Introducing Reyansh


Stretches of weeks at a time would go by where Eddie’s phone was either without service or in-between carriers; his absence, however, coincided with my running into Reyansh Signh one day, while out delivering to one of the tech hubs downtown where he worked. Nico had introduced the two of us during my first few weeks upon The Plains; but, since then, Reyansh and I hadn’t crossed paths. Yet, in seeing me that day, he exuded a genuine interest in becoming friends. 

Reyansh was a handsome programmer whose disdain for a rigid, Middle-Eastern upbringing had sent him to the deep American-south for its comparable climate and friendly tax-laws. He was supposed to have gone back home with a degree, but was quickly compelled to keep with the Western ways and find somewhere to settle down. Something about The Plains had enticed Reyansh as a college graduate, so he made a brave, but calculated move to assimilate himself into the city without ever having stepped foot on its soil.

When we met that day, and seemingly every day after that, his search for a life-partner was as effusive as it was ongoing. Though, even after minor victories, I saw in his eyes an insoluble thirst that seemed to always keep them moving. Those eyes of his were dark and imploring, but his chestnut-brown complexion helped paint his innocuous smile as boyish and charming. This particular feature made a difference when the light was dim and most forgiving, which happened to be in the sort of places Reyansh frequented the most. Each weekend it was a new club or venue that he had heard about or wanted to try, and it didn’t take long for Reyansh to express his desire to take me under his wing, to show me the art of his approach, and perhaps bestow a useful tool for when the time came for me to navigate alone. There was much to learn, he insisted, about us and how we navigate, the differences between his people and mine, but also, what women really wanted.

Augmented Aura

Yet, in a strange way, the seething resentment toward Jared and Jason that Eddie and I had kept bottled up had, unwittingly, channeled itself into an earnest energy that we then put toward altering and modifying our share of the home into the inherently beautiful specimen it suggested to be in its bones. As the days went on, Eddie continued accruing more trinkets and small, quirky furnishings. Similarly, with the more space I was given, the more attention I felt that it deserved: something modest for the banister; a set of stockings for the large, ornate fireplace beside my bed, for when Christmas came; a few animal furs on the floor and textile tapestries to be tacked on the walls; and, eventually a small array of house-plants to be strung from the balcony’s banisters. As it was, our section of the wrap-around porch had already come furnished with a pair of twine chairs, which peered at perfect angles over the whispering treetops that sat as a buffer between us and the city. It felt, all so suddenly, as if Eddie and I had reached a pinnacle neither of us would have previously been able to imagine: this was the world at new heights, and the two of us took full advantage of extracting its worth. In turn, many mornings were spent chatting in those twine chairs over coffee; and, it was here, in his most spirited attempts, that Eddie would attempt to cajole me to uproot myself and focus on finding a nice girl – if nothing else, to add a little zest to the place.

“Isabella has changed my life, yo,” he exclaimed one evening, as the sun was beginning to set and we got comfortable with a couple of cigars. “If nothing else, she keeps me in check.”

“Yeah? She sounds strict,” I teased. “No. Good for you, man.”

Rolling his eyes, Eddie retorted, with an edge, “Well. Let’s just put it this way, I spend less time wasting time, watching TV, scrolling the Internet. I’ve actually started to outline a few of those projects I’ve talked about.” Just then, he began fumbling through his pockets for a few blueprints of dioramas and paper pinwheels to show me. 

Outside of the art, that stuff Eddie talked about was still elusive and otherwise unclassified; but, inferred in its prowess was an invigorating – perhaps even infinite – property, which could only be obtained from great attention to detail. Sometimes his hands shook when he spoke of it; other times, the dark brown pits of his pupils would vanish and then glaze over as he became mesmerized by the substance. At last, one night it happened: a close encounter with God; the inevitable (sort-of-accidental) result of tilting the scale on his stratosphere until the world melted into a single, linear passage of energy. In the weeks following, and for the first time in our friendship, I felt the aura that Eddie maintained shift from an imposing, fiery red to a supple, yet vulnerable, shade of blue.

Looming Embattlement

Fueling the fascination with such incongruence was the tangible distance she was known to keep; on various occasions, but most often when the hour ran well into the night, and any uncertainty of our feelings had been resolved, Alix’s deliberate measures to maintain a strong, focused mind for the early hours of the morning became increasingly common.

“I really should get some sleep. Tomorrow is a big day,” she said one night, retreating from her closet with a folded business wardrobe in hand. The room was completely dark; yet, the peak of physical attraction still clung to the walls, and could be felt hanging with indifference on bare hooks as Alix maneuvered the space. “You can stay, if you want,” she quickly added. “Or, I can take you home. Let me drive you home.”

“Don’t worry about it. I should probably get some sleep myself. I do have to work…tomorrow night,” I replied, before gathering my belongings from her nightstand. “Busses are still running, don’t trouble yourself.”

Alix was insistent as she went to grab her keys from the dresser. “Are you sure? It’s nothing, really.”

“No problem at all. Get some rest. I’ll see you this weekend?”

“Sure, that would be nice,” she said, and then with a kiss I was sent out the door.

Riding the bus alone at night through the city’s varying neighborhoods had a way of washing the senses; the pretense of an isolated paradise in which Alix resided would halt suddenly in favor of the stark, downtrodden extension of the city I called home. A cross of the interstate and one could see how the rag had been wrung out, leaving behind only a drip of dirty water. The latter was well-defined, first by the flickering neon of refurbished food trucks, and then by regional fast-food chains and mega-lot grocery stores, at last dotted with doleful discount bins found in abundance: all fodder for the fray. As it went for the former – Alix’s hood – boutique shopping centers had been adroitly inserted into the lobbies of pristine, newly constructed apartment complexes, further adding to the air of affluence that was slowly making its way into other parts of the city.

Such a sudden split of lifestyles seemed uncanny – a marvel, an outsider might say – if only it had occurred without compromise. And yet, more than ever, embattlement loomed on the horizon, for my lay of land was a glaring prospect for wide-eyed developers and adulated entrepreneurs affixed on their reflection in the burgeoning lagoon. I often wondered, then, of the day that thirst would become sated, and the metropolis would sink accordingly.

Lightning in a Bottle

Eddie was stocking a filterless cigarette with freshly ground herb while we sat near the back of the bus, alone with nothing but the wheel bearings and screeching brakes beneath our feet. Passive, aggressive, and all together agitated over being out so early, he remained silent, tuned into his tedium until it was through, and then promptly dove into his black notebook with a flurry of frantic scribbling, pausing suddenly at each surge of inspiration, and finishing a few with an exclamation point. Once or twice I saw him smile, but Eddie would quickly subdue the expression so as to maintain his edge over the situation. Without saying it, Eddie seemed to understand my reluctance to stay cooped up in the apartment, dwelling on the eventful weekend as if it were a sort of climax I might not ever reach again. The empty bus, the sterile air of another lecture hall, and each playful post-it note were hopeful attempts to distract the mind from wandering too far in one direction. For almost a week had gone by, and I still hadn’t heard from Alix. But to this, Eddie simply scolded me for not following the first rule: Don’t leave anything up to chance. Now, I was just a number, and the odds seemed quite unfavorable for such lightning to strike in the same place twice.

Pesky Roaches

For Eddie, it seemed to have been brewing since the day we arrived, whereas I put off the matter as long as I could, hoping to keep peace amongst the three of us. In his most earnest efforts, Eddie adroitly enlisted household items, even converting discarded pieces of recyclable material into contraptions to counter their cunning ways. If to trap one in a glass, designate said glass specifically for catching them, and don’t you dare mix them up, he demanded one day. The idea was to capture these cockroaches we came to find – scurrying around various spaces, at all hours of the day – well enough to make your way out to the balcony, and then launch them back into nature.

Cockroaches are, moreover, rather elusive – some even resourceful enough to take flight at the sight of danger – and they are almost always a single step ahead once the lights go on. As such, trapping them humanely became something of a game. But the game ended one afternoon when, while working on a story at my desk, my feeble attempt at scooping one of the buggers onto a plank of cardboard was thwarted by its sudden scramble. As a result, the shiny critter plopped into my cup of steaming coffee, and I watched, disgusted and disappointed as he scurried around in a sea of black soot, unable to crawl out. 

Later that week, a ‘courtesy spray’ was conducted at the apartment. No stranger to the siege of chemicals and ensuing quarantine, Nico cleared his schedule for the day, and advised Eddie and I do the same. Throughout the process of having them addressed, however, I sensed in Nico an unspoken amusement toward our collective loathe toward one of Mother Nature’s most pesky critters. He seemed desensitized to the sight of them, as if they had long since become a fixture to the territory, and their coexistence was a mere trade-off for the city’s many endearing attributes.


As I leaned against the stone barricade next to him, I smiled at certain points of emphasis while he rambled on, nodding only on occasion. Windows for interjections were sparse and seldom seized, but I was comfortable that way. Rather, Eddie made a person feel comfortable because it never was inferred that they had to do any of the talking. He would chomp away, running on about the heat, or how his underwear was bunching up around his crotch but he was dealing with it. The latter, I presumed, was why swimsuits were a staple to his wardrobe, along with a few large-billed hats and shirts with flimsy fabric. The white shirt he was wearing that day was made of thin cotton. It clung to him from the heat, and by the time he stopped moving, it was entirely transparent and stuck to his slim torso. Without doing a single sit-up or crunch, Eddie boasted of his inexplicably well-kept six-pack, and would smile at the irony while sipping from his poison.



Though Pete showed up to work all the same, evinced over time was the stance he took on The Plains – and, depending on which day of the week, or under the hour in which one implored, his convictions for the city seemed to be in a constant state of flux. Contorted by the overcrowding, he cursed every last one of them until he was out of breath; but then, in his reclaim of air, he would express his absolute enamor with the angelic ways of women who simply smiled back. This was also still home to him. A self-proclaimed nomad by nature, long-haired and hungry, like a leopard Pete sprang from The Plains at the age of 18, leaving behind in his dusty rear-view mirror the forage of friends and family for greener pastures out west – as every young man should, he had a habit of saying. But, a snap of his fingers and it was over before he knew it. Hairless, greatly humbled, and with almost a decade between various pit stops, Pete was compelled to return to The Plains, in hopes of living out the last few hours of the party.