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...

Rasputin, et al

As we approached Wichita, more details about the impending evening unfolded. Innocence and simplicity be damned. My true purpose on this trip was not as a companion, although I made a remarkable one. It was, rather, to act as a surrogate boyfriend. All of the perks and pleasantries of such a title need not apply.

“There’s an even chance that my ex-boyfriend will be there. We didn’t end on a high note and I really can’t stand the asshole. Will you be with me if he comes around?”

“Do I really have a choice? Yes, I’ll be right next to you.”

“Good. I really think you’ll like this show. Its going to be a collection of different scenes from musicals and there are going to be three different performers. Do you like musical theater?”

“I enjoyed Mary Poppins and Beauty and the Beast as a child. So, singing and acting are nostalgia if anything.”

Cammy’s eyes were in flux between the speedometer and the clock. The later we were, the faster she drove. We topped out at 93 a few times, and her split attention kept me wondering if we would ever make it to the Air Capital alive. I suggested, matter-of-factually, that she stop to get gas. She was running on ‘E’ and we had not yet crossed Butler County. Begrudgingly, she stopped to pump. Neigh, I pumped gas and she paid. Soon enough, we were on the road again, speeding, compensating for time lost.

Entering Wichita, I made a few directional comments and we got to the location in question around 7:10. We were late, but not that late. Cammy bolted from the drivers seat and ran at full speed towards the church where the recital had been supplanted. Her dress flowed as she ran, her eyes never looked back at me, as I walked leisurely towards the entrance.

“I could be sleeping right now” I murmured to myself. But this is a dream all the same. Lucid and unpredictable, seemingly out of my control.

A fear had risen in my as I approached the building; something that had entered my mind but was now naked, having arrived at my previous city. Was she going to be here? God I hope not. Billy Jo and I had split up a year ago and had only seen each other one time since. That meeting was cordial and friendly. I had no ill-will to her and I don’t think she has any either. Regardless, how would I explain this? Unlike my companion, I didn’t need or want a prosthetic lover. It was a long shot, though. I knew she was involved in Opera at WSU, but there was no guarantee that she would know these people. And even if she did, I’m sure she was busy with her own performance of some kind.

As we took our seats in the middle of a performance, I found no trace of anyone I recognized. Relief. Count my lucky stars I don’t have to deal with my past. It wouldn’t be so bad if I wasn’t attached to Cammy: a rabid, undomesticated thespian fond of making a scene. The performances were good, but it was no Julie Andrews. Cammy, likewise, was relieved that her boyfriend wasn’t present and relaxed beside a friend and colleague she had known while at WSU only a year prior. She giggled and chatted in between skits and paid no mind to me. “All the better” I thought. “I couldn’t handle her actually being affectionate right now.”

The first intermission came and I needed a cigarette badly. I stepped out for a moment to a slew of gentlemen who seemed, likewise, dragged into this by the short hairs. We didn’t talk, we just smoked and sighed and shifted and bit the bullet. The entrance back to the church was congested with performers rushing to change into and out-of costume. I waddled through them and found my seat again, and readied myself for round 2 of sub-par Broadway homage. Two rows ahead of me, amongst the dark indiscernible of a black box theater, I heard a deep and mouthy laugh. It echoed for days and was stifled by its owner, surely out of the knowledge that she had given away her location to all. But the sound continued in me. It was the laugh of a person who knew the purpose of breath-support and knew it well. A mezzo, who was under the tutelage of one of the finest voice coaches in the nation. This would only apply to a handful of people in Wichita, and I knew all of them. This voice had been near me before. Very near. It was Billy Jo, and she sat waiting with a friend, unaware that I would soon be forced to justify myself, if only out of desperation. Maybe I should have made her a tape, too.

to be continued...

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...

"are you mad at me?"

I heard him say it so clearly. It was as if i was five, threw a tantrum, and there he was to settle the score. To allow me to weep in his arms and let the anguish subside. But he is not here. Those days are no more and have not been for a long while. But my sleep had been brashly stirred, and my response was just to myself.

"of course i'm not, dad. I never really have been."

The last thing you want to hear after a night turned darkened day is the sound of birds. They come even before the sun stirs above the horizon. They sense the birth of morning better than any farmer could hope to. But this sense lays flat on the humming tones of your own rhythmic breath, as you slip slowly into the sleep you've stifled for upwards of 20 hours. Chirps packaged as insult, because you know they do this by choice. Instinct is still choice. We stunt instinct when we don't hump strangers. The birds have not cared to learn this yet. But I will teach them, by showing how peaceful i can be in spite of them and their incessant chatter. I've broken the code, too. They are laughing. That explains the shrill banshee decibels. They mock the nights brevity and how it lost at hiding all the worldly unknowables. And primarily, they direct me to the impending day. I suppose that if the days were good, their laughter would be good. But do customer service reps ever smile back? And when you sing to them, don't they consider you pest? if it was good, you'd be good for good. After a night of drinking, you can count on the birds driving stakes into today's coffin.

http://www.sharedsacrifice.us/April16Cook_Emporia_smoking_ban.html

This is my new article. read it.


http://www.sharedsacrifice.us/April16Cook_Emporia_smoking_ban.html

vultures stopped circling. Doom wasn't apart of it. Everyone sat, blank faced, piecing together their own temper. Happenstance: a word that means we had no bidding and a corralling of no ones' fault. Eat still, and for the drink, can there be no compliment? Drink still and be still by useless digits, rallied skyward to mark the apex of the sun. At 2:30 we put away our old selves. She, her marked time, clocks in at just under radical, ready to make peace with the stench of their jobs let loose by old age, night shifts or the habit that wrought them and is stripped, fair skinned to the city legislature. She, who at any time would pledge allegiance to Emporia's flag if there were one, samples air dirty to be clean, smokeless, mean and the jar runs empty for the fifth time this week.