To the man whom some once thought was me, or I was he, or something like that
It's been a while since I'd had one of these slider dreams, vivid and real, to an extent, tedious.
Accompanying the extended tribe to LA for some shopping extravaganza, we stayed at an AirBnB that was part of a three-storied house, with ceilings so low it felt like a series of adobe huts stacked atop one another. The top floor and basement were reserved. The house was owned by a small time agency of some kind or something like that, I was told, that supplies entourages for celebrities. It was a short trip. The night before we were to leave was spent, as traditional, in the common area helping everyone figure out how to pack and bundle everything in the wee hours of the morning. One of the people connected to the agency was in our lounge, quiet, chilling, upset. Misaki.
The way dreams work sometimes you just know before you're supposed to. I have no reason to recognise her. Her hair was a short bob, she was plain and un-made up, withered, red-rimmed. The part of me living through the dream did not take notice. only the part of me watching through the cinematic lens did. Somebody else socialised with her, and came back to gossip. Each piece of gossip was a confirmation of who she was-- stories of her scumball ex, mostly, that resonated with familiarity. Sad that she's hanging on to those after all this time. The gossips looked her ex up, more familiar stories emerge that strike a chord that seemed too far away to react to. They dropped his name, convinced it was an alias. A dusty-shelved past self laughed quietly.
And as the day broke and they started to move their luggage (it will take a while), I went upstairs to where we were told the agency reserved for their residents, and knocked on the door to the closed suite. The door opens, and I stuck my head in.
"Hello, I'm looking for Mr Burns," I said, polite and quiet.
There were several people in the first room of the suite, the type of pretty but not-so-pretty boys who roam with entourages being gophers. They bunk in that first room, it seems. I spotted three, who looked a little hesitant and apprehensive, like they are used to women asking this question to be trouble. Like they mean to pretend they have no idea who that is.
"No such person. What do you want?" said a man entering from an inner bedroom, their wrangler. Older, stockier, than the commodity boys. A boyband sort of haircut from the 90s. Otherwise, he was what they had to look forward to in 20 years. He peers suspiciously at me. I smile nonchalently, waiting.
"Nothing," I say.
His brow creases, his lip pales slightly. I don't think he noticed. I wait for the recognition to cross his face.
"Come here," I say, stepping back from the doorway, and he does. I put my arms around him with a smile. He was never tall. He returns the gesture with confusion.
"How..?"
"I was passing through, and saw Misaki downstairs. It was worth a shot."
"Why didn't you call me?"
"I tried," but of course, none of the contacts I had for this man were good. He ran too much and I don't bother to keep tabs on him any more. He was unhappy to hear about Misaki. "I would have asked her for your number if you weren't up here."
The embrace was strong but distant. Something in our dynamic had changed in our long radio lapse, I was no longer the junior. His rouge boyish charm remained intact, but now it made him seem... the way one now, almost 40, regards the sexy 16 year-olds. Yes, we still appreciate the aesthetics and that they are hot and desirable, but some dissonance disrupts the ability to be truly attracted to them, even physically. We catch up.
A woman joins us, blonde and wiry. Older, perhaps late 50s. Self-assured, California GILF. Deliberate just-risen look. Her I could see taking for a romp.
"Hi, I'm Gina," she said guardedly. That's mine, little girl! her stance said. He could have done worse. She shifted her weight to one hip. We get one of you silly whores a week, her new posture said. It made me grin in absurdity. He has done worse.
"Hi Gina, I'm --." I shake her hand. "Don't worry, I have no intentions of taking this one anywhere."
He struggles to find a coherent explanation for her as to who I am. I agree and assure her it has been 2? 3 years since we'd last heard from each other? And the time before that was what... 4? 6 years? Don't worry Gina, this doesn't mean we're going to stay in touch. The next time we exchange communications would probably be another 4 to 6 years again. And any way, I'll be gone in a few minutes.
I don't ask about the others, or the kids. I don't tell about me. I take another hug from him. He feels smaller than he really is in my arms, like a young cousin, or a child I'd given a hug to the other day. I hug her, so she doesn't feel left out. She's the top in that bedroom, I thought. I briefly recall a leather collar from a long time ago. Forgotten roads not taken.
It wasn't until I was running down the street to catch up with the rest of the tribe that it occurred to me that she was why Misaki was there, and bitter. The image of her at the same door I was, and catching him with Gina in the sheets flits through my mind. I tell myself I could never see myself be Misaki for anyone. I think I'm lying... about 60%. You can never really tell, about life.
Accompanying the extended tribe to LA for some shopping extravaganza, we stayed at an AirBnB that was part of a three-storied house, with ceilings so low it felt like a series of adobe huts stacked atop one another. The top floor and basement were reserved. The house was owned by a small time agency of some kind or something like that, I was told, that supplies entourages for celebrities. It was a short trip. The night before we were to leave was spent, as traditional, in the common area helping everyone figure out how to pack and bundle everything in the wee hours of the morning. One of the people connected to the agency was in our lounge, quiet, chilling, upset. Misaki.
The way dreams work sometimes you just know before you're supposed to. I have no reason to recognise her. Her hair was a short bob, she was plain and un-made up, withered, red-rimmed. The part of me living through the dream did not take notice. only the part of me watching through the cinematic lens did. Somebody else socialised with her, and came back to gossip. Each piece of gossip was a confirmation of who she was-- stories of her scumball ex, mostly, that resonated with familiarity. Sad that she's hanging on to those after all this time. The gossips looked her ex up, more familiar stories emerge that strike a chord that seemed too far away to react to. They dropped his name, convinced it was an alias. A dusty-shelved past self laughed quietly.
And as the day broke and they started to move their luggage (it will take a while), I went upstairs to where we were told the agency reserved for their residents, and knocked on the door to the closed suite. The door opens, and I stuck my head in.
"Hello, I'm looking for Mr Burns," I said, polite and quiet.
There were several people in the first room of the suite, the type of pretty but not-so-pretty boys who roam with entourages being gophers. They bunk in that first room, it seems. I spotted three, who looked a little hesitant and apprehensive, like they are used to women asking this question to be trouble. Like they mean to pretend they have no idea who that is.
"No such person. What do you want?" said a man entering from an inner bedroom, their wrangler. Older, stockier, than the commodity boys. A boyband sort of haircut from the 90s. Otherwise, he was what they had to look forward to in 20 years. He peers suspiciously at me. I smile nonchalently, waiting.
"Nothing," I say.
His brow creases, his lip pales slightly. I don't think he noticed. I wait for the recognition to cross his face.
"Come here," I say, stepping back from the doorway, and he does. I put my arms around him with a smile. He was never tall. He returns the gesture with confusion.
"How..?"
"I was passing through, and saw Misaki downstairs. It was worth a shot."
"Why didn't you call me?"
"I tried," but of course, none of the contacts I had for this man were good. He ran too much and I don't bother to keep tabs on him any more. He was unhappy to hear about Misaki. "I would have asked her for your number if you weren't up here."
The embrace was strong but distant. Something in our dynamic had changed in our long radio lapse, I was no longer the junior. His rouge boyish charm remained intact, but now it made him seem... the way one now, almost 40, regards the sexy 16 year-olds. Yes, we still appreciate the aesthetics and that they are hot and desirable, but some dissonance disrupts the ability to be truly attracted to them, even physically. We catch up.
A woman joins us, blonde and wiry. Older, perhaps late 50s. Self-assured, California GILF. Deliberate just-risen look. Her I could see taking for a romp.
"Hi, I'm Gina," she said guardedly. That's mine, little girl! her stance said. He could have done worse. She shifted her weight to one hip. We get one of you silly whores a week, her new posture said. It made me grin in absurdity. He has done worse.
"Hi Gina, I'm --." I shake her hand. "Don't worry, I have no intentions of taking this one anywhere."
He struggles to find a coherent explanation for her as to who I am. I agree and assure her it has been 2? 3 years since we'd last heard from each other? And the time before that was what... 4? 6 years? Don't worry Gina, this doesn't mean we're going to stay in touch. The next time we exchange communications would probably be another 4 to 6 years again. And any way, I'll be gone in a few minutes.
I don't ask about the others, or the kids. I don't tell about me. I take another hug from him. He feels smaller than he really is in my arms, like a young cousin, or a child I'd given a hug to the other day. I hug her, so she doesn't feel left out. She's the top in that bedroom, I thought. I briefly recall a leather collar from a long time ago. Forgotten roads not taken.
It wasn't until I was running down the street to catch up with the rest of the tribe that it occurred to me that she was why Misaki was there, and bitter. The image of her at the same door I was, and catching him with Gina in the sheets flits through my mind. I tell myself I could never see myself be Misaki for anyone. I think I'm lying... about 60%. You can never really tell, about life.