The Ring
This isn't about the movie of the same title, though I knew that girl.
That horrid white-gowned, black-haired, crooked-back, double-jointed,
heartless, evil, soul-killing whore. We dated. This is about a diamond ring
that I didn't have the money to buy. It accounted for a tenth of my
income that year, my best year, gross not net, and before the bills. I
saw it in the jewelry shop and knew it was the one like some people see
dogs in pounds, or pumpkins on vines, or Christmas trees in vast cold
and snowy fields, or people in parks, and know they are the one. Their
one.
Two karats, she cooed. An absolute gorgeous and unique ring. My favorite ring in the whole store, she went on. She would make ten percent of the sale, so I knew she would say anything. But regardless of how much it was, I was going to find a way to buy it because it was the ring. The one. And it belongs to my one. It was mined for her. Cut for her. Shipped for her. Bought and sold for her. It sparkles for her. And it waits for her.
She's a lucky girl, the sales lady said wrapping it up. So when are you going to propose? When I find her, I said. You mean you don't even know her? No. I know her. I just haven't met her. Maybe I will meet her this weekend, or tomorrow, or next week. Maybe next month or next year. Maybe when I retire and am in a rest home. But whenever it is, I'll be prepared.
She gave me a peculiar look, eyes that said, to each their own, reminding herself to smile, her commission and dedication to customer service, after all, warranted it. I hope it all works out for you, she added. Sure it will, I replied. There is no other way.
I wasn't honest with her. It was for someone I knew. I was dating a someone who I thought the ring would change. Someone who didn't really love me at all, but who I adored. Once the ring slipped on her finger I thought she would be enchanted and she would become that which I believed her to be. Abracadabra.
But she never became more than a someone. We broke up shortly thereafter I bought the ring and I stored it in my pocket, then in a sock drawer. It cost more than my car and it was there in a little black box lying in the indignity of underwear and socks. But I adored her still and asked her to go somewhere with me and when the time was exactly right that weekend, I asked her to marry me and presented the ring to her in front of God and the angels and she answered with a definite and breathless yes.
But a ring cannot make up for that which is not in the heart and she, despite her adoration of it, and that mesmeric way she looked at it like a werewolf at a full moon, turned cold and died inside the way lovers do, to indifference, coldness, and callousness. And she treated my heart recklessly the way one treats old shoes or clothes. Wearing them with a certain air of contempt, regarding oneself in the mirror with thoughts of what new clothes or shoes might do for her happiness. And it became clear to me that she loved the ring for what it represented, not who.
Despite a perfect engagement and ring, she was soon gone and I retrieved the ring and put it back in my pocket and back into the underwear drawer where it made friends with old newspaper clippings and condoms and a family of lint. And I had hopes in time that someone would come along whom I would give the ring to. And a parade of them came, and went, but the ring never left the drawer and after a while I nearly forgot it was there.
Then I lost everything. Everything. As unexpected as the Titanic, my old life sunk in an icy black sea and all they aboard, women and children included, drowned the death of high-interest debt and bad loans. I was let go from my job and cashed out my retirement to cover bills, but the money dried up and the bills kept coming like Centipede in the arcade. I could only watch without quarters as my life disintegrated.
My car was gone next and then my house. I took what work I could find and had enough money to eat once a day or so. But I didn't have anywhere to go and lived in a shelter, then a box. Friends seemed to disappear, but I was never a mooch anyway and wasn't meant for the goodwill of a basement couch.
I took very little from the house. Most of it was sold or repossessed. I had what I could carry in a small duffel bag. The shoes on my feet. The clothes on my back and what I could stuff into pockets. The ring. Perhaps I was saving it for a chance encounter with the girl who played Mary Poppins, or Evgenia Medvedeva, or the second coming of Audrey Hepburn, but its place, for the time being, was with me. Someone could have offered me fifty thousand dollars for it and I would have said no. It was priceless.
I moved out of the box and lived for a while in a tent, then back in a box when my tent was stolen. I was robbed twice, of utensils and what little money I had, but they never got the ring. And sometimes at night when no one was around, I would take it out of its box and smile looking at it shimmer in the light of a campfire, knowing its true worth. A ring worth more than I could ever afford. And all I could do was to imagine the finger that I would one day put it on and dream and think of what that finger was doing absent the ring it was meant to wear.
I never gave thought to pawn it to get an apartment, clothes and food. Not even in the dead of winter when people made boxes for cats and dogs so they didn't freeze to the sidewalk, but shooed away people. I could have lived for months on its value. But it wasn't an option. I sold blood and plasma and took a job doing dishes in a Chinese restaurant. The ring stayed in my pocket. I bought my clothes from Salvation Army. The ring stayed in my pocket. Then I supposed if I was homeless, I may as well be the best dressed bum there ever was. But when I saw my reflection in the window glass of a bank where I had no money and realized I looked somewhat like Chaplin, I went all in. Funny mustache, top-hat, cane and all. It was my schtick. Homeless people often have schticks. You might already know this. You might have already seen some homeless people with schticks.
After working two jobs for a while, I went to the metropolitan housing authority with that ring in my pocket and got on a list for a house. When they asked if I possessed anything of value, liquid assets they call them, I lied and said no.
It just so happened that the most beautiful woman I've ever seen worked in that office and was assigned to help me. I had no delusions of ever taking her on a date, or her ever speaking to me beyond the scope of her civil service duties and basic kindness. She was out of my league even before I lost it all. But then she said she just so happened to be a big Charlie Chaplin fan and by chance there just so happened to be a Chaplin festival in Cleveland next weekend and she just so happened to know no one who shared her enthusiasm. There just so happened to be many just so happened to bes over the next few months and after I got a good job and gave up my Chaplin schtick, she just so happened to stick around.
The one is never a someone or just anyone. They cannot be willed or forced or coerced, nor should you have to plea a case to them. It was Christmas and the girl from the metropolitan housing authority, whose time and place in this universe intersected mine at the exact perfect moment, breathed a perfect breath as we walked through the streets of Progress at COSI, an indoor time-warped town featuring old building fronts and antique lampposts and goods, stuck in perpetual night.
And somewhere between 1920 and 1962, little glittery dry snowflakes fell as though on cue. And I finally took the ring out of my pocket, not to pawn it to pay my rent, but to pay a debt I owed myself a long time ago. A debt we all owe ourselves. And it just so happened to be at that moment on a sixties TV in an appliance shop window, Neil Armstrong walked on the moon as she smiled a teary smile and gasped an emphatic yes.
Two karats, she cooed. An absolute gorgeous and unique ring. My favorite ring in the whole store, she went on. She would make ten percent of the sale, so I knew she would say anything. But regardless of how much it was, I was going to find a way to buy it because it was the ring. The one. And it belongs to my one. It was mined for her. Cut for her. Shipped for her. Bought and sold for her. It sparkles for her. And it waits for her.
She's a lucky girl, the sales lady said wrapping it up. So when are you going to propose? When I find her, I said. You mean you don't even know her? No. I know her. I just haven't met her. Maybe I will meet her this weekend, or tomorrow, or next week. Maybe next month or next year. Maybe when I retire and am in a rest home. But whenever it is, I'll be prepared.
She gave me a peculiar look, eyes that said, to each their own, reminding herself to smile, her commission and dedication to customer service, after all, warranted it. I hope it all works out for you, she added. Sure it will, I replied. There is no other way.
I wasn't honest with her. It was for someone I knew. I was dating a someone who I thought the ring would change. Someone who didn't really love me at all, but who I adored. Once the ring slipped on her finger I thought she would be enchanted and she would become that which I believed her to be. Abracadabra.
But she never became more than a someone. We broke up shortly thereafter I bought the ring and I stored it in my pocket, then in a sock drawer. It cost more than my car and it was there in a little black box lying in the indignity of underwear and socks. But I adored her still and asked her to go somewhere with me and when the time was exactly right that weekend, I asked her to marry me and presented the ring to her in front of God and the angels and she answered with a definite and breathless yes.
But a ring cannot make up for that which is not in the heart and she, despite her adoration of it, and that mesmeric way she looked at it like a werewolf at a full moon, turned cold and died inside the way lovers do, to indifference, coldness, and callousness. And she treated my heart recklessly the way one treats old shoes or clothes. Wearing them with a certain air of contempt, regarding oneself in the mirror with thoughts of what new clothes or shoes might do for her happiness. And it became clear to me that she loved the ring for what it represented, not who.
Despite a perfect engagement and ring, she was soon gone and I retrieved the ring and put it back in my pocket and back into the underwear drawer where it made friends with old newspaper clippings and condoms and a family of lint. And I had hopes in time that someone would come along whom I would give the ring to. And a parade of them came, and went, but the ring never left the drawer and after a while I nearly forgot it was there.
Then I lost everything. Everything. As unexpected as the Titanic, my old life sunk in an icy black sea and all they aboard, women and children included, drowned the death of high-interest debt and bad loans. I was let go from my job and cashed out my retirement to cover bills, but the money dried up and the bills kept coming like Centipede in the arcade. I could only watch without quarters as my life disintegrated.
My car was gone next and then my house. I took what work I could find and had enough money to eat once a day or so. But I didn't have anywhere to go and lived in a shelter, then a box. Friends seemed to disappear, but I was never a mooch anyway and wasn't meant for the goodwill of a basement couch.
I took very little from the house. Most of it was sold or repossessed. I had what I could carry in a small duffel bag. The shoes on my feet. The clothes on my back and what I could stuff into pockets. The ring. Perhaps I was saving it for a chance encounter with the girl who played Mary Poppins, or Evgenia Medvedeva, or the second coming of Audrey Hepburn, but its place, for the time being, was with me. Someone could have offered me fifty thousand dollars for it and I would have said no. It was priceless.
I moved out of the box and lived for a while in a tent, then back in a box when my tent was stolen. I was robbed twice, of utensils and what little money I had, but they never got the ring. And sometimes at night when no one was around, I would take it out of its box and smile looking at it shimmer in the light of a campfire, knowing its true worth. A ring worth more than I could ever afford. And all I could do was to imagine the finger that I would one day put it on and dream and think of what that finger was doing absent the ring it was meant to wear.
I never gave thought to pawn it to get an apartment, clothes and food. Not even in the dead of winter when people made boxes for cats and dogs so they didn't freeze to the sidewalk, but shooed away people. I could have lived for months on its value. But it wasn't an option. I sold blood and plasma and took a job doing dishes in a Chinese restaurant. The ring stayed in my pocket. I bought my clothes from Salvation Army. The ring stayed in my pocket. Then I supposed if I was homeless, I may as well be the best dressed bum there ever was. But when I saw my reflection in the window glass of a bank where I had no money and realized I looked somewhat like Chaplin, I went all in. Funny mustache, top-hat, cane and all. It was my schtick. Homeless people often have schticks. You might already know this. You might have already seen some homeless people with schticks.
After working two jobs for a while, I went to the metropolitan housing authority with that ring in my pocket and got on a list for a house. When they asked if I possessed anything of value, liquid assets they call them, I lied and said no.
It just so happened that the most beautiful woman I've ever seen worked in that office and was assigned to help me. I had no delusions of ever taking her on a date, or her ever speaking to me beyond the scope of her civil service duties and basic kindness. She was out of my league even before I lost it all. But then she said she just so happened to be a big Charlie Chaplin fan and by chance there just so happened to be a Chaplin festival in Cleveland next weekend and she just so happened to know no one who shared her enthusiasm. There just so happened to be many just so happened to bes over the next few months and after I got a good job and gave up my Chaplin schtick, she just so happened to stick around.
The one is never a someone or just anyone. They cannot be willed or forced or coerced, nor should you have to plea a case to them. It was Christmas and the girl from the metropolitan housing authority, whose time and place in this universe intersected mine at the exact perfect moment, breathed a perfect breath as we walked through the streets of Progress at COSI, an indoor time-warped town featuring old building fronts and antique lampposts and goods, stuck in perpetual night.
And somewhere between 1920 and 1962, little glittery dry snowflakes fell as though on cue. And I finally took the ring out of my pocket, not to pawn it to pay my rent, but to pay a debt I owed myself a long time ago. A debt we all owe ourselves. And it just so happened to be at that moment on a sixties TV in an appliance shop window, Neil Armstrong walked on the moon as she smiled a teary smile and gasped an emphatic yes.
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