It was three in the morning the day after Christmas and I had a moment. I was in Indianapolis and had a moment of perfection. And, impossibly, I was able to string that moment into an hour of perfect moments. I’m not sure how or why this happened. Perhaps it was the combination of Christmas Prime Rib and Christmas Scotch/Wine/Beer/Fill-In-Alcohol-Here. Perhaps this is the way the world always feels at three in the morning in a sleeping house. Maybe it was a Christmas present from the universe.
I had just finished Ian Fleming’s “Casino Royale” when it happened. Setting the book down, I realized the in-laws’ house was perfectly quiet (no mean feat considering it was filled with four adults, five children aged 7 to 18, and six dogs, two of them quite barky (dogs, I mean…) and that I was neither tired nor invigorated. Rather, I was at some marvelous point between the two. My fiance’ asleep beside me, I pondered on what I was to do with this gift. The quiet so penetrating I could hear it, so comforting I felt swaddled in it, I was fearful that any movement on my part would destroy the whole sensation. I dared not move a muscle, but staring at the wall until the feeling went away seemed wasteful. Maybe I should meditate? I rejected that. As things were I was most likely in the thrall of an out-of-body experience already and wasn’t sure one could meditate while immersed concurrently in a meditative experience. It seemed confusing and reduntant and most likely impossible for a person with my limited mental capacity. I decided, however, to risk moving.
Grabbing my phone I aimed it at my love, snapping four pictures of her sleeping visage in quick succession. (She didn’t wake up during her modeling performance but let me know the next day that none of the pics was particularly complimentary.) That done, I next attempted to write about this perfect moment in my journal, which consists largely of incomprehensible scribblings in a college-ruled, wire bound notebook. The time committed to the attempt to record my experience with handwritten words was slight, however. Although the observation started with insightful promise it quickly devolved into a rumination on the color of the walls and the thickness of the curtains in the room. I gave up but complimented myself on the attempt.
Somewhat at a loss, it occurred to me that James Bond may well have played an important role in the scheme of things, so I gently climbed out of bed and made my way to the library. There I placed the copy of “Casino Royale” on the shelf next to seven or so other Bond books and pulled down “The Man With the Golden Gun.” I had no idea if “The Man With the Golden Gun” was the second of the series but I decided I wanted to read the novels in succession, so I took them all down and rearranged them in order of the year of publication. This exercise revealed to me that “From Russia With Love” was next in the time line, at least in the ones available to me at the moment. I took the book, doused the light and slipped back into bed, still feeling the perfection.
It was now close to four. I knew I would have to retire eventually, so I read only the first chapter, set the book down and turned off the lamp on the bedside table. In the darkness I could hear the silence that had followed me around for the last hour, mixed with an occasional breath emanating from the body next to me in bed. In the hope of one day repeating the experience, I lay on my back staring into the dark, attempting to recount the steps that led me to that moment, knowing it was an exercise in futility. Still, the attempt was not a complete waste of time. Hours like that deserve to be remembered, even if the peace being granted is not filled with epiphanies. In any case there will certainly be more trips to Indy, more Scotch, and more 3 AM’s.