Im here and i got you a preseant!!
Buzzed in a big way, I sent Gloria the message without a second thought to proofread, like how a man texts. Gloria told me she was going to be a little later than I already was, but it was hard to wait any longer. I was ready to talk, to touch, to maneuver, to be jerked around any which way as long as they let me keep my high. I took deep breaths, reaching for composure, and decided to explore the locale, the appearance of which surprised me. I thought we’d be meeting at a bar or a club with a big sign, bright lights, and maybe some “boom-clap” audible from the outside. Instead, The Purity was a monolithic multi-structured hotel, part castle, part compound, and true to its title by way of clean non-descriptiveness. They hadn’t even put the name of the place anywhere on the building. I stood at the beginning of a winding driveway about a quarter mile from the entrance, a morsel at the tip of the tongue, primed to be lapped up into the belly of this pampered beast. Slowly I strolled along the road leading to The Purity, walking in lush, green grass, watching limousines and luxury cars come and go. This was wealth on a scale which I’d never been too intimate with, and I was getting very excited about my prospects for the night. Having spent four years on a liberal arts campus, I’d caught glimpses of the upper-upper-class through friends and such, but this was different, a full immersion not aided by the institution. Well, I corrected myself, I met Gloria at school and so wouldn’t be here without her invitation. But still, but still. We weren’t in school anymore.
Soon I arrived where the river of road fed into the ocean of a cul de sac, where vehicles circled ‘round like a merry-go-round. The main entrance of The Purity was luminous and glittering, all glass, and a small squadron of doormen and bellhops milled about, ever-prepared to swarm every arrival. But I wasn’t paying a whole lot of attention to that scene because my eyes were fixed on the donut hole of the cul de sac, in the center of which sat a huge, magnificent, gnarled tree with knots and exposed roots and holes and criss-crossing limbs that stretched rapturously like they were being pulled by strings from heaven. Alas, it was dead. No leaves, no fauna, no birds or rodents turned the house into a home. The giant moaned and shivered in the warm wind, a forgotten queen transplanted to a concrete graveyard, circled by granite benches that stood as her headstone. Floodlights were placed strategically about the courtyard to cloak the tree in ghastly and elegant shadows, invoking an eerie feeling that even the cocaine couldn’t help me escape. The display was an argument for the desirous beauty of death, the power of its simple singularity, its ‘Purity.’ I wanted to get closer. Crossing the cul de sac, I walked over to sit under its branches.
Plopping down on one of the benches with a groan, I let the warm foreign air in through my stuffy nose, tilted my head back to let it caress my face and ruffle my hair. Nightfall accented the blacks and glittering golds of my surroundings. In the silence I meditated on how it felt to be on the brink of Gloria’s Return, knowing that upon reuniting with her flesh and blood, my nostalgic copy of Gloria would dissolve like Nosferatu in daylight, for the presence of Gloria in the Real very necessarily signified the absence of Gloria in the Mind, the Gloria I’d had starring in the Myth of Gloria for the past two years. As the auteur behind the Myth of Gloria, which had been a regular haunt during day dreams and sad songs, the prospect of its death was bittersweet. However, I found consolation in the certainty that its death would be only temporary, that it would rise again once I’d escaped L.A. with all-new material to work with. Sometimes I felt this was why anyone did anything of note, just to have the memory of it on hand, sitting at the back of the brain in pristine condition, ready for countless replays. And the best thing about it is that the more you replay the memory, the more its finer qualities flourish. The highs are higher, the lows are more meaningful, and all the boring, quotidian stuff in between the highlights gets worn away and forgotten. Soon, what was once a flawed feature film is a captivating supercut, the greatest story ever told. But for the auteur (me), even better than the story they’ve crafted (I’ve crafted) is the rare sense of control. The Myth of Gloria had been meticulously edited and reformatted to my liking, a beautiful Frankenstein speaking back to me all the words I put in its brain. If it made me glad it’s because I had told it to. If it made me sad it’s because I had told it to. I held no such command over Gloria in the Real. Or anything else.
The seconds ticked by and I nursed the woozy adrenaline radiating in my gut, the uncanny kind that comes before finally reaching an unreal climax, like a little kid waiting for the school bell to ring before a week-long break…Or like stepping up to a guillotine, I imagine. It was the overwhelming knowledge that an enormous wait was about to come to an end, that I was about to see the dream in daylight as I never thought I would again. This waiting is the most romantic thing we can do. When it comes to revelations, the holiness is not in the arrival: It is in the wait.
So I waited until–
“Seth!”
–instant death. It was Gloria. Startled, my head snapped towards the sound of my name. It was like she’d materialized out of nowhere, Gloria standing at my right side, rocking on her heels with a sneaky smirk on her face. She looked down at me: hunched on the bench and looking over my shoulder with eyes and mouth open as wide as I processed the presence of her: wearing a form-fitting black jumpsuit and white Adidas, a lit cigarette between her middle and ring fingers, purse slung over one shoulder, poofy black hair framing a bright little round face that held intentional brown eyes making a look I recognized; she was annotating.
For a bottomless moment we were like that, each frozen in recognition of the other. Then all at once, I don’t even remember doing it, I was standing, not sitting, before her. I couldn’t feel my face, didn’t know what I was doing with it, but I know I said “hey” and she said it, too, and we hugged a purposeful hug, swaying from foot to foot like a dying pendulum. Holding Gloria and feeling her weight (she’s so heavy), I wondered if I’d been mistaken in my theory that to Wait is the most Romantic Act. There were some worthwhile points about nostalgia and longing in there, but I wasn’t feeling Gloria’s heartbeat then, wasn’t smelling her hair, wasn’t so close to the warmth of her body. I had lost directorial control, overpowered by Gloria in the Real, and I supposed there was something...something to that.
I broke the hug and held Gloria by the shoulders to appraise her. I cracked open a smile and she returned it toothily, allowing my hands to rest where they were. I spoke first:
“Shit, Gloria, looking good!”
She shrugged out of my grasp and sucked at her cig while nodding appreciatively, talking out of the side of her mouth like Popeye. The swarthy effect was very hot. “Thanks. You’re looking pretty sharp yourself, Seth,” Gloria replied in a light sing-song, propositioning her pack of Parliaments at me. I accepted with gratitude, waving off her offer of a lighter and pulling out my own yellow Bic.
“Not vaping anymore?” she asked.
“Nah, I liked it too much. If I smoke now, it's real deal only. Harder to do. I don’t think it's a habit anymore, more like a frequent decision.” I lit up. “You wanna sit down for a sec? We gotta catch up, and these benches are so nice.” I cringed. Every word spoken was brute-forced out of my mouth and anyone could hear the strain, but to stop and become aware of my self was to die. I might never speak again.
“Yeah, sure,” Gloria agreed amiably, gliding mercifully over my struggle, and we took a seat. I pulled from my Parliament, shooting nicotine and rocket fuel up into my sinuses to play with the cocaine. The effect was nice for sure, but the ensuing head rush made my head so light I worried it might float off my shoulders. To avoid fainting two times in two hours, I took it easy with the cigarette. It was nice enough to have something to hold, to fiddle with. I noticed that, unconsciously, I’d put my cigarette between my third and fourth fingers like Gloria. It reminded me of something I’d heard, that we tend to mimic the body language of people we want to be endeared to. Cool, I thought. Nature at work.
“You’re holding your cigarette like me,” Gloria said.
“Oh. Ha, yeah. It’s a cool way.” Of course the special girl noticed. I had to focus. I rocked back and forth a few times, took some deep breaths, and started: “So, the last time I saw you was at school, after graduation. Damn. And then you came here. To L.A.”
“Yes. Then you stayed one more year and graduated.”
I clapped my hands. “Well, I guess that’s it. Nothing else happened.”
“Ha ha.” An air of knowingness hovered between us until Gloria plowed ahead. “How was senior year without me?”
“Oh you know me, I ran the place.”
“Really?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?” Gloria did a Cheshire grin and bounced her eyebrows.
Owned, I rolled my eyes and relaxed a bit. “Yeah, yeah I was alright. Now I’m just working and living with Chris and Felipe.” Gloria nodded slowly in approval. She and those guys always got along well because they all liked to make fun of me all the time. “And they say hi,” I added. This was true actually. Felipe said he was ‘rooting for [us]’ and I told him where he could stick it.
“Hi Chris and Felipe. And are you still doing the same things?”
“Yes, still substitute teaching and waiting tables. I gotta quit the latter.”
“Nice, you should. What grade?”
“Grades; anywhere in the elementary. The kids in the fourth gave me a nickname recently, they’re calling me Softy Seth because this one kid, Sandy, that all the other kids obey like Manson, started telling everyone that I told him I ‘love’ crying, which never happened, I never said that. That Sandy, I’d like to wring his neck!”
Gloria clapped giddily and did a big laugh, like I’d hoped. “So cute; Seth getting hazed by the kiddies! Love that for you. Kids can be mean, man. But seriously, what it probably means is they like you. Trust me.” Gloria was referring to her four drastically younger sisters. There was once a time I knew all their names (Courtney Jane Macy Jenny?), but I ignored that and kept going.
“Thank you, yes, that’s what I figured. Otherwise, everything’s just fine. But how’s L.A.? Same questions for you. Your apartment is nice. I really like Baby Lord and I really hate William.”
“Mhm.” Gloria put her chin in her palm and gazed off into the interminable middle distance. “Yeah. William is wretched and Baby Lord is a goddamn delight.”
“I saw him walk on his two front paws. Is he paralyzed from the waist down?”
“Baby Lord or William?”
“Ha ha. Baby Lord.”
“No, he’s not paralyzed, just really talented.”
“Is your other roommate nice, at least? Rebecca?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
Gloria was distracted, but her thoughtful expression told me she was distracted by something extremely pertinent, an idea in-progress she wanted to articulate just-so before sharing. This was a trait of Gloria in the Real I had forgotten about in the interim of our relationship, and upon reintroduction, I quickly recalled there was no use in taking it personally. The best thing had always been to let her do it, not to cast a spotlight on it.
Gloria’s knee bounced up and down, two repetitions a second.
To keep things light, I offered, “Baby Lord should go on X-Factor,” before innocently segueing again into, “And how’re things with you?” The bouncing stopped and Gloria looked right at me, her magnetic eyes drawing me in to stare back. Searching those brown, one-way mirrors confirmed my hunch, that she was not feeling unkind or detached, but instead, almost painfully present. Moments like this were how Gloria communicated sometimes. It was all coming back.
She was quiet for one more second, then huffed hot air out her nostrils like an angry pony and spat out, “Did I ever tell you about the film production company I’m working at?”
I shook my head. “Kind of. Like, I know that’s what you’re doing, but not much past that.”
“I’ve been working as an assistant at a company called Touché Pictures since I got here; I applied right before I graduated.”
“Right, I vaguely remember that. Have they produced anything I would have seen?”
Gloria snorted and rubbed her face in a sardonic show of exhaustion. “Doubt it. They have this whole thing, philosophy or whatever, that I thought was really cool when I was applying. We…They only produce movies that pass the ‘Omega Bechdel Test.’”
“Whoa. I didn’t know an Omega version had come out.”
“It hasn’t. Touché Pictures invented it. Whereas the old Bechdel Test determined how many lines of dialogue were between two women not concerning a man, to pass the Omega Bechdel Test, the script of the film or television show must exclusively contain female characters discussing and achieving an upset of the patriarchy.”
“Hm.” There was a flicker of hesitation as to whether I should give my honest opinion on the mission statement of Touché Pictures. “That sounds…um…”
“Shitty? Boring?”
We laughed, and I agreed. “Yes, or, I was gonna say, an absurdly limiting premise. While I can appreciate that the rhetoric for this Omega Bechdel is more queer-friendly than that of the original, Bush-era Bechdel, I am asking myself: At what cost?”
Gloria laughed, wiggling with pleasure at my meanness, and I felt a boundary break. She was arriving at what had been occupying her earlier. As Gloria continued to talk, her gestures became more and more animated, her delivery more theatrical and involved. It was a joy to see her like this again, in peak polemic mode, but the longer she went on, the clearer it became to me that Gloria had no one to talk to.
“All the stuff we actually manage to produce sucks, sucks hard. I don’t know what I was thinking when I applied. Or when I accepted the offer. I was just so desperate to find any intersection of working in the industry and doing something that felt purposeful that I put blinders on and just went for it. And I figured, you know, if it gets intolerable, it’s just a job, there’ll be other jobs. But two years later, I’m still at Touché Pictures, more fucking entrenched than ever, and, god, I’m going insane. I’m in the office like every day now. Even today, when I’d told them like a month ago that I’d have to leave early because I had a friend visiting, they tried to guilt me into staying late. I get gaslit. Just working there is an endless process of gaslighting, gaslighting me into thinking their shitty brand matters at all, gaslighting me into thinking any of the movies I’ve found and pitched to them would be actually considered. I’ve tried to, like, commiserate with some co-workers who are our age,” she pointed her cigarette back and forth between us distractedly, still staring off, on a roll,”you know, off the clock, but every single one iced me when I introduced the idea that Touché Pictures is lame, even though it is [raised voice], and it’s like...Jesus Christ! Am I really the freak here? There’s nothing behind those eyes, Seth.” Gloria said this with startling insistence, like she was warning me of bodysnatchers. ”Of my coworkers, I mean. When we talk. Their personalities are just that they are the company. Like antibodies. Sure, it’s possible for them to discuss other things, but it all comes out aligned with the brand of Touché Pictures, this hollow, worthless, ‘do-right’ production company that wakes up every day stupidly believing it’s doing anything at all. And I’m getting paid shit! Not getting paid enough to respond to their texts on my days off, not getting paid enough to fire their actors, not getting paid enough to be the only person doing real work in the office, and it’s like, sure; I wanted to make movies, I wanted that, and I knew it wasn’t going to be glamorous, I knew I wouldn’t be on the set of Do The Right Thing right away or anything, but I guess I was hoping that I wouldn’t feel so so fucking demeaned.”
Boy, was she cynical! While some embitterment was to be expected over time, it had happened to me, the extent of Gloria’s dourness was concerning. At school her way had been to scoff at white lies and haze to show affection; a fun, blunt pragmatism is what she was known for. On our first night out together, Gloria paid for dinner while I was in the bathroom, chose the movie, quickly decided it wasn’t worth our entire attention and so talked through the whole thing. A week later I had forgotten all about the movie but not what she had been talking about. But today, by the looks of it, there was a weight on Gloria’s shoulders that had squeezed some of that irreverence out, and I was sorry for it.
“And the worst part about it,” she continued, tripping over herself, “well, not the worst...agh, just a fucked up thing about the whole situation...you’re going to hate me for this.”
“Eh,” I assured. “Doubt it.”
“We’ll see,” she tsked. “You know how I said that this internship at Touché Pictures pays shit? Literally less than minimum wage? You might’ve asked yourself, Then how does Gloria afford rent in L.A? What else does she do to support herself? Well, the answer is nothing: My dad pays for most of my rent.”
“Ol’ Cassius?”
“Yeah, Ol’ Cassius. So whenever I feel frustrated, disillusioned, whatever, I just hate myself even more because my suffering is fake! Nothing’s actually wrong; I’m just another super rich kid failing upwards. And then I think, Well, if it upsets you so much, then ask to be cut off. Become independent, bitch. But of course I don’t do that because that would be too hard, which is pathetic.”
Gloria stopped. When she spoke again, her voice caught.
“I think I hate myself.”
We let that hang in the air just to see how it felt. Felt bad and true. Gloria was a person capable of intense interrogation, of others, of subjects, and of herself, to constructive ends. But now Gloria was inventing reasons to arrive at a preordained outcome: that she was abject, despicable. What I saw in Gloria was the shame of someone who’d burnt their own house down, thrown the baby out with the bathwater, and now couldn’t stand to live with the knowledge of this new low her self was capable of. Just awful stuff. Gloria’s body was rigid, practically quivering with the effort of keeping it together while her eyes smoldered with the smoke of confession, pointed back towards the horizon as if daring it to make her feel worse. Something was needed from me. All this pain couldn’t be necessary. And so:
“You know, Gloria…You were always someone I admired.”
I took a drag from my cigarette to stall for time. I wasn’t sure what my point would be and still wasn’t when I exhaled, but I’d be damned if I didn’t find one. The wind picked up and I considered my sneakers, the same ones I’d had for years. Cars and happy people came and went all around us, but it was our lot to give the blues their due. I was not a big believer in fatalism, that one moment meant so much to the next, but either way, it seemed I had dropped in at a potentially redemptive moment. On the day Gloria and I seperated, a similar opportunity for empathy had presented itself, and I had bungled it, big-time. So far into our reunion, neither of us had made reference to that catastrophe; a silent, mutual agreement, I guess, that it was old news, nothing worth retreading. But even if Gloria wasn’t, I was thinking of how I’d acted that day, and now I was hellbent on replacing its meaning, creating a contrast. I licked my lips.
“You were always someone I admired,” I repeated. “I remember I watched you for a long time before I made the approach.” Gloria still looked out and away, but I heard her hum with recognition at the start of my story, parts of which she was already familiar with. “Because,” I continued, “I didn’t really know how to approach. You had your whole entourage and I really only ever saw you in class from across the way. And once the infatuation started, you know, once I realized I was interested, having day dreams of possible conversations where we hit it off, I made sure to keep telling myself: You don’t know anything about Gloria. She might be annoying as shit…uh, interpersonally. Trying to level my expectations. This didn’t stop the wanting, obviously, but I always had to pair it with doubt, to be realistic, so I wouldn’t feel so stupid later. But then, after putting so much energy towards manifesting it, months in my head, it was you that came to me; do you remember this?”
Gloria nodded, a weepy little smile on her face. I was doing well. The anecdote was an emotionally loaded risk, but I think Gloria could tell I wasn’t trying to engineer anything past the brevity of sweetness. We would never be together again. She took my hand. Her little thumb, wrapped in a silver band, massaged the top of my wiry hand, tracing the tendons and bone that stuck up like one of those raised maps. The effect was like Listerine being poured into my brain. I plowed ahead.
“Yeah, you told me you liked this presentation I did on Lost and it’s crazy because I’d had this tiny dumb hope that you’d want to talk to me about it, a dumb hope I’d had so many times before, but it happened that time. It happened and I couldn’t believe it.”
“You were so cute with your little presentation. I’d never seen you once before.”
“Right, despite that we’d been in three classes together at that point.”
“But when I finally saw you, I knew,” Gloria said, tapping her temple, “I sensed what you’d been up to. There was something going on. I had to talk to this kid.”
“And then it was just…” Our reverie was working me up, head shaking in disbelief and my free hand doing weird things. “I liked you so much. Somehow I knew before I even met you, like the day dreams told me. You, Gloria,” I said, emphatically jabbing my pointer finger at her, “are a person of quality. You are a thing I believe in, a very special girl. You’re doing fine, no worse than anyone else. This’ll work out. You just need to make some hard decisions and keep going.”
I considered it for another second, recounting my argument while also acutely aware that Gloria had tipped my hand over to trace my palm, which felt good.
“Yeah.” I nodded affirmatively. “That’s it.”
Gloria sniffled and laughed and said, “That is so nice, Seth,” and we hugged. I patted her back and held her tighter than before. I had done the best I could and she knew that I had. That understanding had always been easy with Gloria.
“Fuck,” she sighed, fishing a second cigarette from her purse with one hand and wiping the wetness from her face with the other. “You’re a good boy. What ever happened, man?”
“Don’t remind me.” I flicked my own finished Parliament to the ground, crushing it with my heel as I changed the subject: “So what the hell are we up to tonight?”
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