Mornings in the Park

If anyone ever inquired about Logan Drake – facts, anecdotes, personal likes, and dislikes – one thing was always certain. Logan Drake was never on time. It wasn’t intentional, of course. Indeed, Logan would often leave Point A early to make it to Point B on time. But something always got in his way. Traffic, construction, an angry grocery owner arguing with a disgruntled customer. Try as he might, Logan and the rest of the universe were never simpatico.

And perhaps this was why Logan was always restless, always moving against himself and against the current. True, in his career this had made him stand out. What might be considered inappropriate in some work forces made him cutting edge in the world of film. His one night of intoxicated creativity had navigated him quite by random chance to unexpected fame and modest fortune. His renovated loft apartment in NoHo had become a Mecca for young twenty-something artists. The general consensus was if he could do it – if he could be plucked from obscurity, so could they. They flocked to his door to learn his secret. Logan always laughed internally because… there was no secret.

“All you need is a bottle of Jack Daniels,” he would say.

A bottle of booze, connections to endless women and opportunities, and a reckless pace to an end he knew for certain would come. And yet, that very knowledge, that he was pushing himself into a grave he dug himself had come to reside only in his peripheral vision. Like a small tattoo that lingers only skin deep.

And so, it was at this breakneck speed that he found himself slammed into a halting wall one morning in early November. He had started off early once more, riding his bike like some self-aware hipster through standstill traffic in the early morning briskness of the city. As he weaved in and out, he was resolved to be on time, just this once. This meeting was one he could not afford to miss. Indeed, it was THE ONE. The meeting that could turn his B level celebrity stardom into something worth taking notice of. He was on a list of hopefuls to film a documentary, something about poverty or some other sort of social injustice. The film would premier and a fund-raising gala, riddled with wealthy millionaires and moguls with connections to the Academy, and of course, the Oscars. And then, his body could implode into a million pieces, and he would have achieved goals he never even knew he had set for himself.

Except now he was on hold. His agent had called to say the powers that be were deliberating. Deliberating? Deliberating what? His talent? Ability? Certainly not his ego. And yet, there he was, being told to wait when usually he was told to hurry up. In the middle of maneuvering effortlessly through sport cars and SUV’s he was ordered to stop with everyone else.

But Logan did not stop. Instead, he veered off the street laden with vehicular traffic and into the slower paced, more mundane pace of the park pedestrians and two-wheeled travelers. Here were the runners, the walkers, the ambitious ones who wished to better themselves by soaking in the ambiance this national treasure laid before them with daily grace. In his previous life of carefree artistic exploration, Logan knew he would have found beauty in the gently crumbling walls hidden by ancient ivy. He would have searched out the secrets of the well-worn paths traipsing off from the one overrun by tourists and bougie housewives. But today he suppressed his carnal creativity in order to push past those whom he did not believe him to be worthy of noticing.

He felt a low vibration against his chest and pulled his phone from his coat pocket. Without slowing down, he answered. “Tell me something good.”

“Well good is that it’s between you and the kid from Yonkers,” his agent sounded distant and deep as though he were miles into a tunnel.

Logan gritted his teeth. “That spiritual yuppie? What’s the bad news?”

“It’s between you and the kid from Yonkers. The kid is saturated with talent.”

Logan pulled the phone away from his ear. “Do me a favor and don’t call me back until you have MORE good news, or the Yonkers kid becomes slated to become the next Messiah of documentary filmmaking!”

He angrily slammed his finger down on the button to end the call. As he did, his wheel hit a dip in the well-worn asphalt and his phone flew from his fingers, landing with a crash he was sure the cosmos exaggerated only for his benefit. His braked to a skidding halt and his bike pirouetted ungracefully over a small patch of ice. Muttering more expletives than his mother would care to hear him say, he ground his heels into the ground and managed to pull his bike out of a tailspin.

“Watch where you’re going!”

He wasn’t sure where the shouting came from, but suddenly there was a hooded figure directly in the path of his now deathly mode of transportation. He ground his heels deeper into the path and somehow managed to slide to a halt, centimeters from mowing down the hooded figure.

The figure stumbled backward, and the hood fell away from their face. Great, Logan thought as he noticed long hair tumble down. A female. Here comes harassment allegations, sexual misconduct and who knows what else.

He jumped off his bike and walked back up the path for his phone. If they wanted to follow him and rant, they could. He had no time to ask if they were ok. After all, they were in his way.

“Hey!”

And there it was.

“Lady, I have no time to get into it with you.” He looked around frantically for his phone.

“Hey, don’t I know you?”

“It’s possible. If you have any type of social media, I mean. I don’t normally run in the Lululemon circles.” He saw his phone and scooped it up. Please work. The screen lit up and he exhaled. Thank you, reinforced phone cover.

“No, it’s not that...”

Logan rolled his eyes; the voice was growing irksome. He stood and turned to get rid of it. She was right there. Looking at him face to face, something he was not use to, or comfortable with. She was in his space, invading his personal bubble and all his barriers and self-imposed boundaries. And yet, dare he admit it… she looked familiar too.

She was shorter than him by at least a foot, with wide eyes and small mouth. Her hair looked like a wild campfire between her workout and the winter wind. There were streaks of brown and blonde and even orange amidst a wild array of red…

Why was he even LOOKING at her hair?

“Look lady, it’s been fun. But you are fine, clearly, as you followed me all the way over here…”

“Oh, it was nothing,” she interrupted him with far too much exuberance. “You needed to find your phone. I saw you lose control and that’s when I stopped. I thought I could help…”

“Well, you didn’t” Logan pushed past her and hopped she would not follow.

“Do you want a coffee?”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, my friend I usually meet after my morning run, is doing hot yoga, or something like that. I already got her a coffee, so I have two.”

Logan groaned. “Of course, you do.”

“I don’t mind sharing!” She offered him a piping hot Styrofoam vessel that sent hints of cinnamon and chocolate wafting under his nostrils.

“Of course, you don’t mind sharing,” he rolled his eyes. “Fine!” He grabbed the coffee and gulped it down. Don’t even think about admitting how good it is.

Her eyes widened. Logan knew that look. Recognition. He held his breath. 5,4,3,2,1…

“Logan!”

“And there it is,” he picked up his bike. “Well lady, if you want a selfie, let’s do it. I’ve got things to do.”

“Don’t be silly. Logan, don’t you remember me? It’s Ashley. Ashley Hunter.”

It was his turn to recognize. Of course. Ashley. He felt a tinge of foolishness. How could he not recognize his friend? But it had been, what? 5, 10 years? And she had changed, of course. She had gotten, well, older. Of course, she had. Everyone ages. Why was he monologuing internally?

“Ashley, of course! How are you?” Good. Not too formal, not too informal.

“Oh, I am fine!” He thought he saw a brief shadow pass over her face, but he decided it was a passing cloud overhead. She sighed. “I mean, you know, nothing much has happened. I mean, compared to you! You are practically famous now!”

Absolutely, he thought. “Well, I don’t know about that,” he said aloud.

“Oh, everyone we used to hang out with is so proud to just be connected even a little bit to knowing you!” She paused. “Where did you go anyway? I mean, obviously I know where you went. You became brilliant. But you just kind of disappeared off our radar.”

Logan’s memory was pricked. Ashley always was the one to say the things that got under his skin, pricked emotions in ways he hated to admit affected him. Had he distanced himself from the group he once considered family? He would be a blatant liar if he denied it. Especially from Ashley.

“Life happens, you know?”

She gave a small laugh. “I kind of thought you just didn’t want to be friends anymore.”

Are you trying to make me feel guilty?

“Like I said, it was just life.”

She grew quiet for a second and then spoke in a deliberate, methodic tone. “I kind of think maybe the last time we saw each other was the reason we stopped being friends.”

Logan truthfully had no idea what she was talking about. “We are still friends.”

“Because the last time we saw each other you pretty much made it clear there was no place for me as your friend in your life.” He started to speak, and she cut him off. “I mean, I get it. I was a lot. And I know I went from being this quiet mouse, to talking way too much and that probably set you off.” Her voice grew quiet. “I just thought we were better friends than that. And when everything started to happen for you, I thought you would at least text me back. At least about the important things.”

Logan’s mind whirled in his head. What was she referring to? Had all his nights of partying erased this specific part of his life? “Ashley… I honestly don’t know…”

“Oh, you wouldn’t. And that’s ok. Empathy was never your forte.” She twisted the strings of her hoodie. “You just kind of vanished. There was so much history. And it just… ended. And when I needed I friend, the one I use to trust… wasn’t there. And I don’t really know why.”

Logan Drake had nothing to say. For all his ability to work a room, seduce a client, or woman for that matter, he could thing, of nothing to say to this one next him by accident in the middle of the frigid park.

She recognized the awkwardness and changed the subject. “Do you have your tree up yet?”

He was caught off guard. He was not use to this. “Excuse me?”

“You always had your tree up the day after Thanksgiving. You loved Christmas. Don’t tell me fame turned you into a Grinch.”

“Oh, I, uh… I’ve got a small one on my desk.”

“Losing your Christmas spirit?”

He shrugged. “It’s not very Christmassy in the film industry. All the snow is fake.”

She laughed and shoved her hands in her pockets. “Do you still have that ornament?”

She was doing it again. Everything she referred to; he had no memory of. “What ornament?”

“The rabbit? Remember? All those years ago, before Steve and I were even married. I gave you that Velveteen Rabbit ornament. You were dealing with so much, and I told you that that was always a reminder that I knew the real you, and I believed in the real you, just like the boy believing in the rabbit made him real.”

Logan’s mind went silent except for a dull throbbing. But his heart screamed. He gulped the remainder of his coffee down and threw it in a nearby trash can. He felt the trees pressing in on him, the pavement opening to swallow him whole. It was time to leave. It had been time to leave since crashing into her.

“It’s been nice seeing you, Ashley, but I really have to get going.”

Her eyes filled with surprise and guilt. “What did I say.”

“Nothing,” he mounted his bike and began to pedal.

She ran alongside him. “I did it again, right? Talked too much?”

“Nope,”

“I really should just stop talking. I mean, I haven’t seen you in years, haven’t talked to you and now who knows when I will see you again.”

He pedaled faster. “Here,” he reached in his pocket and pulled out a business card. “Call my agent. We can do lunch, coffee, get a smoothie sometime.” She reached for the card, but the wind caught it up and blew it into the shrubbery. She chased after it, freeing Logan to escape.

He did not pedal to the office or toward any place that had become familiar or comfortable to him. Instead, he tore against the traffic downtown toward the only space with answers. He ignored the stoplights, the angry drivers exhibiting their feelings through their extended fingers. He skidded around corner after corner, grazing iron fences and crashing into brick walls.

He dropped his bike in front of a lofty building and dashed up the steps and through the door. He knew the chances of his bike being there five minutes from now was unlikely. He did not care. There was a crowd in front of the elevator and so he plummeted toward the stairs.

Flight after endless flight spanned his years of what he now realized was filled with foolishness. Ten steps equaled all the memorable adventures, but twenty, no thirty equaled all the memorable conversations. And all those conversations Ashely had been a part of. And those ten steps of adventures, how many had Ashley also been a part of…or bailed him out of? Indeed, she was right… where had their friendship gone? Where had he, Logan Drake gone?

He fumbled for his keys, unlocked his door, and crashed into his home, dwelling… place he lived. Where was it? He threw open the closet, the pantry. Had he thrown it away? Was he that shallow?

There was one last place to look. He fell to the floor and reached his hand under his bed. Feeling as far back as he could, his fingers grazed the corners of a box. He pulled it out and sat up against the side of the bed. His hands were shaking. Soberness? Or nerves? He lifted the edge of the box lid and inhaled the smell of memory. Memories long forgotten. What had become of them? Those trips, dinners, conversations, spontaneous runs to a diner for milkshakes, impromptu excursions to karaoke. They all came rushing to the surface, boiling his mind, and singeing his heart like the explosive waters from a geyser.

Gingerly, he lifted the corner of the lid once more and let it fall to the floor. There were photos, fading at the edges, images from his life as a child. Ticket stubs from football games and concert and theme parks; his graduation program from college. A boarding pass from his trip abroad, his old passport photo. But none of these were what he was searching for. He pushed the nostalgic papers aside, shoving his hand through them to the bottom of the box. It had to be here.

And then, his fingers rested on something that was not paper. Something plump, furry, rounded, not non-dimensional like the papers. He breathed in sharply a breath that sounded slightly like a sob. Slowly, he pulled his hand out, the papers falling away until finally it was free of the box.

In his fist was a small, stuffed rabbit. Its coat worn and stitches loose in a few places. Around its neck was a faded red ribbon accented by a sprig of holly that was missing a few berries. The ears had flopped over, the tail was missing, and the tiny black eyes had lost their shine.

But to Logan, it was as beautiful as a piece bought at Tiffany’s. He held the tiny rabbit in his palm and turned it gently with his fingers. He remembered that night, so long ago he had received this rabbit. How young and poor they had all been. How close they were because they world had not pulled them apart yet. He remembered how genuine the gifts had been, heartfelt, some homemade.

He pulled himself to his feet and crossed the room lit only by the smoggy rays of the city outside. Leaning down he reached behind his desk and inserted a plug into its place. The lights from his tiny Christmas tree pushed back against the neon and created a warmth he had forgotten how much he missed. He lifted the rabbit and gently placed it amidst the foliage of the tree. It was the only ornament on it, but somehow the tree was now decorated perfectly. A smile played at the corner of his lips and his eyes grew glassy.

He heard his phone vibrate in and pocket and fumbled for it. “Yeah?”

“Logan? Where are you?”

“I went on a bit of an existential journey today.”

“What are you talking about? Logan, you got it. Get down here.”

“Take care of it, will you? I’ve got things to do.”

“Things? What things? Logan…”

Logan silenced the room. It was quiet. Quieter than it had been in longer than he could remember. Outside a light flurry of snow had begun to drift downward. He sank into the plushness of his couch, letting it envelope him. He felt young, childish, vulnerable. He watched twinkle of the Christmas lights as every so often one would flicker out of sync with the others. The rabbit stared back at him and smiled as though to remind Logan he understood perfectly what he was feeling. That rabbit, so old and worn and yet, so perfectly symbolizing everything that had been good, was good about his life. He felt his counter-self, his self-assured, confident alter ego crash to the floor and splinter into nothingness.

Logan Drake was Logan Drake once more.