Rasputin, et al (final)

I was a chauffeur. But that wasn’t a surprise. We had both be leading each other for months. At least our memories had been. We found the taco joint and loaded up. I politely declined anything for myself. Eating while driving is too dangerous for a guy like me. While I searched for the nearest I-35 exit, she munched on a plate of thick beans, steaming red rice, stringing cheese and all kinds of gaseous etcetera; she need not be nervous to shatter that taboo.

The conversation had dwindled at that point, both of us realizing the full extent of our expectations. Her, with her application admitted and friend satisfied, and me with my limp chivalry. I felt honorable though. I hadn’t pressed the issue, hadn’t made her feel uneasy, or tried to rush the evening to this eventual point: home. Despite her, I was still a kind and generous man. One who would listen without attempting to solve, the type of guy who you could count on driving you home and never calling you again, if that’s what you wanted. I wouldn’t do horrible things to you, even if you did worse to me. I am Christ-like in that respect. And coming to this realization, I drove home proud.

“Were you ever attracted to me, Matt?”

Shit. She found me out. Its strange that I fantasize about these conversations all the time. These are things I want to happen. When they happen, it’s a slew of forgotten enchantments, one after the other, until my response is most basic.

“yeah, I was. I just never thought you’d be willing. So I never said anything.”

Maybe she would come clean about what love meant to her. I could feel an agreement coming on. There was really no doubt about it. She was the type of girl who would have made a move by now if she wanted anything from me that she didn’t already have.

“You’re right.” She said, sipping her soda “It would have been weird, don’t you think? I mean, you feel like my brother.”

“Heh, yeah I know what you mean.”

I’m every woman’s brother, Cammy. Maybe I just want to fuck, ya’ know?

“And besides, I have my boyfriend now and I’ll be leaving Emporia soon. It wouldn’t make much sense.”

Indeed, neither of us makes much sense. We decided on some music to keep me from falling asleep. I get sleepy when I’m disappointed. The Flint Hills radio stations don’t provide much in the way of agitated guitar music, so Cammy’s collection of Avenue Q sing-alongs had to suffice. She and her brewing beer belly knew all the words.

Dimly, under the tune of “Everyone’s A Little Bit Racist”, I heard my phone ring. Two calls in one Saturday? This would be a pleasant distraction from the off-harmonies that comprised the car. The caller ID read: “Billy Jo”. I stared at my phone for what seemed like minutes pondering my next move, in the process skimming the shoulder of the turnpike. Cammy must have seen my jaw dangling. She promptly asked “Are you going to answer that, or should I?”

“Hello?” I said in the most welcoming tone I could muster.

“Let me talk to Cammy”. Billy Jo sounded driven, as usual. But the farther I got from Wichita, the safer I felt from either woman’s wrath. Home is a safe place. So, what the hell- I handed the phone to Cammy and tried to politely eavesdrop.

“Hi. Oh hello Billy Jo. We were just ta---“

Cammy stared at her half eaten tacos for 10 minutes as Billy Jo divulged what I imagined was the secret of life. I pictured her telling Cammy that I was a heartless dope, a reckless and textbook manic depressive who drained the energy out of every relationship that surrounded him. That, if she were smart, she would leave me at the nearest gas station and never speak to me again. Beat me to the punch. Or maybe she was telling her off. Yeah, that was it. Billy Jo was ranting beautifully about how she didn’t deserve such a wonderful guy; about how she had heard all of the nasty rumors about Cammy from all the actors at WSU that claimed to be Cammy’s friends. Yes, Billy Jo was definitely giving her whats-for, but it wasn’t Billy Jo who had to drive home with her.

“oh sure. Its 316-640-6722 and that’s my cell, so you can call anytime… No problem… Thanks for everything B.J., I hope to talk to you soon…bye-bye.”

“what was that about” I said, confused as to why she would ever want to give her number to Billy Jo.

“B.J. wants to give me voice lessons. She said she saw one of my performances a few months ago and she thought I might want some help. She seems really sweet.”

B.J.? what are you, bunk-mates now? This was just too much. She ignored me for months then breaks the silence to drag me an hour away to a performance under the condition that I act an understudy boyfriend. She makes a fool out of me in front my ex-girlfriend, then takes me to a bar where she gets loaded, rants about her life’s injustices, and requests that I take her to Taco Bloody Bueno where she eats as I drive. Then she ties all the loose ends by ensuring that I know that a physical relationship is out of the question. After all of this, now my ‘ex’ and her are conspiring. I had to break the fourth wall on this one.

“I don’t think lessons would be good for you. How tight on money are you right now?”

“Not too bad. My boyfriend can pay for it, I’m sure.”

“Your “boyfriend” and his trust-fund won’t make you into what you want to be, Cammy.”

“what do you mean by that?”

“I mean, there’s nothing worse than Botox. There’s nothing worse than clowns. There’s nothing worse than leg warmers in lieu of pants. And there’s nothing more wasteful than cash on your voice.”

“You’ve never even heard me sing, how would you know if it’s a waste?”

“Have you heard yourself speak? No, of course not. I don’t even know why I bother telling you this. It’s a fucking travesty. You’ll probably blame your voice failures on someone’s inability to provide for you. Like your Boyfriend. What if he doesn’t want to pay for everything? Where will you be? Working at Carlos O’Kelly’s the rest of your life? You know, I came with you expecting to see some emotional progress. I figured that all the people you sucked dry in Emporia would have abandoned you by now and that you had come to some serious realization about yourself, but that sure as fuck didn’t happen. No, all that happened is that you dragged me out of bed- yes, bed- to come watch your friends play around on stage because you’re so vein that you don’t even know how to be alone in a theater. Cammy, don’t get the voice lessons. Get yourself a tape-deck, and after you listen to that PHENOMENAL compilation of music presently stabilizing your desk, record yourself speaking to someone, anyone. I’m not sure you’ll like what you hear.”

Cammy couldn’t handle me. I was too tough. There was only so much I could take before I let her know what time it was. She kept to herself the rest of the way up and so did I. She handed me the money for the toll-booth, but I ignored the gesture, keeping myself safely in the moral right. Approaching my house, I didn’t feel a bit guilty about my behavior. It might have been ill-timed but it was definitely deserved. No one is allowed to take me for granted. Not anymore.

I got out and told Cammy not to ask me on any ridiculous adventures ever again. She stayed in the passenger seat, silent, staring forward until I was securely in my house. It was 12:45 and I needed to dream on the night that just happened. But sleep did not come. It wasn’t self-hatred that kept me awake, it was excitement. I had finally said what I had always wanted to say to all the women who ever blamed me for their shortfalls. There was peace, but the type of peace that needs to be shared. I was restless.

The bar was still open when I arrived at 1:15. It was a quiet Saturday night, but that didn’t matter. Whoever would listen would hear my story. As it was, Rebecca was tending the bar. She and I had become fast friends over the last year. If anyone would listen, it would be her.

“Becka, I’ve got to tell you about tonight. This was the most amazing night of humanity I’ve seen in years…”

“I’m guessing this involves Cammy Pap. She was in here for about an hour and left just 10 minutes ago. She left this for you. You’d better drink up because last call’s in 15 minutes.”

She handed me a note and $40. Cammy had scribbled on the back of a Keno ticket. Somehow she knew I would be there. The note read:

“Matt,

I’ve been trying to piece together my life for the last ten years, and as much as you despise me now, you would have hated me doubly only a decade ago. I’ve been manipulative all my life, but you always seemed to see through it. Asking you to come with me tonight was not a hollow gesture. I know you felt cheapened by it all, but your presence allowed me to face the world. Those people- my friends- that we watched tonight probably think similar things about me as you do. The difference is that they pretend to like me and you don’t. Not anymore. You’re probably right about my voice, and you’re probably right about my vanity. I am not in a position to sound noble or believable, so I’ll only say thank you. I gave Becka $40 for your tab. You can use it whenever you like. I know this is your favorite bar. I’ll miss you.

Cammy”

She didn’t want the world. All she wanted was to be with someone. Anyone could understand that. She chose me, and I disposed of her. All the misgivings were inconsequential. To Cammy, ignorance was a good enough excuse. And now I agree.

A pretty girl entered the bar. She had long legs and she wore red polka-dotted sun dress. I love those. They frame a woman’s neck and back so perfectly. Her long black hair and milky skin almost made me forget about the night. I nearly bought her a drink. But Cammy’s money felt different in my hand. It was heavier. The girl adjusted her cleavage and checked her face in the bar mirror, corrected her Betty Paige bangs. She glanced at me as I gawked. Her purse strap dangled off the bar, she ordered her drink- a rum and coke- and moved to the other side of the room, near a man with a pressed collar, broad shoulders and a strong chin. I guess we’re both understandable: the need to be touched, and the need to not be touched by you. To drink $40 dollars worth in 15 minutes? It couldn’t be done. Not alone.

Rasputin, et al

I began to notice myself: My stubble, my hasty attire, my wind swept hair and my still sunken face. Its honest and crushing to be witness to your past, and Billy Jo was definitely my past. I had stepped outside for another cigarette after the performance had wrapped up. Cammy was busy taking photos and laughing. Who was I to even observe that? The parking lot was calm and it smelled of Wichita. But I couldn’t justify smoking three cigarettes back-to-back, even to myself. So I picked myself up and headed back to the church. Billy Jo hadn’t exited while I was outside (trust me) so I knew she was still there, still unaware of me.

There wasn’t even enough time to panic. I saw her shining and stunned face through a window in the main door. For a moment we both contemplated finding other exits. Our solution-centric eyes were proof of that. But we are responsible people. We spoke briefly about “how we were” and “what’s going on in our lives”. But the crux of the matter couldn’t be avoided for long. This was the cross examination question that Sam Waterston would have briefed me about.

“Wait, didn’t you move to Emporia? What brought you down here to see this?”

“oh, that’s funny story actually. I was asleep this afternoon…I don’t sleep in the afternoon all the time, I just felt really tired today after work, you know? And I got this phone call from this girl, er, person who I hadn’t seen for a while. She asked me if wanted to see some theater and I was bored so I said yes and as it turns out it was in Wichita, which was a surprise to me and, yeah.”

Nothing I could have said would have made much sense. I went through a few other possible answers in my mind and none of them worked.

• “ I just really love theater now.”
• “ I heard you were going to be here and I hadn’t looked at you from a distance for a while, so…”
• “ I became religious. I was told there was going to be a hugging fellowship seminar here. I guess they were wrong…”

So, Billy Jo’s reaction was expected.

“that’s a pretty elaborate story. Whose your friend?”

“Her name's Cammy. Cammy Pap. You remember her? She used to go to WSU.”

“Oh I think I remember her. She was in theater right?”

“Yeah that’s her.”

“Did I hear you call my name?!”

Oh jesus god. She was all hopped up on bygone friendship and her energy was perfectly misplaced. Her timing was nothing short of legendary. Thelonious Monk could learn a thing or two from the Pap. My initial reaction was to not look in Cammy’s direction, to keep my eyes steadfastly fixed on Billy Jo and to pray that her question was honest, that Cammy truly didn’t know if anyone had said her name. No such luck. It was one of those look-whose-in-the-room-now questions. Just something to make yourself seem invited. But I keep to my short term goals and smiled and didn’t blink and wondered what to do next.

I Briefly caught the smell of a fart. I fart when I’m nervous. But my methane shooter didn’t stop cammy’s arm from weaving itself around my waist in salutation.

“Who is this?” She said.

“Cammy, this is Billy Jo. Billy jo, this cammy.”

They shook hands as I found patterns in the carpet I thought were fascinating. It looks plain red, but when you need to look at it, the true nature of the floor presents itself. I couldn’t bring myself to make unnecessary conversation, nor could I bring myself to remove Cammy’s arm from my person. The best thing I could do was to push my arms away from Cammy, looking like a puppy cornered and afraid of a vaccum cleaner. She didn’t get the message, and planted a smacker on my cheek- lipstick thick as glass- and went back to her friends. This was the first time she’d ever done that. Why now? I said my goodbyes to Billy Jo and wished her well. She did the same. But for all my effort, I knew Billy Jo walked away with misconceptions about who I had become. The worst must be over.

As Cammy and I regrouped, she offered to take me to a local bar we were both independently fond of while we lived in Wichita: Harry’s. This was the best idea of the night. I could use a drink, and maybe if I get drunk enough, I can work that cheek-kiss into a night of similar mouth pursuits (at the very least).

We sat at the bar for a while. The bar was packed with 40-something year old business professionals, fresh off a week’s work, hair down and ready put their legs in the air. We stood out, two young pokes with obviously loose ties drinking together. The rodeo on the TV reminded me of castration. So did Cammy’s comment about all the men that had fucked her over while she lived in Emporia.

“They just don’t understand my passion. I have a passion for theater and they’ll never understand that. I can’t force them to. They’ll never love anything more than I love being on stage.”

Funny Cammy, I’ve never seen you on any stage in Emporia.

“Like Greg. Greg just flirts and pantomimes the movements of a tech-director, but he doesn’t care. I care.”

“uh-huh.” Sip.

Money was tight. Its always tight, but in moments like this, its clear how much you need a finsky. I didn’t ask for another beer, but I desperately wanted one. She, on her fifth beer, and me on my third water. As she drank, she became more personal with the indictments of the male population. “They did x to me which is why z is impossible. What the f ?”

She paid the tab, which ran just under $40 dollars, $2.50 of which was enjoyable. She was uncertain about leaving. I could tell she missed Wichita and wanted it back. That's just the type of person she was, always lamenting what she lost and condemning what she has. Even her current boyfriend, whom she conceded was simply a "comfortable financial support for an actress." Its amazing how many times i've heard those words come out of actresses' mouths. Its what she wanted in her mouth that prompted our next pursuit.

“uggh. I haven’t eaten all day. Would you drive me to that fast food taco place before we leave town?”

“taco bell?”

“no”

“tico?”

“no. its got the big sign…”

“bueno?”

“That’s the (hiccup) one.”

to be continued...