Rasputin, et al

Most Saturdays are not worth their weight in salt. On a particular Saturday, after five hours of kitchen duty, I found that despite an adequate amount of sleep the night before I could use a few winks more. 3 pm is as good a-time as any to rest. Most people don’t value sleep, at least no more than water, food or hygiene. Truth be told, it’s the only time I can relinquish control to pure chance. Therefore, its valuable and this Saturday served a deeply cherished purpose. I had completed a day and now the day was going to complete me in whatever way it wanted.

Other people had ulterior motives about that Saturday. Ideas that fell through, meetings that never happened, and promises lazily broken meant that any quick-wit would have to resort to others means. One person in particular felt this way: Cammy Pap. She had been crying for hours, stressed about the momentous opportunity that had been slipping away all afternoon. Understand that, to her, the mailing system in America is not reliable or expedient enough and the application for her graduate school admittance was due in a matter of hours. And, as if designed by the grand architect Himself, a close personal friend of hers was giving the last musical performance of her undergraduate career at the very same moment and place where the application needed to be. Her boyfriend was supposed accompany her, but ditched at the last moment. All others, as well, fell to the way side.

The solution seemed simple enough: get application, go see performance, drop off application, and appease admissions and friend in one swift action. And simple it was. There was nothing complicated about any of it. Even months after, I cannot think of a single reason why this could not have been done promptly and pleasantly by herself. But to Cammy, nothing was ever clear. Gradations of grey spread endlessly before her every decision. To go alone was to justify being alone now and forever.

My phone rang around 5:40 pm, stopping productivity. No one calls me, really. Especially on Saturdays, when the banks are closed, the movies I rented were purchased only hours ago and are in no jeopardy of being late (yet), and people have plans that don’t involve me largely because I decline. The caller ID read “Cammy”, which was an even bigger surprise after my failed attempts at courtship months earlier left us without any substance on which to build. We called it quits on the pleasantries. I thought it was mutual.

“hello?”

“Hey, Matt its Cammy, how are you?”

“fine. What’s up?”

If I ever did get phone calls, they were usually information based: “meet me at the bar in 30 minutes”, “can I borrow a movie?”, “did chris get home safe last night?” This one started in a way that meant a higher purpose.

“Would you like to go see a performance with me?”

“uh…when?”

“in about an hour. It’s a senior recital. I didn’t want to go alone.”

“oh. Sure, I don’t have anything going on.”

“great. I’ll pick you up in about five minutes?”

“oh, sure. Sounds great.”

It seemed like a long time to waste between travel and performance. I’m all for being punctual, but an hour early seemed a bit over-kill and ultimately terrible. People often assume rationality in irrational situations.

Like promised, Cammy arrived as I put on my jacket and whipped the crust from my eyes. She seemed happy to see me. She always looked so beautiful to me. Her neck is long and slender, her smile is wide and her body ached, just ached, with obviously strong pelvic muscles that knew their purpose. Slender, for sure, but the nude modeling job that she did for a Life-drawing class provided me, and anyone who cared to glance at the several portraits of her in the art building, with ample proof that she hid a vessel of exquisite personality. I was glad to see her too.

Polite conversation punctuated the first few minutes towards the show. She told me about the application that was due and how no one else could/would go with her. I felt at that moment a bit runner-up, but it was nothing a nice night of theater wouldn’t cure. Theater has never appealed to me that much, but if I could get a kiss out of it, I’d say “fuck yes” to any Andrew Lloyd Webber musical. This recital held promise.

We head north towards her house to pick up the application and then proceeded, again, north towards the university. My anticipation of possible sex almost blinded me from the fact that we had passed the university and were heading to the outskirts of Emporia. “what is the quickest way to Wichita?” she said calmly.

Wichita? That’s an hour away. That explained why she needed to pick me up so quickly. But she was going to have to book-it to make it in time. I’m not opposed to impromptu road trips, nor am I opposed to Wichita, the place of my birth. But this would have been good information in this decision’s infancy. It became clear that she had hidden this information from me for fear that I too would decline: a tactic I despise. Omission is non-clever deception, and deception is why I moved back to Emporia in the first place; to no longer deceive myself nor anyone around me. I expect the same from all. Far be it for me to give her any shred of direction.

“35 south is the quickest. So we’re going to Wichita eh? I thought it was at ESU.” Her eyes looked deep into mine, as if to erase malice from my M.O. checklist. Please readers, mind the road.

“Did I not mention that? Yeah, she’s a senior at Wichita State and I promised I would go see her. That’s where the application needs to be dropped off as well. I hope you don’t mind.”

I did mind, but what could I do? By that time we were already going 80 on the turnpike and the next exit was 20 miles down the road. It was out of my hands and all I could do was attempt to enjoy the evening. Perhaps it was a simple mistake. Sometimes we all forget very important and highly consequential details, right?

I still couldn’t believe that a woman this physically stunning would request my company, even if I was a 3^rd round pick. I had made her a mixed tape about 7 months prior that I took great pride in. It was one of the finest I had ever made. It was a bad decision on multiple levels. I had only known her for a few weeks and my gesture surely came off desperate. Antiquated technology also meant that the tape was useless for anyone my age who did not share my fascination, Cammy being one of those people. Still, she called me. Of all the people in the digital world, the woman who was potentially scared away by my symbolic equivalent of an 8-track recording of stalker motives as read by Vincent Price, wanted me sit by her side and watch art happen.

to be continued...