thediastema's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Closing night last year Dear Master, Why do I always speak of present events in the past tense and past events in the present tense? Here is your Nostalgia of the Moment. ~~ Last year just around this time it is closing night of PTC's biggest and final show of the 1999-2000 season, Big River. The love of Neighbour's life has died of complications from AIDS. Mum tells me as I am doing my makeup, and I cry, and I am, still, covering for Jillian*, schoolmate and coworker, whose mother called to alert me she was puking and couldn't make the show, but who is actually at an audition. I work matinee and am beating back tears the entire time. We haul away the season's debris so cleanup will be minimal when we're all exhausted tonight. We'll be exhausted. After the evening's show, when I'm pleasantly in shock over the news about John*'s death, Scott and I collect our share of the leftover cookies in plastic bags that say "THANK YOU." I'm careful to scout out some extra ginger chews because everyone I know is addicted to them. Scott wants to sneak into the performance and watch the rest of the show. I have my own suspicions of why this is. Do I want to join him? No. No. I want to lie down on the Babcock/kitchen level floor and stare up at the dome fluorescents and think tenderly of Theo, whom I've already seen for probably the last time ever. I should think of John, but I'm not ready yet. Well, if I don't want to watch the show, would I mind watching his stuff while I lie on the floor and stare up at the dome fluorescents and think tenderly of Theo? No, I would not mind watching his stuff while I lie on the floor and stare up at the dome fluorescents and think tenderly of Theo. Then he'll come back and we'll carpool home. He's only getting away with this because (a) he got me the job and (b) I'm in love with this place and don't want to leave for a whole summer just yet. I am perfectly content to lie on the floor and stare up at the dome fluorescents and think tenderly of Theo. I am imperturbable, even when HM comes down and is taken aback by my relatively sudden comfort in my relatively new surroundings. "Coming back next season?" "Yes." "Great!" He leaves, and I lie on the floor and stare up at the dome fluorescents and think tenderly of Theo. Scott emerges from the show, taking underground refuge from the stampede of the season's last departing crowd. At least, I think he is Scott. I have blind spots in the shape of dome fluorescents. "Want to hang around a little longer? I'm going to get Marc*'s autograph." I roll my eyes. Marc is the actor playing Huckleberry Finn. Marc is adorable. He's in his thirties, maybe five-nine, blond; almost my type, except he's tan and athletic, so really, he's Scott's type. Scott has not publicly acknowledged this. Why should he? This is Utah. He is Mormon. He shops Abercrombie and Fitch until his knees buckle just to fit in. And he has other problems. His parents, after all, were the ones who printed out "Straight Pride" T-shirts, with inverted pink triangles and rainbows in big "no" circles, for the boys at our high school to wear in protest of the Gay Straight Alliance's public service messages against hate. I ache. I want to bundle him up in emotional Kevlar and ship him off to San Francisco where he will meet a handsome prince who can make him forget all that ugliness in the Rockies. We wait outside the stage door. The crowd leaves. The crew leaves. The cast begins to trickle out, almost in exact ascending order of importance. Indeed, our Huck is last. Scott approaches him apologetically, eyes shining and asks for an autograph. He receives one, personalised, and an e-mail address, and a hug. Marc dissolves into the summer and Scott and I make our way toward the parking lot. He is crying before we are off the cement stoop. "It's just...so much stuff makes sense now that didn't make sense before...I'm sorry, I'm such an idiot for crying..." "O, no! Not at all!" This is magnificent. This is an epiphany. He acts as a decorative waterfall for Hamilton the whole way to his place. We make tentative plans to prank call Schmidt if we're both still awake at 4 a.m. I arrive at my place, and, setting aside three random selections, leave a stack of chewy cookies on the stove. It is then I notice the splotchy, large-eared, oblivious black and white kitten helping himself to food that rightly belongs to Pixie, Frisky, and Licorice. "I'll deal with you later," I bluff. I bag my three random selections and hop into the car, blasting "Bohemian Rhapsody" all the way to Harley and Jake's place, where, after tasting delicious cookies, Harley and Giselle will soon become a couple. They will do this while I'm sitting outside her place, waiting to meet her as she instructed me. She will not show because she and Harley will be rubbing noses. Giselle will be grounded immediately thereafter for breaking curfew. Planck will become a permanent family fixture. Scott will come out. For now, though, I don't know any of this. I sit in Hamilton on 600 South above 800 East, and mull over how badly I really want to brave Scott's front yard for the simple joy of goof-calling our bipolar drama teacher. It is 4:02 a.m. Your move, Erin. ~ETK 05:40 - 9 May, 2001 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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