Faux French

Not a fan of this open-ended comment situation. Conflicting advice—what am I supposed to do with that?

Well, first I tried to get to the bottom of things with Mark. In the days following I called him no less than 25 times, leaving at least 10 messages, and never got a response. I got so desperate I even called our parents to see if they had heard from him. Apparently Mark had called them on Sunday to report in on the show, but nothing since then. Finally, in a last ditch effort, I drove to his house before work, saw his car in the carport, and knocked loudly on his front door at 6am. A minute later Mark’s head appeared between the parted curtains of his front window followed by a grunt of displeasure.

“Hey Mark, what’s up? What’s new?” I asked, enjoying Mark’s annoyance.

“Cece, I swear to God…” Mark began. But I quickly shut him up.

“You know what, Mark? You suck. You rope me into your little play. I dress up in freaking footie pajamas. And the one time a guy likes me…and even two guys like me, you go and screw it up. So you’d better explain what your problem is or you and I are going to have a serious problem.”

“Have you talked to them?” Mark asked.

“Um, have I talked to Peter or Brian, the two totally nice guys who have left me messages and sent me texts? No, idiot. I’ve been waiting to see what your problem is because you’ve got me too freaked out to do anything!”

“Oh, good. Well, don’t talk to them. Look, C., I’m tired. Can we talk about this later?”

I know you don’t know me that well, and Mark even less. But this was really unlike us. We weren’t best friends or anything, but whenever anything did come up, it was always us against the world—the parents, school, any friend that pissed us off. Mark was my protector, and I was his biggest fan. And his sudden closed-off approach was making me mental. “Mark, I’m going to kill you! What is going on?”

“Cece, just please don’t talk to those guys. I would tell you the full story if I could, but I can’t. Just trust me as someone who has always had your best interest. I will tell you everything soon, I promise. And in the meantime, just trust me.”

Chlo was no help either. In pure Chlo fashion, while shopping at a flea market, she had been “discovered,” again… and was now shooting a campaign for Urban Outfitters. She called me after day one, already in the middle of a love affair with the photographer. Of course. It was a three-day shoot and we agreed to meet up on Friday to “celebrate.” I didn’t want to go to our usual spot and risk seeing Brian and Peter, so we decided to head downtown to this new music venue that had just sprung up from an old storage locker.

If I had ever needed a drink, it was Friday. In short, Friday sucked. The text book I had been editing was at the printer, so it was supposed to be an easy day. I had even made plans to have lunch at the beach with Anthony, the one person at work I actually liked. We were going to have fish and chips with our feet buried in the sand. Instead, I had chips from the vending machine. Can you think of a reason? Yeah, Joan.

So, like I said, the book was at the printer when Joan had “the most brilliant idea about the cover,” which involved changing the title from “Explorations in Science” to “Exploring the World of Science.” I’m not even kidding. And she was adamant. So my day involved stopping the presses, having the cover redesigned, and getting a new production cost to get the books that had already been completed reprinted. $25,000. Finally, at 7pm, we decided to restart the presses with everything as it had been. Then I found myself in bumper-to-bumper traffic with no time to change before going out to meet Chlo. If I hadn’t been so desperately in need of a drink and a companion to vent to, I would have blown the whole thing off.

The venue was fantastic, or fantastically hideous—exactly what an underground music venue should be. Dripping walls, exposed pipes, a bathroom that neither locked nor held toilet paper. It may sound strange, but I was in heaven. All types of kids were there—the early adapters from each scene: athletic socks pulled up past the knees on the little skaters, fanny packs and prairie dresses on the Canyon types, Karen O. mop tops, crested blazers with ripped denim shorts and every other hodgepodge fashion the Sartorialist http://thesartorialist.blogspot.com/ will capture in designer form soon enough.

I found Chlo inside, draped around a preposterously thin man whom I presumed to be the photographer. His name was Pierre, although he was blue blood American, a combination I found instantly annoying. But when he wandered off and returned, unprompted, with a drink my attitude—and opinion—improved.

“C., check it out,” Chlo said. “Pierre is in a band…with Peter!”

How did this place always manage to be one of the largest cities, and one of the smallest towns?

“Chlo told me you’re having some kind of trouble with Peter?” Pierre questioned. “I don’t get it; the guy’s a star.”

“Thanks Chlo. Not really public information,” I grumbled.

“No really, tell me what’s up,” Pierre continued. “I haven’t known him all that long, but I’d like to help if I can.”

So while I was looking forward to venting to Chlo, I ended up retelling the story from the very beginning to this lanky stranger, concluding by saying, “and it probably doesn’t matter anyway because I haven’t talked to either one of them in nearly two weeks and they have probably lost interest anyway.”
Pierre was sure I hadn’t totally blown it, agreeing with Chlo’s intuition that a disinterested girl will hold a guy’s attention almost indefinitely. He offered to do some digging with Peter to see if he could dig up what might have happened that night with Mark.

Curtain Call

9 voted I go out with Peter, and 5 voted for Brian. Someone also commented, “Why not both?”

Well, I admit, it didn’t occur to me at the time I wrote last week that I would probably have to make some kind of contact with Peter and Brian before the voting results were in. I guess this goes to show—you can have people control your life; it just may not be as fast as you want it to be.

So, in lieu of a quick vote, I waited until the following morning and called Chlo; a pretty dependable oracle, at least when it comes to guys.

“Wait a minute. I get wasted, but you hook up? That’s not supposed to happen,” she said.

“Yeah, tell me about it. So now what do I do? I don’t want to be dishonest by going out with both of them and not giving them the full picture.”

“Oh God, this is so easy,” Chlo said while rolling her eyes. “You call each of them back and tell them you want to hang out. Make it casual—breakfast, drinks, whatever. What you may ‘forget’ to tell them is that it’s not exactly one-on-one. You invite them both, invite me, and then see what happens.”

“Wait a minute…how does this help me? I tell them both to meet me at the same place—with you—then I look like an idiot!”

“No, then you look awesome because you’re not so eager. They’ll be wondering why you’re not into either one of them, and it’ll drive them crazy.”

I only had a week to prepare for my public humiliation with Mark, and while it was totally unlike me, the last thing I wanted to do was obsess about this situation. I decided to follow Chlo’s advice, sort of. I texted Brian and Peter—“yes lets hang out. after marks show on sat? meet outside club at 10…cece”

Brian texted back, “squeeze you then.” And Peter responded, “can’t wait!”

The rest of the week was a disaster. My job (yes, I have one) reached new lows. Not to get too Office Space, but I was seriously starting to feel possessive of my stapler! I had a new boss who was my age (28), and was now running my entire department. I mean, it’s a department of three, but still… So now, not only do I get to worry about editing a new edition of science books for the 7th and 8th grades, now I have this loud-mouthed, crass girl (why would she ever get into text book editing?) telling me we need to “rethink” the design of the page featuring the Periodic table. Uh, hello! What’s to rethink?

So while I used to think it was bad telling people that I’m a textbook editor, now I’m barely that. Now Joan has to review all of my pages. I mean, Joan? Who names their kid that? Gee, what a cute baby. I think I’ll name her Joan…

Joan was adamant that no one would leave early, even though I was always in the office a full hour before anyone else. I had to drive across town, through the back roads, avoiding the freeway, to finally arrive at the most breathtaking seafront you’ve ever seen…only to walk into a windowless storage building that housed our offices. The traffic on the main road was bumper to bumper, so you had to arrive by 7:30am to make decent time. And if you didn’t leave by 4:45pm I was screwed, looking at a full hour-and-a-half commute home.

I hated this job, and I hated Joan, but I couldn’t afford to lose it. So to make up for the time lost at night, I went out to the beach during my lunch break to practice my part. Fortunately, I was not the only lunatic dancing on the sandy beach, although I may have been the only one who was not severely medicated.

When Saturday arrived I was much calmer than I’d anticipated. After all, this was Mark’s gig, Mark’s future. If I was a disaster, who cares? I’m not the one with an itch for fame. By show time, however, my natural calm was replaced by nature’s remedy—two generous glasses of wine. And with the show looming I had absolutely no time to think about what would happen after the show…that I would have two guys waiting outside the club for me.

So, let’s just say the show went, well, it happened. And if the Trapdoor Theater actually has a trap door, I didn’t fall through it. The set somewhat malfunctioned as the “fire” took off from one cardboard continent to another. The lighting rig that was supposed to turn from yellow to orange to red sped up half-way through, creating more of a disco inferno than an Armageddon. But the crowd laughed at it, and it somehow played off as if it were intended, furthering Mark’s status as a comedic prodigy. I danced and twirled, employing a non-Method method of imagining I was all alone, bothered by nothing, and spinning from joy—not fear. This too seemed funny to the audience. I wasn’t trying for humor, but any noise that wasn’t a boo felt like applause. The finale came; no fruit was thrown. I survived.

Mark seemed happy, hopping around backstage from one industry guy to another, every so often sweeping me up in my PJs introducing me to an agent, a manager, a writer, a… insert a job that only exists in Hollywood. And I survived, at least that part of the night.

Chlo met me backstage, very excited to see how her plan would unfurl. I, on the other hand, was relieved, exhausted, and not excited or prepared for what was waiting for me outside. And just when I was about to suggest to Chlo that we sneak out the back, head to the diner, and call it a night, Peter walked over, with Brian following close behind. Brian handed me a bouquet of flowers (kind of cheesy, but at least they weren’t roses). Peter came in for a high-five, “Nice one Cece; you should join Mark’s act for good.” Brian quickly put his arm around me, “Yeah, you were awesome.” Was it just me or was Peter giving Brian some serious stink eye?

Mark came over and gave Brian and Peter that weird bro hug where they embraced without ever really touching. Peter seemed almost star struck by Mark, nervous and shy, and letting Brian do all the talking. Brian and Mark took over, reminiscing about high school, throwing inside jokes back and forth, and pretty much boring me to tears. “I’m starving,” I blurted out. “Can’t you guys continue your love fest at the diner?”

Mark said he’d drive Peter and Brian and meet us there. Chlo and I got to the diner and finagled a huge corner booth. We waited for 10 minutes before ordering. I texted Mark three different times, and all three times he responded variations of “go ahead, we’re almost there.”

I asked Chlo if I should text Brain and Peter too, and she said, “Only if you want to look desperate.” So I didn’t. But they never did show up. Chlo and I happily ate our sweet greasy food. The more time went by, the more relieved I was to be able to hang out with Chlo, stuff my face, and not worry about the guys. But it seemed seriously odd.

“I’m sure they got stuck at the club talking to some of Mark’s industry friends,” Chlo said. But Mark hadn’t said that; he hadn’t given me that excuse. He just kept saying that they would show up. When I got home I called Mark. “What happened to you? That was so rude!”

“Cut it, C. I’m not going into details. I’m just telling you that you don’t need to be hanging out with those guys.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? What’s wrong with them?”

“I said I’m not discussing it. So just drop it. You were great tonight, and I love you. And that’s the end of discussion.”

Had Mark turned into my Dad? “Seriously, Mark…”

“Goodnight, Cece. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

Okay, this was odd. Now what? Mark doesn’t pull this kind of stuff with me. He’s never objected to anyone I’ve hung out with. Not Chlo, not the Goth kid I obsessed about in Jr. High, not even when I was crushing out on my math tutor. Never.

So what do I do? Seriously. Don’t vote…tell me! Open ended, please comment.

Enter the Friend

Picture, if you dare—a 28-year-old me dressed up in floral—flannel!—pajamas and bunny slippers, playing the role of the last person on Earth in my brother Mark’s recurring Christmas play, “How the World Ends This Time.” Each Christmas Eve from as far back as I can remember, Mark staged a play that demonstrated all the destructive things that might happen to end the world, and told a tragic tale of the last victim standing. And, here I was again, playing the victim.

Mark has decided to set up the back story for his sudden success by demonstrating his childhood start as a writer, director, actor (not to mention, set and costume designer, and dictator). I would be playing the 5-year-old version of myself, outfit and all. On this occasion I was to be consumed by a massive fire that had been simultaneously set across continents, and large enough to dry up all bodies of water aside from the oceans (exactly how was my brother semi-famous?). As I was encircled by the flames in the center of the faux-living room, I was to do a farewell interpretive dance, twirling, sashaying, and mocking the flames until there was nowhere left to dance. For a five year old, this was like playing Hamlet. For a 28 year old, it was more like playing Barney the dinosaur.

“Wiggle your fingers more,” Mark told me. “Come on, you used to love this.”

“Mark, I was five,” I said. “Do you have any idea how embarrassing this is now?!”

Mark smiled and turned around, “Now I’ve just got to figure out some kind of pulley system to get the cardboard fire to encircle you.”

The show was in one week, and I’d only just agreed to do this, so Mark was eager to get a perfect dress rehearsal underway by the next night. Mark insisted he needed to be alone to figure out how the set was going to work, so I was free to go. Even though I was supposed to be back at the theater by 8am the next morning, and it was well after 10pm now, I didn’t feel like going home. I thought things were going to be so much easier once I stopped making decisions, but it had turned out to be much more difficult. I never would have agreed to do this play had I left it up to me. But I still had hope that down the line, strangers would turn my life around, little by little, into something at least a little less boring, if not into something great.

When I got to my car I checked my phone. Chlo had texted me a few times telling me to come meet her at our neighborhood bar. I texted back to make sure she was still there and got a message right back that said, “Hurry Up!!!”

When I walked into the bar I could see Chlo was loaded; she was hunched over the bar and appeared to have stopped lifting her glass to drink from it. Anytime she slurped from a glass sitting firmly on the counter, chances were Chlo was wasted. This didn’t surprise me, nor that she was flanked by guys. However, I nearly had an asthma attack when I realized one of the guys was Brian. This was not exactly the relaxing nightcap I had hoped for.

“Cece!” Chlo yelped.

I wanted to die. Then Brian put his arm around me and kissed my cheek. And I wanted to die a little less. Brian was there with his friend Peter, who looked a little familiar to me, but I couldn’t quite place it. We moved from the bar to a table in the back, and ordered a pitcher of Margaritas. I avoided looking at Brian by quickly draining two glasses—no salt. Then it hit me.

“You’re Peter Kaplan,” I said screwing my index finger into Peter’s arm. “You were in my chemistry class.” Peter, I was informed, was in Brian’s band. He had the quintessential guitarist haircut—longer on one side, falling into his eyes, and he wore dark black eyeglasses. He was beautiful. “You were such a nerd,” I continued. Again, me being me. “I mean, you were such a nerd, but now you’re not!” Chlo kicked me under the table, but missed and kicked the table, sloshing the drinks into sticky puddles.

“Yeah I was!” said Peter, laughing. “And, God, I had the biggest crush on you,” he said straight-faced, bushing his hair out of his eyes. Now this, I was not expecting. I could tell Brian wasn’t expecting this either. We’d entered some strange alternate dimension where suddenly I was the center of attention. Brian put his arm around me again and pulled himself close to me. I thought guys were supposed to be less competitive than girls when it came to this stuff, Bros before Hos and all that.

“Cece’s brother Mark and I were like best friends in high school,” Brian told Peter.

“I know your brother,” Peter said. “He’s doing that show, A Marked Man, right? At the Trapdoor?”

“Cece’s gonna be in the show,” Chlo said, before hunching back over to sip her Margarita.

“Don’t ask,” I said. “But, speaking of which, I’ve got to get home.”

I hugged Chlo good-bye, and Peter told me not to worry, and that he’d drive her home. I thanked Peter and again apologized for calling him a nerd, to which he responded, “Do you still have that Kermit the Frog lunch pail you used to carry around?” I shook my head no, and he pushed his hair out of his eyes again. This guy that I’d barely noticed had paid real attention to me, and it was a strange and unfamiliar feeling.

“I’ll walk you to your car,” Brian said. I grabbed my bag and we walked outside. It was chilly and Brian put his arm around me (three times, if you’re counting!). What was happening? I opened my car door, threw my bag on the passenger seat and turned around to say good-bye to Brian when he kissed me. I was shocked, amazing, enthralled, and confused. So I kissed him back, and I swear—somewhere off in the distance, I could hear Damon Albarn of Blur singing, “You and I, collapsed in love…” But then I actually heard someone saying, “Cece, you forgot your scarf.” It was Peter. And the sweet passion I’d been feeling turned sour, as Peter pushed his hair out of his eyes and extended my scarf to me across the roof of my car.

“Wait up, Pete,” Brian called. “See ya, Cece.” And, like that, it was over.

I woke up the next morning to meet Mark. I didn’t want to tell him about seeing Brian, because I was kind of scared of what he might say. I didn’t want to hear his opinion; his opinion tended to take the fun out of things, and I didn’t get to have that much fun.

We spent the day rehearsing, and I actually recaptured some of the joy I’d had as a kid, whirling in circles, the dervish amidst the cardboard flames. It was great spending time with Mark. He was the star; I was the little sister. It was comfortable.

As I got ready to leave I checked my phone to see if Brian had called. Stranger yet, Brian had called, and so had Peter. They both wanted to go out. Um, what? I tried to call Chlo, but her voicemail said she was out of commission for the rest of the day (bad hangover).

I know I’m young, and you’re not supposed to tie yourself down unnecessarily, but you can’t really date two friends at once, can you? Well, at least, I don’t think I can. So, again, I leave it to you.