Push(38)

“Where the f*ck have you been?” he says to David, raising his hands in emphasis. “What the hell. Did you forget? You can’t just forget. That’s not how it works. We’re already so f*cking late. Let’s...let’s just go.” Brad turns to me, smiles a conceited-prick smile, and looks me up and down. “Thanks for the black eye. It was a hell of a lot of fun.” And just like that, my anger comes back, rushing into my veins and burning. Making me want to take a swipe at him. But I don’t because suddenly David has his arm around my shoulders, and he is pulling me snug against him. He knows I am angry, and I think this is his way of telling me to shut it down.
“I didn’t forget, Brad,” David says with a small, wry smile. “We just got back. And now I’m going up to my apartment to make a cup of coffee. Then we can go. He can wait.”
“You are un-f*cking-believable,” Brad mutters as he turns to walk back up the stairs.
And I know that is all they are going to say. I want to ask David what they’re talking about, but I decide it’s really none of my business. When Brad is out of sight and back up the stairs, David lets go of me.
“See you Sunday night,” he says. Then he leans into me and quietly adds, “and I did forget. Completely.”
From the top of the staircase we hear, “You f*cker. I knew it.”
David shrugs at me, walks a few steps backwards, turns and goes upstairs. I watch him go. And when I hear his apartment door close, I go inside and straight to bed.
* * *

I sleep for the entire day and spend the evening watching TV and surfing the web. When I Google Noel’s Sex Toys, I see that at one point the band had a record deal, but it fell through when the recording company asked them to change some of their lyrics and they refused. “Creative conflict” appeared several times in articles about them in the local music rags. It seems that those boys know how to stick to their guns. I also Google The Trash Bin to see if the club comes up, but there is nothing. Apparently underground is the right word. Then, on impulse, I Google David Calgaro. I don’t know what I expect to find, but I am curious to see if I get any hits. I come up with seventeen Facebook entries, information about a Swedish musician, several mug shots, two obituaries and a bunch of other random mentions, none of which are the right David Calgaro.
The only item I find that might be referring to my David Calgaro is a link to a newspaper article in The Times-Picayune from almost three years ago. The article mentions a David Calgaro who was being questioned regarding the disappearance of a woman he was living with. I immediately do the math and realize that David was probably living in New Orleans at that time, and this very well could be about him. He did say he left New Orleans because of a f*cked-up girlfriend. I search the paper’s website for other mentions of the incident and come up with four articles about it. According to the paper, a woman named Anna Spaight was reported missing by her live-in boyfriend, David Calgaro, six hours after she didn’t return from work. The woman had a history of mental illness. She had been treated for depression and paranoia and was even hospitalized for attempted suicide on several occasions. When the police couldn’t locate her, they questioned David who said that, yes, she was taking her meds but that she had been a bit paranoid the past few months after finding out a neighbor was videotaping her from his window. David is quoted as saying that the neighbor had been reported to the police and evicted a month ago. Anna, however, couldn’t get past it. She became obsessed with keeping the blinds down and even went so far as duct-taping cardboard over some of the windows. The police questioned the evicted neighbor, who now lived in a different city, thinking that perhaps he was involved in her disappearance, but they found no link. In another article, the paper stated that, according to the police, neither David nor the neighbor were suspects and that they would continue to search for the missing woman. Her employer and a handful of coworkers had been interviewed, and they all said Anna seemed distressed. She even told one of them that she was still being watched. She was haunted by it. She said she needed it to end. She threatened suicide if it didn’t stop. The third article, dated three weeks later and titled “Missing Woman’s Body Found,” describes how a boater found her body in a local waterway. Divers searched the river for further evidence but came up with nothing. And nothing on her body indicated any foul play. She had drowned. The coroner ruled it a suicide. The fourth article is Anna’s obituary. In it is a picture of her. David is standing behind her, his face next to hers and his bird-cloaked arms wrapped around her waist. He looks younger for sure but just as brilliant. And Anna, she is beautiful, and she is smiling a wide, toothy grin. I don’t know how to describe her face except to say that she looks medicated. In a haze—but happy.
As I read the words, I’m overwhelmed with sadness for David. And for Anna. I cannot imagine the darkness that he must have felt to see the life of someone he cared about end like that. It is clear that she was a troubled person, a tortured soul, and I want to grieve for her even though we never met. David must have cared for her deeply. No wonder he wanted to leave New Orleans. “Too many drunks,” he said, “and a f*cked-up girlfriend.”
I wish I had never Googled him, never discovered this part of his life. Because now, when I look at him, I will be searching for signs of his sorrow. For signs of her. I am mad at myself for being so curious. I don’t know David that well, but I surmise that this is not something he wants to talk about. Three years is a long time, but suicide is surely something that mars you forever. I will keep my mouth closed about this, and if he brings it up, I will play dumb.