Making Contact

Voting results from last post: Talk to Brian (14) Don't Do It! (1)

Well, first of all, thanks for nothing to all of you who voted that I should talk to Brian. And for that one sane soul who instinctively knew what a horrible idea it was and voted no—I salute you.

You know, in theory, it’s a brilliant idea to let others make your decisions for you. It takes away the 24-hours-a-day obsessing over pros and cons. Rather, once a decision has been made for you, you find yourself filled with a very straight-forward dread that defies proper explanation: something beyond seasick, but not quite labor pains is my rough estimation. So, once I was committed to talk to Brian, every second that passed thereafter was consumed with nothing else but—oh my God, how am I going to do this?

I called Chlo after the last vote came in to give her the God-awful news to which she unsympathetically responded, “Well, obviously. What did you think they would vote for?” We agreed to head to the diner the next day for our usual Saturday brunch, to let my mortal embarrassment thrive.

We got there at 10, two hours after the place had opened, and two hours before the place would become crowded. Brian usually worked the back room, so we headed back there to a wooden window seat covered in vintage pillows where Chlo and I could sit side-by-side, able to survey the room without looking suspicious. I had not yet figured out what I was going to say to Brian when I saw him. I imagined him coming over to take our order, doing his signature move of sitting down at the table, like a friend, while writing down our orders, and me spastically yelling, “Parklife!” out of erratic terror. This was playing through my head when someone walked around the corner, and I literally jumped in my seat. “Cece, you’ve got to relax. You’re acting like a complete psycho,” Chlo said. “I mean, what’s the big deal? So he was friends with your goofy brother…who cares. He’s just a guy.” And she was right, I couldn’t pinpoint what it was about Brian that made me turn into such a completely panicked fool. Let’s just say it was obsession at first sight. I decided when he finally came over I would simply say, “Brian? Is that you? It’s Cece…Mark’s sister?” I was hoping it would sound completely innocent, harmless, and unrehearsed, as I rehearsed it over and over while griping the menu. But I didn’t get that chance. Strangely, unlike every other Saturday for the past few weeks, Brian never came to our table. Some willowy creature too sweet to hate took our order, and refilled our coffees before I couldn’t even wish for a refill. I was full, jittery, and totally relieved by the end of it. We paid our bill and headed outside to the car, the sun just barely breaking through and starting to thaw the morning. I was fumbling in my purse for my keys when I saw Brian walking straight toward us. I couldn’t think what to say, how to act, what to… “Brian!” I shouted, not understanding why that had come out at such an uncontrolled volume. He stopped, his face unreadable, unemotional, not even inquisitive. “I mean, Brian?” I said, trying to recover. “Brian from Mark? I mean, friends with Mark?” God, I was dying here. Where was Chlo? I couldn’t see. The fear had pushed too much blood to my brain and I was blacking out. “Um, I mean, Mark is my brother…did we go to high school together?” I hated myself.

“Cece?” he asked, “Mark’s little sister?”

I laughed by way of saying—Yes, I am Cece. I’m a little odd sometimes. Do you find it quirky and attractive? Then, Chlo was miraculously back at my side.

“Oh my God, it’s Chlo,” Brian gushed. “Look at you; you’re gorgeous.”

Chlo giggled and playfully pushed Brian on the chest, causing him to teasingly grasp her wrists and pull her in for a hug. This was a skill I decidedly lacked. Of course, guys did not go around calling me gorgeous on your average Saturday morning. But Chlo managed to be locked in an embrace with a guy she hadn’t seen in nine years, and possibly had never talked to even back then. Chlo caught my glare and pushed Brian away.

“So, Cece, what’s Mark up to these days?” Brian asked.

“Oh, you know,” I said. “He’s doing that one-man show, A Marked Man, at the Trapdoor Theater.” My brother had become something of a “thing” around town, for his comedy show about growing up a theater geek. Again, somehow he had turned the dorkiest thing possible into pure popularity. He had just received a call last week from NBC wanting to talk to him about a pilot. A pilot! My brother who hadn’t made it past his freshman year of college was in talks to star in a TV show while I was rotting away editing text books after having studied comparative literature for four years. Comparative literature—what was I thinking?

“Oh my God, we should go see him,” Brian said, putting his arm around my shoulder. “I would love to catch up with him.”

“You and every other wannabe actor in this town,” I said without thinking (obviously). “Hey Brian, great to see you, but we’ve got to get going,” I said, grabbing Chlo by the hand and loudly slapping our flip-flopped feet toward the car.

“Ass,” I said, pulling the car door shut, “him, not you. Well, you a little bit.”

What had gotten into me? I’m still not sure, but it was some combination of my lifelong crush adoringly hugging my best friend, coupled with only the slightest acknowledgement of my existence thanks to my superstar brother. I spent the rest of the afternoon alone trying to figure this out. Was I really this big of a loser? No wait, don’t vote on that. In fact, I’d like to put this first failed attempt behind me. Maybe this was the wrong thing to focus on, and I unwittingly enlisted the help of strangers to conquer the wrong dilemma.

How about let’s try something potentially equally humiliating, but not quite as damaging to the ego. So, I mentioned Mark had received this call from NBC last week, encouraging him to put together a pilot, based on his one-man show. Of course, they have their own team of people they want to use to craft the story, create the story “arch”, meaning they wanted to insert characters like the hot next-door neighbor, the goofy friend, etc. But Mark told them he wants to take a shot at writing his own script first, and the studio has given him a month to try. I’m not sure why Mark felt so strongly about this because it’s not really his forte, but he wants to go for it, and he wants me to help. This is not my expertise either. Can I write a 50,000 word essay comparing Virginia Woolf’s water symbolism to Jane Austen’s mentions of dessert? Yes! Can I be clever, funny, and captivating—almost never on purpose.

Okay, even I see this as a promising—however terrifying—opportunity that has more upside than down. However, Mark has made a mortifying contingency to this offer—I would be required to appear on stage with him in his next performance because he has altered his show to include this new adventure in theater geekdom. I would play “the studious sister,” part-time writer, full-time fall guy.

Please help me out; vote on the upper right of the blog.