The Night of Donnie Brasco

I’m sure my life is not that exceptional. Everyone, unless you’re a complete recluse who hasn’t seen the light outside your apartment in the last 25 years, has had the kind of moment I’m about to describe. (And chances are, even those living in Hermitdom have had one of these magical exchanges at one time or another. Maybe it’s what propelled them into seclusion in the first place.) Do you smell it yet? The scent of which I speak?

Some people call it a connection or chemistry. Some say love or lust. Others, communication by osmosis. What it boils down to is a man and a woman speaking nothing, yet saying everything. The air between two bodies becomes thick – but not with words. With intentions. Bold intentions that meet and embrace in the space (thin, often oxygen-less space) between two hearts. It’s not scientific at all. It’s animal. It’s raw. It’s aggressive. But it can not be qualified or quantified beyond the wrecking of a soul. It is…the closest two people can get without physical touch (although touching sometimes comes immediately after. Though, not in my case.). Ring a bell?

The time was grad school. Somewhere in the middle of my pointless, additional education. I was dating Gina at the time. And it was good. You know? Nothing too hard. Everything pretty breezy. I wasn’t looking for anything. I definitely wasn’t looking for a storm like I was about to encounter.

Trish worked in the law library. Not that I ever needed to actually go in the law library – I was merely a hippie artist – barefoot and free – legality was the furthest thing from my mind. But I saw her filing a stack of heavy books one day – on my way to the bathroom – and, I must admit, she made me stop. You know how sometimes you’ll be watching a movie and you’ll see a certain actor you think you recognize? Only you don’t remember from where? You’re just convinced you’ve seen this person before. And it will plague you until you get up off your ass, go to your computer, and look them up on IMDB. (That’s Internet Movie Data Base for those who have yet to discover this worthwhile resource). After the reveal, you slap your forehead and go, “Oh yeah, that was the guy who was in Ace Ventura: Pet Detective. The black officer at the police station who didn’t seem to care for the opera singing asshole joke. Also remade the song Wild Thing and a catchy little ditty called Funky Cold Medina”. Then you’re fine. You can finally rest, right? Tone Loc. Dammit. I knew that one.

That’s the way it was with Trish. Though I just saw her the once – in passing – she stayed in my mind. I guess she was moderately cute – winner of no beauty pageants or anything – but demurely lovely. But it wasn’t her looks that stopped me. It was that…knowing. Somehow. That couldn’t be settled with a mere trip to IMDB. After about a week, it started to make me a little crazy. I’d been to the library at least 6 times, just to catch a glimpse. Gina was beginning to ask me about my unusually studious behavior, but I just couldn’t shake this feeling.

I remember it was a Thursday, because that’s the day Gina went to Jazzercise. And we had a huge fight over the phone about some dinner plans I had failed to acknowledge. I wasn’t really that upset. But she was. I conveniently needed to stop by the library to grab a book for a paper that was due next week. Something on Kierkegaard.

I swear I had no intention on scoping out the law library that day. I started to feel a little guilty about my spat with Gina. I guess I can be a bit selfish and pig-headed at times. I was just going to pick up “Fear and Trembling” and step out into the smoking area to call her back. Thought I could catch her before she left for her class.

That’s when I saw her. Trish. In a plain, black, pleated skirt and white silk blouse. She was in General Collection – completely out of place. As was I. I didn’t intend to speak. (I realize now that my life has consisted of a series of events that I never intended to engage in. What does that say about me?) Anyway, she came closer and I opened my stupid mouth: “Hey.”

She took one look at me. She smiled. Then she responded, “Don’t I know you?”
She didn’t. Our conversation was short. But long enough to forget about angry Gina in her leotard. Trish smelled like all the best moments from high school. Go figure. I faltered, and invited her to come by the apartment later on that evening. My roommate would probably be home, but we could get some take out. A movie. I’m sure Netflix had a treasure waiting in my mail box.

From the time she arrived, there were few words spoken. Small talk only. Mostly, we ordered some food and sat down for motion picture intake. Donnie Brasco. I haven’t watched it since. I barely even remember Pacino and Depp. My roommate at the time, Matt, was home as I had suspected. I don’t know if things would have ended up differently otherwise. In hindsight, it was probably for the best.

Cardboard cartons of half-eaten Pad Thai sat around on the floor. A finished six-pack of Woodchuck Cider. Matt sat on the couch and watched the movie. I was in our worn-out papasan chair, and Trish had chosen the floor as her seat of choice. More accurately…the floor at my feet. Gina was far, far away. Could have been her that kept phoning during this all-important viewing. I don’t know – we never had caller id.

There was no real exact moment when it hit me. It was more like a steady wash that surged over me, went out like the blue tide, and then surged again. Undeniable, yet indescribable. I tend to balk at ESP, but Trish, her back to me, inches from my toes, was communing with me. And we weren’t even touching. We were together in such a potent and powerful way, that the guilt of that experience alone would eventually cause me to break things off with Gina.

The movie was over, and the words spoken in leaving were even fewer then those beforehand. Trish pulled her powder blue sweater down over her black stretch pants and the slight revelation of her tanned lower back. She excused herself to the bathroom – not even looking my way. When she came out, she thanked Matt and I, expressed a simple goodbye, and headed towards the door. I quickly dismissed the utter satisfaction of the unspoken affair and stopped her just before she escaped. She leaned into me. Touched her cheek to mine and whispered, “I do know you.” And she was gone.

Matt took the words out of my mouth the moment she had cleared the stairwell: “What the fuck was that?” To this day…I have no idea. But it doesn’t make me any less grateful.