This is a diary entry from 1995, the winter months. I was living in Chicago.
I had been dating for about 3 weeks a guy whose nickname was “Beaver” (no, really. I would get messages on my answering machine, like this: “Hey, Sheila, it’s Beaver…” Ridiculous). I do not know why that was his nickname. Perhaps because he was always very busy. I dont think it had a sexual connotation.
Anyway, despite how nice he was, I had to break up with Beaver, because … well, I wasn’t feeling it, basically. But I kept putting it off because he was such a nice guy, so sweet, all that. (He’s married now, by the way.) Meanwhile, I was continuously hanging out with a guy who I will call Max, a man who is still a good friend. He has starred in many a Diary Friday entry. (He’s also married now.) A man REALLY had to get my attention for me to give up the sojourns with Max. Again – it is amazing to me how DETAILED I get, in writing about this one person’s psychology.
He came to New York to teach a class last year, and we got together for a drink. I told him I had written a short story, based on the two of us.
He, in typical grumpy fashion, repeated what I had just said. “You wrote a short story based on the two of us?”
I said, “Yeah. Maybe I’ll expand it into a novel. Whaddya think about THAT?”
He thought about it and then said, “Sheila, you could write a novel about the last 5 minutes.”
He forgives me my obsession with detail.
So basically this entry describes two days in my life, when I was trying to break up with “Beaver”, while fielding calls from Max.
Also, a funny thing: at one point Max tells me he has an audition for a show which is “like that show Friends…You know that show?” I felt like I was in a time-warp. “Friends” was in its first or 2nd season, at this point, and although many people loved it it wasnt in the cultural consciousness yet, in the way it is now. So at the time, he still had to check in with me, if I had heard of it.
February, 1995
So last week was big: I had to break up with Beaver. And I was seeing Max almost every other day. I was a stress-ball.
I met up with Beaver on a freezing cold white-sky day. I knew I needed to end it with him. We had plans to go out that night. Mitchell and George were gonna meet us at Coffee Chicago after rehearsal, so that would give me a good two hours for the wind-down talk. Jackie has been very helpful in this whole process.
So I meet Beaver at Coffee Chicago, after having spent nearly 24 hours with Max.
And Beaver threw me off my “let’s wind this thing down” track, by bringing me a book, and a MIX TAPE he made for me. The second he started pulling this stuff out of his bag for me, especially the damn mix tape, I knew I’d put it off another day. Which I did.
Two days later was when he and I had our first talk, initiated by me. It really did not go well.
I told Ann some of his responses and she said, “Oh, my God. He has never talked about anything in a relationship before.” I think she is right. He was flabbergasted, his jaw dropped, he couldn’t imagine why I would ever want to discuss any problems I may be having … He could NOT believe it.
But – even though it was an unpleasant evening (unpleasant because the thing with Beaver wasn’t really ended), I did have a couple of moments where I could rise above what was going on and give myself a little pat on the back. I recognized the fact that I have grown up a bit, since my first relationship when I was scared to talk about problems.
This is a difficult conversation being started up by ME. Listen to how differently you talk, Sheila! Listen to how far you have come! I’m saying stuff like: “We can’t not talk about stuff.” I was so afraid to talk about ANYTHING back then. I had to have felt, at some level, how fragile our base was. If we challenged it, it would shatter.
And literally, here I am, full circle. And it wasn’t easy, it didn’t feel good, it wasn’t a piece of cake, and it didn’t go how I wanted it to go — but I couldn’t not do it. I couldn’t live with the situation as it was. A lot of what I felt, and feel, when I reflect on the night where I tried to talk to Beaver, is sympathy with my first boyfriend. It must have been hard for him, to bring stuff up with me. I clammed up, down-periscope, I DID NOT WANT TO TALK ABOUT ANYTHING. Total nightmare.
And I do not live my life that way anymore. Thank God. I have changed my landscape. It will be a constant struggle, but now I am aware that there needs to be a struggle. I understand the nature of the beast now, and it is good.
But the thing with Beaver was still left ambiguous because I wasn’t brave enough to say, “No more”. I let it sit in the “Let’s Slow Down” area. Bad. Mitchell said to me, when I was berating myself, “Sheila, could you give yourself a break on this, please? You’ve never had to do anything like this before.” And he’s right.
So that was that. I managed to put off the inevitable confrontation for another WEEK. Beaver and I went to a movie on a snow-bitter Sunday, had fun, went out for coffee after, we have very interesting conversations, but I feel nothing romantic. Nothing.
…Jim came to visit during this next week. I think he arrived on — Tuesday? We had such a ball with him. He’s moving here June 1. !!! We are all so excited. It seems like the right decision for him.
We had a riotous visit. I’ve been living my life at a pretty frenzied rate lately, manic, high-pitched, auditions, Max, Beaver, so Jim was thrust into the middle of all of it. I said to Jim, “It seems like every time you come here, my life is going nuts!” But the second I said that, I had to stop myself and say, “No. I think my life is always nuts, actually.”
Wednesday Beaver and I had “plans”. He wanted to go see a band, and I knew I had to veto this. Too much like a date. So when he called me to set up the plan, I said, “Actually, I’d like to get together and talk.” I was so stressed, I felt almost sick about it, I just wanted it DONE. Also, he really was — so weird about the talking thing. He wanted no part of any “talking”. But we decided to meet at Coffee Chicago “to talk”. He acted as though he were humoring the impulses of a neurotic. But I had to come to grips with (and Jackie helped me a lot on this) the fact that he wasn’t going to like what I had to say, he wasn’t going to be happy, he wasn’t going to think kindly of me. So be it.
We met, I told him I had to stop seeing him, we had maybe a 15 minute discussion about the whys and wherefores involved, and then he said, joking, “It’s your loss!” And then we moved onto other things, and we sat there, talking, having fun actually, for an hour and a half. The weirdest breakup I’ve ever experienced. When I broke the news to him, I saw a flicker of sadness and anxiety pass thru his eyes, and that was it. He walked me home, we had a big hug on my steps, and said goodbye.
I walked into my apartment, Jim was there, and the first thing he said to me was, “You just missed Maxs call.”
I flipped out and immediately demanded every detail. Max had called and left a message at 6 or so. It was on the machine, he was calling to see what I was up to later that night, could we get together? He called again at 10 and spoke to Jim. Is Sheila there? No. And he basically drilled poor Jim about where I was. Well, where is she? Do you know when she’ll be back?
In my defense, I did have a moment of: Poor Beaver. He walks home in the cold, probably more bummed out than he let on, he probably sits at home, and talks it over with his roommate for a while, working it out for himself.
Meanwhile, I am racing around, re-applying lipstick, and dashing down the street to meet another guy.
I mean, it’s amusing. But still: Poor Beaver. Such is life. I can’t help it.
So Max had called twice. Hm. What’s up, Max ? It’s not like him to stalk me. I called him and left a message, “Hi, Max — It’s Sheila. Sorry I wasn’t home when you called, but I was out breaking up with that guy I told you about–” (Jim burst into laughter) “But that’s done now, I’m home, I’d love to see you, so call me.”
He called me half an hour later or something. He said, “I’ve been trying to track you down!”
“I know you have. What’s up?”
“I have an audition tomorrow. The casting director submitted me for something. They never submit me for stuff. I just went and picked up the sides today –”
“Max , that’s great! Good luck!”
He was all kind of casual and cavalier about it, BUT, the fact that that was how he responded to my How are you question — my heart cracked into a million pieces on the floor. I feel free to read into stuff with Max . I feel like I have some kind of insight into him. He can be so obviously vulnerable that it hurts me, like him casually telling me about this audition, him casually telling me he moved out of his parents house. But he’s also such a big gruff tough guy – he would never let on openly about that stuff – he is so uncommunicative about what’s going on, that when he decides to tell something, it feels big. It is indicative of how major something is. He’s not cool or cavalier about anything, even though he pretends to be.
“Yeah, I’ve got this audition … ”
As thought it were not a big deal to him. And yet here he is calling me. (Subtext: Big Deal.) OKAY, SHEILA. POINT TAKEN. STOP TALKING ABOUT IT.
So I was very affirming, very excited for him, asked questions. What’s it for? (a TV pilot), etc. Then I said, “Well, let’s get together at a local drinking establishment and talk about all of this. You want to?” (Max would never go out for coffee.)
“Yeah. A ‘local drinking establishment’?”
I grabbed the reins. I knew where I wanted to go. “Why don’t we go to that – bowling alley – it’s right by your place – ”
He was totally confused. “Bowling alley?”
“Yeah. We’ve actually been there before. Southport Lanes. There are bowling alleys, pool tables, a bar – ”
He remembered. “Oh! Yeah! Okay!”
“All right, well, I just walked in the door, so I want to take a shower.”
“I want to stop by Justin’s and say to some friends of mine.”
“Okay – so how about … 45 minutes?”
“45 minutes?”
“Is that all right?”
(I swear to God I remember conversations to this level of detail. Word for word. I remember him repeating “45 minutes” to me, and just how he said it. Weird. Or is it? I don’t know.)
So we were set. I’m such a shrieking banshee. I was so happy he called, happy he had an audition – Danger Danger Danger. Mitchell came home and said, “Sweetheart, be careful.”
“I know, Mitchell, I know.” And I do know.
“I’m excited that you’re excited – but, well. You know. He’s crazy.”
“I know. I know.”
It was a good reminder. Most of the time, I don’t need it with Max . I can do my own reminding. But Mitchell was being a good friend. Like Nancy Lemann writes in Lives of the Saints some people hold the worlds dark magic for us, and we cannot explain why. The person who holds the dark magic is not necessarily appropriate for us. But the dark magic exists. Max holds the worlds dark magic for me. And so yes. I should be careful.
I walked down to Southport Lanes, a place where I have many memories.
I remember me and Max , hanging out there a couple years ago, and he picked me up in his arms, and lifted me up over his head, holding onto my waist, and the bar cheered. People cheered. Did I dream that, or did it really happen? No, it happened. It was like Officer and a Gentleman. So strange – it’s like a dream now.
I remember Ted falling into the bar, coming to meet me, very early on in my time in Chicago. We ate then went to see the double feature of “Play it Again, Sam” and “Harold and Maude” at the Music Box with John. Ted and I laughed ourselves SICK at “Harold and Maude”, as a silently jealous John walked beside us. That night was the beginning, the true beginning, of my friendship with Ted.
These memories are tied up with Southport Lanes. And now I live just around the corner from this potent place.
When I got there, I didn’t see him at once. I strolled along the bar. I thought I saw him at the end of it, but believe it or not, I wasn’t sure. So I went in to get a closer look. Circled him from the opposite side, and tried to peer subversively at his face, a weird angle. He turned to me and caught me doing this.
“Hello,” I said.
“Hi.”
It’s easy for me to be with him. I don’t think many people would find him easy to be with, but I do. It’s arduous, it’s disturbing, at times we crackle with disagreement, but it’s comfortable. It’s easy. I ask him questions, he answers awkwardly and warily, and somehow it’s satisfying to both of us. I love his face. Rubbery. Pale. Expressive. Afraid.
After the preliminaries, I hadn’t even taken my coat off yet, I was still standing next to him, there was a brief pause, and then he said, “Do you have to work tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Shit.”
“Why?”
“I wanted you to help me for my audition tomorrow. I picked up the scripts today, and I wanted you to read them with me.”
I didn’t say yes right away, because I was conflicted, but once he pressed me, I caved. I pulled up a stool. “So … tell me about the script. What is it? Do you like it?”
“Yeah! It’s good! It’s like that show ‘Friends’. You know that show?” I nodded. “And usually with these things, you know, you get the scripts and they’re like — ” His face filled in the blank. Boring. Stupid. “But Neil and I were reading it over today and we both were like: This is good!” (In a tone of surprise.)
“Really? What’s good about it?”
“The conversations sound real. There seems to be real characters. At least stuff to start with, y’ know?”
“Uh-huh.”
“So it’s cool.”
He was also doing a Murder Mystery the next day. His character’s name was “Eddie Testosterone”. He hadn’t even looked at the script. So he had a couple of things he wanted me to help him with.
I remember we talked of his money worries – but still – he paid for all my drinks, despite my protests. He pulled out four 20s to show me. We are like CHILDREN when it comes to our money. Crumpled wads that we shove at people and at each other. “Here. Look what I have.”
Max said to me, and I knew just what he was referring to, “So … how’d it go?” (in the voice of a Jewish grandmother).
Referring to what I had basically forgotten completely already: my talk with Beaver.
I said, “Well. It’s done. That’s all I care about.”
“But I mean … well, you said to me that you thought he felt– more, or whatever.”
I said, “Yes. I was definitely the one doing the breaking up, and I feel totally relieved. It was kind of a weird thing. I told him that I had to stop seeing him and for about a second, he looked stricken, and then five minutes later, he was like, ‘It’s your loss!’ Like he had already forgotten.
Max nodded, smiling. And then stated loudly, “Denial!”
“But all in all, he took it well, and I feel much better.”
So mean, but he and I did laugh about me dashing out the door to meet him, directly after this break-up scene with another man.
Max was very affirming of my choice. “Well, that’s good. Now you only have a couple more times where you’ll talk to him and it’ll be awkward, or you’ll run into him and then it’ll be done.”
“Correct.”
He talks a lot about Kathy, the ex. He was wearing a necklace, a cool thing with bizarre little beads. It caught my eye. I touched it. “That’s nice.”
He said. “Kathy made it.”
“Did she? It’s really cool.”
“Yeah … I like it. She made me a couple other things too. She’s … a very artistic girl, and she was always — bummed with me because I have no taste. She wanted me to get better taste. I went out to California to visit her, and she sent me out, on my own, to buy a necklace. I had no idea what I was doing, I basically did it to please her, and I bought the first thing I saw. It was awful. I’d never wear it. So she made me some stuff to wear.”
The whole monologue screamed “issues” at me, but I refrained from commenting. I just said, “It’s a very nice necklace.” He nodded, his eyes full of stuff he wasn’t saying. I let him not say anything.
I asked him to tell me about the murder mystery. He said the company called his boss, and she basically recommended her “most desperate” people. I laughed out loud.
I told him about the callback I had on Sunday that, in looking back on, I think was a front for a call-girl service, or something very very shady. I thought I was auditioning for a sci-fi film. That was how it was advertised. But … something was way off. I got the hell out of there as quickly as I could.
So I told him all about it, and he basically was horrified, and his horror manifested itself in him becoming angry and blaming me for putting myself into that situation in the first place. He has no patience for me being in any kind of danger, any kind of sketchy situation.
Like the time I was trapped on the L platform up in Rogers Park, scared of the men at the bottom of the stairs who had threatened me on the train, and then waited for me in the station below. I was like a trapped animal up there. I finally called Hubbell who lived a couple blocks away – thank God the pay phone worked on the platform – and he came and rescued me. Hubbell, my little gay male friend, who is tough as nails. Ready to do battle with the thugs – who had disappeared by the time Hubbell arrived.
Anyway, when Max heard about this whole L-platform thing, he YELLED at me. “Don’t you EVER put yourself in that position again. And if you EVER are in such a position again, you CALL ME. Right away. I don’t EVER want to hear that you’re trapped or scared, and you didn’t call me. Do you hear me?”
I was meekly apologetic. “Yes … I’m sorry … I’ll call you … I’m sorry.”
But my apology didn’t matter, he was too mad. He wouldn’t talk to me for half an hour.
He said about the “sketchy” audition, demanding, “Where’d you hear about this?”
“It was in The Reader.”
He yelled at me. “Well, what did you expect? Jesus CHRIST.”
“Don’t blame me! I figure every actress is allowed one naive story, and this one will be mine.”
He winced at me in his eyes, a couple of times during the story, that typical Max thing. That wince deep down in his eyes, a reaction, a response. He’s such a pacifist, even though he’s also this big jock-y guy. Like he would have to be pushed to fight. But the story of me at the shady callback made him want to punch someone. He was holding back his anger.
So he convinced me to blow off work and help him work on his audition. No problem.
Back in his messy chaotic room. His ratty white and grey striped flannel sheets, a wooden shelf unit (that was in their bathroom in the old place), with books on it. Jonathan Swift. He loves Jonathan Swift. Hemingway. Salinger. Eugene O’Neill. Plato’s Republic.
Working on his audition: Max made coffee. We sat in the living room with our coffee and danish, and only one fork. (He informed me: “We only have one fork. We lost all our silverware in the move somehow. We don’t know how it happened. We had all this stuff, and now we have nothing. We only have one fork and we can never find it. We never know where it’s going to turn up.”)
I loved that. “We never know where it’s going to turn up.” Like the one fork had a life of its own.
So I ate some danish with this one fork. I dropped some on the rug, their battered faded Oriental rug. Max made this noise of annoyance, and I went to pick up the crumb, and he stopped me, laughing. “No, I’m just kidding. I just like to look indignant. Watch.” Then he made a series of indignant faces. And I watched.
What is my life.
He took out the sides. There were 3 or 4 scenes. We read through them, 4 times, 5 times.
His character’s ex-girlfriend was named Sheila. When I tried to bond with him about the weirdness of that, the coincidence, he was his usual cynical self. “Yeah, when I read that, I thought: God — THAT. Is. So. WEIRD!”
“Oh, shut up.” I said, mouth full of danish, clutching the solitary fork.
A fond and typical exchange.
The writing of the script was not bad. I agreed with him on that. I would stop him to correct him if he got stuff wrong, he’d stop himself, lean over to me: “Wait, what’s the line…” All of this very familiar actor behavior. Frighteningly close to boyfriend/girlfriend behavior. I got more coffee. I sat next to him, sitting with one leg curled under me, holding the script up. After the second time through, I practically had my lines memorized. We looked thru his murder mystery script too.
“I’m gonna take a shower.”
“Okay. I’ll hang out. More coffee.”
Later: he stood in the bathroom shaving. I was pouring more weak coffee in the kitchen. We were talking. He mentioned to me two other things that bothered him re: Kathy the ex:
1. She didn’t get or like The Simpsons
2. She liked Sinbad – thought he was really funny
I just LAUGHED as he explained to me, ultra-seriously, why he couldn’t be with someone like that.
And then here was the breaking point:
He explained: “When I was a kid I saw Zero Mostel do Fiddler on the Roof. My dad took us. He was really into musicals. And it was amazing — and Zero Mostel! I mean: Zero Mostel! I’ve seen the show other times — and I’m sorry — no matter how good the guy was — he just wasn’t Zero Mostel. Zero Mostel was — he was so BIG — and his FACE — Jesus. He is the best. And then Kathy and I were watching TV and Zero Mostel came on, he was in something, and Kathy said, ‘Who’s that?’ — and I was like –”
He stopped talking, everything suspended, razor paused in its action … as he tried to express what he felt in that moment … He had no words. He had no words for someone who had never heard of Zero Mostel. “I cannot even begin to describe who Zero Mostel is. I don’t know how.” The abyss opened up between himself and her, a gap that was in essence uncrossable. If you don’t know who Zero Mostel is …
I mean, the two of them may have had many problems in their relationship, emotional problems, etc., but those Max could live with, work with, but … but … but … she didn’t know who Zero Mostel is! He could not work with that!
After the shaving, we went into the bedroom to pick out an outfit for the audition. I said to him, “What are you going to wear?”
“I have these black pants–”
“Not jeans?”
“No. My butt looks fat in jeans.”
“It does NOT. I love you in jeans. You’re nuts.” (However: I would love him if we wore a sari. So … take that into consideration.)
I sat on the bed, and I put on his little leather hat. Max was running around like a teenaged girl late for a date. He pulled the black pants out of his closet and put them on. “They’re pretty wrinkled. Do you think they’re wrinkled?”
I surveyed him. “Yes.”
“Well. Too late.”
“It’s black. It doesn’t really show.” (I lied.)
Earlier, when he was shaving, I was out in the living room, I walked by the bathroom to go into Maxs bedroom, and as I walked by the open door, I heard him doing a little sing-song, using my name as the sole lyrics. A meandering tune, no real melody, merely singing my name in a lazy way to pass the time as he was shaving. He was doing it completely privately, not for my benefit. It killed me. “Sheila, oh Sheila, Sheila, Sheeeeeeila, Sheila Sheila…sheilasheila…”
When he finally was dressed, we had to deal with the picture and resume thing.
He picked up a resume. “Oh, this is old. Oh, well…”
He couldn’t find a stapler.
So I surged off into the chaotic wilderness of that apartment, which had only one fork in it, to try to find a stapler. Max (who I think was getting nervous for the audition) was dancing from room to room, singing silly little songs. He finally found the stapler in Neil’s room. Then we took all his stuff out into the living room. His audition was half an hour away, in the Loop, but there he sat on the couch lazily, smoking a cigarette.
I was amazed at his attitude. “If I were you, right now I would have been sitting in a coffee shop across the street from my audition for two hours already.”
Finally, (he was driving me NUTS) he was ready to go. He had so much stuff that we split it up between us, both of us talking at the same time. “Okay, could you take this?” “Do you have your–” “Make sure you have–” “Where is my–?”
Then he stood outside his doorway, fumbling through his 200 keys. I couldn’t help but start to laugh. “Your keys! Okay, give me the rest of your stuff.” I took his suit from him, his scripts, he finally locked his door, and then the two of us went down the stairs. And outside. Chilly. Sky aglow. His car was parked right there. I handed him his stuff.
“Okay. Break a leg.” I said.
“Thanks,” he said.
“Now, go! Don’t be late!” I said.
Then we had this totally over-it preoccupied good-bye kiss. Like a husband and a wife kiss: Hi-Bye-I know you-Kiss-Bye — We’ve never been a kissie-huggie pair. So this was a first. He started off for his car. I was headed to the corner, turned and called to him, “Call me, and tell me how it went!”
“Okay!”
Then we were done. It was quite a chore, actually, getting him ready to walk out that door. And, technically, he wasn’t ready. His pants were wrinkled, his resume outdated, his hair a mess. I feel very protective of him. I hover.
But I strolled home, feeling so happy that I had broken it off with Beaver, I was FREE, and still laughing about some of the moments between Max and me.
“She liked Sinbad. I just couldn’t deal with that.”
I laughed out loud about that one, as I walked home.
I arrived home, and Mitchell and Jim were there, and they told me the theatre in Ohio had called and wanted me to fly out for a call back. Exciting.
I sat on the couch, and reveled in the company of my friends. Good good good to be home. Too much “dark magic” is not healthy.
