Page 107 of I Dreamt That You Loved Me

Then there was the “esteemed journalist” who wanted to do a documentary on me. Footage from my next tour, my “extraordinary” comeback, and my life story. I didn’t even know my story so that was a hell no from me.

Pressure on all sides. I couldn’t walk away even if I wanted to. My lawyer made that very clear. The label was giving me until September first to come up with enough material for a new album. If I didn’t deliver, they were going to sue me for breach of contract.

My gut told me that if I had Cleo in my life again, I’d find the missing piece of my soul, and the words and music would flow.

I stopped across the street from our old apartment building, the building Cleo still lived in (as far as I knew), and stared intently at the fifth floor as if I could see through the bricks and mortar, straight through the walls and the stairwell to apartment 5B. The keeper of so many lost memories.

What do you dream about, Cleo? What keeps you up at night? What are your secret fantasies and your hidden fears and your ugly truths?

It was a secret code that needed to be cracked.

Music wasn’t the only thing I needed to feel whole again.

I needed Cleo, too.

Armed with two cold bottles of water and a ham on rye, just in case, I walked through Tompkins Square Park and found Chuck reciting beat poetry in front of the fountain crowned by the bronze statue of Hebe. The Greek goddess of youth. Cup-bearer to the gods.

Two teenage girls in crop tops with pierced belly buttons stared at me as they sauntered past. One of them spun around, cupped her mouth with her hands, and yelled, “I love you, Gabriel!”

They ran away, giggling.

What a crazy world we lived in. Imagine telling someone you didn’t even know that you loved them.

I sat on a park bench, in the sweltering city heat, and listened to Chuck.

America, when will you be angelic?/When will you take off your clothes?/When will you look at yourself through the grave?

In my former life, Chuck and I bonded over Ginsberg. The poet was dead and gone but his words rang out in Tompkins Square Park. Chuck, in all his majesty, an orator for the ages. His mind was still sharp, the words committed to memory, delivered with passion.

He looked like a revolutionary with a red bandana wrapped around his graying brown hair and army pants cut off at the knees.

When he finished, I gave him a standing ovation. He took a bow then strode over to me.

“Gabriel!” He took a seat next to me and mopped the sweat off his face with the dirty bandana then wrapped it around his head again. “What’s good?”

I handed him a bottle of water and a sandwich. “You’re a good thing.” I offered him a cigarette and we smoked in companionable silence.

The leaves on the trees rustled in the summer’s breeze whispering their secrets—all the passion and grief and lovers’ embraces, riots and muggings and junkies shooting up, and the madness they’d witnessed in this park over the years.

Had Cleo and I run mad in this park, danced in the rain, made snow angels side by side, kissed for an eternity under a full moon, desperately in love?

I wanted it all back. The memories. The lingering kisses.The love.

“I thought you were gonna quit,” Chuck said.

I took a drag and blew the smoke into the hazy sky. “There are worse things than smoking.”

“Don’t I know it.”

I squinted into the distance. A riff played in my head on an endless loop. It was still rough, not much of anything yet, but itcouldbe something with a little work and refinement and the right words to breathe life into it.

“You know,” Chuck mused, “it’s been ten years since I found your notebook right here in this park.” He stroked his beard with dirty fingernails and gave me the side-eye. “Have you figured it out yet?”

I didn’t know if he was talking about my relationship with Cleo or the true meaning of life. Spoiler alert: There was no one true meaning. Everyone was just making it up as they went.

“Did you find a place to live yet?” I deflected, because no, I hadn’t figured it out yet.

“I’m not taking your fucking money,” he said gruffly. “I already told you that. I don’t need no pity donations.”