by SJ Cavaletti
He chuckled and told me that after moving to Miami his father was so protective and grateful to have everyone together again that HE became the overprotective one. He treated the now adult offspring like young children and drove them everywhere, watched them with an eagle eye and basically enveloped them in bubble wrap.
But, Carlos was only in Miami for a year because he earned himself a scholarship to Stanford to play football. He had joined his high school football team for his last year as a student in Miami. It was at the insistence of his Mama as she wanted him to make friends easily and she had known that football was a popular sport. As he had already become a beast for his age, at seventeen he told me he was 6’3” and two hundred pounds, Carlos was immediately taken on as a linebacker and as luck would have it got the attention of a few scouts.
The rest of Carlos’ life unfolded like a perfect American dream. He studied Physics and got into computers, which at the time were hardly the fast moving, multi-functional machinery of today. He made some lifelong friends, including Simon, who then went on to work with him on becoming an entrepreneur in the technology arena. Carlos told me he had a “bunch” of companies now and was just a boring, old businessman.
“Well, you are hardly boring, my dear,” I said to him, “I might rather describe you as impressive.”
“Well thank you. It means a lot coming from you,” he replied.
I tried to ignore the nagging low self esteem that kept wondering why a man of his caliber would care about my opinion.
The pilot came on the speakers, “Mr. Ferrera and Miss, if you look out the window now you will see the Hollywood sign to your right.”
I lifted myself to get a closer view and sure enough, nestled in the hills were the nine iconic letters that beckoned dreamers and artists to the City of Angels.
“Time flies when you’re having fun,” he said, “Both a pun and an idiom right now.”
“I love that you’re such a nerd. Something we have in common,” I raised my smoothie filled wine glass and we clinked a cheers.
“Ana, can I ask, when was the last time you spoke to your Dad?”
It was a question that felt so out of the blue and at the same time an appropriate segue.
“A little over three years. He came to my graduation at Columbia. I’m not sure if he had wanted to come or if he didn’t want to let my Mom be the only one claiming to have produced my achievements,” I said.
“I feel I’ve met the type of man that your father is many times before, someone who cannot tolerate being out of control. You know, Ana, and I’m not sympathizing with your Dad but only saying this because I can tell you are a seeker of truth… control issues don’t come out of nowhere. Babies aren’t born with a need for control. It’s a habit that develops over time and usually stems from one or two traumatic experiences.”
Could it be true that Robert Lee was a human? This was something I had not taken the time to consider. I had always been too busy wallowing in my own experience of life with him to think how the OCD demon had come to possess him.
I looked at Carlos and felt a warm adoration. He was unlike any person I had ever met before. He was open in a way that was confident and self-assured but also unprotected and vulnerable. He pushed out the boat, not worried if it would sink but to see what would happen. I felt I could ask him or tell him anything and was hopeful for the first time in so many years. Having guarded myself since becoming a dancer, or indeed in many ways since going off to Columbia, I hadn’t realized what a prison I had created for myself. I felt an impulse to enter the confessional and purge everything that existed in my accessible memory to this man.
But instead of me talking, the pilot did. We were coming in for a landing.
Cirque
Later that evening, we entered the Grand Chapiteau arm in arm. I had seen a few other Cirque shows. This time I was struck by the emptiness of the entrance area. It was strange not to see the market stalls open nor hear the hum of other audience members. We went straight to our seats where there were about fifty others awaiting the show. It was a dry run so I presumed the other crowd members were mostly directors and management. They wore jeans and t-shirts but also among the crowd were a few folks like us, dressed up and ready to descend upon Los Angeles afterward.
When the lights dimmed, Carlos wrapped his arm around me like a blanket. I put my head on his shoulder. It felt natural. So often once the barrier of physical contact is broken, it’s all a new couple can think about. “Now he or she is holding my hand…what do I do next?” This wasn’t like that. It was unconditional contact. Not like the contact of habit, like I imagined was the case with married couples, but contact of warm, deliberate attention that required no reciprocation.
We turned to each other just as the lights dimmed and shared one last mysterious smile, each one not knowing what the other’s stood for but contented nevertheless by the expression. From then on the show grabbed our minds and we wandered to a fantasy world where neither of us knew the language but still somehow understood exactly what was happening.
When the lights came up, Carlos asked if I would like to go backstage. I couldn’t believe my luck as of course I did. Nobody policed our intrusion and we gave ourselves a tour of the wild apparatus. Carlos showed me giant hoops, stacked up chairs and props. It was another planet with very unusual topography. Suddenly, a young woman or perhaps a girl ran up to us. “Carlos,” she shouted.
She came up to him in an instant and wrapped her arms around him the best she could. They really only reached to about the sides of his waist, such was the difference in size between them, almost comical.
“Hi,” he replied with equal enthusiasm, patting her on the back, “Wonderful show. Well done, my dear.”
He said this as if he was a father to a daughter. The girl-lady was hard to recognize from the show as she was now bare faced but she looked a lot like the contortionist.
He introduced me briefly. Her name was Magsa and she had indeed been the contortionist.
“And how have you been?” he asked her, “Are you taking care of yourself?”
“I had two operations last year; they really helped,’ she said more with a tinge of hope rather than confidence.
“And medication?” he asked with a raised brow.
“No. No. I remember what you said. Just the basics but no prescriptions.”
“Good, good, my dear. Listen, this is Ana, my girlfriend,” I nodded and did a little, friendly wave trying not to think of how he had already used the word girlfriend.
He continued, “We have a reservation so we need to get going but let Abby know if you need anything. So great to see you! Take care of yourself.”
He tapped her on the nose as if she were a child.
“You too,” she laughed and walked away, her backside wiggling back and forth in a way that would only happen if one had no bones.
Carlos grabbed my hand as if we had been dating for years and whisked me in the opposite direction.
As we walked away I said, “So… girlfriend?”
“Yes, that’s right. You don’t think I’m going to settle for anything less, do you?”
An irresistible surge of joy shimmied up from my stomach and forced my face into a goofy grin. I tried to play it cool and actually natural. It wasn’t a big deal. Surely this was his way of flirting.
“So how do you know Magsa? From one of your circus schools?” I asked.
“No I already gave up those schools quite a few years ago but Simon is still involved. Simon kind of adopted Magsa. It’s a long story but I’ve known her since she was about ten.”
“She doesn’t look much older than that now.”
“No, that’s circus folk for you,” he chuckled, “But don’t be fooled. They are young on the outside but old within. Magsa’s spine is probably more like a seventy year old woman than a nineteen year old’s. The operations she spoke of were only two of many other treatments. I just always hope the performers stay off heavy pain medic
ation. Otherwise the problem can become more than physical.”
“All from the contorting? Is that even a word.”
“Ha. I think it is. And yes… The things we do for love…” he said.
Those moments backstage were representative of so much of the time we would spend together. Every second with Carlos was like breaking the fourth wall- the imaginary barrier between any other existence and my own would be shattered over and over again by his privilege. It was like virtual reality. I just had to look through Carlos-tinted specs.
After Cirque, Gus took us in the Rolls Royce to a restaurant. Normally I would have felt on display getting out of a car such as this one but with the line up of other luxury cars, we actually fit right in. We walked through the glass doors that were illuminated pink and inside was an art deco paradise. We passed opulent marble tables on our way to a table in the back. Young, nymph like girls looked at me as I passed, them with their old man… me, with mine. I snapped out of my fairytale night and back into the club. Nearly every table resembled the ensembles of Brick Road. Pretty girls, too good looking for the one they were with, girls looking bored, men with eager anticipation. Everyone must have looked at us, just as I them, thinking Carlos and I had the same arrangement they did.
Thankfully, just as at Brick Road, Carlos was a private man. We lifted ourselves up a few steps and onto a plinth at the very back of the restaurant. Two maitre d’s pulled heavy, velvet curtains around our gold, honeycomb topped table. We were alone. It was quiet. Our cocoon silenced my vulnerability.
Night fell and champagne flowed. We delighted ourselves with ten courses, but still not enough to feed a mouse, and we left the place laughing. Driving around town, we stopped all over the place: a bit of music here, a must have ice cream there. I was aware that the encounters were of a ‘members only’ nature. Carlos was rich but anonymous and that coupled with his natural and down to earth ways made it seem so normal to have a chauffeur and access to better facilities than the movie stars themselves.
We headed back to the hotel, tired and holding each other closely in the back seat of the car that had appeared out of nowhere at Van Nuys airport when we landed.
We had just finished laughing about Carlos not knowing who Brad Pitt was on his last trip to some private island. Only he could have made that cute and unpretentious.
He then turned his attention to me.
“Ana, tell me more about your career aspirations.”
To some, this may have seemed an out of place and sobering question. But for me and Carlos, small talk was just not something we thrived on. Every conversation held a meaningful place in our lives. I considered my “career.” The truth was that I hadn’t thought about this much since the disappointing day I quit Merrill Lynch and realized the non-profit job market was pretty shit. Now, I was as settled into my night shift work as rhythmically as the woman catching the 6am train to the City. I didn’t want to make up a story just to be entertaining. He wanted the truth. He deserved the truth. So I said, “I really just don’t know anymore. Maybe I’ve never really known.”
He looked at me with careful consideration. I could tell he was trying to see if I was melancholy or if I had given up.
“I say you should go back to basics. Doing something that involves your passion is a good start,” he said.
“My Dad always said that way of thinking was for fools. Nobody ever ends up happily exploiting their passion for money. He said that ruins the passion. I hate to say it but this was one of the few comments my father has made that I didn’t immediately dismiss.”
Carlos sat back in his seat and looked up, searching his brain for answers.
He caught my eyes again, “That’s not a silly way of thinking. I can understand how one might think that way because all work has a downside. It takes away freedom. And most people would not be passionate about anything that enslaves them. I’ve definitely met my fair share of pop stars and movie stars that told me the business wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. It’s hard work, long days, trying to stay beautiful and missing the family. Nothing in life is perfect. Passion doesn’t mean perfect though, does it?”
He’s met his fair share of movie stars… of course. Brad Pitt couldn’t have been the only one.
I replied, “No, I suppose passion doesn’t mean perfect. In fact, perfect can be very boring.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more,” he said, “The thing is Ana, starting out deciding what kind of day to day activities you enjoy and what types of things drive you can help you decide what type of job might allow a bit of fun to creep into those forty hours per week.”
Fun sounded good.
“So, back to this mathematics thing. Did you do that because you were good at it or because you were truly into it?”
A worthy question.
I tried not to answer too quickly. The words perched on the tip of my tongue said of course it was my passion. I quickly scanned the evidence in my brain cells. There were definitely moments in life where it was spoon-fed but on the whole, math was something I did think of and use day and night; always in my everyday thinking and reasoning. If it wasn’t a passion then it was a habit that somehow was indistinguishable.
“I do love math,” I answered, “It suits me. The way I think and how I problem solve and approach my decisions seems so naturally connected to it. On the other hand, I don’t want to be a professor. I’m not sure any governmental think tanks would take me now that I’m, you know… a stripper.”
“You’re probably right about that I’m afraid. What’s wrong with being a professor?”
“Oh God no. I could never stand in front of a bunch of students every day and have all their eyes on me. The idea freaks me out.”
He burst into laughter at the irony.
“I know,” I said, “I’m sure you can hardly believe that I could strut half naked in front of strangers nearly every night but it IS different. At the Club, I don’t have to talk to the audience afterward or hear what they think of me. I’m not responsible for them and their future success. Most of them I would never see again in my life. The pressure to perform isn’t as high as you’d think as a stripper. As long as I don’t fall over during my six minute set I’m fine.”
He lightened the conversation “So have you ever?”
“Ever…?”
“Fallen over?”
“No, not really,” I broke into a smile, “But my first go at stage was a near miss. On my first audition ever, I made the huge mistake of never walking in my shoes beforehand. I didn’t practice at all in them because on the whole I wear a lot of heeled boots in everyday life. I took it for granted that I had that part nailed.”
Carlos’ smile grew into a catlike grin. He could feel what was coming.
“Well, backstage was carpeted so as I approached the entrance curtain to stage I was feeling a bit wobbly but fine; there was grip underneath me with the carpet you see. But as soon as I hit the actual stage it was like ice-skating in platform stilettos. Since my life depended on getting that job, I just dropped to the floor and did my best Beyonce booty shaking. In my mind I was mortified, creeping around on the floor the whole set like a baby! Ugh, seriously… I even crawled off stage!”
We both burst into laughter at the thought of a stripper gathering her money and crawling offstage. Not exactly sexy and elegant.
The conversation was light-hearted and beautiful from then on. Volleying with Carlos was a true tête-à-tête, an exchange where neither side was more important or dominant. This was something I loved about being with him. So often our relationships in life are really one person entertaining the other. That had certainly been my experience in the last several years.
After our lively and happy date, Gus finally put on the brakes. We had arrived. At the hotel. We got out of the car and from the moment the car door closed behind me, apprehension grew like cancerous cell division in my body.
Here’s where I started truly feeling like a stripper again. Up unt
il this point (apart from seeing the nymphs), I felt like a normal woman. Like a woman must feel when she finds an amazing man, an almost too good to be true man, on some app or however women meet guys.
I have no idea how that all was supposed to go as I wasn’t an experienced dater. I had only ever had one semi-romantic guy in my life. In high school, I had been painfully shy and also would NEVER have wanted to bring a guy home so I only went to a film or a prom a couple times when asked. And they really were just friends. My confidence with men grew over time, especially when I went away to New York and did start dancing, but I had had so much to prove at college, I didn’t think much about boys. I had one, one night stand when I got drunk for the first time and that was it.
Then, in later university years came dancing. The true end to any hope for romance. The thing is, being a dancer is a tough gig when it comes to finding love. Any good man doesn’t want to deal with the stigma and the bad men are, well, bad men. Pursuing dating had just felt like a terrible idea. You meet a guy and follow that rainbow and all you’ll find is lots of fighting. When they ask you to quit, you’re just left with a minimum wage retail job in the pot that’s meant to be filled with gold. I had now been in the game long enough to bear witness to the evidence of these unattractive relationships.
I had seen it time and time again. Picture this: a stripper falls in love. The new boyfriend says he’s cool with her dancing but then one day, after dating for several months, the new pair agree he should come to the Club on a slow night. It would be fun, they say. They could be together one evening and have some drinks, maybe she’d give him some dances. They think it will be like foreplay. But the reality isn’t foreplay; it’s game over. It only takes one look at your girlfriend flirting with other guys for money to know it isn’t what you want. The pair fight. He asks her to quit. Maybe she can move in with him. Maybe he promises to support her. But, the reality is that the dancer goes from being financially secure to racking up credit card debt all in the name of love.
