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[Mad] "Tell Me On a Sunday"
Feb. 7th, 2009 03:49 pmDon't write a letter when you want to leave.
Don't call me at 3 A.M. from a friend's apartment.
I'd like to choose how I hear the news.
Take me to a park that's covered with trees.
Tell me on a Sunday please.
That was Mark. I was nineteen. He was thirty-five, my acting teacher at the university and married, but of course "leaving his wife" any day now. She didn't understand him the way I did. Yes, I bought it. I was nineteen for God's sake, and he was brilliant. He'd done several films and performed on Broadway and was taking a hiatus to be a guest instructor and just to get into his class we had to audition, and I was the only sophomore to make it in, so. There were nights spent talking about theatre and scripts and interpretations and art and life and what it all meant, to be an actor, to take on these roles, to fill the shoes of someone else, to take on another persona and live it and reach out and touch the hearts of the audience, to give them that gift. There was wine. There were tickets to shows that I'd never seen--not the bit ones, but small, intimate ones that were real art, he said, breathtaking and shocking. We'd make love after, and it was how I'd always thought it should be. But then his wife found out and actually threatened to leave him, and, well, he'd never intended to leave her, of course, no matter what he told me, and God forbid she leave him. I got the phone call, with him drunk, sobbing about how she'd kicked him out, and when I suggested this was a good thing, he started yelling at me and hung up. Over Christmas I got a letter, telling me how sweet and talented I was "but"...and when I got back from break, well, he was nowhere to be found, his classes canceled. And I grew up a bit, I guess.
Let me down easy, no big song and dance.
No long faces, no long looks, no deep conversation.
I know the way we should spend the day.
Take me to a zoo that's got chimpanzees.
Tell me on a Sunday please.
That was Scott. He was a poet, and very good at certain things that a girl looks for in a casual sort of relationship. I was in the middle of opening The Importance of Being Earnest, and it was big, really big. Off-Broadway, but I was playing Cecily and it was a major theatre, and Scott was just, well, stress relief. I mean, he was nice. And he was handsome. And he was, as I said...talented. Not with poetry. But he thought he was in love with me or something, at least for a while, and that I was his muse. And then he met Erica, who was eighteen and thought his poetry was as brilliant as his other skills and he thought she made a better muse, which, really, I was okay with. But he had to draw it out. There were tears. And lots of wine. And hours of conversation. And poems. And letters. And then when we'd run in to each other in the street for months later, he'd sigh and reach for my hand and call himself a cad and ask how I was and what I was doing was, well, the actor playing Algernon who was even more talented both on and off stage, so. That was awkward.
Don't want to know who's to blame,
it won't help knowing.
Don't want to fight day and night
bad enough you're going.
Don't leave in silence with no words at all.
Don't get drunk and slam the door,
that's no way to end this,
I know how I want you to say goodbye.
Find a circus ring with a flying trapeze.
Tell me on a Sunday please.
That was Eric. Which was clearly a mistake from the start. For one, I mean, after what he did in Ireland to Keelia, I shouldn't have gone near him. For another, he had been Keelia's fiance. For another, Mama's been tossing me at his head since I was ten, so the sheer pressure on both of us was going to be phenomenal. But...once Keelia explained everything and I knew what happened wasn't really all his fault...I just had to see him, at least. To see if he was okay. And he wasn't. He was wrecked with horror, with guilt, with disbelief. Everything that witch did to him, he knew. There wasn't any denial left for any of us, you know? And what do you do when the stories leap to life off the pages, and not just the princes on their white horses but the evil queens and their wicked spells, and leave your life destroyed? How do you pick up the pieces after? I mean, yeah, that's the whole premise of Act II of Into the Woods, but even that's just a story. This is real life. And he was my friend. And one thing led to another, and Keelia said it was fine, but it was stupid. I was a constant reminder of what happened, not a balm, and things got...bad, but I stayed because after what he'd been through, what I'd been through, who else would understand, you know? We should have ended it long before we did. And in a far better way. It didn't have to be that way. I still worry about him, still wonder. There are some things that don't ever heal right, and no one to talk to except those of us who were there, and now he doesn't have anyone. But the way it ended...we can't go back, and I wish it had been different. That we'd ended it as friends, like we'd always been, all our lives. Then I could have still been there, he'd still have someone.
And so would I.
Don't call me at 3 A.M. from a friend's apartment.
I'd like to choose how I hear the news.
Take me to a park that's covered with trees.
Tell me on a Sunday please.
That was Mark. I was nineteen. He was thirty-five, my acting teacher at the university and married, but of course "leaving his wife" any day now. She didn't understand him the way I did. Yes, I bought it. I was nineteen for God's sake, and he was brilliant. He'd done several films and performed on Broadway and was taking a hiatus to be a guest instructor and just to get into his class we had to audition, and I was the only sophomore to make it in, so. There were nights spent talking about theatre and scripts and interpretations and art and life and what it all meant, to be an actor, to take on these roles, to fill the shoes of someone else, to take on another persona and live it and reach out and touch the hearts of the audience, to give them that gift. There was wine. There were tickets to shows that I'd never seen--not the bit ones, but small, intimate ones that were real art, he said, breathtaking and shocking. We'd make love after, and it was how I'd always thought it should be. But then his wife found out and actually threatened to leave him, and, well, he'd never intended to leave her, of course, no matter what he told me, and God forbid she leave him. I got the phone call, with him drunk, sobbing about how she'd kicked him out, and when I suggested this was a good thing, he started yelling at me and hung up. Over Christmas I got a letter, telling me how sweet and talented I was "but"...and when I got back from break, well, he was nowhere to be found, his classes canceled. And I grew up a bit, I guess.
Let me down easy, no big song and dance.
No long faces, no long looks, no deep conversation.
I know the way we should spend the day.
Take me to a zoo that's got chimpanzees.
Tell me on a Sunday please.
That was Scott. He was a poet, and very good at certain things that a girl looks for in a casual sort of relationship. I was in the middle of opening The Importance of Being Earnest, and it was big, really big. Off-Broadway, but I was playing Cecily and it was a major theatre, and Scott was just, well, stress relief. I mean, he was nice. And he was handsome. And he was, as I said...talented. Not with poetry. But he thought he was in love with me or something, at least for a while, and that I was his muse. And then he met Erica, who was eighteen and thought his poetry was as brilliant as his other skills and he thought she made a better muse, which, really, I was okay with. But he had to draw it out. There were tears. And lots of wine. And hours of conversation. And poems. And letters. And then when we'd run in to each other in the street for months later, he'd sigh and reach for my hand and call himself a cad and ask how I was and what I was doing was, well, the actor playing Algernon who was even more talented both on and off stage, so. That was awkward.
Don't want to know who's to blame,
it won't help knowing.
Don't want to fight day and night
bad enough you're going.
Don't leave in silence with no words at all.
Don't get drunk and slam the door,
that's no way to end this,
I know how I want you to say goodbye.
Find a circus ring with a flying trapeze.
Tell me on a Sunday please.
That was Eric. Which was clearly a mistake from the start. For one, I mean, after what he did in Ireland to Keelia, I shouldn't have gone near him. For another, he had been Keelia's fiance. For another, Mama's been tossing me at his head since I was ten, so the sheer pressure on both of us was going to be phenomenal. But...once Keelia explained everything and I knew what happened wasn't really all his fault...I just had to see him, at least. To see if he was okay. And he wasn't. He was wrecked with horror, with guilt, with disbelief. Everything that witch did to him, he knew. There wasn't any denial left for any of us, you know? And what do you do when the stories leap to life off the pages, and not just the princes on their white horses but the evil queens and their wicked spells, and leave your life destroyed? How do you pick up the pieces after? I mean, yeah, that's the whole premise of Act II of Into the Woods, but even that's just a story. This is real life. And he was my friend. And one thing led to another, and Keelia said it was fine, but it was stupid. I was a constant reminder of what happened, not a balm, and things got...bad, but I stayed because after what he'd been through, what I'd been through, who else would understand, you know? We should have ended it long before we did. And in a far better way. It didn't have to be that way. I still worry about him, still wonder. There are some things that don't ever heal right, and no one to talk to except those of us who were there, and now he doesn't have anyone. But the way it ended...we can't go back, and I wish it had been different. That we'd ended it as friends, like we'd always been, all our lives. Then I could have still been there, he'd still have someone.
And so would I.
