Violet & Commentary

A Breakup Ordinary — Part VI

…and it occurred to me, with the forcefulness of a thought experienced in 360 degrees, that that’s really what history mostly is: masses of people doing ordinary things.

— Bill Bryson

Saturday, Cont’d.

The bar only got more packed as the night went on. I’m not sure, but I think I can count over half a dozen different fire code violations with the number of people in here. Then again, this bar isn’t really known for its wise observance of codes. And despite that, I’m thinking about getting wings. Yeah, I mean they’re the poultry equivalent of Great Burger’s dairyshakes, and that probably means another day with stomach cramps and indigestion.

My ears are ringing from the opening act, my mouth dry, and my stomach rumbles. Caffeine shivers my fingers all nicely, or maybe that’s just hunger. Sakke pulls me from my table, asking “Have you seen Gretchen?”

I say, “No. She’s not outside smoking?”

“She does not smoke, but also I checked,” he says.

“I don’t know, then,” I say.

“We cannot go on without our trombone player,” he says.

“I’m sure ska can live without a brass instrument for one day,” I say. “If she turns up, I’ll send her your way or whatever.”

I glance back at the table. The debate if I should go was quick, and the answer was definitive. Ashlyn and Kevin brought their people over. Their friends. When I was over there, getting crowded out of my table, Kevin injected into the conversation that they’re polyamorous, all in a not so subtle way. Cool, I mean, even if I weren’t monogamous, I’d still not rebound with the husband of my ex’s ex. Much less Kevin.

Because a girl can’t just go to get wings without being bothered, Saz calls me over. She’s at the desk where Jean and Jean, the two bassists from White Trash Skywalker, are sitting. In front of them is a spread of their merchandise, all of it as inspired as their music. So, not. They’re dressed like Jack White cosplayed Clockwork Orange droogs pretending to be Jedi, so I’ll at least give them points for stage presence and effort. I can’t tell if they’re siblings or lovers, but I guess that’s their whole shtick, and yet their drum machine, the third member of the of this two-car train wreck of try-hards, carried all the soul.

“You guys were amazing,” she says to them, getting a copy of their cassette tape, Read Me Digital Apathy, sold in packaging that might as well be stamped with, “media cassette, music, punk rock (mediocre).”

Okay, you know what. I’m going to drop it right now because I really want to write reviews just to spite Kevin’s Skanksterella one Saz texted me earlier.

“I’m getting wings. Want some?” I ask Saz, and while her hands are clutching the cellophane-wrapped plastic case, she’s staring elsewhere.

She shouts across the bound, a sound so loud that it overpowers my already hurt ears, “Gavriil, you suck!’

And there is he, my old neighbor from college, looking around for who yelled. His stupid pompadour that he cultivated back then and his patented denim jacket that remembers his sophomore year of high school. “Why do we care about Gavriil? Wait, who’s he with?” I ask, trying to spot the people who’re sitting with him. “Is that Lane? What he’s doing with her?”

“They’re dating,” Saz says.

“Holy shit,” I say, getting slightly dizzy. “Did… did you not tell me you two broke up?”

“Yeah,” she says. “I’m going to go say hi, want to come?”

I pull Saz into a tight hug, and she fights me off. It’s like trying to hold onto a feral cat.

“What’s with you?” Saz asks.

“I figured you needed it. I loved Lane. She’s awesome. That sucks.”

“Violet, don’t,” Saz says. “Look, I’ll just catch you up. Lane and I broke up. She’s dating Gavriil now. I accidentally saw Claude’s wife in lingerie, and oh my god, that woman is gorgeous, why is she with such a schlub? It’s like a sitcom over there and it makes no sense.” She balls her fists, before calming and continuing her downpour of events. “That sweet boy Feo finally came out as gay, and we celebrated at Throb, and Gav paid for all the drinks, so we’re cool now. Samantha’s boyfriend apparently got abducted by aliens Wednesday night and was found walking barefoot out near Osawa, but really, I think he relapsed again and just doesn’t want to admit it. My mom’s getting laid off, but everything’s fine, because I got my hoodie back.”

“Yeah, but I called you and you came over to help me,” I say, stumbling over my words. Damn drinking.

“Because you needed me to. You’re my best friend. I’m not going to leave you high and dry,” she says. “I just didn’t need you. Or you know, you could have just checked my Instagram.”

“Quit making me feel guilty.”

“Violet. It’s been a shitty week. But it’s Bourbon County. It’s like everywhere else, people have shit going on. You have your own shit, I have my own shit, it’s all ordinary. You’re good. But right now, I want to hear about the shit that went down last night at Lane’s dad’s. You can come and listen, or I’ll just tell you tomorrow morning. It’s whatevs.”

“Nah. I think I’ll eat my wings in peace,” I say.

She teases, “Is it because you have a thing for him? Please say it is so I can stir up some shit, get Lane to break up with him, and make him cry. It’ll be perfect.”

“Please don’t, his ego’s big enough as is. It’ll implode into a blackhole if he thinks two girls are fighting over him. And like, Gav and I already had a fling and it was bad.”

“No, you two didn’t,” Saz says, almost like she can dictate facts.

“Yeah, we tried to hook up after Riley left him. It was like the Gretch thing, except there were more tears. I thought I told you?”

“What Gretch thing?”

“You know, from high school?”

“No, I don’t,” she says.

“I’ll tell you later,” I say.

“Wait, is the Gretch thing from Becker’s party?

“No, and we don’t talk about Becker’s party, okay?” I shout as I walk away, all of five steps to get into line for food. I shudder at the mere mention of that night. I check my phone, it’s almost time for the kitchen to close. Almost time for me to put Josie to bed. I miss her.

I’d rather she stayed home, let that ruin my anniversary than let Mark ruin it. Or Daniel. Or I guess me, if I weren’t so unbearable. Or maybe it was unavoidable. Oh crap, I’m supposed to be here to not mope. I pull out my phone, the last message from Daniel. I think about sending him a reply, but nothing I write doesn’t sound bitchy. I let it be, shoving the phone back into my pocket and I order the wings.

The guy at the bar just rolls his eyes when I say what I want, me coming in right at the finishing line. See, sometimes I meet deadlines. Sorry I met his.

“Can I also get a gin and tonic?” I hand him my card, even though I could put it on Saz’s tab, but she’s spent enough on me. Money, time, attention. I should go home, but I want shitty bar wings first.

My phone buzzes in my pocket and I don’t even look at it when I swipe to answer, putting the mouth piece up to my face, shouting, “For fuck’s sake, you can’t just offer me lazy head and expect things to be okay.”

But it’s not Daniel. “Whoah, is this a bad time?” a voice comes on.

I blubber. “Yeah, shit. Sorry, Terry. Daniel’s bothering me. I threw him out last night, it’s not pretty. Or it’s tame, or ordinary, or I don’t know. Saz dragged me out to Geoffry’s to watch Sakke play, but I’m drunk and she just abandoned me. What’s up?”

“Violet, it can wait, sorry,” he says.

“For fuck’s sake, Terry. You only call me when shit’s fucked, so what’s fucked?”

“Well, can you go outside?” he says with a breaking tension in his voice.

“I’m waiting for wings and a fresh G and T. You better make it quick and loud.”

He grumbles, “Fine. WAGP isn’t just dropping us, they’re suing us. Apparently, Jacob didn’t read the contract, and I knew, I knew I shouldn’t have given him my power of attorney. But he signed us up for thirty-two episodes, not twenty-four. Unless we run a Kickstarter — ”

And I scream, hitting the hang up button on the screen. People around me stare me down as I slump into an empty stool. My drink pushed in front of me, right on time. I sip it, trying to drown the noise out around me. It’s packed, yeah, but when did it get like this? Who are all these people?

I need to get out of here.

We’re losing the show. It’s happening. Why’s it happening now? Didn’t I help find the lawyer to proof our contracts? Shit, it was me. I picked a bad lawyer. Bad at girlfriend, bad at friend, bad at picking legal representation. I’m just bad at everything, I guess.

And I’m losing it.

I really like it. It’s the weirdest, most stressful job I’ve ever had. And now, it’s gone. The only chance I get to be a better me, someone cool and funny and interesting. Instead of a boring pain in the ass.

The wings are slid my way. I angrily tear through a few, my face and hands a mess but no. I can’t eat. I shove the plate away. I think about going over to Saz, where she’s gabbing at Feo, Gavriil, Lane and some pudgy kid. And I think about picking out the bones I gnawed on, throwing them the plate and telling them that I’m leaving.

But the kid, the one I don’t recognize. He’s wearing one of our shirts, faded from being thrown in the washer and dryer too many times. And if I go over there and even think about explaining what’s going on, he’ll know. It’ll go on Twitter, and Terry will be pissed that I went and opened my mouth. I should, because it’s what he expects.

I don’t, though. I shove the stool, shove people out of the way. I’m not short, but they’re looming over me. Breath hot and stinky, sweat-humid and loud. Chattering, babbling. When the hell is Skanksterella going up? Has Sakke not found Gretch? Is that what he’s waiting on?

This can’t be happening. I can’t get out of this cornfield mess of bodies, whoever the fuck they are. Why are there so many of them? Finally, I’m outside, the sharp cold prickling my face and hands. My knees hit the gravel. It starts raining, or was it raining when I had my last cigarette? I don’t remember. I’m fishing for them but I’m also fishing for a way out. If I can get around the corner, go across the street to my car, I can maybe drive. No, I can’t. I’m drunk. I don’t drive drunk. I drive like shit when I’m sober.

But there’s no way out, not right now, and I keep looking in circles.

And I’m walking, also, stumbling though.

And I manage around the corner, and bump into someone. She’s crying. It’s Gretchen. Glossy and stringy from the rain, but her hair is unmistakable. That or her beak of a nose. Either way, it’s her, the dress she’s wearing matching the color and style of the rest of the bands’ suits.

“Shit, sorry,” I say, spooked. Is it the rain or am I crying too?

She sniffs. Her eyes are wild, probably as wild as mine. “I can’t go in there. I’m sorry, I can’t play tonight. I thought I could but,” she starts to say.

I grab her, hugging her. It felt like the right thing to do. She needed it. I needed it. But soon I’m crying, and she’s still in tears, and we’re both crying like two idiots in the rain. Finally, I say, “I’m getting out of here. You’ll be fine. Tell Sakke I’m sorry. But he’ll know tomorrow, I guess. I’m gonna walk to Ham’s or whatever, and wait for an Uber or sobriety to come.”

“I can’t. I’m sorry,” she says. “Can I come with you?”

“I want a mystery meat and three,” I say. “And maybe a nice cry. And if you want to join, sure.”

“Yeah, that sounds nice,” she says, solemnly.

Sunday

Terry never specified that I couldn’t do the commentary hung over. I’m sitting in my office, cross-legged, in pajamas, voice hoarse. I smoked too much. The whole house reeks of cigarettes. I don’t think opening up the windows would stop Josie from calling me out for picking up the habit again. I’m talking into the microphone, and I’m holding my head in my hands. The episode plays quietly on the monitor. There I am, talking to the puppet, smiling and laughing, genuinely.

I’m explaining everything that has happened and probably won’t, not anymore. Here in this scene we wanted to get a tour of a train station, but they thought we were tramps trying to climb aboard and ride a boxcar to a new future. Don’t know where got that idea, other than Sakke holding a puppet and me in the patchwork pantsuit I was wearing.

In another scene, I’m holding back a laugh because the cameraman has a dick drawn on his forehead, a prank from the crew after he passed out the night before. But he didn’t bother washing it off at all and I kept breaking. There’s another scene where Terry’s stressing about a YouTube convention we signed up for, and there’d be other YouTube celebrities, people who’re known for being consistently funny. We were only ironically funny, and I was fuming because he didn’t get it.

I mean, my daughter doesn’t even watch the show. That should tell us something.

I leave this on the track for the episode.

The commentary also picks up me talking about how shitty everything is and that I kind of miss Daniel, but I don’t. And here’s ten million reasons for either. Examples: It’s Sunday and the house doesn’t smell like bacon. That it doesn’t smell like pinesol because we aren’t cleaning the house together. That it doesn’t smell like grape-scented toxic waste from his vape while he plays Xbox and I’m doing dramatic reading of the bad poetry we’re forced to put on the show.

It’ll be a few hours until Josie’s home, but until then, the house is quiet.

But it’s not alone, as Gretch saunters in quietly. Cat like in that I didn’t even know she was still here until she’s placing a cup of coffee down in front of me. It’s steaming, fresh, strong. She puts her hand on my shoulder, and I reach my hand to touch it, but I lean my head against her arm.

I’m trying not to cry. In a way, what’s going on this commentary, they’re good thoughts. Things I don’t want to let go, but saying them into the mic isn’t giving them up, it’s setting them free. I feel this terrible because of how warm and fuzzy it all made me feel.

I liked talking to her at the diner last night. No mention of Daniel either, so I didn’t get to hear any stupid advice or schemes to get us back to together. Just her and her problems, as ordinary as my own. Same as Saz’s, same as anyone in Ashgrove or the county altogether.

I straighten my head up, even though it’s throbbing.

“Alright, I’m done being a bummer. So after this scene, Mopsy and I had a long conversation that made the Director very, very upset,” I say. I pull the microphone closer, my voice shifting tones. “He doesn’t want the truth out there. But it’s already well established that Tom Cruise is on DMT 24/7, but do you want to who else is? Buckle up, kids, it’s going to get wild.”