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Saturday, July 22, 2017

Paul Lynde's Lover

In 1965, Lynde was involved in an accident in which a young actor fell to his death from the window of their hotel room in San Francisco's Sir Francis Drake Hotel. The two had been drinking for hours before 24-year-old James "Bing" Davidson slipped and fell eight stories. (Wikipedia) 

I will never forget that sound. 
I didn't think the latch would ever snap like that. 
I can't even remember what happened next. 
Not unless I pause long enough to be close to this place they call sober. 
It's a trade off. 
I can drown the end part. 
I can wash away everything from
that terrible metal snap all the way to the sound of the siren. 
Carrying you away. 
Carrying away the dreams we shared. The silly visions of a future that I thought was impossible one day before we met. 
And knew was impossible one day after. 
It was only three hours. 
But god were they glorious. 
You made me believe. 
You laughed at my jokes but not how everyone else does. 
Hell, its my job to make them laugh. 
And pray that somewhere in between they never see what is really there. Or who. 
In between the drinks the laughter and that passion you looked behind the bullshit lies of my smile.  
The lies I had to tell to make it out of Mount Vernon. 
The lies behind every... single... goddamn joke. 
Jokes to make it easier for others to take me. 
Even the evil clown can make people laugh. For a moment. Till they realize. 
You saw behind around and through.
To the part that was real. That was me. 
And you were not afraid. 
And I loved you for it. 
And then that window. 
That awful window. 
My past. My future. 
Eight floors. 
I know I may sound selfish now. Looking back. 
I know you had dreams too. You shared some of them. 
But you let that night be about me. Your arm on my shoulder. That look in your eye. 
That amazing to the point of agonizing kiss. 
But turned into one more act. One More Play. One More Role. 
I had to lie. To the cops. To the reporters. To myself. 
To you. 
I didn't make the funeral. 
You know why. 
But that doesn't make right does it?
I had to close the book and move on. 
I had to laugh it off. 
But I didn't.  I have never been able to. 
I can still smell you. 
I can still look down and see your hand in mine. 
As we talked about Hitchcock. And argued about music. And made a universe and a lifetime out of one dingy san francisco hotel room.  
Even tonight. Sitting in this lonely house. 17 years to the day later. 
The bottom of my glass empties to reveal your ghost. 
No matter how many times I fill it- I can not wash away that image. 
Or these memories. 
And the ghost of my future lost. 
Three little hours.  
The one time of my life that wasn't a joke. 
Damn I wish it was. 
I know how to tell those. 

(c) Christopher Blake Carver 

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