Diary Friday – Part I

I came across this entry today – and decided to split it up into two parts. I did that in my journal, too: “Part I of this epic day… Part II of this epic day …”

At one point, re-reading my lunatic prose this morning – I put the book down and just HOWLED with laughter.

I don’t know why – it’s just the whole vibe of the time.

It was autumn – I was living in Chicago. I had just come back from Ithaca, where I had done a show, and had a great romance. You may remember my description of it before – He and I on the cable-TV program in Ithaca, with him telling the wall-eyed talk-show host “You should see her knees”, referring to my knees. The romance pretty much ended when we came back into Chicago. But the first part of this entry describes a ridiculous day where he and I tried to have a “date”, and numerous tragedies ensued.

I was crying with laughter remembering some of this stuff.

November

Yesterday was a weird epic day. A day that has brought perspective. Oxygen.

Last week, I would call John every half-hour, and he was never there. Even at 12:30 at night. So I was basically like the Bride of Frankenstein. I was all about getting in touch with him. I had no perspective.

The next phase would have involved haikus – except he has no answering machine to leave them on. Shucks.

[Ed: This made me laugh out loud when I read it. Very long story involved. Basically – I stalked a guy once by leaving haikus on his answering machine. They always involved rain and umbrellas, because I had left my umbrella in his car. I’m still friends with this gentleman – once we got past the haiku stage. He’s one of the triumvirate, and he still laughs about getting daily haikus from me on his answering machine. I never said I was sane.]

I woke up early on Saturday. It was a miserable day. Pouring rain. Very windy. Leftovers of landlord’s Halloween party still all over the front porch. Gourds and pumpkins and huge sheathes of corn husks. Melancholy. Autumn. Cozy. I made a pot of coffee, I was in long johns, slippers, flannel shirt. I burned incense, turned on my Xmas lights – had cereal, strawberries. Sat on my bed with purring Samuel, reading Obabakoak, drinking coffee. Total solitude. Morning. Blustery storm outside. Warmth and comfort inside.

John called at 10:30 or so. [Ed: I had forgotten this, but he and I had had a date to go see “Mexican death masks” at a museum. It became a short-hand. “So after the death-masks…” “Okay, so we do death masks, then we grab some lunch…”] He had just woken up. He and his roommate needed to go meet with their landlord at a place on Belmont and Lincoln – near me – so I told him to call me when they were done and come over. I gave him directions.

I highly doubted he would make it to my place without a hitch.

A couple hours go by. He calls again. Clearly from a pay phone. He told me they were done at the landlords and would head over. They were only a 5 minute drive away.

Half an hour goes by. Mitchell comes home. Every car that goes by, I’m peering out my window, like a stupid high schooler waiting for her stupid prom date. Is that him yet? Is that him yet? I kept talking to him, via the drenched grey landscape. “Dude, it should not take this long.”

The phone rings. I knew it would be him.

“Hello?” I said.

He clearly was no longer at a pay phone, and now he was speaking in a subversive undertone, as though he were a spy in enemy territory.

“I’m almost there,” he said, and I BURST into laughter.

What was he doing – stopping on every corner to call? Okay, I’m 4 blocks away. Hi, it’s me again. Now I’m 3 blocks away. I’m almost there.

It cracked me up.

I said, “WHAT is going on? Where are you?”

Then – still in the subversive spy voice, “I’ll explain later.”

So he was in some intriguing situation. I said, “Okay.” We hung up.

15 minutes later, the phone rings. I didn’t even say “Hello” this time. I just laughed directly into the receiver.

I had already given up my dream o’ death masks. I just wanted him to ARRIVE.

So he had to whisper to me why he wasn’t able to get there yet. He was stranded. I told him to ditch Dan and get the hell over to my apartment. NOW.

He said, “Well, just read … relax … I’ll get there eventually.”

Read? Does the Bride of Frankenstein read??

Half an hour later, he shows up at the door. He had brought me a roast beef sandwich from Arby’s. It charmed me. It was an obvious bribe, a “Don’t be mad” bribe, but it charmed me nonetheless. We sat. We talked. He makes me laugh.

He said, “I have got to get my haircut. I look like Albert Brooks.”

He told me his whole long involved story of the morning. It was kind of boring. I showed him around my apartment. He inspected everything. Like a spy. We went in my room. He perused every item. He saw something I have on my wall, and stopped. He didn’t say anything, just stopped and stared at it. 20 minutes later he said to me, “I don’t think I’ve ever met another girl who is a John Cassavetes and Gena Rowlands fan.”

This amazed me. “Really??”

We lay on our backs on my bed, talking. Then he said, after a pause, “You’re gonna be mad.”

I knew immediately. Our death-masks trips was off. Our night at the movies was off. Our whole date was off. Turns out, he was going to see another play that night and he didn’t invite me. This turned into an enormous argument.

Which then turned into a wrestling match. Literally. We were rolling around on my floor, wrestling – for REAL – I kept trying to pin him. He kept trying tp pin me. We knocked over a lamp. I screamed bloody murder. We had a blast. We took out all our aggressions. Mitchell must have been like, “Jesus, people, I’m trying to have a quiet morning…” Crashes – screams – emanating from my bedroom.

Finally, I got off him and said, “You’re avoiding assimilating me into your life. And that’s fine. Really it is. I just don’t want you to PRETEND that you are not doing that. I want you to realize what you are doing.”

He looked at me with this dawning realization on his face and said the stupidest thing I have ever heard in my life. “Have I hurt your feelings over this past week?” It suddenly dawned on him. Then he said to himself, in dismay, “I’m hurting your feelings.”

It takes men a while to realize I actually have feelings. I’m used to it, so I try to be patient with them.

I said, “Yeah. You were avoiding me all week. And PRETENDING like you weren’t. Don’t do that. Just be straight.”

John said, “I need time to assimilate you.” There was a long long pause and then he said, “You’re not buying that one, aren’t you?”

I told him I thought something else was going on. I was eager to invite him to do stuff. Impulsively. Not like some big thing. But in an impulsive friendly way. I hate having everything be a big deal – I’m an essentially casual girl. It’s how I run my life.

“Hi – we’re going to a movie at the Esquire – the 1 pm show – meet us there…”

“We’re meeting up tonight at blah blah blah – want to join?”

Stuff like that. I want to include him in those little outings. He doesn’t want to include me in his. But he’s pretending like it’s just LIFE that is intervening – like the whole rigmarole of him even arriving at my apartment – how it took him 3 hours to go a distance of 4 blocks. Something in him is resisting this relationship – and that’s OKAY – I just need him to ADMIT it.

Before I kill him.

So anyway, we ended up having a good talk about it, after beating the crap out of each other on my bedroom floor.

He told me he has the tendency to ignore people he really cares about.

My response? “Wow, lucky me.”

He doted on me in Ithaca. He would say, “Don’t mind me. I’m just doting.” “If my doting becomes annoying, just slap me.” “Can I dote on you for, like, 2 seconds, and then I’ll leave you alone?”

The doting ended when we crossed the Chicago county-line.

He was sorry, he felt bad, he doesn’t want to hurt me, he apologized … etc. I was uninterested in all of that. I said, “Just don’t ignore me. If you don’t want to see me, tell me you don’t want to see me. But don’t ignore my phone calls. Don’t do that to me.”

“I won’t.”

It’s weird. Nothing was a big deal in Ithaca, and everything is a big deal here. I don’t like big deals. I want to show up on his doorstep with coffee, and not have it be a big deal. I want to have brief over-it phone conversations – “Okay, meet you there … bye” – not all this cloak and dagger stuff.

Also, when I said to him, “Well, I’m disappointed that you’re canceling our date today” he FREAKED OUT. “I can’t stand it! I can’t stand it! Disappointment is WAY worse than anger!!”

This is what happens when you date a boy of 20 years of age.

I said, “Well … Jesus, I’m just telling you I’m disappointed. It’s not some huge tragedy. I’m just disappointed. You want me to pretend I’m not? We had a date today. You’re blowing me off.”

He scowled.

Oh, such a funny thing happened too. We were hanging out in my room, talking, whatever … I still laugh when I think of this.

“I have a question for you,” John said, in an ominously calm voice.

I waited.

He spoke. “Who is L.M. Montgomery?”

[Ed: That is so freakin’ funny. I have about 50 L.M. Montgomery books, all lined up on my bookshelves. It was so funny the way he said it. No preamble.]

He asked me a lot of questions about “the Baby Boomer” [This was his scornful name of the guy I had been into before I met him.]. I dodged answering. But he kept pesetering. “What would you do if he called you up today and said, ‘I’m wrong. I love you. Marry me.’ What would you do?”

“He will never do that,” I responded flatly. “He’s gonna marry that girl, and it’s over.”

“I know! Just pretend. What if he did?”

He got all ominous and threatening about him. “Does he call you? Do you ever see him? Do you go to his shows? Do you call him?”

I said, “No. No. No. No to all of that.” He didn’t believe me. But I was telling the truth.

Anyway, finally, he left. It was about 5 pm. I was pissed. I had made no plans for that night, because we had had a date, and now I was stuck. It was getting dark, rainy.

I walked him out to the porch, and as he walked down my street, I stood on my porch, calling after him, mocking, “WHOO-HOO! It’s Saturday night!! It’s Sheila’s Saturday night – with roast beef sandwiches from Arby’s! whoo-hoo! Look out! I don’t know WHAT’S gonna happen!” I preyed on his guilt. He deserves it.

But I can never hold a grudge with him. This is what separates me from the Bride of Frankenstein.

Anyway, I came back into my apartment, stood alone in my apartment for about 10 seconds, I felt kind of rattly, echoey – with this infinitesimal night stretching out ahead of me – so I picked up the phone and called Ann.

Part I of my day ended. Part II beginning.