TANGLED UP IN BLUE
CAL. Remember when you told me that—? No, well, of course you don’t. Sorry, silly question. It’s just that I always find myself thinking about you when things over here get rough. I know I should still be angry but it all seems to have happened so long ago that the bad things you did to me are just… forgotten. I tell myself that I should think about that morning, when I woke up and you were gone. I tell myself that I should think about how you started talking nonsense I was supposed to understand. I tell myself I should think about all the promises you made and broke. I know it’s silly but I… I met someone. A girl. And when we had sex I felt guilt. It’s been nearly ten years, and I still can’t… I keep expecting you to show up. You never do.
It’s early in the morning now, and I’m laying in bed, thinking if you’ve changed at all, if your… hair is still the same colour I have stapled in my mind, and you –thousands of miles away, living the life you dreamt of when we were kids- are most likely thinking about something else entirely. Hell, I bet that to you I’m nothing but a footnote, an amusing anecdote for your new friends and your husband. You probably tell them you were a little crazy back when we were together. And, you know, you’d be right. Crazier than me, at least.
It was your idea, Ashley, and that’s what kills me.
That it was your fucking idea.
New Year’s Eve, 1999. There’s a letter pasted on the fridge, written in a rush, that reads: ‘gone to LA with Cal don’t try and find us.’
Nobody has noticed.
The family is having dinner in the living room, their eyes all fixed upon the television in front of them as they munch on the stale chicken. There is still a dish in the oven. Father -fat and sweaty, wearing nothing but an old t-shirt and boxer shorts- spits out piece of bone, and looks over at his wife -short and wrinkled, thick rimmed glasses covering up most of her face-, expressionless.
“Where’s Ashley?” he asks.
Mother shrugs, still staring at the TV. “I don’t know.”
ASH. It happened a couple of weeks after I left Cal. My parents had taken me back reluctantly, but I could tell that it didn’t really make a difference if I was living with them or not. They barely noticed. I tried to sleep out as often as I could— sometimes staying at a friend’s place and sometimes sleeping in the beds of strangers. Must’ve been dozens of times I picked up guys simply because feeling like a slut was easier than feeling like you didn’t even matter. I don’t really know why it happened. I try to tell myself that it isn’t my fault, but that’s just complete bullshit. Truth is I’m a fucking idiot, always have been. Like, it was me who bailed on Cal. And it was me who called up my friends, and told them we should hit some bars, pick up some guys. It was a Wednesday, I think.
I don’t know why it was different this time. Maybe I just missed Cal and… how he could make me feel like the best person in the world even though I knew I was a terrible human being. And… how he could look at me like I was beautiful, other than just hot or fuckable. You know, people always ask me why I left him, and I guess I don’t really know exactly why. I just… I panicked. I couldn’t see myself living my life with him. It was as if I… I had been fooling myself all that time we were together, and only then, driving down the road towards LA, I could finally see it, that we didn’t belong. It wasn’t that I didn’t love him. I loved him, man, I still do. I just felt that… we were ruining whatever it was that we had together. The only good thing I had in my life, I felt like it was going to be over if we went through with it. So I bailed.
And then this happened.
New Year’s Eve, 1999. She sticks her head out the window and screams. Cal Towney tries to keep his eyes on the road, smiles.
“Would you settle down?”
“It’s the end of the millennium, man, live a little.”
The car is an old, broken down Cadillac Towney inherited from his uncle, and it reeks of cigarettes, booze and fast food. They’ve been driving for about three hours straight, but there’s still a long way to go before Los Angeles is in the horizon, and a little more than an hour for the year 2000. The back seat is littered with empty beer bottles, and food wrappings, and Dylan’s voice comes out the old speakers in the rear like a whisper, and leaves out the open window, lost in the raging wind. Cal eyes Ashley Bateman and chuckles.
“What the fuck does that mean, live a little? What are we doing right now?”
“Eloping to Los Angeles,” she answers, giggling. “But it’s never enough, honey. I mean, we should rob a bank— Kill a man!”
Cal laughs. “Kill a man? Now you want to kill a man?”
The road in front of them seems never ending, lit only by the glowing lights that frame it’s sides. There’s no other car travelling but them, and most of their friends are probably back in town in a party, getting drunk, trying to figure out who to kiss when the clock hits midnight. Ashley sits up straight, stares at Cal.
“I don’t know, would you do that for me?”
“Well, who would I have to kill?”
“It doesn’t matter who, man. You’d be doing it for me.”
“I don’t know. I mean, I wouldn’t kill my father or, you know, my mother. But… Sure. Yeah. I’d kill for you. Why not?”
Ashley leans forward, kisses him on the cheek. “You are the sweetest.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m known for.”
Ashley beams, for a second feeling genuinely loved and happy, but as the numbers in the dashboard counting the miles driven grows higher, and the number of tracks left in the Dylan album grows lower, and the conversation grows thinner, and the look in Cal’s eyes grows warmer and warmer, the smile fades away and her face turns grave. She feels something in the pit of her stomach. It is not good.
CAL. You should see them, Ash. First there’s Georgie, this fat, smelly guy who never, ever leaves the house. I mean, there was this earthquake a couple of days ago and he didn’t even get out of bed. And I have no idea of how in the world he makes rent every month, because all I ever see him do is sit around the house getting high. Something with computers, I think. Then there’s Dawson, who is OK, I guess. A little bit uptight, and sort of a yuppie, but he lets us read the movie scripts he gets from work. That’s always cool. Right now I’m working as a waiter. Disappointing, I know, but what the hell can you do? We never really thought it through, our plan, which is probably why you left me. We were such idiots, weren’t we? Going to LA, getting married, growing famous together. Seemed so easy to do, but I’m almost thirty now. What the fuck have I accomplished with my life? If I’d known it would be this way I wouldn’t have kept going. I would’ve gone back with you, asked you why you left, maybe worked it out. I mean, I have auditions all the time, but I’ve kinda lost faith at this point. It doesn’t feel new or exciting anymore, you know? And I met a girl the other day. The one I told you about. She’s an actress, too. Her name is Joanne.
It was the funniest thing. I come back to the house from my shift, and there’s like half a dozen people smoking dope with Georgie. I mean, at first I was mad, you know? I work all fucking day long, when I come back to the house, all I wanna do is lay in bed. But then I met her. She reminds me of you, Ashley. You know, she puts up this… crazy, whimsy girl act just like you did. Talks like she’s reading off a page. And she likes me. That doesn’t happen often, right? She walked into the kitchen, and asked me where we kept the beers. It was a silly question, the fridge was right there, and it took me a second to even notice that she was speaking to me.
Joanne’s pretty too.
Big blue eyes and hay-coloured hair. A nice ass and big tits too, which we know you never had. Heh. Look at me. Trying to make you jealous. First good thing that’s happened to me in months and all I can think about is what you’d say about it. What you’d think of Joanne. And she was so sweet, too, Ashley, I swear to God, she thought I was funny, she listened to the things I said, and she took an interest in me, which you never, ever did. I can see that now. It took me a while, but I can see that you were selfish, and uncaring, and just plain unkind. Me and Joanne, we made out in my room, and then we… did the nasty. She didn’t speak much after that, which I thought was weird. Later she asked me who I’d been thinking about during… You know. It broke my heart, Ashley. I had to lie.
Seconds later Georgie comes into the room laughing like a fucking idiot, and gives me two thumbs up. Behind him are Joanne’s friends, giggling. On a scale from one to ten, I’d give it an eight in awkwardness.
TOM. I met the girl when she was working in a topless bar, and I pulled in for a drink. The place was called the Shining Light (which is a weird name for that kind of joint) and they had naked waitresses and, of course, strippers, which is pretty much all you need to pull in crowds of men. The food was also excellent. And I do mean it, ‘cause women always think that when guys talk about good food in titty bars they are just trying to justify the fact that they even go to titty bars, but hey, I don’t need to justify shit. I like titty bars. And the food in the Shining Light was fucking excellent.
If she’d worked there before, I hadn’t noticed but the first time I actually saw Ashley she looked spectacular. I was sitting in the back of the place, having a smoke, and she comes over topless, wearing nothing but one of those tiny, black skirts the waitresses had to use. Notebook and pencil in hand, she asks me what I wanted. I’m like, -Bring me a beer and a shot of tequila, but I’m thinking that all I want is her. It’s not that she was particularly pretty or hot by any conventional assessment. Her face was covered in make-up, and she looked like a clown. Her body was surprisingly less voluptuous than that of her colleagues. Yet, she carried herself a certain way. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s the kind of girl you see, and… just really want to hump. I mean, I don’t want to sound like an asshole, but there’s a certain kind of girl, and I’m not just talking about movie stars or models, that just acts and looks in a way that makes you want to fuck her just then and there. And Ashley fell into that category.
When she came over with the drinks I asked her why she wasn’t up there in the stage dancing and she told me she had a little something called self-respect. What’s the difference between dancing naked and waiting naked? And she laughs and goes -I don’t fucking know, man, but strippers are just a step away from being whores and if I have to work naked I wanna stay at least two steps away from prostitution. A couple of minutes later I asked her when she was off. She grinned.
I took her to a bar close to the motel I was living in, and half an hour of drinking later we were already making out in the bathroom. I asked her if she wanted to go back to my motel room, and she told me -Sure, yeah, alright, whatever. When we finished, she gave me her number and left. I didn’t think about her for weeks after that, and it was only after the motel owner kicked me out that I reached inside my coat pocket, and noticed the piece of paper with her phone number scribbled on it. I said -Hello, and then there was a pause. She didn’t know who I was and I didn’t really blame her, so I told her: -Tom, you know, Thomas Braddock, I don’t have anyone else to call. Next thing I know, I’m sleeping at her place.
New Year’s Eve’s Eve, 2008. Joanne didn’t expect Cal to call, but he did. They had been seeing each other for about a month now and every time they got together she felt that she liked him a little bit more. She felt that she loved him even. Cal wanted to feel like that too. They lay in bed next to each other, and he says:
“Look, I’m sure you’ve heard it. They used to play it in the radio every day.” Cal clears his throat and hums a tune. “Right?”
He hums again. Joanne nods enthusiastically.
“Oh, my God! The— Jesus Christ, the happy fucking gums commercial! Oh, my God,” she laughs, suddenly remembering. Cal chuckles, a bit embarrassed. “You were in that? Really? That is hilarious.”
“Well, thanks for not making fun of me.”
Joanne snickers. “I’m sorry, it’s just that—” She blinks, moves around: “Oh, oh! Say the thing! Please, please, please say that thing you say.”
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, don’t be mean. Come on, please. Just don’t be an asshole and say it.” She punches him in the arm. Cal moans. “Come on, just say it.”
“OK, OK. Alright.” He clears his throat, gets ready. And then, solemnly: “Pure. Fresh. Clean. And happy. Colgate, number one recommended by doctors all around the world.” He pauses. Joanne claps. He bows. “Happy?”
“More than. Ecstatic. Thrilled.”
Cal looks around.
It doesn’t take him long to realize that her room is much larger than his. The wallpaper is rosy and warm, and the bed is large and comfortable. There’s not much light other than the one that creeps from the small, bow-like window looming over the wooden desk full of old, unused notebooks and a dusty computer monitor. The floor is carpeted, green. The apartment as a whole is, also, rather roomy, and she lives alone. No obese, symbiotic roommates bothering her.
Is it too soon to move in?
Probably. He doesn’t want to scare her away, and he’d feel guilty if he made that decision more for his sake, than because of… love or whatever. Cal’s hand moves towards her leg, and touches her thigh. Joanne laughs, softly:
“What are you doing, Cal?”
He moves his hand higher, slow, gentle, takes his time: “Nothing.”
Something rings. It’s his phone.
ASH. I don’t remember his name. The girls told me I could report him or something, but I swear I don’t know what the bastard’s name is. I mean, we must’ve hit two bars before we got there, and faces, names, dates, they all get tangled up when you’re out drinking. It was this new place up in Copley. Some friends had told us about it. And we got there and… it was a tiny, cramped up room with purple lights and music and a bar, and it just stank, man. Sweat and cigarettes, you know? I couldn’t even see the person in front of me because of all the smoke and shit. So we go to the bathroom, right? And it’s just disgusting. There’s a girl whose nose is bleeding sitting on the floor, and there’s coke in the sink, and we’re ready to get out of there, but Maggie, this girl I barely knew, she somehow convinces us to stay. We were already pretty drunk by then, but she says we should have at least a few more drinks before we call it a night. And I’m not saying it was her fault. Look, I already said it’s all on me, and besides I’m pretty sure that what Maggie was saying didn’t sound like a particularly bad idea. It was, though.
And at the bar there was this guy.
He didn’t look like a bad person. He was actually… pretty handsome, to tell the truth. I remember he was wearing a blue blazer and suede shoes. He was overdressed, yeah, but it’s like it made him seem classier than the other guys, refined even. I mean, most of the men there were average-looking at best and we were all, like, gawking at this dude, shamelessly, and he looked at me. At me. All of my friends giggled and poked me and dared me to go talk to him, and… I was going to do so anyways. You see what I’m saying about it being my fault?
A man does nothing other than smile and I’m already throwing myself at him.
He spoke with an accent, but I could tell he was faking it. Don’t know why he did that. My point is, though, that he seemed like an OK guy. He bought me a drink, and we talked for a while. What’s your name? What do you do for a living? Who are you here with? Are you doing anything later? Do you want another drink? And when my friends told me they were leaving, I said that I might stick around for a while.
You know, there’s this look people give you when they know you’re doing something stupid and can’t do anything to stop you. I kinda get that look a lot. It’s… Friends are silly, man. When you stay away from guys you’re square. When you go with them you’re a tramp. I remember that a bunch of them used to say that stripping wasn’t deplorable at all, that a woman should have the right to do whatever she wants with her body, that being a stripper isn’t something girls should be ashamed of. Now, none of them even talk to me. It’s funny.
And he said: Do you wanna get out of here?
And I said: Yeah, sure.
New Year’s Eve, 1999. The only sound left in the car by the time they get to the motel is the motor rattling on and the wind tumbling inside. When they stop moving, Cal turns the key and walks out. Ashley stays put, the neon sign shining against the window painting her face purple, announcing: ‘American Family Motel.’
She reads these words three times over.
Outside, Cal is already carrying the bags. Hers too. She rushes out, and reaches up to him. They walk towards reception without a word. He knows something is wrong, but can’t tell what it is exactly. So, he asks:
“Are you alright?”
“Yeah,” she says dryly, before putting her arm around his.
“Do you want to get some champagne, or something? For New Year?”
“We don’t really have enough money for champagne, Cal.”
He doesn’t know if she’s trying to be funny but he laughs anyways, then says: “Well, I can get us some fizzy cider.”
Registration is uneventful.
The room number is 306 and it is ridiculously small. The king-size bed Cal specifically requested takes up most of the space, and everything in it has been obsessively cleansed, in a way that makes it obvious that it has been used hundreds of times before, by hundreds of other couples. Ashley wonders for a second how many of them are still together, while Cal scoffs and complains:
“This is ridiculous. You can’t be comfortable here.” She’s already taking off her earrings, putting them in the tiny table next to the bed, dropping her t-shirt on the floor, her shoes. Cal is still carrying the bags. “Do you want me to go have a word with them? They can’t put us in here.”
“It’s alright, man. Just forget about it.”
“No, but… I mean, I want you to be comfortable. We might as well have slept in the car, right? This is ridiculous.”
Ashley sits on the bed, wearing nothing but her bra and jeans. “Look, just drop the bags and come here. ”
Cal does exactly as he’s told.
She kisses him as soon as he gets close enough, and then they go at it. She claws on his back, climbs on top of him. She still has her bra on, but one of the cups is off, and she moves her hand downwards, trying to undo his pants. The walls of the room are thin, enough so that the people next to them can probably hear them. They don’t seem to care. Ashley moans, and Cal feels something go loose. Almost desperately, he moves her aside, starts pulling his pants lower, as she takes hers off, and he sighs and grabs her legs, she wraps them around his waist, and he’s ready, and she licks the sides of her lips, kisses him. Then, stops.
Cal groans, Ash moves her face away from his.
“What is it?”
“Just… Wait a second.”
“Are you OK? Did I hurt you?”
“What? No. Hurt me? No, it’s just…” She quiets herself down, she chooses her words carefully, she swallows. “I don’t wanna— I mean, are you sure?”
“About what?”
“About… this. About all of this, what we’re doing, are you sure?”
“Yeah… Why would you even…? I mean, yeah. Are you?”
“I’m not asking about me. I’m… Look, I’m gonna…” There’s a pause. Cal has turned pale. “Do you remember Samantha Harris?”
“What—?”
“Samantha Harris. She used to go to school with us. She was, like, the prettiest, nicest girl. Everybody loved her, right? And one time… This was ages ago, I don’t even know why I’m— Look, she brought this doll, this huge doll for show and tell.”
Cal laughs. “Show and tell?”
“Don’t… This is serious, man. Don’t laugh. I’m being serious. She brought this huge doll and it was beautiful, everybody was drooling over it. Me too, and Samantha wasn’t even gloating or nothing, she let everybody play with, but… I couldn’t— I waited for everybody to leave. Remember those general assemblies we used to have? With the prizes and everything? I waited till everybody was gone, and I went to Samantha Harris’ desk, and I grabbed the doll and I smashed it. I just… slammed it against the wall and broke it.”
He is no longer hard. Ashley is still on top of him, speaking directly into his mouth. Each word is a breeze of hot air down his throat, but it’s not pleasant.
“I don’t know who you’re talking about, Ash.”
“That’s not the point, though, is it? God,” she sighs and rolls away from him. Deadpan, she speaks, staring at the ceiling: “Look, here’s this girl, man, alright? And she’s the nicest girl ever. She never did me no wrong, never even rubbed me the wrong way, and still, I am so fucking jealous of her that I break her shit.”
Cal listens to her breathing for a while. She’s agitated, angry. “I don’t… Well, I’m sure you had your reasons, right? I’m sure she was sort of a bitch. The kind of person that seems nice, but in reality… You know. I’m sure you had your reasons.”
“I didn’t have any. That’s what I’m saying, that’s the whole thing. I just did it for no reason at all.”
They can hear some laughter coming from the next room, and when the screaming and the whooping starts they realize they haven’t talked for about ten minutes. It’s a new millennium already, but in the room nothing’s changed. Cal has been thinking of all the possible things he could say. Ashley has been thinking of what she’ll do tomorrow. Eventually, he tells her:
“I don’t care.”
“I know you don’t. That’s kind of the… Cal, I’m sorry. Forget that I said anything, alright? I’m so sorry. I just wish I could tell you all of the things that I… never really learned how to say, you know?”
“That’s alright, Ashley,” he says. “I love you too.”
NEXT
Part Two.
Part Three.
Hmmm, wrong preposition. You could make it “before,” you could add “left” before it, but I don’t think you can just leave it like that.
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