Happiness, In Red Light
I catch the train around eight and take the ride from downtown Chicago to Logan Square. When I arrive at the California stop I glance back at the skyline, where the the last embers of summer sunset are absorbed by glass and steel, a beautiful reminder of how well man and nature play together when they’re not at odds. From my back pocket I remove the pamphlet she sent me, Seven Scenes of Emotion by Sasha, it reads. There’s something scribbled on the back that I can’t bring myself to read. It’s been six months since we broke up, though every detail sits in my mind with fresh and excruciating specificity. It’s the vivid memory of that day, in fact, that pushed me to leap at the invitation to see her again. An attempt to erase or at least override that last image of her, the one that’s occupied the full capacity of my mental disk space since the breakup. A contorted expression of the deepest sadness I’ve ever seen.
The show doesn’t start for another hour so I stroll up Milwaukee Ave to grab a drink at the Whistler. Along the way I pass a handful of aspiring artists toting backpacks, making their way to Gaslight Coffee. They bounce with confidence indicating they think they have it in them to write something special. I feel for their ignorance. They’re too young to realize nobody cares that their insides are all twisted up and that the only way to untwist the knots is through a blank page and a keyboard. A part of me wants to warn them, to let them know it’s not worth it and that the knots first need to get so mangled and fucked up that they carry the pain of the entire world, not just their own. Only then will the world feel any empathy towards them and they for the world. Compassion gets the better of me and I let them drift freely into the loneliness that awaits.
I arrive at the Whistler with enough time for one drink. Kat’s the bartender tonight. When she works her hair’s always pulled back so tight that it lifts the corners of her eyes just enough to give her an exotic look. I get a stir watching her from the bar. No doubt the temptation is there but the unfortunate thing about bartenders is that they’re off limits if you ever plan on coming back. What’s more I remind myself that it was this type of wandering into off limit territory that’s landed me in the totalitarian grip of sadness for the past six months.
The entrance to the venue is down a narrow alley that sort of rolls violently off Milwaukee like a sinewy arm off some spilled liquid. A big red steel door, tagged with graffiti, announces the entrance. On the left there’s a buzzer which requires a heroic push in order to summon a large man dressed in jeans and a button down flannel. He looks me over quickly then looks beyond me as if I’ve forgotten my guest. ‘It’s just me,’ I say preemptively.
Inside, the place has a strange vibe but, in a way I can’t explain, feels wholly appropriate. The lights are red and the ceiling appears low, hangs like one of those winter clouds that means business. From the entrance, I observe a small round stage in the room’s center. Two seater tables are spread across the lower level while a circular catwalk of elevated concrete wraps the rest of interior, a bar at either end. I decide I like the place, maybe even love it. It has that feeling which can only be inspired when a once decrepit space is reimagined with the fresh eyes of a new generation. A sort of industrial hipster rebirth.
“Follow me.” The hostess hands me a paper menu and leads me down a flight of stairs to a table near the edge of the stage. “Here you are. Just so you know there’s a note on your reservation that all your drinks are taken care of.” She pauses as if it didn’t make any sense. “Is it your birthday?”
“I don’t suppose you get a lot of birthday parties for one, do you?”
“I don’t know what you mean. Is it your birthday?”
“No, it’s not my birthday. Maybe someone still loves me.” I hope it’s true.
The moments pass slowly and like slides on an old projector. I order an old fashioned from the waitress, remove the pamphlet from my pocket and turn it over to read. ‘This was for you. Love Sasha,’ is all it says. I ponder the word was. My gut sits like a rock near my ankles.
At the back of the room the lights shut off one by one, leaving only two bursts of dusty red illuminating the bars. The space is black with red shade, a giant revolutionary flag. A moment later, a man steps out on the stage. He introduces himself and the title of the show. There’s a light applause, interrupted by a few hollers of anticipation. The stage goes dark, then reappears in red light. Two rows of chairs occupy the stage, men and women perched and angled at the floor’s center, facing the audience. They sit like puppets waiting for strings to be pulled.
A man’s head rises from the front row, “Happiness,” he says, his voice solemn. My gaze fixates on a woman in the chair closest to me. The rims of her glasses are lined with purple streaks. Her eyes are still, dirty green like freshly pulled basil. She has a square jawline, which gives her a masculine appearance.
The stage is at once drawn to life and all together they begin to laugh. The laughter comes in short, low bursts at first but climbs steadily. My eyes are again drawn to the woman, her features become softer, the laughter feminizing. It’s not long before the laughter is deep and stretched, like those belly laughs that seem to be exclusive to children. It goes on like this for minutes, a constant rise in pace and intensity until I can see tears begin to form on the side of the woman’s face. She appears hurt and turns red, several shades deeper than the lights. The scene induces a sort of melancholic terror, like watching an animal die at the side of some isolated road after being hit.
Her breaths are like dry heeves. And just as it appears as if she has nothing left, she digs in and gives it another go. The laughter is suffocating, some sort of twisted plea maybe, an ironic passing from life to death. I’m fully entranced, though against my will. I watch her die with a warm glee, an all out mutilation of whatever compassion I think I possess. It all becomes suddenly and deeply sad and I wonder if the internal weeping is for the life I see evaporating or from my own obvious failure as a human being. Perhaps it’s my recognition of what a human being actually is, underneath all the bullshit.
She topples from her chair and grabs at her stomach, continuing all the more. Stop! I want to yell out amidst my discomfort but I’m choked by something sinister. A close look reveals popping veins and temples beating out of control, ready to explode and spill blood onto the floor. She curls up into a fetal position, struggles for breath. This is the moment of transition, it appears. The closer she comes to expiration the harder she laughs, like this is all one big joke maybe. Life, that is. As we accept the finality of it all, we entwine in profound connection, a rare love characterized by the celebration of a passing body. As my feelings crescendo, she drops to the floor, her body pops under the intensity of the convulsions and subsides into silence.
The room is mute. The stage is full of still bodies, lifeless on the floor. I’m still catching my breath when the man from earlier rises to address the crowd, “Happiness,” he says.
Passion, Fear and Anxiety are the next to follow. I’m nearly wrung out, spent from an emotional ride for which I hadn’t prepared myself. But it keeps coming. Wave after wave hits me, each opens me up all the more, exposes my inhumanity. Love and Jealousy came one after another. Isn’t that how it always goes, I think. When it’s all over the stage goes dark one last time. I squeeze my hands together, waiting. This must be her, it has to be. I feel like I’m in the throws of a bad acid trip, outside myself peering in, disgusted by what I see. The gentle clink of glass is the only reminder that I’m still here, still part of this world.
Another minute passes before a single light hits the stage, illuminating the man who’s been our navigator throughout. “And now I give you Sorrow, performed by Sasha.”
My muscles tighten in a sort of deadly lock at the mere mention of her name. Sasha. But I have already seen your sorrow, please don’t show me again. I want to leave, to escape, as the light creeps in. Millions of terrible men march to pound at my heart with hammers and beat my will into a slumped stupor, there is no moving from this. From the edge of the stage there’s the raw and dusty crack of dry feet as she makes her way to the center. I fall to the very pit of my seat as the whole of my interior explodes and rains back down, a pile of scattered ash. There she is. Sasha. She stands, naked except for a thin blanket draped over her shoulder like she’s some goddess of old. Her feet, bare and stuck to the floor, are milky white, young. The edges of the cloth breathe slowly and gently stroke her calves. Her hair is scattered around her shoulders, undone and looks as if its been unwashed for weeks. There’s not a sound in the room.
I watch closely as she stands under the smooth robe. Her eyes open wide, the pace of her breathing slow, dimming with each exhale, until she’s an erect corpse. I trace around her eyes, wet with despair, as are mine. A tear tumbles awkwardly down her cheek and evaporates on her neck. Her head moves slowly from left to right, allowing us to examine the freshness of her pain, to witness the depth of the cuts. I’m fixated on her expression, how it changes subtly, as her youth disappears and is swallowed by the virus to which she wilfully submits. As I watch her, I try to figure out what she’s thinking about, what makes her so sad. I wonder if it’s me, embarrassed at something so self-important. I wrecked her once before, right on the spot. How many times can one person offer themselves up for demolition by another?
The tears fall now with greater speed and frequency and they begin to wet the floor. She sniffs hard before her breathing shortens. Her head rears back as her veins attempt to suffocate her. I want to get up, to jump on the stage and embrace her, wrap myself in that sheet and give her all the warmth I once held from her. She’s infinitely more beautiful as her sorrow intensifies. With each tear, each sniffle, each body spasm I feel closer to her. She’s naked, pure, and I want to live inside her, to live her grief. My Sasha. A performance of absolute genius. I’m so drawn into her that I feel a love that makes me regret my entire life up till this point, because I haven’t lived, not until now, right here.
The show ends as she buckles and falls to the floor, defeated, lovely. Happy. The lights draw to a close in absolute silence. I fall back in my chair, exhausted, wiping away my own tears, after which what must have remained was a look of absolute satisfaction. It’s then that I realize the fear, the pushing away, the holding back, was all about death and whether you decide to laugh or cry your way into it, the outcome is the same.
I have to choose her.
Sasha.
Happiness.
