(Hang, Chapter IV)
The colors were vibrant and alive, painting the sky with a palate of colors like red, orange, peach, blue, indigo, purple, and gray. The setting sun created a shimmering yellow-orange streak across the turquoise ocean, and in the distance, surfers paddled toward shore, giving up on the now-calm waters for the day. Several yards away from shore, sat a small, bamboo and palm leaf hut, with open windows and four rickety tables. Tiki lamps lined the perimeter, and in the center of the hut, sat a square bar. The raucous, crowded bar countered the calmness of the setting sun and deserted beach. The four-sided bar was filled to capacity with bikini-clad women, and tanned, muscular men, all shouting drink orders and waving money in the air.
The bar was one of the most popular in town, and one of the few that were filled with more locals than tourists. The bar was also a popular hangout for the local surfers, who took advantage of the owner's generous spirit when their money was tight. It helped, of course, that the owner was a surfer himself—a novice, but a surfer nonetheless.
Rocking, Hawaiian-influenced music thumped out of the speakers, as the two bartenders tossed mixer bottles into the air with expert-precision, wowing the crowd with their "Tom Cruise-in-Cocktail" type antics. For the men, the bar was the place to be to pick up on beautiful women; for women, it was the bartender/owner that was the draw.
That, and the fact that they mixed the best drinks in town.
This was the place that was recommended to the five New Yorkers that landed in town two nights earlier. The quintet had apparently been all around the island, and were keen to find any locals haunts in town.
"The place to be on Saturday night," said a young waitress earlier that day, "Is Leilani's"
Leilani's was hopping by the time Monica, Ross, Rachel, Phoebe and Joey arrived. The crowd was wild, loud, and tanned, and the girls couldn't help but feel a bit self-conscious. Both Monica and Rachel eyed the scantily clad woman that floated past them as they entered the bar, and both arched their eyebrows cattily. Ross and Joey's eyes followed the same woman, as she made her way toward the bar.
"Wow," Ross muttered, and Joey nodded in agreement. This was definitely the best place they'd been to since they arrived over a week ago.
Monica sighed heavily, and walked fully into the bar area. "I need a drink," she muttered. She was beginning to really lose hope that she would ever track Chandler down. Shaking her head, she pushed her way up to the bar. Her friends took advantage of the path she'd created, following her closely. The quintet bellied up to the bar, and watched the impromptu show that was being performed behind the bar.
There were two bartenders, both tossing bottles high in the air, and behind their backs. The one facing the New Yorkers was tall and blonde, and fairly muscular. The sleeves on his white cotton shirt were pulled up to reveal a large shark tattoo on his left upper arm. He smiled as he mixed the shockingly blue drink in front of him, and made an attempt to ignore the catcalls from the woman that had draped themselves over the bar.
On the other end of the bar, a slightly shorter, slightly thinner bartender was facing the opposite direction, but, as Phoebe had pointed out not very subtly, the view was just as pleasing. The other bartender was dressed like the blonde behemoth, in khaki shorts and a white cotton shirt. He was also blonde, though a much darker blonde. His hair was long enough to be pulled back into a short ponytail, and he too was tanned and well defined. Like his partner, he sported a tattoo on his left upper arm—a Celtic band.
"What can I get you lovely ladies?" the blonde bartender stared at Monica intently.
"Uh, what's your specialty?" Monica smiled. For just one night, I'm going to have some fun here. I am going to forget about Chandler, Monica's thoughts echoed in her mind as she flirted openly with the bartender. The man's smile broadened, and a mischievous glint shone in his gray-green eyes.
"You got it," the man winked, and then turned to the crowd, "THE HOUSE SPECIAL!" the man boomed, and the crowd cheered. The bartender standing on the other side of the bar turned, and tossed a white bottle toward his partner. Monica felt her breath catch in her throat, as she watched bartender turn toward them.
"Chandler," she whispered.
Chandler had either not noticed them, or was avoiding them, because he did not venture over toward their end of the bar all night. Once the crowd began thinning out, the group made their way toward Chandler's side of the bar. They all stood at the bar, watching as Chandler mixed drinks and poured beer quickly and smoothly. Suddenly, he hopped up onto a shelf, and rang a large brass bell that hung over the bar.
"Last call for alcohol!" Chandler bellowed, and hopped onto the ground.
Things were chaotic for the next several minutes, as Chandler and the other bartender filled frantic last orders from their patrons. Once things had finally cooled down, Joey decided to try and get Chandler's attention.
"Chandler!" Joey called, as Chandler began filling racks with dirty glasses.
Chandler turned, and upon seeing the group for the first time, smiled broadly.
"Wow, what a surprise!" Chandler said, and walked toward the group, "What are you guys doing here?"
"We got your letter, and we decided to track you down," Joey shrugged.
"It's great to see you guys," Chandler grinned. His smile faltered, for just a moment, when he looked at Monica. The crack in his demeanor was not noted by anyone—except Monica.
"Do you guys want a drink?" Chandler asked quickly, hoping to delay the flood of questions that were undoubtedly coming.
"We're okay," Rachel smiled.
"So, Chandler, you're a…bartender?" Ross looked at Chandler incredulously.
"Well, yeah…it's a good job, ya know?"
"Better than a…um, data-typist-guy…what the hell was your old job?"
Chandler chuckled at Ross' strained look, and shook his head.
"Even I'm not sure, man," Chandler laughed.
"Hey Chandler! Phone call!" a large Hawaiian man stood on the other end of the bar with a white cordless phone.
"Sorry," Chandler smiled, and walked to the other end of the bar.
The group was quiet for a moment, each reflecting on their encounter.
"He seems…happy," Joey noted.
"Yeah…" Rachel mumbled.
"He's…tan," Phoebe noted.
Monica shook her head, and walked out of the bar, and toward the beach, unaware that she was being watched.
"Sorry about that," Chandler smiled forcefully, and stole a glance toward the ocean.
"You should talk to her, Chandler," Phoebe said, and Chandler jerked his head back toward the group.
"What? What are you talking about?"
"Monica came out here to see you. The least you can do is talk to her," Ross' tone was much more bitter than he'd meant it to be.
"Yes, you're right, Ross. Because she certainly did nothing wrong," Chandler's sarcasm was cold, and not the least bit funny. He shook his head sadly, and hopped over the bar, before heading toward the beach.
Monica was seated on the sand, about six yards from the ocean's edge. She hugged herself, as a cool breeze whirled around her. What had she been thinking? She'd left him, to find a new life, to find a new identity. But the only thing she'd managed to do was hurt the one person that meant the world to her. She had absolutely no good reason to be angry with Chandler for leaving. And really, she wasn't. She was angry that he was able to make the changes that she had been trying so desperately for. He had settled into a new life, and found a new identity, and he seemed happy. He had accomplished what she had failed at. And she didn't like the way it made her feel.
She felt empty, and she felt…jealous.
"This is my second favorite place on the island," Chandler's voice pulled her from her reverie.
"Really?" Monica whispered, without looking up at Chandler, "What's your first?"
"I'll have to show you later," Chandler said, as he sat down next to Monica. When she did not reply, he turned to look out over the ocean.
"Why are you here, Monica?" he asked quietly.
"Why are you here?" Monica responded quickly.
"Are you really going to answer my question with a question?" Chandler furrowed his brow, and looked at Monica. When she said nothing, he sighed, and pulled his knees to his chest, before resting his arms and head on his knees.
"I needed to get as far away from New York as I could. This is pretty much the exact opposite of New York, don't you think?"
"Why did you need to leave?"
"Because the city reminds me of you, and of us, and of my failures," Chandler raised his voice, his irritation with Monica's feigned ignorance shining through.
"Your failures?" Monica finally looked over at Chandler, and noted for the first time that night, that he looked sad. He may be tan, fit, and smiling, but his eyes, his lovely, once-sparkling, sea-blue eyes, never lied to her. He was hurting, and she was the cause.
"Our marriage. I failed to give you the happiness I promised you. For that, I am sorry, Monica." His words cut Monica like a razor, and she felt guilt and sadness sweep through her.
"Chandler, you didn't do anything—I—" Monica shook her head, and sighed heavily.
"How did we end up here?" Chandler sat up straight, and looked Monica in the eyes, "How did we lose each other so completely?"
"I don't know," Monica sighed, and broke the gaze, "But I want to fix it. I need you, Chandler, I love you."
"I love you too, Monica," Chandler sighed, and stood up, "But I'm not sure that that's enough anymore."
Monica let him walk away, as she pondered his words. Maybe it wasn't enough, she thought sadly, but she wasn't giving up. She smiled, and closed her eyes, as another breeze enveloped her.
Here in paradise, they could begin anew.
Nightingale
Sing us a song
Of a love that once belonged
Nightingale
Tell me your tale
Was your journey far too long?
Does it seem like I'm looking for an answer
To a question I can't ask
I don't know which way the feather falls
Or if I should blow it to the left
All the voices that are spinnin' around me
Trying to tell me what to say
Can I fly right behind you
And you can take me away
Nightingale, ©2001, Norah Jones