The booze was beginning to lose its effects. There was pressure and ripping of thin tender tissues, yet I let it continue until Gordon came and she slumped over me.
The three of us dressed and walked back to the car in silence, where Natalia threw up the contents of her stomach on the sacred ground. Gordon drove us to a gas station so she could clean herself up. What a fucking gentleman.
On our way through the concession area, Gordon pulled me to the side to tell me that I must have started my period because there was blood dripping down my leg. It was bright red, almost to my knee, and partially dried. I scurried quickly to the bathroom, where Natalia was walking out of the stall wiping her mouth on her forearm. As I washed my leg with a wet paper towel, Natalia asked me what happened.
“You cut me, you bitch.” I scrubbed harder to get the dried part off.
Natalia rinsed her mouth out with water and apologized a million times with slurred words, which included reminding me that she was drunk, before she wobbled out of the bathroom with her hand over her eyes. It was a very quiet ride back to our rooms.
After showering in my hotel room, guilt and confusion wove itself into the emptiness I felt. It was not supposed to happen the way it did. I hated Gordon for being there and hated Natalia for doing it for his entertainment. But no one forced me to participate.
By the time Doug visited Arizona, I already confessed the sex with Natalia. I cannot remember if I omitted Gordon’s participation because it was petrifying or because it was unimportant due to the lack of physical contact.
Either way I was preoccupied with how Natalia was ignoring me and how she was having some sort of mental breakdown. She took the opportunity to see a mental health professional the very weekend my husband flew in from Germany. This meant extra rehearsals to cover her solo numbers during the time I was supposed to share with him. One night, after a late rehearsal, while having a smoke break, I secretly watched her sneak off with some guy.
“That skank just left with some dude. She looks all dressed up to go out, too. Of all the fucking times she could see a professional, she picks the one weekend you are here; and here she is going on a date. ‘Breakdown,’ my ass. Look, you can still see her walking to his car!”
From his relaxed position on the bed, he said, “Emma, get away from the window and just forget it. You should be happy because I am here.”
“I know. I am. She’s just ruining it, though. Pisses me off.”
“It’s not that serious, Emma.” Doug ended my bitch session with a reality check and a smile.
After weeks of rejection from my only confidant on tour, loneliness forced me to befriend one person who disgusted me. His name was Aaron and he was an asshole. No one on the tour understood his sarcastic humor enough to get close. He was happy being a jerk. Just when you thought he was an okay guy, he would say some degrading shit, instantly making him Asshole Aaron again.
However, it was sunburn that caused him to show a small level of vulnerability. Apparently, he fell asleep face down near a pool and fried his back. In constant pain he begged for someone to smooth aloe over the seared skin. No one offered sympathy but me. After volunteering, the routine ran twice a day for quite some time, even after it peeled dead skin away exposing new pink flesh. It lasted nearly twenty minutes each time because it had to be executed very carefully. In all honesty, he should have seen a doctor, it was so bad. Aaron began to speak to me on another level during our aloe appointments and was actually a nice guy. Then, as soon as his shirt was on again, he turned into instant fucktard. There was deep, sincere hatred for each other, yet, before long, we sat together to share life stories. I reluctantly admit we had our moments of laughter, but I assure you, in my head, his untimely death was planned in so many ways.
It was a strange relationship. We argued in the wings, during rehearsals, and vocal practice. We never agreed on anything unless it was aloe time, sleepy time, or joke time. We yelled at each other during the setup of production lights and tear-downs. At some point, arguing wasn’t enough, so we became physical.
His verbal abuse was not going to go unnoticed. I demanded respect from him when he threw temper tantrums, which were often. Once, Aaron became angry when a bolt wouldn’t loosen enough to disassemble the front lighting grid, so, in a fit, he threw a ten-inch steel bolt wrench near my foot. I immediately screamed, “What the hell is wrong with you, fucking psycho?” before charging him with a hammer in my hand. At the last second my hand released the hammer, enabling me to push him on his ass where he flipped over the grid that was propped on the floor.
“I’m sick of your shit and your goddamn temper tantrums!” My scream was fierce and direct. The hammer near my foot moved as I lunged forward. Instinctively my grip constricted around the handle. “You want me to throw this mother fucker at YOU?!”
Aaron tried to get up as quickly as he could, but the grid restricted his limbs. His face flushed angry red to pale white, then to red again. “Fuckin’ bitch, I’ll kill you!”
The rest of the crew who initially stopped to investigate the commotion dropped what they were doing and ran over as fast as they could. A technician restrained Aaron before he could get his balance. Someone grabbed my arm but not in time to prevent my lunge and my free hand from slapping him across the face. Considering this was a military function with all ranks in the crew, we could have been in serious trouble. It was assault by both parties.
They told Aaron to take a break and moved me to do lights in another section. We ignored each other at every passing moment; however, on stage, the show must go on. Our audiences were none the wiser. We smiled and danced hand in hand, as if we were a Disney-on-Ice couple.
The stress of the shows began with lack of sleep and the eventual seven bus breakdowns, including a major five-car accident somewhere in Delaware. We were away from our support networks of family and friends, which made dealing with personal issues very difficult unless you had a friend on the tour. It’s no surprise these semi-forced relationships always cracked.
When Aaron finally apologized on his own, it was obvious he needed my friendship to make him feel part of the team again. Notice, he didn’t necessarily want it. I accepted his apology and, for a time, things were good between us. Then it was back to arguing as usual. It never got physically abusive again, but it did get physical.
If the good Lord and baby Jesus could tell me why the hell we slept together, I still wouldn’t believe him. There was absolutely no chemistry! There was no compatibility on top of the fact that we wished horrible deaths upon the other. So, when I cried about it, guilt-ridden for cheating on my husband, justification became the pressures of the show and Natalia’s rejection. We continued to argue and express genuine hatred after it happened. Then we did it again, and I was horrified. My roommate suspected more infidelity despite my denials. My proclamation was that it was not going to happen again, because of marriage. Additionally, Aaron was an abomination to mankind! My plan was to forget him. Out of mind, out of sight.
Separation worked until Aaron surprised me one night with a knock on my motel door at one of the venues where I had a room to myself. It transformed into an opportunity to rebuke his name.
“What the fuck do you want, Aaron?” I angrily said through my teeth as he stood in the hallway.
“Shut up, we need to talk.” He stepped forward in an attempt to grant himself access to my room. I pushed the door closed, but his foot had made it a few inches across the threshold, which was the only reason it actually stopped short from slamming in his face.
“No, we don’t. I’m going to bed. Move your foot.”