Outro: The Serial Novel

Sixteen

Ruby

Time for New York

It’s amazing how quickly you can find yourself adopted. But then, I did have a strategy. Before I even finished unpacking. I began hunting down obscure little theater groups, with the object of finagling my way into receptions and cast parties. Which was easy, because I knew the key. There is nothing more life-draining than investing large portions of yourself into a production, only to be faced with some turd at the reception who says, “You know, I’m an actor, too!” And to be forced to be nice to them, because either 1) they’re friends with someone in the company, or 2) they actually paid money to see you.

The road to popularity, then, was to engage theater folk without once mentioning your status as a fellow traveler. Also, of course, I was one hot little chick. Garnering invitations from men was a cinch – even gay men, who seemed to invest me with a sort of Judy Garland vibe.

Two weeks after my arrival, I journeyed to this little hole-in-the wall behind a coffeehouse in the East Village, where they were doing a little-remembered surrealist play from the forties. The plot wound around itself like a suicidal passion vine, but the show was intriguing nonetheless, firing along on rapid patter and brilliant illogic, simultaneously seen and unseen, as if you were watching it under a strobelight. In the end, I couldn’t tell you what had just occurred, but I relished having my head screwed with, and my face was warm with laughter.

The director and lead actor was Joe Green, a strapping young man who was playing (depending on which version of the story you were buying into) either an insurance detective or an out-of-work mailman. His features were extremely Italian: Roman ringlets of black hair, thick eyebrows, dark brown eyes and a generous nose with a boxer’s break. For all I knew, he could be a wiseguy. But he spoke like a director, bits of Bronx breaking through like fossilized ribs at an archaeological dig.

I cornered him at the reception, which was pretty easy to do. Lacking surplus space, they held it onstage, and Joe had enthroned himself on the central fixture, a turn-of-the-century barber’s chair. As we spoke, I commendeered a straight-razor (which turned out to be plastic) and pretended to give him a shave.

“I suppose I should tell you about the name.”

“Yeah? What about the name?”

“It’s Anglicized.”

“From what? Salvatore Frangiatelli?”

“Giuseppe Verdi.”

I stopped to even up his sideburns. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t that name already taken?”

“Yeah. And my parents aren’t even opera fans. What the hell were they thinkin’? When I entered the thee-uh-tuh, I saw my chance. Stage name: Joe Green.”

“Chin up, please. But how’d you get from one to the other?”

Facing ceilingward, he cocked an eyebrow. “You’re a smart girl – figure it out. I didn’t say ‘changed.’ I said ‘Anglicized.’”

Pretty cocky for a guy with a blade at his throat, I thought. I geared up the brainbox and came up with Giuseppe. Joseph. Joe. Verdi. Verdant. Green.

“Holy shit!”

“There you go. Imagine yourself going through life as, I don’t know – ‘Barbra Streisand.’”

“Okay. I get the picture.”

“Because you’re a singer, right?”

Uh-oh. “Nope.”

“Actor?”

“Nuh-uh.”

He laughed.

“Hey!” I said. “You lookin’ to get yourself sliced?”

“Sorry. It’s just so rare to talk to someone who doesn’t have a theater agenda. And an actual personality. So what is it that you do?”

“Florist shop.”

(Actually, I was delivering for a florist shop – pretty reckless, considering I had just hit town, and was constantly getting lost. But the owners were my cousins, and I was – Oh God – competent.)

“God! I love florist shops. That wall of fragrance that just smacks you when you walk in the door. So… if I’m getting this right, when it comes to the stage, you are an absolute layperson.”

“You got it.”

“So tell me about the play tonight. Nothing you’ve read or heard. Tell me what you think.”

I ran the razor along my teeth. “Knock-knock.”

Joe blinked. “Oh, um… Who’s there?”

“Surrealist.”

“Surrealist who?”

“Broccoli.”

That got him. He laughed, and I noticed what a great mouth he had. His lips were thick, like they’d been bruised in a fight. Poor baby, can I kiss it?

“So. What’s your point?”

“Surrealism,” I said, “is always just that close to being a joke. One… vegetable… away. So it’s all left to architecture, and delivery. Give it a solid structure, find some good actors to play it – it can be fucking brilliant. Lose either one – it melts like cheese in a microwave.”

Joe rubbed his freshly shorn (cleft) chin.

“What about tonight?”

I used the razor to tap him on the head. “I’m still here, ain’t I? Chatting with the director? If you really need me to spell it out, I loved it, and the best thing about it was you.”

He hid his face behind his hands – purely an act, because he was fully aware of how good he was. When he peeked out, I could see that his irises had tiny copper-brown chips that flashed when he moved.

“I need you.”

Gulp. “Pardon?”

“I’m workshopping a play. And I have had it shoveling the bullshit from the theater-folk with their aesthetic agendas and secret jealousies. I need a fresh set of eyes. What are you doing Friday night?”

I unleashed my most devilish smile. “I’m going to a play reading.”

Next: Playing for the Other Team

Purchase the book at: http://www.amazon.com/Outro-Michael-J-Vaughn/dp/1440111405/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1231020486&sr=8-1

Image by MJV.

Outro: The Serial Novel

Chapter Fifteen

Don’t Fall in Love with a Gamer

Channy


I knew I couldn’t go long without a job, so I tooled around Sumner in my truck, which seemed to be grateful to be off the Alcan and back on civilized blacktop. It took a dozen applications and three interviews, but I managed to land a spot as a stock girl at a grocery store called the Red Apple. I have to admit, the work was pretty brutal, especially when it came to the canned goods.

Given my cashiering experience, however, I knew I wouldn’t be stocking for long. Within a month, I was moved up to checkout, and life was good. I always liked cashiering. The multi-tasking always keeps things interesting: weigh the produce, take the coupons, swipe the ATM cards (“Cash back with that?”) all the while maintaining a conversation with the customer – remembering their names, their habits. Carol Mastere, schoolteacher, buys an unbelievable variety of hair care products. John Varna, guitarist for a wedding band, likes those fruity malt liquor drinks. I took great satisfaction in the idea that part of my job was to engage people.

Harvey was also hard at work – setting up his game room. But I really had no grounds to complain. Whether from his own savings or a generous sendoff from his family, he had cash aplenty, and was nice enough to pay the deposit and first month’s rent. He found a used console and TV, hooked up the sound to a stereo from Goodwill, and was off on his adventures. Some days, I would leave for work with Harvey plugged in, jiggling the control stick as he leaned forward on an office chair, and return eight hours later to find him still there. I had no evidence that his butt had ever left the seat.

Perhaps I am naïve in the ways of gaming, but all of his favorites seemed to be ultra-violent. The gore-lust of the post-adolescent male is well-known, but it didn’t match up with the mellow young man from the Signpost Forest.

His particular favorite was Katacomb, in which the protagonist prowls an endless network of subterranean chambers – very bleak and industrial – trying to off an army of mutants and cyborgs before they off him. When he shot these critters, they exploded in a detailed quick-flash inventory of everything that had once been on their insides. Harvey’s nickname for Katacomb was Kill the Fucks.

His second favorite was Squadron Zero, a situational game in which the protagonist leads his men through constantly shifting World War II scenarios (you could choose from European, North African or Pacific theaters). The game demanded constant split-second decisions about the men and their movements. Wrong choices met with immediate and graphic punishment: hand grenades, strafing runs and mortars that separated men from their limbs with splashy relish. The part that freaked me out the most were the sniper attacks. Private Rodriguez would be resting on a log, calmly discussing a poker game or his girlfriend’s latest letter when a bullet would penetrate his temple and his eyes would go cold, like someone had turned a switch. Once all his men died, the captain received a vivid image of his own demise, his vision blurring out as a wash of blood drifted over the screen.

The game’s language was peppered with what you might call the military liturgy: words like freedom, glory, duty, honor. I was always skeptical of such words. WWII seems like one of the few times they weren’t being used largely to gain power or line someone’s pockets. To Harvey, though, it was a pivotal element of the game. He began his sessions by raising a tiny American flag along the TV antenna – with the help of a small rope-and-pulley attachment – while humming the “Star-Spangled Banner.” Then he cranked himself up on two cups of strong black coffee, served lukewarm so he could down them like shots of tequila. After that, he fired up the stereo and played “All Along the Watchtower” – the Hendrix version. He said there was something about the “crackle” of it, the chaotic intensity, that reminded him of a battlefield. As if he’d ever been on a battlefield.

Weirdness, yes. Lots of weirdness. But I was duly compensated. For a boy, he was very neat. He began to take an interest in cooking. Whenever I arrived home, he immediately put his game on pause so he could give me a proper greeting. And the sex was outstanding. It was like I had jumped from the bunny slopes to the black diamonds in a single afternoon.

One night, I got home late, about eleven. I was exhausted – it was just before Labor Day, and everybody was stocking up. Harvey, however, was amped, and incorrigible. He kept teasing all my hot spots until my libido rose from the dead. The intercourse was bruisingly physical, and although I hurt a little afterward, it was a friendly pain – like I was soaking in a tub of my own hormones. I reached over and walked my fingers up his sternum.

“Not that I’m complaining, but what the hell got into you tonight?”

He flashed a boyish smile. “I got to level 24 on Squadron Zero. I’ve never been there before. God! It’s so intense! You’re constantly a finger-snap away from everything going straight to hell. You have to decide on the action and execute the action at almost the same moment, or you’re dead. What a buzz!”

I had no idea what to say. My great physical pleasure inspired by a video game? I was torn between slapping him silly or telling him to by all means, go play some more! I was sitting on the edge of my bed, puzzling this out, when Harvey knelt behind me and started a neckrub. At this, he was an absolute artist. No one else ever applied enough leverage. He could reach all these places far beneath the skin. But there was the pattern again: absolute weirdness followed by immediate compensation.

“I have other news,” he said. “I got a job.”

I decided not to look at him; I was afraid I would look too relieved. “Really? Where?”

“That’s the killer. It’s right across the street – the little center with the pawn shop? On the far side, there’s a store that sells video games. And now, I sell video games.”

Like an alcoholic working in a bar, I thought, but I bolted my smile firmly in place. “That’s wonderful!”

“I’m also joining the Army National Guard.”

And there I was, puzzled again. “I’m not sure I…”

“My dad used to do it. It’s a great deal. One weekend a month, and a two-week training camp once a year. The benefits are great – maybe even some money for college. And it’s based at Ft. Lewis, which is, like, twenty miles from here. And as far as the danger, you’re only called to duty for floods, riots – the occasional alien invasion. Meanwhile, I get to play with some pretty wicked toys.”

“Jesus!” I said. “When you get going, you really get going. Just be careful with those toys. I intend to get a lot more use out of you.”

“I’m sure they’ll keep me in line,” he said. His neckrub stalled out. “Would you mind if I, um… killed some fucks before bedtime? I’m still pretty wired.”

I turned around and gave him a kiss. “Yes, honey. Go kill some fucks.”

I rolled over and drifted right to sleep, thinking that this was not the kind of pillow talk that most girls took to dreamland.


Next: Surrealism in the East Village

Purchase the book at: http://www.amazon.com/Outro-Michael-J-Vaughn/dp/1440111405/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1231020486&sr=8-1


Image by MJV.

Outro: The Serial Novel

Chapter Fourteen, Part II

Toy Time


I’m just about ready to start when Ruby brings up a large cardboard box.

“Is it time for Girl Scout cookies already?”

“Time for fun,” she says. “Ya got yer maracas, a cowbell, claves, two extraordinarily chintzy tambourines, and le piece de resistance…”

She extracts a plastic toy guitar, the color of spoiled tangerines. It appears to have strings – tuning pegs, even – but I can’t imagine that it produces actual music.

“I’m not sure I get it.”

“It’s an air guitar!” she says. “Only… without the air. Imagine all the fun our grownup little boys will have with this.”

Ruby waits for a reaction, but it doesn’t seem to be coming.

“What is the matter with you, Channy? Showtime! Time to bury your real feelings and pretend you’re happy!”

I take the guitar and run a hand over the strings. “Sorry, Ruby. I don’t know what it is. Perhaps I have released too many ghosts.”

She pats me on the knee. “That’s all right. Soon we’ll have music.”

I adjust one of the pegs and hand it back to her.

“Your G-string was loose.”

She smiles. “Straight lines will get you nowhere.”



The toys are an enormous hit. But first I’m careful to set some ground rules. No joining in on percussion unless you’re invited. I am ever-cognizant of singers’ rights, and I’ve seen what a tambourine can do in the wrong hands.

In a case of utter ethnic stereotype, it turns out that Kevin the Cop and his Puerto Rican hands have the best rhythm. He plays the tam as I sing Melissa Etheridge’s “I Want to Come Over” – spare and tasty in the verses, loud and broad in the chorus. It really does add a lively acoustic edge to the prefab sound.

Our supreme guitarist is Harry Baritone – who, as it turns out, used to be in a garage band, so really, that’s cheating. Ruby keeps ordering up Led Zeppelin songs just to keep him occupied. When she does “Back in Black” by AC/DC, he’s on the floor, on his knees, literally bending over backwards.

“You’ll notice,” I say, “that although we singers make little mistakes all the time, Harry never misses a note on guitar.”

Our finale is Harry singing (and pseudo-playing) “Smooth” by Santana, which naturally brings out the entire percussion section: Kevin on cowbell, Shari and Caroleen on tams, me on maracas and Alex on claves. We’ve got a whole damn band, really, and our noisy finish earns a rousing applause from the Petersons, elderly captain and captain’s wife of the Scuttlebutt.

Ruby gives me a wink and a smile as she and Harry make for the exit (no doubt about it, those two are having crazy, nasty sex tonight). Hamster brings me a cup of coffee, and I begin the process of sorting song slips into envelopes (a new “archiving” service I have begun for my singers). I’m just about done when I feel a large presence behind me, and turn to find Shari, wearing a friendly but anxious expression.

“Hi,” I say.

She kneels next to me, bringing our eyes level, and dives right in.

“The thing is, I thought I was your confidante. Maybe it sounds weird, but shit… it was important to me. And now you’re always with Ruby – and it’s a little hard to figure out how that happened. So now, this evening, you’re out there smoking cigars with her on the pier. I guess I’m feeling all, out of the loop. I’m sorry…”

She stands and turns away, embarrassed by her feelings. I’m utterly at a loss – maybe because I had no idea how much it meant to her; maybe because now I’m feeling really stupid.

“God, Shari. I’m sorry; you’re absolutely right. I guess it doesn’t make much sense – but I’m getting some really shitty stuff out of my system right now, and it’s just easier to tell Ruby. You’re too close; you’re too… nice.”

She turns back, her eyes growing damp. “You know you can tell me anything, right?”

“I know I’m allowed to tell you anything. And I will, I’m sure. But… I guess this is like psychotherapy on the cheap, and before I go telling anyone besides Ruby, I need to figure it out for myself. Hey, let me buy you a drink. Then we’ll go to the pier and smoke a couple more.”

She laughs, just a little. “What kind of fool am I? I just talked myself into a ragweed cigar.”

“Hey, Ham!” I yell. “Set up my pal Shari with a vodka gimlet.”

“Yes, ma’am!” he says.



So here I am, back at the pier. Is this really catharsis, or am I just chasing pneumonia? It’s much colder than before, but at least it’s not snowing. I light up Shari, then me, and study my little tobacco soldiers, down to a quartet.

“God! I’m such a Needy Nancy,” says Shari. “It’s all so… high school.”

“High school never ends,” I say. Being a guru is easy – you just find a few good phrases and keep repeating them. “Anyway, Shari, I’m glad you told me. Because tonight I have some very special business to attend to, and I can’t do it alone.”

I reach into my bag and pull out Kai’s metallic care package.

“Oh God,” says Shari. “It’s Pandora’s cashbox.”

“Yes,” I say. “But it’s also one object away from empty, so – just keep me from jumping in the water, okay?”

I take a deep breath and push the metal tab, then reach into the lower compartment and extract a jeweler’s box, covered in dark blue velvet. I click it open, revealing something shiny and military. I’m scared, so I hand it to Shari, who dangles it in front of her face so she can study it in the far-off light from the waterfront.

“My God, honey. It’s a purple heart.”

I take another breath and look for the words embossed on the inside of the box: Kai Sharwa. I toss my cigar into the water. It lands with a hiss.


Next: Loving a Gamer


Purchase the book at: http://www.amazon.com/Outro-Michael-J-Vaughn/dp/1440111405/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1231020486&sr=8-1


Image by MJV.

Outro: The Serial Novel

Chapter Fourteen, Part I

Smokin’ Ruby


Ruby takes a deep drag and lets it out on a “Phew!”

“That is one nasty smoke, girlfriend!”

I fondle my last box, reviewing the six soldiers lined up inside. “They’ve been through a lot.”

“Where are they from?”

“Iraq.” I give a glance around the pier. Halfway down, there’s a mid-sized yacht – an old one, lots of lovely wooden trim. The Scuttlebutt, Port Angeles. One of the mast lines is draped in white Christmas lights – which is either way too early for the holidays or simply a year-round decoration.

“I can’t tell you more than that,” I say. “It’s part of the story. I usually perform this little ritual after karaoke, but I assume you’ll be heading out with your boyfriend.”

Ruby performs a smoke-take. “Phew! ‘Boyfriend’? God, that is so high school.”

“High school never ends, Ruby.”

“You’re tellin’ me. Check out the theater scene sometime. Well, my goodness!”

She’s reacting to the snow, which is falling in wet, wet flakes that seem to melt inches from the ground. It’s a bracing sight. Through the thickening flurry I see the flashing crosswalk on Harborview, which provides a poor man’s catwalk for a tall model with a mane of white hair. But it’s really blonde, and it’s really Shari. She arrives at the near sidewalk, pauses to look our way, then turns toward Karz.

“How come you never hooked up with one of your singers, Channy? I mean, I understand the grieving process, but sex can be a powerful healing force. How about Kevin the Cop? He’s got a thing for you, honey. I can tell by the way he wrestled me into those handcuffs. He was avenging his lady’s honor. Hell, I might let him slap those cuffs on me again sometime.”

I try my best to take a meaningful, Bogart-style pull on my cigar. (Ruby’s so naturally theatrical, she makes you want to play along.)

“Karz has one hell of a gossip distribution network. That would be one whole mess of trouble. Nah. I need a non-singer.”

“No!” says Ruby (she’s one impulse away from holding up a vampire cross). “Singers are the only people with souls. Maybe you just need a singer from somewhere else.”

“Maybe.” I take my Swisher Sweet to the last bit of tobacco (where it’s anything but sweet) and toss the wooden tip into the water.

“Is that part of the ritual?” asks Ruby.

“Is now.”

She finishes hers and tosses it in. “I’m picturing a salmon with one of those tips in his mouth, tellin’ all his friends, ‘Try it, man – it’ll make you look cool.”

It’s funny, but I’m not laughing.



Next: Toy Time

Purchase the book at: http://www.amazon.com/Outro-Michael-J-Vaughn/dp/1440111405/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1231020486&sr=8-1

Image by MJV.

Outro: The Serial Novel

Chapter Thirteen

Whirlpool Eddy

Ruby


My endgame was Broadway – or off-Broadway – but I knew I couldn’t go there directly. I needed to go to some third place, so I could reinvent myself, rewire my circuitry. The first item on the scrap heap would be that nasty director’s omniscience; the first purchase would be a brand new suit of flakiness.

Things began with my old college chum, Shelley, who lived in San Francisco, in the Ocean District. Shelley was a singer-songwriter, trying to figure out how to work the music scene. The day I called, she had just discovered that one of her roommates was moving out. This served to further confirm my instincts – the fates were intervening on my behalf. My production company was between projects, so I really didn’t even have to quit – just let them know I wouldn’t be around for the next film. Stacey was pretty sad to see me go (all that competence out the window), but it’s not the general policy of the Dream Machine to step on an aspiration.

I was moved in in a matter of a week. The place was a cool old Arts & Crafts – the living room a dark hardwood plain covered by an enormous Persian rug, several guitars and every percussion instrument known to humankind. I expected Carlos Santana to walk in any second. Maybe Jefferson Airplane. I found an acting conservatory that operated out of Fort Mason, and signed up for a beginner’s class. I wanted to go right back to the roots.

The classroom was a dance studio – miles of floor, lots of mirrors, a barre for stretching. The teacher, Mr. Burman, was a playwright-director with a gruff, blue-collar exterior: rumbling voice, big Polish nose, thinning hair. It became readily apparent, however, that he was also kind, and the owner of a guerrilla sense of humor. (His actual humor was brilliant and twisted, a discovery I made at a performance of his satirical skits. In one of them he took the Catholic molestation scandal to its logical extreme: the priests were now eating the children.)

On the first night, we started with a few standard warmups – acting games I had done in college – then he gathered us for the night’s central activity, something he called “one-minute wanders.”

“This is largely for my own evil purposes,” he said. “I want to know how your little thespian minds work – what level of raw material we’re working with. This here cowboy hat is filled with slips of paper. Each is the beginning of a monologue: ‘The last time I went to London, I…’ ‘I have never been able to tapdance because I…’ Your job is to improvise from there – fact, fiction, doesn’t matter – for whatever seems like a minute. You are to speak as continuously as possible, and to avoid stall words like um, er, yaknow. The main thing is, don’t think too much. Thinking is our enemy. And I’m thinking I should begin with this eager young lady in the front, or else she will burst from her shoes. Um… damn! What was your alias?”

(This from the evening icebreaker, a name game.)

“Red slippers,” I said.

“Dorothy. No – Ruby!”

I extracted a slip and got I hate peanut butter because… And here’s what I said:

“I hate peanut butter because I once read that you could put it on the roof of your dog’s mouth, and it would take him, like, hours to lick it off? Now, I know this sounds really cruel, but what was even more cruel was the way that our dog Sputter, who was a Shih-Tzu (isn’t it fun to say ‘Shih-Tzu’? It’s like you’re swearing but really you’re not). Well anyway, that fucking dog would yip and yap and yop all day long, and one day I just got fed up, so I loaded a spatula with peanut butter and spackled the roof of that furball bitch’s mouth. It worked so well that she spent the next three days licking, and the problem was, her doggie bed was right next to my human bed? And all night long: licklicklicklicklicklicklicklicklick! Finally I put her outside, and she snuck under the gate, wandered into the road and – sniff! – got ran over by a garbage truck. The driver told us he didn’t see her until it was too late, and Sputter didn’t move a muscle, she was too busy licking the roof of her mouth. And that – sniff! – is why – sniff! – I hate peanut butter.”

A director’s note here: for comic effect, I actually spoke the word “sniff!” instead of actually sniffing. I had the class laughing pretty hard, but they stopped when they saw Mr. Burman glaring at me. I knew exactly what he was up to, however, so I glared right back until he broke.

“There is nothing more rude,” he said, “than a student who gets more laughs than her teacher.”

And then I got my applause.

The nice thing about going first was that now I could relax and study my classmates. All in all, they were a remarkably quick-witted bunch, and I was feeling more and more certain that San Francisco was exactly the right place for me.

One student who really caught my eye was Eddy (whose alias was “whirlpool”). His monologue wasn’t actually all that good, but he was such a character to begin with. His face was all sharp angles – sharp chin, generous sharp nose, and small, quick eyes. Very coyote-like. Plus an improbable pile of curly brown hair that reminded me of Lyle Lovett, or a young Bob Dylan. He spoke in a rapid London accent, very clipped and (here we go again) sharp. The rapid speech, in fact, was his prime handicap, forcing his brain to improvise at an untenable pace and dragging “erms” and “ehs” into his monologue (which began, The last time I played golf with John Travolta…).

I had no need of seeking him out after class, because I looked up and there he was.

“Hey, that peanut butter. That was fucking brilliant.”

“Thanks.”

He said “fucking” in that particular British way, verging on “fawking,” that made it seem much friendlier.

“And condolences on poor Sputter. Such a loss!”

“Eh!” I said. “She was expendable.”

“Oh!” He feigned shock. “Heartless. Say, would you let me buy you a drink and simultaneously interrogate you? I know a fabulous microbrew on Columbus. They have every ale known to mankind.”

How could I say no? After taking ten minutes to pick a pear cider from Rhode Island, I sat as Eddy regaled me with the story of his brother’s wedding, which ended with the groom swimming across a small pond in nothing but his top hat. The story was terribly long, but never boring – a rare combination.

“No offense, Eddy, but where was all this storytelling talent during your one-minute wander?”

“Oh God yes, I know!” He beat himself on the forehead for full effect. “I was thinking too much – precisely what he told us not to do. Halfway through, I was thinking, ‘Where the hell is this story going, Eddy?’ And that mucked me up even worse. I think that’s why I’m taking this class, actually. I need to rid myself of that internal critic, learn to dive out and stretch my boundaries.”

“So you’re not on the acting track?” I asked.

“Nope. Strictly for funsies. Although I can’t figure out what that Bear, Fish, Mosquito nonsense was all about.”

“Just silliness, I’m sure. I’d guess almost the entirety of most acting classes is just to give you license to do things you wouldn’t dream of doing in everyday life. How long did you last?”

“Three seconds,” he said, laughing. “I went for the bloody obvious Bear, and a cute little Asian Mosquito gave me the malaria.”

(He pronounced it “malari-er,” in that peculiar British fashion.)

“Ha! Good thing I didn’t run into you. I went straight for the fish. But then, I’m a good swimmer.”

“Rrowr!” he said, swatting a hand. “Not good enough to avoid my enormous claws!”

As it turned out, Eddy was an inventor. His latest pursuit was a hydrofoil wakeboard that would lift waterskiers above the water. He spent most of his summer weekends performing test runs on the lakes of the Central Valley (and most of his summer Mondays recovering from the bruises).

The acting class was one of a long series of endeavors that he pursued just for the hell of it. He referred to this as the NUP, or No Ulteriors Program. I found this aspect of his personality most endearing, and vowed that I would pursue a few NUP activities of my own.

He lived in an open space preserve in the Santa Cruz Mountains, forty miles south of The City, in one of a cluster of cabins at the end of a mile-long dirt road. They were originally constructed as a family hideaway for an early Silicon Valley industrialist, and “grandfathered” in after the open space purchase. The road was hell on my shocks, but I came to regard Eddy’s place as my own private retreat, whenever my packed schedule of classes and clerical day-job allowed a bit of sunlight.

Eddy maintained his tinker’s independence by running a one-man deck-staining business; he billed himself as the Deck Doctor. Once in a while I tagged along, and was always amazed at the places where he did his work: grand rustic palaces that overlooked miles of redwood forest, the Pacific a thin blue promise at the horizon. He invited me to become an employee, but I could see the amazing amount of abuse he piled on that wiry body of his, and I doubted it would gibe with my dance classes.

Once or twice a month, we would shimmy downhill to a bar in Menlo Park, to pursue this new thing called “karaoke.” I suppose I could rationalize it as another chance to work on my singing and stage presence, but for Eddy it was pure NUP – particularly because he had not one iota of talent. In the bizarro world of karaoke, however, he probably had more of a following than I did, because he was absolutely fearless. His one sure bet was “Another Brick in the Wall,” which matched his accent and chutzpah, but anything with much of a melody sent him into the William Shatner zone, where he was content to declare the lyrics with much enthusiasm and little regard for the music.

All this admiration might sound like the prelude to a romantic venture, but who can figure the roadmaps of chemistry, the crapshoot of two human frames of mind? For one thing, I had no capacity for it. I was determined to treat San Francisco as a way station – to tap a little syrup from her trunk and and head to New York in search of pancakes.

Or, it might have been Eddy. I had such affection for him, but compared to my serious-minded endeavors, his pursuits seemed inambitious, almost childlike. Or maybe he was just too bloody nice. Once, when my day-job fell prey to a round of layoffs, I was having a hard time coming up with the rent. When Eddy heard about this, he insisted on giving me a loan. But as he began to think out loud about all the fiduciary machinations he’d have to go through to come up with the cash, I stopped him and said, “Eddy, I have this thing called a father? I think it’s time to call him.”

Earnest generosity is not necessarily an aphrodisiac. It often makes it seem like the man is trying too hard. I think women prefer a certain level of self-centeredness, because that’s a quality we can trust.

In any case, Eddy never made a move, so it was easy to place him in that innocent big-brother category. We were great friends, and we had great fun – so no loss, right?

I did, however, take him up on a couple of pressure-washing assignments, which were really quite enjoyable. Each pass of the spraying wand took an impressive amount of grime out of the wood, which provided a pleasing sense of productivity. At the same time, the constant halo of mist kept the August heat nicely at bay. Soon after, I got some assignments from a temp clerical service, and my little cash crisis was averted.
Come October, my year – and my classes – had come to an end, and I was ready for the Big Apple. I had also managed, through my dear sweet casting director, Stacey, to find a year-long sublet on the Upper West Side. Nicely timed with my departure was a big blowout at Eddy’s cabin.

Not that the party was for me. Eddy was up to his elbows with Burning Man, a late-summer festival in the Nevada desert. It was simultaneously a brazen sex party, dustblown survival camp, artistic Carnaval and pagan hippie rite – centered on the immolation of a humongous man-like statue. The network of “burners” was broad and vigorous – almost like a new generation of Deadheads – and they conducted regional gatherings throughout the year. Eddy decided that his cluster of cabins was the perfect destination for one of these, and thus was born Burning Jam, an all-night music party.

With the musician network afforded by roommate Shelley, I was instantly a crucial cog, and happy to contribute before I abandoned the Bay Area. Eddy invited fifty people – three hundred showed up. But burners are great at this stuff; they’ve been trained by the Nevada desert to bring their own necessities, and to readily adapt to the unexpected. Almost instantaneously, the retired orchard next to the cabins became a campground.

The center of activity was Eddy’s deck (the rehabilitation of which was the genesis of his staining biz). Shelley kept the lineup of musicians rolling on- and offstage, owing largely to the use of a “community” drumset and PA system. This was also my first chance to see the end product of all those rehearsals in my living room. Shelley’s band, Slippery Sisters, was definitely pursuing a Lisa Loeb/Natalie Merchant vibe, with Shelley on acoustic guitar and spritely vocals. (Half of the Sisters were actually brothers, but no one seemed to care.)

There was no shortage of dancers, in various phases of exotic dress and undress. The invitation had expressly forbidden dour colors, which opened the door for burner standards like the feather boa, candy-colored spandex, dominatrix leather and various illumination devices that kept them from getting run over on dark festival nights. I went for a retro lime-green pantsuit and a pink British garden hat, plus an Irish brooch of amber-colored glass.

As the roster of official bands gave way to an all-out jam, Shelley proclaimed her duties fulfilled and grabbed me by the elbow. We proceeded to Eddy’s art-car, a chopped-off Honda Accord outfitted with a boat-like deck and pirate sails. He used it to conduct revelers around Burning Man at parade-float speed, and had fitted it with twin outboard margarita blenders. He had spent the whole afternoon there, dutifully sousing his patrons. I felt sorry for him, working so hard at his own party -–but then it was probably the most efficient way to get face-time with each and every guest. I had been to the well thrice already, and Shelley seemed eager to catch up.

Like everyone else who ever met Eddy, she was much impressed, and gave me the kind of glance that said, So what’s he, chopped liver? We assisted with his blending for an hour, then excused ourselves to drift across to a small barn outfitted as a disco, complete with spinning lights and a ‘70s-‘80s soundtrack. The old floorboards were not exactly conducive to dancing, but the crush of bodies seemed to prevent any falls. Shelley and I used this to our advantage, faking several stumbles so we could land on various hunky males.

We were pretty crocked, to be sure, but not half so gone as this one blonde girl, who was basically being propped up by the crowd. She looked about twenty, with the baby fat that a twenty-year-old can get away with, plus an impressive display of cleavage, threatening to escape the confines of a blouse that she must have purchased when she was twelve. She took plentiful opportunities to rub against neighboring physiques – be they male or female – and ended each song by lifting a fist to the sky and screaming “Fuck yeah!”

Shelley bopped over to me during “Rock the Casbah.” “Damn, woman! Have I ever behaved like that in my life?”

I laughed very loudly (because, why the hell not?). “You’ve come pretty close, Mother Teresa.”

She punched my shoulder, very boy-like. “No! I have not!”

“Okay!” I complained. “You have never screamed ‘Fuck yeah!’ in quite that fashion.”

“Damn straight.”

“Nor have your tits ever been close to that size. Ow! Quit it!”

A few songs later, we wandered outside to find a man and woman dressed like gypsies, spinning illuminated crystals at the ends of strings. Then we noticed a crowd gathering at the music-deck. I tapped on a broad, black-clothed shoulder and got a pirate: fake parrot, hoop earring, eyepatch – a pretty thorough job.

“Ahrr!” he inquired.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“My girlfriend… I mean, me wench, she’s got this fantasy about doing a public striptease – so hey, we’re here to push the envelope, right?”

“Groovy!” I said, feeling instantly that I had lost my moral compass and was quite happy to be rid of it. Shelley and I sat on a rug over the dirt as a thin Asian girl pranced about between two redwoods. The jammers served up a slow, chewy blues entirely appropriate to the occasion. The pirate, meanwhile, began giving me a neckrub, which might have been his way of releasing sexual tension – but I didn’t care, because he was good.

His girlfriend, however, was a dud. She took forever to take off her top and skirt, revealing a set of very unimaginative underthings. Then she sashayed around in her panties and bra for frickin’ ever, leaving all the guys waiting for more and not getting it. In both the British and American senses of the word, I was pissed.

“Come on!” I shouted. “I can see this much at the beach! Give us a freakin’ nipple!” I gave Shelley a hearty nudge, but she was involved in a liplock with her drummer. (Uh-oh, I thought. There goes that band.) Then the pirate abandoned his duties as my personal masseuse to wrap his girlfriend with a blanket. It seemed like a good time for a pee-break.

I climbed the steps to Eddy’s cabin and found a long line of women at the bathroom door (I assumed the guys were lined up at redwood trees). Every last one of them was snickering uncontrollably, and I soon understood why. Behind Eddy’s bedroom door, two or more someones were going at it like dogs in heat. The moaning and slapping built to a pitch until a successful O was punctuated with a cry of “Fuck yeah!” So the blonde from the barn had finally found her release. The girls in line were performing a kind of knock-kneed Rockettes routine, trying to keep from laughing lest they literally pee their pants. As the line inched forward, I came even with the bedroom door, and I could hear the clipped tenor of her partner: “Fawkin’ great, baby.”

I can’t quite recall my movements after that, but I do remember coming out on the orchard as the moon climbed over the trees, turning the brown California grass to silver pasta. I managed to find Shelley’s tent and crawl through the flaps, the air crackling with chips of laughter and conversation. I was deathly intent on sleep, but I heard another pair of lovers – this from the tent next door – and suddenly I couldn’t remember how to breathe. I imagined dying alone, surrounded by all this humanity, simply because I had forgotten how to let my body pursue its mindless occupations. But my body raised a coup d’etat. My lungs let go like an untied balloon, and the breath came out, turning to tears, turning to sobs.

I awoke to a street gang of Stellar’s jays and a far-off call that I couldn’t quite place. It gradually took on human syllables.

“Fuck-a-doodle-doo! Fuck-a-doodle-doo!”

The tent flaps made a papery ruckus, and in popped Eddy’s face, bearing a goofed-up smile and bloodshot eyes.

“Hello! I’m the morning cock! Time to wake the fuck up! I’ve got a shitload of blueberry pancakes for you morning lovelies.”

Shelley kept right on snoring, I shook out my hair, which felt like it had been stored for months in a musty attic, and managed to produce a bleary smile.

“You look awfully happy,” I said. “Or happily awful. Any blonde, big-titted reason for that?”
“Ah yes, the lovely De-bor-ah. Anything but De-boh-ring. Recently thrown to the dustbin by her brutish boyfriend, eager to seek vengeance by grabbing the first penis she could find and having her way with it. And imagine my surprise when it turned out to be mine!”

I laughed, and reached up to pat his whiskered cheek.

“Good for you, Eddy. I’ll be right out.”

“Lovely!” He vanished into the outside world, continuing his duties as town crier. “Fuck-a-doodle-doo! Fuck-a-doodle-fucking-doo!”

I was ready for New York, because I had become an excellent actress.


Purchase the book at: http://www.amazon.com/Outro-Michael-J-Vaughn/dp/1440111405/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1231020486&sr=8-1

Image: Rupert Hart. Photo by Anne Gelhaus.

Outro: The Serial Novel

Chapter Twelve

Friends Who Share Friends


I’m out on the back deck, but feeling like I’m somewhere else. Snow comes to the Puget Sound only two or three times a year, and last night’s was exceptional, painting my evergreen view with a vanilla frost. I sit with my third coffee on a thick-timbered picnic table and imagine myself at a long-ago trip to Tahoe. I’m nestled into the corner of a deck overlooking the intermediate runs, sharing a sourdough bowl with a handsome, dark-eyed devil of a man.

The present calls to me in a jangle of metal, and I know what’s coming: a merry flight of chocolate fur and a resounding “Woof!” I can almost parse the letters: W-O-O-F.

Java bursts through the trellised archway and takes a mighty leap onto the deck. He is completely unprepared for the effects of snow on a hard surface. When his paws fail to make purchase, he performs a four-footed Astaire routine and collapses, legs flying out like the poles of a wrecked pup tent as he slides on his belly, drops off the end of the deck and lands with a whump! During the entire stunt, he wears an expression that is both puzzled and ridiculously calm – and that’s the part that sets me off. When Floy Craig pops her blonde curls around the trellis, she finds me nearly suffocating with laughter.

“What the hell was that?”

“Oh!” I squeak. “Hard to… Can’t…”

She wipes off the opposite bench, takes a seat and watches me with much amusement. Then she sees the long swipe leading to Java, who’s standing in the yard, shaking himself dry.

“Ah! I can picture it now. He’s got the same problem with the tiling in the kitchen. Does that cartoon thing where his feet are just swishing around like a propeller. If we could only get one of these on tape, we could make some serious money. Can you talk now?”

I’m not going to take the chance, so I shake my head.

“I was going to ask you what the hell you’re doing out here, but then I saw this view. Must remind you of Alaska.” She takes a panoramic scan, then turns back to me and rests her chin on her hand.

“Are you doing better, Channy? Because… you seem like you are.”

Floy’s caring expression succeeds in disabling my funny bone, but I swallow a couple of times before answering.

“Yes. Yes,” I say. “Things are better. There are some things I needed to get out of my system.”

“Oh,” she says. “Well you know you can talk to me whenever you want, right?”

“Yes, I know. But this one thing, I needed someone a little, I don’t know, farther away? It’s hard to explain.”

Floy looks the slightest bit hurt. People do love the role of therapist, I think. But I can see her flipping my answer over in her mind, and her features relax.

“No, I understand. The things people tell me at the hospital… Well there you are! Are you done with your extreme sports?”

Java has found a safe route to the deck and is nudging Floy’s hand with his snout, trying to jump-start a petting session. He barely gets a response before he’s off again, streaking through the arch at full bark.

“Oh!” I say. “That’s probably my friend. I’d better grab Java so she can get out of her car.”

“Can you hang on to him?” says Floy. I’ll fetch the leash so I can take him for a walk.”

I arrive at the driveway to find Java on his hind legs, front paws planted on the hood of Ruby’s Toyota. Ruby’s inside, laughing hysterically. She rolls down her window to greet me.

“He looks like this director I knew in New York. Very gay and very fierce.”

I grab Java by the collar and pull him down. “Java is on a comic roll this morning.”

Floy trots out the front door and hooks a leash to Java’s collar as I reel off the introductions.

“Floy, Ruby. Ruby, Floy. RubyJavaJavaRuby.”

Ruby gets out and waggles a hand over Java’s floopy head.

“That covers all the combinations. Nice to meet you, Floy.”

“I’ll take this monster far away,” she says, “so you two can have a nice quiet talk.”

“Thanks,” I say. Ruby and I watch as Java drags her around the bend.

“Well,” says Ruby. “Where shall we take our story-swap?”

I can’t stand it. She’s wearing this long, lovely scarlet coat, and she has all this color in her cheeks, and her eyes are so full of energy. I have so carefully tended this garden, only to give it away to a houseguest.

“Like to freeze on my deck?”

“Hmm,” she says, sucking on a fingertip (what’s that about?). “No offense to your Northwest sensibilities, but I’ve had enough snow to last a lifetime. All right if we walk somewhere? Keep the blood pumping?”

“Sure.” The logical route is the loop trail – the opposite direction from Floy and Java – no artful landmarks, but lots of fir and cedar to hold the snow. “Want me to fill a thermos with coffee?”

“No, that’s all right,” she says. “Let’s walk unfettered.” She smiles much too widely.

“Okey-doke. Walk this way.”

We take a right at the end of the driveway, follow Water Drive for a block, then duck into the forest at the trailhead, onto a wide path covered in woodsy mulch.

“Pastoral,” says Ruby.

“Yeah, it’s nice. I could swear someone’s been tending it. It seems too neat to be natural. So I never though to ask, but what brought you here, exactly? To the Northwest.”

“A geopsychologist would say it’s the logical fourth corner: Florida, LA, New York – Washington. However, as a wise woman once said, that would be too neat to be natural. In actuality, I have a brother out here. He’s been having some trouble, so I thought some sibling-time was in order. Hey Channy, do you mind that I’m going out with Harry?”

Damn! I hadn’t expected her to bring it up first.

“I’m okay,” I say, not terribly convincingly. “He’s sort of like a big brother, mostly. He’s very sweet. He’s been through a lot.”

“So he says.”

In a pathway conversation, you can measure awkward silences in feet. This one takes thirty.

“So what’s he… like?” I ask.

Ruby laughs. “Well, you know what he’s like.”

Yikes. “No, I’ve never slept with Harry.”

Ruby stops and looks at me. “Neither have I.”

Twenty feet. The pressure gets too much, and I have to laugh at my presumption.

“Oh shit! Should I just shut up now? I think I’ll just shut up now.”

“No,” she says. “I’ve had too many cautious fucking friendships in my life. You say whatever you feel like, Channy. And I promise you I won’t get upset.”

Ten feet.

“So what did you guys do?”

“Went to a Shari’s in Tacoma. Had a two a.m. breakfast. Don’t you love those?”

“Yeah. I do.”

“I was pretty toasty.”

“Who wasn’t?”

“Harry. Or maybe he just holds it well. He drove me home, gave me a courtly goodnight kiss, and then – get this: the next day, he tows my car home. Knocks on my door, hands me my car keys – which I didn’t even remember giving him. Is this guy for real?”

“Yes,” I say. “He is.”

“Well, that kind of freakishly anachronistic chivalry demanded a reward so, that night, I took him to this place in Seattle. The Kingfisher. All painted up inside like a Louisiana roadhouse. And there’s some kind of unwritten code that only thee most gorgeous black people work there – and eat there. It’s like a casting call for Ain’t Misbehavin’. Hamster would fit right in.

“After that, we went to this play about a gay man who falls in love with a shark at the aquarium. And when the gay man is kissing the man who plays the shark, I peek at Harry to check the squirm factor, and he’s just laughing his head off, like everyone else. And I’m thinking, Damn! Is this guy for real?”

“Yes,” I say. “He is.”

Ruby stops for a second, reading my repetition, then shakes it off.

“And again, a goodnight kiss. Well, a long one. Yesterday, he had to work. I’m meeting him tonight at karaoke. I think we’re both rather covetous of Channy’s Sanatorium for Wayward Singers, so we’re circling each other rather carefully. But… well, I don’t want to turn you into a double agent, Channy, but I’m feeling a little dizzy. Can you toss me a couple of clues?”

I yank a handful of needles from a Scotch fir and hold them to my nose.

“‘Bout a year ago, Harry had his heart drawn and quartered. I think he’s okay now. Just…”

I stop, because I don’t like the quaver that’s working into my voice. But Ruby doesn’t miss much.

“Let it fly, girlfriend.” She slaps me on the back, like I’m choking on something.

I stop walking, and place a hand on her fuzzy scarlet shoulder.

“Don’t go underestimating him just because he’s nice.”

She looks at me for a second, then turns to walk. As I pull alongside, I swear I can feel the sadness pouring off of her. It’s no wonder she’s an actress, I think. Her emotions turn on a toggle switch.

We enter a long, flat stretch of trail beneath a high tunnel of Douglas fir. Fifty feet. When she speaks, it’s barely audible.

“Don’t worry. That’s a lesson I’ve learned.”


Next: Eddie the WonderBrit


Purchase the book at: http://www.amazon.com/Outro-Michael-J-Vaughn/dp/1440111405/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1231020486&sr=8-1

Image by MJV

Outro: The Serial Novel

Chapter 11, Part II

The Morning Tells All

I wake up on the floor. I can’t move my arms, and I feel something smooth and plasticky against my face. When I open my eyes, the ceiling is a maze of color and slowly moving dots. And a large brown blob with a single white stripe. And a shower of green confetti.

“Hamster?” God. I sound like Tom Waits doing a Louis Armstrong impression.

“Good morning, my little cash cow. This is your bonus for last night.”

I’m surrounded by presidents: Washington, Lincoln – Franklin?

“Jesus. What’d I do? Sleep with you?”

He laughs entirely too much. “Now that would be funny!”

I go to give him a playful slap, and discover why it is I can’t move. I’m wrapped up tight in a sleeping bag.

Hamster grins. “I don’t know what major corporations those kids’ parents own, but last night we separated them from large chunks of their trust funds. The biggest night in Karz Bar hiss-tow-ree!”

Hamster kisses me on the cheek – for him, an exceptional gesture. He claps his hands together and gives them a robber-baron rub.

“Now! What does my prize employee wish for breakfast? Sausages? I’ve got kielbasa.”

Just the word “kielbasa” makes my stomach gurgle. “Ooh! Can I start with a glass of Sprite? By the way, what was that evil drink you gave me last night?”

“Hamstah Hooch. Its exact ingredients shall remain a secret.”

“But probably include tequila.”

“Probably.”

He hops to his feet like a Ukrainian dancer and heads for the kitchen. “Sprite followed by coffee!” he declaims.

I snake my hand up next to my throat and locate a zipper pull.

“Hey!” I croak. “What happened to Ruby?”

Hamster leans into the room with a salacious expression. “Ruby was last seen leaving the bar with Harry Baritone.”

“Oh,” I say. Ten seconds later, the information arrives at my brain. “Really?!”

Next: Friends?


Purchase the book at: http://www.amazon.com/Outro-Michael-J-Vaughn/dp/1440111405/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1231020486&sr=8-1

Image: Rupert Hart. Photo by Anne Gelhaus