The Witness




I slipped out the other night to go and watch our friend Chuck play piano at his annual gig here in the big city. When Chuck isn't playing amazing jazz on the piano, he runs a gallery-slash-halfway home for artists, makes films and writes poetry. Next to Chuck, David Byrne looks like a one-trick pony. He is one of our friends from Before Children. We met him the week before our wedding in 1997 and immediately adopted him as our new best friend. I think he was our practice kid.

It was great to see him. After his set, we got to reminiscing. Patrick and I had some real knock 'em down, drag 'em outs in those days. Frequently in Chuck's company. We had ourselves a chuckle over that. He suggested it may have had something to do with the volatile combination of too much alcohol with excessively short skirts.I think we were literally crazy in love. One time I remember we got into a terrible shouting match in the parking lot outside a roadhouse, and Patrick stormed off furiously into the night. Chuck, ever-loyal to us both, followed him in his car for blocks, imploring him to get in and come back. He described Patrick as walking at breakneck speed, hands plunged into his pockets and shoulders hunched as if headed into a gale-force wind although there wasn't so much as a whisper of a breeze. I can't remember whether he eventually got in the car or not. I seem to remember we spent most of the night on the hotel fire escape fighting about whatever on earth it was.

It seems so long ago. I love that we have been together long enough for parts of our history to fade around the edges, to take on the patina of Story. And I love that it is cross-referenced with the lives of other people I love. It's corny, but true: this thing is so much bigger than the both of us, baby.