"You, bartender, slide me another shot. Don't bother making it pretty this time…roofie it if you pity me," I mumble slamming down the tiny glass that has nothing but drops of the venomous liquor that has done but nettle up my throat.
"Um, another Jo-" the kid doesn't even bother; the glare I'm sending down his alley is enough of an answer. Fucking dumbass. I've been sitting here with him for the past four drinks and he just likes to get barked at or something. He serves up and meekly says, "Drinks up."
"Here's looking at you, kid…" I don't know, it sounded classy it enough. All I need is a black dude on a keyboard or piano to mumble that other line to.
"There you are!" I quirk an eyebrow, not even bothering a side glance. I got eyes in the back of my head. Woo here I am, "Mar, I know you can hear me. Baby girl…ey…Karime!" it's none other than the wonderful, Wesley! Yeah, he's going to keep this shouting of an array of names until I respond or kill him, "Marleene fucking listen to me!" it's a strategy that works like ninety-nine percent of the time, "Hazme pinche caso, cabrona!"
"What?" I reply with a bite at the end of it, not literally but it has the same effect.
He sighs and leans over the counter, closer in my proximity, "You got to get a handle on yourself because whether you like it or not, you're going on that stage. Now, tell me what in the fuck you're going to for, like, five or seven minutes? You have half an hour but, with all your moping, you have twenty one minutes."
Great, like you needed to know how much more fucked you are. Sliding off the stool, I brace myself against the bar top. Any ounce of muscle and fat, I've accumulated throughout the years is now but pounds of gelatin. Whatever though, that doesn't deter me from stomping off, or attempting, toward the backstage area where entertainers psyche themselves in order to perform for audiences who haven't an idea as to how much it is to be one.
Wes slaps down a modest tip to cover the abuse the young bartender has endured at the hands of my own temperamental self, and scurries to catch up to me before I topple over, "And you said you didn't need a babysitter…" he huffs, snaking an arm around me to keep me upright and avoid the stinging glare sent his way, "What's your grand scheme?"
"If I didn't know two seconds ago, what in the blue hell make you think I know now?" I boom, I think the hertz or frequency or whatever is enough to deafen a person. If it isn't, it's a least sound enough to silence the clamor of these drinking and mingling idiots.
Awkwardly smiling, Wes drags me away – reprimanding every step of it. I think the end isn't in sight, "And you said you didn't need a babysitter…" he goes on and on. My old man never really had the lungs to lecture me but boy, Wes has a set on him, "And you're zoning me out…"
"Pretty much."
"That's it, you're singing that one song you made me learn on the guitar. I don't wanna hear anymore of your dramatic jazz. I told you, 'We can turn back' but no! So, we're here and this is you're damn fault. Deal with it."
ΔΔΔΔ
From a bird's eye view, the backstage crew would look like a pack of hyperactive, scurrying house mice. Stagehands prepared to drop dead if given a second. Everyone's a busybody back here. I can only imagine how it is when the place hosts bigger acts. Not that Jennifer isn't big, she is. Her voice is vociferously beautiful but the amount of techs toning her down her vibrato, caterers picking olives from plates, stylist sweating over her undone touch ups – it's just, wow.
"See those guys?" ask Wesley, pointing out a clique of band mates wearing the generic white shirt and bow tie attire pretending not to mull over the fact that they weren't chosen to play and wondering when they'll be homeward bound, "A select few will have the honor of being your band tonight," he says casually and takes initiative and goes over to them.
A caterer passes me by but I pull him back, "Find anything that's strong enough to knock me out into next Sunday, dump it in a water bottle, and you'll earn yourself a very generous tip."
"Anybody know of a Amy Winehouse?" I overhear and the caterer slides off, "Come on, your girlfriends probably play her shit!" this time around a handful raise their hands cautiously, "Appreciating the honesty…so, how 'bout track five?" Tracking back, I'm missing that album. No wonder he knows, "Good, good. It was easy to get but I need a drum, trumpet, and appreciate a sax."
It's all crickets until a brave lad stands up, "Um, I could take a fair shot at the sax," he's a brother from overseas, nice.
"I'll lay down the beat, how hard can it be?" jumps another kid; he probably isn't even old enough to drink out of a sippy cup yet.
Clapping his hands together, Wes smiles proudly, "Anybody got an acoustic that I can use?"
Immediately, a case, that has seen plentiful days in its existence, slides close to his feet. The owner, an older gentleman, says, "Her name's Betsy, she looks but ain't a cheap ride. I expect her to stay in mint condition,"
Wes nods and turns back to me with the grandest shit eating smirk – I wouldn't be surprised if the corners ripped, "You gonna just bum it or actually warm up the chords?"
ΔΔΔΔ
The last notes of the single sax player fade out eliciting a thunderous applause and standing ovation for the woman, who tonight, belted her heart out without missing a note. I peek through a crevice in the curtains at how she soaks up the praise like a sponge almost and then the moment's over, like that. Ms. Hudson dismisses herself with another humbled curtsy and turns to give thanks to her band.
"I am so fucked!" I shriek, holding myself upright by only the support of the velvet curtains, "I can't…I…I can't do…this!" I hyperventilate.
"Too late," chuckles Wesley. That bastard would be entertained by this.
"Too late?" bellow as though the world is crumbling before me, "That, my friend, is of no fucking help!" I begin to pace.
"Um, hey there, sweetheart. You gonna be alright there?" it's her, Jennifer fucking Hudson. I stop dead in my tracks, not able to move an inch, "You murder somebody or find out you're knocked up?" she inquires and I manage to mumble that I have stage fright to which she laughs to, all in good nature…I pray, "Honey, if you got a voice, they're ain't nothin' to be afraid of. Listen," she grabs my shoulders to keep me immobile, "Imagine you're serenading your hubby or better yet, imagine the crowd is in their skivvies!"
A pat on the shoulder as thought she'd transfer confidence to me and she's off shaking hands, smiling, and whatnot. I turn to Wes who's fully engrossed by the size of her hind side. It's going to be a night of nights, kid.
"Where's Belen?" shrieks a strung out, uptight looking man, "Where is she?" he shrieks an octave higher.
Belen's the girl I'm replacing, right? Sure? I raise my hand in the air, "Yo, I'm standing in for her!"
Dramatically, the man gasps and clutches his chest. I mean no disrespect but this guy is definitely on the other side of the road, if you're catching my drift. Sometimes, guys like these make the stereotype all the more true, or well prove it.
"Where is she?" he inquires as if I knew. Shit, I don't even know anybody with that name. It's the name of the place where baby Jesus was born, right? I shrug, "Who…who are you?" he asks, there's a hint of disgust in his tone like he's savored some ungodly wine, "Is that what you're wearing?" he piles on.
Frowning, "Look, I've had a shit ass day. Save me and you the prima donna act for some other day, yeah? My name is Marleene Soto, I know…what a pleasure. To answer your last question, yes I am."
His beady, blue eyes narrow, "Okay, Marleene, what will you be doing tonight?"
"Singing you fucks a song."
Another distasteful glare and he's through the curtains warming up the crowd and it dawns on me…this is my turn. Many dream of the spotlight, even if it's far from sparkles and silver platters. Me, I like to remain in the background…observing.
Spinning on my heel, I scour the room for Bossman only to find him fraternizing with my makeshift band. Stagehands, never in one place, haul ass to set up the drum kit just behind the curtain. I can hear how Mr. Flamboyance has the crown hooting and hollering. I can't even remember the lyrics; I can barely remember my name!
"…and filling in for Ms. Hudson, the ever lovely, Marleene Soto! Give her a warm round of applause!" Shit…
Parting the curtains, I shuffle through. Shit, shit, holy fucking shit! The crowd is even more intimidating than when I was on ground level with them. They remind me of all the assholes that picked on me as a kid and all throughout the time I've been roaming the land. All of those curiosity ignited eyes stare on waiting, waiting, waiting for the unexpected to happen. Not everyone is evil, kid.
"She will be serenading you tonight," announces the squeaky voiced man and basically shoves the mic into my left tit. Asshole.
This is the part where I'll say that I threw up chunks or pissed myself but to be honest, I just stand here. The audience makes a spectacle of me almost as if I'm some kind of prototype at an art exhibit – the human body is a work of art so bad analogy.
"Um…hello. I'm Marleene and um…fuck, fuck…" fuck! I am so not ever going to do this, "I'm really nervous," I manage. I got the whole awkward chuckle going on and the peeps eat it up. It's like a personal pat on the back for support, "I'm going to sing a special song, yes…special," very special, "It's dedicated to someone I hurt. I think, um, I think we can all relate. Enjoy?"
Glancing back, my makeshift bad is locked and loaded. They wait for my call and I receive a wink from Bossman. He even lip sings the first couple of lyrics to me and I feel like I can go…I mean, I kinda have to.
If I do or don't hit the notes, if I fail, if I succeed – here goes nothing…
ΔΔΔΔ
I couldn't resist him
His eyes were just like yours
Those eyes, those familiar yet so foreign olive green eyes stare back at me. They don't stare, they're so glazed – might as well be blind. They're so closely connected to the same eyes that enticed me to the point of paralyzing every inch of nerve in my body.
His hands work away at unbuttoning, if you can even call it that, my favorite flannel. I don't move, I'm so captivated by those eyes…or searching for something in them, I guess…
His hair was exactly the shade of brown
He's just not as tall, but I couldn't tell
It was dark and I was lying down
Lips travel from my newly unclothed navel, through the valley between my breasts, and back up to capture my lips. I feel myself tinted with disappointment and relief that I don't have to stand on my tippy toes.
Crafty, cold fingers sneak into my panties and I nearly lose my sanity. I wanna pull his hair for this but there's barely anything to deem as hair. I look back into his eyes and though they might not paralyze but this makes me buckle at the knees and finally fall back into the unmade bed.
You are everything - he means nothing to me
I can't even remember his name
Forget waiting, fuck that. I kick off the remainder of my pants and panties and lead his hands where I want them. This burning sensation, this butterfly garden is unbearable.
He chuckles against my neck but complies. One finger, two finger. He's muttering obscenities, trying to lace them into soliloquies and sonnets, into my ears but I can't understand. I can't comprehend…I don't want to. I don't want to hear…I want to feel.
My hips rise and buck like they're being electrocuted against his hand that continues to pleasure me relentlessly. It's there, my orgasm. Growing and growing…and he stops, "Say me name," he commands.
For the life of me, I can't even…My body instinctively keeps on bucking. The fireball is wearing out, "Please?"
He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, "Say my name."
It's on the tip of my own tongue but then so far off. Saying it would ruin all of this. It'd be betrayal.
Why are you so upset?
Baby, you weren't there and I was thinking of you when I came.
Every airy groan against my ear, every sloppy kiss on my neck, every sensual touch on my skin, every swipe at my clit brings me closer and closer to the end. My brain is in survival mode. No more thinking just going with the flow.
My fingers tighten around the sheets, it's coming. My legs wind themselves tighter around his toned body bringing him closer into my web. His thrusts are swift from the sweat that gleams off out bodies.
It's here, my nails raking across his back announce it, "Oh Punk…" I moan ever so quietly with my eyes closed tighter as they always do when I'm coming down.
"Punk?"
What do you expect?
You left me here alone…
His sandpaper like thumb wipes away the tears that dare stain my cheeks. Much as I blink, they won't disappear. In fact, they multiply and crystallize. I don't know what hurts, what's killing me more, his anguished eyes or the fact that his happiness is being spoiled by me.
"I have to go," he murmurs. Spectators on the Greyhound pester us. He's the last one.
"Tell me and I'll board that bus too," I reply wistfully. I know the answer but I'm a full glass kind of cat.
He embraces me, digs his fingers into my bird's nest of hair, "You know I can't do that, doll," all I catch is him wanting to leave, leave without me. I'd probably be too much baggage – I am too much baggage.
"We can…we can make it," I mumble against his chest. His heartbeat, the sound I most adore, will be something to yearn for, "I'll learn to cook, to clean…I'll be everything! Don't leave me here alone," I'm needy, I know. This is what abandonment has done to me.
Clasping his hands on my shoulders, he looks deep into my eyes, "I am not leaving you, don't you ever think that. I'm heading out to catch a dream and believe me, doll, I'm coming back for you. You ain't escaping me. I just need to do this on my own. I need you to finish school. After all of that, don't bother learning to anything. We can be fatasses and order out every day and get maid service," he manages a somber smile but it doesn't make it to his eyes.
This is really it. This is the point where I let him fly because if I keep him, he'll resent me. I wipe my eyes, "If I make you stay, you'll resent me…won't you?" he stares down at his beat up shoes because we both know I'm stalling, "Go. Go catch dreams, save them. Just…just promise there won't be anybody else," my lips tremble, "I love you and I hope that's enough for you. I…I know we haven't…"
His lips crash onto mine. It's a forceful one, wrapped in need and longing. This kiss is like a lifeline. I take squeeze it for what it's worth, this'll be the last time I feel their softness in a long time. His hands caress my face like it's made of porcelain, "I love you, you got that? I love you. I don't care what we haven't or have done. Girls come and go, you've stayed. You know me like an encyclopedia. I love you," forehead to forehead, "Don't stop your life just sitting around waiting for me. Live life like you want to. Just make sure to save a spot for this fool, okay?"
"I love you."
Some time after, I lost track of time, I'm still here in the pouring rain. Still here on the plank where he loved me, hugged me, left me. That bus is now but a memory, a ghost. I hold onto his words like they're in the bible.
I drank so much and needed to touch.
"Come on, sexy, fork up the bottle. You're nearing the danger zone, Mar, come on," he insists but I slap his advancing hands away, "Come on!"
"Let me be," I slur. This is like the nectar of life. I wish the guy at the liquor store a lifetime worth of sacking, he deserves it.
Groaning, he scoots closer to me, "You're going to throw up you intestines."
Who cares? If I die, they could use my body for parts. Tune up somebody with a new kidney, restart somebody with my heart, anything but my unsalvageable liver. Poor thing, my liver, it's far beyond repair. I'm far beyond repair come to think of it.
How can I put it so you understand?
I didn't let him hold my hand.
Fifteen minutes later and he's still chastising me like I'm five. His voice is painful to listen to. It doesn't have the same ring it does; maybe I'm not trashed enough. I mean, my vision is way off twenty-twenty. He's a blob or a motion blur.
Clapping a hand over his mouth, "Hush up," I remove it and kiss him sloppily. The boy tries to ply me off but I keep on. I always get what I want or in this case, my drunken brain has a way with things, "Let's go up."
Nodding in agreement, he tries to take my hand but I pull away and allow him the courtesy of snaking a hand around my waist for support. My legs aren't anything but stumps of Jell-O. Truthfully, I'm intoxicated beyond belief, he knows…that hasn't ever played a role in his conscience.
But he looked like you; I guess he looked like you
No he wasn't you
But you can still trust me, this ain't infidelity
It's not cheating; you were on my mind
In the dark, it feels much safer doing what we're doing. Yet, I cannot bring myself to look at his uncharacteristic smirk or his fully glazed eyes. Doing so, would make this all too true. This is why I get drunk; I like fantasy or the blur between reality.
Sheets crumple in my hands, sweat slides down my forehead, hips meet every thrust and ache for faster stimulation – this wave is euphoric, illicit a round of breathy moans, mewing almost.
Ecstasy is but a few seconds, my body still quivers and is too sensitized. I open my eyes and will myself to stare into the face of my lover. It's a hit of realization, like it always is; a dash of disappointment that I mask with a tired smile and yawn.
This man, he isn't the man I call out to without fail…he isn't the man my lips, body, and soul ache and yearn for. Nope, he never is.
Yes he looked like you
But, I heard love is blind...
ΔΔΔΔ
A surge of applause welcomes me back into reality. They're like a buzz in my left ear these clapping hands and whistles.
My eyes roam through puddles of people until I meet the distinctive eyes that send shivers up and down my spine. They lock unto mine for a mere two seconds but it's clear as day, he knows.
A/N- Damn, so how did I fit in the song? Marleene's a complicated girl, I know. I'm looking forward to thoughts! I'm having fun with this!
