Stockholm Skyline

The words came to me like they were written under my eyelids as the train roared into the station at Slussen, and the lucidity of the moment evaporated in the afternoon commuter traffic. " Be there where you wouldn't spend a single bill, 6 this Thursday", he had said with a mischievous grin, and disappeared into the cold Stockholm evening leaving me alone with my whirling thoughts and the image of his smile burning bright. Suddenly, it crystallized in my mind from the haze of work and caffeine: he had been watching me. The myriad characters, the steady stream of dreamers, schemers, and would be believers that filtered in and out of the Trident Cafe had always kept me a regular. An addict of the bookish corners and angular nooks of the Gamla Stan coffee shop, I lurked there most evenings after work. It was a short stroll down Vasterlangatten from the flat I'd started renting last June, fresh from the university and eager to mend the anxious boredom and tedium of the school bubble. Coffee was one of those vices that wasn't; something both necessary and frivolous, and as of late I'd only been able to justify it with accumulated change from around the house, half Kronar and assorted brass and silver tokens of monetary meaning. Money was so silly, just pieces of paper and metal we assigned arbitrary value, power over human life and suffering, the root of the 21st century dilemma.

I was getting so tired of them looking at me, or rather, tired of myself, my mind endlessly judging and picking apart actions and consequences. The girls around town, there were so many kinds I suppose, all mysterious and half there, apparitions perhaps, sent to haunt my identity until I figured out what to do. I liked them, like the attention, the looks, that really what it was all about. The indifference, the fixation, and lustful stares, all of it was delicious and immediate, like an ice cream cone on your 10th birthday, is was the Pavlovian response of my narcissism. I knew I wasn't physically attracted to them because they never lasted in my memory past the initial obsession, the control of thought and want. Sure, I fantasized about them occasionally, the beautiful blonde girls loitering around the Art school downtown, their childish appropriations of the latest style that much more endearing. The feminists, the vacuous party girls, the detached, judgmental hipsters, they were all confections on a tray to be sampled and compared, just a nibble and never a full bite. Alas though, for better or worse, I never thought back with private embarrassment on the all-consuming fixation I had with them, unlike the boys, who were conquerable and accessible, a sort of personal contest. This latest one, well, he was something special, or perhaps just insane and unimportant, but at the time, well he filled my robotic daily routines with bold color and a future worth speculating on.

So it was decided; here was Thursday and we were to meet for coffee and a fuck, no wait, I interjected that last bit, unlike the others I don't see that leading us in a good direction, at least at first. Anyways, coffee and words as it may be, words from my soul and not from a pen, at the place I wouldn't spend a single bill, Trident Cafe on Vasterlangatten. I doubted my nerves until the jittery sensation of being light in the stomach passed and a sharp note of hunger rang out across my smooth, strong abdomen and the train from Slussen home turned into a subterranean torpedo navigating various eateries and nightclubs until the familiar appeared, a pizza place a block from my stop. I strolled in with easy familiarity and silently exchanged a 50 Kr. bill with Antoni for 2 slices and a beer, the gaudy neon Italian flag in the window illuminating shoddy plastic tables and the snowy cobblestone street outside. Antoni was this generally disagreeable, hairy, shoddily dressed 1st generation Sicilian immigrant, and though we had exchanged perhaps 50 words in the 8 months he had been frequenting the restaurant, usually about mundane trivialities like the weather or the latest city politics, I felt as if he understood me. Suddenly and with an intense nostalgia for something I never had, I wished more people in my life were like this, casual but intimate, indifferent yet also perhaps compassionate. This boy I was about to meet with, well, he was a man really, his good looks boyish but not inexperienced. This man, Stefan I think his name was, he had this tailored charisma that was carefully measured out in spoonfuls to the world, a sort of orchestrated insincerity. Beyond this though, I think he was brilliant and insecure and most importantly, kind, the most underrated and trod on virtue in our modern throw-away culture.

I exited the shiny steel and chrome cage of the metro station and suddenly was above ground in the teeming cobblestone square, the muted red and yellow paint on the looming apartment buildings a perfect companion to the boiling grey sky. I could have lived in Ostermalm, I could have lived down on Rigsgatten among the hipsters and weirdos, but instead I inhabited my little wood and stone studio, a spartan hideout for 7,000 Kr. a month above the tourist hell of Galma Stan, the teeming masses transfixed on some ancient cobble or brick. To be fair, Stockholm was an always will be trendy without trying to hard, fun without the bland tastelessness of American pop culture, and true to all those who crave individuality among the even gray palette of the social democratic republic of Sweden. Thinking back to my childhood on the cold, teal Atlantic coast above Gothenburg, the weekend trips to Oslo, the treeless granite islands we used to explore on summer afternoons, I realized what a sheltered dreamscape a rural youth had afforded me. I feel so blessed among the current miasma of self-inflicted urban neurosis to have had thins humbling perspective, our 17th century stone farmhouse perched on a slanting green sliver over the harbor, Papa coming home late in the evenings from tending the town's elderly and poor as the only doctor for miles around.

I knew nothing about Stefan, we met by chance at at the holiday party for the advertising firm I do graphic design for, turns out he writes promotional garbage on whatever slimy new technological savior we've been paid to advertise. He works at the downtown office, or used to, rather; he mouthed off to a supervisor on some sort of ethical dilemma or other, and at any rate, now he slings expresso to cool kids and faux bohemians at Intelligencia, the retro-ish bar and coffee hangout a few blocks south of here. I admired his easy confidence, his lack of hesitation or reservation at calling his primary source of income a bunch of greedy scumbags and walking out with a gait that was just short of cocky. He might be an asshole, he might have nothing important to say, but he was superficially pleasing and something he wouldn't mind walking around Slussen or Gamla Stan with arm in arm, the old people trying to feign indifference to this coupling of masculine perfection, the girls jealous, the boys curious or indifferent.

Prematurely worn from a work week I didn't need, I figured I ought to at least swing by the apartment and change into something a bit more comfortable and and edgy than my old work suit, nice at its prime but now just a faded pseudo-hip appropriation of the standard office zombie garb. I marveled at how humans thrive so much on daily routine and guaranteed fixtures when we claim to be so driven by spontaneity and creative uncertainty; really I guess we are just creatures of the familiar, needing a warm, dry place to live and money to make things happen. The steps up the 4th floor walk up had been tedious and annoying at first, but now I almost savored to brisk trot up the airy, well-lit foyer, the anticipation of a place that finally felt like home building. I made a deft motion towards my overcoat pocket and unlocked the door, the old wooden floor creaking in my path. It was cute, no, bachelor spartan was perhaps the right term, indicative of someone with relative success in society but still stuck in the uncertainties of one's early twenties. I decided abruptly and randomly on a cream and red striped t-shirt and my favorite pair of jeans and kicks, old puma's from the late 70's, and grabbed a quick drink of water under the sink before skipping out the door. "Shit, 6:45!" I thought, and a sharp bead of nervous sweat pricked my brow, though my narcissistic side wouldn't let me risk messing up my hair to wipe it away. Oh well, Trident was only 2 blocks away, and being 5 minutes early was something my parents did on dates.

5 minutes later I coiled up my little blue ipod into my coat pocket and stepped into the judgmental, privileged cocoon of intellectual prowess that constituted the coffee shop, feigning casual indifference to anyone I crossed eyes with, the style these days it seems, which I hated but participated in nonetheless. He was sitting in the corner, alone and reading a small, tan hardcover, legs crossed and a half-drunk Americano sitting on the windowsill. "Shit! I must be late" i thought, though I knew of course this was false and I he was just early. I walked over and tapped him on the shoulder, and suddenly I was back to what I did best, playing the relentless defensive, always on guard for the next moment to interject some personal triumph or embellishment. We shook hands and shared smiles that felt more sincere than the "you looked hotter on the internet" sort of half-smirks I'd become accustomed to lately. He WAS a unique specimen, as I had expected but refused to let myself ruminate on, not wanting to build something up into disappointment. I'd like to say I'd become a body snob, but I suppose the truth was I always was, its hard to feel a romantic connection to someone when the physical chemistry isn't there, and I thought with slight embarrassment to the wonderfully complex past encounters i'd let fade away on this principle. He was slim without being too skinny, fit but not one of those comically puffed up gym addicts; hyper-masculine compensation not withstanding. I could tell he was kind, I've gotten pretty good at reading smiles and the subtle body language of humility these days, as I hoped some of it might rub off on me.

We talked about the usual topics, life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, to paraphrase the Americans, but there was something else, something unspoken and urgent I kept feeling. It wasn't the usual "lets cut the small talk and go back to my place" sort of suggestion, but rather like childhood friends who had shared things unspoken and distant, then re-discovered their friendship as old men. He kept laughing in a way that wasn't patronizing or polite, but actually excited and sincere, and it excited me sexually and intellectually. I wondered how I would fuck this up, as I never trusted myself to take the right actions, to go to his art showing or film night on the weekends instead of heeding my latest sports fixation; climbing on the coast or sailing in the archipelago. Still though, I was so tired of modeling my character on others, impressing everyone but myself, that to do something in a completely selfish spirit sounded perfect. At any rate, the last bits of cold coffee stung my lips like the tugging up time, and as darkness firmly settled over Stockholm, I felt it might be time to suggest something else. He seemed quite content to sit on the broad sofa that framed our corner between bookshelves and talk or stare or laugh wholeheartedly. My comfort with semi-awkward proximity to someone I wanted to badly was waning, however, and bed sounded safe and appealing. Suddenly, he grabbed by arm and I almost jumped with surprise as he whispered into my ear "lets go for a walk!". The cynic in me could see where this was going, but despite my weary mind from work and body from the gym, I still wanted this, this spontaneity, so I agreed silently and we set off.

We didn't talk, just walked in enough of each others personal space to stumble and half trip over the deliciously awkward proximity. He led my down the sloping waterfront district, the amber lights in the fancy boutiques and restaurants lighting the silhouettes of wealthy 40-something couples out to dinner, a weeknight's spending. Suddenly, the sloping gray cobbles ended and were replaced by noble iron moorings and brass railing, the grand yachts and motorboats lined up like ducks in the chilly January evening. It was indeed cold and I wondered if the boiling black clouds building on the western horizon would finally bring the snow we were supposed to get this winter, amidst Christmas rain and the talk of global warming in Sweden. Suddenly, like the crescendo of a free jazz piece that after 20 minutes of rambling finally crystallizes into an apex of craziness, Stefan leaned in and kissed me, and every weary piece of my body melted away like ice in the sun.