I Remember You

by Joyce Armor

  Before he could answer, they heard a page. “Telephone call for Ellie Lambert. Call for Ellie Lambert.”

  From the pool, Russell watched as Ellie got up and walked toward the hotel entrance in her ravage-me black suit and dancing polka dots. Just then Tiffy attacked him with a vengeance.

  “Yaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”

  Momentarily it occurred to him that between Ellie and Tiffy, he was going to get whiplash.

  * * *

  Ninety minutes later, Ellie emerged from her hotel room wearing an emerald slacks outfit and carrying a lacey wrap as Tiffy and Russell, dripping wet and laughing, trudged happily toward their room.

  “Hashtag, I think I have water on the brain.”

  Ellie wasn’t touching that one.

  Russell turned to her. “Have fun tonight.”

  Tiffy rewrapped the towel around her miniscule bikini. “Are you seeing that guy again?”

  Ellie suddenly felt fat. “Brian. Yes.”

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Russell said, shaking his head sadly as if she were about to shoot a puppy.

  “Buzz off.” Great comeback. What are you, 12?

  Russell watched Ellie go, her cute little butt hugging those green pants. He stared at her a little too long. Tiffy noticed.

  * * *

  Once again, on her drive to meet Brian, Ellie had mixed feelings. She wanted to see him and she didn’t. Would she feel different if the fiancée weren’t in the picture? Hard to say. A moot point, she supposed. Still, she wanted to see where their relationship could go and then again she didn’t. And she couldn’t get Russell’s irritating, disapproving face out of her head. When did he become her conscience? Russell, with his hands all over Tiffy, practically a teenager. Like he should talk. Of course, Tiffy’s not engaged. “Shut the hell up.”

  The Back in the Saddle Casino parking lot was almost empty. When she cautiously opened the door and walked inside, the premises were dark and spooky, and the place felt resoundingly empty. Suddenly she felt like she was in an old Bruce Willis movie. “Die Hard” or something, with the evil megalomaniac terrorist with the accent hiding under a craps table with an Uzi. This was even worse than her axe murderer visions. She slowly sidled past a row of slot machines, feeling exceedingly creeped out. She had never noticed before how human slot machines looked with their changing expressions and moving arms. Now she was just getting weird. Well, to be honest, she supposed she was always a little weird. She was just being imaginative. Or looking for an excuse to bail.

  “Hello? Brian?” She could hear the quiver in her voice. What a wimp.

  No answer. She kept walking, slowing with each step. Just like in a horror movie when the stupid girl walks toward the scary noise instead of running away. How well did she really know Brian? Maybe in the last five years he really had turned into a serial killer. Well, he’s a pretty incompetent one then, since he’s let multiple opportunities to dismember you slip through his fingers.

  “Hello? Yoo-hoo! Anybody here?”

  Was she getting punked? She was about to turn around and run screaming for the parking lot when Brian suddenly stepped into view and the lights came on, revealing a ready-for-business casino with non-human slots, poker and craps tables, a roulette wheel, keno, a bar, a restaurant area with black leather booths and a small stage.

  “What do you think?”

  She gazed around in awe, taking it all in. It looked great and even smelled like a new casino, all leathery and spicy. The change from a couple of days ago was astounding. Very impressive. “It’s fabulous, Brian. You did it. I knew you would.”

  “We could open tonight, except for the headliner. Are you hungry?”

  “Starved.”

  He turned toward the kitchen. “Andre!”

  A burly chef, in a crisp white smock, stuck his head out of the kitchen doorway and Brian gave him a thumbs up. The chef waved. Brian snatched up Ellie’s hand, thinking how perfectly it fit into his. In his own way, he was as torn as Ellie, feeling as if he stood on the edge of a great precipice. Would he go over the edge? He didn’t know, but he knew this moment in time felt right. Cindy was attending a bachelorette party for her cousin across town, so there was no danger of an awkward moment.

  “You wanna dance, talk, what?”

  “Let’s sit.”

  He led her to a booth near the stage and slipped in next to her rather than across from her. He looked at her warmly. She was all tingly.

  “Did you ever have a moment you wanted to last forever?” he asked.

  She smiled. “I have. I’ve had a lot more I wanted to go away and never come back, however.” She looked around. “I’m not really a cowboy person, but I like this place. A lot.”

  The casino was rustic but in a 21st century kind of way, with the bar and stage resembling an old-time saloon. A large screen ran a stunning western video of cowboys herding cattle, a bull rider making his eight seconds, a gorgeous sequined cowgirl waving her hat and other scenes, including glorious mountain and woodsy scenery that might have been Yellowstone or Yosemite National Park.

  As she continued to appreciate the little nuances of the casino, Andre wheeled out a cart and delivered two luscious steak dinners—Brian remembered she liked hers medium—with a delicious vegetable medley in green and orange and white colors that seemed incredibly bright and garlic mashed potatoes with bacon and something else crunchy in them. They enjoyed a fine red wine with the repast. It felt so comfortable being with Brian, as if five years hadn’t passed. They chatted more about their families and the changes in Las Vegas over the years, laughing and occasionally surprising each other. They shared a chocolate mousse dessert. The meal was winding down when Andre reappeared with the cart. He removed the plates and silverware as well as the napkins and condiments.

  “Will there be anything else, sir?”

  Brian looked at Ellie and she shook her head. “No. Thanks, Andre. Just be here tomorrow by 2 or 3. I expect a packed house when we open.”

  Ellie thanked him as well. Andre nodded and departed as Brian lit a candle and hit a switch that dimmed the lights.

  “Cindy’s dad isn’t a mobster, is he?”

  He chuckled. “No, he’s a podiatrist.”

  A few minutes later, they were dancing to a cowboy ballad, her head resting on his shoulder just like old times. As the song ended, she looked up at him and watched in slow motion as his lips came closer and closer. He kissed her, and it was nice. Nice? Just nice? Remember, nice is good. And a little scary. She didn’t feel ready for this. In truth, she felt a little panicky. After a long enough time that she probably gave him the impression she was more than ready, she ended the kiss and took a step back.

  “I…I better go.”

  Brian looked at her with such sweetness, she wanted to throw herself back into his arms. “Are you sure?”

  She so wasn’t. “Y-yes. You have a big day tomorrow. What time do you open?”

  “Five.”

  Ellie walked to the booth where they ate dinner and retrieved her lace wrap. “I might not be here then, but I’ll get here as soon as I can. I bet you can’t wait.”

  Brian held her hand as they walked to the front door. “Whatever else you are, you’re a good friend, Ellie. I’ve missed that.”

  At the door, he pulled her to him and kissed her again. She was weakening.

  “Is he a vindictive podiatrist?”

  He smiled. “I have to go home tonight.”

  “Yeah. Me, too.”

  “Aren’t you afraid Andre may tell someone?”

  “No. I just had dinner with an old friend.”

  “Who are you calling old?”

  He grinned as she walked out the door without looking back. In her head, she was remembering an old rerun of “I Love Lucy.” She could distinctly hear Fred Mertz saying, “Oh, what a tangled web we weave…” She knew the line was actually from a poem written by Sir Walter Scott, but it was Fred Mertz’s voice she heard. She was sure that said something about her, but she wasn’t
sure what it was.

  Chapter 11

  The next morning, the Las Vegas Convention Center and Visitors Authority bustled with excitement and nostalgia. It was Saturday, traditionally the most popular day of the convention. The room was positively abuzz with activity and excitement. As Ellie made her way down an aisle toward the Full Court Press booth, she watched and listened, amused as attendees chatted and mingled.

  “Nobody did it better than R. Crumb,” said an aging gentleman wearing blue camouflage gear, and she wondered what that blue color would camouflage. Something in the Blue Ridge Mountains maybe.

  “My sister is pretty sure that Muskman had an eating disorder,” noted a rangy teenager. “I mean, I heard the comic page adds ten pounds.”

  Another skinny young man asked rather plaintively, “Can I get a discount if I buy more than one inflatable woman?”

  And she caught the tail end of a monologue by an apparent conspiracy buff: “…no redeeming value whatsoever, appealing to the lowest common denominator. It was the communists who first brought comic books to the United States…”

  Russell, as Muskman, stood on a little platform, like the girls at the auto show, microphone in hand, entertaining a gathering crowd of onlookers.

  “She said he was arrogant, self-absorbed, a chameleon who became whatever anyone wanted him to be. Muskman knew better.”

  “What’d he do?” asked a young woman wearing skinny jeans and a magenta midriff top.

  Why didn’t she just put her boobs in Russell’s lap?

  “The half-man, half-rodent first had to get rid of the dipwad she was seeing,” Russell said. “They were attending a concert, and he sprayed the guy as one of the backup singers walked by him. The man left his date and jumped onstage doing the Macarena. That was it for him. She couldn’t trust him anymore.”

  “Yeah. Plus, he was doing the Macarena,” a long-haired, wiry guy who looked pretty drunk, or maybe stoned, added.

  Russell continued with the story. It wasn’t the words so much as it was the way he delivered them, Ellie realized. He was truly a gifted showman.

  “…and when she went on her weekly visit to Shady Days Nursing Home to spend time with her grandmother, he was playing the piano there, singing, “Michael, Row the Boat Ashore.” Her grandmother was sitting on the piano bench with him. It was the first time she’d seen her smile in years.

  “And she fell for him,” said boob woman.

  “Did Muskman ever fall in love?” the stoned guy wanted to know.

  Russell smiled. “Muskman loved them all.

  Why did Ellie want to smack him when he said that?

  “Way to go, furball!” someone shouted.

  “Spray us, Muskman!” yelled boob woman.

  Russell suddenly became philosophical. “Muskman didn’t make people fall in love, you know. He just made them believe in love. People get jaded; they take love for granted. It’s so easy to get sidetracked and not see what’s right in front of you.”

  The crowd took on an uncomfortable vibe, Ellie noted, as if people were collectively holding their breath, and Russell shifted gears again, regaining his cocky demeanor.

  “‘Muskman’ Volume One, Number One was the start of it all, a masterpiece created by the multitalented Spencer Keys, who traveled all the way from Paris—that’s in France, folks—to this convention. Only one copy exists of the original “Muskman,” and this precious publication will be auctioned off here tomorrow at 4 p.m. in the auditorium. It’s a rare opportunity, you Muskophiles, to hold history in your hands. Don’t miss it!”

  With that he stepped down. As he began walking away, a costumed pig fell in step with him.

  “What about issue three? Muskman loved Penelope, didn’t he?”

  “Spencer was a little ambiguous about that. Kind of a glass half full or half empty kind of thing. But there was no question that Penelope meant a great deal to him.”

  Ellie beat Russell back to the booth, since he stopped to schmooze with every boob in the place, no doubt. Roger and Bonnie were sitting, and Ellie standing, adjusting merchandise, when the furry guy arrived. A middle-aged, overweight fan, Delvin, was gushing to Roger.

  “…and I used to do a pretty good imitation of him that just cracked my girlfriend up. Who knows what passion lurks…lurks…” Delvin spotted Muskman and freaked. “Oh, my God, oh, my God, it’s you!”

  He hugged his furry idol.

  “Don’t squish the musk glands,” Russell squeaked.

  Delvin jumped back. Roger got up and propelled Russell along by his elbow. “You’re back. Good. C’mon. You have to meet Fred at Rip Off Press.”

  For some people, there was a thin line between reality and fantasy, that was for sure. Sometimes the only way to avoid an unfortunate scene of a fan or groupie getting too familiar with the Muskman character was to bail.

  They headed off as Delvin paid Bonnie for his purchases and watched his hero walk off.

  “He really changed the world.”

  Ellie rolled her eyes. Was she the only one who knew that Russell wasn’t really Muskman? That it was a costume?

  Delvin left, in the same direction Russell and Roger took. That one’s a hair’s breath away from becoming a stalker. Ellie sank down in the chair next to Bonnie and picked up an issue of “Muskman.” After turning a few pages, she abruptly set the comic down.

  “Do you think life was better back then, or do we just idealize the past?”

  “Probably a little of both,” Bonnie said, laying down the graphic novel she was reading. “We’re idealistic when we’re young, then we lose it and die.”

  “Yeah. Thanks for cheering me up.”

  Bonnie studied her for a moment. “Your old flame isn’t as good as you remembered, eh?”

  “Au contraire. He’s better. Unbelievable, in fact.”

  “No kidding?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Isn’t that always the way?” Bonnie unstrapped a sandal and wiggled her toes. “Maybe that’s what’s so appealing about Muskman. Simplicity. What you see is what you get.”

  Ellie thought she was talking about the comic, yet that apparently was true of Russell as well, not that simplicity was always necessarily a good thing. And perhaps if she knew him better he would be very complicated. She doubted it, though. He sure seemed like a what-you-see-is-what-you-get person.

  She was about to mention that to Bonnie when Tiffy and Spencer approached, laughing up a storm. They seemed to be getting awfully chummy, Ellie noticed, wondering if Russell had noticed as well. That was an interesting development.

  “Spencer’s going to draw me,” Tiffy gushed. “Hashtag, he says I’m a classic.”

  “That you are,” Bonnie chuckled. “What about Chantella, Spencer?”

  “I’m an equal-opportunity artist,” he smiled. He took a seat and began looking through his satchel, pulling out a sketchpad.

  “Where do you want me?” Tiffy asked brightly.

  Spencer and Bonnie exchanged a look.

  This really should be the Politically Incorrect, Sexual Innuendo Convention, said Ellie’s little head voice and she smiled.

  “Right over here,” Spencer directed. He sat Tiffy down in a director’s chair, opened his sketchpad and picked up a graphic pencil. Then he pulled up a chair, sat down and began sketching, thinking, life is good.

  Tiffy was thinking Spencer was surprisingly sexy and handsome for an old guy. Well, he wasn’t that old if he could still have that decent a body. And he was so creative. Truthfully, he was old enough to be her father. Wait, he was actually old enough to be her grandfather. Hashtag, she didn’t give a hoot. She liked him. She was always drawn to creative types for some reason, like Russell. And Spencer.

  Ellie was thinking she was surrounded by people with talent…well, she wasn’t quite sure what Tiffy’s talent was, though she was still young, and she was starting to suspect the younger woman was a consummate actress. But what was Ellie’s talent? She had always subscribed to the
100-point theory. Everyone was born with 100 points. If you got 95 points in beauty or 80 points in smarts, then you were probably missing points in other areas. She hadn’t gotten an excess of beauty points, definitely didn’t get very many artistic points, and for sure she got virtually no cooking points. So where did her talent lie? Oh, she knew she was nice and hardworking and reliable and honest, and that certainly counted for something. But talented? Hmm, where the hell were those illusive points?

  As she philosophized about her pointage or lack thereof, the convention went on, with various scenes playing out in different areas. Muskman arm wrestled a woman at the Rip Off Press booth, and she won. At the Whacko Records booth, a nun took a photo of Tiffy with a way punk guy. Chantella looked at sexy t-shirts and Wesley browsed the DVDs at the Fantagraphics booth. While Sludge was busy with a customer at his booth, Spencer quickly added a mustache and beard to a sexy female cut-out. At a snack bar, Muskman took the hand of a woman and put it into the hand of a man standing nearby. Just then the woman’s beefy husband walked up and grabbed Muskman by the scruff of the neck.

  Later, at the Full Court Press both, Bonnie and Ellie were still holding the fort, talking about the logistics of the move to France.

  “This has been a fun convention,” Bonnie said. “I’m glad we brought Muskman. Russell has exceeded expectations, almost scarily so.”

  “Yeah,” Ellie sighed. “He brought Muskman to life, all right. He kind of grows on you. Like a mold,” she added under her breath.

  A cell phone rang, and Bonnie and Ellie both checked their purses. It was Ellie’s.

  And it was Brian. She also noticed she had missed a call from Toni.

  “Hi, what’s up?” She listened intently. “Oh, no, I thought you had Joe Diffie just about lined up.” She listened for a few more moments, commiserating with him. At one point, she looked up at the ceiling, looked back at her hands, shook her head and said, “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I might be able to help, for tonight anyway.”

  Bonnie looked at her questioningly.