I'll Be Home at Last

It was a cheesy grin.
I knew it at the time, but in retrospect, it seems wider, more ridiculous. As if my mouth had stretched to enclose the entire auditorium. But how could I help it? After all, “it” was, up to that time, the proudest moment of my life. The bright lights on the stage. I was one of the few, the top ten percent—now, I’m not bragging, just clarifying—that could sit on the stage. Okay, perhaps a bit of the braggart. A very small bit. Just allow it to me this once. When Mr. Piccolo called my name, the years leading up to that very moment coalesced and flashed like one of the cameras “out there.” Among the audience. And for that moment, they were there for me. Only me. So I cheesed. I was going to college in the city in the fall, finally leaving behind this town and all that went with it. My friends, my family, my childhood home…and I was beyond ecstatic. I was proud, ebullient, hopeful, on top of the fucking world. Of course, the only way from there is down.

As I am writing this, I am sitting on a blow-up mattress incapable of remaining blown up to such a degree that I always wake up at some improbable angle, my head this way my legs that. I am back in this town. I am stoned. But that, if you knew me, is a given. I am horny. And that, if you know me, is a given. I am dreaming. I wasn’t sure of it at first, but I know now. I am dreaming. If I weren’t, I’d be tired. I don’t know what time it is, but I know I should be tired. Just to make sure, though, I conjure a knife and slash my wrists. There is no pain, only an awesome sensation. There is no blood. Instead, Technicolor butterflies flow down my arm, pooling, suspended, in mid-air. I turn my head and I see the stage at graduation, while sitting in my room on my dilapidated air mattress. I walk on, pajama-clad, and face the audience. The overhead lights blind me and I avert my eyes, looking behind me. There’s Sheena Fitzsimmons. And there’s Greg Almond. And there, the valedictorian, Marsha Warfield. Prim and proper.

I turn back to the crowd, fire in my eyes. Not literally, though I suppose they could have glowed a bit. I am wearing a sequined pantsuit, my hair matted against my forehead, my mascara threatening to run. I hear the opening chords to “Maybe This Time,” from Cabaret. Liza, is that me? I open my mouth, but it’s my shaky rasp of a voice that comes out. “Maybe this time….I’ll be lucky. Maybe this time, he’ll stay.” I steel my spine, breathe from my diaphragm. This is it. This is my chance to prove to them, to prove to everyone out there, and most importantly, to prove to myself, that I can do this. That I can shine . I pour myself into the song and I vibrate in and out, alongside the music. It and I are one, complementing and existing for one another. “Maybe this time, for the first time, love won’t hurry away.” I want to believe it so badly my body shakes. It’s no longer nerves. The audience, my dear audience, doesn’t matter. It’s up to me, now. Up to me to make them believe, to make them understand. It’s not entertainment, not just entertainment, anyway. This is magic. And I am the spellbinder. I take a deep breath.

The music breathes. Convulses, pops up, churning beneath me, on top of me, inside me. My voice penetrates its notes. We move together, there in the fluorescent dark, “Everybody…loves a winner, so nobody love me.” But I know that isn’t true, it can’t be, it simply can’t. The faceless crowd at the footlights, I can feel their eyes on me, feel their hearts beating with mine. They love me because I’m up here, and they’re down there. And I’m up here to fulfill something in themselves that they either cannot fulfill themselves or are too afraid to attempt. I speak to their emotion, to their experiences. Here I am, I’m here for you! I am your hopes and dreams, your fears and anxieties, I am your son, your daughter, your mother, your lover, your best friend, that stranger on the corner with whom you locked eyes earlier, only to quickly turn away. I am the bridge. From dream to reality, from reality to transcendence. And I am here for you.

“Maybe this time…MAYBE THIS TIIIIMMMMMEEE, I’ll WIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNN!!!!” The note seems to go on forever. I never want it to stop.

Darkness. The lights go out. There is nothing, only silence and the dark. What happened, I wonder. Where is everyone? Was I not good enough? I throw my head back and—thank god—it begins. The applause. Sweeping, intense, they take me in their clapping hands. I am overjoyed but I am saddened. It is over now. The illusion, the charade, the performance. Looking out into the audience, the lights are not as bright as they once were. And again I am in my pajamas, but with my pointy grad hat and tassel. Sheena and Greg and Marsha and everyone else are still behind me. Weren’t they always? Mr. Piccolo is waiting at the other side of the stage, paper in hand. Nervously, I make my way over to him and accept my diploma. Or whatever it is. It’s heavy, though impossibly small. I look at my hands to see that I’m holding what appears to be a star. I am lost in its radiance. I sit down in my dilapidated bed. It feels firm now. Suddenly, I’m sleepy. I put the glowing star by my bed and drift off into consciousness.