It's not like I thought that, by volunteering at the improv theater, I would
suddenly leapfrog to being best friends forever with the comedians. Idol worship
is only sometimes the way to someone's heart. And anyway, from what I saw, most
of the volunteers were teenagers, and they didn't really hang with the players.
I'd planned to just stay shy and not bother anyone.
But I'd worked with one of the actors awhile ago, and I knew a couple others
online, and a lot more of them turned out to be in my age bracket than I'd thought,
and-- I don't know. We get along. I had braced myself for the classic high-strung
drama-major chaos, but the people are more accessible than meets the eye. I've
made tenuous friends with a few of the actors. They laugh at my jokes and shit.
Before I left for my volunteer shift on Thursday, I happened to take this corny
OCD test online. I scored 19 out of 20 fake cyber-symptoms.
I've always suspected that I had more than a few drops of OCD in my bloodstream,
but I would just tell myself that it was just the OCD telling me that I had
OCD, and I'm making up imaginary ailments again and really, I'm fine, and I
don't have AIDS or cancer either. Now that the Internet had called me OCD, things
were different. You can't argue with the Internet.
And on the bus to the theater, I fucking stewed in it. I tried to consider
each symptom objectively. Do you count things compulsively, sometimes without
noticing? In fact, I'd been counting parked cars in groups of five since I got
on the bus. Do you ever have concerns about throwing yourself or pushing someone
else into traffic? Twice a day. Do you need to repeat a task again and again
until it finally feels "right"? You must mean like listening to the
Smiths' "Paint a Vulgar Picture" on a loop for the last three days.
I examined my cuticles, which were bloody and ragged from 20 years of nail-biting.
Yeah. OK. I'm not at the hand-washing stage, but the signs are there. The more
I thought, the more it reminded me of other symptoms, like how I get bent out
of shape at work from the invisible colonies of filth on my keyboard, and I
started to become all lathered up and weaselly and paranoid. By the time I got
to the theater, I was in full-blown, fire-alarm panic mode.
The cast for this show was different from last week's. The company was doing
a limited run of an improv "daytime TV" themed show, but I didn't
realize that the players shuffled around. Unlike last week, Frankenstein was
there.
I've had a covert little thing for Frankenstein for at least three years. He's
one of the funnier players, in a dark, vitriolic way, and that helps, but at
the nucleus of the crush is the fact that he's 6'7". We are both very tall.
That's really all of it. I've had a few conversations with him, and he's kind
of a meatheaded frat-boy-- you get the impression that he'd rather be doing
lines off a stripper or something. He's not especially cute or not cute. But
just standing near him is thrilling. It's like being in the Sequoia National
Forest. At last, I feel small.
I'm in the lobby, futzing with my coat and scarf and purse in
the throes of panic, taking deep breaths, when Frank comes up and starts talking
to me. I got nothin'. Wait, why is he talking to me? He doesn't talk to me.
I'd mentioned my crush to another player online once-- did she tell him? Oh,
my, I think he's kind of trying to flirt. Missy totally Told Him.
I was trapped in the elevated concessions booth, so we were almost eye-level.
He was in his daytime-TV costume, which was the world's biggest leisure suit
and a skeevy flared-collar shirt. Probably shoes, too. Who knows. The small-talk
was just punishing-- I was coughing up "heh-yeah"s to everything he
said, clearing my throat, cracking my knuckles. Maybe I should start talking
about Sean. He knows I have a boyfriend, right? Let's make sure.
"Something something my BOYFRIEND BOYFRIEND something boyfriend! Heh heh!"
This may have worked, but there wasn't much he could say in response, was there.
Oh, I'll ask him what his character's name is. They all had kitschy soap-opera
names. Some were puns.
"Dirk."
"Dirk… what? Dirk Darkdirk? Phoenix?" Perhaps he enjoyed the
films of Ben Stiller.
"No, uh, Dirk Voorhees."
"Oh."
"'Oh'? " He feigned offense. "Whaaaat? You don't like it?"
"Well, you know, it's not a joke, like 'Juniper Birch' and 'Stick Hardball'.
"Yeah, well…" He trailed off. Silence again.
"…Did you get it from 'Saved by the Bell'? The one girl, what was
her name?"
He blinked.
"I forget her name on the show, but her real name was Lark
Voorhies. And, uh, probably still is." I tried to laugh. His gigantic meatface
was still blank.
"…Did you ever watch 'Saved by the Bell'?"
Missy made an entrance with a couple other actors. One of them said, "Lisa.
Lark Voorhies was Lisa on 'Saved by the Bell.'"
"Oh, heh, yeah. Lisa." We all nodded. Well, that's taken care of.
Personally, I thought I was doing pretty well, all things considered. Eighties
pop-culture references, man. Everybody loves those. Why am I bombing here?
I was rescued-- they were called on stage right then, so I went in to watch
the show. It was good. I laughed. Sadly, it was a Thursday night and like four
people showed up, so an executive decision was made to cut the show down to
half an hour and give the audience free passes. I was still a little squirrelly
and I hid in the theater as they left, petrified that one of them would complain
to me about it.
The cast did some impromptu rehearsing, and I watched with the other volunteers.
When it was over, I gathered my articles and was consulting the bus schedule
when Mike, one of the founders, announced, "Hey, Meg, we're all going out
to the Something Brewery-- you wanna come?"
I don't drink, and it wasn't really a good time to try to explain why and how
to everyone who asked. "Oh, no, I'm gonna head home… or, um, I guess
my bus doesn't come for a half-hour, though." It was about 25 degrees that
night. If the theater was closing up, I'd have to wait outside.
"Come WIIIITH us!" He draped his arm across my shoulders. Mike is
renowned for touching people for no good reason, especially young women.
"Oh, yeah, I dunno… maybe." I escaped to the lobby, where Frank
was lumbering toward the door.
"Meg, you coming to the Whatever Brewery with us?"
"Well, I wasn't, but, uh, my bus doesn't come for awhile. Where is it?"
"It's just down the street, like twelve blocks. Come on, I'll give you
a ride."
I had dug my own goddamn grave by mentioning the bus thing-- now I had no graceful
excuse. It wasn't even that I didn't want to go, per se. I just didn't really
know how to say yes or no. But here, Frankenstein had already taken yes for
an answer.
I followed him out to his car, which was this fancy-assed silver suavemobile.
The seats were cranked back for tall people. We are both TALL. We had lots of
LEG ROOM.
Now, I'm not the type of girl who goes around expecting to be Black-Dahliaed
by every man she makes eye contact with. I've never taken self-defense classes,
I don't carry mace-- I don't really sweat it. Not that I'm menacing or anything,
but at just under six feet, I'm approximately man-sized, and I don't get fucked
with a lot. But as I pulled the shiny car door closed, it did occur to me in
a magnesium-flash of a thought that 1. I didn't really know this guy very well,
2. He reeks of frat-boy date-rape, and 3. He is a pituitary giant and weighs
at least 250 pounds, probably more, there is no fucking way I could ever take
him down. Not with mace, probably not even with a gun. He's the motherfucking…
end boss in Mortal Kombat III. The muscle-guy with the seven arms. Kintaro?
I kind of giggled to myself for having this idea in my brain-- "Bew hew!
Men might kill me! It is scary to be a girl!" Then he put the key in the
ignition and said, "Don't worry! I'm not going to murder you or anything!"
Ah ha! Haha! Ha! Did he read my mind? Or is there pure abject terror smeared
all over my face? No, I'm doing all right. You know what it is-- he's probably
used to having women think that. He probably goes through life, worrying about
women being terrified of him, because I bet they are. Poor guy, so he thought
he'd make a lighthearted joke about it. Which must backfire every, single, time.
Heartbreaking.
He had Fiona Apple on the stereo, which reminded me that, in his profile on
the theater's Web site, he says that her second album is his favorite. So I
start talking about Fiona Apple's second album. I have never heard it-- this
is just a desperate ploy to change the subject, and it will at once impress
him. I'm betting that Sean wouldn't really be overjoyed about this situation,
and guilt is starting to creep up my collar. I am in a giant's car, going somewhere
I don't know. This is unusual and perhaps scandalous.
It worked. He lit up and started talking about how her second album was his
favorite album ever. You're fucking kidding me, Frankenstein! I mention that
I play the piano, and her stuff is fun to play. We talk about that until the
stoplight. He looks over at me and he has really, really blue eyes-- they are
like knives into my brain.
"Yeah, I'm just gonna drive to my apartment, which is right behind the
bar, so I can park there."
What? "Heh. OK."
"I mean, my 'apartment'! Where I'm going to 'park'! And not kill you!
Sure!"
Oh my fucking God, did he just BRING THE KILLING ME THING UP AGAIN. Slick,
guy. That really, you know, puts me at ease, when you KEEP. TALKING ABOUT IT.
"Haha! Suuuure," I echo back. He might as well have whipped his dick
out and waved it around for emphasis. "I'm not going to rape you either!
With this! Neither one, nor the other!"
At once, it was almost a relief. At least someone's coming out and saying it.
You're going to kill me. We're on the same wavelength--no point in continuing
this masquerade. I felt a kinetic, Stockholm-syndrome bond with him.
OK. We were talking about the Simpsons now. He was saying that it was better
when Conan O'Brien was writing. Perfect-- Conan, 6'5", also one of my "celebrity
crushes." We discuss the comedy stylings of Conan O'Brien. I am calm.
Frank veers off the main avenue, takes another turn, and cruises into an underground
parking lot. We exit. It's almost over. "Just up these stairs over here--
they lead to the sidewalk."
"All right!"
"And not the, uh, KILLING ROOM."
What can you do at this point? What would you do? My heart was pulverized with
pity for him, and I was almost at maximum crazy. I didn't know if I wanted to
punch him or kiss him. A neon "OMFG" sign was pulsing behind my eyes,
but there was absolutely nothing to say, so I sighed inwardly and joined in.
"Oh, no, I HATE THE KILLING ROOM." We laughed idiotically. He started
talking about homeless people or something. True to his promise, instead of
killing me, he walked me to the bar, where the other actors were waiting.
Mike was there, and Missy, and two others. I eventually fizzled
down, and only once got asked about why I wasn't drinking. I learned a lot about
the company and upcoming shows; we talked about our individual blogs. Everyone
was being interesting and I found myself having a pleasant time. So much that
when Mike the Inapproriate Toucher offered me a ride home, I shrugged to myself
and thought, can't be any worse than what I just went through.
And it was no big deal. He apologized for his cramped Subaru Justy and talked
about motorcycles for 20 minutes. It would've been agony had it been earlier,
but I was invincible now.
The next morning, Frankenstein updated his long-dormant blog. He linked to
an article on Yahoo! News about the evolution disclaimer stickers in Georgia
textbooks, and how parents were suing the school district. Then he added an
op-ed of his own about how, what really gets his goat is, evolution is a theory,
not a fact. It even says so-- it's the "THEORY of evolution". "Why
is the intellectual community so close-minded [sic] about this?" he wrote.
"It's not like they've never been wrong about something."
In the comments, I tried passionately to explain the difference between a theory
in casual parlance and a scientific theory, and that the latter must be proven
by several detached groups of researchers and is then accepted as a fact. He
deftly countered by informing me that evolution isn't a fact unless it's been
observed first-hand, and fossils don't count.
Yeah. So. I have a theater shift tomorrow, and he's scheduled to be there,
but. I don't think Sean has anything to worry about this week.
Meg van Huygen lives in Seattle. She's looking for
a publisher for her essay collection, if you know any. This is her first story
for Lime Tea.
