The Home For Wayward Ladies (3 page)

Tilly’s pride was curtailed as she sized up her competition. “Ms. Bauer?” Ma said it like an accusation, as if the English translation of “Bauer” was “tampon made of hair.” I could see the crazy storming in her eyes as she continued, “I’m Nick’s mother, Tilly.”

“Yes, of course,” Ms. Bauer responded. “I’m so glad that you could make it. It brings me such joy to see parents taking a supportive role in the development of their child’s imagination.”

“Well, Nick’s imagination is
beyond
imagination. Contrary to popular belief, I wouldn’t have missed this for the world. Nick’s been talking about you ad nauseam and I had to see myself what all the gurgling was for.”

The two of them laughed like a dentist had left on the gas. Meanwhile, I’m sandwiched between them like the Berlin Wall. Ma complimented Ms. Bauer’s dress with its garish pinwheel design. Even though she was trained in the theatrical art of discerning sincerity, Ms. Bauer thanked her just the same; that’s the kind of magnanimous woman that she was. But when the two of them made it past pleasantries and started in on the topic of yours truly, they talked over my head like I had never been born. Considering how much of an embarrassment I knew my Ma could be, it was a relief to feel invisible. Before they said more than I could un-hear, Ms. Bauer took pity on me. She patted the top of my head. “Nick, would you mind checking to see if I closed all the windows in the rehearsal room?” I would have surrendered my Polly Pocket play set if that woman had asked, so I didn’t question her motives for sending me out of earshot.

The only problem was that Tilly was not to be trusted. Sneaky devil that I’ve always been, I ducked around the corner in hopes that I might overhear what those hyenas had to say. Within a few sentences, I hear Tilly shout my name. I pause before I come forward to make it look like I’d been where I was supposed to be. Tilly grabs my arm and drags me to the car. As the Volvo door slams shut, I pleaded for Ms. Bauer. Tilly locked the doors and drove away. I could see in the rearview mirror that Ms. Bauer tried to make chase, but her old knees slowed her down too much for me to say goodbye.  

“Something should really come of him?” My mother repeated Ms. Bauer’s words so many times that they lost all meaning. “That woman has a lot nerve to talk to me like I’ve never considered what’s for your own good, like my child is some sort of mystery to me and she’s the bitch with all the answers.” I was shocked. From what I wasn’t supposed to overhear, that was my first parent/teacher conference where any enthusiasm had been displayed for my existence. No one had called me a disruption and I hadn’t been accused of being developmentally disabled. I would have expected that encouragement to give Tilly’s long-suffering stomach some much-needed relief. Ever the contrarian, Ma shit a brick the whole ride home.   

That’s when she started talking like she’d figured out why it is the planet spins. Apparently this was all some conspiratorial plot against her. “I’ll bet she says the same shit to all the parents so her enrollment doesn’t drop. Yeah, I’ll bet that’s the racket she’s up to, faking all the parents into thinking their kid stands any chance of becoming someone special.” That’s when she decided to lay down the law. “Well, that shit doesn’t fly with me. No, sir, you’re not going back to that class in the fall. You can kiss the theater goodbye.”

Out of protest, I announced that I would never eat again. The first few days were easy because I was so sad about Ms. Bauer that I couldn’t take a bite. The few days after that weren’t so hard either because Tilly’s such a shitty cook that she can’t boil rice in a bag without burning the water. To me, my performance was better than the one I gave as Aesop. It didn’t matter that my Ma was the only person in the audience, I was scaling it to fill the Meadowlands. Sure as shit, my Ma was going to get the treatment she deserved for standing in the way of my dreams.

I waited to really let her have it until we’d bumped into a neighbor at the Shop & Save. I took a deep breath and let it out in a scream while I threw cans of Dinty Moore down the aisles. She didn’t look embarrassed the way I’d planned it in my head, but I still had one more trick up my sleeve.

“I wish that you were dead,” I shouted. “Then maybe I could live with Dad and tell him that he has to love me because he doesn’t have a choice. Anything would be better than to be stuck here with you. You just don’t get it, Ma. I’m going to be so famous that, when I die, people I’ve never met will shed tears.”

Without further discussion, I was back in Ms. Bauer’s class that fall. Ever since then, Tilly’s only needed a few reminders that she’s better off to stay the hell out of my way. Honestly though, it’s become a waste of breath to ask for what I want a second time. Nothing is over until things go my way; “yes” is a requirement and “no” is not an option. Still, it’s a shame how many people in this world will lead themselves to slaughter before they’re willing to concede.

3

HUNTER

What most people don’t realize about the disaster of the Hindenburg is how many people survived. My recollection of the facts surrounding the bloated zeppelin’s fiery demise in the spring of 1937 begin and end with the voice of Herbert Morrison. If you happen to be unawares, he was that reporter who wept in national syndication, “Oh, the humanity,” while the sky rained fiery debris. What I had never considered until my audio book set me straight (so to speak) was that, of the ninety-seven people onboard, sixty-two people had survived. That statistic astonishes me. Until now, I had always envisioned the grounds of Lakehurst, New Jersey peppered with rows of corpses that resembled used charcoal briquettes. This was not the case. As it turns out, once the fire erupted onboard, each of the ninety-seven people had thirty-seven seconds to react. Regardless of their status, creed, gender, or religion, everyone onboard had the same thirty-seven seconds. The speed with which the airship approached infamy offered its cargo a rather level playing field. I hope that breath of equality was refreshing as they jumped from windows in midair and ran, bent and broken, gasping beyond the smell of burnt hydrogen and the singeing of human hair.  

I discreetly mute my iPod so no one knows I sit in silence while I count the people on my subway car upon my fingers and toes. If this car were to burst into flames and I were to apply a similar Hindenburgian arithmetic, the fourteen passengers onboard would have a sixty-four percent chance of survival. I close my eyes to complete the calculation. That means nine people would make it out of this tunnel to live another day. I imagine how I might fare. Best-case scenario, I see myself as a despondent eyewitness account on NY1 that plays on a loop all weekend. Worst-case scenario, I’m identified by dental records and FedExed to my parents’ Virginia home in a cardboard box.

I’m not quite sure that I would have the energy to put up a fight today. It might come as a surprise, but I am, believe it or not, on my way home from a car show at the Javits Center. I know. Shocking. My father would be downright proud had I attended the show for leisure and not for pay.

The ad on Craigslist that brought me thence was seeking dancers/models for a promotional event. While I’ve never considered myself a model per se, I certainly have been guilty of turning a few heads. Just ask Eli. People tell me that I have a kind face. And despite my genetic predisposition toward baldness, by the grace of God, my hair is holding stronger than Samson’s. So, while I have never been tall enough to not take a knee in the front of a class photo, what I’ve been blessed with is, at the least, solid— defined by many years of dancing so that potential suitors are offered a rather appealing concourse on which they might land. 

My day at the car show at the Javits Center called upon my wealth of choreographic expertise. I’m not sure if you’ve ever had the pleasure of encountering the song, “She Works Hard for the Money.” Well, whoever the heck “She” was, if I was a gambling man I’d put money on the fact that “She’s” likely to have never been dressed in a full spandex body suit and put on a platform under an plastic indoor canopy where “She” was told to gyrate “futuristically” for 10 hours with only the occasional break to either drink or make water. Although I didn’t expect to see anyone that I might know, it was a blessing that the costume had a hood that covered my entire face. That way, at the very least, it was possible for me to maintain anonymity (despite the fact that I could still be identified by the protruding head of my gentleman parts. Thanks to the spandex, those were outlined in perfect detail. I don’t think many passersby noticed my masculinity on display, but I dare say that the ones who did were precisely the ones you wouldn’t want to.)

All’s well that ends well, at night’s close they handed me cash in an envelope. The money will not have to be declared to the IRS so, again, my anonymity prevails. I found the only bathroom stall that had a door for me to hide behind so I could change back into normal people clothes. I typically try not to visit public restrooms. When nature calls too loudly to ignore, I typically try to levitate. This time was different, however, because my hips were aching something awful. I braced myself on the wall and climbed into my jeans. Still, I dare not bother to complain. Money can make shame feel like luxury.

“You’re going to be fine,” I said as I cued up my audio book on the rollicking subject of air disasters.  “Everything happens for a reason. One day, you’re going to tell this story to Oprah and she’ll give you your own spin-off if her network doesn’t go under.”

Leaving the arena, I urged a suppression of the experience. There was still opportunity to prevent this from becoming a fully-fledged memory. While it was not necessarily an awful day, it was somewhat insipid. And, frankly, I can’t think of anything worse than being forced to recall the banal. Today is tied to a long string of days that I’ve been collecting since we moved to New York. The common thread between them is that they are all days that I want back, not for the chance to live over, God forbid, but for the chance to live better.

I counted the money in the envelope on my limp to the train. With my wardrobe growing evermore threadbare, I fear that I am only one mistake away from taking my clothes off altogether and dancing for one-dollar bills. Honestly, had I the nerve to sin so directly against God, I would have considered that option long ago (not that His light has been shining much in my direction as of late).    

There are plenty of seats available on the uptown train, but I decide to stand. Out of necessity, I have developed my own spectacular method of subway transportation. For fear of catching something utterly bubonic, I refuse to touch the standing pole. Rather, I plant my feet on the floor and surf like I’m the Big Kahuna. Occasionally, the train may cause my equilibrium to falter, but it’s nothing that my muscular core can’t control.  

When the train reaches 59
th
Street Columbus Circle, I do my best to stabilize against the sputtering motion of brakes. The entering passengers appear to be infected by a plague. They stumble aboard as a twitching mass of the walking dead. The only sign of life they show is how they scurry to get away from a homeless man of color wearing no shoes who is carrying his only valuable possession, the Holy Bible. He shouts the gospels as if they are profane. 

“You must ask yourself about the Judgment Day,” he demands.

Three handsome college boys talk louder in an attempt to drown out the affront. A mother shares earbuds with her toe-headed son in tow. They look practically umbilical as she turns up the volume on her iPod and pulls her baby close in a ritualistic embrace. Without any companion to cling to, the impromptu sermon becomes a vacuum which pulls me closer with its every hateful word. 

“What have you done here on this earth to be worthy of a meeting with the Lord?” he continues. “Your sin weighs too heavy upon you to rise and greet His call. With your drinking and your smoking and your lustful thoughts for both man and woman alike. Don’t bother to ask for forgiveness. By then, it will be too late. You’ve already booked yourself a room in the Devil’s inferno.”

I focus on my breathing and try to count the letters on a sign advertising lessons to learn how to play guitar. I’d do anything to avoid another condemnation. I picture myself playing that guitar like I’m Maria von Trapp, wearing the same curtains as my stepchildren who are nestled at my feet. Meanwhile, my feet are pins and needles. My mind’s eye brings forth a searing visage of my own miserable youth- a southern Baptist boy in a pair of short pants with a cowlick that blossoms like a cactus rose.

Attendance at my church in rural Virginia was, in a word, mandatory. While my parents didn’t necessarily expect my little six-year-old self to retain what our sanctimonious minister had to say, religion was as important to them as air conditioning was in July. So Sunday after Sunday, we sat amongst that congregation who were as well-dressed as they were well-mannered. I can still see their faces swollen with righteous indignation, frozen at attention with rigid spines, devouring the minister’s words on love and hate. While I could not yet discern the difference between the two, I could tell by the fury with which he spoke that they were to be feared with equal fervor.