by Jenn Cooksey
Tristan was pulling his phone out to do the same as he leaned over to read the text I’d just gotten and was showing him that read:
Mike: Pwrs out…sardines pregame @ K’s *invite only*
His phone went off in his hand with the same message and at the exact same time, the theater went pitch-black and everyone groaned their irritation. And someone, one of the aforementioned vigilante moviegoers I’m sure, threw a handful of popcorn which pelted me in the back of the head.
After a couple of minutes, a theater employee came in with a flashlight, got everyone’s attention and then explained that there’s a downed power line somewhere on the block, but that the theater’s generator will be kicking on soon, so just “hold tight,” which was basically a plea to not rush the box office demanding your money back and to not trash the theater in the interim. Tristan and I sat there in the dark theater that was periodically illuminated in spots by people using their cell phones, discussing what we wanted to do… We could A) Leave and go to Kristen’s for a rollicking fun game of sardines, which is never any fun without the right people playing and unless the power is out. B) Leave and go goof off together somewhere else. C) Leave and go our separate ways. And finally, D) Hold tight and maybe catch a nap while waiting for the ancient generator to kick on. I’m leaning towards D myself…
“I dig it, but I’m not up for sardines without Camie,” Tristan told me and drummed his fingers on his knees impatiently, “I wish she’d just fuckin’ call me back,” he said and blowing out a hugely frustrated breath, he hit the back of his head on his seat a couple of times. Then, with his eyes closed, he took a deep breath, inhaling through his nose and exhaling out from his mouth like he was practicing some form of deep breathing exercise.
I watched him do it a few times and decided to exert myself and really concentrate. Generally reading him as a matter of course comes somewhat naturally to me now, but to actually get into each other’s heads off a baseball field…well, it’s not even a little easy and it’s sort of taxing on us not only mentally but physically as well unless we’re completely and totally synched up. However, we can both do it if we really want to and try hard enough during the periods of time when the link is either in the process of going into hibernation or like right now, starting to solidify. As I focused and centered myself on him, I started to pick up the first real clear thoughts from him this season like he’d unintentionally done with me last week… He was repeating; Great White Buffalo, where are you? Why won’t you call me back? Because what you did was atrocious, that’s why… over and over and over again in his head. I’m not even gonna begin to try to actually describe what those thoughts “looked” like. But just so you have something of an idea, let’s just say that each repetition looked the same and it never ended all that well for the faceless hunter or for the buffalo that was no longer white once the grisly words “what you did” were thought. Yeah, hopefully you can imagine why I flew out of there like a bat out of Hell and took a long sip of my Dr. Pepper wishing like all hell it was a shot of Southern Comfort or something just as equally calming to the nerves.
Jesus, I go from thoughts of immeasurable beauty and happiness that’s essentially unattainable for me in my own head, to macabre scenes of slain buffalo heaped on the Great Plains of Mid-America in his. Tristan and I are a pair tonight, huh? Oh, sorry if I got a little graphic there…I was trying to avoid that.
I was tired before and although just that one little trip into his head almost wore me out completely, and I was yawning and practically bone-tired, I was still about to suggest we just snap out of our individual funks by taking our selves and our texted invites and go play a fun game with good friends when all of a sudden, his eyes shot open and instead of breathing deeply to calm himself, the deep breath he took looked as if it was more like he was testing the air. Or rather, sniffing it…
“She’s here.”
“Who? Grea—Camie?” I asked in a stutter full of disbelief and surprise, and hoping he didn’t pick up on the fact that I’d obviously just seen something he’s working hard to repress.
“Yeah. She’s here and she’s close.”
“How can you possibly know that? Do you see her?” Because last I checked, he doesn’t have a pair of infrared night-vision goggles. Jillian does, but, Tristan doesn’t.
Now, not that Tristan and I aren’t abnormal to begin with, but you know how when you lose one of your five senses, it’s said that the other four become heightened? Well, that’s the only way I can explain away the oddity of what he said next…
“No, I can’t see her, I can smell her…she’s here, c’mon…”
He dragged me down towards the front of the theater, and yeah, I banged my already (courtesy of his damned cats) bruised knee on the armrests of some seats, but I stumbled along behind him without question. However, when he pulled out his phone I asked, “Okay, I’m not saying you’ve gone off the deep end here, but, how can you smell a specific person in a theater this size that’s half full? And what are you doing? And what the fuck is this?!”
He’d stopped typing on his phone to dig in his pocket and then he handed me a small glass vial that was the same shape and maybe a little smaller than a tube of Chap Stick, which for the shortest of moments scared the absolute shit out of me because I thought it contained cocaine, or real poison maybe. I don’t know, the buffalo and the hunter thing really freaked me out…
He started typing again while saying, “That is Eau de Camie…it’s her very own special blend of fragrances that she wears. I bought some a week or so ago for our uh…cats. And Camie always forgets to turn her cell phone off when she goes to the movies so I’m sending her a te—no, I’m gonna flat out call her to see one, if she answers, two, where she’s at in this damned theater, and three, who the hell she’s with! Start scanning rows…”
As he put his phone to his ear, he and I both systematically scanned the rows of seats looking and/or listening for a clue as to where she was. It didn’t take more than five seconds and I’m pretty sure my mouth was hanging open when I saw that not only was he right about her being here, but that she was close as well. Three rows in front of where we’d been sitting just moments ago and not quite in the middle of the row, Camie’s phone started playing; inexplicably featuring a voice not many people our age would even come close to identifying. I could though; I’ve heard him in my head since I was a little kid. I covered my mouth to help stifle my laugh because really, I’m probably the only one who would find Kenny Rogers singing “Islands in the Stream” with Dolly Parton to be funny here. Tristan made it clear he didn’t find her choice in ringtone funny in the least by nodding in firm yet agitated agreement when the duet sang the lyrics; “You do something to me that I can’t explain … Hold me closer and I feel no pain,” as Camie held up her phone, all lit up, pinpointing for us exactly where she was. Unfortunately, it also shed some light on who the person sitting next to her was.
Keeping tight to the wall, Tristan was moving away before I even had a chance to get a good look at his expression so, again, I blindly stumbled after him back up the aisle and into the row directly behind Camie and the guy who Jeff refers to as the Douche, who Brandon had said was Bad News, and who Tristan wanted to put in the ground last night.
As Tristan, silent as a specter, moved down the row, he turned to me with his finger raised to his lips, telling me to not make a sound, and then he sat down in the seat right behind Camie. I followed suit, shaking my head as I did, and claimed the seat next to him, the one behind the schmuck who Camie’s obviously using so she can go to the dance. At least that’s what I think. I don’t think she’s interested in this guy in the slightest and from the sound of it, Camie, Kenny and Dolly agree with me. It didn’t appear that Tristan does though. He was beyond fuming. To the point I started to wonder if the theater’s emergency fire sprinklers would spontaneously come on and drench us. And no, I wasn’t even remotely tempted to see what was going on in his head.
The guy—fo
r the life of me I can’t remember what Brandon said his name is—was telling Camie she should turn her phone off before the movie starts and she’d begun explaining why she can’t turn it off all the way when the guy sniffed the air in a slightly different way than Tristan had earlier and sounding a little grossed out maybe, he cut her off like she hadn’t even been talking.
“Ew, do you smell that? It smells like bleach…I bet soda spilled in this row earlier and that’s what they used to clean it with.”
“Um, I don’t smell blea—” Camie said and was interrupted by the guy again. I looked over at Tristan who’d never put his phone away from when he’d called her and saw he’d just hit send on a text to Camie that asked: How was dinner? Did your date like your lasagna?
“No, I know what it is…it’s chlorine…I can’t stand the smell of chlorine…”
“Oh, that I can smell, but, I uh, like i—”
“It reminds me of summer camp when I was a kid and would get the shit burned out of my eyes in the stupid pool…I fucking hate chlor—” This time it was the guy who was interrupted when Camie’s cell phone went off again, sans Kenny and Dolly. “Are you kidding me? Is that him again? Jesus, dude, obsess much?”
Camie held up her phone and although I couldn’t see her face when she read the text, I knew she’d frozen and had momentarily stopped breathing. She typed a reply, waited, and when Tristan’s phone started playing the Chili’s baby back ribs jingle—you know the one I mean…it goes; I want my baby back baby back baby back baby back… Yeah, that one. It’s catchy and I’m probably gonna have it stuck in my head now for the rest of the damned night… Anyway, when Camie heard it right behind her, she took a deep breath, raised her head in preparation to take whatever was coming head on, and ever so slowly she turned around. And what she met with was a terrifying scowl filled with more contempt and disgust than Tristan has ever shown her, even when he thought she was screwing around with Zack last October.
The generator picked that time to kick on and Camie and I both saw Tristan roll his eyes and shake his head just barely before standing up to leave the theater. Camie swore under her breath, stood up and grabbed her jacket and then went to follow him. She was stopped by the schmuck though, who grabbed her arm and said, “Don’t go after him.”
“I’m sorry, I have to,” Camie said compassionately but irritated all the same, but I wasn’t sure who, exactly, she was irritated with; the schmuck, Tristan, or, herself…
He let her arm go and as she left the theater, I stood up and asked, “You coming or not?”
He looked at me, rolled his eyes, and standing up with both his drink and the popcorn Camie had handed him; he made his way down the row.
“Hey, did Camie order that popcorn?” I asked as we walked down the aisle towards the exit.
“Yeah.”
“Cool, can I have it? She takes her popcorn the same way I do and the concession kid messed mine up,” he held the popcorn out for me to take, not caring even a little that he’s heading out to a war zone in which there’s a good chance blood will be spilled and that it’ll probably be his. Then it occurred to me that maybe he doesn’t even know what he’s gotten himself into here, so, I told him. And it wasn’t because I like the guy or even feel bad for him, but because my catcher has spent years mentally screwing with batters for me, I figured I’d take this opportunity to do the same for him. “Hey, what’s your name?”
“Scott.”
“Right, Scott... So ah, Scott, you don’t happen to have chainmail on under your clothes, do you?” He just gave me a WTF are you talking about look. “Well that’s too bad…I’ve got a full suit of armor I won on eBay that I could loan you, but, it’s in my truck and the big guy you really fucking pissed off drove me here…”
He cracked a half-grin and kinda chuckled at me like he thought I was joking, which I’m totally not, but he sobered up real quick when we got to the lobby and saw Tristan barely containing himself, pacing the sidewalk out front like a caged wild animal, and Camie about to push through the double doors to face down his rage with a temper all her own; like the wrath of wind and rain, both of them forces to be reckoned with, the most destruction being done when they’re reckoning with each other.
I started jogging to catch up and said over my shoulder to Scott who’d followed my lead, “When we get out there, keep in mind that she can handle herself and regardless of what it looks or sounds like, she won’t ever be in actual physical danger, so my advice to you is, pretend you’re invisible. Don’t make eye contact, don’t say a word, and definitely don’t touch her…he’ll kill you. Oh and try not to get any on ya. Blood’s a bitch of a stain to get out…”
We got through the doors seconds after Camie had and right when Tristan rounded on her like a mythological fury. “You’re fucking DATING?!!?”
She came right back at him, but because she was sorta coming late to the party, she hadn’t reached a toxic level of emotion…yet. “NO! I’m not dating! He’s just a frien—”
“BULLSHIT, Camie! That, in there, is a fucking date in anyone’s mother fucking handbook and you fucking KNOW IT!!”
“Oh would please give me just a small freaking break, Tristan?! Scott is ju—”
“Oh, he has a name n—”
“YES! And he’s just a friend but so what if he wasn’t?! What I do and who I do it with does NOT concern you anymore, remember?!! YOU, Tristan, YOU made that choice, NOT me!!”
Tristan caught fire when Camie threw that slightly inaccurate reminder in his face and he incinerated her with his eyes before he started to advance on her. Camie held her ground, but the schmuck, well; he chose to forget everything I’d very recently told him in an honest effort to keep him out of trouble and Tristan out of prison. I don’t know if he thought their fight was over or that I wasn’t being serious or what, but he casually walked up to Camie and said in quiet voice, “C’mon, Camie, let’s get out of here…” and before I could use the Great Ape to intervene, Scott went to take her by the elbow…
Camie recognized the danger though and threw herself in between the two, pushing Tristan back using all her strength, which is kind of a lot for a girl. I mean, she’s not nearly strong enough to actually push or hold him back; I’m just saying, she’s pretty strong for a chick and I’m sure that’s exactly why Tristan didn’t throw her to the ground in his intense desire to tear (aw shit, I forgot his name again) the guy limb from limb. He stayed back simply because it was her asking him to without words.
As she pushed him, Tristan locked eyes with whatever his name is and pointing at him over Camie’s head, Tristan issued a beautifully stated threat via warning, “You better stay the fuck out of this you little parasitic piece of anal rot…I’m highly unstable and I don’t have dick to live for right now so I’m about ten seconds from making it necessary for your parents to identify your fucking body at the goddamned morgue and because I’m a first time offender, I’ll make bail and with my bare fucking hands, I’ll fucking kill you again for kicks just because I want to and because I can!”
I moved in between the three of them and through a teeny bit of reminding of my own, I convinced Scott (Hey! I remembered his name!) to return to the sidelines with me for his own safety. The two real contenders in this fight were back at it before he and I even turned around to observe from a safer distance. And as I watched two of my very best friends verbally rip each other to shreds, I pulled out my phone, typed out a text and waited for the moment I would send it.
“Well, as far as we spectators go, the show’s just about over…did you drive or do you need a ride?”
“What?”
“Well, this is about to go private…like an invite only thing but one they never issue invitations for, and like I said earlier, I didn’t drive here so I’m getting a ride. I was inquiring as to whether you needed one or if you’re good,” I clarified, keeping a close eye on Tristan.
“Uh, I’m good…what are you talking about…going private?”
“You see that?” I asked rhetorically and pointed to Tristan’s septic expression as Camie battered him and he clobbered her in return. “That’s the expression of someone who values very little else above his privacy and who’s juuust about had it with airing his laundry in public.”
“So they’re almost done then?”
“Ah, no. Not even close. He’s gonna kidnap her and she might put up a struggle and she might not, but regardless, they’ll be continuing this away from prying eyes in less than thirty seconds.”
“Bullshit…” he said like he didn’t believe it was possible.
“Just watch…she’s gonna go over his shoulder iiiinn ten, nine,” I said and raising my phone, camera side out and taking careful aim, I confidently began counting down at the same time Camie hit Tristan with:
“I am sooo fucking sick and tired of your king of the mountain, everyone lives to serve me, holier than thou bullshit! YOU broke up with me! On my birthday, Tristan!! That means I can even fuck whoever I wanAAAHHH!!!”
Click and send.
“Wh—?!” Scott said under his breath, and I’m not sure, but I think I saw a smug grin flash across his face a second before Tristan hoisted Camie and threw her over his shoulder. “Uhh, okay then…um, I guess I’ll see you around?”
“You bet, Scott,” I replied kind of sarcastically, adding a little wave, and then I watched Tristan stalk away with his girlfriend/not girlfriend who was struggling to get down off the king of the mountain before they reached his bus, and when she couldn’t, she literally bit him in the ass. I took another picture when, with her teeth still biting into him, he replied in kind.
As I sat down to wait, munching on Camie’s delightfully unbuttered popcorn, I read Jeff’s reply to the text I’d sent him that included the picture of the precise moment Tristan had tossed Camie onto his shoulder, turning towards the parking lot as he did so. It read:
