7:34 a.m. - 2005-08-03
Process Rant
Maybe getting back to my story will actually relieve some of the stress of living in the present. So, here goes ...
It was not so much that he was rich. He was rich and somewhat famous. It was not so much that he was rich and somewhat famous that impressed me. I was a confirmed hippie and took great pride in my lack thereof. It was that his wealth and status promised to alert my father that just maybe I was not a loser. That I had not taken on yet another dependent out of desperation. That I had arrived, finally kissed by the proper, if belated, prince. Looking back, I am sad that my own accomplishments did not in any way effect my n'ere do well stance in my father's eyes. The only eyes that mattered. The eyes that stood in the way of God's, blocking the light. My master's degree was, after all, in psychology. That branch of study that tended to lay blame on sacrificial parents for any and all of their children's shortcomings. Clearly not a science. It was the MBA's that had it made. They could carve a future of which to be proud in this mercenary, miserly world. This "vale of tears", as my father was fond of reminding me. They were the ants, wisely setting aside for those inevitable rainy days. I was the grasshopper, fiddling about, splashing my way back to my dad for shelter in every unexpected shower. The longevity of my work at the hospital almost earned his approval. At long last, my resume boasted some semblance of stability. Still, I worked on a psychiatric unit, playing cards with crazy people for a living. Often I was warned of the inherent dangers. That I was too sensitive. That insanity was contagious. That it was just a matter of time. So, meeting Ron was a feat of herculean proportions. At last, someone who cared about the things in life that really mattered cared about me. Perhaps I really mattered. If only by default. Even my father had to consider that. In addition to Ron's home in Bel Aire, he owned a mountain retreat. On weekends, he composed his serious music as the light changed on historic Lily rock, centerpiece of his panoramic view. On weekdays, he scribbled the commercial jingles that payed the bills. Did I mention that he had eleven gold records and a Grammy? Although he disdained his former work as "jazz-rock", in truth, it was how he had accumulated the bucks that now enabled him to dabble in "legitimate" music. To take me to bistros and concerts and plays, while I longed for my fried tacos at Astro Burger. He was not a snob in his talent and wealth. I was a snob in my poverty, brandishing it at every turn. Bragging about my Van Nuys apartment, my time clock, my thrift shop finery. He not only tolerated, but seemed refreshed and intrigued by this somewhat contrived stance. The more I pushed my shabby envelope, the more he received its dubious contents. In reality, I was impressed. Impressed at the way my father had no trouble making conversation when Ron was present. When I arrived alone, he had nothing to say. He would lie in his courdoroy recliner, not turning his head or even adjusting the volume to welcome his recalcitrant daughter. The perennial prodigal, he received my kiss like a gnat. And so it pleasured me in some perverse way to watch him apologize that the merlot was not adequately chilled when Ron came to call. Not knowing that merlot was not to be chilled. Watching him squirm the way that I squirmed to please him. My father had stumbled upon one of his vinyl disks at the thrift shop, investing 75 cents to find out just who this star actually was. I doubt he appreciated the music. It was unmistakably hippie fare. Still, he recognized the achievement and bowed accordingly. Vicariously, I basked in Ron's reflected glory. The power this yielded me was immeasurable. Startling and sudden. Like happening upon the Holy Grail, there among the jacks and broken crayons. All my adult life, I had sought to reclaim my earlier position as my father's best friend, confidante, golden girl. If I had to steal the light by proxy, so be it. I was once again a formidable presence in my father's proud gaze, albeit when I could be found on the arm of a successful man. I wondered if God was not perhaps rewarding my lack of interest in the things of this world by planting this rare gem smack in the middle of my plastic tiara. Some kind of ironic reversal or cosmic punchline, a crude play on the last being first. But I know now that it was nothing that glamorous, but only a chance encounter with yet another man. A man with whom, as ever, I tried to work out my deep insecurites. A slightly different dance, given his resources. But a dance, nonetheless. I stepped on his feet every chance I got and he seemed to enjoy the humbling pain. And so, we colluded in our folly, dancing this mutual charade for our separate purposes some six plus years. As always, I traded the child that had been me, fresh from God and trailing her very own cloud of glory, for this imposter that was me. This gaping hole demanding to be filled by just about anything that might register on my dad's impossible radar. The good. The bad. The most decidedly ugly. When exactly did it happen? What had first activated that lemming gene, gaining strength with each passing year? The one that had caused me to stoop at eleven years old, suppressing my God-given stature simply because I towered, gangly, over the mocking freckled boys. The one that had made me hunch, clutching Photoplay and Seventeen tight against my baby chest. Hiding the buds emerging too early under my white Penney's undershirt. The one that had shamed me there in my striped Catalina one-piece, there at my first boy/girl party. Shock of crimson heralding my uncourted arrival into despised womanly ranks. The one that squinted behind the bangs that were never quite long enough to hide my huge, huge eyes. The one that sent me into the bathroom when lights dimmed red, announcing the slow dances while braver girls melted, seamless, into the leather arms of football heroes. The one that will no longer hide. The one that tells this story.
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