CHAPTER 2
THE BURNOUT
About
Carol.
He
thought there had been something wrong with them for some time. She had been getting more and more detached
and...I dunno, automated...at functions [they went to.]
He
blamed it on the pace. The old gang
partied hearty. Long-ball was the word among the guys. [One had to last, y'unnerstand.]
Carol
had never been long-ball, but she had kept up all right. For a girl, they said.
Texas
leaguers and slash bunts had kept her in the game
--that,
and the fact she was a beauty.
But
that didn't work the way one might expect:
[At
heart she was not a partier.]
The
girl deserved a cup, she was so good looking.
Sometimes,
near the end of a night,
when
the energy finally backed-off to a bubbling overheated idle, he would sit still
and look at her face. He'd watch her
crashed on the sofa drenched in the silver shimmer of their old color TV gone
back to black and white. Or, curled up
in a cozy armchair before a dying fire at a ski lodge, he'd catch her in
amber.
At
a stop light
on
the way home
from
a typical Saturday nite/Sunday morn, he'd absorb the quiescent
symmetry
and grace
of
her idyllic face sweetly tinged in the red glow. Poised on the status streets,
he'd
get into it: red, yellow, green, as the colors vied
to
give the best tint to the dream.
[Red
again.]
He'd
miss the light.
As
she faded at the end of these long and reckless nights, he often wondered
what
she'd be doing if she wasn't so pretty.
If she wasn't stuck with the idea
(and
concurrent fear?) that people only liked her for her looks.
'Cause
she did keep up with the boys.
"Pound
for pound, she buries us," he always said.
She
was always accepted. Everywhere. The guess had to be that ninety per cent of
it was due to her looks. That's why she
played so hard in his league. She hit at
the other ten per cent here. And
everyone in the gang liked her
without regard for her face…’cause she could party. She had made friends in his clique.
He
figured it was because she tried hard to add to the action, not just witness it
[like a lump.]
In
a public bar once she did a strip-tease that kept the place from closing on
time.
When
the cops came, ten guys formed a wall for her to get dressed behind. Another time she took half her paycheck--she
wrote copy for "the largest ad agency N. of wacky Wacker”
--and
blew it on Butkusberg Champagne, which'll give you a high and a head you won't
soon forget. The wild and crazy gang
countered with coke and, later, after hours of sweaty dancing,
a
great steak, totally lascivious and loud, at the Blackhawk.
(Where
they use table cloth.)
"Did
I have fun?" she asked him the following morning.
"Nah.
You were too cold with your clothes off."
He
died. Laughing. At the look on her face.
It
was a cluster of camaraderie. Nobody
cared, nobody stared.
[They
were used to her. ]
And
she wasn't stiff with the other ladies either (who mostly came and went in
those bawdy days.) It all fit just fine.
She'd hang with the girls all right.
They'd have lunch. Go
shopping. They'd meet for a drink after
work sometimes before joining the guys.
But
even the best and the beautiful have dissatisfactions within.
And
Willie finally deduced, too late, that it was a somewhat negative
Self-evaluation
that compelled her to stay. And
play. He probably didn't
want
to think about it much because, back of the laughter, he knew
(must've)
that it had to stop sometime. Ten more
years of this action and
they'd
all be either dead or haggard. But,
heck, that was ten years from now,
right?
So
when the crunch finally did come--when she got cured--he was ready for it.
It
was the waste of time,
right?
She
either grew up or got ambition. Or both.
Maybe
all three.
The
change came shortly after somebody hired her to get her picture taken.
That
gave her easy pocket money. More
importantly, it propelled her into
a
new world
where
everyone
was
beautiful.
Oh...?
It
didn't happen overnight, but in the next few weeks she began to cool out.
She
had to do certain things for the photographers--for the light.
Like
sleep eight hours, eat some vegetables, and not get hung-over.
No
big deal.
He
was glad for her.
But
he missed her a couple of times.
And
he began to have doubts, for sure, about it all.
Now
she had to do certain things for the photographer--for the job.
Now
she had to attend some function or another--for her agent.
She
was meeting people. Not all male models
are gay.
Perhaps
zero photographers are. But he kind of
thought she'd be back because that world was so "superficial."
She
didn't rave about it. She described it
as, she said it felt like,
[moonlighting.]
A
few extra bucks. So it demanded a little
discipline. It's a temp
assignment.
Not
a new career. She's still a
copywriter. It buys CDs is all.
A
new iPhone.
She'll
get tired of the pretense.
[It'll
burn out.]
Only
it didn't.
They
did.
---o---
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