Love and Loathing

by Gigi Blume

  “I’ve known you for like, ten minutes.” He laughed.

  “I know. Sorry. I don’t know why I said that. I watch too many movies, I guess.”

  “I mean, if I were to have my way with you, I’d wait at least a half hour.”

  “Ha ha.”

  “It’s one of my rules. No swimming after meals and wait a half hour before seducing girls.

  “Okay. Now you’re making fun of me. That’s fine. I deserve it.”

  His laugh simmered into an amused sigh and his lips curved into a smile that reached his sparkling eyes, provoking that dimple to make an unguarded appearance. His eyes searched mine, and an electric charge sparked and turned my innards into molten lava. I felt like one of those chocolate cakes with the drippy center. Why did this guy make me feel like food?

  I didn’t notice how he closed the distance between us, but he was suddenly close. I had known the man for less than fifteen minutes, but I felt in that moment, as his presence shared the energy surrounding my body, I wouldn’t protest if he didn’t wait a half hour before swimming. I was a rule breaker like that.

  His eyes traveled over my figure, and he sucked in a sharp breath as he said, “Do you like my vessel?”

  “You… your what?”

  His eyes flashed with mirth, and he grinned ruefully as he repeated, “My vessel.” He inched closer to me. “Do you think it’s large enough?”

  “Whaa—”

  For the second time in our short acquaintance, he closed his hand around mine and guided me to follow him. This time, it was to the other side of the scene shop where there were various projects in different degrees of completion. He stopped in front of the unfinished structure of what looked like the beginnings of a boat and gestured to it with an air of accomplishment.

  Oh! His vessel.

  “Is this the pirate ship?”

  He moved around it, stroking the wood with reverence.

  “Not just any pirate ship,” he said, wagging his brows. “This boat is automatic, it’s systematic, it’s hyyydromatic…”

  “It’s greased lightning?”

  “I’m trying to convince Stella it needs a fuel-injection cutoff and chrome-plated rods.”

  “You should totally do it,” I said with enthusiasm.

  “You think?”

  “Paint it cherry red and put some thirty-inch fins on the back. The pirates could wear leather jackets.”

  He laughed. It was a contagious one. “The girls could dress like the Pink Ladies.”

  I had a eureka moment. “We are brilliant,” I said. “We should do a Pirates of Penzance/Grease crossover.”

  “I’d actually pay to see that.”

  I felt such a connection with this person I barely knew, but it was like I’d known him all my life, like our meeting was destined.

  “You see, it was serendipity, me bumping into you,” I said, making light of the chaos going on inside my mind. “We could make a million dollars with our brilliant ideas.”

  “Just a million?”

  “Or maybe we’d go bankrupt,” I teased.

  He retrieved two wooden stools from an alcove overstuffed with props, and giving me one, perched himself on the edge of the seat and leaned forward, offering me his full attention.

  “So, Beth, short for Elizabeth but hardly ever Lizzie, tell me something about yourself.”

  “Me? There’s nothing to tell. I’m boring.”

  “You’re anything but boring. Why did you get into theatre?”

  I could feel the flush of blood rush to my cheeks.

  “For the money,” I said, dismissing his smoldering stare. I could never receive a compliment well, usually deflecting the resulting bashfulness with humor. “I entered into one of those Ponzi schemes,” I continued. “Turns out I was duped.” I shrugged and made a meh face. “Too late to back out now.”

  He sighed an easy and unaffected laugh, never releasing me with his eyes. “So you’re a comedienne.”

  “I get my share of comedy roles, yes.”

  “Okay.”

  He shifted in his seat, tallying his knowledge of me on his fingers. “I now know you have a knack for comedy, you’re a snappy dresser…” He gestured to my Doctor Who t-shirt. “and you’ve got the moves like Jagger.”

  Holy Moley!

  “You’ll never let me live that down.”

  “But I still don’t know what makes you tick, Beth, short for Elizabeth, sometimes Lizzie.”

  His stare was penetrating, searching my soul. “Why theatre?”

  His tone shifted to earnest sincerity. Was this guy for real?

  “Okay,” I conceded. “If you really want to know… there’s no other art, not even cinema, that can combine music, storytelling, dance, painting, costumes, lighting…” I gestured to the pirate ship. “Set design… and all of those things come together for three hours every night, and it’s a shared experience as it happens on stage. It’s the most magical thing in the world.” I crinkled my brow in thought, and his face softened, leveling into my orbit.

  “The stage is not merely the meeting place of all the arts,” he said, holding my eyes, “but is also the return of art to life.”

  “Jorge, that’s… wow! That’s beautiful.”

  “That’s Oscar Wilde.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “Don’t be. I memorize prose just to woo the ladies.”

  “Good one.”

  We had come full circle, it seemed. He enjoyed teasing me far too much.

  “So…” He grinned. “Ripped abs and foxy simper?”

  “Well, it’s a little distracting to tell you the truth,” I said, gesturing to his bare chest.

  “It gets hot in here,” he said apologetically. “Let me get my shirt. I’ll be right back.”

  He was gone before I had a chance to stop him. I would have to get back to rehearsal soon. Checking my phone for the time, I had the notion to arm myself with some ammunition of my own in the form of poignant theatre quotes. I was determined not to blurt out the first idiotic thing that came to mind. I’d be ready with brilliant verse and resplendent sonnets upon his return.

  “The internet does not a smart person make,” I whispered to myself as I scrolled the memes.

  The sound of footfall announced his entry through the passageway. I hoped to high heaven that his shirt wasn’t a clingy, white t-shirt, because that wouldn’t have been much better for my concentration than his bare chest. Please be flannel, please be flannel.

  “Here’s one for you, Shakespeare,” I bellowed, not daring to look behind me. “Movies will make you famous, television will make you rich, but theatre will make you good.”

  The footsteps halted, and then there was long pause. My estimation was that he was too overcome with my smarts to answer. But then a response did come, but it wasn’t the Latin demigod I expected.

  “Terrence Mann,” the voice said.

  I shot up from the stool, almost knocking it to the floor, and flipped around to see Will Darcy assessing my presence with intense scrutiny.

  “What are you doing here?” I cried.

  “I might ask you the same thing,” he said coolly, lifting a solitary eyebrow.

  It was a Mexican standoff. I felt like I was in a Sergio Leone Spaghetti Western, where he was Clint Eastwood, and I was that other guy about to get his head blown off.

  For what seemed an hour, neither one of us spoke. The last time we had exchanged words, they weren’t pretty.

  At length, he declared, “I met him once.”

  “Clint Eastwood?” Had I spoken that aloud?

  “What? No. Terrence Mann.”

  “Oh.”

  “My father took me to see him perform in Beauty and the Beast. We were invited backstage.”

  “I like Beauty and the Beast,” I blurted stupidly.

  He had the most terrified expression; his body was stiffer than it usually was, and his eyes were so wide, they were fixed on me as if he were dealing with a hostage situat
ion, and I was the terrorist about to blow us all to kingdom come.

  “Yes,” he replied robotically. “That’s a good play.”

  Don’t blow us up, his eyes spoke. Back away from the ledge.

  I was suddenly very aware of a prickling in my toes. What was it about this man that ate away at my nerves so much? He was a haughty hottie. So what? There were plenty of those guys in Hollywood. They made me laugh. But Will had a special sort of arrogance—the kind that cast a shadow over everyone in his vicinity but was pointedly directed at me. The prickling in my toes spread up my legs, and I no longer had confidence they would support my weight. Traitors. I sat on the wooden stool before I could make a fool of myself.

  “It’s a tale as old as time,” I agreed.

  “Right.” He exhaled and shook his head vigorously.

  “I just came for these.”

  He frowned, and grabbing two prop swords, made a beeline towards the exit. But upon the appearance of Jorge, still shirtless I might add, he stopped abruptly and glowered at him.

  I’d seen enough nature shows to recognize when a tiger confronts a lion. I could have sworn I saw Will bear a sharp set of fangs. Jorge, lingering in the shop entrance, took one glance at Will and turned an ashen pale. I marveled at the sight—he was like a stone carving from Tenochtitlan—majestic, protective, fiercely angry. Darcy stood his own, though. Strong and proud.

  The coincidence of the prop swords in Will’s hands wasn’t lost on my overactive imagination. Jorge’s eyes flickered to them for just a moment and returned to hold Will’s stare lest he be tempted to use them. (They were dull anyway.) But with the release of a long-held breath, he turned his focus to me and slowly inched out of Will’s vicinity. There was a heady tension that even words couldn’t cut through, and I found myself enthralled by the curiosity it ignited. There was history there, and I could only imagine it was a juicy one. Rival suitors for the same woman perhaps? Beer pong adversaries? Or gasp… maybe Will was a Yankees fan. I had to know.

  Will narrowed his eyes as Jorge crossed the room to me, watching him balance an arm over my shoulders with a claiming simper. The dissonance was deafening. With a scowl that went on for days, he heaved in contempt and swiftly quit the room.

  “What was that all about?” I asked as Jorge took a step away from me.

  For a long moment, he watched the space Will left vacant, waiting for a ghost to reappear. He was quiet, preoccupied by the erstwhile encounter. His beautiful brow wrinkled in review of it, and I noted his fists clenched at his sides. It was inspiring—the sensation of solidarity I acknowledged with a person I barely knew. But a heavy awareness aroused me. (Or maybe it was just because he was still without a shirt.) In any case, something had gotten him all worked up, which oddly made him appear even more attractive.

  “Why so silent, good monsieur?” I asked, attempting to bring him back to Earth.

  When he turned around to face me, all trace of malice was gone from his features. He wore a cheery smile (and that irresistible dimple) and posed, “Do you like pubs?”

  “Is that a rhetorical question?”

  He exhaled an easy laugh, drawing near enough to touch me. “There’s a gastro pub that serves the best onion ring tower in the universe. Come out with me tonight.”

  I blinked at this intriguing man standing before me, a man I had known for less time than it took to order lunch at Jerry’s Deli, and he was inviting me out for onion rings.

  Onion rings!

  My eyes ran over his body, clad in well-used Levi’s, tattered Vans, and nothing more. Then I gazed upon his perfect face and blurted like a dope, “Where’s your shirt?”

  8

  How Pitiful His Tale (How Rare His Beauty)

  Beth

  “Jonny without an H car!” I screamed, kicking the tire. It wasn’t the fault of my poor old Volvo but taking out my frustrations on an inanimate object was more palatable than taking the blame for running it on fumes.

  “Zombie Prom?” Lydia appeared behind me, laden with her dance bag, worn out from Colin’s endless whims. I’d never seen her so spent. It was rather refreshing.

  “Yeah.”

  She guessed right. It was my Zombie Prom day for curse word substitutes because at this point, I felt like a zombie. It wasn’t just the grueling dance rehearsal, however. Meeting Jorge had me tingling with anticipation for our date, if you could call it that. We were taking separate cars, after all. But it was the odd encounter with Will that was the turning point of the day, and it all went downhill from there. Now my car decided it wasn’t worth starting for me with only a tablespoon of gas in the tank. Maybe if we gave it a push?

  “What’s wrong with ol’ Betty?”

  Oh, Lydia. She had a name for everything.

  “Ol’ Betty is hungry,” I replied. “Do you think you could give me a ride to the Arco? I have a gas can in the trunk. It’ll only take a few minutes.”

  She smirked at me, shaking her head in resignation. “You’re hopeless. Come on.”

  Her car wasn’t much better than mine. A Honda Civic hatchback. It was newer than my car, but just as neglected. Well, at least it had gas.

  “Let me just clear a space for you,” she said, throwing items from the passenger seat to the rear. Every nook of her little car was occupied with stuff. Clothes, boxes, blankets, and pillows filled the backseat to the brim.

  “Lydia,” I said, “are you living in your car?”

  “Oh, it’s just temporary.” She waved her hand dismissively. “And my name is Lettuce.”

  “Fine. Lettuce,” I said. “How long? How long is temporary?”

  She released a long sigh, slouching her usually proud shoulders. I imagined the exhaustion from the long day coupled with whatever was weighing her down finally caught up with her, and she was remarkably easy in the recitation of her plight. She’d been evicted. Not entirely her fault. I’d met her roommates and let’s just say they were avid greenery aficionados. Among other things. As a result, she’d been living in her car for about a month.

  “That’s not very temporary,” I said. “Some people have held public office for less time than that.”

  “Who?” she challenged.

  “I don’t know. But that’s not the point. You’re coming to my place. You can have the couch until you get on your feet. And you’re going out with me tonight.”

  She protested, insisting she’d be in the way (regarding the couch, not the bar). Surely, Jane wouldn’t approve. But in the end, she agreed, promising to be out as soon as possible.

  The truth was, I hardly ever saw Jane anymore. She spent all her free hours with Bing, and while I was happy for her, I missed our movie nights and ice cream binges. Lydia would return some life to the apartment. Hopefully not too much life.

  Jorge was waiting for us, with a shirt on, already on his second beer. To my surprise, our director Cole sat at the table. Sitting very cozily next to him was Lydia’s new friend Holly. With the way she was giggling at Lydia’s jokes the other day, I wouldn’t have matched her with someone like Cole. It didn’t seem to faze Lydia at all, however, and she greeted Cole and Holly in a cheery and familiar fashion. Then she took one appraisal at Jorge and offered him the back of her hand. “Well, hello there. I’m Lettuce.”

  Jorge took her hand and kissed it. “Yes, I know. Your reputation precedes you.”

  She giggled coyly, and I resisted an urge to gag myself with my index finger. Jorge then winked and said, “Buttercup was telling me all about you.”

  “Buttercup?” I questioned although I knew what the answer would be.

  Lydia shrugged out of her pea coat, revealing a terribly skimpy spaghetti-strap dress.

  “Don’t be silly, Edith,” she said to me. “Buttercup is our sister.”

  Right—her zany method acting, if you could call it that. So Holly was now Buttercup, and I wondered, by the way she was nuzzled close to Cole, if he was her Wesley.

  I’d never been inside Phillip’s Gastro Pub befor
e. The location was a former Blockbuster Video and had been vacant for some time before some developers tore the building down to the foundation. I remember watching the progress each time I passed that way, and once it was finally finished, I figured it was far too hipster for me and my pocketbook. One look at the trendy hemp menu and my suspicions were confirmed. A hamburger with a side of slaw was twenty-eight dollars, and that was the cheapest entree they had. My reaction must have played plainly on my features because Cole leaned across the table and placed his warm, heavy hand on mine.

  “It’s my treat tonight.”

  “Oh no, I couldn’t accept—”

  “Just order something,” Jorge interjected. “You’ll make all the rest of us look like jerks if you don’t.”

  I looked around the table to find the nodding faces of Lydia and Holly in agreement with Jorge.

  “You can repay me with a song,” Cole bade to me. “It’s karaoke night.”

  Great! Karaoke. I considered myself an open-minded person, but there were a select few things I disliked on this great earth of ours: war, poverty, global warming, Will Darcy, and karaoke.

  This evening was turning out to be far from what I expected. I wasn’t prepared to make a fool out of myself by singing I Got You Babe in front of my director, much less the humiliation of conceding to the offer of a free dinner. To compound the whole armpit of a night, Lydia took the seat closest to Jorge, placing me far from his side. Even though we had hit it off earlier, I didn’t have a claim on him, nor was I sure I wanted to just yet, but for the hours that led up to meeting up with him, all I wanted was to do was ask about his acquaintance with Will. There was a juicy story in there somewhere, and I was too curious for my own good. As it stood, we were in a bar too noisy for conversation, a night of drunk karaoke revelry was on the horizon, and our party was getting bigger by the minute by the addition of the lip-syncing pirate.