Copper Pineapple & Stories in a Philly Bar

We were sitting in the hotel bar in Philadelphia. We'd long since checked out but still had hours until our trains back to our respective cities and realities. We had ventured out earlier for one last round of playing tourist but finally gave in to the winding down clock and settled in with cocktails and conversation. Although neither of us said it, we both knew that this would be it. There would be no going back and trying to make long distance work. We would have a perfect weekend to remember, but this wasn't going to be our reality. And yet as we sat there, neither willing to say the words, we kept sharing our stories and our secrets. Maybe it was knowing that everything we said would stay suspended in the air of the bar, our words clinging to the smoke like the heat that had stuck around late into September. The hours ticked by, the ice cubes melted in our drinks, and yet the words continued to flow. We talked about broken dreams, disappointing realities, about getting up and trying again and again. He talked about immigrating to the US, of college at 14, of starting businesses and failing. He talked of life and love, of that desperate and ongoing search to find passion and then the disappointment when that passion changes. I talked of family, of getting sick, of giving up dreams, of starting over, of writing. We circled on delicate subjects, refilled our drinks, and then dove in again. Time continued to tick on, and the words got more rushed. The need to say it all, to purge ourselves of the stories we wouldn't get to share over the course of a normal courtship, forced us to pack them into this finite moment of time. Our voices would get hoarse and we'd interrupt the flood of conversation to order another drink, everything would get hushed as we waited. Each time this happened I would stare at the pineapple on the shelf of the bar. I had spotted it as soon as we came in and joked that it belonged in my apartment. It was copper and stood guard on the shelf above the liquor. It looked like a relic from the 50s. Copper wasn't in fashion yet, nor were pineapples, so this lone statute looked fanciful and out of place above the bottles standing at attention. During these quiet moments, I'd look at that thing and wish it were some sort of magical beacon that could freeze time and let us just stay here forever and make our own reality. As the last hour started winding down, our conversation began to meander toward reality and the logistics of saying goodbye and suddenly he called the bartender over. I thought he was going to have him take one last picture of us and instead he asked how much for the pineapple. The bartender was confused and said she'd have to check with the manager as it wasn't for sale - he simply replied, everything has a price, find out what it is for the pineapple. As the bartender went off to make the call, I asked what he was doing and he said that this was for me to remember the feeling of not doing the expected and of just letting go and enjoying the ride we are given. Pictures fade, but this would be a tangible reminder that I don't have to stay the course. The negotiations took longer than expected, but finally he was handed the pineapple - turns out it was no relic from the 50s, but instead a promo item from Absolut (apparently they knew that copper and pineapples were about to be the new thing). As he handed me my prize, he said that this was just for me and wasn't something I could share on the blog. I asked why not, and he responded in very much his fashion: tell me why you write your blog. I paused and knew that these words mattered, perhaps more than anything I had said all afternoon, and so I bared the last piece of my soul: Because it is how I am the whole me. I have written for as long as I can remember, even if I wasn't putting pen to paper or words to type, I was writing a story in my head. Years ago I accepted that I won't be a writer, not in the traditional novelist sense, I simply do not have the patience to tell that tale. But I still need to write. When I got sick, the storyteller voice quieted and for a long time I let it go and just focused on the next thing that needed to be done. But the stories started to come back and I began to get my voice back. It started slow, a whisper here, a phrase there, and before I knew it, it was flood of words that could not be ignored. And this time, I knew I needed to share those stories. That is why I write, because to not do so is to not be whole, and I won't do that again. And with that, he handed me the pineapple and told me this was my story to tell when the time was right; and as I look at that pineapple and contemplate another year about to be complete on this earth, I think that this is the perfect time to tell you why I write this blog and about how I ended up with that damn pineapple.