Pieces Of Moe

It was cold outside and the snow fell so heavily that Moe could hear the individual flakes drop as they hit the ground below. He opened the wooden door to the old, familiar corner tavern where he had spent many a night pouring over his thoughts while sipping on a whiskey or beer. Tonight would be no different.

Inside, it was warm. A musty and moist smell hung in the air; musty from all the years of service and moist from the snowy wetness dragged in by tonight’s patrons. The place exuded a worn, but warm and relaxed comfort. Vintage knick knacks decorated the shelves above the bar. An old-fashioned cash register nestled among the backlit liquor bottles completed the look. The place was pretty quiet tonight. Miles Davis was playing softly in the background. A few customers were scattered about. Moe walked to the end of the bar, where he took his usual seat that gave him a good view of the entrance so he could watch people coming and going, which was something he enjoyed.

The bartender walked over, and acknowledged him with a nod. Moe ordered a Guinness. He liked the dark, foamy, richness. It allowed him to think, and that’s what he needed to do tonight. Think. He felt as though he needed to reach some sort of a decision. There was no urgency or real decision to be made, yet he felt as though his life needed to take a more defined direction. He reflected back on some of the significant people and moments in his life to derive some inspiration. He contemplated his love for music and the outdoors. The handful of solid friendships he had developed, and the three women he had loved in his life.

He thought about the time when he had tried to sort it all out by writing a song to symbolize each of those people and special moments shared in an attempt to make them more tangible. He struggled with their elusiveness, and he had the idea that if he could somehow write a song that would capture and represent each person and the truly significant moments in his life, he would be better able to grasp the feelings they stirred in him, to make some sense out of his past and gain direction for the future.

Some of the songs he wrote came out exceptionally well, and he was very pleased. Yet others, no matter how hard he struggled with them, he simply could not get right. He wondered if that was significant in some way, if struggling with a particular song also meant that he had grappled with defining that particular relationship and what the relationship ultimately meant to him. He compiled the songs, all 14 of them, onto one CD. He named the CD "Pieces of Moe" as that’s what he felt it was. All the significant pieces of his life, compiled onto one CD. Moe had no aspirations for fame or fortune with this CD, and he did not try to get it released, even though he was very talented and had a true gift for making music. He simply used the CD to gain some insight into himself to establish a firmer footing for the future. He thought about Pieces of Moe now as he sat at the bar, quietly sipping his Guinness.

Expressions

She was a fascinating woman. Not particularly attractive. In fact, she was pretty average looking. Yet, there was something about her that was mesmerizing and she had a way of captivating your attention to the exclusion of everything and everyone else around. Her appearance was entirely unremarkable, except for her long, waist length, strawberry colored hair. Her face was plain and she never wore any makeup. She dressed casually in jeans and tee shirts with prints of various humanitarian projects she had been part of, and carried a back pack that invariably contained some new, obscure, and highly intellectual book she was reading. She read extensively and attended workshops that most people had never heard of, such as ice cream socials with naked women reading poetry on stage.

I tried to put my finger on what it was about her that was so alluring, but it was an elusive quality. It definitely had to do with her intellect and the things she would say, or perhaps it was how she said them, the way she would formulate her thoughts. She had a tendency toward an anxious character, and at one point she needed to take medication to help calm her nerves. She didn’t like how the medication made her feel and explained that it was "like apathy in a bottle". It dulled her senses, made her feel numb, and she eventually stopped taking the pills.

She spent a great deal of time talking about one of her ex-boyfriends. They had enjoyed a very intense physical relationship and she would often say how, even though it had been years, she could still sense his physical touch. She referred to her ability to feel his touch after all these years as her "kinesthetic memories". Granted, that is probably the correct technical term for what they were, but who uses that kind of everyday language? She did, and it was her way of expressing herself that utterly intrigued me. She would take any mundane opinion and make it sound like the most exotic idea ever conceived. I really admired that about her.

For instance, I distinctly remember one conversation we had. We were talking about sex and masturbation. Given her strong liberal convictions, I would have expected her to be highly in favor of masturbation, but she completely rejected the idea for herself. It wasn’t that she was against it in principle; it was just not something she wanted for herself. "I don’t fancy masturbation" was how she put it. Her reason for rejecting it was "I have a fetish for the enthusiasm of others". She felt that sex was just not enjoyable unless it was a shared experience and she’d rather abstain than enjoy the physical pleasure by herself.

I always looked forward to our conversations because talking with her was like unwrapping an unexpected gift, excitedly curious about its hidden contents. We would meet at our favorite coffee shop and talk for hours. But, she was one of those people you knew wouldn’t stick around for too long. An ethereal beauty or nymph that would soon fade and vanish into the depth of the forest and be gone forever. We enjoyed a profound friendship for a few months, until she drifted away and ultimately, disappeared. I’m not sure what happened to her, if she moved away or became absorbed by different pursuits. I haven’t seen or heard from her in years now, and I often wonder what happened to the woman who had such a fetish for the enthusiasm of others.