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Chapter Ten - One Once More - |
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We separated. She took an apartment with a roommate and I remained in our place. Staying there was a huge mistake. I should have also moved out and started over in a place with no ghosts. Perhaps I thought this was going to be a temporary situation and I should hold onto ‘our’ apartment till she moved back. But for now, she was gone and I was left to my own self-destructive devices. As I tortured myself with detailed imagery of my wife’s dalliance, it became very important to me that I not be the subject of any conversation between her and her new boyfriend. I was afraid that each word that left her mouth and reached his ear would rob me of a piece of my soul. That fear’s first cousin was a phobia of having my picture taken by tourists who might catch me as they roam the city, camcorders in hand. The idea of accidentally starring in a stranger’s home movie was distasteful. I didn’t want them to find me amusing or repulsive or attractive or anything. I wanted not to affect someone without my consent -- a little odd, coming from someone who spent life chasing after attention by strapping on a guitar and making an ass of himself in front of strangers. It occurred to me that the women appearing in men’s magazines might suffer a similar anxiety. My skin would crawl at the thought of someone masturbating to my picture. I almost canceled my subscription to Playboy. Almost. Centerfold models floated around my neighborhood, sharing the wealth at the cafes and coffee bars. I wondered if I engaged one in conversation, how would I reconcile that the flesh before me was the living version of the photo that had inspired me to touch myself? We had a relationship, this Model and I, and she didn’t even know it. Just how far could I get into the conversation before the Model picked up on the exact nature of our relationship, got creeped out, and left my vicinity? Bad enough to use a stranger for that purpose, what about the times when one uses the image of a friend while doing the necessary work? My acquaintances were certainly fair game in those crucial moments. Was it possible I served a similar function for the girls (or guys) I knew? I spent a lot of time looking into their souls for a sign and even conducted an informal poll of the women -- asking my male friends, gay or straight, was simply out of the question. Women that gravitate toward me tend to not be put off by my candid way of turning a phrase. I managed to squeeze out a few details from them. Interesting stuff. All those I questioned admitted to having used a personally known individual in their singular sex, though most, when conjuring an image of a person, ended up in the arms and mouth of certain expected celebrities. And the fantasies tended to be more situational than object-oriented. Yet for all the frankness of my queries, I couldn’t bring myself to ask if I had ever served that purpose for them. What if I had? What if I hadn’t? I couldn’t handle knowing either way. Besides, I had more pressing concerns. Here I was, single again for the first time in years. I had to learn how to be charming all over again. Truth be told, I had to learn to be charming in the first place. In Wisconsin, my local rock star status allowed me to substitute rude for polite at will. Girls did all the work for me. I never had to know how to approach them, so I never learned how. Being a Somebody drew them to me. But since arriving in California I was a big fat Nobody. I was known only at Madame Wong’s, which was a scene on the decline. If not for Wong’s, I might never have had sex again. Not to say that I didn’t run into obstacles there. New Year’s Eve during the Year of Twenty-Nine, I was shot down harder than I thought possible and I wasn’t even hitting on anyone. A rival club, The Cathouse, had rented out Wong’s for its annual year-end bash. The place was crawling starlets and porno queens in the making. I crossed paths with a very short skirt on the stairs. Just out of common politeness, I gave her a quick hello as we squeezed past one another. Short Skirt gave me the once over and sneered, “I don’t think so.” Whoa! What the hell did I do to deserve that? Much to my horror, I soon discovered that my politeness was very much uncommon in these parts. Short Skirt was merely practicing what constituted acceptable behavior among girls in Hollywood. So that’s what it was like for the girls I used to abuse back home. Unfortunately, my fear of staying in the house had kicked into overdrive, which put me out on the rude streets of L.A. literally every night. At the corner of Doheny and Sunset a car full of young girls pulled up along my left side. I hadn’t even looked at them when one shouted, “Oh my god! Look at that nose!” Well, duh. Anyone with functioning eyes can see that the Nose arrives an instant before the rest of my face. But doesn’t anyone in this god-forsaken place have any manners? “Yes,” I shot back, “it can smell a lot of things.” I sniffed the air twice. “For instance, your crotch. You really ought to wash it.” Proud as I was of my snappy retort, I was truly saddened that it was necessary. I blame her parents for not swatting her mouth the first time she said “Fuck you, mom.” I could sense The Nose was feeling sad and self-conscious. “It’s all right, pal,” I tried to be comforting, “You didn’t do anything wrong.” So this is what I had to look forward to. These were the girls I was to be attracted to, spend my hard earned dough on, and try to impress? It was a bleak period in history. Long hair and tattoos were in season. I had just cut my hair and had yet to mutilate my arm. Later that same night, I was leaning on the bar at the Palace relaying my encounter with the car full of obvious girls to a Rock Dude with long blonde hair. As we chatted, a drop-dread gorgeous Brunette in a low-cut top gave him a hand job through his pants. “Man, I couldn’t believe what a bunch of bitches they were,” I complained. “Yeah, I’ve got a big cock,” he answered by way of a matter-of-fact non sequitur. “Well, that’s something we have in common,” I joked, hoping the Brunette might take notice. I must have accidentally donned my invisible cloak that night. Rock Dude laughed at my remark, and then pulled the Brunette’s hand away from his wiener. “Knock it off,” he told her. She was dejected. I was astounded. Had it been my Wiener, my Hand would have bloody well minded its own business. I was not in for a pleasant ride.
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