He was reading a news paper and sitting on a bar stool in the middle of an alley way on an early summer night. He wore a tan trench coat and round rimmed glasses. His slicked back hair reminded me of Christian Slater. I thought the fortune teller was full of crap. I never thought this guy would be here. But sure enough, it was exactly as she said. The alley way was the length of a football field.
I felt uncomfortable approaching him. Like I had no right to be there. I stood there waiting for him to look up from the paper. But he never did. I finally broke the silence "Are you Chance?"
"That is what people call me." He still did not look up. He simply turned the page of the news paper. I had hoped he would be more welcoming. I didn't know how to go about proposing the business I was there for. I felt foolish. I froze. Again, I expected him to interject or to alleviate the disturbance I had caused in his reading. But he just kept on with the paper. After another minute or so I inquired,
"I've been told you can...answer things."
"Yes. That is a way of putting it." I was relieved. If you have ever tried to buy pot from someone that you've only heard sells pot, you get very apprehensive when you approach them.
"You have the money?" he added still looking at the paper.
"Ye- yea. It's all here. You can count it." I handed him a sealed manila envelope. He took it and grabbed my hand as if we were shaking. But he was not giving me a salutation.
"It's all there. Follow me." He folded the news paper and tucked it up in his arm pit.
"How long were you waiting for me?"
"I wasn't waiting for you."
"Why were you sitting in an alley in the middle of the night?"
"I was stationed there. Now, if you please, I'd like to keep the conversations to a minimum. I was about to apologize but he sent me a glance which silenced me. As we continued through the alley for what seemed like an hour. Gradually the stench of the city seemed to sterilize. The smells of urine and garbage melted to nothing and then flourished into a pleasing aroma. Like an old cellar. We arrived at what I could only describe as a fallout shelter. But it looked like it was Egyptian. It was made of yellow and orange stone and pictures were carved into the wall.
"This is it?" I asked.
"This is it." He retorted. It dawned on me that he had been doing this for a long time.
"Give me your hands and close your eyes." Chance commanded. I hesitated. I expected him to sting me or something. But I knew I had no choice and did as he commanded.
"Connection is a two way street. Just relax and let them pass," he assured me as he grabbed my hands.
"Let what pa--?" But before I could finish I was bombarded with images. A burning barn, a mother giving birth, a girl tricker treating as a princess. The images accelerated. A dog run over, two women between the sheets, a man throwing over a table... faster and faster. Then Chance let go of me and I fell to the ground.
"What was that?" I demanded. Chance had a hand against the wall. He was recovering too. He pushed his glasses back into place with his index finger. "I told you to relax." He went over to the door of the shelter. He took a deep breath with his hands in front of his heart. With his exhale he "pushed" an invisible something into the door and held his hands flat against it.
"It's ready for you, James." he instructed.
"You get my name from our 'exchange'."
"I got more than your name." he snapped back. I pulled myself up from the ground.
"What will it be like when I go in there?"
"I don't know. It's different for each person."
"You've never been in there?"
"The temperature dial doesn't go into the oven." I grimaced at the metaphor.
"What if I want to leave?"
"Just call out my name. I should be able to hear you."
"Should be able to?"
"Sometimes the trance is too strong. But that rarely happens. Don't worry about it. Shall we?" He gestured to the door.
"Okay...okay." I took a deep breath. He opened the door. I was in another place.
My father sat at this work bench. He looked exactly like I remembered him. With one hand he held a bottle and with the other a long pair of tweezers. He was assembling a ship. It was the Santa Maria. It would come to sit on the mantle piece above the fire place. Eventually, I would come home one night and in a drunken rage, throw it against the wall, completely shattering it. Mom would never talk to me the same way again. The tears welled up in my eyes and an enormous lump swelled in my throat. I found my hand in front of my face, knuckles at my nose and my thumb and index finger massaging my upper lip as my whole fist trembled.
"Chance." I managed to inaudibly squeak out, in a weak plea. It was already too much.
"James! I didn't hear you come in. Would you hand me a glass of water?" I went over and opened the cupboard next to the sink. I've not seen these glasses in almost a decade. A red plastic one from a Mr. Ghatty's Pizza. A commemorative Spider-Man Collector's cup picturing the Maximum Carnage crossover. Sarah's hand painted 5th grade art project cup, with flowers and the sun, smiling and wearing sun glasses. Then there was Dad's favorite glass. Tall and slender with divits along the center. It was from an old glass ware pattern we previously had and this was the sole surviving piece from the set.
I carried the glass to the refrigerator, flipped the switched to "crushed ice" and filled the glass half way, then flipped the switch to "chilled water." Focusing on the details on the kitchen gave me refuge from looking at him. It allowed me to collect myself. The water filled to the top and I stayed there stalling.
"James? Are you going to be much longer with the water?"
"C-" Another breath and I swallowed. "Coming." And I handed him the water.
"How was football practice? Is your arm better?"
"Yea, it's doing better." I just went along with it. I had no memory of hurting my arm at all.
"Good. You can help me build the addition next week."
"Sure. Looking forward to it." With that he put down the model, took off his glasses and gave me a hard look.
"You are awfully, agreeable. Did you fail Mr. Olsen's Chemistry test?"
"What do you mean?" I felt like an impostor in my own skin.
"There's always a fight with you to do chores unless you've done something. Out with it."
"Dad, there's nothing wrong." Only, that I was preparing to confront my dead father on something I'd been holding back for over half my life.
"Whatever it is James, I'm going to find out sooner or later. You mother or I will have to sign something. And don't you dare try to forge my signature again or you won't be going to Homecoming this year." I didn't want to bring it up yet. I wanted to linger in the past for just a little while longer. But then I remembered, I wasn't here to relive the past. I was here to say what needed to be said.
"You always were so damn sure of yourself."
"You had better watch your mouth, young man."
"I watched my mouth for years. We all did. We let you do whatever you wanted." I had always pictured this moment with me yelling at the top of my lungs, blunt at a hammer. But instead I found myself as the sarcastic passive aggressive teenager I was pretending to be.
"How dare you use that tone of voice with me James Mattheiu Mitchell. I am your father and you will give me the respect I deserve."
"How about you be the father that Mom, Sarah, and I deserved?"
"I don't care if your arm is still hurting, I will get my belt and give you so many lashings you'll be sleeping on your stomach for a month! I've worked 6 days a week for 20 years to give this family what it deserves--
"And to give the Olsen family what it deserves." With that he froze solid trying to make sense of it. "Yea, I know about that."
"What are you talking about?" he denied.
"Don't do that." I insisted.
"Look, I don't know what you think you know."
"Believe me. I know. We all did. But we will let you get away with it. Mom won't have the courage to confront you. She's... she's too scared she'll lose you. So she will play dumb for years until you finally do leave. You wait until Sarah goes to college. Then you finally go. And you tear this family apart. "
"James, whoever has contacted you is obviously trying to hurt this family. I don't know why--"
"Stop lying damnit!" I yelled louder than I ever have in my life. "Nicole Olsen in Hartford, Connecticut. She has a hair salon she owns and runs. You already have a son with her. In two years you'll have a daughter, too."
He was absolutely dumbfounded. People are very good at leading different roles in different situations. Some people would consider it a mask. They aren't necessarily lies but often are. But when person is forced to reconcile those contradictory parts, it's like having the identity ripped from your face.
"How do you know all of this?" he capitulated.
"Nicole contacted Mom. That confirmed it. But all the 'business' trips, that was when we first started to know."
"What about all that future stuff? The daughter and when I leave you?"
"You wouldn't understand."
"It's worth a shot."
"I didn't come back to explain. I came here to tell you what an asshole you are."
"Came here?"
"All the years you went back and forth, you weren't fooling anyone. Any reprimand you thought you were avoiding, and hell you thought you were escaping, by not getting caught, pretend that is a measurable tangible thing. And instead of you feeling it, the rest of us did. We suffered. But we kept it hidden, like you kept your secret family hidden. Only we were better at it."
He went over to his chair and sat. That chair was his throne. He was running away. Like he always did when he didn't have control. His eyes darted around. He started to speak, opening his mouth but then almost immediately closed it again.
"You don't have it in you to apologize. Never in my life have I seen you ever own up to anything."
"Get out." He weakly commanded. I scoffed.
"You know, I had always thought, given the chance, you'd have some explanation. Some saving grace that you just didn't say. But you don't. You are just a selfish coward of a man. This was a waste. I'm glad you left, you failure." He was still sitting on the chair staring into space.
"Chance. I'm ready." The door appeared and I went to escape once and for all. But I was interrupted.
"Wait. Please." With my hand on the knob, I still didn't look. I just waited, like he pleaded. My heart was pounding. I couldn't decide if I wanted to hear him or not. But I knew that if I left, I would always wonder. That's why I came here. I turned around. And now my father sitting in his thrown was 15 years older, the age when he died.
"I'm sorry for the way things turned out, James. You are right. I was a miserable failure. I failed you as a father. I was not a decent man. I indulged and I ran from my responsibilities. That's no excuse and I don't have any good explanation. But what I had with your mother was not a good situation and the life I was living was so far from what I needed, it ate at me until I had no soul. I made a choice when I met Nicole. For me it was the right choice even though it wasn't a good choice. But I want you to know James, I was always proud of you. I kept an eye on you. You made better choices than I did. And I'm very glad you turned out the way you did."
"Bullshit. If that were true then why didn't I ever see you again?"
"Because I was afraid of you. You were right. You always were. I ran from so much and if I ever saw you again, I'd have been forced to face it. I was a coward and I just couldn't take it. But for what it is worth I'm sorry." He started to leave up the stairs.
"Where are you going?"
"I don't think your friend Chance can give you any more time."
"Wait what? How do you know about--"
"You've only got a few seconds. You can just leave or maybe lay into me again. Or you can say good bye and let it go once and for all." I didn't expect any of this. I still couldn't forgive him. 2 minutes of an apology didn't undo a whole life of grief. But I couldn't be angry any more.
"Well, I understand. I don't deserve to be let of off the hook." He continued up the stairs again.
"Dad!"
"Yes, James?"
"I don't love you, but thank you." He smiled and left me for the second time.
I found myself outside the door lying on the floor. Chance helped me up.
"How'd it go? You get your money's worth?"
"Would it matter to you one way or the other?"
"No, not really." He adjusted his glasses again with his index finger. I dusted myself off.
"Tell me one thing, Chance."
"Yes?"
"What happened in there, was that what really would happen if I confronted my father," then clarifying "and then he came back several years older?" Chance looked perplexed.
"I mean, was it just purely in my head. Or were you just telling me what I needed to hear."
Chance took a moment, looked me up and down, gave a sideways grin and said, "James, I honestly have no idea."
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Finding the Sun.
This is something I wrote 2-3 years ago. It's one of my favorite things I've ever written. I thought I'd throw it up here.
My mind, my resolve, my future, withering away bit by bit till it is nothing more than a puddle reflecting a mountain of potential it once was.
I take another drag of my cigarette. It is 30 minutes till places and I've had my 3rd cigarette of the day after downing my Red Bull. Daniel is smoking with me. We are talking about Battlestar Galactica. If I were the actor I wished I was, I'd be in the dressing room reviewing my actions, finding my emotional cues to memory to make my moments hit like they should. But I am not the actor I was trained to me. To be honest I frankly don't have the desire any more. It is probably because I simply don't have the talent. If I had the want and the will, talent wouldn't matter as much. But a lack of appreciation for my perception of the art has left me frustratingly stabbing in the dark. No bullseye leaves me aimless and drifting. I don't want fame anymore. The mythological exhilaration of the stage is a joke to me. I once believed whole heartedly that it existed but I really don't anymore. And that is the scary truth. I'd much rather have the money. But since I have left college I no longer have a path drawn for me which will train me to make money. My sister was right. I should have gotten a business degree. I should have minored in theatre or art or what it was I thought I wanted.
Daniel is talking about something he thinks is profound. It is meaningless as I have already thought of it and I already know where he is going with it. He bores me, but his attention is comforting. He makes big hand gestures and widens his eyes as he talks about something that minutes later I will completely forget. I inhale my cigarette smoke as if it were pot and I hold it a little too long. Maybe the nicotine will give me the fix my body wants but it doesn't. I've never really like nicotine. My body likes THC. But I must spare my body of such things. I'm trying to clean myself up.
Daniel seems so hackneyed to me now. Jesus he's silly. And in 27 minutes I have to love him in front of an audience. I must be rejected and stare in to his eyes longing his comfort and love. Even though on stage he will never give me the slighted bit of love or even tempting love. Daniel will play the end of the play through the beginning, middle, and end. It frustrates the fucking hell out of me. But now it is my job to find a part of myself that loves him. I pretend his eye movements are charming. I will take in his half smirk which I know is filled with discontentment and dissatisfaction and pretend it is cute and something to long for even though in actuality I find it pathetic. Any moment I can make any contact with him I will treat as a drop of water in the desert and drink in it. It is all I know how to do and it frustrates me.
We finish our cigarettes and go inside to the dressing room. Daniel goes to his Ipod to listen depressing music so he can reach an emotional state. I go to mine but for different reasons. Well for the same reason but a slightly different approach. I am under the impression he is trying to achieve an emotional state. I on the other hand am trying to establish character. The difference is slight but important. Abigail is talking with Cordialia. Abigale and I have virtually no connection which I guess works because our characters don't either. But I chop that up to me not having done sufficient work on our relationship. It was a fucking 45 page play. Why didn't I do the sufficient homework? This is another sign this line of work isn't for me. I scroll through my Ipod and find Happy Hardcore Vol 7 and listen to the techno song 'follow me.'
In the basement dressing room there are 11 people. Eight from my show, two from the next show and our stage manager Penelope. I don't know why Penelope is down here instead of doing stage manager stuff. Daniel runs out of the room. He seems to do much of the administrative work since he works at the theatre. Work the stage manager should be doing I guess. I pull out a letter from an ex-girlfriend. Not really a girlfriend, since we were never official. But the letter commands an emotional response none the less. It was a break up later, my only window into the logic and mind of someone who didn't feel I was good enough to be with them. I study specific sentences, wording, and syntax looking for clues to a deeper meaning or key to avoiding future unhappiness. I replace her voice with Daniel's. I change subtle phrasing to fit the situation of the play. The effect is a subtle mental state slightly different. I wonder if it makes any difference in the slightest.
Penelope announces 15 minutes to places, but we may hold an extra 5 for the audience. I try to keep in the mindset of my character but it just won't stick. I think about the problems of work, food I want to eat, and what I plan to do when I get home rather than the lovesick longing or the marriage doomed escapistic mentalities of my character. I tell myself once again I'm in the wrong business. The 10 other people in the room continue to chat and joke. I wonder why they don't struggle like I do. Soon I will start to do physical exercise. Partially to get into character as who I am playing cares much about his looks but mostly because before the play starts, six of us have to wait outside in 40 degree weather in beach clothes outside the theatre, endure an 8 minute introduction by our stage manager then enter as if it were a fun sunny day at the beach. This is the trouble with doing Albee's Finding the Sun in Seattle during February.
It is now 8:05. The play should have started five minutes ago, but we are still waiting on people who have purchased tickets but not yet arrived. I've run out of warm up exercises. Each moment that passes feels like atrophy. We are getting antsy, which means the audience is getting antsy. An antsy audience means an uncomfortable audience. The audience makes or breaks the show. I can tell if it will be a good show or not in five minutes of curtain. If they laugh at Henden's “Oh the sun” a senile realization of what everyone else is clear on it will be a good show. If they don't, we are in for a hard time. Finally Penelope comes down and tells us places. Daniel, Edmee, Cordila, Gertrude, Abigail, and Fergus rush to places. Henden goes to the bathroom. If I go to places knowing that Henden might not make it I will be nervous. So I stay behind in the dressing room and do fifty push-ups. JD and Alex remain in the dressing room and tell me to breath as I do the push ups. Their show does not start until our ends. They have to be there early for fight call. As I said before the push ups make me look a little better, but I do them do keep warm. The minute I step outside from the downstairs dressing room I will have to wait outside the doors of the upstairs performance space.
Fifty. My heart is pounding and I am warm. Henden finally makes it out of the rest room. We still have several minutes as Penelope is still making announcements. I take one last good look at Daniel. I drink in what ever it is he is doing and pretend to cherish it as pure love. He opens the door. It is time to start the show. I wish I had gone to the restroom.
I take another drag of my cigarette. It is 30 minutes till places and I've had my 3rd cigarette of the day after downing my Red Bull. Daniel is smoking with me. We are talking about Battlestar Galactica. If I were the actor I wished I was, I'd be in the dressing room reviewing my actions, finding my emotional cues to memory to make my moments hit like they should. But I am not the actor I was trained to me. To be honest I frankly don't have the desire any more. It is probably because I simply don't have the talent. If I had the want and the will, talent wouldn't matter as much. But a lack of appreciation for my perception of the art has left me frustratingly stabbing in the dark. No bullseye leaves me aimless and drifting. I don't want fame anymore. The mythological exhilaration of the stage is a joke to me. I once believed whole heartedly that it existed but I really don't anymore. And that is the scary truth. I'd much rather have the money. But since I have left college I no longer have a path drawn for me which will train me to make money. My sister was right. I should have gotten a business degree. I should have minored in theatre or art or what it was I thought I wanted.
Daniel is talking about something he thinks is profound. It is meaningless as I have already thought of it and I already know where he is going with it. He bores me, but his attention is comforting. He makes big hand gestures and widens his eyes as he talks about something that minutes later I will completely forget. I inhale my cigarette smoke as if it were pot and I hold it a little too long. Maybe the nicotine will give me the fix my body wants but it doesn't. I've never really like nicotine. My body likes THC. But I must spare my body of such things. I'm trying to clean myself up.
Daniel seems so hackneyed to me now. Jesus he's silly. And in 27 minutes I have to love him in front of an audience. I must be rejected and stare in to his eyes longing his comfort and love. Even though on stage he will never give me the slighted bit of love or even tempting love. Daniel will play the end of the play through the beginning, middle, and end. It frustrates the fucking hell out of me. But now it is my job to find a part of myself that loves him. I pretend his eye movements are charming. I will take in his half smirk which I know is filled with discontentment and dissatisfaction and pretend it is cute and something to long for even though in actuality I find it pathetic. Any moment I can make any contact with him I will treat as a drop of water in the desert and drink in it. It is all I know how to do and it frustrates me.
We finish our cigarettes and go inside to the dressing room. Daniel goes to his Ipod to listen depressing music so he can reach an emotional state. I go to mine but for different reasons. Well for the same reason but a slightly different approach. I am under the impression he is trying to achieve an emotional state. I on the other hand am trying to establish character. The difference is slight but important. Abigail is talking with Cordialia. Abigale and I have virtually no connection which I guess works because our characters don't either. But I chop that up to me not having done sufficient work on our relationship. It was a fucking 45 page play. Why didn't I do the sufficient homework? This is another sign this line of work isn't for me. I scroll through my Ipod and find Happy Hardcore Vol 7 and listen to the techno song 'follow me.'
In the basement dressing room there are 11 people. Eight from my show, two from the next show and our stage manager Penelope. I don't know why Penelope is down here instead of doing stage manager stuff. Daniel runs out of the room. He seems to do much of the administrative work since he works at the theatre. Work the stage manager should be doing I guess. I pull out a letter from an ex-girlfriend. Not really a girlfriend, since we were never official. But the letter commands an emotional response none the less. It was a break up later, my only window into the logic and mind of someone who didn't feel I was good enough to be with them. I study specific sentences, wording, and syntax looking for clues to a deeper meaning or key to avoiding future unhappiness. I replace her voice with Daniel's. I change subtle phrasing to fit the situation of the play. The effect is a subtle mental state slightly different. I wonder if it makes any difference in the slightest.
Penelope announces 15 minutes to places, but we may hold an extra 5 for the audience. I try to keep in the mindset of my character but it just won't stick. I think about the problems of work, food I want to eat, and what I plan to do when I get home rather than the lovesick longing or the marriage doomed escapistic mentalities of my character. I tell myself once again I'm in the wrong business. The 10 other people in the room continue to chat and joke. I wonder why they don't struggle like I do. Soon I will start to do physical exercise. Partially to get into character as who I am playing cares much about his looks but mostly because before the play starts, six of us have to wait outside in 40 degree weather in beach clothes outside the theatre, endure an 8 minute introduction by our stage manager then enter as if it were a fun sunny day at the beach. This is the trouble with doing Albee's Finding the Sun in Seattle during February.
It is now 8:05. The play should have started five minutes ago, but we are still waiting on people who have purchased tickets but not yet arrived. I've run out of warm up exercises. Each moment that passes feels like atrophy. We are getting antsy, which means the audience is getting antsy. An antsy audience means an uncomfortable audience. The audience makes or breaks the show. I can tell if it will be a good show or not in five minutes of curtain. If they laugh at Henden's “Oh the sun” a senile realization of what everyone else is clear on it will be a good show. If they don't, we are in for a hard time. Finally Penelope comes down and tells us places. Daniel, Edmee, Cordila, Gertrude, Abigail, and Fergus rush to places. Henden goes to the bathroom. If I go to places knowing that Henden might not make it I will be nervous. So I stay behind in the dressing room and do fifty push-ups. JD and Alex remain in the dressing room and tell me to breath as I do the push ups. Their show does not start until our ends. They have to be there early for fight call. As I said before the push ups make me look a little better, but I do them do keep warm. The minute I step outside from the downstairs dressing room I will have to wait outside the doors of the upstairs performance space.
Fifty. My heart is pounding and I am warm. Henden finally makes it out of the rest room. We still have several minutes as Penelope is still making announcements. I take one last good look at Daniel. I drink in what ever it is he is doing and pretend to cherish it as pure love. He opens the door. It is time to start the show. I wish I had gone to the restroom.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Hold Up.
This is a scene I wrote a while ago when I first started writing seriously. Thought I'd throw it up here.
Hold up.
Scene 1
Corner bus stop. 6 am on a Saturday. Eerily deserted. An overcast day. It is chilly but not cold. Upon lights up, we see Victor staring down the street anticipating a bus. He is a man in his early 30. He checks his watch.
Victor: Damnit!
He paces a bit, all the while keeping his attention on the very spot the bus will turn the corner and then will be visible. Michael appears strolling to the bus stop. He is well dressed, the same or similar age to Victor.
Michael: Hi.
Victor: Hey.
Michael: The 46 come by yet? His attention now is also on the horizon, but he is more at ease than Victor. Also Michael only glances at the horizon from time to time, his attention is less focused and more relaxed.
Victor: Yea I think so.
Michael: It could just be late.
Victor: It’s 15 minutes already.
Michael: I’ve seen later.
Victor: Yea?
Michael: A bus can break down.
Victor: Well I don’t see anyone around. Usually means it came.
Michael: Not this early. Especially on a Saturday. (Yawns)
A few moments of silences as Michael sits at the bench. He takes out a cigarette. Victor remains fixed. Michael searches his pockets.
Michael: Shit. You don’t have a light do you?
Victor: Huh?
Michael: A light? Indicates the cigarette.
Victor: Oh, yea. Victor goes over to Michael on the bench.
Michael: Thanks. Lights the cigarette. Offers Victor one.
Victor: Uh..um. No I don’t think so.
Michael: Ok. Thanks. Returns the lighter.
Victor walks a few steps to the curb, closer than he has been.
Michael: You quit?
Victor: Trying.
Michael: I’ve done that a few times. But I always come back. I fall apart at work if I don’t have one.
Victor chuckles.
Michael: Oh yea? You know the feeling?
Victor: Oh God yes.
Michael stabs out the cigarette.
Michael: I never finish.
Michael takes out a flask. Victor tries not to stare.
Michael: I just take a sip. We all are flawed individuals. My ritual. I smoke half a cigarette and wash my mouth out. Indicates with flask. When I start the day, again at lunch, and once more before I leave.
Victor is skeptical.
Michael: It’s better than a gallon of coffee. At my office, there’s this perky obsessive woman who never drinks water. Just coffee. Constantly. We have a pool going for the day her heart explodes.
Victor laughs.
Michael: Breakfast of champions? Extends flask.
(Beat.)
Michael: It’s time to face the fact you’re catching the next bus.
Victor is almost broken.
Michael: What are you going to do for the next 40 minutes?
Victor accepts the flask.
Michael: I’m Michael.
Victor: Victor. Takes a sip. Oh my god. Is this a single malt?
Michael: You know your Scotch.
Victor: You kidding me? (Beat.) Something’s different about this one.
Michael: I tricked you. It’s not a Scotch actually. It is a Japanese Whiskey. Suntory Yamazaki. 18 year.
Victor: Yes! It won the Double Gold at the San Fran Spirits in ‘05.
Michael: You’ve had it before?
Victor: No, but we serve it at my restaurant. It’s $110 a bottle.
Michael: Waiter?
Victor: Living the dream. You drink this every day.
Michael: Well, not always this one. But it is Saturday.
Victor: Yea, why are you going into work on a Saturday?
Michael: Middle managers fucked up a big account.
Victor: What do you do?
Michael: I oversee the downtown branch of Meisner Millers and Gold.
Victor nods.
Michael: It’s a financial firm.
Victor: Oh! Nice.
Michael: Has its perks. Which restaurant?
Victor: The Market Grill.
Michael: On 6th right?
Victor: That’s the place.
Michael: They do breakfast now?
Victor: Brunch. But they start really early.
Michael: Ah.
Michael: How’s waiting tables?
Victor: It was nice when I was 22.
Michael: Tips good? Market Grill’s a nice place.
Victor: It used to be enough.
Michael: What do you really do?
Victor: Excuse me?
Michael: No one just waits tables. You an actor?
Victor: (chuckles) No.
Michael: Not a painter. I’d have to guess Musician.
Victor: How’d you know?
Michael: You’ve been rhythmically tapping you thigh.
Victor: I’m a terrible poker player.
Michael: You got any gig’s coming up?
Victor: No not really.
Michael: Got a CD?
Victor: An old one. Self produced. Got tired of standing on the street.
Michael: What guitar did you have?
Victor: A Fender Stratocaster. I had a generous uncle. But I sold it.
Michael: What? Why?
Victor: Sometimes you just gotta face facts…
Michael: Sometimes you just gotta wait for the next bus.
Victor: Sometimes you gotta get off a sinking ship.
Michael: So what’s next?
Victor: I… don‘t know.
Michael: You ever thought about job in finance?
Victor: At a place like yours?
Michael: Sure.
Victor: Haha. That will be the day.
Michael: Why not?
Victor: I don’t have MBA.
Michael: You wouldn’t be a manager anytime soon, but brokers make good commission. Learning the ropes doesn’t take long.
Victor: Are you offering me a job?
Michael: Thought cross my mind.
Victor: Why would you want me to be a financial broker? You don’t even know me.
Michael: There are certain types of people who tend to do well in finance. I am where I am because I’m good at spotting them.
Victor: Are you scouting?
Michael: Always. In an job interview I can tell in 30 seconds. The best ones don’t need 10 seconds of financial training. And an MBA from an Ivy League, doesn’t guarantee people skills.
Victor: I’ve got people skills. What do brokers usually take home?
Michael: Starting? About a “k” a week. That can triple.
Victor: And you’re considering taking a chance on me?
Michael: Why don’t we walk over to 32nd and we’ll get a cab downtown? Chat on the ride. I’ll ask you some question, but I think I know what I need to. Then I’ll have the cab drop you at your restaurant.
Victor: Umm… beats waiting for the bus.
End of Scene 1.
Scene 2
The men walk. Victor has Michael’s flask in his hand. Both men are jovial.
Michael: …but the dog has peed all over the rug, the vase is shattered to shit, and Molly just looks at me with these laser beam eyes. All I can say is, “I told you I’m afraid of spiders.”
Both men burst out laughing.
Victor: I’ve read tabloids more plausible than that.
Michael: I shit you not.
Victor: My god. No idea what I’d do in that situation.
Michael: Michael search his pockets Oh shit..
Victor: What?
Michael: I left my wallet back at my condo. Got my check book and my keys. I could have sworn…
Victor: So what now?
Michael: The taxis are cash only. Why don’t you pick up the cab and I’ll write you a check?
Victor: I barely have enough for lunch. You have your cards?
Michael: In my wallet. There’s an ATM across the street.
Victor: You know, I think the next bus is almost here.
Michael: The cab is 20 bucks tops. I’ll write you a check for $50. Inconvenience fee. Takes out check book. He is filling out the check as he is talking. What is your last name Victor?
Victor: Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.
Michael: What? You don’t think the check will clear?
Victor: It’s not that, thanks for the walk…but I don’t feel right.
Michael: Just a cab ride. If you don’t like the check, we can go to my office. I’ve got cash there.
Victor: Here’s a thought, just give me your business card and I’ll call you. I’m late enough as it is.
Michael: That’s why we should cab.
Victor: I’m sorry I have a thing about cabs.
Michael: Why are you being all weird?
Victor: I’d rather take the bus. It’s nothing…it’s not you…
Michael: Victor.
Victor: Yea?
Michael: I think you’d better go over to that ATM.
Victor: Why is that?
Michael Reveals gun in holster.
Victor: Fuck.
Michael: That’s right.
Victor: I don’t know what you are thinking but I’m not going to an ATM.
Michael: Do you want to test me?
Victor: Look I’m just going to grab my wallet. See, I’ve got 15 dollars in here, That’s it.
Michael: Give me the wallet.
(Beat)
Michael: Debit card.
Victor: You think I have any more in the bank?
Michael: It’s worth looking.
Victor: I’m a waiter. How much do you think I have?
Michael: Let’s do a balance inquiry. If you have less than 50 bucks, you can go.
Victor: Gives Michael the wallet. Why are you doing this to me? You were drinking $110 whiskey?
Michael: You don’t know shit about whiskey. Inspects wallet. Victor Evans.
Victor: You know, the most you can take out is $300?
Michael: You’ve got two ATM cards here. Who is Eloise Marshall and why do you have her bank card?
Victor: She’s no one.
Michael: Did you steal your ex‘s bank card?
Victor: I don’t know the PIN to that one.
Michael: We’ll see.
They walk a bit in silence.
Victor: Does the bus stop con work a lot?
Michael: Well enough on pathetic chumps?
Victor: I’m pathetic?
Michael: Yes sir.
Victor: Why because I’m 30 and I wait tables?
Michael: If that’s all you are doing, yes.
Victor: You are so full of shit.
Michael: Do you really want to antagonize me?
Victor: I need this money, Michael.
Michael: I do too, Victor.
Victor: I really need it.
Michael: Too bad. They arrive at the atm. Step right up. Show me that balance.
Victor goes to the ATM and inserts card. After a few moments, the money dispenses as does a receipt.
Victor: Here. Hands Michael the money. Michael counts it.
Michael: It’s only $240. Victor hands him the receipt.
Victor: Remaining balance: Two dollars, thirty four cents. Thanks.
Michael: Fair enough.
Victor: Okay. We done?
Michael: Victor?
Victor: What?
Michael: The other card.
Victor: You’ve got $240. Let’s just leave it at that and part ways.
Michael pulls out the pistol, cocks it, and aims it at Victor.
Michael: Put the card in the machine, Victor.
Victor puts the card in the machine. Then does nothing.
Michael: What are you waiting for?
Victor: It’s not my money.
Michael: I don’t care.
Victor: I don’t know the code.
Michael: I’m not going to ask you again.
Victor: What do you want me to do?
Michael: I want you to stop lying to me and use the card.
Victor: I’m lying?
Michael: You don’t believe I’ll shoot you in the knee cap.
Victor: I can’t tell you something I don’t know!
Michael: Then why do you have the card Victor?
Beat
Michael: Well? Did she give it to you? Did you steal it?
Victor: No it’s--
Michael: You wouldn’t have it on you if you didn’t know the PIN.
Victor is stumped.
Michael: So unless you can tell me why you really have this card, I’ll find your little girlfriend Eloise, and I’ll get her to tell me the PIN.
Victor: It’s 2 3 10.
Michael puts his gun away, goes over to the ATM, sprays something on the camera. Enters PIN.
Michael: Thank you, Victor.
Victor: Please don’t do this.
Michael: You can go now.
Victor: Eloise Marshall isn’t my girlfriend.
Michael: Try match.com
Victor: She’s my daughter’s mother.
Michael looks at Victor.
Victor: And she’s trusting me.
Michael: Ok.
Victor: You‘re right. I’m pathetic. Three months ago it was a miracle if I stayed the whole day sober. I’ve let down my parents, my friends, everyone. Keeping a job for more than 6 months is a monument. Then Diana was born.
Michael: 2-3-10?
Victor: Now Eloise doesn’t like me very much. I did a lot of not nice things to her. But she has the mercy of an angel and the faith of a nun. She wants her daughter to grow up with her father. But he can’t be pathetic. He has worth something. So instead of going to court and making me pay child support, she gave me one last chance.
I put 200 dollars in her account every week. I have to ability to take money out. But I won’t because the card in that machine is trust. The most important trust that has ever been given to me. I value it more than my guitar, more than the whiskey, more than my freedom.
Yes, you could walk with this money, and I could tell her what happened, that you robbed me. She might accept it. And she might forgive me. But deep down, I will have lost the last ounce of trust she ever gave me. She will always wonder if I just lied to her again or that I was hanging out in the wrong part of town, practically asking to be robbed. She will begin to close me out. She will never fully let me into Diana’s life ever again. That’s what you will be stealing from me Michael, or whatever your name is. If you have any decency, any sympathy, please let me keep this.
(A moment.)
Michael: You have a picture of her?
Victor: Yea. It is in the wallet. In the insert.
Michael takes a good hard look at the picture.
Michael: She’s pretty.
Victor: You have no idea.
Michael ejects the card from the machine.
Michael: Alright. I’m going to buy this picture from you. Here’s $240. Puts the money and cards back into the wallet. And here’s Eloise’s card back.
Victor: You know I’d really rather you di--
Michael: I can keep the $240.
Victor: Never mind.
Michael hands the wallet back to Victor.
Michael: Now, get out of here.
Victor: Thank you.
Victor runs off. Michael looks at the picture for a moment then take out a cell phone.
Michael: Yea. Percy? No, not yet. I swear to God by tomorrow. No that’s not necessary. Please…you know me.
Black Out.
Hold up.
Scene 1
Corner bus stop. 6 am on a Saturday. Eerily deserted. An overcast day. It is chilly but not cold. Upon lights up, we see Victor staring down the street anticipating a bus. He is a man in his early 30. He checks his watch.
Victor: Damnit!
He paces a bit, all the while keeping his attention on the very spot the bus will turn the corner and then will be visible. Michael appears strolling to the bus stop. He is well dressed, the same or similar age to Victor.
Michael: Hi.
Victor: Hey.
Michael: The 46 come by yet? His attention now is also on the horizon, but he is more at ease than Victor. Also Michael only glances at the horizon from time to time, his attention is less focused and more relaxed.
Victor: Yea I think so.
Michael: It could just be late.
Victor: It’s 15 minutes already.
Michael: I’ve seen later.
Victor: Yea?
Michael: A bus can break down.
Victor: Well I don’t see anyone around. Usually means it came.
Michael: Not this early. Especially on a Saturday. (Yawns)
A few moments of silences as Michael sits at the bench. He takes out a cigarette. Victor remains fixed. Michael searches his pockets.
Michael: Shit. You don’t have a light do you?
Victor: Huh?
Michael: A light? Indicates the cigarette.
Victor: Oh, yea. Victor goes over to Michael on the bench.
Michael: Thanks. Lights the cigarette. Offers Victor one.
Victor: Uh..um. No I don’t think so.
Michael: Ok. Thanks. Returns the lighter.
Victor walks a few steps to the curb, closer than he has been.
Michael: You quit?
Victor: Trying.
Michael: I’ve done that a few times. But I always come back. I fall apart at work if I don’t have one.
Victor chuckles.
Michael: Oh yea? You know the feeling?
Victor: Oh God yes.
Michael stabs out the cigarette.
Michael: I never finish.
Michael takes out a flask. Victor tries not to stare.
Michael: I just take a sip. We all are flawed individuals. My ritual. I smoke half a cigarette and wash my mouth out. Indicates with flask. When I start the day, again at lunch, and once more before I leave.
Victor is skeptical.
Michael: It’s better than a gallon of coffee. At my office, there’s this perky obsessive woman who never drinks water. Just coffee. Constantly. We have a pool going for the day her heart explodes.
Victor laughs.
Michael: Breakfast of champions? Extends flask.
(Beat.)
Michael: It’s time to face the fact you’re catching the next bus.
Victor is almost broken.
Michael: What are you going to do for the next 40 minutes?
Victor accepts the flask.
Michael: I’m Michael.
Victor: Victor. Takes a sip. Oh my god. Is this a single malt?
Michael: You know your Scotch.
Victor: You kidding me? (Beat.) Something’s different about this one.
Michael: I tricked you. It’s not a Scotch actually. It is a Japanese Whiskey. Suntory Yamazaki. 18 year.
Victor: Yes! It won the Double Gold at the San Fran Spirits in ‘05.
Michael: You’ve had it before?
Victor: No, but we serve it at my restaurant. It’s $110 a bottle.
Michael: Waiter?
Victor: Living the dream. You drink this every day.
Michael: Well, not always this one. But it is Saturday.
Victor: Yea, why are you going into work on a Saturday?
Michael: Middle managers fucked up a big account.
Victor: What do you do?
Michael: I oversee the downtown branch of Meisner Millers and Gold.
Victor nods.
Michael: It’s a financial firm.
Victor: Oh! Nice.
Michael: Has its perks. Which restaurant?
Victor: The Market Grill.
Michael: On 6th right?
Victor: That’s the place.
Michael: They do breakfast now?
Victor: Brunch. But they start really early.
Michael: Ah.
Michael: How’s waiting tables?
Victor: It was nice when I was 22.
Michael: Tips good? Market Grill’s a nice place.
Victor: It used to be enough.
Michael: What do you really do?
Victor: Excuse me?
Michael: No one just waits tables. You an actor?
Victor: (chuckles) No.
Michael: Not a painter. I’d have to guess Musician.
Victor: How’d you know?
Michael: You’ve been rhythmically tapping you thigh.
Victor: I’m a terrible poker player.
Michael: You got any gig’s coming up?
Victor: No not really.
Michael: Got a CD?
Victor: An old one. Self produced. Got tired of standing on the street.
Michael: What guitar did you have?
Victor: A Fender Stratocaster. I had a generous uncle. But I sold it.
Michael: What? Why?
Victor: Sometimes you just gotta face facts…
Michael: Sometimes you just gotta wait for the next bus.
Victor: Sometimes you gotta get off a sinking ship.
Michael: So what’s next?
Victor: I… don‘t know.
Michael: You ever thought about job in finance?
Victor: At a place like yours?
Michael: Sure.
Victor: Haha. That will be the day.
Michael: Why not?
Victor: I don’t have MBA.
Michael: You wouldn’t be a manager anytime soon, but brokers make good commission. Learning the ropes doesn’t take long.
Victor: Are you offering me a job?
Michael: Thought cross my mind.
Victor: Why would you want me to be a financial broker? You don’t even know me.
Michael: There are certain types of people who tend to do well in finance. I am where I am because I’m good at spotting them.
Victor: Are you scouting?
Michael: Always. In an job interview I can tell in 30 seconds. The best ones don’t need 10 seconds of financial training. And an MBA from an Ivy League, doesn’t guarantee people skills.
Victor: I’ve got people skills. What do brokers usually take home?
Michael: Starting? About a “k” a week. That can triple.
Victor: And you’re considering taking a chance on me?
Michael: Why don’t we walk over to 32nd and we’ll get a cab downtown? Chat on the ride. I’ll ask you some question, but I think I know what I need to. Then I’ll have the cab drop you at your restaurant.
Victor: Umm… beats waiting for the bus.
End of Scene 1.
Scene 2
The men walk. Victor has Michael’s flask in his hand. Both men are jovial.
Michael: …but the dog has peed all over the rug, the vase is shattered to shit, and Molly just looks at me with these laser beam eyes. All I can say is, “I told you I’m afraid of spiders.”
Both men burst out laughing.
Victor: I’ve read tabloids more plausible than that.
Michael: I shit you not.
Victor: My god. No idea what I’d do in that situation.
Michael: Michael search his pockets Oh shit..
Victor: What?
Michael: I left my wallet back at my condo. Got my check book and my keys. I could have sworn…
Victor: So what now?
Michael: The taxis are cash only. Why don’t you pick up the cab and I’ll write you a check?
Victor: I barely have enough for lunch. You have your cards?
Michael: In my wallet. There’s an ATM across the street.
Victor: You know, I think the next bus is almost here.
Michael: The cab is 20 bucks tops. I’ll write you a check for $50. Inconvenience fee. Takes out check book. He is filling out the check as he is talking. What is your last name Victor?
Victor: Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.
Michael: What? You don’t think the check will clear?
Victor: It’s not that, thanks for the walk…but I don’t feel right.
Michael: Just a cab ride. If you don’t like the check, we can go to my office. I’ve got cash there.
Victor: Here’s a thought, just give me your business card and I’ll call you. I’m late enough as it is.
Michael: That’s why we should cab.
Victor: I’m sorry I have a thing about cabs.
Michael: Why are you being all weird?
Victor: I’d rather take the bus. It’s nothing…it’s not you…
Michael: Victor.
Victor: Yea?
Michael: I think you’d better go over to that ATM.
Victor: Why is that?
Michael Reveals gun in holster.
Victor: Fuck.
Michael: That’s right.
Victor: I don’t know what you are thinking but I’m not going to an ATM.
Michael: Do you want to test me?
Victor: Look I’m just going to grab my wallet. See, I’ve got 15 dollars in here, That’s it.
Michael: Give me the wallet.
(Beat)
Michael: Debit card.
Victor: You think I have any more in the bank?
Michael: It’s worth looking.
Victor: I’m a waiter. How much do you think I have?
Michael: Let’s do a balance inquiry. If you have less than 50 bucks, you can go.
Victor: Gives Michael the wallet. Why are you doing this to me? You were drinking $110 whiskey?
Michael: You don’t know shit about whiskey. Inspects wallet. Victor Evans.
Victor: You know, the most you can take out is $300?
Michael: You’ve got two ATM cards here. Who is Eloise Marshall and why do you have her bank card?
Victor: She’s no one.
Michael: Did you steal your ex‘s bank card?
Victor: I don’t know the PIN to that one.
Michael: We’ll see.
They walk a bit in silence.
Victor: Does the bus stop con work a lot?
Michael: Well enough on pathetic chumps?
Victor: I’m pathetic?
Michael: Yes sir.
Victor: Why because I’m 30 and I wait tables?
Michael: If that’s all you are doing, yes.
Victor: You are so full of shit.
Michael: Do you really want to antagonize me?
Victor: I need this money, Michael.
Michael: I do too, Victor.
Victor: I really need it.
Michael: Too bad. They arrive at the atm. Step right up. Show me that balance.
Victor goes to the ATM and inserts card. After a few moments, the money dispenses as does a receipt.
Victor: Here. Hands Michael the money. Michael counts it.
Michael: It’s only $240. Victor hands him the receipt.
Victor: Remaining balance: Two dollars, thirty four cents. Thanks.
Michael: Fair enough.
Victor: Okay. We done?
Michael: Victor?
Victor: What?
Michael: The other card.
Victor: You’ve got $240. Let’s just leave it at that and part ways.
Michael pulls out the pistol, cocks it, and aims it at Victor.
Michael: Put the card in the machine, Victor.
Victor puts the card in the machine. Then does nothing.
Michael: What are you waiting for?
Victor: It’s not my money.
Michael: I don’t care.
Victor: I don’t know the code.
Michael: I’m not going to ask you again.
Victor: What do you want me to do?
Michael: I want you to stop lying to me and use the card.
Victor: I’m lying?
Michael: You don’t believe I’ll shoot you in the knee cap.
Victor: I can’t tell you something I don’t know!
Michael: Then why do you have the card Victor?
Beat
Michael: Well? Did she give it to you? Did you steal it?
Victor: No it’s--
Michael: You wouldn’t have it on you if you didn’t know the PIN.
Victor is stumped.
Michael: So unless you can tell me why you really have this card, I’ll find your little girlfriend Eloise, and I’ll get her to tell me the PIN.
Victor: It’s 2 3 10.
Michael puts his gun away, goes over to the ATM, sprays something on the camera. Enters PIN.
Michael: Thank you, Victor.
Victor: Please don’t do this.
Michael: You can go now.
Victor: Eloise Marshall isn’t my girlfriend.
Michael: Try match.com
Victor: She’s my daughter’s mother.
Michael looks at Victor.
Victor: And she’s trusting me.
Michael: Ok.
Victor: You‘re right. I’m pathetic. Three months ago it was a miracle if I stayed the whole day sober. I’ve let down my parents, my friends, everyone. Keeping a job for more than 6 months is a monument. Then Diana was born.
Michael: 2-3-10?
Victor: Now Eloise doesn’t like me very much. I did a lot of not nice things to her. But she has the mercy of an angel and the faith of a nun. She wants her daughter to grow up with her father. But he can’t be pathetic. He has worth something. So instead of going to court and making me pay child support, she gave me one last chance.
I put 200 dollars in her account every week. I have to ability to take money out. But I won’t because the card in that machine is trust. The most important trust that has ever been given to me. I value it more than my guitar, more than the whiskey, more than my freedom.
Yes, you could walk with this money, and I could tell her what happened, that you robbed me. She might accept it. And she might forgive me. But deep down, I will have lost the last ounce of trust she ever gave me. She will always wonder if I just lied to her again or that I was hanging out in the wrong part of town, practically asking to be robbed. She will begin to close me out. She will never fully let me into Diana’s life ever again. That’s what you will be stealing from me Michael, or whatever your name is. If you have any decency, any sympathy, please let me keep this.
(A moment.)
Michael: You have a picture of her?
Victor: Yea. It is in the wallet. In the insert.
Michael takes a good hard look at the picture.
Michael: She’s pretty.
Victor: You have no idea.
Michael ejects the card from the machine.
Michael: Alright. I’m going to buy this picture from you. Here’s $240. Puts the money and cards back into the wallet. And here’s Eloise’s card back.
Victor: You know I’d really rather you di--
Michael: I can keep the $240.
Victor: Never mind.
Michael hands the wallet back to Victor.
Michael: Now, get out of here.
Victor: Thank you.
Victor runs off. Michael looks at the picture for a moment then take out a cell phone.
Michael: Yea. Percy? No, not yet. I swear to God by tomorrow. No that’s not necessary. Please…you know me.
Black Out.
Monday, September 6, 2010
When your mom calls at 1:07 am, it is never good news.
Tyler, I know this is your experience and if you want this post taken down I'll do it immediately.
We walk out of Garage after a semi successful night. We beat Ariel and Mikey at pool in front of the girls they were trying to impress all the while charming those very girls with "higher value" and wit. Earlier in the night, I opened a three set of attractive girls at the bar top at Barca. The night was by no means perfect. No numbers were closed and no kino had been escalated. But in the grand scheme of things, Tyelr and I are starting to get our game solid and once we get back from our respective trips out of town we will be unstoppable. Also, Tyler is quickly becoming my best friend in Seattle.
We feel good. We are going over what went wrong and what went right. Tyler lets me in on Canada girl's final IOI, playfully rustling his hair, before tromping off with her friends. I'm sure Ariel is about to explode under his serious anxsty Filipino exterior. Tyler is vibrant, illuminated even. I joyfully lament my missed opportunity. We are happy in the ways we failed because we learned and also went farther than either one of us had gone before. It truly feels like victor and because it was a team effort, it is all that much sweeter.
Tyler's iPhone vibrates in his pocket. I guess it is Erica. It's not. MOM is at the top of the caller ID. I know instantly something terrible has happened. The worst thing I can think of is that Tyler's father has died. I brace myself for that. I also wait for Tyler to say "What?" Or "Wait, what?" or perhaps "Mom, slow down and tell me again." I'm looking for him to deny the moment and search for confirmation. Tyler never does. He might have said "Ok." But I don't remember specifically. I do remember him nodding and looking in different directions. Not up or down, just side to side. And in a controlled manner.
That what Tyler does. He's always in control. Come to think of it. I've never seen Tyler any different. From the time I first met him he was always been an authority figure in the most demanding and dizzying place I have ever had to work. And he has always been the person most together at that facility. And now I am watching him in what may be one of the most crucial moments of his life and he is no different.
Tyler informs me simply that his mother's boyfriend has died. This boyfriend also happens to be Tyler's former karate instructor. I think I must have said "oh shit." "Oh shit" just seems so trite and common place. Sometimes I think my capacity to feel genuine emotion is greatly diminished. Like that a part of me rotted away sometime ago and now I just do what is expected.
I offer to go with Tyler. Ride with him to Kirkland. I want to be there for him. Be apart of this experience. I lessen the pain as he is driving alone to his mother's. I want to be there when he needs to take a break and go outside of her house among all the craziness. When it is seemly over in the morning, and he has put his mother to bed, I want to go out with him to some shitty IHOP or Cindys and order eggs and coffee. He will stare into the void and I will receive whatever he needs to express.
He responds with a yes to my offer to go with him. He may have even said, "Yes, that would be good." Then a wave of sleepiness washes over me. I also think that chances are he will need be there for his mother and I will just be sitting in some strange living room, sitting on some unfamiliar sofa, and adding an unwanted element to an already horribly burdened mother. Tyler may feel compelled to entertain me or at the very least tend to me in some way. However, the primary motivator for my next sentence really is because I'm tired and I don't want to be stuck.
"Actually, why don't I drive?" I have withdrawn my selfless offer to be there for him in exchange for the ability to escape when ever I want. He replies something to the effect of, " You know what. I think I'm okay. This probably won't hit me till later." I feel bad. What I feel shouldn't matter. He reveals a missed opportunity to speak to his former instructor and I try to comfort him telling him why I won't watch the movie The Deer Hunter.
I drop him home. He remains optimistically upbeat. "Despite the obvious, I still consider tonight a win." Then he reveals that since it is passed midnight, it is now his birthday. I think about when he checks his facebook wall, all the people who will wish him a happy birthday. I will think, if only they knew. I want people from work to rally around him. I want Tim Butorac to call him. I think of getting home and signing on to Star Craft II, looking for him and tell him to call Tyler. This is probably not what Tyler wants. I have no idea if this is what he needs either.
A bike falls over on my right as two cops arrest a skinny black man. I'd guess he was 40 or 50. Katie Perry's Teenage Dream plays on the radio. Someone on I-5 is pulled over. Black spray paint obscures the 60 on the speed limit sign. Details on a night like this jump out. Suddenly I am very sick of the song on the radio. I enter my apartment to discover I had left a light on. I picture Tyler's mother crying on his shoulder and I wish I had done more for him.
We walk out of Garage after a semi successful night. We beat Ariel and Mikey at pool in front of the girls they were trying to impress all the while charming those very girls with "higher value" and wit. Earlier in the night, I opened a three set of attractive girls at the bar top at Barca. The night was by no means perfect. No numbers were closed and no kino had been escalated. But in the grand scheme of things, Tyelr and I are starting to get our game solid and once we get back from our respective trips out of town we will be unstoppable. Also, Tyler is quickly becoming my best friend in Seattle.
We feel good. We are going over what went wrong and what went right. Tyler lets me in on Canada girl's final IOI, playfully rustling his hair, before tromping off with her friends. I'm sure Ariel is about to explode under his serious anxsty Filipino exterior. Tyler is vibrant, illuminated even. I joyfully lament my missed opportunity. We are happy in the ways we failed because we learned and also went farther than either one of us had gone before. It truly feels like victor and because it was a team effort, it is all that much sweeter.
Tyler's iPhone vibrates in his pocket. I guess it is Erica. It's not. MOM is at the top of the caller ID. I know instantly something terrible has happened. The worst thing I can think of is that Tyler's father has died. I brace myself for that. I also wait for Tyler to say "What?" Or "Wait, what?" or perhaps "Mom, slow down and tell me again." I'm looking for him to deny the moment and search for confirmation. Tyler never does. He might have said "Ok." But I don't remember specifically. I do remember him nodding and looking in different directions. Not up or down, just side to side. And in a controlled manner.
That what Tyler does. He's always in control. Come to think of it. I've never seen Tyler any different. From the time I first met him he was always been an authority figure in the most demanding and dizzying place I have ever had to work. And he has always been the person most together at that facility. And now I am watching him in what may be one of the most crucial moments of his life and he is no different.
Tyler informs me simply that his mother's boyfriend has died. This boyfriend also happens to be Tyler's former karate instructor. I think I must have said "oh shit." "Oh shit" just seems so trite and common place. Sometimes I think my capacity to feel genuine emotion is greatly diminished. Like that a part of me rotted away sometime ago and now I just do what is expected.
I offer to go with Tyler. Ride with him to Kirkland. I want to be there for him. Be apart of this experience. I lessen the pain as he is driving alone to his mother's. I want to be there when he needs to take a break and go outside of her house among all the craziness. When it is seemly over in the morning, and he has put his mother to bed, I want to go out with him to some shitty IHOP or Cindys and order eggs and coffee. He will stare into the void and I will receive whatever he needs to express.
He responds with a yes to my offer to go with him. He may have even said, "Yes, that would be good." Then a wave of sleepiness washes over me. I also think that chances are he will need be there for his mother and I will just be sitting in some strange living room, sitting on some unfamiliar sofa, and adding an unwanted element to an already horribly burdened mother. Tyler may feel compelled to entertain me or at the very least tend to me in some way. However, the primary motivator for my next sentence really is because I'm tired and I don't want to be stuck.
"Actually, why don't I drive?" I have withdrawn my selfless offer to be there for him in exchange for the ability to escape when ever I want. He replies something to the effect of, " You know what. I think I'm okay. This probably won't hit me till later." I feel bad. What I feel shouldn't matter. He reveals a missed opportunity to speak to his former instructor and I try to comfort him telling him why I won't watch the movie The Deer Hunter.
I drop him home. He remains optimistically upbeat. "Despite the obvious, I still consider tonight a win." Then he reveals that since it is passed midnight, it is now his birthday. I think about when he checks his facebook wall, all the people who will wish him a happy birthday. I will think, if only they knew. I want people from work to rally around him. I want Tim Butorac to call him. I think of getting home and signing on to Star Craft II, looking for him and tell him to call Tyler. This is probably not what Tyler wants. I have no idea if this is what he needs either.
A bike falls over on my right as two cops arrest a skinny black man. I'd guess he was 40 or 50. Katie Perry's Teenage Dream plays on the radio. Someone on I-5 is pulled over. Black spray paint obscures the 60 on the speed limit sign. Details on a night like this jump out. Suddenly I am very sick of the song on the radio. I enter my apartment to discover I had left a light on. I picture Tyler's mother crying on his shoulder and I wish I had done more for him.
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