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7:40 a.m. - 2005-06-09
\"Yes, It's The Last Dance\" Rant
Touched as I was, and I was, by David's selfless act, I could not seem to shake my distrust from his earlier lying behavior and, even more, to reconcile myself with the role of wife. I fumed at the way our culture presented the wife as as some sexless hausfrau, interested only in ring around the collar and "One Live To Live". The party line portrayed the girlfriend, in contrast, as endlessly pheremonal. Delectable as only forbidden fruit can be. It was embarassingly self evident. Marriage was boring. Adultery was cool. Cheating on one's husband was seen as an entitilement, hard won by the sisterhood. Countless bras had been burned in order to secure that right. Not cheating was tantamount to not voting. A slap in the face to marching Sufferagettes from time immemorial. And while my solidarity was not in question, my reasons were less than political. That hole in my heart through which the winds of change wafted unrestrained left me susceptible to any promise of fulfillment. I took Donna Summer's sultry lyrics very much to heart ... "Yes, it's the last dance, the last chance for love". I wanted David securely by my side, at the ready for errors in judgment such as Don as well as for any disappointment that should arise from my blatant liasons. I wanted his undying devotion and unconditional love while I offered only the pieces of my time leftover from energies spent elsewhere. I hated myself and I hated David for settling for threadbare remnants of my soul. I wanted him to stop me, but he was more afraid of losing me than of losing himself. And so we lived side by side. Paul Simon wisely sings, "A man hears what he wants to hear and disregards the rest". And that was true of us both. My heart would race as I arrived home from a 'date', anxious to make sure that David was indeed there. The relief I felt in seeing the dim glow of the television through the curtains surpassed any clandestine thrill I had experienced. He was my anchor and never knew it. A perfunctory nod in David's direction was all he got. I would soon sink to my knees, saying the Act of Contrition but carefully leaving out the clause about avoiding the near occasion of sin. Because God and I knew that I had no intention of doing that. And then one day, I met a man, attractive in an aging gracefully kind of way. By his untrustworthy report, he had been a child actor supposedly pegged to be "the next James Dean". When this didn't come to pass, he decided to express his profound bitterness and self loathing through various and predictable acts of self destruction. I don't know his given name, but he called himself Casey and ,finally, insisted on being called simply Case. And he was a case. He professed to be the son of a famous stage actress from whom he had been estranged for some twenty five years. His scruffy mutt with the codependent heart was named Garbo. They lived in a guest house in the 'equestrian district' of Burbank. Did I mention he was a bit of a snob? Once we were at a Mexican restaurant and he ordered a tostada and didn't want to risk losing his buzz by actually eating it. He told the busboy that he would take it home. When the busboy gave him the take out container, he was genuinely shocked at this affront to his status. "I tell you what," he said belligerently, "I'll give you five dollars to put it in yourself" See, Case was a self absorbed alcoholic, appropriately complex to garner my interest. When he would get really drunk, he would retreat into the bathroom and loudly argue with his alter ego, Lloyd. By Case's sordid accounts, Lloyd had been his stillborn twin. Intrigued by the intrigue and distracted by the distraction, after classes I would pretend I was not married and head straight for Case's place, where I would listen for hours to his narcissistic tirades as well as a little Phoebe Snow. One evening after we had returned from Gershwin Night at the Hollywood Bowl, he asked me to hold his cigarette for just a minute. He then very dispassionately proceeded to trash his entire house. Garbo, tail between legs, made it out just in time to avoid being pelted by his thrift shop objects d'art. I left shaking. When I got home, I told David, who actually was concerned about Case and went back to make sure he was alright. At this point, David was a candidate for canonization. One of the saddest days of my life was a Friday afternoon on which David unexpectedly arrived at Case's to inquire as to what kind of plans we might have for the weekend and could he possibly join us. He walked out of there much like Garbo, bewildered and afraid. My heart breaks as I remember that day. The thing I didn't mention about this whole arrangement, though, was that Case liked men. He was gay, although certainly not in any original sense of the word. This provided David with a certain security, although by that time I was no longer fulfilling my 'marital duties' anyway. I was so guilty about my escapades that I could no longer be with my own husband. Confused and hallow, I continued to traverse frying pan to fire. Over and exhaustingly over. I appeared so functional to the world while David passed for unstable. I carried a 4.0 GPA. I was about to receive my Master's Degree. I was going to be a therapist, for God's sake. And I was managing to raise my son through all this chaos. Still, my wounds festered, becoming more difficult to conceal even from myself. I proposed that David and I divorce, convincing him that being with one another free of obligation would spice up our relationship. "We don't need no paper from the City Hall ...", yodelled Joni Mitchell. I don't know if he really bought the pitch or just didn't see an option. He reluctantly agreed and I filed the documents while we continued to live as siblings. My life was a disjointed mess, a race against some internal clock that repeated in a dark, seductive voice "This is the last dance, the last chance for love ... yes, it's my last chance for romance tonight". And Case just didn't fit the bill. Not a moment too soon, along came Tom, husband number three. The choice of Tom was completely out of character. He was not the delicate and wounded type. He went to 'movies' like "Conan the Barbarian" and "Rambo", not 'films' like "Tess" or say anything by Woody Allen. He drove a motorcycle and was overweight. He fit the obligatory horrible childhood template, but otherwise he stood out from former suitors like the proverbial mangled thumb. Oh, and did I say that he was sixteen years my junior. Our first date was to the Chart House on Pacific Coast Highway. After dinner, we walked on the beach and he romantically said, "What are the odds of us ending up in a motel tonight?" Subtlety was not only lost on Tom, but lay bound and gagged in a closet somewhere. This was so distasteful to me, that I actually did not sleep with him that night. Not too long after, however, we frequented "Room 11" in a dive on Ventura. He was so romantic, that he would call mid-week to request that Room 11 be set aside just for us. Lest I paint Tom with too broad a brush, let me add that he had a very sweet side. He was the son of a prostitute who had abandoned him and his baby brother on a bus bench. He was promptly thrown into the 'system' and was basically raised in some eleven foster homes. Any school we would drive past elicited an excited, "I went there!" from Tom. Like the Frank Sinatra song, he had indeed been "a puppet, a pirate, a pauper, a poet, a pawn and a king". He had been abused and beaten and spoiled and pretty much anything that could be done to a kid. His extensive life experience seemed to average out our age difference. Very often, he was mistaken for much older that I. Something in the eyes. He had a stuffed teddy, some transitional object from one of the less abusive fosters, named "Bear" that he used for a pillow. He smoked and drank but seriously avoided the houtchi coo. He was basically a good man and generously provided the footing I needed to finally make a break with David. Our final divorce papers were not yet in, but I barely checked in at home anymore. The last night I did sleep at home, David upturned the mattress I was on in sheer pain and futility. My shin caught the corner of my Victorian washstand, leaving a scar I can still feel if I touch my left leg in just the right place. "Don't be here when I get back", he shouted. And I took that as my invitation to exit my marriage, guilt free. Barbara offered me haven in the home her mother owned but was now unable to live in. It happened to be the front house on the same property as Case's guest house. Taking just a few belongings from my and David's apartment, I took up temporary residence in the 'equestrian district'. Days later, Tom joined me. This did not sit well with Case or David or my son or God or probably anyone who is reading this, but that is what happened and at this point I am more interested in telling the truth than looking good. Sadly, this is what happened.

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