WordPlay

“She sent me an e-mail,” Phil said.  Which isn’t me by the way.  It’s my taller, blonder, handsomer doppleganger.  He sits rather awkwardly in Marley’s lawn chair on her balcony, covered in torn clothing, fake blood, and face paint.  He looks like the Ultimate Warrior had joined up with a rough and tumble street gang from the movie, “The Warriors.”"Who sent you an e-mail?” I ask, stirring from my own thoughts.  I had been looking out at the expanse of Burbank and enjoying both the mild weather and the muted sounds of the Halloween party inside.  I was inappropriately attired this evening but given the eventuality of my situation, I was owed some pardon for my transgressions.He sighed and repeated her name.  Ironic how she came up in conversation again.  He sits there.  “After we were together, she just stopped…she just stopped talking to me?”

“Why?”  I asked, genuinely intrigued.

“She said she didn’t have time for it…for a relationship.”  He sipped a Pabst Blue Ribbon.  He brought a whole twelve pack and he had been the only one drinking from it all night.

“So what did she say?”

“She still wanted to be friends.”  He looked up and sighed again.  I remember those words, the timing of them.  Old wounds re-opened before time had let them heal properly.  I told him my own stories of bungled mistakes and ruined relationships.  “Do you know why she did this?”  He asks me as if I would have the answer.

I shrug.  “Why does anyone do anything, anymore?”

“She’s lonely.”

“Aren’t we all.”

Of course, this revealed a lot to me.  I had long suspected something had been going on but whatever had happened had ended with things on tense terms.  Perhaps had I known, I wouldn’t have proceeded the way I had or let a lapse in judgement get the better of me.  This whole song and dance had just emphasized how strange our personal interactions are with each other.  In a lot of ways, my brain told me I should hate this guy.  Earlier in the week, I had seen him at the location of a job I had just interviewed for.  If I had been watching the rather boring television series of my life, I would have come to see this guy as this season’s antagonist in my story.  Around every corner lurks this taller, handsomer, bearded Phil and he would be my rival in life and career.

Had he been merely a casual acquaintance, perhaps it would be easier to hate him for being better than me.  For being all of the things I could not be or had yet to accomplish.  Phil had been a friend for awhile now and it’s always hard for me to hate my friends.  Two hours earlier, he had stood around the counter with Jess and myself and had bared himself to us in our conversation of relationships: casual, sexual, serious or otherwise.  He revealed his insecurities and lack of confidence, his frustrations.  He was no different from me.  His failings were my failings, too.

“You know it’s harder to hate her,” I offer.

“I know,” he replies.  He’s polished off the can, he’s probably at eight or nine cans now.  He gets up and pulls aside the screen door, the song bleeds out into the night air.  It’s still surprisingly early by most accounts and the overall elation hasn’t died out.  He turns back, “You’re really leaving.”

“Yep.”  I lean back against the railing.  “No one has an answer.  I’m out of time and money.”  I neglect to add I’m out of patience as well.  The past five months has weighed down on me more than I ever let on.  It has been five months of disappointment, let-downs, abandonment, and frustrations.

“Too bad.”

“What can you do?”  Phil disappears back into the party and the night goes on.

===

It’s 5:05pm.

Most of my room has been disassembled and boxed.  My third temporary home this year looks about the same as all the others.  A collection of boxes of assorted shapes and sizes remain stacked and put aside to be stores in the car.  Some of it has already been put away but some of it still needs to be packed up still.

I’m sitting at the edge of the creaky futon contemplating whether or not I actually was going to Marley’s Halloween party.  If I had kept to my plan, I would have been somewhere in Utah right now but foolish optimism and a bit of cajoling by Marley convinced me to delay my plans.  Funny considering I never was much for Halloween.  It took a lot of arm pulling to get me to go to the NMA sanctioned function and I barely put on a costume.  I completely skipped out on the actual Halloween events.  Admittedly, I felt like I was put out a bit.  I didn’t hear about it until just before the event and I never got a formal invitation.  One of my strange idiosyncratic behaviors, which annoys the hell out of Linda, is not to go places unless I’ve been formally invited.  This coming out of my ill ease at people making too much fuss over me – I don’t like to be a burden or an inconvenience to others.  So, last Halloween most of my friends and peers were celebrating Halloween and I stayed at home.

I had previously pondered doing this once more with more packing to do and I wanted to rest myself in preparation for the next days drive.  Partially, I wanted to avoid all of this going away nonsense and having to say goodbye but given the afternoon’s drama, I felt it was important to make an appearance despite my better judgement.  I had reached as good a stopping point as I was going to find and I grabbed my keys and camera for one last blow-out.

==

It’s 5:40pm.

I’m sitting on Marley’s couch.  It looks very different from the way I first saw it.  It’s the first place I’ve been to since leaving Echo Park which feels like a home like a place people live in.  It isn’t a place where people simply exist.  The TV is on and the girls are tending to their costumes.  I meet Marley’s, friend Stephanie, and say hello to Kat and Jessica and take a seat on the couch.  Marley is focused on sewing a white piece of fabric to a red hat to complete her “Where’s Waldo” ensemble.  I am extremely disappointed she did not dress up as Waldo’s less friendly counterpart, Odlaw.

The TV is on playing “Mamma Mia.”  It’s close to the end of the movie and I watch Pierce Brosnan butcher his way through another ABBA song.  The last time I saw the film version of “Mamma Mia,” I was having drinks with Candy and Jillian as they prepared for a class presentation.  Candy’s temporary sublet didn’t ever quite feel like home; it was a meeting place but it always looked and felt like someone else’s.

It never was like the nights in the little red house on Nottingham road.  Rekha might be bundled up in a hoodie, drifting in and out of sleep.  Linda would be poking and prodding at a fire.  The fire would dance away, crackling and casting large shadows over the wall.  Candy would be consumed with grading papers for Prof. Smith.  Maybe other people would be there like Jonny or Lauren.  The house always an open door to a wayward friend looking for sanctuary, a respite from a roommate, or to stave off loneliness.  Sometimes, there would be conversation or jovial laughter but most of the time just a simple silence covered the room and it is those moments of absolute peace, which persist in the depths of memory.

The final dance-off rolls into the end credits and I’m returned to the present, perhaps missing a bit of serenity.

==

It’s 6:12 PM.

The party should have started already, but everyone knows parties never start on time.  Everyone’s finishing up their preparations for their costumes, putting on the final touches and the last bit of pizzazz to complete the ensemble.  Absentmindedly, I flip through the stupid number of channels on Marley’s cable box and settle on the end of Tim Burton’s “Batman.”

“Which shirt do you think I should wear, the one I bought the other day or the one I already have,” I hear Jess say from the next one over.

“They both look fine,” Marley responds, “for what you’re going as.”

“Yeah, but I need to look sexy.”  I’m imagining Marley rolling her eyes at the comment.

“Ask someone else for an opinion.”

“Phil,” I hear Jess shout from the other room, “I need the opinion of a heterosexual male.”  Jess strides out into the living room and I turn away from Michael Keaton battling Jack Nicholson at the conclusion of the 1989 “Batman.”  He flies the BatWing, one of those vehicles designed purely out of toy marketing, and the scale model shoots out missiles.  Somehow, I don’t really see Christian Bale doing something so quintessentially ridiculous.  She’s wearing a black skirt and a black, sleeveless top.  ”So, do you like this one?” she asks as she does a model’s turn.  ”Or…” and she promptly strides out of the room.

A moment later, she comes out wearing a different top.  She wears a lacy number, see-through number also black in color.  ”How about this one?”  I’m a little baffled at being asked to judge an outfit on sexiness and generally I tend to have had very little luck with the opposite sex in the past couple of years, mostly a combination of a lack of confidence, decent enough venues to meet people around my age and a narrow sighted commitment to my career goals.  So being confronted with this left me somewhat uncomfortable.  I’ve been friends with a lot of women over the years but this probably has to be the first time in which I’ve been called upon to lay upon the perceptions of my gender and sexuality, for someone I’ve only really known for maybe a month.

“What are you going as this year?”

“Sexy assassin,” she responds.

“Number two.  Definitely number two.”  I have to admit a general like for the sensuality and allure of lacy clothing.

She disappears back into the dressing area and relates my endorsement of the second shirt.

I go back to watching Batman chase the Joker up the clock tower.

==

It’s 7:24pm.

The party’s finally underway.  Courtney arrived first followed by Phil and Missy and Missy’s husband, Jay.  The drinks start to flow out and the fun starts to begin.  I’m passing up the libations, having already done my two nights of getting embarrassingly drunk for the year and anyways I had packing to finish and a long day of driving ahead of me.  I floated the rounds between friends, catching up and trying to downplay the fact I’m leaving.  I don’t want the night to be about me and I want to avoid uncomfortable goodbyes.  However, it’s hard to avoid the topic and so word like a dirty secret or bad rumor, I’m forced to tell people I am leaving.

Leaving Los Angeles feels a lot like quitting.  By nature, I don’t like to quit or give up the facts are facts.  The money has run dry and the job prospects are slim.  With my plans to visit home for the holidays, it makes the most sense to just pack it up and put the venture on hold for a couple of months.  It’ll give me the opportunity to re-focus my priorities, re-focus my energy and finish up my personal projects and stop worrying about money, work, and jobs.

Even though I don’t want to be the center of attention tonight, I do want to have fun for I suspect I won’t be able to have this kind of fun for awhile.

General discussions over, I stop in the kitchen to have a snack and I am chatting with Steph, Jess, and Phil.  The conversation turns towards past loves and romances.  Jess leans over the counter chewing on the leftovers of her edamame.  Phil stands over the counter drinking down his fifth PBR and I snack on a bowl of potato chips against my better judgement.  She turns her head to Phil.

“So when’s the last time,” she asks trying to start up conversation.  He shrugs and a little buzz keeps his inhibitions down.

“Never.”  She looks at him stunned and I must have looked a little bewildered, too.  He takes a pull from the PBR, perhaps to hid his own embarrassment or some sense of shame, even though he really has nothing to be ashamed about.

“Whatever happened with…”

“Nothing.  Nothing at all,” he says with a laugh.

“I thought something was going on.”

“So did I.”

“So why not someone else?” She asked.  He crushes the can in his hand.

“Confidence.  I’m just not confident about these things,” he says.  I nod in some stupid sense of solidarity at my own lack of confidence.  Jess sits up on the stool, almost like a fiery preacher.

“You’re both too nice.  Girls like a guy to be a little tough, a little bit of a jerk.  It shows how confident you are.”  I can’t help roll my eyes.  I’ve heard this one more than once in my short life.  I don’t believe or I don’t know how to act like this person.  I’m not those types of guys and I don’t think I ever can be.

She turns to me, “what about you?”

I think about it for a moment.  ”Two.  Two and a half-years.  Not since undergrad.”

“So, you’re practically a vir…”

“Don’t say that word.  I hate the term.”

“Still.”  I shrug at her comment.  I don’t let me life be determined by little trivialities like this.  Besides, I’d rather it actually mean something.  Somehow, I think Phil may feel this way deep down even if he isn’t explicate about it.  My respect for him grows a bit.

“It’s probably like riding a bike.  You never really forget how to do it,” I quip while trying to be funny.  No one laughs and I remember why I don’t write comedy.  Also, they probably didn’t know I never learned how to ride a bike and I haven’t been swimming in nine years.

“Well,” Jess says, slamming her palm on the counter, “we need to fix this.”  Again, I’m rolling my eyes a little bit.  Jess is probably pretty drunk at this point.  ”I’ll set you up with my friends.  You’ll like them.”  I’ve heard this one before but thankfully a lot less as I get older.  It’s both well-intentioned and a little demeaning to be defined by your “experience.”  Jess starts to say something but the invitation of shots breaks up the gathering.  Jess and Phil join the rest of the gathered circle and I break out the camera to snap a few photos, just to look busy and not idle or bored.

Even though I wasn’t thrilled about the conversation, it felt oddly safe and a place to be incredibly honest.  Not unlike, spending afternoons in Linda’s kitchen and talking with her about life or really anything of interest to either of us.  She’d experiment making something.  Guacamole or mochi and I’d sit on the stool in the corner to stay out of her way.  Her cat, Scout, might sit on my lap or at my feet but most of the time she liked to sit in the blanket of sunlight which came through the back door.

Perhaps it was the fact Linda was outside of TRF which probably made it easier to be more open with her even though she was friends with everyone in TRF as a member of our unofficial number.  I never had to be guarded around her (even though I sometimes thought I had to) and she never attempted to pry to deep and always let things be while always offering to listen.  I never felt uncomfortable with her or felt it just had to be about business as usual or a few awkward beats in a moment like some of my other conversations.  Linda was a better friend than most of us deserved and she always made herself available for her friends and loved ones.

Still, in this kitchen I could only be a little honest.  I could joke about things or let myself be teased but I never just came out with it.  I still can’t but in that kitchen I might have said it, if given enough time.  Probably not to Jess or Marley or Phil in this kitchen in Burbank, California but perhaps in the little red house in Syracuse, New York I might have spilled every sad little secret to someone just to get rid of some of the excess baggage on my soul.

Shots consumed, the party continues.  I’m ready to go home, to finish the few little tasks left but I couldn’t leave without seeing the last members of the group which came out to LA those four months ago.

==

It’s 10:17pm.

Mike comes storming through the front doors of the apartment.  Fashionably late as usual.  This guy will probably be late for his own funeral.  Mike embraces Halloween like the best of them with an interpretation of maligned Super Mario character, Waluigi.  He wears his overalls and a purple long sleeve shirt with a matching hat and thick white gloves.

“Nice job,” I tell Mike, admiring his handiwork and the speed at which he put the ensemble together.  His work on the film “Rushlights” have given him very little free time.

“Thank god for Koreatown dollar stores,” Mike declares laughing.

He laughs as he takes pride in assembling his costume from the various  locales he chose to assemble his costume from.  Teng follows behind a little bit sheepish, grinning as he dons a rainbow colored wig.

“What happened to swine flu?”

“They do not have pig costumes, anymore,” he tells me.  The two start to make the rounds, greeting the party goers and having a laugh.  Mike pulls me aside.

“It isn’t true is it?”  I know exactly what he’s talking about but I really don’t want to talk about it.

“It is.”  He shakes his head, a little bit of disappointment hinged in his voice.

“You can’t go,”  he declares.  ”You’re the reason I’m out here.”

“Sorry about that.”  We both laugh.  ”It’s only temporary.  I’ll be back in no time.  You won’t even notice I’m gone.”

“You better,” he says, almost in a threatening matter.  We both laugh and Mike heads off to the stereo, in search of music from the 1980s to dance the night away.

==

It’s 12:53am.

Stephanie groans as I turn down one of the side streets of Burbank.  She’s pretty sick at this point and it’s probably not the best idea to drive her around.  The party has moved to Nobar to take hold of the extra hour daylight savings provides on this night of drunken exploits.  I worry this girl might be really sick and I worry she might vomit in my car, which might provide some complications and unfortunate smells during tomorrow’s drive.

We pull up to Nobar and it looks like the night still continues, although a few of the more garish women in costumes begin to filter out, some more inebriated than others.  Steph’s condition makes it apparent we won’t stay long nor should we have made the company move to the new locale.  She makes a beeline for the bathroom and Kat follows behind.  The gathering of people in the bar reminds me of my general disdain for Halloween.

I’ve never been one to dress up.  I can probably trace this to a long line of terrible costumes growing up from a couple iterations of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles to en equally terrible velociraptor, a cheap red Power Ranger, and a couple of stabs at a grim reaper.  At some point, my parents just said I’m too old to dress up, too old to trick or treat.  Except for a couple of attempts at some chickenshit mischief, most Halloween nights were made up of nights playing crappy video games or watching horror movies.

Even by the time I went off to university, I never really quite found a love for the holiday.  One year, I needed to pull an all-night paper writing session for an assignment due on the 1st.  A good chunk of the freshman went down to explore mid-week partying and entertain themselves with one of the first major social events of the year.  I generally kept my door open during the year just as a way to invite people to come and chat.  The night wore into early morning and the end of the paper came into bleary sight.

Two girls from my floor came in.  Brooke, dressed as Supergirl, and Jess, dressed as Batgirl, drunkenly giggled their way down the hallway.  They came into the room, looking to find someway of staving off sleep.  Having entered year two of insomnia, I at least took solace in one night of not being alone in my head.  The two of them steady themselves, bracing themselves against the bare wall.  The short skirts of their costumes ride up a little and the girls giggle a bit.

“What’s so funny?” I ask.

“I think I may have flashed you my cooter,” Brooke says through stifled laughter as she tries to uphold the dormwide quiet hours.

“Your modesty’s safe.”

“Good because I’m a good West Virginia girl,” Brooke says in her accented drawl.

“Do you have anything to eat?  I’m starved,” Jess draws out.  I toss her a package of graham crackers I had been snacking on during my marathon writing session.  We play twenty questions, mostly them asking me why I am in my room during Halloween and not out partying or why I always avoid partying in general.  I explain to them the deadline for this specific project and its importance to my grade.  They both scoff and I’m greeted with a flurry of crumbled graham crackers thrown in my general direction.

“Drunks,” I say in a joking manner.  I get up to go and close the window, the November chill has seeped into the room.  I could hear the girls yawning, their energy now mostly spent as 4AM neared.

“Next time, we’ll party,” Brooke says.

“Yeah, sure,” I dismiss them as I grab the book I’m reading for the night.  Jess stands in the entryway and slips off her underwear and doesn’t so much throw but flings it onto the tile floor.  Her and Brooke dart off into the hallway and into the room they share.  I roll my eyes at the tiny pile of cloth on the tile, thankful tomorrow is cleaning day.  I grab some of the napkins and wrap the underwear in them.

The next morning, I see Jess as I leave for my 11:50 class, ironic as this is the class I stayed up for.

“Don’t leave the room yet,” I tell her.  I set my bag in and head back into my room.  ”I’ve got something for you.”

“Oh?” she asks.  Hangovers don’t seem to chip away at her cheery demeanor.  I emerge holding the wrapped bundle of napkins.  She starts to unravel it before I stop her.

“You might not want to do this here,” I tell her.  ”You left them in my room.”  Her face goes a little crimson as she remembers the early morning events.

“I didn’t…” she starts to say.

“Nothing happened except for some conversation and a little mischief,” I said, “All on your part.”  She smiles, consumed with relief.

“Sorry about this,” she says, “And for keeping you awake.”

“Not a problem,” I tell her as I head down the hallway.

“See you later.”

I hate Halloween.

==

It’s 1:54AM

I make the rounds amongst our small circle of friends.  Saying goodbyes and making assurances of my return to Los Angeles.  Although, I feel a bit insincere going through the motions of handshakes and hugs.  Kat leads Steph outside for some fresh air and I gather the car to return the girls back to their apartment.

“It was a good party, right?”  Marley asks.  Steph is kind of lulled between sleep and barely comprehensible babble about her current state.  Kat keeps her awake and alert.

“I stayed for it, didn’t I?” I laugh but Marley just shoots daggers in my direction.  ”Yes, Marley.  It was a good party.”

I go back into the apartment and make sure everything’s alright.  I stick around, chat with Marley and Kat a little bit just trying to stave off the inevitable but as time has fallen in reverse, it seems the night has gone on long enough.  I say my farewells despite some final protests and offers but I can’t help wondering why anyone would need me to stick around.  Besides, it’s all in motion now even if I had entertained the thought in a brief moment of weakness.  Staying wouldn’t accomplish anything; leaving now would provide a clean break and a chance to clear my head and provide myself with some stability.

The hugs linger a bit longer.  ”Time’s going to fly,” I say.  ”I promise.”

==

It’s 2:20AM.

Both a blessing and a curse, I get relive another hour of my life.  I drive down the empty Olive Ave. on my way back to my sublet.  I’m running through a mental checklist of all of the little things I have to do before I can leave and I wonder if I’ll actually leave on time.  I’m thinking about the computer, the alarm clock, the boxes, dusting, the leftover food, the plastic bins, the shower material, the dress clothes – all of which have to get loaded into the car, yet again for another move.

I pull into the driveway of the sublet and continue the process once more.

==

It’s 7:05AM.

At least, I think that’s what it is.

The sun’s just cresting over the east.  Magic hour.  I take a last look at the little room, now completely bare.  Of all the things to be happy about, leaving this room would be at the top of the list with all of its creaky furniture and nearly broken chair with exposed nails.  I untangle the keys from my keyring.  The landlords won’t be up until 10 and I’m eager to get out.  I decided to save the $65 bucks and wing the trip straight through, which means 16 more hours on the road.  I scribble out a generous little note and I step out the door.

==

It’s 8:15 AM.

November 1st.  Another long day begins.  Los Angeles is 65 miles or so behind me and Las Vegas is another 200 to go.  Denver is another 750 miles or so by my estimates.

The road has been the only permanent fixture of my immediate life these past couple of months and it begins to feel a lot like home, inside the metal shell of a silver Hyundai Elantra filled to the brim by whatever possessions I could hold onto.

I feel like a failure, going back to Denver.  For all of my efforts, I couldn’t make it happen and in every way I let down everybody around me.  I never wanted anything else except for a chance, an opportunity to make something of myself.  A part of me worried I’d never go forward, I’d stay behind and return to the status quo of a dead end existence, the intervening time sitting somewhere between absolute fantasy and the most frustrating nightmare.  What little logic I could hold onto reminds me this is the best option for now, but I hate the words and tone of friends and family who just want to offer a kind word or some kind of comfort or reassurance.  Most of all I detest my own words, which must constantly justify the situation with the very same logic.  Logic born out of a failure to accomplish little, if anything.

I start up my tape recorder, a device brought along as a means to remain productive at all times now serves as a little therapy as I begin to tell a story about a guy who regrets doing a lot of stupid things to this girl.  It won’t be the last story of regret I tell this drive.

It’s stupid, really but it’s a long, lonely drive into the middle of nowhere.

Dictated Nov. 1, 2009