Hyde in Neon
He had to get outta Dodge. He needed a change of scenery. Something, anything different had to be better. Just one town over. For his sanity, he had to leave.
Buddy got into his car and drove until he didn't recognize the streets. Not too far. There was a dinky nightspot a block ahead. Something. It was something. He pulled over and parked.
Bystanders gawked, but why? Didn't matter. Buddy felt a wash of relief stepping into the joint. Again, stares. Uncomfortable stares. Then, no stares. So it was fine. Buddy needed a drink. Trying to keep hold of some carefree air, he dicked with the barman. A patron took issue, came to the defense of the barman. Buddy had no interest in a lecture, or worse, a spat. He meant to clip that short before it became something. He went too far, perhaps. Desperately, he made believe there was never words. Ignore it. Nobody would notice if he didn't address it. The barman double-checked Buddy's drink order. Buddy realized he'd said it wrong. He played it off and made up something on the fly. More hooch, more hooch, and this and that. Pay no attention to the odd touches. The lightweight thought he could handle a try, but who even had the iron stomach and liver Buddy had?
There was a cute little blonde bird across the place, and Buddy liked blondes. Buddy moseyed over and made an attempt. If she'd had any objections, the little college boys around her cut her off to make them themselves. He name-dropped the honcho of their school to cool them down. Buddy flirted his way to the eponymous Pit. And for a while, he lost himself in the flow of the night. He called her stella, which was apparently her name. Of course he knew that. So she got his name, too.
He was in her car, parked, presumably, at the local make-out. Out of his mouth came the expectation of a little something-something. Out of her mouth came a lecture. Yet, Buddy persisted. She stepped from the car.
In a moment, Buddy realized he'd been a jerk all night. He tripped on his words, trying and failing to play it cool. Somewhere in his rambling escaped a trace of hopeless honesty, a communication of all his bitter existence. Until he became aware of it. His throat gave that froggy soreness he had come to understand meant an imminent episode. The jig was up. Buddy gave up. Buddy bailed over the guard rail and down the mountain.
It was a long walk back to the Purple Pit. His car had a ticket. Why did he insist on driving hers? He opened the door. Oh right. That was why. Buddy gathered the fallen cans and cigarette packs back into the car. He climbed in and slid across to the driver's side. He drove the way he came. Home to the bleak and dingy studio. Home to the pull-out couch and faded dimestore paperbacks. To the six pack of beer warming in the leaky fridge. To the tin radio, the pockmarked linoleum, the paper walls, the stench of vinegar, the odd rat…
Buddy slept in his car. Buddy woke in the morning with an aching back and foul taste in his mouth. He lay aching with nothing to make him so much as sit up. Some interval of time passed. At some point, the void behind his eyes became the vision of Stella. Buddy began to feel something dejected and bitter. He wanted to start over, do it right, be better than he was. The humiliation of his failure nagged at him.
He wandered the town. And wandered. The sun began to set, just tipping past noon. Buddy popped into a corner drugstore. He hadn't eaten. He bought cigarettes. He left his Zippo in the car, across town. He turned around, intending to buy matches. He ran into someone.
Someone was stooped and disheveled. Someone barely registered Buddy. Someone continued his way down the street. Someone was now talking with the very blonde Buddy was ruminating over. Buddy listened. The voices carried some. Buddy caught a name. Her name. Her name with a last name attached to it.
Buddy stepped into a phone booth on the opposite corner. Leaning against the glass, he flipped through the tethered phone book. There was just one Stella Purdy in the area. Her.
He scribbled down the address and number. He took out a dime and hovered over the coin slot. He withdrew and put the dime back in his pocket. He didn't have anything to say.
He wandered. Wandered until morning, unwilling to go back to his car, to his apartment. He wandered. He wandered until he realized he was following Stella. When did she start walking in front of him? When had he started to follow? It didn't matter. She was walking and he was following. She'd led him to a campus. His brow furrowed. He didn't belong there. His feet didn't care. He followed. He felt like a creep.
Nevertheless, he blended in enough that nobody noticed him. Even when the hallway traffic was thin, he was invisible. Stella turned through the door to a classroom. Buddy, unnoticed, eavesdropped. Something unnamed crept into the pit of his belly. Something sour. He felt, immediately, something unspoken in the conversation.
The other person soon left the classroom. So that's how it was. The visage of the clear rival burned into Buddy's eyes. He felt acutely aware of the heat rising through his neck. He spent the next several minutes forcing his heart rate down.
He didn't think. He walked in and struck up a conversation. Her prodding of his dramatic exit gave him a reason to ask her right back out to the Purple Pit. He expected the worst and got a yes instead. His relief made him cocky, swinging back into his arrogant façade. But he got a yes.
In the privacy of home, he threw up. He hadn't thought about the actual date. The possibility, probability of another humiliation weighed on him. He drank. He drank. He was drunk. Too drunk to drive, too drunk to properly hail a taxi. He was late. He stumbled into the joint, a sip away from blotto. Reality was a hazy, half-assed theory. If he was being an asshole, he didn't know and didn't care. All he could see was stella. A single night and he was crazy about her. His grip on lucidity loosened. He took to the piano and slipped into half-nothing, with only enough awareness to croon a semblance of emotion adjacent to his own. And then that froggy feeling came back, and with the last of his awareness, Buddy fled.
Humiliation. Buddy did not wait for a taxi. He ran the entire way to his apartment. He blamed the water in his eyes on the wind resistance. He didn't care if his footfalls pissed off the neighbors. He dove into his couch bed with his shoes on, not even bothering to undo his necktie.
And so began the ritual. He drank like a fish until he found his way to the Purple Pit, then he blurred through what could only laughingly be called a date, then he sank into unreality and barely escaped before weeping. Finally, he only staggered in at closing to silently fumble at the keys. Stella always kept him company. Despite complaints and anger, stella was there. Buddy chose not to think about it too much.
Three days. Buddy stayed in bed three days. He didn't care about anything. He had finally gone numb. He only left his couch because the toilet and the kitchen where more than arm's length away. Not that he ate much of anything. On the fourth day, Buddy got sick of seeing the popcorn ceiling whenever his eyes happened to be open. His back was stiff, so he showered. Since he was already showered, he got dressed. Since he was already dressed, he went out. Christ, the air was breathable. The weight of everything and nothing began to fall, and Buddy walked on and on and on.
And then he came across that rat bastard rival. But Buddy didn't care anymore. His stella would be better off with this guy. Then the guy had the nerve to make conversation. Buddy did not hide his irritation. He did think it was kinda nutty to have a prom for a college. Stella was a college girl, right? Then the guy got to the point. A gig. Which was the last thing Buddy expected. He didn't consider himself to be performing when he played. He considered. It would be good to occupy himself. And he would be able to see Stella without getting too close.
Thus, he found himself having an interview with the dean of Stella's college. The dean had a stick up his ass, so Buddy had quite a time making a fool of him. Needless to say, he got the gig.
But it all came to a head as he stepped out into the parking lot. Stella. Stella was leaning against her car. Her eyes were glazed in that day-dreamy way. Buddy turned away. Maybe he wasn't ready to see her yet. But, dammit, his car was in that direction. He kept his head down and managed to evade her eyes as he passed. He swung into his car, feeling anxiously sick.
At his apartment, he flicked through the suits in his closet and set aside a gold-colored three-piece. Flashy, but formal enough to do. Buddy didn't own a whole lotta black. It felt like going to a funeral.
He didn't have much more preparation to fill his time before the night of the prom. As a result, he spent too much time in his head. He often felt as if his thoughts were happening without him. As if he was thinking behind his own back. It was all hazy. The hours blurred together. He nearly didn't leave when his clock radio jerked him from this musings. A quick shower, then he put on his suit and greased his hair. He didn't need to be early, or even on time.
He hailed a cab with fifteen minutes to showtime. He knew his sour mood would spoil his performance, so on the way, he pepped himself into a cocky demeanor. Even wrote himself a nice introduction to stroke his ego. Why not?
Buddy arrived five minutes before his slot. He positioned himself just shy of the curtain and made himself known to the emcee. The crowd was no issue. The lights were no issue. Buddy could easily lose himself in the number, and that suited him fine. He was introduced, and meanwhile, he stepped out onto the stage. The band flared, and he made his way wordlessly to the piano. Directly, he began to play.
It was a peppy swing number, perfectly tailored to keep Buddy collected. He made eyes at the audience, and he saw Stella enraptured. Today, it warmed him to see her. The song ended to a swell of applause. Buddy rose and addressed the audience. A short, few words before the next song.
The band began. Buddy's cue came and went, but when he opened his mouth, nothing came out. Only a hoarse false start. But why? Everything was going fine. He gathered himself and the band began anew. Again, nothing but a cracking nothing. Buddy began to panic. Not here, not now. He saw Stella in the crowd, waiting. Buddy's gut fell through the floor. It was no use. The froggy, choked feeling became sound. It was all he could do to keep his words level.
It was all over.
Buddy's awareness drifted back. Away from the here and now, from the eyes and stony faces. He heard himself talking. Shut up. Stop. The words kept pouring out. Everything Buddy kept hidden. There was no hiding. Not anymore.
Buddy turned awkwardly and left the stage. Left the ballroom. Left the venue. Left the town. He walked home. It was over an hour's walk. He trudged up the stairs to his apartment. He unlocked the door, walked in, and sat down on the bed of the couch. Buddy did not leave the apartment, nor that spot, for days. A phone book lay open, half under the bed. The business section. Buddy pulled the phone book to his lap. A number was circled on the page. Just in case, he'd convinced himself at the time. When was that? Months ago? Buddy could no longer convince himself he didn't need it. He glanced at his end table. The ugly, goldenrod rotary phone mocked him from its perch. Yeah, yeah. He picked up the receiver and spun the dial. The line rang once, twice, and someone picked up. Buddy's voice was shaky and uneven. The words crawled out of his mouth.
"I need to make an appointment."