Chaos and Disorder
Introduction:
The path of human expression, to me, is in many ways akin to the cycle of an egg. It forms
during the brutal winter, molded by snow, harsh winds, and discomfort. We hide, shielding
ourselves with layers of clothes, staying inside and coddling a sense of familiarity that comforts
us like a drug comforts an addict.
As the frost melts and the flowers begin to bud, the first cracks in this egg begin to show. Layers
are shed, and we find the sun’s warm yellow glow peeking through the window and calling us
outside. In this brief spring, we embrace our humanity in peaceful harmony.
Then, the puddles begin to boil. Fire hydrants erupt, spraying water on local children as parents
watch, jealous of their innocence. The egg has broken, and is cooking on the sidewalk with a
heat so intense and unrelenting, our reservations melt like wax. The qualities that make us
modern and intricate fade, and we are left to express our primal desires freely. After all, what is
there to lose? Through this meditation, I will reflect on an experience that displays a simple
understanding: that we must give in to what always lives within us.St. Barths:
“Rehabilitated? Well now, let me see. I don’t have any idea what you think that means. To me
it’s just a made up word. A politician’s word, so that young fellas like yourself can wear a suit
and a tie and have a job. What do you really want to know?”
Ryan looked at me, or rather through me. Not present, but at Shawshank State Prison. Not
himself, but living vicariously through Morgan Freeman. Beads of sweat began to form at his
hairline, one dashing down and escaping onto the pavement.
We met a couple of hours earlier, outside of a nightclub in St. Barths. I had heard rumblings of a
mysterious man who had taken cocaine and made quite the scene inside of Le Petit Plage. I
identified him right away. His polo was covered in pink shells that swayed as he stumbled
towards me.
“You…YOU. Look at this”
He pulled out a pack of cigarettes. The box was off-white with a royal blue trim. It seemed like a
box of cigarettes that Mads Mikkelsen or Kate Moss would smoke.
“These are the best fucking cigarettes in the world man. Fifty dollars a pack. This one’s
on me.
”
He opened the box - not at the top, but at the face - and slowly handed me one. My sober
resistance proved no match for his inspired persistence. He extended his lighter with a
generosity typically formed only through years of sincere friendship.
“Good, isn’t it?”
It was quite good. If he had told me at that moment that the tobacco had grown under the tender
care of a warm Louisiana sun, and each cigarette rolled individually by the hand of a man who
had dedicated a strenuous lifetime to the art of rolling cigarettes, I would not have questioned it.
We moved to another nightclub, where I remained briefly before retreating outside. I leaned on a
railing for what must have been twenty minutes, watching groups stumble out and begin the
treacherous journey home by foot. Ryan and the two people I was with strutted out shortly after.
Scanning, they found me and climbed the hill as I remained still.
“All right, what now?”
“I think we’re ready to go home”
“No, fuck that! This is my last fucking night here. It’s not ending right now.
”“Alright, what do you suggest Ryan?”
He paused for a moment, turning and looking back down towards the hill. With a sudden clap,
he spun back towards us — eyes lit like he had just invented the lightbulb itself.
“I got it. Let’s get some coke, head back to my place, and listen to Korn.
”
“Don’t you have a wife?” my friend asked.
He did, in fact, have a wife. She was in bed, asleep.
“She doesn’t give a shit. Come on.
”
All three of us knew this wasn’t happening. Ryan seemed incredibly convinced that it was. But
we didn’t answer, we simply exchanged glances of simultaneous discomfort and exhaus….
“What’s your favorite movie?”
“What?”
“What. Is. Your. Favorite. Movie.
”
“I don’t know. I don’t really watch movies.
”
“You’re a fucking pussy. What kind of answer is that? Who doesn’t watch movies?”
“I don’t. I watch TV. I like Mad Men.
”
“Fine. Give me one quote. You give me a quote, we can all go home.
”
Now I had some motivation. One quote and I could begin the fifty-minute uphill walk home.
What an enticing proposition! I sat and began scouring the deepest caverns of my mind for a
quote. One single quote.
The stragglers from the nightclub were filtering out in random intervals. One particular couple
approached us as they began their walk home. The man was particularly fit, tall, and attractive.
He wore a white linen shirt that was unquestionably too small for him. The wife sported a
slender black dress and carried her heels in her hand. Both walked confidently and appeared
impeccably sober.
“What are you guys up to?” the woman asked.
My friend explained our situation to them: How Ryan wanted to score coke and how we were
now hanging out on a curb talking about movie quotes. They, unfortunately for Ryan, could nothelp on either front. We spent a while chatting: unremarkable small talk revolving around our
schooling and being where we were.
Once those two incredibly limiting conversations had run their course, a brief silence rolled over.
I expected them to head on their way, us following them with an unconvincing excuse for our
departure in hand. It must have only been a few seconds when the woman turned to us with an
unnerving toothy grin smeared across her face.
“I want to make out with someone. Who wants to make out?”
We all looked at each other. Even Ryan was thrown off by this spontaneous outburst. It seemed
to sober him up, if only for a few seconds. I giggled lightly desperately hoping that she was
joking.
“What? What are you scared of? You think he cares?” She motioned towards the
husband.
“He doesn’t care.
”
We all turned towards the husband like a pack of dogs. He wore an indistinguishable look of not
caring; a grin was plastered on his face as he waited for the lucky taker. As my eyes moved
back towards the wife, I found her looking directly at me.
“You. Let’s go. Don’t be scared.
” She began contorting her body as a stripper would.
I was half-tempted. Not by attraction, but by the sheer spontaneity and absurdity of it all. I
understood, though, that decisions like these always bear uncontrollable repercussions. At this
moment, I wanted my life to remain fairly…simple.
“That seems like a bad idea. Anyone else want to take her up on that?”
There were resounding head shakes from everyone.
In this rejection, the woman took her husband by the hand and began to walk home. We
watched as they slowly disappeared into the darkness.
Ryan turned to me.
“You’re hiding something.
”
“What do you mean?”
“When’s your birthday?”
“July… 23rd.
”“No shit. I fucking knew it.
”
“What did you know?”
“Take a hot guess what my birthday is.
”
“No shit.
”
He looked at me with a cheeky grin, which quickly went awry. With his pointer fingers he
gestured towards himself, then quickly flipped them to me. Then back to him. Back and forth,
maybe five cycles.
“Leos. We’re cursed.
”
I don’t know which of his vices he was referring to. Of mine, he could have chosen many. All I
know is that we were locked in a stalemate of not knowing. And you know what, that was okay.
Maybe that’s why I wasn’t shocked when he proposed:
“Let’s go back to my place. Fuck the coke. I want you to see it anyway.
”
What must have been a twenty-minute walk went by in seconds, wordless and serene.
Individual streams of consciousness were interrupted only by the occasional car passing by or a
wave crashing violently at the shore.
“Wait until you see this place. A friend of mine, he let me stay here for free. It’s like the
Garden of Eden, I swear to God.
”
“What do you mean, Eden? Like peaceful? Like tempting? Like what?”
“You’ll see.
”
As we neared a white picket fence, an eerie tinging drone faintly radiated through the empty
street.
“Are you ready?”
“Do we need to be?”
Once Ryan pushed the gate open, a gust of cool, fresh wind escaped onto our faces, rushing as
if trapped within the confines of this mysterious expanse. A military of palm fronds guarded the
space beyond the fence, and for a moment we stood in a stalemate. Ryan stepped forward,
shoving the palms aside as we crouched blindly and moved forward. The strange drone grew
stronger with each curious step, not erratic in its pulses, but almost concurrent with each
movement. Once we reached the clearing, the gravel beneath my shoes gave way to dirt. Awhite metal table with two chairs sat a couple of yards in front of us. Ryan walked up to it and hit
it with his nails, the clang vibrating as he looked back at us for approval. Instead of granting his
request, I shifted my eyes upward to a set of metallic wind chimes.
A careful breeze guided one metal column into another. The receiving column emitted a ring
that wove through the plants in the garden, moving not outward but within our limited space.
They swayed to some inaudible melody, and almost instinctually, I found myself swaying too.
Unknowingly, this summer wind constructed a natural soundscape to an uncontrollable
audience. The chimes lived in the treble, their irregular clashes reminiscent of a saxophone
player’s interspersed notes. The bass, however, was masterfully curated with the use of the
surrounding palm fronds. As they brushed against each other, I could not help but call back to
my times at Small’s Jazz Club in New York, watching a drummer pat the snare with a set of
brushes: tss...tss tss. In the same way that jazz elicits movement from the soul, this wind
symphony brought an otherwise unknowable tranquility to my heart and mind. The chaos of the
night had concluded, and I understood that at this moment.
“Let’s go!”
I did not want to move. I did not want to remove myself from this space. This idea of peace. Yet,
at this moment, I knew it was fleeting. Palm fronds simply rustled, the wind chimes now clanged
erratically. I reluctantly shuffled towards Ryan.
We spent a couple of minutes in his temporary abode. His wife was asleep, but did not seem to
stir as we walked around her and made final uncomfortable small talk.
We left on our own accord, Ryan at this point sober enough to not display any reluctance. As we
marched through the garden with Ryan leading the way, the door creaked open behind us. We
all turned back simultaneously.
It was the wife, peering around the door frame. Her eyes were squinted: possibly as a result of
her recent awakening, but more likely, in confusion at the sight of her husband hanging out with
two strangers at five in the morning. I did not see Ryan’s visual reply - I stared back at her with a
mix of guilt and shock, like being with Ryan at this hour were something that she would frown
upon - but it must have quelled whatever concerns lay within her. Seconds later, her discomfort
vanished from her face, and she returned inside. Something told me that she knew, regardless
of what had occurred tonight, the catastrophe of their lives would appear beautiful in the
morning.
Out on the street once again, we stood in a circle of conclusion. Nobody knew what to say.
“We’re never going to see you again, are we?”
“No, this is it.
”“So, what’s next?”
“Getting back to it, I guess. Glasses of red wine and a life with that girl back there.
”
“And?”
“I fucking hate it.
”
“Good luck, Ryan.
”
One corner of his lip curled up in an exhausted attempt at a smile.
“July 23rd… fuck.
”
He turned, closing the gate behind him. We disappeared into the mirage of our lives.