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...