by Ayn Dillard
Maggie states, “You’re just a romantic and a true believer.”
“You’re right and I’m going to keep on believing. I’ve just got to. I don’t ever want to lose my capacity for believing. Since this didn’t work—there must be something better on the horizon.”
“Oh, you’ll never stop believing because it’s what you’re all about.”
After talking with Maggie, I feel better. Later that evening, I decide—screw it! I’m getting drunk. I order my favorite pizza. I stuff my emotions by eating and drowning my disappointment in beer, while continuing to write. Feeling the effects of my first beer, I indulge in another which with my low tolerance, means I’m really hanging one on. Munching on chocolate, I continue drinking.
Hell, why should I care anymore? I’ve been through enough, with all of this going on—my house selling—research for that damn book—sexual harassment—the lawsuit—Boyd and Art. Too much to handle and I’ve been doing it for way too long.
The alcohol blur makes me decide to call Art. I don’t know if I miss him or it’s the disappointment of Boyd not showing up. I really should dump Art, but for some reason, I don’t. He can make me laugh and I need to laugh right now. Also, it’s bothering me that I’ve not told him about Boyd. There’s no real reason, I need to tell him and it’d be stupid to do so, but it’s my conscience and it bothers me. I feel that I’ve kept something from him and for some bizarre reason—I don’t want to keep anything from him because I want this man to really know me, but, why?
So, I call and leave a message. “Hey Art, I’ve had two beers and for me that’s drunk. There’s just too much going on in my life right now. I have offers on my house and this lawsuit coming up with that creep. Just everything is bugging me tonight. I want to talk with you and put my head on your shoulder. Hope all is well.”
After leaving the message, I go back to writing, while floating in an alcohol feeling creative bliss.
In a short while, the phone rings.
“Hi, Natalie. Sweetieee what’s up? Are you okay? Just got out of a meeting, am in my car on route to another one, but have a minute. So, what’s up with you? Why are you so down? Are you okay? You didn’t sound so okay in your message.”
“I’m not okay. There’s just too much going on in my life right now.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m getting two offers on my house, one a possible trade, then this lawsuit thing, trying to do my work, writing, going on interviews, seeing clients, and there’s something else, I’ve not told you about.”
“All those things are good things. Only Natalie, don’t trade houses. Sell that house and get out from under it.”
“You’re right. I’ll sell it, but am considering all options at this point.”
“Hell, Natalie, at least, you aren’t measuring the size of a tumor or something worse. No one is testing your DNA. All things happening in your life are positive.” I chuckle at the absurdity of his comments. Art says off the wall things that for some reason crack me up—being they’re so ridiculous said in his country twang.
I continue, “Just too much going on at once and it’s been like this for too long—for much too long, and I can’t handle it any longer!”
He responds, “Hell, selling your house is good. The lawsuit—hell—that man deserves to be sued and you deserve to get something from it. Now, what’s the other thing that you’ve not told me about?”
“Just something that I’ve wanted to tell you, but it would’ve been stupid to tell you about it, except it’s kind of a lie by omission and I don’t want any lies between us.”
Anxiety filled, “What Natalie, what is it? Do you want to wait, until we can talk face to face, honeee?”
“Maybe, that’d be better.”
“Just give me a short synopsis of what it’s about now, then we can talk about it in detail later on face to face.”
“No, I’ll wait until I see you.”
Demanding, “No, tell me now. Just give me an idea of what it’s about.”
I feel nervous as I silently question myself. Why is it I feel compelled to tell Art that I had sex with Boyd in October? Instead of letting him think, I haven’t had sex in years as I’d told him. Is it because that omission made me feel like a liar and I want no lies? I have feelings for Art and want him to know me with no dishonesty on any level. Now, that Boyd has broken our pact, it’s important to me that Art knows. It may make Art dislike me and never want to see me again, but this is the chance I’ll have to take.
“Honeee, talk to me. Just give me a bit of what it’s about?”
“Okay, I’m married!” I exclaim.
Dead silence then I begin laughing as I think—what a mean bitch, I am. “I only said that because, you know, before you tell someone their cat is dead. You tell them it fell off the roof or something like that or maybe, I said it backwards, but anyway it’s to soften the blow. You know that one?” Drinking liquor is like truth serum to me because it sure screws up my brain. I ponder—am I messing up here big time or what?
“Yeah, yeah, I know that one. So, what is it? Tell me. Get it off your chest, stop beating yourself up, tell me!”
“Well, the pilot with the silver hair that I wrote about in the book I sent you.”
“Um, yeah, I remember. You’re a good writer, that chapter was captivating.”
“Well, it was true. We had sex in October. He was a married man, we fell in love then the last day we were together we made love. So, I lied to you, Art. I’m so sorry. I hate lying and am sorry that I lied to you because I don’t want any lies between us. To begin a new relationship with lies, well I just don’t want it. Don’t want any lies between us ever because I hate lying.”
“In April you made love to this guy?”
“No—no last October, last October.”
“Oh, okay!” he sighs in relief. “Well, then, I’ll think of this as an omission. Something, Natalie just forgot to tell me. It’s okay because it’s only an omission. Hell, this just makes you human. You’re way too hard on yourself. God Natalie, how you beat yourself up.”
“Well, I felt so guilty having left this out about what I told you.”
“Stop beating yourself up. Please, it’s okay. I’ll just think of it as an omission. No big deal, Natalie.”
“Okay now, I feel better having told you.”
He adds, “Good, it’s no big deal—just an omission,”
“I have too much going on in my life, selling my house, going to auditions, this lawsuit, falling in love with two men and now only one. What do you think? Should I get rid of the love part?”
“No... no... not the love part.” His voice cracks.
I think to myself, Art gives me little hints that he really cares about me.
“Natalie, honeee, got to get off the phone now. Call you tomorrow then we can talk more. I’ve arrived at my next meeting. Okay?”
“Okay.” unenthusiastically.
Off the phone, I watch TV feeling better having told Art the truth.
In just a bit, the phone rings. “Natalie honeee, I ended up coming to my condo to finish up the meeting. They’re downstairs and I came upstairs to call you because you didn’t sound too good when we got off the phone. I want to talk with you some more. Are you okay?”
“Yes—no, really no—um I don’t know.” I recall what he told that woman on the phone when I was with him at his farm ‘Sweeteee, I’m in a meeting, I’ll call you back. This meeting excuse deal—what is it really? Is it even true?
He goes into one of his ridiculous dialogues to make me laugh. We continue talking about any and everything ending with his Perot imitation. “I’ve really got to go now, honeee. I’m rambling on. Remember, I’m crazy about you, adore you and am your biggest fan!”
I feel much better after getting off the phone. Next day, I put in a call to Tanner. His secretary takes my number stating that she’ll have him get back to me. A couple of hours pass then he does. I try to be light about it all be
cause I’m so nervous.
“Hey, do you have the book finished?”
“No and I am not going to either.” His voice is curt.
“And why’s that? You told me you’d have it finished by mid-April and haven’t called to tell me anything differently.”
“You’ve broken our contract and turned this into a sex book.”
“Excuse me?”
With a rude tone of voice, “I have no more to say to you because you’ve turned this book into a sex book.”
“There’s absolutely no sex in this book. It’s a financial book. You must have sex on your brain because there’s certainly nothing like that in the manuscript that I gave to you.”
“Well, I’m not going to do the book. So, you need to return the money I gave you immediately.”
“That’s absurd because I did exactly what you paid me to do. You’re the one breaking the contract between us because you haven’t done your part. Not to mention your immoral behavior. I worked constantly trying to do a good job and to get the research done quickly per your instructions.”
He shouts angrily, “What are you talking about? Have you been talking to Sondra? What did she tell you?”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
He states, “I’m going to sue you, if you don’t get my money back to me by next week.”
I respond, “You still owe me money. I did the work you asked me to do and you’ve not paid me the balance.”
“The hell, I do! I’m not paying you anything more. I warn you! Don’t mess with me on this.” He slams down the phone.
Immediately, I relay the conversation to my attorney.
Reeder states, “Natalie, okay now we know how to file and I’ll do it tomorrow. Can you come by and sign it this afternoon?”
“Sure, what a weird man Tanner’s turning out to be not to mention a major liar. He actually threatened me.”
“He’s a bully and trying to cover his ass.”
I reply, “Gosh, Mr. Sunday-school, you said a dirty word.”
A week later, I attend the Memorial Service for my hairstylist whose lover died. We’ve known each other for years, and in that time, we’ve become real friends. He’s a kind, wise and loving man who has known much loss.
I didn’t know the man who died—mostly experiencing him through my hairstylist, but I could feel the love and affection they shared. His friend had AIDS, but that’s not what killed him. He died of an artery exploding in his heart.
On this horribly dreary rainy day, I stand in the courtyard where the Memorial Service is held. While, the mood is sad, it’s also joyful. Among friends of the deceased, I’m surrounded by the warmth of love. Music plays and there are sounds of crying with people hugging one another huddled close together.
Gazing up through the trees, out to the sky a profound awareness floods over me, love is absolutely all that matters on earth. It doesn’t matter, if it’s man loving man, female loving female or man loving woman. It’s the energy of love that matters because the feelings are the same. The love energy filled with joy is capable of raising the vibrations of each of us, unifying us, then flowing out into the world and lasting forever. Love is the emotion that has the capacity and worth to endure. I feel more love standing here in the rain among strangers, than I’ve felt in my own family.
Seems simple, yet so easy to forget how important love is, in stressful and chaotic lives. Almost as if we try to avoid what’s important by filling time, then a death or awareness slaps us in the face. And if we’re lucky, we take the time to notice with the opportunity to stop and experience the pureness of love. Feeling our emotions is the most wonderful experience that there is as a human being. In sadness, pain, or joy—every emotion helps us experience and explore ourselves to the fullest and to further reveal, even expand our soul.
Perhaps, the love each one of us carries in our hearts is all that we actually are, and all we keep with us forever. Where ever it is we go, once we leave this planet. When we block the love from our God source, we feel separate from self, then from one another and this is the cause of the trouble here on earth. What an epiphany.
Standing in the cold rain, I thank God for my ability to experience emotions—love and all the other emotions, while honoring one of us who has passed over to the other side.
Except with my heart so open, I’m overwhelmed because I feel isolated. My life is in such disarray. My house must sell soon. This lawsuit with Tanner is scary. I am almost financially broke and my parents could care less. I’m not worth anything to them, while my father’s purchasing yet another yacht.
Okay, I’ll just have a garage sale to sell some furniture and other things. I must keep going on like Boyd told me to do and I need to see what happens with Art.
This morning, I received notice that the homeowner’s association is suing me for unpaid dues. I’m looking constantly for places to live, in case my house sells. Only if it doesn’t sell, I could be living under a bridge. I am working all the time to follow my path—seeing clients then doing as much voiceover work as possible. Is this my destiny or am I going to become certifiably insane? Am I on some Gandhi quest? God please, release this Job syndrome from my life. Hear me now, as I pray along with all these good people.
“Have no fear of moving into the unknown.
Simply step out fearlessly knowing that
I am with you, therefore no harm can
befall you; all is well.
Do this in complete faith and confidence.”
—Ellen Caddy
BIRTHDAY IN MAY
Home from the Memorial Service—I feel desolately alone. I wish I could call my parents for comfort, but I know that would end up in a disaster and make me feel even worse. So, I give Art a call and leave a message.
“Hi, I’m missing you. I went to a Memorial Service for my hairstylist’s lover—so am depressed and all this rain is really getting to me. Negotiating with the people on my house, but they’re taking forever. I hope all is well with you.”
I snuggle into bed for comfort and watch the rain through the sliding-doors of my bedroom, as it beats down onto the swimming pool, along with shows on television, for the rest of the day. I feel temporarily cozy in my beautiful house, but it’s the beginning of the end living here.
Art calls back later that night.
“Natalie, this is Art.” He always says his name as if I don’t know his voice.
I respond, “Hey, how are you?”
“Fine, but how are you? You sound a bit down.”
“I am and in overwhelm and ready for something to happen—like my house to sell. Did you get my message?”
“Yep, I did. I care about you, but don’t care about that other stuff, especially the Memorial Service for some fag. I only care about you, my work and my friends. So, tell me about you, not about of all that other stuff.” I think to myself—perhaps, Art’s a member of the Klu Klux Klan.
“I left a message telling you about my day, Art—no big deal.” I realize that I am leaning on Art concerning my troubles and I don’t like doing so.
“I understand, but tell me about you. Not about all that other stuff and certainly not about some fag.”
I state, “That man is a wonderful person and a friend. So please don’t talk badly about the situation.” As I think to myself, Art’s a prejudiced bigot saying awful things about blacks, homosexuals, kids, women and almost everyone on earth. He’s full of fear and hate for anyone who’s different from him while he, perhaps actually hates himself. Like my father in this regard and I sure don’t like this aspect about him, but he does have a kind heart behind all the criticism. What he says is just ignorance and fear talking. That Bible belt—believe in God—go to church—I’m right attitude—while thinking deep down that everyone else is wrong and going to hell. All the while they live a self-serving righteousness façade hiding a wall of distortion. Art must think, the only human being worthwhile is a white heterosexual man—again like my dad.
>
Art continues, “Okay fine, but just tell me about you. You’re who I care about.”
I respond, “Just so much is happening and at once, that’s really all. My birthday’s next weekend, I’d like to be with you on my birthday.”
“Okay, I don’t know exactly how, but I’ll move heaven and earth to be with you. Business is crazy right now. All hell’s breaking loose, but I’ll move heaven and earth to be there. Yes, it’ll work out some way. It’s on Sunday—right?”
“Yes Sunday, but I thought you might come down on Saturday, then we could go out on Saturday night.”
“Okay, that’ll work. Call you on Wednesday to firm up our plans.”
“Good, it’ll make me happy to be with you on my birthday. I want to hold you and put my head on your chest. Doing so, makes me feel good.”
“Um.” Art growls then chuckles. A deep um, low coming from down deep in his chest and it really turns me on just like for the same bizarre reason—his Ross Perot imitation does. Am I twisted or what—a Perot imitation as sexy—that’s insane!
“Don’t know what it is exactly, Art? Only, I feel...?”
He asks, “Safe?”
“No that’s not it, I already feel safe, but it’s partly safe, I guess—it’s... um, I feel...”
“Secure?”
I confirm “That’s it, secure and home. I feel home when my head is on your chest.”
“Good, I’m glad. So, what’ll we do on your birthday? Let’s see—dress up—a nice dinner—great conversation as usual, and make love.” He growls, “Next time, we make love it could be nuclear fusion.”