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.