by J. Schlenker
I’m the suede shoes of the King, the placid water of his pool. I am his resonant voice. My timing and rhythm are impeccable.
I am the brush stroke of Vermeer, his Woman in Blue, the swirling midnight sky painted by Vincent Van Gogh, the rich water beneath the lily pads of Giverney, Claude Monet’s gardens, the shimmering tutus of Degas’ dancers, Thomas Gainsborough’s boy, and a period of Picasso.
I am the calm water, the rushing tide, the giant tsunami.
I am the skin of Rama, Krishna, and Shiva.
I contain all. Whatever one sees in existence, whatever is vast and beyond perception is me. I am all-inclusive.
I am electric, like the neon sign. I have attained the highest. Just gaze above. I am active in the world. I am dynamic, a super-being.
I am the fifth chakra, that of the throat. I am communicative and creative. When in balance, I speak with a resonant voice and clear communication. I can listen as well.
When out of balance, I’m introverted and shy. I can’t express my feelings. Too much of me, and I rattle on intrusively and loudly. I’m a gossip.
Keep me sparkly. Sing, hum, chant, shout for your favorite sports team, and then mediate, practice silence, listen.
I am optimism.
Chapter 12
Shelly
* * *
DID HE HAVE to laugh when she told him about Bruce, her new boyfriend? After nearly a minute of uproarious belly laughing and almost choking, or what seemed like a full minute, he finally said, “He’s a monkey? And he’s not gay?”
He was faking it. She was an actress. She knew fake laughter when she heard it.
At least Bruce had a steady income. Unlike Mark, he was ambitious. That was more than she could say for him, working part time in a record store, doing a gig here and there for tips at coffee shops or opening before a two-bit stand-up comic. He hadn’t even written anything original in months. Was it a mistake that she put her cell number in his empty guitar case? At the time, she thought he was going to make it in the music business. Those blue eyes and kinky black curls, that soothing voice, and the way his fingers glided across his guitar strings. She thought he was going places, but he wasn’t. Who was he to laugh at her? She had a role in one of the most prestigious Broadway plays of all time. And he was still playing for handouts.
There was pain buried beneath that laughter. She could hear it. The pain of all those abandoned treks he was going to take in the Himalayan Mountains to find himself. He had this thing for the Beatles, for John Lennon, and especially for George Harrison. If she had to hear one more Ravi Shankar CD. And, the incense. How many times had she told him that was not good for her throat? She had to keep her lungs clear.
And then there was the pain of another failed relationship. Sure, he had confided in her about the string of girls before her. She told him that he didn’t try. He didn’t want anything bad enough. He didn’t want her bad enough. And why not? She had been the best thing in his life to come along, and he wasted it.
He should have known their relationship wouldn’t work out if you could even call it a relationship. They hardly saw each other. They both had crazy hours, passing like two ships in the night. Not to mention that they were complete opposites — in that she wanted to make something of herself, and he didn’t. What did she come all the way from Oklahoma for, she had kept reminding him. She wasn’t about to return with her tail tucked between her legs. No, she would not let her parents have that satisfaction.
Mark had everything at his fingertips. He didn’t even see it. He and his sister both did. That sister of his — so judgmental and so OCD. The perfect little soaps in the guest bathroom, and towels that looked like they had never been used, every tassel in place. She had ended up just wiping her wet hands on her pants before dinner. And everything in their house smelled like potpourri. It was as bad as Mark’s incense. What was it with that family?
His brother-in-law. He was okay, kind of cute, in a middle-aged sort of way. But that wife of his henpecked him. And their kids. Little John was tolerable, well behaved, although a bit on the nervous side. Little John? They couldn’t call him Johnny like normal people? The little girl, Molly, was a terror. Holding her hands over her ears and screaming when she graced them with an aria during dinner. Well, she needed to be taught some manners. The whole family was uppity.
And when Molly said, “Why do you talk like that?” Mark had been the only one to say shh, although he said it quietly so that no one but Molly could hear him. She had absolutely no vestiges left of an Oklahoma accent. Her voice coach had seen to that. Who were they to talk? Coffee does not have an ‘a’ in it. Nor did most words, although they tended to put it in every word, and the ones that had it, they gave special emphasis to. Okay, she had thought it was cute when she first met Mark. She would get him to say certain words just to hear how he pronounced them. Now, it grated on her nerves.
She had to work hard for everything. Mark took it all for granted. He was in New York, born and bred in the midst of where anything and everything could happen. His parents were wealthy. Mark was just throwing it all away.
The only time he was out of the city, other than family vacations, was for that brief stint he spent on a farm in Virginia, if you could call it a farm. They had a horse, one horse. The people who owned it were friends of friends of friends. His parents had a wide circle of distant friends, some of which they had never even met. They sent him there to cool off while he was still finding himself as they put it.
Geraldine, his mom, had caught Mark doing coke. It was a onetime deal. He wasn’t even that into it. It was the only time he ever snorted, yet his family carted him off to Virginia. Mark made the best of it, even looked upon it as the next best thing to trekking the Himalayas if one could call three nights on the Appalachian Trail even remotely similar.
They had told her the story at dinner one night, along with a medley of childhood antics. Mark’s face grew crimson with embarrassment and embarrassing Mark wasn’t easy.
Geraldine was a ‘strategic organizer’. In other words, she didn’t work. She didn’t have to. Mark’s father had a successful practice as a physician. Geraldine just managed everyone else’s lives. It was easy to see where Allison had gotten it from.
And for god’s sake, Mark smoked. How could she inhabit an apartment with a smoker? Okay, well, granted, he only smoked on occasion. He picked the habit up while in Virginia. Must have been the stress brought on by that bear along the trail he insisted was following him the whole way. He experimented with coke only once, happened to get caught by his mom, and ended up taking up smoking as a result of the punishment, as well as hallucinating about a black bear tracking him for three days along the Blue Ridge Mountains. Well, at least he wasn’t scarfing down two packs a day, but still. Didn’t he know she had to preserve her voice? She couldn’t be around someone who smoked, not even a little.
Mark had warned her that Allison wouldn’t like her. Allison liked none of his girlfriends. Geraldine, on the other hand, seemed oblivious to her, as did his father, like she was a passing fad.
They congratulated her on her role in Wicked and praised her for her ambition and her determination to climb up in the world, something they found seriously lacking in Mark. The disappointed look they both shot over at Mark wasn’t lost on her.
* * *
Shelly looked over at the frayed guitar case. A twinge of guilt crept in. She had pursued him. She was all alone in a big city; her parents had given her a year to make it. He was at least in show business, so to speak. From him, she could learn. She would ride a wave on the tail of his coat sleeves, a wave into acting or singing, whichever came first. She reminded herself it wasn’t all ill conceived. She wasn’t a gold digger on the move. Mark had no gold. His parents did, but Mark had none of it. He was cute, with long unruly dark hair that reminded her of what was that candy? Licorice, yes licorice, even more so when he came out of the shower all dripping wet. And that song he was singing about the rain comi
ng down. It had been her favorite until she learned that it was about a former girlfriend. Why had he never written a song about her?
And what did they say? The things that first attracted you to someone you would later despise? How many times had she told Mark, “Try combing your hair for a change?"
There was definitely a sexual attraction, but neither of them was in love. She was doing the right thing. It was time to move on.
* * *
Her parents didn’t know about Mark. The break up that had been building for some time couldn’t have come at a more suitable moment. Her parents were flying out to see her in Wicked in a couple of weeks. How would she explain Mark living with her?
She had secured the role in the nick of time. Her year of trial was almost up. Being devout Mormons, they were also looking forward to seeing The Book of Mormon while here. Didn’t they know it was a satire? Well, they would find out for themselves.
Mark would be back soon to get his stuff. He might not be so concerned with his clothes, but his guitar was a different matter.
If her parents had known she was living with a man out of wedlock, they would have flown out a lot sooner, packed her up, and moved her back home. Mark was eight years older than her, and he was Jewish, not a practicing Jew, but still, they would be appalled. What a scandal that would cause back home in her small, mostly Mormon, community. She was twenty-five, an adult. She should be able to make her own life choices, but then her parents were funding her little adventure as they called it, and they never let her forget it.
But her daring had turned into something great, and now they would see for themselves. Hadn’t they said she had talent? Hadn’t they bragged on her all those years she belted out solos in the church choir? Why did they want her to stay in a small town with limited options? She was destined for more than that limited audience. She was destined for more than working in her father’s insurance agency. They would see that now.
One day, she would be signing autographs out on the street, while being asked to pose with fans, and she would look over and see Mark, strumming on his guitar. She would throw a tip in.
Chapter 13
Mark and Allison
* * *
“ARE YOU OKAY?” She looked over at him from the island, or whatever it was called. Mark wasn’t up on all the architectural nuances that Allison was since her decorating spree had begun. He watched as she gathered her vegetables into neat little rows to chop. She asked it as though it were something expected, something that came as casual as washing her hands. Did he detect a smile on her face, an I told you so? He let it pass. If Shelly had truly been his once in a lifetime love, he would have reacted differently. Maybe Allison could see the writing in the stars when it came to love. She did when it came to practical matters at any rate. His relationship with Shelly had been far from practical. None of his relationships had been realistic for that matter. Maybe that was why Allison felt so negatively towards all of them. Allison had her head screwed on straight when it came to relationships. After all, wasn’t she making a good life for herself, John, Molly and Little John? Maybe he should just ask Allison to fix him up and be done with it. She was older, wiser.
“Yes, I’m fine, as fine as can be expected. I was jilted for a flying monkey.”
Allison clearly stifled a smile as she positioned her wok on the burner and set out her rice steamer.
“Do you want to help me with dinner? John should be home in around an hour. Later, after we get the kids to bed, we can clear you out a spot to sleep. I’m afraid I’ve put the kids’ excess toys in the spare room. I really need to take them to Goodwill. What with remodeling the bathroom and all, I just haven’t had time.”
“How’s that coming?”
“Easier than the kitchen, but then it’s smaller.”
“That’s good.”
“John has tightened my purse strings on the remodeling. So, we’ll be using tile instead of marble.”
“Oh? Is that a problem? I like tile.”
“Yeah, I like it too. Just wasn’t my first choice.”
She handed him a knife. He began slicing carrots. “No, this way,” Allison interrupted, taking the knife from his hand, slicing the carrots diagonally. She had a precise way of doing every chore.
“I’m sure it will work out.”
“What?”
“The bathroom,” he said. To have Allison’s problems, he thought.
He continued slicing in the way Allison showed him although her correct method slowed him down. He looked over at Little John, his crayons all in a row like logs rolling down a river. Little John glared up at him in his childish, meticulous way. It reminded him of Allison. Of course, Allison was five years older. He hadn’t known Allison when she was Little John’s age, but he thought about how she would line up her dresses all in a row in her closet in colorful formation, starting with red and working her way up the color chart. That had fascinated him when he was five and she was ten. He didn’t know then she was aligning them like the chakras, something he would study later in life. He doubted if Allison knew that at the time. He doubted she knew it now, even though she took yoga classes. She had let him watch as she arranged them, a rare event, as her room was more often than not, off limits to him. She had tried to take him under her wing, teach him perfection. He had failed miserably.
Allison was conscientious, methodical, fastidious in about every undertaking. He was none of the above. He saw hints of Shelly in Allison. Had he been dating his sister unbeknownst to him?
Shelly was detailed and rigorous in her routine. There was the gargling with salt water, sipping of lemon water, the arrays of herbal teas and all kinds of throat mixtures she seemed to delight in digesting, and the flood of steam always coming from the bathroom. The wallpaper in their bedroom was peeling off in chunks. Was there no wonder his face was covered with stubble? Wiping off the mirror just wasn’t worth it. And then there were the constant weird low nasal sounds she emitted before hurdling into a shrill piercing of the ears. Those were better done in the hallway because it had an echo quality she said. There were the weird inhalations that made her eyeballs bulge out and the awkward body positions while she spoke sounds that sounded like Bugs Bunny on drugs. He once said, “What’s up, doc?” That only got him a stern look and a break from her cycle, which resulted in her starting the process all over again from scratch.
She had even started seeing a vocal cord specialist. It was all for her career, her role, the role in which she didn’t even have a name. She was part of the ensemble. But she knew she was in line for Elphaba. She repeated it like a mantra as if saying it enough times would make it so. An Elphaba doll sat on the bureau in their bedroom. He expected her to place needles in it any day, around the throat area. Beside it was a Flying Monkey doll. He cringed each time he looked at it.
Had the flying monkey saw her potential, buddied up to her, flirted with her, told her she should be the lead? What was he anyway? Did they have names? Flying Monkey 1, 2, and 3? How many were there? He hadn’t bothered to count them the night they flew overhead. Was her new boyfriend the one that almost straddled him as he hovered over for a moment, leaving a wake of sweaty foul wind in his path? Did he know his seat number? Had he sought him out in his trajectory? Was he aiming to release monkey excrement? Why was he thinking this now? Why would the monkey be jealous of him? After all, wasn’t he the loser, the pathetic one, the one she ditched for a primate?
Shelly hadn’t known the monkeys in the original Wizard of Oz frightened him and made him cry when he was small. He would never tell her something like that. Allison had ribbed him about it every time they watched it together, adding her own horrors to the mix while watching him squirm. The whole situation was ironic. Karmic.
Was she sleeping face down with Monkey Boy as well? Perhaps they both slept face down. Shelly said it kept her nasal passages clear. Sleeping face down allowed them to drain properly. It was gravity.
The sexual position. Did they argue
over that one? Shelly demanded being on top. It was also part of her down with phlegm regime. At first it was a great turn on, but later, it got old. He just lay there, benign, losing all sense of manly aggression. He wasn’t sure if he could ever be on top again that is if he ever had sex again. At this point, he was ready to give up sex — and relationships in general.
Yes, he was ready to move on, to find himself, find some spiritual meaning to it all and try to make sense of his chakras. He had just turned thirty-three. He would give himself a year, just like Shelly’s parents had given her. From this point onward, he was on a quest. He moved the carrots aside and began on the bok choy. Mindfulness, he cautioned himself. He became the knife, the vegetable, the whole process. He went into a trance.
A loud high-pitched sound penetrated the room. He gasped, almost slicing his finger. Molly had screamed, “Mom, Little John is taking all the crayons. I’m bored. I don’t want to color anymore. I don’t want to watch cartoons anymore.”
“Okay, put everything up. You can put the napkins and silverware on the table. How about that?” Allison told her.
“And the chopsticks?”
“Yes, the chopsticks.” Molly seemed pleased with the idea. Allison turned to her brother. “Mark, do you think I’m overbearing?”
“Overbearing?” he hesitated. “Well, a bit obsessive, maybe. But look, you have a great life. I don’t.”
Allison looked at him, studying him over, trying to choose her words wisely. “I don’t know if it is all that great.”
“Really? Everything seems to be so perfect.”
Allison opened a bag of rice and poured it into a measuring cup. “I didn’t have rice at my wedding.”
“What?” asked Mark.