Diary whatever: “She was totally confused at why I was calling her when I was supposed to be ‘doing death masks’ with Michael.”

This morning I found myself reading this entry and literally SHAKING with laughter. I was wiping tears off of my face.

I don’t know why it’s so funny -it’s just a silly Saturday night in Chicago – but for some reason, the way I wrote it continuously strikes me as a freakin’ RIOT. It hurts – the laughter.

I also loved reading this this morning because Michael is coming to stay with me next week while he’s in New York. It’s been a couple of years since I saw him – so I was just GUFFAWING reading some of this stuff, in memory of his ridiculous and kind of crabby sense of humor. The LM Montgomery moment I am STILL laughing about. Seriously. It’s probably a “you had to be there” thing, but I had forgotten about it – and just the way he said “Who is LM Montgomery” – with no preamble – he had just silently noticed that I had 200 of her books – and so he injected that into the conversation, in this overly calm but pissed off way. I had no idea back then that he and I would remain friends. It kinda didn’t seem to be going in that direction, did it, even though we obviously liked each other.

Also – very bizarre: Alex is one of my best friends now. This is the first time she appears in my journal – but just as someone I’ve heard of, through her reputation, and because Mitchell knew her. And now? We’re thick as thieves. Weird – to see that I had NO IDEA that she and I would become such good friends.

She remembers the “crazy girl who sent the cumquat backstage”, by the way. “Who is that insane person who just sent you a cumquat?” Uhm, that would be me. Your future friend. Nice to meet ya.

November

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

Last week, I would call Michael every half-hour, and he was never there. [HA!!!!! I mean, already it’s comedic. I’m showing my own youth here as well.] 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: Explanation here.]

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 longjohns, 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. [You were reading WHAT? Please don’t throw around a word like Obabakoak casually.] Total solitude. Morning. Blustery storm outside. Warmth and comfort inside.

Michael 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. The call is now coming from inside the house.

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. [hahahahahahahahahahaha] 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. 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.”

Michael 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,” Michael 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. Also, like: it almost made him ANGRY.]

He asked me a lot of questions about “the Baby Boomer” [This was his scornful name for the guy I had been in love with 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. “It’s over. He’s gonna marry that girl.” [He did.]

“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 call him?”

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

Then we took a shower together and had sex in an angry and passionate fashion. It was really fun. We beat the shit out of each other.

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.

[8/31/2006 Note: I am noticing times overlapping here – layers of time – Less than a year later, he would show up at midnight to say goodbye to me on that very porch. I know this is a link-heavy post but whatever, here’s another one. On that rainy day when Michael and I did NOT go to see the death masks – I had no idea that by that same time next year I would be fully ensconced in New York City, having completely uprooted my life in Chicago in August. No idea that that was even a possibility. And I had no idea that Michael would NOT come to my going-away dinner, OR to my going-away party – but that he WOULD show up, by himself, at midnight, the night before I left for a private good-bye. That was the kind of friendship we had. End 8/31/2006 Note]

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 Marie.

Part I of my day ended. Part II beginning.

Ann, as it turns out, was sitting in her house having a parallel experience. Ann and I always end up having parallel experiences, even when our extenuating circumstances are very different. She is so great – she is immediately present. She jump-starts. I do that too. We never need catch-up time with one another.

She was totally confused at why I was calling her when I was supposed to be “doing death masks” with Michael.

“What happened?” she demanded.

And then, of course, we talked it out feverishly. Analyzed, discussed, theorized, hypothesized – picked that shit APART!! I wasn’t in a rage or anything. The whole thing actually seems kind of comedic – but still, I am a bit disturbed. So we had a good old talk about it. And she told me about her circumstances as well. Antivenom. Etc. Very long story.

I said, “Let’s do something! Want to do something?”

In a millisecond she was along for the ride.

We have been wanting for a while to go dancing at Whiskey River, a country-western bar, so we decided to do that and I suggested going to see the late-night show of Hamlet at Improv Olympic. Mitchell saw it when it first opened and said it was one of the funniest things he had ever seen in his life.

A bit of background. It’s Hamlet, the musical.

Jeff Richmond, the pianist for all those improv shows, wrote it – it’s a campy musical – like No No Nanette, or something – goofy and campy. Gertrude has a vamp number like “My Heart Belongs to Daddy’, only it’s entitled, “Mama is a Boy’s Best Friend”. It’s a runaway hit, and doing really well. It’s in the late night spot at the new Improv Olympic on Belmont. Alexandra Billings is playing Gertrude, and Mitchell says she is positively amazing. [So bizarre – I hadn’t even met her at this point!!! It would be years and years before I met her.] Alexandra makes entrances, as Gertrude, as though she is Bea Arthur or Helen Hayes or some Grande Dame of the American Theatre – and she completely pulls it off. She’s getting extraordinary reviews.

While I was in Ithaca, I talked on the phone with Mitchell once and he told me that he had run into M. at Higgins one night.

[8/31/06 Note: At this point – I guess M. had started to date somebody else, pretty seriously, so obviously I wasn’t seeing him anymore. By the way – the entire Triumvirate is in this post. Every single one of them. They always seem to go together even though they do not know each other and never did. They don’t even know that they have me in common. So M. found a girlfriend and that was that in terms of us. I was fine with that. I obviously had found a boyfriend – even though he was 20 and it took him 3 hours to go 2 blocks – but I had also fell in love with someone before that – even though he was a Baby Boomer and I just don’t want to talk about it anymore. In a short enough time, both M. and I were single again, and we kinda called each other like: “Hi. I’m single now. Are you? Yes? Me too. Okay. Good. Meet ya at Southport Lanes in half an hour. Let’s go bowling and then fuck all night long.” End 8/31/06 Note]

M. One of the people in my life who is filled with dark magic. As a matter of fact, there is nobody else that has the same brand of dark magic for me as M. I do not know why this is true, because the man is utterly insane, but it most definitely is true.

So anyway, Mitchell told me about their exchange. Of course M. was, as Mitchell put it, “painfully awkward”. Of course he was. I would be surprised if he were anything but – but also, there’s that sweetness he has –

Other people see only his painful awkwardness. Many of them interpret it as contempt, or scorn. Like, he couldn’t be bothered. Or he doesn’t want to talk to them. These people could not be more wrong. They miss the sweetness underneath.

I honestly do not know if anyone else sees him quite the way I do.

Very strange. When people hear I was involved with him, they give me this look, this shocked look, like, “Really???” This baffles me, because – all I can see is his sweetness. I know he’s weird and socially awkward and grumpy and crabby and bizarre – but what a joy he is, too!

Mitchell told me about his exchange with M. – (and now watch how I relate it as though I were there).

After the usual niceties were exchanged (and niceties with M. are always very painful, because he just seems to ENDURE them), Mitchell told M. that I was out of town doing a show. M. was awkwardly interested.

Anyway, as Mitchell relayed all of this to me, he said, “You know he’s playing Claudius.”

And no – I did not know that M. was now playing Claudius in Hamlet, the Musical. M.? singing and dancing? In a musical??? I could not stand the thought of it. it was positively too wonderful and too funny to contemplate.

“We have to see it,” I said.

“I have to see M. do it,” Mitchell said. “The other guy who played Claudis was this short fat troll-like guy – which was funny enough – having a troll be married to Alexandra Billings – but M. is so big and virile and handsome – it’ll be interesting to see his take on it. also – to watch the dynamic between M. and Alexandra. I literally cannot imagine what that will be like.”

Basically, I just want to see M. do a box step. I fear that I might laugh so hard I will split into a million pieces. Or that my heart will shatter onto the floor at the mere sight of M., the painfully awkward grumpy weirdo, doing a BOX STEP. It just makes me happy to think of it.

So Mitchell apparently said to M., “Hey, I hear you’re in Hamlet! That is so great! I didn’t know you could sing!”

This is my favorite part. In response to that, M. got kind of defensive and said, “I sing! … I sing – like Sheila sings.”

He gave Mitchell a frame of reference. Using my name. Which I think is just so comedic.

It was M.’s way of saying, “I’m not just Sheila’s goof-ball friend – I have a good voice – like Sheila’s…”

It was like when M. was trying to convince Mitchell that he was a valid member of his high school dance troupe.

[8/31/06 Note: I cannot tell you how hard I laugh now when I read that. I remember that night. It was a tequila-soaked night. Mitchell refused to believe that M., big strapping jock boy, had been in a dance troupe in high school. Refused. “M., you were not in a dance troupe. Come on!” So M. did a chassé, RIGHT AT Mitchell – very aggressively – like: “SEE? SEE ME CHASSÉ? Now you believe me?” We were in a crowded bar, too – Mitchell and I perched on bar stools, with M. suddenly doing this bad jazz combination right at us – See? I am crying with laughter right now. Later, Mitchell said to me, “I literally didn’t know what to do. The man chasséd right in my face.” End 8/31/06 Note]

So there are my background stories, and so Ann and I decided to go see Hamlet. It was an 11 pm show. I called for reservations. I was so DRIVEN to make something out of this evening which started out as a huge BUST.

And I had this very funny personal interlude with whoever was taking reservations. It was a guy = I didn’t ask his name- I called, and told the voice I would like to reserve tickets.

He said, “Okay, hold on one sec. I’ve got the TV on too loud.”

Er … was the box office in someone’s house?

Anyway, it could have ended there, but he sounded friendly, so I said, “What’re you watching?”

And what followed was this hilarious conversation – and for some reason – it just gave me so much joy. We should have exchanged phone numbers. He just cracked me UP.

I said, “What’re you watching?”

“That movie with Madonna and Harvey Keitel?”

“Oh, I heard that was very bad. How is it?”

“Yeah … I know it got bad reviews – but it’s really not that bad. A lot of it is very interesting, actually. Harvey Keitel plays a director, and it’s cool to watch him, see what he might be like as a director – and through a lot of it, you can’t tell what is real and what isn’t.”

“Oh, that’s cool.”

“Yeah, it is,” he said.

“I love Harvey Keitel. Have you seen Pulp Fiction?” [Ed: Wow – time travel moment!!.]

This guy on the other end was so forthcoming and so friendly – we talked openly about the ups and downs of Harvey Keitel’s career.

Total strangers.

It was so funny, too, because Mitchell was sitting right there, and as far as he was concerned, I had just been calling the box office, and then I end up blithering with some person as though I have known him all my life. Mitchell was giving me such a funny look, like ‘Who the hell are you talking to, Sheila?’

My new best friend and I got back to the Madonna/Harvey Keitel movie – and he actually said, “No, it’s not bad at all. I really think you’d like it.”

That was the funniest moment of this conversation. Like – he knows my taste in movies now.

He said, “I think the people who had problems with it were …” and he hesitated. I could feel him trying to find the right words through the phone line.

I filled in the blank, taking a wild guess. “Shrill feminists?”

Apparently, that was the PERFECT term – I had put it for him perfectly! Also, he probably wanted to say something along the lines of “shrill feminists”, but wouldn’t … because he was talking to a woman, a female … He wouldn’t just assume that I’ve got my own brand of political incorrectedness going on for myself. He was being polite, careful. Men and women can be too careful with one another, until we realize that we speak the same language. But there are all kinds of land mines that could explode, if you don’t look out. And in that moment when he hesitated, he was looking out.

See how I analyze a phone conversation with a stranger?? But I know I’m right. That was EXACTLY what he went through in that pause.

But once I gave him the “all clear” sign, by saying “shrill feminists”, he said, almost relieved, “Yes! Exactly. Exactly. Shrill feminists would definitely not dig this movie.”

I don’t know why this encounter gave me so much joy, but it did.

Finally I ordered my tickets. Then we hung up with cheery good-byes, happy our paths had crossed.

I don’t know. If I had been in any danger of being in the doldrums before, because of the death-mask debacle, after talking to that box office guy I was out of danger. I love fortuitous out-of-the-blue moments like that, where you can randomly connect with another human being. They are gifts the day gives you.

I wish I could send him a card.

Ann and I went to Whiskey River and had a TOTAL BLAST.

Oh wait, I’m forgetting one absolutely insane thing. Before Ann arrived, I suddenly got the idea that I wanted to send M. a little good-luck gourd backstage. Some people send flowers. In this case, I preferred to send a gourd. As I mentioned before, our steps are covered in darling gourds, some all mottled and warty, some dark-green with orange bumps, some were smooth and orange, like little grenades.

I am insane.

So I went out and picked out a small orange grenade, I dried it all off – there was still a blustery rain storm going on – and wrote on it: “To M. – have a great show – From Sheila.” I was pretty much laughing the entire time.

I put the gourd in a paper bag.

When Ann and I got out of the car to go into Whiskey River, I felt a tiny (insane) twinge of separation anxiety re: my sad little gourd in its bag, and what is so FUNNY and so WONDERFUL is that Ann could feel this without me even having to say anything (and how crazy am I to feel anxious about being away from a gourd) – but she looked at me for a second, felt my anxiety, and then said the craziest thing of the night, “Do you want me to crack the window?”

I know for certain that I will forget that she said that, and some day – years from now – I will re-read that, and burst into laughter.

We spent about 3 hours at Whiskey River. We sat at the bar, eating free food, wolfing down chicken wings – we were all about food – and consumption – guess we were hungry – that fucking roast beef sandwich hadn’t filled me up – Once she and I started eating, all conversation stopped. It was pathetic. We both noticed it, and then of course had to exaggerate it for comic effect and do various goofy improvs. Like one of us would start to talk to the other, and the other would raise her hand imperiously and say something like, “Please. Not now.” “Don’t talk to me while I’m eating.”

And then we danced. It was totally crowded, and we had a ball. It was so much fun, and just what I needed.

Who needs death masks.

We then left, and shrieked up towards Belmont. Parked. Walked. The place was already nearly full. I got all goofy and nervous about seeing M. Had a couple vertigoes. I gave my gourd in a bag to the girl in the box office.

“Please give this to M.,” I said. What if she peeked inside??

“He’s not here yet.”

Then – I got completely paranoid. I imagined that she was looking at me in some kind of sinister perusal. I even leapt to the frightening possibility that this was his new girlfriend, helping out at the box office. I’m not chasing M. right now – of course I’m not -I love that he has a girlfriend, and I’m happy for him – but – she would probably be pissed if she knew his ex was sending him random gourds. [Ed: Uhm – yeah. I would be pissed if some ex-girlfriend was randomly sending my boyfriend gourds.]

I should be committed. I told Ann that I was afraid that the girl at the box office was maybe his girlfriend. She said, “I think you’re insane.”

[Ed: Laughing!!]

Then I admitted to her that EVEN STILL – even after all that has gone down – I have now known this man for 2 years – even still, I had this fear that he would get the gourd, look at my name, and it would take him a second to figure out who I was.

Ann said, “Oh, now that is really crazy.”

No. You know what is really crazy? Sending a guy a GOURD in the first place.

At a couple of points, before the show began, Ann and I would suddenly burst into laughter at M. getting the gourd. Opening the paper bag in front of the rest of the cast.

“You gave him a gourd!!” Ann was hysterical.

And let me just say some things about the show: it was absolutely fantastic. An absolute blast. The script is unabashedly GOOFY, and it is exactly my sense of humor. Tom Lehrer-ish.

The lights go down after one scene. Lights come up. Hamlet comes onstage. Alone. The lights are dim. He comes down center stage. You know he is about to start the “To be or not to be” speech. He stands there for a second, looking out into the darkness contemplatively. He puts his arm up in a parody of Shakespearean acting, and begins, loudly: “To be – or not – to be -”

And then the doorbell rings, interrupting him.

And he keeps trying to get back to his soliloquy, and he keeps getting interrupted. It is goofy, and very funny.

Watching M. as Claudius, my boy filled with dark magic. I just have to say that it made me ridiculously happy to watch him dance around, singing and acting. I was goofily happy. He wore a colored cape. Which – I can’t even describe how funny that is. He wore a crown. And he would do this completely obvious evil behavior, like winking at Gertrude over Hamlet’s head, openly scheming, openly rolling his eyes.

He reminded me of Alan Rickman in Robin Hood. An over-the-top villain. Sneaking around like Bela Lugosi. The mere sight of his face makes me laugh. He also now has a sleazy little mustache and beard.

And yes, as he assured Mitchell, he “sings … like Sheila sings …” Hearing him harmonize, with that goofy campy music, was sheer liquid delight.

The audience laughed from pretty much start to finish. Our stomachs hurt.

Alexandra Billings BLEW OUR MINDS. She is a force of nature.

We waited after the show to say Hello.

I mean, I couldn’t just leave after sending him a gourd like that.

We stood at the top of the aisle, where he wouldn’t miss us. he came out from backstage, long-haired, jeans, cigarette dangling. He came towards us, but he was looking past us. Maybe he was looking for us. If he got the gourd, he knew we were out there.

[Ed: See, it’s casually crazy sentences like that which absolutely crack me up. “If he got the gourd, he knew we were out there.” What??]

I stuck my hand out in his line of vision to get his attention. He stopped – saw me. And any stupid STUPID fears I might have had completely dissolved with the expression on his face when he saw me.

Sheer joy.

I said, “Hi!” And then – the joy was on hold -for just one second – he said, with a strange stopped feeling, “Hi – hold on one second – Stay put. Don’t move. I want you to meet my girlfriend. Last time you came to an improv show, she bitched me out for not introducing you.”

She did?

Then he disappeared. I could hear him calling into the theatre, “Angie! Angie!” anyway, I had enough time to have a brief private pow-wow with Ann.

It went like this, rapid-fire dialogue, under the breath:

“Oh my God. He’s getting Angie.”

“Oh, God.”

“How do I look? Be honest. Do I look okay?”

“Yes.”

I was nervous to meet the girlfriend, and yet my heart felt like it had little wings beating. Little joyous wings. I can’t really explain it. Somehow = M. and I – two dysfunctional strange people – got through to each other. I don’t know how we did it, but we did. I also don’t know why I keep doubting it. but I do.

So there he was – summoning Angie to come meet me. I heard him say to her, “Sheila’s here – come meet Sheila.”

I felt a wee bit ridiculous. Does she know about the gourd?

[Ed: Again, funny funny. I write that as though that is a normal thing to say.]

And here’s the kicker: I am NOT in love with him. He may have the world’s dark magic, but I am not in love with him. These feelings have nothing to do with love or anything like that. They just are. It’s a one-of-a-kind relationships, that could never ever be duplicated. It’s about fondness. Pure and simple. Mutual fondness. Punctuated by painful awkwardness. Unembattled affection, friendly, occasionally weird – no big deal.

So suddenly, there was Angie. And M. fled. I think it was all too much for him, and he needed to regroup. He is the most awkward man alive. And this? Having Angie meet me? The only other important woman in his life? I think M. would have spontaneously combusted, and she and I would have spent all our time trying to take care of him. It was good that he fled.

He dumped Angie into our laps, and then dashed away, with nary a word.

We all introduced ourselves, shook hands, nice nice nice, smile smile smile. Angie didn’t seem- well, she was not a bitch, she was not mean – but I didn’t feel kindred-spirit potential in her.

However, I cut her all the slack in the world, knowing what it feels like to be a threatened girlfriend. She wasn’t prepared for my being there. So what was going through her mind? Like – does she think I’m stalking him, or trying to make trouble? If I were her, I would think that.

So I cut her a tremendous amount of slack.

She is very petite, tiny bones. Very pretty, wears a lot of makeup. Her eyelashes were so long and so black that they cast a shadow across her cheekbones, in a very pretty way. Her face is perfect porcelain. Her hair is auburn ringlets.

I was doing my best to just be as polite and as un-threatening as it is possible to be. It took a lot of concentration.

I don’t think it would be possible for her to like me. I didn’t want her to like me, and if I were in her shoes, I wouldn’t have liked me. But I did want her to know I posed no threat, and I respect their relationship. (Gourds notwithstanding.)

M. had told me, last time I ran into him, that she had finally said to him, “Look … if you need to still be friends with that girl … I’m okay with that. Just don’t hide it from me.” That was what his whole: “Sheila’s here!” moment was about. So I can tell that she is actually kind of a cool chick. She knows that she can’t expect a man to be a blank slate.

But she had to assert her territory, and I completely let her. I let her run the show.

We did not have a conversation. She talked at us. Which was fine. Completely understandable. She yanked the conversation into her control by commenting on our names. “Oh my God – Such Irish Catholic names! It makes me afraid! Like I shouldn’t cuss in front of you guys or something!”

Ann and I laughed – but it was forced – I felt forced, anyway. But it was okay. I understand territories. I understood her need to stake her claim. M. is her territory now. She needed to subtly let me know that.

We laughed obligingly and I said, “Dont’ sweat it. We’re fallen cherubs.” Which perhaps was not the most appropriate thing to say, seeing as I was trying to be un-threatening and normal. [After sending someone a gourd?]

But it was okay, because she didn’t really hear me.

“Is this your first time seeing the show?” she asked.

“Yes…” we both said, and she then told this very long story about M.’s opening night, and his problems with his costume and Ann and I listened and laughed where we should laugh and neither of us said a word. I may sound like I’m being a bitch here but I’m not. I do not begrudge her this at all. I probably would have acted the same way.

During her entire story, what I was REALLY hearing was her silent subtext, which was: “He’s mine. He’s mine now. He’s mine now.” Of course. I would have done the same thing. She kept using the words “my boyfriend”. She never ever said his name. It was “my boyfriend, my boyfriend, my boyfriend…” Again, a territorial thing.

She was very dramatic. Smoking a cigarette, very glamorous, the shadows of her eyelashes, the pale pale skin.

At the end of her story, M. came back and joined us (having regrouped his awkward emotions in the bathroom. I relate.)

I felt that my job in this entire awkward exchange was to cut EVERYBODY slack. Let them be weird, awkward, hostile, strange – while I remained cool and gracious and friendly. I think, all in all, it worked.

He was sweet with her. Very protective. Obviously proud of her. It was heartwarming to see. Love sits well on him. It really does.

I did tell him I hated his mustache though and told him he looked like a sleaze-ball.

[Ed: Guys – I seriously cannot breathe right now. I am dying of laughter. I saw no contradiction, apparently, by saying that I was cutting everyone slack -and then turning around and telling him TO HIS FACE that he looked like a sleazeball. I can’t breathe. .]

Ann and I raved to him about the show. We told him our stomachs hurt from laughing. At one point, Angie walked away to talk to someone. And suddenly – spontaneously – wonderfully – M. put his arms around me and gave me this huge and (of course, what else) very awkward hug. We could never be anything but awkward in this situation, but it is the friendliest most okay awkwardness on the planet. We revel in the awkwardness.

I wasn’t expecting him to hug me like that. We were never big huggers anyway. So I kind of awkwardly hugged him back, and I just could feel this gladness emanating off of him. Glad-ness to see me, and so happy to introduce me to his new girl. Closure. Or something.

Who would have ever thought …

He asked me questions about Ithaca and the show I did.

At one point I said, “M.. You wearing a crown. I mean, come on. It’s so funny.”

I said to Mitchell later, “It is so weird. Because – essentially – the role he has played in my life has been quite peripheral.”

Mitchell said, “Yeah. But also, at the same time, somehow profound.”

Perfectly put. M. has been peripheral and yet somehow profound.

I said to him, “Oh hey, my CD should be coming out next month!” (Oh, it’s my CD now?)

[Ed: The CD to which I refer was a duet I did with Pat McCurdy on this album. M. and I had been together when Pat wrote the song for me, and asked me to do it – so there was some background there.]

M. knew exactly what I was talking about – he lit up with interest.

“You’re on it?”

“So I hear. So check your local Tower Records in December.”

M. beamed at me with pride.

He then said, “Well. I should probably get going.”

I reached out and touched his arm. “Great show, M.. It is so good to see you.”

He said, at the same time, “Thanks for coming, Sheila. You too.”

I said, “Please tell Angie we said good-bye, won’t you?”

“I will, I will.”

We were both strangely moved. I can’t explain it. We were strangely moved.

We backed away, saying, “Bye!”

We are both the better for having had that exchange. For whatever reason. The whole thing. Meeting Angie. Maybe she can relax about me now. I hope so. I wish him the best. In all things.

But still. Sending him a gourd.

I certainly rescued my night from the death mask spiral. It was epic. I’m very happy. In a very goofy way.