The Pseudo-Chronicles of Mark Huntley

In Which I Make a Scene - 9/25/04

Saturday, September 25, 2004

Well. That was an unforeseen turn of events. 

I've got some backtracking to do, as it's Saturday night and you, Reader, have been left hanging since late Thursday. Happy to oblige. Working at this for a while won't be a problem, as you'll understand when I'm done. I've got Millers lined up, ready to do their duty.

Friday I woke up feeling okay. My eyes still weren’t up to their usual (mediocre) standard—but they were better. I wouldn’t have to crawl over to the hospital and offer myself as a teaching tool after all.

I actually felt like I could do my work duties with at least some skill, so I headed over to the Divide. Dale was relieved that I was doing better. Did I mention that he called me Thursday to see how I was doing? He’s a good guy, Dale Johnson. Maybe I haven’t given him enough credit in this journal.

Dale told me that, while I was gone, he'd been forced to wait until after work to drink, and that just wasn't fun at all. Much as I sympathized with his plight, I did have to put in a full work day that day to catch up on what I'd missed. Next week, I said, we'd catch up on the lengthy lunches.

Gerald Ryloff, on the other hand, acted almost disappointed to see me. I got the distinct impression that he would have relished a chance to fire my ass. Instead, he took his disappointment out on me in the form of softly spoken put-downs. Then he gave me a stack of work about as heavy as a melon, though far less tasty.

The day went by quickly, as is always the case when you're buried in urgent work. After work, I headed over to the theatre where Lucy's play was being performed. It wasn't opening night; I'd missed that on Wednesday, holed up with my eye miseries. Probably just as well, I thought—maybe I wouldn’t have to deal with as many people jamming into the seats.

In fact, there wasn't much of a crowd at all that night, even given that it was a Friday. Sad to say for Lucy’s company—but excellent news for my lingering social anxiety. As I passed through the front doors amid the few other folks, I checked my watch. Good, I’d timed it just right: the play was about to begin. No danger of seeing Lucy beforehand. I picked up the ticket I’d reserved online at the booth, and headed over to my seat.

The lights flickered and then went down, and the play began. I’m sorry, but I can’t report on the play itself… again, for the good name of everybody involved. I don’t even want to call it a “tragic love story” or a “taut psychological thriller,” because then you still might be able to deduce what play I went to (being the clever Reader you are), and then which actress was Lucy, based on the physical description that I know I’ve already stupidly shared with you and will probably be touching on again later in this entry—and then you’ll know her real name, and the jig is up!

Anyway, it’s irrelevant. As my mom likes to say: “Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?”

Lucy didn't have a lead, but still played a pretty important role. She had the audience on her side the whole time—everybody cheered after she gave one particular speech, and (once again, sad to say) there was not a lot of cheering that night.

About halfway through the play, I started getting a headache. Localized in an area just behind my left eye. I tensed as soon as I felt it, because I imagined I had another aching session in my near future. The past ones had begun the same way. But after a few minutes, nothing had popped, throbbed, or erupted, and I figured I was in the clear and relaxed.

The moment the play ended and most of the audience dutifully stood up, applauding, as the actors made their sweaty curtain call, I pushed my way to the end of my row. Stepped on a foot here and there, but I didn’t want to linger. I had done my duty, seen Lucy's play, and now I could make my graceless exit.