“Why are you being a bitch? Just talk…let me in.” He blinked blankly and waited.
With seething disgust I released the pressure on the door and turned to sit on the corner of the hotel bed. “What?” I pressed both hands into the mattress and straightened my elbows.
“What’s your problem?” He gently shut the door behind him.
“I fucking hate you, Aaron. You are a prick.” With arms crossed, I stood to meet him at eye level, so he could see how much he disgusted me. “I’m not sleeping with you again. I have lost my mother fucking mind. I’m married, I can’t stand you, and I have no idea why I did that.”
“Good.” Aaron was very matter-of-fact. “That’s exactly what I wanted to talk about.”
“Well, good for you. Get the hell out of my room,” I directed.
“Jesus, I’m not a total dick head. You must like me a little to sleep with me.”
“It’s called being lonely, Aaron. That’s all that was. Are you done?” I cocked my head to the side and placed both hands on my hips.
“Why did you sleep with me?” His demeanor changed and I believe Asshole Aaron left his own body. What remained was a nicer, sensitive version.
My tone softened to accommodate the new person standing before me. “I honestly don’t know. Why do you put on such a front?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s a defense.”
“You hurt people, Aaron, with your words and your tantrums. Get it together, man. One of these days, you are going to step to the wrong person, and they will fuck you up, no questions asked.”
“I know. You’re the only one that tells me this shit. I didn’t think it was this bad.”
“It’s that bad, man. I can’t stand your ass, but I know there is a good person in there somewhere.” I pushed my index finger into his pectoral muscle.
Aaron smirked. “I can’t stand you, either. All right, sorry to bother you. I am leaving. Can I get a hug?” He held his arms open and looked at me with sad puppy eyes.
I reluctantly gave Aaron a hug, which turned into sex. Immediately afterward we argued. He called me a cunt after the belt I threw cut his face. I wished many morbid deaths to come his way, but we never, ever, did that again.
Natalia’s attempts to cheer me up became few. The stress of the show, long hours, bus rides, unfamiliar bug-ridden hotels, transportation breakdowns, and the accidents months before had everyone on edge. We were exhausted. When Natalia ,aka “skank-honeia,” had the time to engage in happy conversation, I took it for more than it was worth. Maybe that’s why she didn’t talk to me as much. My belief was there was something going on between us that we had to hide. So, I dismissed her coldness as some sort of lovers’ spat that was one-hundred-percent nonexistent to her mind. It wasn’t until after September of 2001, when the Twin Towers of New York fell, that she began talking to me regularly.
Our tour continued, but once we arrived at our new venue, we were on lockdown until further notice. Luckily for us, the venue was the Presidio of Monterey in California. What a fantastic place to be on lockdown for an unknown length of time, minus the shitty circumstances.
Our accommodations were three blocks uphill from the docks where seals could be heard barking at night. I’m sure, with the weather as perfect as it was for that time of year, the docks were a busy place most days, but it was exceptionally quiet after 9/11.
There were no people walking the docks, no boats and their horns, no cars looking for parking or pedestrians trying to find their way. All of the novelty shops on the boardwalk were locked up with shades drawn. The colorful pinwheels outside of some of the little kiosks, which would have been desired by visiting children, spun in the wind. Rainbow streamers blew and flapped in the direction of the water that gently licked the base of the dock. The charming, warm place was sad and empty. People vacated every inch of the little town, either out of respect or fear.
Natalia and I ignored our lockdown order and snuck out one midafternoon to see the town in search for a place to eat. We walked for what seemed like two hours to find a place that was actually open. Luckily, it was a sushi restaurant, which we had grown accustomed to finding at each venue with a scheduled extended stay.
On the exceptionally long walk through winding uphill roads, we tried to talk about something other than the reality of what could happen to us as soldiers in the army. We actually started smiling and laughing at ourselves, something that seemed taboo in the wake of 9/11, when the alarms from the fallen firefighters were beginning to fade forever.
The possibility of being pulled off of the tour to be soldiers-in-combat weighed heavily on each cast member from the moment we became aware of the situation. It had been for days; laughter seemed a forbidden fruit. But we did and it felt so good, we were actually giddy with it.
The restaurant was more upscale, but they let us in with our shorts and sneakers because it was empty. The waiter walked us to our table, a huge crescent-shaped booth meant for a large family. We scooted in from one side, shimmying our butts over the fake leather to the inner most bend of the table, giggling all the way. Natalia sat to my left but moved close enough for our arms to touch. The unfamiliar surroundings, the ice water, and the absence of people made everything cold.
Natalia inched closer to me. We snapped a few photos of the momentous occasion. We talked and shared and laughed. Above us, traditional high-pitched pangs of mandolins and flutes played from a stereo system hidden in the ceiling. From the kitchen, a television, turned to the lowest setting, hummed the latest devastation from New York.
Trying to regain normalcy and happiness in the moments we shared was futile. I read into unintentional flirtation and was too comfortable. During a fit of laughter, my hand eventually rested on her knee. There were no attempts to move it or lean in for a kiss. Simply removing my hand would have prevented what happened next. In one unexpected, swift motion Natalia slapped my hand off of her knee as she attempted to muffle a shout, “Don’t touch me in public!”
She looked left and right to see if anyone had seen my indiscretion. I gently placed my hands in my lap and sunk into the booth. We didn’t linger on the subject; we moved on as if my behavior was that of a misbehaving child who foolishly cursed and was reprimanded. Immediately, she punished me and forgave the incident. By the time we left, that small moment in time had passed. Forgotten, like so many other small moments in a day.
Of course, my cache of rejections was growing. I harbored those words in the back of my brain with the others: “Don’t call me again. I’m not gay!” “You had your chance.” “I’m sorry, but I am really into Rick.” Natalia hurt me as if I had never met a girl like her before. I was becoming sort of a connoisseur at this old hat.
Edwyn Collins, British indie musician, hit the nail on the head with his lyrics to “A Girl Like You.” Collins’s song is the perfect background for how my rejection memories make me feel. The fantastic late sixties-ish percussion with seventies electric guitar rock riffs blend for a powerful, gritty heartbeat under his voice, which is reminiscent of early David Bowie and Bob Dylan, if they were lovers and produced a child. His voice is “sloshy and dry,” like he chain smokes in shitty basement bars after a few shots of whiskey.
It makes me want to hunt these women down and blast it on the street from my car in retribution. There’s a lot of pleasure in thinking of opening my car doors and waiting for them to come out of their homes to inspect the cause of the riffraff. Once they realized it was me in a leather jacket, black raccoon eyeliner, and punk hair, I would give them a double fuck-you-flip-off with motorcycle-gloved hands, fingertips exposed, of course, because that looks super bad ass when you are driving around in your…Honda? It makes sense in my fuck-you fantasy, so work with me here. Anyway, they would open their screen doors to ask, “Emma, is that you?”