building. I’ve only ever noticed the doors, black, reflective, with stainless steel handles. The rest of the skyscraper’s exterior remains unknown to me, yet I penetrate its carpeted hallways each day.  I walk in the elevator: 23rd floor, the button lights up when I press it. Three more people come in before we can make our way up. I’m early, it’s alright.

I notice, beside me, our old friend Lucy. She’s been on her honeymoon these past few weeks, and her freckles layer upon each other like icing. I welcome her back. She seems satisfied by our conversation, invites me and Lena for a game of badminton, or perhaps tennis? I feign interest: she seems so happy. We arrive at the 23rd floor, and I notice that my attempt to demonstrate interest has made me emotionally invested. “Let’s make it happen, what about tonight?”

I cannot tell you whether that was good or bad of me. I doubt the nature of my intentions. Lena and I meet Lucy and Dom at their preferred court. We play furiously against each other, tennis that is. Lena is red, half of exhaustion, half with rage, when we finally stop playing. Lena’s good at tennis, and Lucy is just better. Despite being better than most, than me at least, Lena thinks not as good means “bad.” I only see her as the best or as the worst, depending on the days. Lena defies the safety of making preparations. 

As we walk to the bench to grab a drink of water, I notice my shoelace has come undone. I kneel down silently, letting Lena go out in front, and tie a neat double-knot. I pull the grey strings tightly together, making sure they’ll stay put. Lena’s hand extends under my eyes: “Here’s your water,” she says while looking at Lucy, still stretching. 

Intuitively, Lena knows what to do right, feeling each situation, changes in form, tone, light, exactly for what they are. She sees my floppy Tilly hat and brings me an umbrella, she notices a stain on my tie and hands me another one. She is empowered to choose between right and wrong, yet she knows that sometimes bad things must be done for good things to come. She also knows that sometimes bad things must be done for good things to come to her. Luckily for me, her ferocious opportunism also attempts to serve her version of my best interests.

Lucy and Dom played well together: they had just come back from a 3 week trip during which much time had been spent on the court. Lena couldn’t stand losing, and argued for points that clearly hadn’t been ours. When she pointed down at the line-painted floor where she said her serve had arrived, Lucy and Dom awkwardly conceded. Lena too, despite her brilliant foresight, succumbed to the rapid rush of blood, to her heart’s thrashing against her chest. She showed weakness, displayed that despite knowing what was right and wrong, bad and good, she had an incapacity to resist serving herself better. 

Lena had recognized herself in me early in our relationship. One date, in a dark bar and vinyl seats, she’d asked me to tell her a terrible thing I had done. She promised to reciprocate the confession. I whispered in her ear how, when I myself was just a kid, I had tripped up a boy who ran past me in the school gym. Lena had backed up and laughed: “Are you serious? That’s what everyone does in soccer! I used to play in high school, you know?”

She had misunderstood me. We had not been in the middle of playing a game. I still remember his pale blond hair and annoying face, how he was smiling and throwing his head back, how he hadn’t seen me put my foot out. He’d sprawled right out on the floor, and I had been utterly shocked. I’d backed up in surprise to see the gym teacher looking at me from the other side of the gym, wide-eyed. He looked scared. I did not differentiate myself from Lena’s experience. My face felt warm when she thought we were the same. The vinyl seat squeaked as I leaned forward to kiss her. 

The seats of Lena’s car are brown leather, and they feel sticky under my short-clad legs. She parks in front of our building, a subdivided Victorian brick home. I recognize Diesel’s marbled fur and chaotic walking style across the street. Two men attempt to walk him back to their own front door. I grab the wedding ring I’ve kept in my raincoat, putting it in my sweater’s front pocket. “I’ll be right back,” I tell Lena, who gathers her things and goes inside. 

I stay across the street. “Hey guys! Is that Diesel?” 

They look at each other before replying: “Yeah,” one of them says. 

I take the large gold band out, holding it at the tip of my fingers, far away from my body. “Is this your wedding ring?” I ask.

“Holy shit!” They both start laughing. “You’ve really made someone’s day,” they smile as I hand them the ring, all of us standing in the middle of the rain-coated street. 

Upon entering our apartment, I see Lena standing in front of the bathroom mirror at the end of the hallway, de-tangling her hair. I take off my Tilly hat, throwing it on a hook by the front door. I leave my shoes behind, jump in the shower behind Lena. Through the glass doors and rising steam, I observe her motions. “They took the ring?” 

“Yes,” I respond. 

“Did they say anything about prize money for returning it?” In this economy?, I asked myself.

“No,” I laugh. 

Lena sighs, puts down her brush, and turns back to face me. “Alright, next time I find a ring though I’m keeping it.”

“Sounds good.”