Part 14 (1/2)
”You've made this speech before,” Pris says, pulling angrily away.
I can't take it anymore. I let my head hang forward and begin to cry. I'd prefer the insane asylum to this. I'd rather be crazy.
”Look at you!” she shouts at me. ”You're the one to cry! What about me?”
I'm suddenly angry. ”What about you!” I yell. ”What have I ever done to you? All I've done is loved you, that's it!”
”Me and half the women in San Francisco!” she shouts back. ”You've got a lot of nerve! I'm sorry I've hurt you're ego, but that's just too bad.”
I stare at her, unable to say a thing.
She turns away. ”Go to someone else and cry,” she says. ”You've got plenty of others to comfort you.”
”I only want you.”
Something in her snaps. Pris lets out a yell and picks things up and starts throwing them at me. As the heavy base of a lamp narrowly misses my head, I decide it would be best if I run. Once outside the room, the barrage stops, but she follows with her little fists balled up and gives me a couple spiteful kicks in the s.h.i.+n. I yowl with pain and hop around, and she watches, satisfied.
”I'll get my stuff when you're gone,” she says. She walks down the long hallway and out the front door.
Despite the pain I follow her, hobbling along and wincing. When I get outside I find she's got the garage door opened and is getting into a large black car. It looks like a cross between a Cadillac and an old Jaguar. The engine starts with a roar and before I can reach her, the tires squeal. The car shoots out of the garage and down the driveway like a missile, skidding onto the pavement and down the street. She's out of sight in seconds.
The garage is empty, no other cars within. I can't follow her. I can only wait for her to come back. I close the garage door and walk back around to the front door. Before I'm inside another car pulls up, a long white limousine, and the horn honks. A door opens, and the car sits there, waiting. I hesitate a moment, then walk over and poke my head in.
”h.e.l.lo sir,” the driver says. ”Ready to go?”
”Go?”
”Yes sir. The show is in an hour.”
”Show?”
”Yes sir.”
Show? I'm going to a show? ”I can't go,” I tell him. ”My, uh, date can't make it.”
The driver laughs, but sits and waits expectantly. He thinks I'm joking.
”I'll be right back,” I tell him.
He nods.
I walk back to the front door of my house and close it, then stand there, staring at it with my eyes unfocused. I don't want to leave. If Pris comes back to get her belongings, I want to be here to talk her out of it. What am I going to do? What the h.e.l.l is this show? Its probably at a museum or zoo, a display of reptiles. G.o.d knows. It could be a rock concert for that matter. I go back to the limousine and get inside to talk it over with the driver, but the door shuts with an electric whine and he pulls out onto the street.
”Wait,” I tell him. ”Wait a minute.”
He doesn't stop, but looks back at me in the rear view mirror. ”Yes sir?”
”Where are we going?”
”Trust me, sir, this way is the fastest.”
”No. I mean, where are we going?”
He gives me a strange look. ”I'm taking you to the amphitheater, sir.”
”What's there?”
”The show, sir.” He's really looking perplexed, now. ”Is there something wrong?”
”My girlfriend is leaving me. I mean, she's moving out. I don't know what to do, she won't listen to me.”
He doesn't comment on this.
”I don't want to go to the show. I want you to take me back home.”
”Sir, you have to go to the show!”
”I do?”
”Well . . . yes, of course you do! A lot of people are paying good money to see you tonight. You can't just leave them high and dry because you've got romantic problems.”
”This isn't just romantic problems, I----” I break off. ”What did you say?”
”Sir?”
”What did you just say?”
”I'm sorry if I spoke harshly, I know it's not my place----”
”You said people are paying to see me?”
”Well, of course they are.”
”I'm in the show?”
”You are the show!”
”What?”
The driver stares at me with deep concern, but then suddenly smiles. Now he's started laughing. ”You had me going there.”
”I did?”
”You're trying out new material on me, aren't you?”
”Yeah,” I told him, grasping at straws. ”Yeah. Sorry about that.”
The driver continues to laugh.
I look at the door for a handle, but can't find one. I don't care how fast he's going, I want to jump out. There's a big metal b.u.t.ton, and I push it, but it makes a buzzing sound and nothing else happens.