Forum Overview :: Cabaret Voltron

Remember a more innocent time? by crazed stalker 01/17/2003, 10:21am PST She had left her coat in the back seat. I didn’t notice her coat for almost a week, hidden as it was beneath my dry cleaning, a small pile of earth tones that I had been too lazy to drop by the cleaners. The leather coat, thin and obviously female, tasked my memory briefly until I placed its association. Lisa. Lisa was a spritely little blonde who had dated my friend Brad for about two seconds (which, had you known Brad, was positively protracted by his standards). Brad’s modus operandi for dating was thus: two weeks maximum to get laid. If the lay has been gotten, move on. If not, move on. It’s all in the timetable, you see. Usually I paid little or no attention to the poor waifs whom Brad suckered in on a fairly regular basis. It’s a big cruel world, and all that. But I liked Lisa. The three of us went out one night, and the two of us had more fun than she did with Brad. Of course, her two weeks or so had just expired, and Brad had not been able to seal the deal as yet, so his eyes wandered from the Hard Sell he was feeling stuck with to a more ready Potential Buyer. He was more than happy to let the two of us dance and do shots and the like. Anyway, about a week after that evening I noticed the coat. I hadn’t spoken to Brad in the interim except in the briefest of Hey Bud cell phone conversations once or twice. I called him and told him of the coat. He asked if I could drop it by her place, as she lived much closer to me than he did. I added up four in my head and figured Brad had already issued Lisa her walking papers, more than likely in the cut and dry manner he usually did, which was tell them a yard of bullshit about his feelings for them prescripting a serious round of not calling and screening his own calls. You could always tell when Brad was working his way out of a relationship: you would call him, and while attempting to leave a voice message, he would be ringing back at you. So I’ll return the coat and take the heat for him, like friends do, so I’ve been led to believe (by Brad, mostly). Lisa had just moved to Las Vegas from Salt Lake City (Take me down to Salt Lake City/Where the grass is brown and the people are shitty she sang to me once). She was about to begin gainful employment as a 21 dealer at a downtown casino. She was in that tenuous economic purgatory between what she’d cobbled together to move down with, and her impending first paycheck (or more accurately, first night’s tips, which was how Vegas dealers made their nut). So she hadn’t gotten a phone yet, and her car died getting into town. And she was the proud parent of a four-year-old ray of sunshine named Dade (I’m Dade Dee-Ay-Dee-Ee he told me proudly when we were introduced), so naturally she was judicious with her spending. The point being, I couldn’t call her to tell her to come get her coat; I had to show up unannounced. So I did. “Oh what, so he fucking had you drop it off? Figures.” This is the part where I feign surprise that Brad hadn’t been answering her calls and so forth. Feigning surprise, I (actually honestly) replied that I hadn’t spoken to him at length, but that I had her coat, and I didn’t mind dropping it off. Her scowl, so unsettling on a face that had heretofore been beaming and smiling at nearly every glance I had given it, softened slightly. My I’m-So-Sorry-I-Just-Wanted-To-Help shtick is letter perfect, few can resist my furrowed brow and wide eyes. “Well, I haven’t spoken to him at all. Which is fucking great, since he said he’d take me somewhere today, somewhere I really had to go, he promised. And then, when I called him, the phone just rang. Then, when I tried ten minutes later, his phone was off. It was pure luck my neighbor had stayed home sick from work and could take me.” “Wow. I’m sorry, my gosh I’m sorry. I didn’t…that is, I…” “It’s okay. I’m sorry. Oh, look at me; come in. I’m sorry.” I came in. Her apartment, a standard-sized one-bedroom, was in some disarray, half-unpacked boxes hiding the furniture. Her bed was where a couch usually would be found; the bedroom was Dade’s. He was next door with the kids that lived there. Lisa explained the circumstances of Brad’s disappearance at a greater length. Near the end of that length, her big hazel eyes welled with tears, and her lips trembled nearly imperceptibly. But since I was looking for these signs, I caught them all easily. “Is there anything I can do?” “A hug would be really nice.” “You’re in luck: I give good hug.” She laughed and embraced me readily. Her short blonde hair was still damp from a shower, and smelled knee-weakingly good. After a short (but not quick) while, we disengaged and I looked at her. “Listen.” It was Thursday. “What are you doing tomorrow night?” “I had no plans.” “Well, let’s make some. I had a lot of fun with you the other night, I don’t see why we can’t have some more.” A pause. Her eyes did one of those amazing shifts that they do when the mind behind them arrives at a realization. “Sure. Great.” Smile. After a little more conversation, I left, but not before she fumbled over telling me that she wasn’t go to say anything to Brad if they spoke. Seeing as that was the safest non-conversation I could imagine, I replied that that was fine, with some other information along the lines of I’m my own person, Brad is his own person, and we live our lives separately more than together, or some such horseshit to heavily imply I didn’t give a shit that they had dated if she didn’t. * * * * * I was trying to believe my luck. Friday at work my boss, a really cool woman my age, had invited me out with her boyfriend and his cousin and some other friends that night. Reservations at P.F. Chang’s in the Aladdin (her boyfriend knew the manager), then up to the Curve nightclub there. Of course, I could bring a date. Be there at nine. “Did you get a sitter?” “Yes. What’s up?” “Would you like it to be a surprise, or shall I tell you now?” “Umm. Tell me one thing.” “Dinner reservations at P.F. Chang’s at nine. More to follow.” Pause. “Say that again.” “All of it?” “No, just ‘reservations.’” “Reservations. At P.F. Chang’s.” “You’re wonderful.” “We’ll be going to a club later, dress accordingly.” “I will, my boy. I will.” She did. Tight low-rise black pants and a burgundy velvet top, the kind that’s only sleeves and a knot in the front. Her navel ring, situated comfortably in a near-six pack of abs, was featured prominently. She fiddled with it when she was nervous, I found out. She admitted as much to me when I had stopped by after work earlier that day, fiddling with it as she was while we spoke. She was lying on her bed, at the foot, I was sitting in a chair near her. “What, you’re nervous?” I smiled with appropriate Li’l ol’ me? smugness. “Yes.” I leaned forward and kissed her lightly on her lips. My mind temporarily blanked as it does in those situations, and all that remained was the word soft I pulled back and looked at her. “Still?” “Worse.” “How can I fix that?” “Kiss me again.” soft We were embarrassingly cuddly for the rest of the night. I hadn’t flirted with cloyingness with such blatant disregard since, well, the last time I met someone. Dinner was less than half the price it should have been (25 bucks covered our share), and we VIP’ed our way into Curve. To make things easier, I introduced her to my boss’ friends as “My girlfriend Lisa.” She didn’t mind. “I’m not used to this.” “What, house music?” “No. Being treated this way. This well.” “That’s a goddamned shame. Better get used to it now and save yourself the anxiety.” Laughs. “Watch me.” “I will. I am.” The night ended cuddling on her bed. Dade had been retrieved and put to bed. I didn’t try anything; the way things were going, I knew she would be wondering if this was all a big put-on, to pull the wool over her eyes with some fancy treats so that I could get some. Not trying straightaway to get some, or any, is a small price to pay, one that typically is refunded with interest. And believe me, she had interest. She preemptively asked me if I didn’t mind going home, as she didn’t want Dade to wake up and see me in bed with her, even if we were fully clothed. “Every man he’s seen in this bed in the morning has ended up hurting me, hurting us. I don’t want him to think that of you.” A memory shot through my head, Christmas Eve, I was 6 or 7, the man my mother had living with us trying to explain why a strange women was at the door, demanding he come out and answer her question of who he really loved. “Then he’ll never see me here, like this. I’m gone.” “Wait.” soft * * * * * I came over around one in the afternoon, after helping my other friend at the DMV. I knocked, the door opened, Lisa curled her fingers over the neckline of my shirt, and pulled me playfully into her apartment. Into her lips. “I’ve been laying here all day waiting for you.” “Where’s Dade?” “Neighbor’s. They have kids, and a Playstation2.” “Double threat. Did you have fun last night?” ”I can’t even tell you.” “Show me.” She did. Not immediately, but after a very pleasant lounge on her bed, replete with compliments on my actions, treatment, physique (“You’re so solid. You have this great body, and you don’t even show it off.”), everything. The kissing became more heated, my shirt was removed. Her shirt was removed. I asked her if she wanted me to make love to her. She said yes. I asked her just so that I could hear her say yes, make whatever you will of that. It was wonderful, she was very passionate, very vocal. We lay on her bed for awhile, my arms around her, smelling that wonderful smell of her hair. We kissed again. I certainly had no way to tell that it would be the last time we would ever kiss. “I love having your arms around me. I feel so safe, so comfortable. Maybe I shouldn’t say this, but I hope this never changes.” “It doesn’t have to.” It did. * * * * * I had arranged for a fairly large group of acquaintances (not Brad, naturally) to meet up at a local bar and socialize. And, yeah, to show off my new, well, girlfriend, I suppose. Girlfriend. Sure. Lisa was supposed to call me around 7. It was ten to nine, but we weren’t all due to meet until 10. That’s Vegas timetables for you. No call. Since she typically had to rely on the goodwill of her neighbors to call me, I just went over there anyway. All the lights were out. I knocked regardless. She answered, in bedclothes. “I’m sick. Throwing up. Sorry.” I asked her if she needed anything, needed me to stay. “No. Go out. I’ll call you tomorrow after church, around 4. I’d kiss you but I don’t want you to get this if it’s catching. Ugh, your cologne. I’m sorry, my stomach…” I left. Hey, girls get sick. * * * * * Four Post Meridia. All the lights are off, but a knock or three doesn’t elicit a response. Church, who knows? Not me, that’s for sure. Ah, I had work to do anyway, which killed an hour. I returned. Knock. Lisa opens the door, dressed in a plain but elegant black dress. Beautiful woman I think quickly. She turns and walks away without coming near me. “This fucking church,” she begins. She ends about a half hour later. Apparently, she’s Mormon, attending the local Singles Ward, populated (by her account) of clueless fugly virgins. They squash any thought of premarital sex (as if), and masturbation as well. Lisa wants no part of it anymore, for her and especially not for Dade. Dade is frequently getting yelled at throughout this monologue (unless you really want to count my occasional Uh-Huhs and call it a conversation) for random acts of childishness. Fine, I think the Mormon church is stupid too. She apologizes for being so wound up. I tell her I don’t mind, but wonder how she could be so wound up that she goes stiff when I put my arm around her on two separate occasions. “Anyway, I’m gonna go out with my friend Karen tonight. You can come, if you want.” I can come, if I want. I compare the first hour of my visit yesterday to today. Disparaging isn’t a strong enough word. Maybe it’s the church. “Sure.” “Okay, I’ll call you later on.” “Okay.” I close the door behind me. She’s on the other side of the living room, near her bed. * * * * * I come over to her place and we wait for her friend Karen to meet us. We chat for a minute, Karen plans to meet up with a guy tonight she just met recently. On a cool side note, Karen is 47 and looks mid-30ish, and her hook-up is a 21-year-old Air Force dude. A knock at the door breaks our conversation. Lisa silently looks through the peephole. She looks at Karen and mouths “It’s him.” Karen displays recognition. We all run into the bathroom. Well, I’m motioned into the bathroom, and I dutifully follow, confused as all Hell. “Tell him I’m out and you’re babysitting,” Lisa whispers to Karen. Karen goes and does just that. Then she comes back and tells us it’s all clear. I would really like to know just what the fuck “it” is. Lisa fails to look me in the eye during our brief bathroom excursion, during which I looked about for something heavy, since, again, I had no idea what was going on. “What’s going on?” I finally have to ask, since no one is offering. Lisa and Karen explain to me how this guy is some stalker loser who delivers pizza down the street. Peter. He comes by like four times a day. Really. Lisa asks me what I think about how she handled it. I tell her. “I don’t think it’s such a good idea. Guys like that – guys in general - don’t take a hint. He’ll keep thinking he has a chance, or whatever. Seeing me might help him get the idea.” Lisa didn’t like that answer. “You’re just being a guy.” ”I’m just being a guy who doesn’t hide in bathrooms when some goofball comes over for the umpteenth time to pester the girl he’s seeing.” I felt the need to hammer this point home. “Do you want it to stop?” “No…no, see, that’s why I…he’s harmless.” I let it go at that. Why? One part discretion, one larger part thus: I remembered this clown. He showed up the day I returned her coat. She had him take the pizza next door to where Dade was playing. I get the impression in hindsight that the pizza was free. Ah, free pizza, so maybe that’s why I ended up in the bathroom eyeing the hairdryer for its heft. Lisa likes to sing Karaoke. Sure, okay. We go to a joint that has it every night. She knows the DJ, a lumpy doofus who drools over her unapologetically. Lisa rode with Karen (“So she doesn’t feel like a third wheel.” Did I mention we were going to meet the 21-year-old there?), I took my car. I figure I’ll give it a whirl, I can’t be much worse than the All-Star Lineup that was present. I can’t sing worth a fuck, so I figure my best option is too go for something silly. I go with Prince’s “Kiss,” since I can do the falsetto. Lisa goes first, doing “Son of a Preacher Man” quite well. She’s in the bathroom when I get up to do “Kiss.” It actually goes well, I even nail the screechy end bits. Random chicks, and even Lisa, when she returns, dance. A gaggle of black dudes rushes over from the casino to watch my spectacle. The applause is pretty hearty. One of the black dudes high-fives me. So does Lisa. The girl who told me not 48 hours ago Never stop kissing me like that, God just high-fived me. Then, it gets better, thanks to the DJ. “That was HSW. Man, some guys will do anything to impress a girl.” “What’s up with that?” I ask Lisa, half-kidding, half definitely fucking not. “Oh, that’s just George. He’s kidding. Oh, he did something funny awhile ago. He gave me his address on a piece of paper and said that since he didn’t have mine, I could have his.” Yeah, George is a regular fucking riot act. A total scream. After awhile of me clearly noticing that I’m being treated completely different from before, I ask her about it. “Is something wrong? Are you okay?” “Yeah…yeah.” Pause. “I’m sorry, I’m just not used to being out with my friends with somebody, you know? I just need time to adjust.” The girl who tongue-kissed me in a busy Chinese restaurant in front of my boss feels funny touching me in front of her friends in a dark dumpy karaoke bar. Noted. I assure her that she can take all the time she suddenly needs. At one point I put my hand on her leg. We’re in a booth, no one can even see it. She pulls a move to surreptitiously knock my arm off. Shortly thereafter, I playfully ask her to kiss me. She playlessly does not, citing my offer to give her time. You are now leaving Confused City, welcome to Annoyedburg. Look, I’m in the suburbs now: Lisa. “Did you know Peter was here? He just walked out. His friend flipped me off.” “Peter the fucking pizza guy? He was here? What the-“ “Next up, Liiisa. Come on up, pretty girl.” Giving up trying to garner any of the affection I foolishly took for granted from Friday night, I just sit there and slurp Ketel One and water. We sing again. She does “Semi-Charmed Life,” again quite admirably. I go with the safe “I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles),” but naturally I do the Irish brogue to give it some kick, or whatever. It’s well-received, but the guy before me butchered Pink Floyd’s “Hey You,” so I was in good graces. Lisa was in the bathroom for the beginning of that song, too. I don’t even get a high-five this time. Let’s turn our attention to DJ George and his playful comedic stylings, ladies and gents: “That was HSW. You know HSW, I gotta tell you: you don’t need to try so hard. I mean, 500 miles? Why, I wouldn’t cross the street...” There was more. I didn’t hear it. I was trying not to kill him. “Well, you would know, wouldn’t you, George?” I reply. Some laughs and a few ooohs. He ignores me. Lisa doesn’t. “Why did you say that?” “Because I’m an idiot. Excuse me, are you still trying to tell me he’s not making fun of me?” “He’s just kidding.” “Yeah. With me, and no one else. A guy just did the best imitation of a Pink Floyd album in a running garbage disposal, and I get shit? For singing 500 fucking Miles? For the second fucking time? We need to go.” In the car, the conversation continues. She starts. “I didn’t realize you were so sensitive about things like that.” I exhale slowly. “Listen. George the Super DJ first gives you his address – we’ll ignore for the moment how ridiculous that is – then I somehow end up the only person who gets made fun of, for both times I sing, when nobody else does? Yes, I’m an oversensitive fag, guilty as charged. But that jackass is a disrespectful fuck, and I’m fucking tired of all the disrespectful assholes in this town.” What I don’t say is this: “But then, how could I blame him, when there isn’t one shred of evidence to suggest we’re even dating, right? Maybe he thought you were dating Peter and figured he had a chance. For all intents and purposes we could be brother and sister, for what-all went on between us, or didn’t I should say.” But again, I didn’t say. “Forget it, it doesn’t matter.” Silence for the rest of the ride. Then, Lisa: “Well, I know you have to get up early tomorrow and all. I have to get Dade from the babysitter.” “Okay. Call me tomorrow.” She doesn’t. “Okay.” She hugs me and shuts her door. I drive home, sleep horribly for a few hours, and then go to work. Getting into my car, I look in the backseat. She had left her coat in the backseat.

Remember a more innocent time? by crazed stalker 01/17/2003, 10:21am PST     What fag wrote that? -nt- NT by Bill Dungsroman 01/17/2003, 11:22am PST         I like to think I had a hand in it. (NT) by Cruel Fate 01/17/2003, 2:05pm PST             Let's not forget me. (NT) NT by The Internet 01/18/2003, 3:01am PST                 Hey guys, long time no see! -nt- NT by Savior complex 01/18/2003, 4:15am PST                     I still want my fucking coat back you asshole NT NT by Lisa 01/18/2003, 11:06am PST                         We are currently questioning Dr. Patch Adams. NT NT by Sgt. L. Owel of Task Force Laughter 01/18/2003, 4:44pm PST