winkgirl4's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Fiddler on the run Dear Andy, I am afraid that nothing about this weekend ended up as it was supposed to. (Typical, I know, but here's the run down:) Friday evening I waited until 8:30 for Raymond to come to pick up Justin. He doesn't have to come so late, it's just his way of making sure that I don't make any plans. (It's really his only ounce of control left) The solution is that I'm going to start doing the travelling on Fridays and he can do the travelling on Sundays. To borrow a phrase, "problem presented, problem solved." I spent most of that evening sitting around the house talking to a co-worker on IM and practicing my sign-language. Two quick notations about the evening, though: First, I divulged guarded information to this co-worker in haste. It was stupid, simple conversation and I should have just let his comments about people who play on the wrong side of the fence (euphamism for homosexuality) just pass by. I should have. I hear it all the time and, even then, I don't usually hail my placcard of sexual rights around with me. At work, I play up the Happy Heather Homemaker role. They don't need to know what my preferences are, especially since my lack of sexual activity on either side of the gender fence makes it a moot point. But, in the midst of this conversation I just couldn't keep my stupid, non-gender-specific-loving-mouth shut. And it makes me uncomfortable, his knowing. It's not something that I'm ashamed of. My family knows. My friends know. Hell, even my Nana whom, till the day she died didn't understand the concept of two women being together, knew. She didn't understand it, but she knew. Still, it's certainly a topic that I've lost interest in having to explain or defend. I don't think that he will share this information with our other co-workers. I don't expect little comments about me to end up on the bathroom walls. But the information is out there and it will take more than the freshly baked cookies that adorn my desk to keep my disguise going. Damn me. Damn me and my defensive self. Then, later that night- well, actually, I think it was more like VERY early the next morning, I got a phone call from the farmer. He'd been out drinking (which brings out the braver side of him) so he called to invite me to meet him at some out-of-town bar and to spend what was left of the evening with him. I think the actual question was, "so, do you want to come and get me and make love to me all night." It was a good question, once you get passed the fact that he was incredibly drunk and since I'd let Shannon borrow the car (knowing I wouldn't need it) I couldn't actually go pick him up. We'd consider the rest of the invitation once we got him safely home. But he had a plan. He'd drive to my house and, then, I could drive him home- after which we could, well, you know. Good plan, I tell him, clearly, but let's discuss the flaw. It's much farther to my house than it is to YOUR house from where you currently are, during which you will be required to not only drive past the two locations where there are almost always police cars laying in wait in their trite, little speed traps, but you would also be forced to drive past the highway patrol office, itself. Perhaps we should think of a different plan. Maybe we could get a taxi. Maybe we could call someone who could come and get you. Perhaps I could get a hold of Shannon and see if I could get him to bring me the car and then I could do my best to find this obscure country bar and then we could get you home, safely. We considered these plans and agreed to call back in ten minutes from the moment that we hung up. I made my calls and waited for the time to lapse. In ten minutes, I called. No answer. Okay. Five minutes later, I called again. There was a storm approaching and the constant lightening strikes were interfering with my reception. No answer. I called again. So I turned off the radio in the bathroom, the t.v. in the living room and turned down the volume on the t.v. in the bedroom and I waited for a return call. I dozed off only to be awaken by Shannon coming home. Immediately I call again. Nothing. I wonder if, perhaps, (best case scenario) he got a hold of a friend and they took him home or (worst case) he took it upon himself to go home and was, now, lying in a ditch somewhere. Should I have cared? (So many people would say that it wasn't my problem and, you know what, it probably wasn't. But, I'm still unable to turn off that part of me that cares about other people.) I worried. Still, worry as I might, my hands were tied. I had absolutely no idea where he was- keeping me from searching for him- and I had no idea who I could call. So I went to bed. When I got up the next day, I called again. Still no answer. Around eleven that morning, he finally called. I expressed my concern. He explained that he had fallen asleep in his truck and when he finally woke up, he drove himself home. (Sigh.) There wasn't really anything left to say except that I hoped he was feeling okay and that I would call him later. Which I did. After one, quick comment, the subject was, then, avoided like the plague. So, anyway, later that night, I went to Ada to see Fletcher Christian's play- as directed. It was funny. It was moving. I laughed. I stifled any inclination to shed tears at the end. And, when it was over, I brushed myself off and met the cast in the line-up in the lobby. Wouldn't you know it? Fletcher was the last in line? I made a very quick sweep around the receiving line and, then, crossed immediately to him. "The play was great. You all did great jobs. I really enjoyed it." All the trite comments were made and I'm sure that they washed across him like the last time someone mentioned the weather change. Then I invaded. I touched. His father walked over and it felt...constricting. His father was supposed to be there on Friday. Tonight was supposed to be easy. I moved. Quickly. I moved to the director (another college friend) and offered the same underwhelming contritions- far less than what they desserved in my nervous state. He invited me to the after party and I...gulp...considered. I walked back to Mr. Christian and stammered and shuffled and exchanged niceties and then I did it again. I reached in and I fiddled with his tie. Damn it. What was I thinking? I fiddled. I'm such and idiot. I leaned in with such familiarity and, then, basically ran out the door with a whirl of dust churning in my wake. Driving out of town I did the stupid, "your an idiot" pounding on the steering wheel thing, turning on the radio to drown out my own admonitions. What comes on? James Ingrams, "Just Once". Ah. Lovely. He just kept asking me over and over again, "Just once, can we figure out what we keep doing wrong? Why the good times never last for long? What are we doing wrong?" Oh my god. You've got to be kidding me! This has got to be a joke. (Stupid, fucking radios. Who invented these idiotic things?) So, I turned off the cursed thing and I drove my fiddling, little self home. It was a good play though. You should have seen it. Best line in the play: (paraphrased, clearly) "It will never be the same. We'll go on and pretend that things are the same but they won't ever be." yours, ever truly Heathermerryweathersillygirlfiddler P.S. I'm down to pound 17. It's been up at 4:00 in the morning to exercise, low-carb this, low-cal that and more water than a fish intakes but I'm on my way. You have to be proud of that. Come on. 4:38 p.m. - May 15, 2005 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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