who adapted the opera into Carmen Jones.”
“Ahh.”
“Anyway,” Frank said, “in the original lyrics, she sings about love as if
it"s completely independent and unpredictable, with a mind of its own, and
she"s as much a victim of it as anybody else. When Dorothy Dandridge sings
it in English, you almost get the impression Carmen has teamed up with this
powerful force, in order to wreak destruction on the male of the species.” Celeste sipped at her drink and noticed how his eyes seemed to be
sparking into hazel flame as he talked. “You really do love opera, don"t
you?”
He nodded. “Music in general.”
“I guess that"s why you like to make music videos.”
He nodded, harder now. “I guess you could say music videos are sort of
like miniature operas. Or can be. Mine are. Obviously the music is a lot
different.”
“That"s great that you can appreciate so many things that were before
our time,” she said. “I wish I could get my students to do that. But it"s like
anything a year old, or older, is lame to them. Getting them to appreciate
music or movies from before their time is really tough. From 50 or 100 years
ago? Forget it.”
“That"s a shame,” Frank said, then stared thoughtfully at the night sky
for a moment. “But, to be honest, most people from our generation are the
same way. They can"t appreciate anything that came before us.” “And they"re so ignorant of it!” Celeste exclaimed, keeping her tone
hushed but slapping the table to signify her frustration. “How are you gonna
know where you"re going if you don"t even understand where you came
from?”
“And don"t care,” Frank added, his own voice rising in pitch as though
their passion on the subject was equal and mutual. “Excellent point.
Excellent. You nailed it, right there.”
“And don"t even get me started on literature,” she said.
“What about it?”
She threw her hands up in the air. “The only thing these kids will read
voluntarily is text messages. Or whatever words appear in their stupid
videogames. They won"t read a book to save their lives. I just don"t
understand that.”
“Again, they don"t sound much worse than most adults today. We"re
becoming an illiterate culture.” Frank took a bite of his bagel and the cream
cheese squirted from in between the slices.
Celeste suddenly had an attack of the munchies. “That looks good.
Smells good, too.”
“Want some?” he asked, then, without waiting for a reply, he sawed it in
half with a plastic knife and handed her the virgin side.
“Thank-you,” she said, and took a bite.
“I guess teaching kids has always been hard,” Frank said. “But it must
be even worse, now. And getting harder all the time.”
She nodded while chewing.
“So how do you get your students to appreciate stuff?” he asked. She shrugged. “Unfortunately, I usually can"t. I wind up having to
„teach to the test" when all is said and done.”
“That"s a shame,” Frank said again.
“There"s only so much you can do, y"know,” she said.
“Maybe you should show „em some Loony Tunes,” Frank suggested.
“Kids pay attention to almost anything that"s animated, and the Warner
Brothers cartoons pay so much homage to classic art, music and literature
that they might pick it up by osmosis.I did.”
She smiled at that. “What kind of student were you?”
He made a face and pinched his nose. “A lousy one—up until college,
anyway. I hated school.”
“Really? You strike me as well-read.”
“Maybe I am,” he said. “But not from reading what they told me.” “I loved school,” she said. “But their reading assignments were never
enough for me. I was always hungry for more.”
“Sounds like a teacher,” he said. “Is teaching what you always wanted
to do?”
“Actually, teaching is just a stepping stone,” she said, unable to keep the
flirty grin from twisting her lips. “Until I write the great American novel.” Frank"s eyebrows arched. “You write? You"re a fellow artiste?” Embarrassment transformed Celeste"s grin. “Well, to be honest, I
haven"t written anything yet. I"m still in the observing-life-around-me-andpooling-creative-energy stage. But I do have significant reclusive, introverted
and pretentious streaks.”
Frank chuckled. She was really acquiring a taste for his laugh. “Well,
that"s great, Celeste. I hope you do it someday. You"re witty and deep and I
suspect you"ve got a lot to say.”
“Thank-you,” she said, now a bit uncomfortable.
“So what is „the „great American novel," anyway?” he asked. “And how
do you know one when you see it?”
Celeste shrugged. “Catcher in the Rye is one, I guess. Little Women. A
Tree Grows in Brooklyn. Those are the kind people probably think of when
they use that phrase.”
“What kind of novel will yours be, when you write it?”
“Oh, I want to write about all kinds of things,” she said. “Different
places around the world. Different periods in time. Different kinds of people
and how they relate to each other.”
He winked and poked his index finger toward her a couple times. “See?
I said you were deep.”
“What are your videos about?” she asked, trying to hide the validation
she felt from his compliment.
Now he shrugged. “I guess it"s always about human relations, isn"t it? I
mean, peel the trimmings away and that"s what every book, every movie,
every song is about. I"m no different.”
She bit off some more bagel and chewed thoughtfully.
“Take The Godfather,” he said, “since you know that movie well
enough to quote from it.”
“I read the book, too,” she said. “It might qualify as a „great American
novel".”
“Okay,” he said. “What is it about that story that made people want to
read it, or watch it? It wasn"t the gangland hits or the tommygun fights or any
of that stuff, really. It was how the characters interrelated.”
This sparked a whole deluge of thoughts Celeste hadn"t had opportunity
to share before. When she voiced a few of them, Frank came back with some
of his own. Before she realized it, Celeste had spent over two hours wrapped
up in a conversation that grazed over dozens of topics, she and Frank feeding
off each other"s observations, excited to be hearing ideas they hadn"t
understood or been exposed to before, adjusting their own opinions
accordingly, then growing excited yet again at the new flood of ideas birthed
by their newfound perspectives. She wanted to linger on each topic long
enough to explore it fully, but was too tempted to pass up the tangents that
popped up along the way and pulled them in a new direction.
Frank excused himself to visit the restroom, leaving her to wonder if she
should buy another cappuccino. Then someone sat down in Frank"s seat. The young woman was strikingly pretty. Asian, but with blonde hair.
“Looks like Frank moved on already,” she said, with no preamble. “Excuse me?” Celeste replied.
“I guess you are his type. I"m Violet, by-the-way. Frank and I have a<
br />
history. You are?”
“Celeste Turcotte.”
“Have you slept with him, yet?”
Celeste realized this must be the on-again, off-again girlfriend Shauna
told her about. Whoever she was, she obviously had some issues. “We"re just
friends. Not that it"s really your business.
“Oh, the „friends" ploy,” Violet said, with a wink. “We"re all so much
easier to seduce once we see how charming and witty he can be in a platonic
relationship. Where did he take you tonight? Somewhere fancy, of course.
Were you impressed?”
Frank reemerged then. His eyes narrowed when he saw Violet. Violet fluttered her fingers at him. “Hi, Franky!”
“Hello, Violet. You"re in my chair.”
“Sorry,” she said, standing and side-stepping out of his way. “I was just
saying hello to your new friend. Where did you two go tonight, tuxboy?” “We saw Carmen,” he said, taking his seat.
“Isn"t he cultured?” she asked Celeste.
“I might have a part for you in a Golliwog video,” Frank said. “I"ve
been drafting some ideas out.”
“Well, you have my number. Call me and maybe we can get together.”
She delivered this last line in a sultry tone, and with sensual body language
Celeste didn"t miss, before waving goodbye and strutting her exit. Every pair
of male eyes in the place lingered on her svelte form as she left. Except
Frank, who was studying Celeste.
“Girlfriend?” Celeste asked.
“Ex,” Frank replied, nodding. “Wonder what she"s doing downtown.” “Ex?”
“I broke up with her a few days ago.”
Celeste played with her empty cup. “Met somebody else, huh?” Frank shrugged. “No. No romantic entanglements at the moment.” Celeste finally did check the time, and noticed it was well after
Midnight, she stood, slipping on her purse.
“Is everything okay?” Frank asked, looking concerned and a little
surprised.
“Yes, I"m fine. It"s just very late and I need to get home.” “I"m sorry. I guess I talked your ears off, huh? I lost track of time.” She forced a polite smile. “Thanks for the opera, and for the
cappuccino.”
“You"re very welcome. I"m really glad you came tonight.” She forced the polite smile again, and strode for the door.
He jumped up and rushed to open the door for her. “I"ll walk you to
your car.”
“No. Please don"t,” she said.
“Don"t be crazy,” he said, all the luminous intensity now faded from his
features. “You"re not walkingby yourself downtown at night. I don"t care
how tough you think you are.
So he escorted her to the parking garage, but she refused to take his arm
or otherwise touch him. She drove away as he stared after her with a
bewildered expression.
Once the parking garage shrunk to dark obscurity in her rear-view
mirror, Celeste let out a heavy breath.
What in the world had just happened? Had she lost all her marbles?
Being polite and civil was one thing, but she had made herself vulnerable.
She completely opened herself to this smooth operator who had very nearly
completed a seduction of her while seated at Starbucks!
He had poured on the charm, exposed her to an enticing glimpse of
archaic culture, then swept her along into the very sort of intimate
communication she longed for. She could have talked all night like that. But
if she hadshe"d be in danger of taking some foolish risks by now. Thank God Violet showed up to jolt her out of the trance. She didn"t
like the girl, but she owed her one.
12 Frank drove home that night shell-shocked.
He had a fantastic night, had gotten completely lost in his time with Celeste, and felt intellectually and emotionally stimulated in ways he hadn"t been for years. As friends go, he had hit the jackpot with this girl.
Then she turned it all off like a faucet. Had he said something stupid? Had Violet?
Violet might have told her something while he was in the restroom. She was easily vindictive enough to do something like that. But would she, when she wanted something from him—namely to get her face and new storebought boobs on MTV with his help?
Where had she come from, anyway, and how had she found him?
By the time he reached home, he still couldn"t decide what all had happened.
It was late, but Celeste had left downtown only minutes before him and should still be up. He gave her a call, grumbling a curse under his breath when her voicemail kicked on.
“Hi, Celeste. It"s Frank. Just…um, wanted to make sure you"re all right. Was kinda" concerned the way you took off. Sorry for keeping you out so late—it wasn"t my intention. Hope everything is okay. Um…bye…”
He stared at the phone for a moment, wondering how lame his message would sound to her, or if he should have left one at all.
He thought they were hitting it off great. He could have sworn she was enjoying herself as much as he was. How could he have been so wrong?
He paced his living room for a while, then wandered into the bedroom, stripped off the tuxedo and put it away.
The tux was an investment he made back when he moonlighted as a wedding videographer. When Celeste first agreed to attend the opera with him, he thought he led a charmed life for having a tux ready for the occasion. Right now his life didn"t seem as charmed.
He pulled on a sleeveless shirt, shorts and his belt, then hit the free weights. He wasn"t scheduled to lift again until tomorrow, but he wouldn"t be able to sleep for a while now anyway. Plus, lifting gave him something to do with anger, and he was experiencing that now.
Aside from the bench press, his sets were all dumbbells that night. His mind roamed back over the twists and turns of his conversation with Celeste, until he had it almost nailed down.
The subject had drifted back to movies, and she had asked him about A Bronx Tale—why he chose it. He told her he thought both Miles and Shauna would enjoy it, for different reasons. Then both of them expressed confusion at why the Italian boy lied to the black girl about being present when her brother was attacked. It was shortly after that when Celeste flipped the switch. And when Violet made her appearance.
Frank couldn"t remember saying anything stupid. Maybe he tipped her off in some non-verbal way that he was attracted to her well beyond friendship. Maybe the movie itself did that, when her memory was jogged.
A black girl and an Italian boy fall in love in the movie he just happens to play at the party they both just happen to attend? Yeah, maybe a little too coincidental for her comfort.
Still, her reaction struck him as out of proportion to whatever red flags that might have raised.
“That shouldn"t even rate a red flag,” he said, out loud, when he finished his third set of inclines. “Maybe a yellow, at worst.”
Well, something had done it, whether it was something he did or said, or Violet. But something flipped Celeste"s switch.
His eyes settled on a grouping of photographs fixed to the wall. He shook his head, slid up the board he had performed inclines and declines from, gripped the dumbbells and launched into a set of flies.
The next day Frank brought production current by finishing the latest Avcom commercial. It went quickly, because by now he could edit these cookie-cutter segments in his sleep. Part of the key to success was making the audience interpret the information as not being from a cookie cutter. He did that through the methods of presenting the cookie-cutter elements. Usually the only creative energy expended was deciding on the mise en scene for the piece. Once that was settled, choosing camera angles; customer interview clips; narration; smarmy music; graphics; fonts; colors; editin
g effects and sequence wereall…well, pretty much cookie cutter.
He checked his work email, made notes on upcoming meetings, new ad campaigns coming down from corporate, and projected pricing packages for the next quarter. He spent a couple hours planning, making phone calls and sending emails to his production crew.
After lunch, he took his first look at the raw footage from Miles" birthday party. He had some good stuff, but entirely too much of it. Considering the attention span of the average present day American, he figured the event should somehow be condensed into a half hour, at the most.
Granted: probably nobody would ever watch it besides Miles and Shauna themselves…fewer and fewer times as the years went on. But he had no intention of doing a sub-par job for his friends.
The speeches all had to be in it —Shauna"s, Miles" and Shauna"s father"s. Miles" arrival and surprise also had to be included. He thought some of the preparations before Miles showed would give it a nice build-up. Whatever time was left should be filled with about one third the guests having a good time, and two thirds Miles interacting with those around him—especially Shauna and Katina.
With that storyboard planted in his mind, he began to put it all together. Every time he came to footagewith Celeste"s face in it, unless it was a group shot he needed, he zipped past it on to the next clip he needed. Tunnel vision wasn"t always such a bad thing. Not when you could use it to your own advantage.
13 Celeste listened to Frank"s message and felt bad. Frank didn"t sound like a smooth-talking player, but a sincere man who just had a rug pulled out from under him.
But then players didn"t get play by revealing their playerho od, did they? She would be a lot safer without meetings like they had at Starbucks.
A major cold front moved over the area and had the effect of starting Winter off early. Celeste picked up a virus of some kind—probably from one of her students. It started out as a tickle in the back of her throat. By the end of the first day she felt like she had swallowed razor blades.
The fever came on her while she lay in bed that night. The next morning she was weak, dizzy, and ached all over.
Celeste called in sick. Knowing she needed medicine but was too lightheaded to drive, she called Nikita to ask if she could bring some over, but her sister never answered. She got ahold of her friend Bonnie, who agreed to make a pharmacy run on her lunch break.
It was times like this she seriously reconsidered her assumption that she could live forevermore without a man.
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