Tunnel Vision

by H. R. Kitte-Rojas

  “It"s not just dating,” Celeste said. “It"s sleeping around, and—”

  “Wait a minute, Celeste. Are you a virgin? Or are you saying that you"ve only had sex with one man in your whole life?”

  She had no answer for that.

  “So let"s not go name-calling,” Frank reasoned. “And I"m not assuming anything is gonna happen. I"m just offering my friendship. You don"t have to accept it, but there"s no good reason why you shouldn"t, is there?”

  She remained silent.

  “We"ve got mutual friends in Miles and Shauna. It just makes a lot of sense if we could all get along, doesn"t it?”

  After a long pause, she nodded. “I"m sorry, Frank.” She extended her hand. “Friends?”

  He shook her hand. The skin contact felt nice. “Cool. You mean it?”

  She held up an index finger in warning. “Just friends. There will not be benefits. Ever.”

  “I understand.”

  Her finger remained up, and began to wag, as her head moved slightly from side to side. “You"ve got to respect that. If you can"t respect my boundaries, then you don"t respect me. And that"s not a friend.”

  “Okay.”

  “That means you don"t try to weasel your way in deeper,” she continued. “You don"t try to talk me into more or pressure me, or drop hints and lame little innuendos… Respect.”

  “Guess the whole whipped-cream-and-blindfold idea is a bit presumptuous, then,” he wanted to say, but bit his tongue. He was sure she had a sense of humor, but she hadn"t had time to be familiar with his, yet.

  She was really laying down the law. It was a shame she was so opposed to the possibility of anything beyond friendship, but friendship was better than nothing.

  “Okay,” he said.

  She was not a ballbreaker. He recognized her shell as what it was—a defense mechanism.

  Frank would do his best to ignore the strong attraction he felt. Friends he could really talk to were pretty rare, experience had taught him. He liked Miles, and could communicate on the same wavelength with him most of the time. But Miles wasn"t one to get deep.

  Frank didn"t need depth all the time, but he wanted it once in a while. He"d had some pretty deep connections with others during conversation— especially with other creative people. Evidently it really irritated Violet, hence the epithets she hurled at him like “bohemian prick” or “pseudo- intellectual loser.”

  “Now that we"re friends,” he said, “you can tell me if you got the email I sent you.”

  “I got it,” she said. “Thanks.”

  “Did you like the mp3?”

  She nodded. “I played it for my students, and some of them liked it. A lot different from anything they"ve ever heard. But still, it"s timeless.”

  “Cool. I can still email you now and then, right?”

  She blinked and gave him a tiny grin. “Sure.”

  “Don"t get all spooked,” he said. “This isn"t me violating our agreement already or anything like that, but friends usually know how to get in touch with each other. Can we exchange phone numbers?”

  She eyed him suspiciously, but finally pulled the cellphone out of her purse and asked for his number. He recited it for her; she dialed. His cell rang, and they storedeach other"s numbers.

  “Relax,” he said. “I"m stuck in the Friend Zone. I understand.”

  She chuckled.

  “Are you gonna freak out if, say, some time I ask you if you want to go somewhere together?”

  Her suspicious look came back. “If it"s Motel Six, then yeah, I"m probably gonna freak out.”

  “No, no. Just go out as friends. Or hang out. As friends.”

  She looked leery, as if ready for a trap.

  “Friends do that kind of stuff, don"t they?” he asked. “I mean, if they really are friends, and not just pretending.”

  “I suppose so,” she said. “But let"s take it slow, okay?”

  “Fair enough.” He decided to leave it at that for now, not wanting to crowd her or come on too strong. He had extended the olive branch and she accepted. It was a victory. He went back to join the party.

  A couple hours after midnight, he helped the DJ and videographer pack up. He bid his goodbyes to Miles and Shauna, and lugged the last of the equipment out the front door. As he did, the fine, shapely sister from the snack table, still smirking, slipped a rolled-up Post-It into his shirt pocket. 11

  Larry Fisher finally did ask Celeste out. She agreed to go with him… perhaps a little faster than she mighthave if she wasn"t trying to avoid thinking about Frank.

  Dinner and a movie was nice, and Larry was good company the whole time.

  Larry was a manager at the tire store she passed every day on her way to and from work. He was divorced two years ago, and shared custody of Karen with her mother. From what Celeste could tell, he really held up his end of the parenting duties.

  After their date, Celeste reflected on the fact that Larry was neither athletic, nor artistic.

  Maybe that was a good thing. It certainly was a departure from the Jermaine types.

  Had she finally achieved closure?

  Not really. Maybe she had finally put the Jermaine thing to rest, but Frank was like an old wound that had just been reopened.

  Was he for real with all this friendship stuff? Had she just now met him, she would be much more receptive to his offer. But their past made her question everything he said or did.

  She sat at her desk, grading the pop quiz she"d just given, listening to the sound of school busses taking students back to their homes. She sighed. College was a long time ago. She had changed a lot since then. Undoubtedly, Frank had, too.

  What was it about him? Not just his good looks, though those were nothing to sneeze at. There was some kind of charisma there, too. But as near as Celeste could tell, it was the boyish intensity that flowed out of him sometimes that just made her want to…

  Finding it difficult to concentrate on grading the quizzes now, she decided to fight the distraction with another distraction, and checked her email.

  “Uh-oh. Speak of the devil.”

  She hadn"t been speaking of Frank, just thinking. But now she saw a message from his address in her inbox. She clicked on it.

  Hi Celeste: Long time, no talk. Hope those SixthGraders haven’t got you tied to a stake or something by now.

  We get free event tickets a lot at Avcom, and they were recently passing out tickets to an Opera coming to the Palace. Guess which one? Carmen.

  Well, I grabbed two of them in case you’d like to go with me. No pressure. If you’d rather go with somebody else, I’ll give you both. If you don’t want to go at all, that’s fine, too. Just let me know, OK?

  Take care,

  Frank

  P.S: I hope you’ll go with me, though. I’d love to see first-hand how you react to the original.

  She re-read it twice, then tried to sort out her thoughts. Celeste t he teacher couldn"t help but notice that the messagewasn"t written in the typical illiterate texting language so ubiquitous these days.

  Celeste the music lover was curious to witness the original source material that Carmen Jones borrowed from. Heck, to see a real live opera of any kind.

  Celeste the woman found both the message and the offer it contained a sweet, endearing gesture.

  Celeste the wounded college freshman wondered what his ulterior motives might be.

  It was even harder to concentrate on grading after that. She turned it all over in her mind on the drive home.

  Her house was not too far from Shauna"s old apartment, near the university. Celeste had a a two-bedroom two-bath townhouse that was just the right size for her. She dropped her keys and purse on the kitchen counter, kicked off her shoes and found her salad in the fridge. She would finish off her leftovers later, but for now she wanted to get comfortable on the sofa and watch some of the shows she had recorded.

  She had trouble concentrating on those, too. This whole Frank distraction was keeping her fro
m fully enjoying the rush of the new relationship with Larry.

  What harm was there in friendship with him? He was a mutual friend of Shauna"s and, though Celeste tried hard not to let on, he fascinated her. And maybe, if she was patient, she could figure out some answers to her questions about him, on the down-low.

  She set the salad aside, opened her laptop, waited for it to connect, then replied to his email:

  Frank:

  That is a kind offer. Maybe I will take you up on it. Celeste

  She felt butterflies as she clicked “send.” He certainly seemed to understand her friends-only stipulation. At least so far he did. What bothered her now was that she wasn"t entirely sure she wanted to forbid anything more than friendship.

  *** Celeste concocted a brilliant strategy to regulate her emotions. She arranged her schedule so that she had a date with Larry the night before the opera. They went to the club and danced long into the night. She moved her body a whole lot closer to his than she normally would have on a second date. They came into contact a few times. Larry touched her occasionally— nothing lewd or presumptuous or overly familiar, and she didn"t shy away.

  He kissed her good night after dropping her off, but she made sure it was lips only. She had probably given him too much encouragement on the dance floor. Now without the hypnotic rhythm and contagious crowd high, she soberly decided not to let it get out of hand.

  She could tell Larry was into her, but he remained a gentleman and accepted the chaste kiss.

  Her strategy had the desired effect—she was still buzzed enough from Larry to have a degree of immunity built up against Frank; yet her mood was magnanimous enough to be pleasant company.

  They met at the theater downtown. She wore an elegant-but-simple black dress with matching heels and a shawl. Her hair was flat-ironed into perfection.

  When she saw Frank in a tux, she felt her immunity falter a bit.

  “You clean up well,” she said, after their initial greeting.

  “Thanks. So do you.” He had that crooked grin on again.

  “Excuse me?” She was pretty sure he was only joking, but not so sure she shouldn"t be offended, anyway.

  “Touché, Celeste. You look fantastic.”

  He offered her his elbow and, telling herself it was just a formality at highbrow events like this and didn"t imply intimacy, she took it.

  Frank led her through the door into the lobby. There were many older white couples before and behind, and even a few closer to her age. The men were decked out in tuxedos of various designs, some with top hats and canes just like in those old Fred Astaire movies. The women were dressed up to impersonate European royalty, it seemed. The dresses and jewelry seemed outrageous to her 21st Century fashion sense, though some of the pearl necklaces did appeal to her.

  The distasteful looks she received were many. These people were from old money, and it was doubtful many other black women crashed their parties—much less on the arm of a white man.

  Frank seemed oblivious to the stares. In fact, his considerable chest had puffed out thicker ever since she took his arm.

  He led them through the lobby, into the high-ceiling theater, then suddenly stopped in his tracks.

  “I"m sorry,” he said. “Do you need to use the restroom or anything before we find our seats?”

  “I"m okay,” she said.

  He examined their ticket stubs, then glanced around the cavernous, ornate expanse. “I think we"re up this way.”

  She let him lead her toward their aisle, and asked, “I guess this isn"t your first opera, is it?”

  “No,” he said, chuckling. “My father never wanted me to forget that I"m Italian.”

  “So the opera is mandatory for Italians?”

  He laughed. It was a deep, comforting sound. “I can"t speak for all wop children, but it wasmandatory for me.”

  “Wop children?”

  Frank flashed hazel eyes and a crooked grin at her. “You and other black folks can call each other the Nword and get away with it. And I"m allowed to use terms like „wop" and „Guiney." My parents were wops and proud of it.”

  They came to the steps leading up to their level. She had to take care climbing, due to her dress.

  “Your mother, too?” She couldn"t imagine his mother raising him to refer to himself with racial slurs.

  “Oh, yeah, though she didn"t act much like a traditional Italian mother, I guess. But my father just thought he was such a don.” He chuckled at some memory.

  “For the record,” Frank said, “my father was never Mafioso, and didn"t overtly claim to be. But he wanted people to assume he was, or at least that he had connections inside.” He shook his head and chuckled some more.

  Their ascent leveled out for a moment, then resumed at the next tier. She noticed box seats, and wondered if she would see anyone wearing those funny binoculars.

  “This is my first time,” Celeste said.

  “Don"t worry—I"ll be gentle.” No sooner had the words come out his mouth than he blushed, grimaced and slapped the heel of his free hand against his forehead.

  “I"m sorry, Celeste. You said no stupid innuendos, and I already violated that rule.”

  “I forgive you, paisan,” Celeste deadpanned, without looking at him.

  Frank said something in a Latin-sounding language.

  “You speak Italian?”

  “No. I only learned enough to impress the girls,” he said.

  It was the kind of joke cracked between platonic friends, therefore appropriate. Still, she felt a little twinge of jealousy toward the other girls he"d tried to impress.

  “I can speak Italian,” she said. “Sicilian, actually.”

  “Really.” He watched her expectantly.

  In her best Marlon Brando, she slurred, “You come to me on my daughter"s wedding day and ask me to do murder. You won"t even call me Godfather.”

  A deep belly-laugh burst out of Frank, causing the old-money snobs to fling even more distasteful leers their way.

  “That was pretty good,” Frank said, still laughing.

  They reached the row where their seats were supposed to be and Frank led the way to them.

  “These things have got to be expensive,” Celeste said. “Your boss just gives the tickets out?”

  “All the time. This, baseball games, hockey games, carnivals, you name it. Almost nobody ever takes advantage of the freebies for these hoity-toity events, though.”

  They found their spot and took seats. Celeste studied the ceiling high above them, then the Greco-Roman styled art designed into the surrounding walls, columns and sculpture. The dominant colors were off-white, pale blue and gold. Many of the ladies present continued this motif with their dresses—though with more vibrant shades.

  “Maybe I didn"t dress up enough,” she thought, aloud.

  “You dressed perfect,” he said, and opened his mouth to say more, but stopped himself. “So, you"ve never seen an opera, I take it.”

  “Oh, I"ve seen The Rabbit of Sevilleseveral times,” she assured him.

  He laughed again.

  “I"ve seen A Night at the Opera, too,” she said.

  “Oh my gosh,” he said. “You like Bugs Bunny andthe Marx Brothers?”

  “Oh, yeah,” she replied, smiling easily. “From way back. Why?”

  “And you can quote from Coppola,” he went on. “You are the perfect friend for me. This must be destiny. See?”

  “I don"t know about all that,” she said. “We still haven"t resolved the whole Pete Best/Ringo Starr controversy.”

  “Ah, yes. Well, I"m willing to endure until you learn to admit you were wrong.”

  She rolled her eyes but couldn"t help chuckling with him.

  The theater only filled to about half-capacity. When the house lights dimmed, all conversations were pinched off.

  Celeste was able to follow the action on stage because she knew the gist of the story from watching Carmen Jones. The setting was different, and the one guy was a bullfigh
ter instead of a boxer, while Carmen herself was a Gypsy.

  Celeste recognized the melody from two of the songs, from before she had ever watched Carmen Jones. From where, she wasn"t sure. She really liked those two, plus one other song performed.

  When the show was over, she took his arm again on the way out. He escorted her to her car.

  “Did you enjoy it?” Frank asked.

  “Kind of,” she replied. “It would probably help to know French.”

  “Well, thanks for coming with me. I"m kind of glad you kind of enjoyed it.”

  She slowmotion punched him, playfully. “No, I enjoyed it. Thanks for inviting me.”

  “Most of these snobs…” he said, “um, patrons, I mean, are probably gonna go to some fancy restaurant from here for a late dinner. Or at least to sip some wine.”

  “Is that what they do?” she replied, digging the keys out of her purse.

  “Would you like to…”

  “I try not to eat this late,” she said. “And I don"t even sip something alcoholic when I"m going to be driving soon.”

  “There"s a Starbucks around the corner,” he said. “I could buy you a cappuccino or something.”

  Celeste loved Starbucks. She and Shauna jokingly referred to it as their privat

  e office. “Well…okay.”

  ***

  They met there twenty minutes later. They both got something to drink; Frank added a bagel, and they sat at a table over in the corner with a view of the city"s skyline.

  €“So what did you think?” Frank asked her.

  “About the opera? It was a little depressing, actually.”

  He nodded. “Yeah. Too pathetic to be tragic, really. Depressing is a

  more accurate word.”

  “You were right about that song,” Celeste added. “It sounds beautiful—

  and that woman"s voice did ring like a bell. But what a ho she was.” Frank grinned, his eyes twinkling. “The Habanera. Well, in the wordforword translation, she wasn"t as gleefully diabolical as in the Preminger

  version.”

  Celeste was lost. “Preminger? Haba-who?”

  Frank slapped his forehead again, lighter this time. “Sorry. Habanera is

  what some people call that aria…that song. Otto Preminger was the director