Mackenna on the Edge

by Djuna Shellam

  My job was gathering a different type of information in support of those poor souls who gathered, decoded, translated and analyzed snippets of dialogue and Morse code, predominantly from the USSR, twenty-four hours a day. I was happy to support them with uplifting articles about their immediate surroundings and keep them up to date about news from what we called “The World”—the Continental United States—and the various goings on around base.

  Compared to mine, theirs might be considered a grueling life by some. From the day they arrived for an eighteen month stint on base, they worked twelve day shift rotations on one of four flights: Abel, Baker, Charlie or Dog. Three swing shifts, three day shifts, three midnights and three days off. They worked this way for the entire tour before rotating to another remote base. Despite the hundreds of thousands of dollars spent on their education and security clearances, many opted for cross-training after their first assignments rather than spend another eighteen months remote. The work and the environment were that stressful.

  Alcoholism ran rampant in the Security Service, especially on remote sites where base bars remained open twenty-four hours a day to accommodate each shift. I was, thankfully, what they called a Day Lady. I worked a regular seven-thirty to four-thirty, Monday through Friday shift. Predominantly, I wrote articles for the base newspaper and was often a contributor to the Stars ‘n Stripes newspaper that is distributed world-wide to all military installations. I wrote about locations close enough to visit and explore over the course of three days, rivalries between the base football, basketball and softball teams, rivalries between the four flights, hometown news and the like.

  Morale was a fragile entity, and it was my job to constantly scramble for stories to help maintain it. I loved my job and the people I wrote for—a wild-eyed, unruly bunch of folks, made that way mostly from their quirky and oftentimes difficult assignment. They were to perform such sensitive work without any glory or recognition, without the ability to discuss their work with friends or family, and all under an ever-present umbrella of tedium, boredom and fatigue. Fatigue came from the strange sleep patterns brought on by their crazy work schedules and the near continuous partying that went on between rotating shifts. In hindsight, I wasn’t really surprised to be retained by the Security Service. I knew and understood the mission; and given the nature of my work, I also had a security clearance. What did surprise me was Goodfellow.

  Goodfellow AFB was primarily a training base for the very people who would end up at places like San Vito; it just lacked the color and crazy intensity of a typical active Security Service base. I could see it and feel it from the moment I entered the base. It was dull and lifeless and practically smelled of dust. Often, first impressions can be deceiving, which was the case with Goodfellow. It appeared as just a quirky little base with a mission that catered to its transient students, stuck out in the middle of nowhere, remote as any overseas USAFSS base.

  Career-wise, however, it was a gem—a diamond in the rough. I ran the newspaper office and because of that, I had direct access to the major players on base who would potentially endorse my resume to prospective civilian employers. They would also arrange special perks for me whenever I asked, and even when I didn’t. I was also able to get off the base quite often in order to attend military conferences or training.

  Despite the obvious and unsettling fact that most of the time it was a horrible location and a veritable bore, my life took a significant turn on that base. The truth is, my life flipped upside down. Before I arrived on Goodfellow, I was completely involved in my work and my writing. Period. I limited my social life considerably, choosing to spend my off-hours exploring the countryside and writing about my discoveries. I thought I was happy. But the truth was, I wasn’t and I was terribly lonely. As a bystander, I reluctantly witnessed my peers falling in and out of love all around me on a continual basis throughout my short military career. As for me, I didn’t feel there was a place for me anywhere in that ritual.

  I attempted to fit in, as early as Tech School when I willingly offered my virginity to a guy in my class—he was more of a pal than a lover—but I couldn’t go through with it. As a result, I felt worse afterwards than I did before I tumbled into his bed. It wasn’t what I wanted, but more of what I thought I should want. From that point on, I didn’t feel more in-tune with my more experienced peers; rather, I felt extraordinarily alienated and my extreme loneliness was heightened. Until I landed in San Angelo, Texas, I was resigned to be alone because I was positive—so certain—I’d never find another someone like me.

  I didn’t actually know that’s what I was feeling at the time, because I refused to listen to the inner voice that was always trying to tell me I was different. There were expectations that I would find boys attractive and then men, and want to eventually fall in love with one of them, get married, have babies and live happily ever after. I knew that’s how I was supposed to feel, but I didn’t and I couldn’t—no matter how hard I tried.

  My eyes naturally followed not men, but women. My heart fluttered over women, not men, and I experienced intense, emotional dreams about women and not men—as I had for as long as I could remember. I refused to put a name to my feelings and repressed any mental debates on the issue. Not willingly, of course, but my subconscious was hard at work trying, I assume, to protect me from a disapproving society.

  As a result, I kept my distance from men to discourage their interest, and from women to discourage mine. It wasn’t that I was worried about what the military might do to me if I ever acted on my natural impulses, but it was the rejection and subsequent humiliation from the object of my desire that I feared most. My self-esteem was obviously and hopelessly damaged at a tender age, and I couldn’t seem to get over it or repair it. I ruthlessly suppressed my desires and lived a quiet, strangely happy, asexual life. Until, that is, Goodfellow and Alice.

  SEVENTEEN

  Go Ask Alice

  “So you’re going?” Camille’s voice registered disbelief as she cradled the phone against her shoulder.

  “Yes, I know it, Cami—it’s a death trap for me to go anywhere near Deirdre, but… what can I say?” Mackenna perched on the king-sized bed in her eighth floor suite and stared out over Central Park. It was a mild winter day in New York and the park was busy with a cavalcade of visitors from all over the world, dressed in every tourist ensemble imaginable. “I promised Eve,” she conceded woefully. “Anyway, I want to see Riley and Francine—you know they’ll probably both be there.”

  “Well you’re right about that,” Camille’s laughter crackled through the phone, “I’ve never known Riley to miss a party. And, considering she and Francine are bumpin’ bushes these days—with each other, no less—well, it’s a good bet they’ll both be there. But Deirdre?” Camille’s tone turned serious. “Jesus Christ, Mackie, that’s harsh, babe.”

  “Well, it’s not like I’m looking forward to it, Cami!” Mackenna countered with force, then weaker and somewhat resigned, “But, it had to happen sometime, didn’t it? We live in a small town and it’s as simple as that—that’s how I’m trying to look at it, anyway.”

  “I know how small Hollywood is, but c’mon, Mackenna, I know you better than that…”

  “All right, you’re right,” she reluctantly admitted. “I’m freaking out about this whole thing. I just about died when Deirdre showed up Tuesday night, and that’s exactly what she did. She just popped out of nowhere—like a wicked witch—and about scared the heck out of me. Then she hopped on her broom and flew away.” Camille giggled at the thought as Mackenna flopped back onto the bed and stared at the ceiling.

  “Anyway, Cami, I don’t know why I’m so freaked about tonight because I don’t have one ounce of feelings left for her—she ruined everything when she cheated on me. I guess if I had even the slightest inkling that she was the least bit unhappy with me—with us…”

  “Well, that’s the thing, isn’t it? How can you not want to just kill someone who out of the blue cheats on you
—after five years? I know I’d be serving time right now if she did that to me. And for what? For whom? Did you ever find out?”

  “Yeah, but you know what, Cami? I don’t want to talk about it anymore—about her. She’s completely messed up and probably did me a favor, I guess. So…” Her voice trailed off as her mind filled with thoughts of Deirdre and questions about why she really left.

  “So tell me, Mackie,” Camille prodded. “What’s the deal with Eve? Inquiring minds want to know.” Camille suppressed a snicker.

  “The deal? What do you—”

  “Oh, don’t you play coy with me, dearie!” Camille interrupted. “You know what I mean… is there something going on with her and you or what? Tell Auntie Cami everything!”

  “Camille, you are incorrigible,” Mackenna laughed, slightly exasperated at Camille’s prying. “No. There’s nothing to tell.”

  “Yet.”

  “Stop it.”

  “Well… I’m just doing a little math is all. Two plus two equals hmmhmmhmmm…”

  “Stop already,” Mackenna scoffed. “And who says there’s going to be a yet, anyway? We’re just friends.”

  “Because I can feel it all the way out here—there is a yet, Mackiedoodle. The vibe is wicked strong. Can’t you feel it?”

  “No!” Mackenna protested weakly then admitted, “Oh, okay, I don’t know. It’s… it’s uncomfortable, but in a strange—no—a strangely wonderful way. No, I mean… look, there’s nothing romantic and there’s not going to be because… because I… she…” Mackenna groaned. “We’re friends, Camille, and that’s how it’s going to stay. Like us—you and me. Just friends. Period. I don’t want anything else from her or with her—nothing more than we have right now. We’re old friends and that’s exactly how I want it.” Mackenna suddenly wondered if she was trying to convince Camille or herself.

  “Why? You’re not planning to go solo the rest of your life are you?”

  “Because, Camille!” Wasn’t that enough of a reason? Mackenna wondered to herself.

  “Because…”

  “Because…” Mackenna sighed, and then admitted, “The fact is, there’s just too much history. And like I said, it’s uncomfortable.”

  “In a wonderful way.”

  “Camille,” Mackenna warned.

  Camille immediately ignored Mackenna’s warning tone. “I’m only saying what you just said yourself…”

  “Look,” Mackenna interrupted. “I can’t allow anything to happen between us, Camille. I just cannot allow it.”

  “Why ever the hell not? She sounds perfectly perfect for you, hon. Why the resistance?”

  “Because of—because… of…” Mackenna tried but could not bring herself to say why. The telephone lay silent as she wrestled internally.

  Finally, Camille felt compelled to say what Mackenna was unwilling to admit out loud. “Because of Alice.”

  The line went quiet as Mackenna stopped for a moment to take in Camille’s words. “Yes,” Mackenna said softly as she finally breathed a sigh of relief. Yes, it was Alice. It was always Alice.

  17.2

  She hung back where, from the periphery of Deirdre’s large hotel suite, she could watch unimpeded the party guests engage in the entertaining Hollywood dance she knew so well. Air kisses filled the room like an airborne virus as overwrought, to-the-face saccharine compliments equaled in number the catty, cutting, behind-the-back slanderings. All in the name of doing business; though, if asked, the players would most likely feign shock and swear it was a friendly cocktail party—Dahrling.

  She didn’t mind the ritual; in fact, she enjoyed it—enjoyed watching would be a more accurate description of her enjoyment. Observing the action was always far more interesting and preferable for Mackenna. She found it difficult, if not impossible, to be too critical of the ritual considering that many a fictional character had been developed for her stories from such parties. As long as she remained an unscathed observer she had no complaints about the process.

  Deirdre’s impressive, expensive hotel suite was comfortably filled with people associated with the movie: Deirdre’s New York friends, co-workers, acquaintances, hangers-on, some fortunate wannabes and their cling-on “plus one” friends. A continuous murmur of cocktail conversation clashed with the show tunes that wafted across the room from where a pianist and several guests belted out one Broadway hit after another.

  Mackenna mentally noted there were representatives in the room from the various Hollywood “Lists.” The super A-listers, A-list gays, A-list straights and A-list doesn’t-matter-what-it-is-if-it-can-get-me-a-job-part-or-a-promotion-I’m-game were there. In addition to a smattering of miscellaneous B-listers, were a handful of No-listers, as well as people whom she didn’t recognize and who might easily fall into any of the above categories. All made for quite an interesting array of guests. She immediately thought of a wicked party game where the object of the game would be to see if any of the No-lists could match the A-lists to their proper category. A subtle look of amusement appeared on Mackenna’s face as she imagined how shocked the No-listers would be at the correct and revealing answers. Nothing in Hollywood (or wherever “Hollywood” happened to be at the moment, which at that moment happened to be in New York City) was ever what it seemed. Ah well, she resigned, you didn’t have to go through the motions of playing a party game here, or even organize one, because everyone was already playing one game or another anyway. But who actually won in the end? What was victory? And what was the point of it all, anyway? She sighed. She was jaded and she knew it, and as always, wondered why she was even involved in the game in the first place. Monetarily she certainly didn’t need to be.

  Mackenna sat quietly on a soft off-white leather couch on the far side of the room, slowly sipping Evian water as she watched the party dynamics playing out before her. She watched with particular interest Eve interacting with various guests near the middle of the spacious room. At the moment, Eve was engaged in a rousing conversation with three men and a woman Mackenna had never met. She thought she recognized the taller blond man, but she just couldn’t place him.

  He was attractive in a rugged sort of way, impeccably dressed and most probably an A-list gay. She speculated it was the way he used his whole body to talk and his vocal inflections that gave him away. He was telling the small group quite an animated story, acting out each part, causing raucous laughter every few seconds. Mackenna watched Eve and felt a pang at how much she looked like Alice whenever she laughed—the way she dabbed at her eyes just like Alice used to. Alice would say her eyes always watered when she laughed. She didn’t know why—they just did. Mackenna’s heart clenched. She wanted to get up and get herself out of the range of Eve’s beguiling and confusing charms but—she couldn’t. If she got up she’d have to mingle and talk to people and lose sight of Eve—and she really didn’t want to do either. She definitely wanted to avoid seeing Deirdre—again—which was far more likely if she attempted to move elsewhere.

  On several occasions already Mackenna had found Deirdre completely inescapable—but, thankfully they had avoided speaking to each other. Seeing Deirdre was painful enough—she didn’t want to find herself in a situation where she was forced to chat with her, too. When Mackenna saw her earlier that evening, Deirdre was animated and obviously not affected by her presence at the party or their break-up—at least as far as she could see from Deirdre’s carefree and sometimes over-the-top behavior. Riley and Francine had been a veritable shield for her as Deirdre wouldn’t dare create a scene in their presence. But since their early and unfortunate departure, Mackenna had avoided Deirdre like the plague. Watching Eve wasn’t much easier for her either—that situation presented a host of other, more complex emotions.

  She questioned her decision to attend this soirée from Hell, finding herself faced with a difficult dilemma. She didn’t want to be there, never wanted to see Deirdre again for the rest of her life. Really. At the same time, she was overwhelmed with spiraling confusion over h
er emerging feelings for Eve. But if she left, she would most assuredly hand Deirdre a subtle victory and undoubtedly hurt Eve in the process.

  After seriously mulling it over, Mackenna decided it was best not to leave her comfy spot on the couch for the dangerous and unknown territory beyond its very comfortable cushions. Instead, she directed her attention to the right of her. Hopefully, something or someone would entertain Mackenna and help take her mind off Eve and the small gathering of friends standing nearly directly in front of her, distracting her beyond words.

  It didn’t take long for Mackenna to be diverted from her inner turmoil as most of the room was in constant flux, with characters moving from group to group with regularity and ease. Her attention shifted suddenly when a literal spectacle caught her eye. Had she been at home alone watching television, she might have gasped or laughed out loud, but here at the so suave cocktail party she merely bit her lip and took mental notes. She literally had to suppress a strong urge to burst out laughing when a woman who, at first glance seemed reasonably attractive, slowly began moving into Mackenna’s field of vision.

  Wearing what could only be described as a hideous evening dress, displaying minimal taste at best and clearly too old for her attire, the poor ancient dear was a fashion disaster. A shimmering hot pink spaghetti strap way-too-short box-style mini-gown, designed for a Twiggy figure which she had not, with tiny bows tacked all over it as if she’d just walked through a blizzard of black velvet bow post-it notes, hung on a body that had seen better days—a long, long time ago.

  Her skin—except for her face—called for a lot less sun and perhaps even a bit of ironing. And there, gaudy as could be and balanced precariously right over one of her obviously surgically enhanced boobs—one of which was perilously close to leaping out of the god-awful dress right along with its mate—was a large, diamond and ruby studded AIDS awareness ribbon.