(no subject)
I had a weekend. And on this weekend I felt old. Very old, and almost mature.
I asked Andrea to come with me to visit my family. My sister had flown out from Pensacola with her husband and my nephew of three months, and I planned to meet them at my parents' house. I'm not entirely positive as to why I invited her. I quasi-needed a ride and also quasi conceived of this weekend with her and my family to be enjoyable. It turned out to be just that. And this scared me.
We drove home in Andrea's shiny black BMW. Like the whipped husband in a marriage, I drove while she tried to drone out the loud antics of our child in the back seat. And when I say child, I actually mean Brooks; we were giving him a ride to Santa Barbara. Needless to say Brooks' ADD kicked in an hour into our trip and he began to eat our food and invoke truck drivers to honk their horns. We dropped him off in the IV and we each let out a bit of a sigh.
We brought my parents a bottle of wine from Bonny Doon, and for my nephew Jacob a pair of rattling bunny slippers. I can't decide whether this is cute or terrifying.
Nor can I decide whether sharing time with Andrea and a baby is cute or terrifying. At one point she looked into my eyes and I saw something that I'm not sure I wanted to see. But I saw it nonetheless and my stomach fluttered.
The weekend climaxed when we visited my sister in her salon so I could get a few hairs cut and shampooed. Nothing compares to someone else washing your hair with that tingly Paul Mitchell Tee Tree shampoo. Anyway, there was a middle-aged lady in the shop who had apparently seen a few of the productions I performed in at my old high school.
"PATCH?! PATCH TROFFER?" she cried from under the dryer. Her mouth could have swallowed a grapefruit I think. The whole salon turned towards me, formerly Bernardo in "West Side Story", formerly Ken Gorman in Neil Simon's "Rumors", formerly King Sextimus in "Once Upon a Mattress".
"You are amazing! My husband is a professional actor and I used to be, and let me tell you, you have talent!" I blushed, as I always do in situations like these. "I mean, you have real talent! I used to act in college and you and your theater troupe put on better shows than us!" I doubted this. We weren't even a 'troupe', we were a high school drama elective. "You must be stealing every show in Santa Cruz, aren't you?" It scared me that she knew which college I was going to. "What productions have you been in?"
I blushed more. "Oh, you know, just a few small ones here and there, nothing all that great." This was a blatant lie, as I've only landed a role in a two-night student directed shotty midnight showing of "The Rocky Horror Picture Show", the ones where the actors don't even act or speak. They, we, simply mimic what's going on in the screen played behind us. Maybe 50 people showed up to watch.
I felt then what most one-hit-wonders and sell-outs in the entertainment industry must feel once they lose their time in the sun. Here I am, 19, back home, revelling in how mature I feel bringing home a girl to meet my parents, and suddenly I'm 60, coked out and without work, searching desperately for some gig on an infomercial or telethon. This was too much to handle. I think I was on the verge of crying, and if I wasn't, I now think I should have been.
"Well, keep up the good work! I mean, YOU HAVE TALENT!"
The word talent lingered for the rest of the day. We went home and played with the baby. That night I tucked Andrea into the fold-out and then proceeded to my pile of blankets on the livingroom floor. Ill thoughts of work and school and the cruel necessity to grow up bounced around within my head. I was on the verge of pulling something drastic like running away from home or finding that woman in the salon and shaving her head bald. My brother then walked by en route to the kitchen for some Ovaltine.
"Hey."
"Hey." He poured me a glass. "Nintendo?"
I don't think I've ever heard such a perfect word.
"Sure." I sat up and joined him for repeated rounds of Mario Kart until we grew tired and switched to some late night BET.
I asked Andrea to come with me to visit my family. My sister had flown out from Pensacola with her husband and my nephew of three months, and I planned to meet them at my parents' house. I'm not entirely positive as to why I invited her. I quasi-needed a ride and also quasi conceived of this weekend with her and my family to be enjoyable. It turned out to be just that. And this scared me.
We drove home in Andrea's shiny black BMW. Like the whipped husband in a marriage, I drove while she tried to drone out the loud antics of our child in the back seat. And when I say child, I actually mean Brooks; we were giving him a ride to Santa Barbara. Needless to say Brooks' ADD kicked in an hour into our trip and he began to eat our food and invoke truck drivers to honk their horns. We dropped him off in the IV and we each let out a bit of a sigh.
We brought my parents a bottle of wine from Bonny Doon, and for my nephew Jacob a pair of rattling bunny slippers. I can't decide whether this is cute or terrifying.
Nor can I decide whether sharing time with Andrea and a baby is cute or terrifying. At one point she looked into my eyes and I saw something that I'm not sure I wanted to see. But I saw it nonetheless and my stomach fluttered.
The weekend climaxed when we visited my sister in her salon so I could get a few hairs cut and shampooed. Nothing compares to someone else washing your hair with that tingly Paul Mitchell Tee Tree shampoo. Anyway, there was a middle-aged lady in the shop who had apparently seen a few of the productions I performed in at my old high school.
"PATCH?! PATCH TROFFER?" she cried from under the dryer. Her mouth could have swallowed a grapefruit I think. The whole salon turned towards me, formerly Bernardo in "West Side Story", formerly Ken Gorman in Neil Simon's "Rumors", formerly King Sextimus in "Once Upon a Mattress".
"You are amazing! My husband is a professional actor and I used to be, and let me tell you, you have talent!" I blushed, as I always do in situations like these. "I mean, you have real talent! I used to act in college and you and your theater troupe put on better shows than us!" I doubted this. We weren't even a 'troupe', we were a high school drama elective. "You must be stealing every show in Santa Cruz, aren't you?" It scared me that she knew which college I was going to. "What productions have you been in?"
I blushed more. "Oh, you know, just a few small ones here and there, nothing all that great." This was a blatant lie, as I've only landed a role in a two-night student directed shotty midnight showing of "The Rocky Horror Picture Show", the ones where the actors don't even act or speak. They, we, simply mimic what's going on in the screen played behind us. Maybe 50 people showed up to watch.
I felt then what most one-hit-wonders and sell-outs in the entertainment industry must feel once they lose their time in the sun. Here I am, 19, back home, revelling in how mature I feel bringing home a girl to meet my parents, and suddenly I'm 60, coked out and without work, searching desperately for some gig on an infomercial or telethon. This was too much to handle. I think I was on the verge of crying, and if I wasn't, I now think I should have been.
"Well, keep up the good work! I mean, YOU HAVE TALENT!"
The word talent lingered for the rest of the day. We went home and played with the baby. That night I tucked Andrea into the fold-out and then proceeded to my pile of blankets on the livingroom floor. Ill thoughts of work and school and the cruel necessity to grow up bounced around within my head. I was on the verge of pulling something drastic like running away from home or finding that woman in the salon and shaving her head bald. My brother then walked by en route to the kitchen for some Ovaltine.
"Hey."
"Hey." He poured me a glass. "Nintendo?"
I don't think I've ever heard such a perfect word.
"Sure." I sat up and joined him for repeated rounds of Mario Kart until we grew tired and switched to some late night BET.