Autumn Cliché

One of my dearest friends, Kade Supine, sat across from me at Adele’s Micro Brewery, which harbored youngsters in their early twenties, still wet behind their ears. The thirty-five-year-old, who looked like Ben Affleck with creamy brown eyes, pushed a wave of ink-black hair out of his eyes and begged me not to seek out the ashtray artist. “He’s insane, Chad. You and I both know that. He lets no one on his island. There’s nothing normal about the man. I’ve heard rumors that he murders men with his bare hands, chops them up into little pieces, and eats them with endive salads and dandelion wine.” I rolled my eyes, telling myself he consumed too much alcohol, drunk again. He had a problem with stopping at three Cape Cods, always pushing himself. “I’ll be fine, Kade. I’m sure Finn is just as normal as you and me.” “Trust me,” he scolded, waving a finger at me. “Your Ryan Gosling looks aren’t going to save your ass this time. They may have worked with Wanda Wicks, but they won’t work with Finn O’Rourke.” Kade may have been right. I didn’t know for sure. What I did know: the oil-on-canvas artist, Wanda Wicks, despised journalists of any kind, threatened to shoot them if they trespassed on her New Mexico ranch, and just happened to have a special place in her heart for Ryan Gosling look-alikes—me. In the end, my interview with Wanda Wicks turned out flawless, and I had gained almost three thousand words for my Artist Trend readers. I told Kade, “I’m thirty-five and can handle myself.” “You’re a fledgling.” I waved a hand at him. “You don’t even know what that means.” He ordered another Cape Cod from our waiter, who looked like Calvin Harris and winked at me. Kade and I talked for the next hour about his dead romantic life, which just happened to be similar to my own, a mother who suffered from Alzheimer’s, and how Kade had decided to take the fall off from writing his trashy romance novels. Kade and I had a s****l history. All of our friends knew every sticky and perceptible detail, unable to mind their noses. Five years before, Kade Supine’s career as the romance writer, Hanna Dowe, had taken off. His trashy paperbacks ended up on the New York Times Best Sellers list, week after week. Kade wrote one novel every one hundred days, filling the market with his pseudonym’s work: Lover’s Endless Mercy, Riding into Dawn, Margot’s Sapphires, and Summer Fling, just to name a few of his titles. During his publishing streak and rocket ride to fame, I had been given the exclusive opportunity to interview Kade Supine for an article in Artist Trend. Being a gentleman, Kade accepted the interview. What transpired during the interview turned unprofessional. Kade admitted to being horny and seduced me by touching my chin with two fingertips, winking at me, and using eyebrow-raising comments such as: the mysterious c**k-ride between us; how you will feel under me; something tells me that you’re drawn to me. I had just broken up with a cheating boyfriend of three years named Nile Barnes. Honestly, I just needed some tenderness in my life at the time of the interview with Kade Supine, and an exceptional or extraordinary romp in the s****l hay with anyone. Kade filled the position with dexterity and bravery, unabashed. The s*x with the trashy romance writer had been somewhat rough with a little bit of biting and many licks. Gruff noises were shared between us inside his Columbus flat. Howls filled his Carmichael neighborhood because he had left the windows to his flat open. Thereafter, we became lovers for a few months until he became bored out of his mind with me. He found someone new, and younger, to fill my shoes; some beefy musclehead without any body hair, low IQ, and a deep cleft in the center of his chin that symbolized evil. * * * * How Kade and I turned out to be friends couldn’t be fully understood. We never fought over the fact that he had become bored with me in our relationship. Nor did we ever talk about the situation. Rather, he went from one man’s bed to the next, month after month, enjoying the company of various-sized c***s and unnamed male partners. I, on the other hand, had very few boyfriends since our breakup. My last boyfriend thought it masculine and genius that his parents named him after a superhero, Bruce Wayne MacCardle. I thought it annoying and somewhat pretentious. Anyway, my relationship with Bruce panned out for six weeks, which consisted of too much bitching, lack of showers on his part, and threats that he intended to beat the f**k out of me. In the end, I left Bruce and his magnum temper behind and decided that singlehood, for the time being, just happened to be best for me. Of course, there were other men who had an interest in me following my affairs with Kade and Bruce. One fellow named Harry turned out to be a nymphomaniac, enjoying my d**k more than my mind. Phillip, I had learned after just two dates, wanted to dress me up in a diaper and feed me with a bottle. Leo liked Jesus more than he liked me. Ted enjoyed geriatrics instead of men in their thirties. And last, but certainly not least, Daniel Mockey, a bearish man with a flawless complexion, desired go-go boys instead of nonfiction writers. * * * * One man did have my heart over the others: Oliver Penntell. The fireman from Cincinnati. After an online meeting with Ollie, as he liked to be called, the man wooed me just as the gentleman he turned out to be. We dated nonstop for seven months, traveling back and forth from Columbus to Cincinnati. Our affair turned potent, but ended short. Following a string of romantic encounters and nights of passion expressing our love for each other, the beefy fireman sat me down in his Cincinnati apartment with a cold longneck beer and told me, “My mother is very ill. She lives in Terre Haute, as I’ve already told you. The cancer is getting worse, and she needs me to help take care of her.” “You’re moving to Indiana, aren’t you?” He touched my left cheek, grazing fingers across the smooth and unshaven skin. Then he brushed the same hand through my hair. “You’ll be fine without me. You’re a good man, Chad Base. You’re a strong man. Another guy will come along, and you’ll fall in love again. Something tells me that you won’t be alone for very long.” “I never thought you would hurt me,” I told him. “I thought we would get married and live a happy-ever-after type of life together. Just you and me. I would have moved to Cincinnati if you had asked me.” He took me in his arms and hugged me close to his chest. He squeezed part of the life out of me, being the vampire that I believed that he had transformed into, and said, “My mother is my life. You know that. I can help save her life. I have to be there for her. I realize that I’m choosing her over you, but…” “You bastard,” I whispered to him and slapped him, nailing him across the face with my left hand. “You’ve led my heart astray. You’re killing me. You’re a murderer and don’t even realize it.” “But, Chad…Chad, you have to understand. You must.” But I didn’t understand and never would. Never. We haven’t spoken since. * * * * Following my short time with the handsome fireman, I decided that being alone played out best in my life. I buried myself in work, interviewing a number of local celebrities for Artist Trend, traveling throughout the tristate area. Work became my way of life, creating one thousand-word articles for the online magazine and sinking myself into one story after the next, fulfilling my deadlines for Tom Tudor and becoming the best writer I could possibly be under his instruction, manhandling, and care. Rarely did I date men. Instead, Kade and I spent some quality evenings at The Man Shack, a queer bar in downtown Columbus and lured men into our separate beds. Occasionally, I slept with a nameless man, getting my rocks off, unable to commit my heart to anyone in particular. Never did I sleep with the same man twice, fearing a connection, love spell, or questionable whatnot. Preventing myself from falling in love turned out to be my ploy. f*****g felt more appropriate instead of getting to know a man, any man. Frankly, I had never wanted to fall in love again, not after Oliver Penntell, and risk the atrocity of having my heart broken again. Singlehood had become my life, which offered happiness in my world. Case closed. Of course, Kade attempted to set me up with dates, men my age he believed were possible candidates to become my husband. Sometimes, I spent the night with those website designers, chemistry professors, or professional volleyball players. And sometimes, the s*x felt unbelievably natural. That didn’t mean that one of his discovered Toms, d***s, or Harrys had a ticket to walk into my life and become my lover or husband. I chose to be single for a purpose, protecting my life, soul, and heart. The door to romance couldn’t be opened. The key to such a structure had been lost somehow, someway, but I didn’t seem to mind. * * * * The planned trip to Haven Island to interview the famous ashtray artist became obsessive for me. I packed a bag for overnight, called my parents, told them where my traveling would take me, and informed Kade that I would be leaving in the morning, driving my Prius northeast. Thereafter, I obtained a good night’s sleep, dreaming alone in my queen-sized bed. That night, I dreamed of demons, snakes in high grass, bombs flying into skyscrapers, rapes in back alleys, and necks being sliced open with sharp knives while visiting London. A string of nightmares followed me to bed and took over my mind. I woke up every half hour, screaming and sweating. And then I fell asleep and dreamed again, experiencing yet another nightmare. My night became cyclical and unstoppable; somewhat like a recording that kept playing over and over. I made it out of the dreams safely, surprised to be alive by morning. Dawn surfaced in the distance, and I sat up in bed, disbelieving my night of horrendous nightmares. Sweating and perplexed, I stretched and yawned, listened to thunder outside my downtown city apartment. Lightning streaked through the heavens. A downpour ensued, spilling to the earth. No matter what the weather entailed or how rested I felt, I climbed out of bed, taking on the day. Passing on a shower, I brushed my teeth, fixed my hair, and made a cup of coffee. Within the hour, I climbed behind the wheel of my royal blue Prius and started driving to Erie, a strange island called Haven, and a famous ashtray artist named Finn O’Rourke.