Now that I am alone again I can muse on the state of my state; in other words, all me, all the time. I begin to wonder why I am so astonishingly important to be given so much due diligence, such scrutiny, such babyish care of myself who when analyzed properly, is not all that much.
Nevertheless, I have begun to wear the crown again. I will no longer tolerate certain people or behaviors even though we are told in this new age not to be judgmental. I'm a stickler for protocol and do not give in lightly. Although the crown is heavy and gives me a headache, its sparkle delights me and I carry it proudly.
To wear the crown you must be the following: a) brave, b) enduring, c) standing for certain values, d) decisive and e) worth fighting for. One must earn the crown one wears or chooses to wear. Sometimes this is hard to pull off as I am naturally slack, weak, morally culpable. I like to lie in bed forgetting about everyone but myself, taking all comfort. Queens are naturally this way so it takes fortitude and righteousness to conquer One's sloth. Victoria, being a drama queen, just told everyone to get off her back and give her some respite. She never minded using tears to get her way. Elizabeth the Stoic keeps a wise counsel and a stiff neck.
As the queen you are quickly admonished if you take the wrong approach. "You will jeopardize the throne.. you must do your public relations…much is expected...the people will not stand for..." Those pesky courtiers are never far from the throne.
And here is where the earning of the crown comes into play: You will be enshrined in luxury but you can never feel comfortable again. It is here that I hesitate. Although I have gotten used to little in the way of luxury, my comfort is very important to me. I can never play my role to the satisfaction of my minions. I am quickly banished to my chamber and the crown is put away. We go through this every month.
Now that I am alone again, I muse on my state...maybe tomorrow when my headache subsides, I'll try on the crown again.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Sunday, September 19, 2010
#43 DAISY DON'T DO DOPES
Daisy Monroe and Jamie Delveen met at a party in the Sunset district, a party neither of them had any intention of attending when they got the invite. She thought she had to work late at her job in retail management and he thought any party in the Sunset would not be worth his time.
Jamie was at that stage in his life where appearances mattered and his image was first and foremost on his mind. He was in a rock band that had just released their first CD and was usually seen at the happening spots with a leather girl hanging on his every move. Sometimes he was with his band mates in their natty dress looking for a possible score; either a new girl or a new drug, most likely both. He was pushing thirty and in no hurry or worry about anything but his music. He planned to party 'til it was over.
Daisy was at a stage in her life where she was bored, her career bordered on the meaningless, her current boyfriend lukewarm and her mother pestering her to get her MBA or married. She was twenty-four and had no idea what to do about any of this and mostly hung around the apartment she shared with her cousin Ronnie listening to Elvis Costello records and remaking clothes bought from thrift shops all over the city. She had a vague desire to design clothing and accessories but knew she did not have the entrepreneurial drive to be the next Betsey Johnson. Meanwhile her colorful appearance was getting special attention and in this she felt a certain power. It was all she had, she thought, not much, but possibly something that could lead to something.
Jamie was at the party because the lead singer in his band, a druggie named Crater thought they could hook up early with some coke from an old school friend and go on to more interesting venues. Daisy was dragged to the party by her boyfriend Tret who worked in sales with the host. She was wearing a green felt cape with matching green stockings that had a shimmering texture. On her shoulder was a feathered replica of a parrot complete with rhinestone eyes. She was the subject of many whispered comments after arriving as she was the only person wearing a "costume," as her boyfriend so rudely pointed out. She was beginning to embarrass him with her eccentric outfits. The other women were in polo shirts and khakis or jeans--GAP khakis were THE style statement at the time, the girly revolution had not yet begun. Daisy's outfits had been getting progressively more outlandish and as he was trying to fit in with this crowd, this “yuppie contingent,” as she remarked, he wished she'd tone it down. She wished she didn't have to go to such tedious parties and began smoking pot when it was handed to her from the only guy in the place who looked even vaguely interesting, desperate to alleviate the boredom.
She was ripe for the attention of Jamie Delveen who was also bored out of his mind and figured Daisy was the only person there he could talk to though he had no idea what she was about. He'd once had a pet parrot and that became his opening line. She said she was allergic to animals but liked them as decorative objects. She opened her cape and showed him a large spider broach she had made out of glass beads and silver wire. He said it was cool so she gave it to him. “I must be high,” she said giggling. “It took me all day to make it.” He must have been pretty high to wear it on his military coat, he thought but something about this gift caused him to smile. She had a way of looking right into his face that was disarming.
"So who are you here with?" he asked.
"My boyfriend. What about you?"
"My mate. We're only staying an hour and cutting out."
"Better places, hey?"
"Any place would be better than this party of stiffs."
She laughed, a taut little laugh that renewed him. "I thought it was me," she said.
"No, this is definitely dead on arrival."
"So why are you here?"
"That shall remain private. What about you?"
"Tret works with Duane."
"Ugh. Working is bad enough but to work with that guy must be the height of stupidity."
"You don't work I take it?"
"Not since the record came out. By the way, I'm Jamie.”
"Ah, a record. What group are you in?"
"We're called Shakedown. Ever heard of us?"
"Not really. Where do you play?"
"Mostly small places in North Beach or the Mission."
"Maybe I'll check you out some night. When is your next gig?”
"Tuesday night. Give me your name and I'll put you on the list."
"Thanks but Tret won't want to go out on a Tuesday night."
"Ditch him. Come alone or with a friend."
"Well...okay. Maybe my roommate would like to go. She's into punk rock, grunge rock, alternative, whatever you call it."
"Not you?"
"Not really..." She was getting high from the joint and something made her stare into this guy's left eye which seemed to be higher than the right eye. Incongruous. But captivating. She decided she might like to see his band. It was only later that night that she realized she didn't ask him what he played. But that could be a surprise for Tuesday night. Ronnie would surely want to go and they would be on the list. Whatever that was.
Tret accused her of flirting with "that seedy looking poseur" but she knew he was just trying to pick a fight because he hated her outfit and she didn't try to fit in. She countered back accusing him of schmoozing all night and ignoring her. He glared at her in the cab on the way home and she sulked in the far corner of the seat. She went to his apartment but they went to bed with grudging condescension, he was drunk and she was so stoned she couldn't remember the band guy's name, the name of the group or if he hung around longer than his band mate wanted to because of her or because he couldn't get the coke he was anticipating. She didn't even really know what coke was; that is, what it was supposed to do. She’d had a sheltered life with overprotective parents in San Mateo. She kept thinking he was drinking rum and coke and they'd run out of Coca Cola which he found hysterical. She knew she was out of it and for a moment blushed when they laughed at her. Marijuana went to her head fast and stayed there. She tried it at college, everyone did but it held no lasting appeal. Sometimes she'd take one of her mother's Valiums for cramps. Mostly she liked making things but no one had ever encouraged her in this pursuit. Her degree was in marketing and sales.
Jamie never met a drug he didn't like. He started in high school and was still going strong with all of it. He liked alcohol too, single malt scotch and fine brandy but was not adverse to cheap vodka if that was what was available. He didn't care what it did to him; he didn't care about anything but playing the guitar and getting high. He used to want to be a painter in his callow youth but gave that up for lack of excitement. Music is where he got to party and receive accolades for doing very little. To make it in music was a dream world and this was one dream he wasn't about to forfeit despite his father's insistence on getting a job. That was the last thing he planned to do. Be a wage slave like him, no thanks. He'd rather die at forty than be what his father was; a hospital administrator. How dull could you get? His best friend's father was a vintner. Now that might be a job a guy could wake up to each day. Anything else failed to earn Jamie's enthusiasm. But he would soon be famous anyway so it was all beside the point. He smoked a joint while musing on this and the other things that passed through his stoner brain and for minute remembered the girl in the green cape who gave him the spider pin. So goofy he thought to himself as he looked at the pin that had not held up particularly well over the course of the previous night. The legs were splayed in different directions and he laughed at the contortions of it. He wondered if he should call her. She was a good kid, he thought. Daft, maybe but then that is usually the best kind of girl. He wondered what she was doing with such a stiff for a boyfriend with his pressed pants and turned up collar. Well, maybe he would call her just to give her a thrill. A girl had to want to get away from that guy and his boring workplace parties.
Daisy wasn't surprised when Jamie called her although she didn't know who he was at first. She admitted she didn't remember his name but yes, she remembered him. He told her he expected her at the gig and was putting her on the list and wanted to know the name of her friend. He assumed she'd be overjoyed: Everyone wanted to get into shows for free. She admitted that she didn't remember the band's name either but that her cousin would really like to go.
"Great then, come to the back door and I'll see you around ten," he said.
"Yeah, sounds like fun," she added gamely not knowing if it really would be. She pictured a sleazy club in a dark alley with a menacing doorman. She wondered why she was so timid. Ronnie consorted with rock guys all the time but whenever she brought one home, Daisy was sort of disgusted with the rude manners, dopey talk and dirty clothes and hair. Well, Jamie was cute and seemed to have a few brain cells left. He said he went to the Academy of Art for a year. She had always wanted to go there but got a scholarship to San Francisco State. She spent the rest of that Sunday afternoon planning what she would wear. She would have to put together something especially radical for this show. She would not be amongst polo shirts and sport jackets and this realization gave her no end of wild imaginings. She worked long into the night and was tired and vacant the next day at work. She would rest up for tomorrow night she thought and on her lunch hour, bought some new makeup to go with her outfit.
Jamie had been going out with a girl named Jenny Lee but was in the process of dropping her and he specifically did not tell her about the gig Tuesday night hoping she wouldn't hear about it though really, the band needed a big crowd. They would not be booked again if they couldn't fill the place. She would bring an entourage for sure so Jamie was in a muddle about whether to call her. The girl in the green cape had intrigued him and he had been thinking of her since Saturday night. The one irritating thing about being in a band was the chicks: you went with them once and they felt they owned you and were a part of your scene. There was always trouble with one of them, if not someone he went out with, someone Phil brought home. Phil was the bass player and had a string of girls that was as constant as it was hellish. The dressing room was always filled with tension of some type and Jamie wondered if this was normal for a band and decided it surely had to be: Girls were so overwrought and strange. Why couldn't they just get along? Why did everything have to be such a big deal? Well, Jenny would have to learn band rules and this new girl would have to be taken care of tonight. After that, who knew?
Daisy and Ronnie were in full tilt dress rehearsal for their night out. Daisy had made a black Lycra bodysuit that ended mid-thigh. Below were net stockings in a spider web pattern. She planned to wear a beret with a black feathered blackbird draping the front. She loved birds and bugs. She was in all black, as was Ronnie who kept it simple with a leather jacket, black jeans and cowboy boots. Ronnie liked clothes that were a uniform; Daisy liked the outlandish and the creative. Both wore a lot of makeup, false eyelashes and big hair. Both complimented the other and drank a couple of wine coolers to get them in the mood. Tret called just before they left and Daisy was vague and pleaded exhaustion. Tret let her go, not really all that interested in her exhaustion and various ills. She was becoming a drag, he thought. He thought her cousin Ronnie loopy and unattractive. Too masculine, he always said.
Jamie was in the dressing room having left word to let the girls in when they arrived. He was prepared to show Daisy a good time; he hoped to impress her with his musicianship, stage personae and rebel stance. He was certain Jenny Lee would show up but was prepared to handle her. He'd pass her off on Sammy the drummer and let it go. She wouldn't care: she just wanted a good time and free drinks. Sammy and Jenny. Yeah, that fits.
Daisy and Ronnie arrived precisely at ten though the doorman gave them trouble, asking them their age, who they wanted to see and other questions none of his business, Daisy thought but wasn't sure. Ronnie stood up to him and he backed down. He was about to let them in when another group of girls arrived answering the questions pretty much the way Daisy did. They said they were there to see Jamie of Snake Attack and yes, they were old enough, no they didn't have any drugs or knives on them and yes he was expecting them. Daisy for a moment thought she had been put on and did not like the feeling. That he had asked another girl was a jolt. She thought he liked her and tonight was something special. She felt naïve and foolish. The other girl named Jenny Lee seemed much more sure of herself and wasn't about to let some doorman wear her down. She seemed to have a stronger connection and wasn't afraid to show it. There was an awkward moment when they both showed up in the dressing room at the same time. Jamie's eyes looked shifty. Phil was slamming beer and the drummer was asleep on the couch. Jamie exemplified cool in his black leather trousers and unbuttoned shirt. Ronnie detected eye makeup and whispered something meant to be funny in Daisy's ear. Daisy was unsure what to do or how to handle the uncomfortable scene. Jamie did not display any special gallantry when Jenny Lee went up and kissed him on the lips; he sort of backed away and looked skewered. He wanted Sammy to help him but Sammy was out cold. Daisy wondered how he would play the drums in this state. He was wearing a torn Ramones t-shirt and looked like hell. Obviously Jamie was the pretty boy in this band, the one the girls went for.
Jamie was genuinely happy to see that Daisy came, happy to see she brought another girl, not that they needed any more but you never know…the more the merrier once the lights went up.
“Hey Daisy,” he said walking toward her. “Glad you could make it. You look great, where do you get these clothes? I should have you make some stage gear for me.”
“Sure, that would be fun.” She felt a little out of place not knowing what she was supposed to do. Ronnie was already smoking a joint with the bass player and Jenny Lee and her entourage were skulking around, passing joints, pouring drinks and giggling at anything anyone said.
“Don’t mind those girls,” said Jamie. “They’re just a part of the scene. Jenny Lee has her own band now. You’re with me tonight. What’s your friend’s name again?”
“Ronnie. Hey Ron, come and meet Jamie.” Ronnie, always pleased to meet such a good-looking guy shook his hand.
“Hey Ronnie, nice to meet you. I thought Ronnie was a guy and was going to be a little jealous. Glad you're a chick.”
“Yeah, me too,” she said and laughed though Daisy thought it was not the most articulate line she’d ever heard.
“Well, make yourselves at home, gals. I’ve got to do a quick sound check and mousse my hair but you’ve got the run of the place so have fun. I’ll see you after the show Daisy.”
“Thanks. Should we come back here?”
“You can, or I’ll find you out front. There’s another band after us so we’ll be hanging out with the masses. I won’t have trouble spotting you, girl. You are the sharpest dresser in the place.”
“Thanks. See you later, break a leg,” she said then wondered if he would know what that meant or if she sounded incoherent. She grabbed Ronnie and together they meandered into the club and found a table. They were excited to hear the band. Daisy thought Jamie would be a fantastic entertainer, he had the looks, personality and presence. She felt more than a little thrill being his date. If that’s what it was.
The show was all the girls had expected and Ronnie was overjoyed at not only seeing this band before any of her friends had but actually knowing them. They were going to be big. Jamie was riveting on stage and the songs were catchy while displaying all the grunge and angst of pure punk. Ronnie kept comparing them to other groups; she was familiar with the history of rock music and had worked in a record store in Berkeley while in college. Daisy knew nothing of any of this. She mostly liked Jamie’s style and moves.
After Shakedown’s set she and Ronnie stayed at their table, not easy to procure and waited for Jamie. They had both had all the drinks they could handle or afford and Daisy was beginning to wonder what happened to Jamie when the other band guys were seen floating around. Ronnie called Phil over to ask where Jamie was.
“Oh, you know how James is...he’s probably in back snorting something. Jenny’s always got something sweet for him. Go on back to the dressing room if you want but the other band is in there. I’ll tell him you’re looking for him if I see him but you know James…never can find him when you want.”
“No, I don’t know James and he said he would find me so tell him if you see him that I am going to leave soon and I’ll see him another time. I’ve got to work early in the morning.” She knew she sounded petulant but it was getting late and all too confusing.
“Work,” laughed Phil. “I forget people work. Why don’t I go back and check up on him for you; wait right here, and Ronnie, when I do find Jamie, why don’t the four of us head out and find our own party. What do you say?”
“Sure. That would be great. Dais, what do you think?”
“Well, I guess so.” She wasn’t sure at all. Something didn’t seem quite right to her but she didn’t want to be a spoilsport. She was determined to be cool tonight. “Stay here and wait for him, Ron, I’ll be back in a minute, I’m going to the bathroom," said Daisy. "Well, maybe not in a minute, looks like there’s a line to get in. Just save the table and watch for Jamie.”
While Daisy was waiting to get into the bathroom she kept an eye out for Jamie in the hallway leading to the dressing room. She didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye and thanking him for putting them on the list. She expected to see him and wondered if she should intrude on the other band. When she finally got into the bathroom there was uproarious chatter with someone spraying perfume around making for a hot sickening smell that caused her to feel dizzy. She had more drinks than she’d probably ever had, smoked some pot and was coming unglued in the tight lycra. She got in and out quickly thinking she might pass out. She scrambled to the back door they had entered earlier in desperate need of fresh air. The alleyway was crowded with smokers and the type who always hangs out around back doors at clubs and she felt helpless in the crowd. It was then she saw Jamie and Jenny Lee sitting on the ground up against the building with their arms around one another, laughing semi-hysterically, with rolled up currency, a hand mirror and a fifth of tequila. They looked up and caught sight of her though she wished she could hide. They cackled some more and then Jamie remembered who she was and called out for her to join them.
“Come on doll, pull up a piece of pavement. Don’t be shy, let’s all party. Come on have a drink…we’re all friends here…now don‘t be like that.” Jenny Lee was laughing like a hyena as Daisy fled the scene.
She dashed back inside, found Ronnie sitting with Phil and said she didn’t feel well, she wanted to leave but would get a cab if Ronnie wanted to stay longer. She was hot, disheveled, irritated, embarrassed with chaos clotting her brain. She didn’t wait for the answer but started for the door. She heard Phil’s voice mumble, “Hey babe, don’t go, wait for James. He’ll be here in a minute, he’ll be sorry if you leave…he wants to be with you…we're going to party at my place.”
Daisy made it to the front door, plowing through the throngs that were pushing forward for the start of the next set. Her hat had fallen off, she bent down to retrieve it, someone clomped down on her foot hard but she was maneuvering through the crowd with precision and purpose: She had never liked rock music, rock musicians or crowded clubs. She never knew exactly why--all of her friends did, but she had always felt a little reproving, too straight somehow. Tonight had sealed it.
She got into a taxi, and when safely at home, called her mom just to feel grounded and then checked her messages. Tret had called just after eleven. She hit his number in a blaze of contrition. He answered on the first ring and at the sound of his voice she felt like she could breathe again.
“Hi, there. Are you still up? Yeah, Ronnie and I went out to this club. No, it was alright. Nothing to get excited about. No, you didn’t miss anything. My foot got crunched and I'm limping. Look, are we still on for Friday night? Great. I’m looking forward to meeting your new coworkers. Yeah, I know I said I was tired. Yeah, I’m okay. Hey, I missed you...yeah, I can come over, make some cocoa...we can watch TV in bed and I'll tell you all about it...”
Jamie was at that stage in his life where appearances mattered and his image was first and foremost on his mind. He was in a rock band that had just released their first CD and was usually seen at the happening spots with a leather girl hanging on his every move. Sometimes he was with his band mates in their natty dress looking for a possible score; either a new girl or a new drug, most likely both. He was pushing thirty and in no hurry or worry about anything but his music. He planned to party 'til it was over.
Daisy was at a stage in her life where she was bored, her career bordered on the meaningless, her current boyfriend lukewarm and her mother pestering her to get her MBA or married. She was twenty-four and had no idea what to do about any of this and mostly hung around the apartment she shared with her cousin Ronnie listening to Elvis Costello records and remaking clothes bought from thrift shops all over the city. She had a vague desire to design clothing and accessories but knew she did not have the entrepreneurial drive to be the next Betsey Johnson. Meanwhile her colorful appearance was getting special attention and in this she felt a certain power. It was all she had, she thought, not much, but possibly something that could lead to something.
Jamie was at the party because the lead singer in his band, a druggie named Crater thought they could hook up early with some coke from an old school friend and go on to more interesting venues. Daisy was dragged to the party by her boyfriend Tret who worked in sales with the host. She was wearing a green felt cape with matching green stockings that had a shimmering texture. On her shoulder was a feathered replica of a parrot complete with rhinestone eyes. She was the subject of many whispered comments after arriving as she was the only person wearing a "costume," as her boyfriend so rudely pointed out. She was beginning to embarrass him with her eccentric outfits. The other women were in polo shirts and khakis or jeans--GAP khakis were THE style statement at the time, the girly revolution had not yet begun. Daisy's outfits had been getting progressively more outlandish and as he was trying to fit in with this crowd, this “yuppie contingent,” as she remarked, he wished she'd tone it down. She wished she didn't have to go to such tedious parties and began smoking pot when it was handed to her from the only guy in the place who looked even vaguely interesting, desperate to alleviate the boredom.
She was ripe for the attention of Jamie Delveen who was also bored out of his mind and figured Daisy was the only person there he could talk to though he had no idea what she was about. He'd once had a pet parrot and that became his opening line. She said she was allergic to animals but liked them as decorative objects. She opened her cape and showed him a large spider broach she had made out of glass beads and silver wire. He said it was cool so she gave it to him. “I must be high,” she said giggling. “It took me all day to make it.” He must have been pretty high to wear it on his military coat, he thought but something about this gift caused him to smile. She had a way of looking right into his face that was disarming.
"So who are you here with?" he asked.
"My boyfriend. What about you?"
"My mate. We're only staying an hour and cutting out."
"Better places, hey?"
"Any place would be better than this party of stiffs."
She laughed, a taut little laugh that renewed him. "I thought it was me," she said.
"No, this is definitely dead on arrival."
"So why are you here?"
"That shall remain private. What about you?"
"Tret works with Duane."
"Ugh. Working is bad enough but to work with that guy must be the height of stupidity."
"You don't work I take it?"
"Not since the record came out. By the way, I'm Jamie.”
"Ah, a record. What group are you in?"
"We're called Shakedown. Ever heard of us?"
"Not really. Where do you play?"
"Mostly small places in North Beach or the Mission."
"Maybe I'll check you out some night. When is your next gig?”
"Tuesday night. Give me your name and I'll put you on the list."
"Thanks but Tret won't want to go out on a Tuesday night."
"Ditch him. Come alone or with a friend."
"Well...okay. Maybe my roommate would like to go. She's into punk rock, grunge rock, alternative, whatever you call it."
"Not you?"
"Not really..." She was getting high from the joint and something made her stare into this guy's left eye which seemed to be higher than the right eye. Incongruous. But captivating. She decided she might like to see his band. It was only later that night that she realized she didn't ask him what he played. But that could be a surprise for Tuesday night. Ronnie would surely want to go and they would be on the list. Whatever that was.
Tret accused her of flirting with "that seedy looking poseur" but she knew he was just trying to pick a fight because he hated her outfit and she didn't try to fit in. She countered back accusing him of schmoozing all night and ignoring her. He glared at her in the cab on the way home and she sulked in the far corner of the seat. She went to his apartment but they went to bed with grudging condescension, he was drunk and she was so stoned she couldn't remember the band guy's name, the name of the group or if he hung around longer than his band mate wanted to because of her or because he couldn't get the coke he was anticipating. She didn't even really know what coke was; that is, what it was supposed to do. She’d had a sheltered life with overprotective parents in San Mateo. She kept thinking he was drinking rum and coke and they'd run out of Coca Cola which he found hysterical. She knew she was out of it and for a moment blushed when they laughed at her. Marijuana went to her head fast and stayed there. She tried it at college, everyone did but it held no lasting appeal. Sometimes she'd take one of her mother's Valiums for cramps. Mostly she liked making things but no one had ever encouraged her in this pursuit. Her degree was in marketing and sales.
Jamie never met a drug he didn't like. He started in high school and was still going strong with all of it. He liked alcohol too, single malt scotch and fine brandy but was not adverse to cheap vodka if that was what was available. He didn't care what it did to him; he didn't care about anything but playing the guitar and getting high. He used to want to be a painter in his callow youth but gave that up for lack of excitement. Music is where he got to party and receive accolades for doing very little. To make it in music was a dream world and this was one dream he wasn't about to forfeit despite his father's insistence on getting a job. That was the last thing he planned to do. Be a wage slave like him, no thanks. He'd rather die at forty than be what his father was; a hospital administrator. How dull could you get? His best friend's father was a vintner. Now that might be a job a guy could wake up to each day. Anything else failed to earn Jamie's enthusiasm. But he would soon be famous anyway so it was all beside the point. He smoked a joint while musing on this and the other things that passed through his stoner brain and for minute remembered the girl in the green cape who gave him the spider pin. So goofy he thought to himself as he looked at the pin that had not held up particularly well over the course of the previous night. The legs were splayed in different directions and he laughed at the contortions of it. He wondered if he should call her. She was a good kid, he thought. Daft, maybe but then that is usually the best kind of girl. He wondered what she was doing with such a stiff for a boyfriend with his pressed pants and turned up collar. Well, maybe he would call her just to give her a thrill. A girl had to want to get away from that guy and his boring workplace parties.
Daisy wasn't surprised when Jamie called her although she didn't know who he was at first. She admitted she didn't remember his name but yes, she remembered him. He told her he expected her at the gig and was putting her on the list and wanted to know the name of her friend. He assumed she'd be overjoyed: Everyone wanted to get into shows for free. She admitted that she didn't remember the band's name either but that her cousin would really like to go.
"Great then, come to the back door and I'll see you around ten," he said.
"Yeah, sounds like fun," she added gamely not knowing if it really would be. She pictured a sleazy club in a dark alley with a menacing doorman. She wondered why she was so timid. Ronnie consorted with rock guys all the time but whenever she brought one home, Daisy was sort of disgusted with the rude manners, dopey talk and dirty clothes and hair. Well, Jamie was cute and seemed to have a few brain cells left. He said he went to the Academy of Art for a year. She had always wanted to go there but got a scholarship to San Francisco State. She spent the rest of that Sunday afternoon planning what she would wear. She would have to put together something especially radical for this show. She would not be amongst polo shirts and sport jackets and this realization gave her no end of wild imaginings. She worked long into the night and was tired and vacant the next day at work. She would rest up for tomorrow night she thought and on her lunch hour, bought some new makeup to go with her outfit.
Jamie had been going out with a girl named Jenny Lee but was in the process of dropping her and he specifically did not tell her about the gig Tuesday night hoping she wouldn't hear about it though really, the band needed a big crowd. They would not be booked again if they couldn't fill the place. She would bring an entourage for sure so Jamie was in a muddle about whether to call her. The girl in the green cape had intrigued him and he had been thinking of her since Saturday night. The one irritating thing about being in a band was the chicks: you went with them once and they felt they owned you and were a part of your scene. There was always trouble with one of them, if not someone he went out with, someone Phil brought home. Phil was the bass player and had a string of girls that was as constant as it was hellish. The dressing room was always filled with tension of some type and Jamie wondered if this was normal for a band and decided it surely had to be: Girls were so overwrought and strange. Why couldn't they just get along? Why did everything have to be such a big deal? Well, Jenny would have to learn band rules and this new girl would have to be taken care of tonight. After that, who knew?
Daisy and Ronnie were in full tilt dress rehearsal for their night out. Daisy had made a black Lycra bodysuit that ended mid-thigh. Below were net stockings in a spider web pattern. She planned to wear a beret with a black feathered blackbird draping the front. She loved birds and bugs. She was in all black, as was Ronnie who kept it simple with a leather jacket, black jeans and cowboy boots. Ronnie liked clothes that were a uniform; Daisy liked the outlandish and the creative. Both wore a lot of makeup, false eyelashes and big hair. Both complimented the other and drank a couple of wine coolers to get them in the mood. Tret called just before they left and Daisy was vague and pleaded exhaustion. Tret let her go, not really all that interested in her exhaustion and various ills. She was becoming a drag, he thought. He thought her cousin Ronnie loopy and unattractive. Too masculine, he always said.
Jamie was in the dressing room having left word to let the girls in when they arrived. He was prepared to show Daisy a good time; he hoped to impress her with his musicianship, stage personae and rebel stance. He was certain Jenny Lee would show up but was prepared to handle her. He'd pass her off on Sammy the drummer and let it go. She wouldn't care: she just wanted a good time and free drinks. Sammy and Jenny. Yeah, that fits.
Daisy and Ronnie arrived precisely at ten though the doorman gave them trouble, asking them their age, who they wanted to see and other questions none of his business, Daisy thought but wasn't sure. Ronnie stood up to him and he backed down. He was about to let them in when another group of girls arrived answering the questions pretty much the way Daisy did. They said they were there to see Jamie of Snake Attack and yes, they were old enough, no they didn't have any drugs or knives on them and yes he was expecting them. Daisy for a moment thought she had been put on and did not like the feeling. That he had asked another girl was a jolt. She thought he liked her and tonight was something special. She felt naïve and foolish. The other girl named Jenny Lee seemed much more sure of herself and wasn't about to let some doorman wear her down. She seemed to have a stronger connection and wasn't afraid to show it. There was an awkward moment when they both showed up in the dressing room at the same time. Jamie's eyes looked shifty. Phil was slamming beer and the drummer was asleep on the couch. Jamie exemplified cool in his black leather trousers and unbuttoned shirt. Ronnie detected eye makeup and whispered something meant to be funny in Daisy's ear. Daisy was unsure what to do or how to handle the uncomfortable scene. Jamie did not display any special gallantry when Jenny Lee went up and kissed him on the lips; he sort of backed away and looked skewered. He wanted Sammy to help him but Sammy was out cold. Daisy wondered how he would play the drums in this state. He was wearing a torn Ramones t-shirt and looked like hell. Obviously Jamie was the pretty boy in this band, the one the girls went for.
Jamie was genuinely happy to see that Daisy came, happy to see she brought another girl, not that they needed any more but you never know…the more the merrier once the lights went up.
“Hey Daisy,” he said walking toward her. “Glad you could make it. You look great, where do you get these clothes? I should have you make some stage gear for me.”
“Sure, that would be fun.” She felt a little out of place not knowing what she was supposed to do. Ronnie was already smoking a joint with the bass player and Jenny Lee and her entourage were skulking around, passing joints, pouring drinks and giggling at anything anyone said.
“Don’t mind those girls,” said Jamie. “They’re just a part of the scene. Jenny Lee has her own band now. You’re with me tonight. What’s your friend’s name again?”
“Ronnie. Hey Ron, come and meet Jamie.” Ronnie, always pleased to meet such a good-looking guy shook his hand.
“Hey Ronnie, nice to meet you. I thought Ronnie was a guy and was going to be a little jealous. Glad you're a chick.”
“Yeah, me too,” she said and laughed though Daisy thought it was not the most articulate line she’d ever heard.
“Well, make yourselves at home, gals. I’ve got to do a quick sound check and mousse my hair but you’ve got the run of the place so have fun. I’ll see you after the show Daisy.”
“Thanks. Should we come back here?”
“You can, or I’ll find you out front. There’s another band after us so we’ll be hanging out with the masses. I won’t have trouble spotting you, girl. You are the sharpest dresser in the place.”
“Thanks. See you later, break a leg,” she said then wondered if he would know what that meant or if she sounded incoherent. She grabbed Ronnie and together they meandered into the club and found a table. They were excited to hear the band. Daisy thought Jamie would be a fantastic entertainer, he had the looks, personality and presence. She felt more than a little thrill being his date. If that’s what it was.
The show was all the girls had expected and Ronnie was overjoyed at not only seeing this band before any of her friends had but actually knowing them. They were going to be big. Jamie was riveting on stage and the songs were catchy while displaying all the grunge and angst of pure punk. Ronnie kept comparing them to other groups; she was familiar with the history of rock music and had worked in a record store in Berkeley while in college. Daisy knew nothing of any of this. She mostly liked Jamie’s style and moves.
After Shakedown’s set she and Ronnie stayed at their table, not easy to procure and waited for Jamie. They had both had all the drinks they could handle or afford and Daisy was beginning to wonder what happened to Jamie when the other band guys were seen floating around. Ronnie called Phil over to ask where Jamie was.
“Oh, you know how James is...he’s probably in back snorting something. Jenny’s always got something sweet for him. Go on back to the dressing room if you want but the other band is in there. I’ll tell him you’re looking for him if I see him but you know James…never can find him when you want.”
“No, I don’t know James and he said he would find me so tell him if you see him that I am going to leave soon and I’ll see him another time. I’ve got to work early in the morning.” She knew she sounded petulant but it was getting late and all too confusing.
“Work,” laughed Phil. “I forget people work. Why don’t I go back and check up on him for you; wait right here, and Ronnie, when I do find Jamie, why don’t the four of us head out and find our own party. What do you say?”
“Sure. That would be great. Dais, what do you think?”
“Well, I guess so.” She wasn’t sure at all. Something didn’t seem quite right to her but she didn’t want to be a spoilsport. She was determined to be cool tonight. “Stay here and wait for him, Ron, I’ll be back in a minute, I’m going to the bathroom," said Daisy. "Well, maybe not in a minute, looks like there’s a line to get in. Just save the table and watch for Jamie.”
While Daisy was waiting to get into the bathroom she kept an eye out for Jamie in the hallway leading to the dressing room. She didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye and thanking him for putting them on the list. She expected to see him and wondered if she should intrude on the other band. When she finally got into the bathroom there was uproarious chatter with someone spraying perfume around making for a hot sickening smell that caused her to feel dizzy. She had more drinks than she’d probably ever had, smoked some pot and was coming unglued in the tight lycra. She got in and out quickly thinking she might pass out. She scrambled to the back door they had entered earlier in desperate need of fresh air. The alleyway was crowded with smokers and the type who always hangs out around back doors at clubs and she felt helpless in the crowd. It was then she saw Jamie and Jenny Lee sitting on the ground up against the building with their arms around one another, laughing semi-hysterically, with rolled up currency, a hand mirror and a fifth of tequila. They looked up and caught sight of her though she wished she could hide. They cackled some more and then Jamie remembered who she was and called out for her to join them.
“Come on doll, pull up a piece of pavement. Don’t be shy, let’s all party. Come on have a drink…we’re all friends here…now don‘t be like that.” Jenny Lee was laughing like a hyena as Daisy fled the scene.
She dashed back inside, found Ronnie sitting with Phil and said she didn’t feel well, she wanted to leave but would get a cab if Ronnie wanted to stay longer. She was hot, disheveled, irritated, embarrassed with chaos clotting her brain. She didn’t wait for the answer but started for the door. She heard Phil’s voice mumble, “Hey babe, don’t go, wait for James. He’ll be here in a minute, he’ll be sorry if you leave…he wants to be with you…we're going to party at my place.”
Daisy made it to the front door, plowing through the throngs that were pushing forward for the start of the next set. Her hat had fallen off, she bent down to retrieve it, someone clomped down on her foot hard but she was maneuvering through the crowd with precision and purpose: She had never liked rock music, rock musicians or crowded clubs. She never knew exactly why--all of her friends did, but she had always felt a little reproving, too straight somehow. Tonight had sealed it.
She got into a taxi, and when safely at home, called her mom just to feel grounded and then checked her messages. Tret had called just after eleven. She hit his number in a blaze of contrition. He answered on the first ring and at the sound of his voice she felt like she could breathe again.
“Hi, there. Are you still up? Yeah, Ronnie and I went out to this club. No, it was alright. Nothing to get excited about. No, you didn’t miss anything. My foot got crunched and I'm limping. Look, are we still on for Friday night? Great. I’m looking forward to meeting your new coworkers. Yeah, I know I said I was tired. Yeah, I’m okay. Hey, I missed you...yeah, I can come over, make some cocoa...we can watch TV in bed and I'll tell you all about it...”
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
#42 CORKY’S REVENGE
Corky Hayes delivered a resounding blow to her father, Reginald Hayes, Jr. during dinner at the Alabaster Club, an exclusive club Reggie belonged to since he was twenty-five years old and beginning his career as a litigator.
Reggie had three daughters, Corky being the youngest, just recently away at college in Ann Arbor for her freshman year with an undeclared major and a lot of unruly emotion. Her parents separated after twenty-seven years of marriage and her father now had a liaison with a former cocktail waitress/yoga instructor around thirty years old. “So utterly devoid of imagination, such a pitiful cliché,” Corky screamed at her mother when she got the news that the “cowardly” father could not impart for himself.
Corky’s mother, Judy Gilbert Hayes seemed to take it more in stride than her daughters and had to actually defend her husband after her daughters, full of vitriol and spite, threatened to disown their father as if they, and not Reggie controlled the purse strings.
Eventually the dust settled, Corky went off to college, Judy and Reggie hired lawyers, the two elder daughters, twins, Vicky and Christy moved to California and got jobs in software development and Web design. They either moved on or forgave their errant father but Corky was not to be dissuaded from her froth. She was the lone possessor of gall and spittle, unable to come to terms with divorce, domestic upheaval or philandering. She felt humiliation for her mother, more so because Judy seemed not particularly bothered by Reggie’s abandonment, his new life of unbridled affection and renewed zest with his “playmate,” a term of derision Judy used and Corky approved of hoping her mother might show some spunk after all.
Corky spent much of her freshman year at Michigan hanging out with members of a rock band, ignoring her dorm mates and fellow students. She formed an alliance with an African-American drummer from Detroit who planned to leave Ann Arbor for New York and a career in music. His name was Adderley and his father was a prison guard at a nearby federal penitentiary. Adderley hated his father for his role in the prison system that was harsh to African-Americans, part of a corrupt system that was condoned by the federal government. Together Corky and Adderley read about John Sinclair, an Ann Arbor folk hero who was imprisoned for two joints, later released when John Lennon and Yoko Ono showed up for a benefit concert to free him. Both of them wished they had been a part of the 1960s and ‘70s when radical politics dominated Ann Arbor. Now it was strictly lame; future MBAs and lawyers, they scoffed.
Corky had gone home for the weekend and was to have dinner with her father which is where this story began. Reggie hesitantly told her that he would be bringing his girlfriend Tracy.
“I’d like you two to meet, he said with phony bravado. Tracy used to live in Ann Arbor too.”
“Oh boy. We’re almost sisters,” she snarked at him.
“Don’t be mean, luv, you have to get used to this. Try to make friends.”
“Yeah, well maybe you can get used to a few things yourself.”
“What does that mean, Cork?”
“Nothing. I’ll meet you at the Alabaster Friday night. See you, Dad.” She hung up quickly before he could question her further.
Friday night Corky arrived a little late, she had been hoping Adderley would get there in time but was held up on I-75 in traffic. If he didn’t make it, her plan would go awry. Reggie and Tracy were seated at the bar and her father held out his arms to his daughter, then wrapped both women in a hug. Corky felt like throwing up, mostly because his girlfriend was soaked in Obsession, a perfume that made her retch. She often had sick reactions to perfume but that one was tops on her puke-o-meter and she took this for a definite sign.
“Come on, girls, relax, get to know each other, we’re here to have fun,” said Reggie, loosening his grip on both of them. The hostess announced their table was ready and they made their way through the dining room, Reggie nodding and smiling like a local politician soliciting donations. Corky could feel the tension mounting, mostly from within herself and she fervently hoped Ad would arrive soon. She checked her cell but no message. They were given menus and Corky told her father that they would be joined by her boyfriend, he was on his way, caught in traffic. Could they please wait a bit before ordering?
“Didn’t know you had a boyfriend, kid. Good work. Is he at Michigan too?”
“Well, sort of.”
“Oh that’s so sweet, first college romance,” said Tracy in a syrupy voice that did nothing to alleviate the strain.
Ad finally arrived, peering in from the entryway not quite sure what he was supposed to do. He wasn’t dressed for this place and felt a little awkward. He’d had a band rehearsal which was why he was late and was sweaty and nervous after the drive in traffic in an old van used for hauling band equipment. Corky waved to him and he sauntered to the table with a walk that made her insides liquefy and made everyone else take a second look over their soup course--trying not to be obvious.
“Dad, I’d like you to meet Adderley Carson,” she said. She purposely ignored Tracy, unconcerned whether or not her manners were bad. Tracy, she decided, was awful and that was enough. She could tell by the way she kept her hand on her father’s arm as though she was afraid he would get away. She screamed “gold digger" and Corky had no truck with that sort of thing. She also talked in a sing-songy voice that unnerved her.
Her father, always the perfect host put out his hand and motioned for Adderley to take a seat opposite him. “Nice to meet you, Adderley, are you a student at Michigan?”
“No. I’m a musician.”
“Oh… and what instrument do you play?”
“I’m a drummer, man, I mean Mr. Hayes.”
“Oh, I love drummers,” said Tracy a little hastily and got a rather pointed look from Reggie.
“Well, let’s order up, kids. Anything you want. Go all out. This is a celebration. I’ve got some news but I’ll wait until we’ve had some wine and a bite to eat--get to know each other a little. Adderley, I wasn‘t expecting you, but you‘re more than welcome. My daughter knows a good man I think, ha, ha, ha, she‘s been around one all of her life.” Both women, if they weren’t wary of each other, would have rolled their eyes at Reggie’s inane remark that fell flat and quickly drifted out of range.
“I’ve got some news, too, Dad. You want me to go first?” She was anxious to get it out of the way.
“Wait until I’ve ordered the wine, honey. Here’s Johnny, the finest wine steward in town, what do you recommend tonight, Johnny?”
Corky felt sorry for her dad, she knew when he was nervous he always made dumb comments and played the part of a TV talk-show host. Reggie ordered a fine white Bordeaux for the first course, more expensive than usual, another sign of his uneasiness.
“So go ahead, Cork, what’s up?” said Reggie after the wine had been tasted and approved.
“Well Dad, I’ve decided to drop out of school and go with Ad to New York. We’re thinking of getting married but first we need to get settled in New York and Ad needs to get into a new band.” She knew she was being unfair hurling this scenario at the wrong time, in the wrong place but that was her plan. She suspected his news was going to flay her and she wanted to get the jump on him. There he was, smugly sitting with his child-like concubine planning a phony dinner to check on his youngest daughter’s disposition before he announced his own engagement, this Corky knew without having been told.
“So you see Dad, you won’t have to pay my tuition; I know how high it is and you’ll be able to use the money for a new place to live.” This she said without obvious sarcasm but Corky was a master of the subtle dig.
Reggie, choking on his lobster bisque, aware of his surroundings, unable to put forth his own views, was forced to treat Adderley with babyish care, a minority for God’s sake, feigning a respect he had no appetite for, clutching the hand of his fiancee under the table while clearing his throat and forcing himself to calm his nerves before speaking. He motioned the waiter for a martini and a glass of water. Then with the utmost dignity he said in a slow hissing voice, “You are like hell moving to New York, quitting school, getting married, getting a job, joining the circus or any other half-assed, hair-brained ideas that you have in your foolish, immature mind” while the water was set in front of him followed by the trout in wine and shallots he so heartily recommended just minutes before.
Adderley, who was unable to hear very well after the rehearsal in which the band played as loud as their heros, The MC5, the loudest band ever, had ordered the prime rib and was oblivious to the anger that was sputtering from Corky’s father. He did not catch the venom with which Corky had let loose her revenge. He was starving and did not usually have the opportunity to feast like this and was three times at the salad bar before the main course was served. In any case, he did not care what this middle-aged white guy with his cheerleader at his side had to say. He planned to enjoy this meal and poured himself a glass of wine since no one seemed to offer it or wanted any. Reggie stabbed at his trout fuming, had it taken away and another martini delivered. Corky, having grown up eating in this dining room was munching a spinach salad and watching Tracy trying unsuccessfully to crack open her lobster tail. When the juice splashed on her dress, purchased that afternoon at full price, she tossed it aside and tried to regain Reggie’s attention and concern, embarrassed at the wet spot just above her left breast. Adderley cleaned his plate, ordered a slice of flourless chocolate cake, an espresso and then a Black Russian. An eerie silence descended on Table Six and the waiter hovered around not quite sure what approach to take. No one seemed to appreciate the fine food except the black kid who devoured the salad bar, the waiter thought to himself. He hoped the uneaten food wasn’t going to affect his tip too much.
Finally the meal was over and the two couples exited the dining room, Reggie’s bonhomie slightly the worse for wear, Corky smirking in a way that nearly drove him insane with fury while breaking his heart to pieces, she his favorite daughter. He wanted to take her away and have a sensible talk but his hands were tied: to Tracy.
Tracy knew he was angry so she tried to make light of his annoying daughter’s announcement and her ridiculous boyfriend, stuffing his face unaware of the implications Corky’s snotty attitude had on Reggie. Nothing more was said until they reached the parking lot. The two men shook hands, Corky kissed her father on the cheek and they parted. When Tracy tried to put her arm around Reggie, he was distracted and moved just a touch away from her: it was only for an instant but she registered the rebuff fully. She also noted their engagement had been left unannounced.
That was the beginning of the end for Reggie and Tracy. Little things began to bug her, they built up to a big pain in her side and eventually she decided he had too much baggage for her, too many daughters who could be problematic. She married her high-school boyfriend after he divorced his present wife.
Corky did not go to New York. She broke up with Adderley shortly after the dinner. He did move to New York. She’d heard he had an audition for a well-known heavy metal band whose drummer overdosed but meanwhile was playing in a punk band on the lower east side that had gotten a few good reviews. Corky graduated in four years with a useless degree in anthropology just to annoy her father and was going for her master’s. She never intended to drop out of school, marry or move to New York. She knew how to go for her father’s jugular and though she loved him dearly, felt he had it coming.
Reggie dated a bevy of silly women and finally made an attempt to get back with Judy but Judy wasn’t interested and instead married her psychiatrist. Corky couldn’t stand him but he knew how to watch his back. His own daughter was something of a pill.
All of the people in this story are fictitious except for John Sinclair and the MC5. You can read more about them by clicking on the links below.
Reggie had three daughters, Corky being the youngest, just recently away at college in Ann Arbor for her freshman year with an undeclared major and a lot of unruly emotion. Her parents separated after twenty-seven years of marriage and her father now had a liaison with a former cocktail waitress/yoga instructor around thirty years old. “So utterly devoid of imagination, such a pitiful cliché,” Corky screamed at her mother when she got the news that the “cowardly” father could not impart for himself.
Corky’s mother, Judy Gilbert Hayes seemed to take it more in stride than her daughters and had to actually defend her husband after her daughters, full of vitriol and spite, threatened to disown their father as if they, and not Reggie controlled the purse strings.
Eventually the dust settled, Corky went off to college, Judy and Reggie hired lawyers, the two elder daughters, twins, Vicky and Christy moved to California and got jobs in software development and Web design. They either moved on or forgave their errant father but Corky was not to be dissuaded from her froth. She was the lone possessor of gall and spittle, unable to come to terms with divorce, domestic upheaval or philandering. She felt humiliation for her mother, more so because Judy seemed not particularly bothered by Reggie’s abandonment, his new life of unbridled affection and renewed zest with his “playmate,” a term of derision Judy used and Corky approved of hoping her mother might show some spunk after all.
Corky spent much of her freshman year at Michigan hanging out with members of a rock band, ignoring her dorm mates and fellow students. She formed an alliance with an African-American drummer from Detroit who planned to leave Ann Arbor for New York and a career in music. His name was Adderley and his father was a prison guard at a nearby federal penitentiary. Adderley hated his father for his role in the prison system that was harsh to African-Americans, part of a corrupt system that was condoned by the federal government. Together Corky and Adderley read about John Sinclair, an Ann Arbor folk hero who was imprisoned for two joints, later released when John Lennon and Yoko Ono showed up for a benefit concert to free him. Both of them wished they had been a part of the 1960s and ‘70s when radical politics dominated Ann Arbor. Now it was strictly lame; future MBAs and lawyers, they scoffed.
Corky had gone home for the weekend and was to have dinner with her father which is where this story began. Reggie hesitantly told her that he would be bringing his girlfriend Tracy.
“I’d like you two to meet, he said with phony bravado. Tracy used to live in Ann Arbor too.”
“Oh boy. We’re almost sisters,” she snarked at him.
“Don’t be mean, luv, you have to get used to this. Try to make friends.”
“Yeah, well maybe you can get used to a few things yourself.”
“What does that mean, Cork?”
“Nothing. I’ll meet you at the Alabaster Friday night. See you, Dad.” She hung up quickly before he could question her further.
Friday night Corky arrived a little late, she had been hoping Adderley would get there in time but was held up on I-75 in traffic. If he didn’t make it, her plan would go awry. Reggie and Tracy were seated at the bar and her father held out his arms to his daughter, then wrapped both women in a hug. Corky felt like throwing up, mostly because his girlfriend was soaked in Obsession, a perfume that made her retch. She often had sick reactions to perfume but that one was tops on her puke-o-meter and she took this for a definite sign.
“Come on, girls, relax, get to know each other, we’re here to have fun,” said Reggie, loosening his grip on both of them. The hostess announced their table was ready and they made their way through the dining room, Reggie nodding and smiling like a local politician soliciting donations. Corky could feel the tension mounting, mostly from within herself and she fervently hoped Ad would arrive soon. She checked her cell but no message. They were given menus and Corky told her father that they would be joined by her boyfriend, he was on his way, caught in traffic. Could they please wait a bit before ordering?
“Didn’t know you had a boyfriend, kid. Good work. Is he at Michigan too?”
“Well, sort of.”
“Oh that’s so sweet, first college romance,” said Tracy in a syrupy voice that did nothing to alleviate the strain.
Ad finally arrived, peering in from the entryway not quite sure what he was supposed to do. He wasn’t dressed for this place and felt a little awkward. He’d had a band rehearsal which was why he was late and was sweaty and nervous after the drive in traffic in an old van used for hauling band equipment. Corky waved to him and he sauntered to the table with a walk that made her insides liquefy and made everyone else take a second look over their soup course--trying not to be obvious.
“Dad, I’d like you to meet Adderley Carson,” she said. She purposely ignored Tracy, unconcerned whether or not her manners were bad. Tracy, she decided, was awful and that was enough. She could tell by the way she kept her hand on her father’s arm as though she was afraid he would get away. She screamed “gold digger" and Corky had no truck with that sort of thing. She also talked in a sing-songy voice that unnerved her.
Her father, always the perfect host put out his hand and motioned for Adderley to take a seat opposite him. “Nice to meet you, Adderley, are you a student at Michigan?”
“No. I’m a musician.”
“Oh… and what instrument do you play?”
“I’m a drummer, man, I mean Mr. Hayes.”
“Oh, I love drummers,” said Tracy a little hastily and got a rather pointed look from Reggie.
“Well, let’s order up, kids. Anything you want. Go all out. This is a celebration. I’ve got some news but I’ll wait until we’ve had some wine and a bite to eat--get to know each other a little. Adderley, I wasn‘t expecting you, but you‘re more than welcome. My daughter knows a good man I think, ha, ha, ha, she‘s been around one all of her life.” Both women, if they weren’t wary of each other, would have rolled their eyes at Reggie’s inane remark that fell flat and quickly drifted out of range.
“I’ve got some news, too, Dad. You want me to go first?” She was anxious to get it out of the way.
“Wait until I’ve ordered the wine, honey. Here’s Johnny, the finest wine steward in town, what do you recommend tonight, Johnny?”
Corky felt sorry for her dad, she knew when he was nervous he always made dumb comments and played the part of a TV talk-show host. Reggie ordered a fine white Bordeaux for the first course, more expensive than usual, another sign of his uneasiness.
“So go ahead, Cork, what’s up?” said Reggie after the wine had been tasted and approved.
“Well Dad, I’ve decided to drop out of school and go with Ad to New York. We’re thinking of getting married but first we need to get settled in New York and Ad needs to get into a new band.” She knew she was being unfair hurling this scenario at the wrong time, in the wrong place but that was her plan. She suspected his news was going to flay her and she wanted to get the jump on him. There he was, smugly sitting with his child-like concubine planning a phony dinner to check on his youngest daughter’s disposition before he announced his own engagement, this Corky knew without having been told.
“So you see Dad, you won’t have to pay my tuition; I know how high it is and you’ll be able to use the money for a new place to live.” This she said without obvious sarcasm but Corky was a master of the subtle dig.
Reggie, choking on his lobster bisque, aware of his surroundings, unable to put forth his own views, was forced to treat Adderley with babyish care, a minority for God’s sake, feigning a respect he had no appetite for, clutching the hand of his fiancee under the table while clearing his throat and forcing himself to calm his nerves before speaking. He motioned the waiter for a martini and a glass of water. Then with the utmost dignity he said in a slow hissing voice, “You are like hell moving to New York, quitting school, getting married, getting a job, joining the circus or any other half-assed, hair-brained ideas that you have in your foolish, immature mind” while the water was set in front of him followed by the trout in wine and shallots he so heartily recommended just minutes before.
Adderley, who was unable to hear very well after the rehearsal in which the band played as loud as their heros, The MC5, the loudest band ever, had ordered the prime rib and was oblivious to the anger that was sputtering from Corky’s father. He did not catch the venom with which Corky had let loose her revenge. He was starving and did not usually have the opportunity to feast like this and was three times at the salad bar before the main course was served. In any case, he did not care what this middle-aged white guy with his cheerleader at his side had to say. He planned to enjoy this meal and poured himself a glass of wine since no one seemed to offer it or wanted any. Reggie stabbed at his trout fuming, had it taken away and another martini delivered. Corky, having grown up eating in this dining room was munching a spinach salad and watching Tracy trying unsuccessfully to crack open her lobster tail. When the juice splashed on her dress, purchased that afternoon at full price, she tossed it aside and tried to regain Reggie’s attention and concern, embarrassed at the wet spot just above her left breast. Adderley cleaned his plate, ordered a slice of flourless chocolate cake, an espresso and then a Black Russian. An eerie silence descended on Table Six and the waiter hovered around not quite sure what approach to take. No one seemed to appreciate the fine food except the black kid who devoured the salad bar, the waiter thought to himself. He hoped the uneaten food wasn’t going to affect his tip too much.
Finally the meal was over and the two couples exited the dining room, Reggie’s bonhomie slightly the worse for wear, Corky smirking in a way that nearly drove him insane with fury while breaking his heart to pieces, she his favorite daughter. He wanted to take her away and have a sensible talk but his hands were tied: to Tracy.
Tracy knew he was angry so she tried to make light of his annoying daughter’s announcement and her ridiculous boyfriend, stuffing his face unaware of the implications Corky’s snotty attitude had on Reggie. Nothing more was said until they reached the parking lot. The two men shook hands, Corky kissed her father on the cheek and they parted. When Tracy tried to put her arm around Reggie, he was distracted and moved just a touch away from her: it was only for an instant but she registered the rebuff fully. She also noted their engagement had been left unannounced.
That was the beginning of the end for Reggie and Tracy. Little things began to bug her, they built up to a big pain in her side and eventually she decided he had too much baggage for her, too many daughters who could be problematic. She married her high-school boyfriend after he divorced his present wife.
Corky did not go to New York. She broke up with Adderley shortly after the dinner. He did move to New York. She’d heard he had an audition for a well-known heavy metal band whose drummer overdosed but meanwhile was playing in a punk band on the lower east side that had gotten a few good reviews. Corky graduated in four years with a useless degree in anthropology just to annoy her father and was going for her master’s. She never intended to drop out of school, marry or move to New York. She knew how to go for her father’s jugular and though she loved him dearly, felt he had it coming.
Reggie dated a bevy of silly women and finally made an attempt to get back with Judy but Judy wasn’t interested and instead married her psychiatrist. Corky couldn’t stand him but he knew how to watch his back. His own daughter was something of a pill.
All of the people in this story are fictitious except for John Sinclair and the MC5. You can read more about them by clicking on the links below.
Monday, September 13, 2010
#41 DOWNER/BUMMER
"Your little prose pieces are very amusing," said the editor of a small local publishing firm. "But are they possibly just a bit of a downer...er...bummer? We don't know if we are to be up or down reading your pieces...er....stories...are they stories or essays or memoir, Ms. Burkowski? They seem to fall into various categories which is not so problematic in and of itself these days. But your whimsicality, if I may add is often overshadowed by a down mood and we, the reader, feel a little confused at times but then again, maybe that is part of their charm."
I stared straight ahead for a moment to gain time; time to digest "little prose pieces" with a bummer subtext. "Really?" I managed to utter unable to comment further.
"I'm not saying it's necessarily a bad thing--depressing sells. You may just match the mood of the times. I only wonder if you are really that angry, Ms. Burkowski?" He was flirting with me, if you can imagine. His eyes got all gluey.
He continued on referring to my stories as charming, finely tuned, thoughtful...on and on he went, making sure to add that short stories do not, as a rule, sell all that well.
No matter, the book is apparently on its way to the printer thanks to encouragement from his wife, the associate editor. "My wife thinks you have an original style. She's been championing your work for some time, Ms. Burkowski."
"I'm very grateful to her," I said though I don't think I was quite as vibrant as I could have been.
"Okay my dear, I think we have all we need from you, ha, ha...for now that is. The photo you selected has been approved and will be on the back cover, black and white. The layout has been completed and you can stop by the art department if you are interested in seeing it but no changes are possible now. We are on a tight deadline and moving quickly as we are producing three books this season and we're a small staff as you can see. Your book as finished product will be in our hands by September. We will promote it in ways we can but much will fall to you though I think I can say you've already started a little buzz going, ha, ha, with your recent notoriety.
I’d been arrested for shoplifting in Macy’s. I didn’t intend to shoplift, it is not something I would plan to do at my age but I was in a fitting room trying on a dress to wear to my book release party, planning ahead, there, and the zipper got stuck, a back zipper hard to reach, I tugged and pulled, broke out into a sweat, started crying in the over-heated store, begged someone to help me, eventually screamed “help” but to no avail. I had an appointment with my divorce lawyer that could not be missed so I threw my coat over the dress and ran out of the store in desperation. Yes, I know, not the smartest move I’ve ever made. I set off an alarm leaving the store, I was ambushed by security and when one of them tried to manhandle me I punched her in the face. So much for graciousness but I was having a breakdown over the zipper, missing my appointment, sweating bullets, and when the burly lady cop grabbed me, I reacted, badly I suppose. A battle ensued, everyone started recording it and I was on YouTube before I’d left the police precinct. I was charged with shoplifting but it could have been much worse, hitting a security guard, assault with a deadly handbag they jocosely referred to it, but she seemed understanding about it all, helped me get out of the damn dress by a designer whose name shall remain anonymous, I don’t need more trouble, and all was forgiven. She had been bored to extinction and this brightened her day, especially when her kids called to tell her she was on the Internet. I was having a bad day myself and my hormones were working against me. And where are the damn salespeople anymore? Obviously they all work undercover. I do too.
"I don't write under my own name, I'm sure you know," I heard myself saying then thinking, he obviously knows. Or does he?
"Yes well, no offense Ms. Burkowski, but Burkowski would make a lousy byline and an even lousier literary tag, if you will. I can see why you have taken a pseudonym. Anything is better than Burkowski, no offense Ms. Burkowski. I don’t think you should take offense, it is a married name after all: You had a beautiful name at one time." (He knows who my father is. Who doesn't?)
"You can call me Vel," I add for good measure.
"Well anyway Ms. Burkowski, Vel, it's the writing that counts. And you are on your way. Good luck to you. Sell books!"
"Yes, right..." But I had stopped listening...I was in serious deliberation: How can I cheer up the stories? Ideas were popping up in my head but they didn't make a lot of sense. I didn't realize I was depressing. I don't wish to be. What should I do? I feel a little touchy all of a sudden. No one wants to be a downer/bummer.
I stared straight ahead for a moment to gain time; time to digest "little prose pieces" with a bummer subtext. "Really?" I managed to utter unable to comment further.
"I'm not saying it's necessarily a bad thing--depressing sells. You may just match the mood of the times. I only wonder if you are really that angry, Ms. Burkowski?" He was flirting with me, if you can imagine. His eyes got all gluey.
He continued on referring to my stories as charming, finely tuned, thoughtful...on and on he went, making sure to add that short stories do not, as a rule, sell all that well.
No matter, the book is apparently on its way to the printer thanks to encouragement from his wife, the associate editor. "My wife thinks you have an original style. She's been championing your work for some time, Ms. Burkowski."
"I'm very grateful to her," I said though I don't think I was quite as vibrant as I could have been.
"Okay my dear, I think we have all we need from you, ha, ha...for now that is. The photo you selected has been approved and will be on the back cover, black and white. The layout has been completed and you can stop by the art department if you are interested in seeing it but no changes are possible now. We are on a tight deadline and moving quickly as we are producing three books this season and we're a small staff as you can see. Your book as finished product will be in our hands by September. We will promote it in ways we can but much will fall to you though I think I can say you've already started a little buzz going, ha, ha, with your recent notoriety.
I’d been arrested for shoplifting in Macy’s. I didn’t intend to shoplift, it is not something I would plan to do at my age but I was in a fitting room trying on a dress to wear to my book release party, planning ahead, there, and the zipper got stuck, a back zipper hard to reach, I tugged and pulled, broke out into a sweat, started crying in the over-heated store, begged someone to help me, eventually screamed “help” but to no avail. I had an appointment with my divorce lawyer that could not be missed so I threw my coat over the dress and ran out of the store in desperation. Yes, I know, not the smartest move I’ve ever made. I set off an alarm leaving the store, I was ambushed by security and when one of them tried to manhandle me I punched her in the face. So much for graciousness but I was having a breakdown over the zipper, missing my appointment, sweating bullets, and when the burly lady cop grabbed me, I reacted, badly I suppose. A battle ensued, everyone started recording it and I was on YouTube before I’d left the police precinct. I was charged with shoplifting but it could have been much worse, hitting a security guard, assault with a deadly handbag they jocosely referred to it, but she seemed understanding about it all, helped me get out of the damn dress by a designer whose name shall remain anonymous, I don’t need more trouble, and all was forgiven. She had been bored to extinction and this brightened her day, especially when her kids called to tell her she was on the Internet. I was having a bad day myself and my hormones were working against me. And where are the damn salespeople anymore? Obviously they all work undercover. I do too.
"I don't write under my own name, I'm sure you know," I heard myself saying then thinking, he obviously knows. Or does he?
"Yes well, no offense Ms. Burkowski, but Burkowski would make a lousy byline and an even lousier literary tag, if you will. I can see why you have taken a pseudonym. Anything is better than Burkowski, no offense Ms. Burkowski. I don’t think you should take offense, it is a married name after all: You had a beautiful name at one time." (He knows who my father is. Who doesn't?)
"You can call me Vel," I add for good measure.
"Well anyway Ms. Burkowski, Vel, it's the writing that counts. And you are on your way. Good luck to you. Sell books!"
"Yes, right..." But I had stopped listening...I was in serious deliberation: How can I cheer up the stories? Ideas were popping up in my head but they didn't make a lot of sense. I didn't realize I was depressing. I don't wish to be. What should I do? I feel a little touchy all of a sudden. No one wants to be a downer/bummer.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
#40 THE FAMOUS FRENCH MANNERS
“It had to happen, it’s your stupid president and the ridiculous foreign policy of your country, what can you expect?” said the owner of a restaurant while seating me.
I had been enjoying my visit to Paris that I’d saved all year for, paying my respects to numerous artists and writers of the past, the glory of France, and in between, to various chefs and bakers, all so delightful I was ready to throw my passport into the Seine and never go home.
“You Americans, see what happens with your aggression, your cowboy president, your materialism,” said the man at the newspaper kiosk as he threw, with some aggression of his own I thought , a copy of The International Herald Tribune at me.
I was starting to get a little peeved but did not want my lovely vacation spoiled, Paris is Paris after all, what’s not to enjoy?
“Your insane support of Israel is going to do you in,” said a preening author at a dinner party, eyes darkening as he shoved a bite of a delectable French cheese in his mouth and ripped a piece off the legendary French baguette.
“To hell with Paris, these people are beginning to get on my nerves!” I said to no one in particular after getting into a little tiff with a guy in a café--if I could just get confirmation that the planes will be flying by Saturday: It was time to leave France, we‘d reached an impasse and I didn't want to be rude.
I had been enjoying my visit to Paris that I’d saved all year for, paying my respects to numerous artists and writers of the past, the glory of France, and in between, to various chefs and bakers, all so delightful I was ready to throw my passport into the Seine and never go home.
“You Americans, see what happens with your aggression, your cowboy president, your materialism,” said the man at the newspaper kiosk as he threw, with some aggression of his own I thought , a copy of The International Herald Tribune at me.
I was starting to get a little peeved but did not want my lovely vacation spoiled, Paris is Paris after all, what’s not to enjoy?
“Your insane support of Israel is going to do you in,” said a preening author at a dinner party, eyes darkening as he shoved a bite of a delectable French cheese in his mouth and ripped a piece off the legendary French baguette.
“To hell with Paris, these people are beginning to get on my nerves!” I said to no one in particular after getting into a little tiff with a guy in a café--if I could just get confirmation that the planes will be flying by Saturday: It was time to leave France, we‘d reached an impasse and I didn't want to be rude.
Friday, September 10, 2010
#39 REPEAT OFFENDER
This story was also published on sixsentences.blogspot.com.
She knew she couldn’t keep moving backwards; it had become a pattern and was nothing to her credit but try as she may, she kept repeating her pattern.
Everyone said “Get a new paradigm,” they really did, she had some smart friends, and she knew what they meant but the word “paradigm” was confusing and she preferred “pattern.”
They meant that she was deeply into a regressive trajectory; everyone seemed to know it but still she pursued a divergent approach despite a sinking feeling on her bad days that she is not getting anywhere important or even comfortable.
In truth, she no longer wants to know her pattern, she is fed up with her pattern, wants to pretend her pattern will just go away because she thinks this is the best remedy: ignore it, take the focus off and it will disappear, cease to exist and she can move forward to where everyone is waiting with open arms apparently.
But patterns have to be derailed first: they go on and on, that is the nature of a pattern, something repeated without end, you can admonish, you can ignore, but your pattern continues unless it is forcefully disrupted.
Yes, she knew she would never beat the pattern, it was as ingrained as her soul whom she never argues with; she didn’t think she would stop her pattern’s proliferation, she liked the way it swirled and swayed, she did not want her pattern replaced by a paradigm, it might not have that same flow.
She knew she couldn’t keep moving backwards; it had become a pattern and was nothing to her credit but try as she may, she kept repeating her pattern.
Everyone said “Get a new paradigm,” they really did, she had some smart friends, and she knew what they meant but the word “paradigm” was confusing and she preferred “pattern.”
They meant that she was deeply into a regressive trajectory; everyone seemed to know it but still she pursued a divergent approach despite a sinking feeling on her bad days that she is not getting anywhere important or even comfortable.
In truth, she no longer wants to know her pattern, she is fed up with her pattern, wants to pretend her pattern will just go away because she thinks this is the best remedy: ignore it, take the focus off and it will disappear, cease to exist and she can move forward to where everyone is waiting with open arms apparently.
But patterns have to be derailed first: they go on and on, that is the nature of a pattern, something repeated without end, you can admonish, you can ignore, but your pattern continues unless it is forcefully disrupted.
Yes, she knew she would never beat the pattern, it was as ingrained as her soul whom she never argues with; she didn’t think she would stop her pattern’s proliferation, she liked the way it swirled and swayed, she did not want her pattern replaced by a paradigm, it might not have that same flow.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
#38 WHAT IF...
She was grateful for the morning sunlight, the warmth on her arms, lessening the heartbreak tinged agitation.
She lamented over her happier days, her lost happy days that now seem to chide her.
She dreamily remembers them: wonders why she gave up so easily...(she knows the reasons but won't accept her responsibility in the matter.)
She knows she is dense, contracted, but at the moment, she can do nothing about circumstances or her position, so tedious and yet of her own choosing.
She is grateful for the morning sunlight on her bare arms quieting her tired inner dirge.
She thinks to herself: Can anything feel more delightful than this warmth...can it alter what could have been, should have been...can it melt what is?
She lamented over her happier days, her lost happy days that now seem to chide her.
She dreamily remembers them: wonders why she gave up so easily...(she knows the reasons but won't accept her responsibility in the matter.)
She knows she is dense, contracted, but at the moment, she can do nothing about circumstances or her position, so tedious and yet of her own choosing.
She is grateful for the morning sunlight on her bare arms quieting her tired inner dirge.
She thinks to herself: Can anything feel more delightful than this warmth...can it alter what could have been, should have been...can it melt what is?
#37 KILLING HER SOFTLY WITH HIS TURN
He turned from her--she was taken aback--what did his turning away signify?
Was he hiding some thing--something evident on his face, in his eyes--something he was afraid of revealing?
Was he repelled and turned instinctively--by her breathe or the smell of her licorice-flavored chewing gum--“was that it, the gum“?
Did he turn to have a look at himself, a flash of vanity, in the large ornate, beveled mirror or was he admiring the imposing mirror for itself, classic Art Nouveau, and not what it might reflect?
Was he turning to look at another; another more interesting than she at that moment, with her awkward chewing gum and uncomfortable questioning--a more fascinating reflection seen floating by in the mirror?
She’ll never really know because the time it took for him to turn away, and for her eyes to absorb the turning away was the merest flicker, but with an automatic reflex her mind grabbed at it in less than that.
It would be impossible for her to really know, without further questioning, anything more than that blink of information, the turning away; all else is projection, speculation or imagination though that will not stop her from projecting, speculating or imagining, trying to decipher the exact meaning of his turning away from her, rather abruptly, she thought.
With his split-second action, probably of no great significance--but we don’t know--a course was set in motion: she will stay awake all night wondering what his turn meant or did not mean and if she will have the composure to seek more information before acting, perhaps recklessly, on speculation.
Was he hiding some thing--something evident on his face, in his eyes--something he was afraid of revealing?
Was he repelled and turned instinctively--by her breathe or the smell of her licorice-flavored chewing gum--“was that it, the gum“?
Did he turn to have a look at himself, a flash of vanity, in the large ornate, beveled mirror or was he admiring the imposing mirror for itself, classic Art Nouveau, and not what it might reflect?
Was he turning to look at another; another more interesting than she at that moment, with her awkward chewing gum and uncomfortable questioning--a more fascinating reflection seen floating by in the mirror?
She’ll never really know because the time it took for him to turn away, and for her eyes to absorb the turning away was the merest flicker, but with an automatic reflex her mind grabbed at it in less than that.
It would be impossible for her to really know, without further questioning, anything more than that blink of information, the turning away; all else is projection, speculation or imagination though that will not stop her from projecting, speculating or imagining, trying to decipher the exact meaning of his turning away from her, rather abruptly, she thought.
With his split-second action, probably of no great significance--but we don’t know--a course was set in motion: she will stay awake all night wondering what his turn meant or did not mean and if she will have the composure to seek more information before acting, perhaps recklessly, on speculation.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
#36 HOLDING ON
He came to see me again. I don't think it was because he is so enthralled with me but more what I can offer him: a place to stay in the city.
It wasn't always like this. He was, for a time, a little in love with me. He'd grown attached to me; I don't think feelings of love distract him much, he's too self-absorbed and concerned with his inner self. Don't we all wish to be that way? Then again, maybe we are.
In all fairness, I'm not so much in love with him either and keep him around because he brings out my better self; he makes me feel satisfied with my lot in life, with who I am and what I have, none of which I feel when he isn't around. Without him I am dissatisfied and embarrassed at who I've become and what my life has brought me. I constantly wish I could be better, have better and certainly, look better. With him I feel a little flair. I dress with more style, make an effort. He doesn't seem to care about that sort of thing; his business with women is about needs being met, not what anyone looks like. With him I'm stoned a lot of the time and content enough to just let things be. I accept myself for what I am and since he knows my better stuff, I can drift in the attitude that I'm okay. Not so bad. Alone, I fret like no body's business.
He does not know the difference between myself in his presence and the lonely, withering self without him. He thinks because I am no longer affectionate that I don't love him. He won't make any effort in this area at all unless I give him a signal and my feeling is if I have to beg, forget about it. He should want me but I doubt he does because he does not make these feelings known. I wish he would but then I'm old enough to make a pass at a guy I've known for years and sleep with whenever we are together.
He pretends indifference since I wrote him off as a moron and a drunk last year. I apologized numerous times but he's not forgetting. Now when he comes to me, it's just for the convenience. I keep hoping we'll grow closer but he no longer trusts me and really, how can he? I treated him a little badly though at the time I had my reasons.
For now the turmoil seems to have passed. We are together and seemingly calm. We've stopped fighting and just take the best of what is between us and leave the rest. But there is still a piece missing.
Whether we'll find the missing piece and put ourselves back together I am not certain. Both of us are willful and self-centered. He has chemical dependencies that have him living within his own framework. He has a hard time thinking of others or the future while needing a constant fix: these days it is alcohol and lots of it. This is something that puts me off: I just don't share his concern for that first drink in the morning and the need to spend a great deal of money on this river of booze that ends only with sleep--each day to flow again. He says it is his business and to butt out. And while I’m at it, stop calling him names. He has a point and I've clammed up for the most part.
In spite of my negativity, he is a decent fellow. He is artistic, an aesthete. In his company I remember that I am that also. Maybe that is what he likes about me. Mostly I think he likes me for what I can do for him but that is exactly what I like about him so it's not a bad trade-off. I have no high ground to look down on him.
For now we take what we can get. We are enjoying the summer days, the dinners, visiting our friends, going to museums. Maybe someday we can find the missing piece and be able to say we are together as a couple. With a little luck, we could start anew but I suspect I'll have to create his luck as well as mine. He is no longer there.
It wasn't always like this. He was, for a time, a little in love with me. He'd grown attached to me; I don't think feelings of love distract him much, he's too self-absorbed and concerned with his inner self. Don't we all wish to be that way? Then again, maybe we are.
In all fairness, I'm not so much in love with him either and keep him around because he brings out my better self; he makes me feel satisfied with my lot in life, with who I am and what I have, none of which I feel when he isn't around. Without him I am dissatisfied and embarrassed at who I've become and what my life has brought me. I constantly wish I could be better, have better and certainly, look better. With him I feel a little flair. I dress with more style, make an effort. He doesn't seem to care about that sort of thing; his business with women is about needs being met, not what anyone looks like. With him I'm stoned a lot of the time and content enough to just let things be. I accept myself for what I am and since he knows my better stuff, I can drift in the attitude that I'm okay. Not so bad. Alone, I fret like no body's business.
He does not know the difference between myself in his presence and the lonely, withering self without him. He thinks because I am no longer affectionate that I don't love him. He won't make any effort in this area at all unless I give him a signal and my feeling is if I have to beg, forget about it. He should want me but I doubt he does because he does not make these feelings known. I wish he would but then I'm old enough to make a pass at a guy I've known for years and sleep with whenever we are together.
He pretends indifference since I wrote him off as a moron and a drunk last year. I apologized numerous times but he's not forgetting. Now when he comes to me, it's just for the convenience. I keep hoping we'll grow closer but he no longer trusts me and really, how can he? I treated him a little badly though at the time I had my reasons.
For now the turmoil seems to have passed. We are together and seemingly calm. We've stopped fighting and just take the best of what is between us and leave the rest. But there is still a piece missing.
Whether we'll find the missing piece and put ourselves back together I am not certain. Both of us are willful and self-centered. He has chemical dependencies that have him living within his own framework. He has a hard time thinking of others or the future while needing a constant fix: these days it is alcohol and lots of it. This is something that puts me off: I just don't share his concern for that first drink in the morning and the need to spend a great deal of money on this river of booze that ends only with sleep--each day to flow again. He says it is his business and to butt out. And while I’m at it, stop calling him names. He has a point and I've clammed up for the most part.
In spite of my negativity, he is a decent fellow. He is artistic, an aesthete. In his company I remember that I am that also. Maybe that is what he likes about me. Mostly I think he likes me for what I can do for him but that is exactly what I like about him so it's not a bad trade-off. I have no high ground to look down on him.
For now we take what we can get. We are enjoying the summer days, the dinners, visiting our friends, going to museums. Maybe someday we can find the missing piece and be able to say we are together as a couple. With a little luck, we could start anew but I suspect I'll have to create his luck as well as mine. He is no longer there.
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