186.
Monday, February 14: Valentine's Day in Oakhurst. The day-if my idiotic idea had played out as planned-that Cherri and I would have-what...made love, fucked?-for the first time. Instead-and this had been Cherri's welcome variation on the theme-we'd had a little less than a month to get to know one another, on stage and off, in bed and out, and-by the way-to fall in love.
Which did take some of the pressure off of Valentine's Day. The previous evening, I'd come to Cherri's apartment at 4:15 for what turned into a little pre-show oral sex. Of course we'd been a little rushed and consequently a little hysterical, inclined to crack each other up in between bouts of cooing and sighing, and licking and sucking. The fact was that we were still getting to know each other, and that process was as exciting and unexpected and funny and moving as it had always been. (Is there anything as interesting to people as other people, especially to actors, who spend their professional lives pretending to be other people?) But we'd also somehow managed to establish a baseline of comfort and affection and trust. We'd started as co-workers, become lovers, and wound up as friends in love, which was maybe a weird trajectory, but, hey, if it ain't broke....
We crashed after the show on Sunday. Tech into previews into opening is always a long week, but Valentine's Day would be a Monday, which meant it was all ours. And we spent the first ten and a half hours of it sleeping. But we were up and showered and headed out to brunch by 11.30. The Red Baron again. At least they held over their weekend brunch menu, although as Cherri noted balefully: "French toast, but no waffles."
I looked at her over the top of the menu. "For our first anniversary, you're getting a waffle iron."
"Hmm. Okay, on the one hand, I'm bubbling over with girlish excitement at the prospect of being with you long enough to have a first anniversary. On the other hand, I'm not sure you're gonna make it to our first anniversary if you're delusional enough to think I don't already have a waffle iron."
"Okay, on the one hand, somebody is in serious need of coffee. And on the other hand, of course you've got a fucking waffle iron. For our first anniversary, you're getting another one, because I don't want to deal with your shit, if the first one ever breaks down!"
She grinned at me. "Not bad."
I grinned back. "Thanks, but I still think we need to get some coffee into you."
She reached across the table and took my hand: "I'm just grumpy because I didn't get laid last night. And because I still haven't heard about what you were doing on that porn set!"
"Jesus, woman, could you keep it down?" The place wasn't exactly mobbed, but it also wasn't empty. Cherri's grin widened. She waved to a heavyset older man at a nearby table, who'd looked up at the sound of her voice.
"Oh, hello, Mr. Swenson! Coming to see me in
Macbeth
?"
He waved back, smiling, so maybe he hadn't heard the previous question. "Wouldn't miss it, Sweetie! I'll be there Thursday."
I asked: "Who's he?"
"English teacher at the high school. I think they're reading the play, like right now, which is one of the reasons Cynthia chose it. Now, what were you doing..."
"You're gonna be disappointed..."
"Try me."
"I was holding a boom mike."
She blinked. "Wait, really?"
"Yeah. Guy I went to grad school with was working for this freelance production company, and their boom guy got hurt skateboarding or something, and he called and asked did I want to make...I don't know, maybe it was $300 for a couple nights' work, and I did, so I spent a couple nights in some kind of corporate rental unit in Queens holding a mike over a bed while various couples fucked on it."
"Jesus."
"Told you."
Cherri looked perplexed. "Was it interesting, or sexy at least?"
"Maybe a little, at the beginning, but...I mean this was not high end movie making. I suppose it was clean enough. They kept changing the sheets, but the place really stank."
"Ew, seriously?"
"Well, yeah. Between the bodies and their various fluids, and this one guy was wearing some...I don't know, cologne or something that just made your eyeballs bleed. It was like he took a bath in it."
"Oh, gross!"
"Yeah, and they kept spraying this disinfectant around, so the whole place smelled like a public toilet somebody had recently...disinfected."
At this point, the waitress brought our brunch: veggie omelet for Cherri and Eggs Benedict for me. When she'd gone, I said: "Bon appetit."
Cherri glared at me. I grinned. "Shall I tell you the rest later."
"Is there any 'rest?'"
"Not really." I lowered my voice. "This one 'actress' with huge fake boobs just lay on her back and said 'Fuck that pussy, fuck that pussy...' over and over again like some narcoleptic zombie..."
"So I'll do that tonight, shall I?" Cherri was grinning again, and we were both almost whispering.
"If you want to watch my dick shrivel up like a stack of dimes."
"Shrivel up like...yeah, I don't think that means what you think it means."
"Um...I'm pretty sure I heard it somewhere, but you're right, it doesn't really convey..."
"Sorry to interrupt..."
Deep voice, coming from over Cherri's left shoulder. Scared the living bejeezus out of both of us!
187.
It felt like I'd jumped a foot; figured I was lucky not to be wearing the hollandaise. Then I wondered if we weren't about to be reprimanded, ejected or arrested for public indecency. The town of Oakhurst had an artsy element, but still: small town America. So, once my pulse rate came down from fight-or-flight, I looked up into the face of the guy who'd just taken a year off my life.
My age, plus or minus. Tall and quite handsome, with sandy hair and a full beard. Wiry build-you didn't expect that deep baritone to come out of such a ropey body-and he was laughing.
"I'm so sorry to startle you, but I just had to come and pay my respects. Meg?" He called back to a woman just getting up from a table across the room. "Look who we have here!"
Now everybody in the restaurant was staring, first at this handsome stick figure, and then at his equally striking partner. Meg looked like a midwestern prom queen: long, willowy body, ash blonde hair, and cheekbones that could slice fruit. As she made her way over to our table, he just kept talking.
"You were the Macbeths, weren't you? My name is Graham Partners, and this is my wife, Meg. Meg was an actress for a while, and now she teaches at an independent school in Cincinnati. That's where we're from. We see a lot of theater, I mean, a lot! Cincy Shakes, Playhouse in the Park, Actors Theatre of Louisville, uh...we've been down to Alabama Shakes, and of course we get to New York..."
"Best
Macbeth
I've ever seen," said Meg, who'd just arrived, and whose voice contained at least a trace of Tennessee or Arkansas, "hands down."
