DREAM: We’re all in the concert hall near the front of the stage but we still have to give our tickets to the ticket man. Slowly making our way through the maze-like line of poles. This is part of the tour Elliott, Wesley, and I had planned a while ago. Emmanuel skips ahead of me. In a sarcastic tone I yell, “Oh yeah, you can go ahead since you know the band and all!” We all make it through the line and the show is already over. A black dude, about the same size as me but with a little more muscle, hops down from the stage, onto a stack of chairs first, then to the floor. Elliott, Wesley, and the rest of the crew are already headed outside and getting ready to leave for the next city. Something’s wrong. I confront the black dude about getting paid for the show. I remember Elliott and them being afraid to deal with him, so I stayed behind to try my luck. He looks like he used to be a gang member. He’s loud mouthing me and throwing up his hands. I retort, “Are you serious? What about our compensation?” I knew this was a big show and a big venue—there’s no reason we should not get money from it. “We can’t even get $100…for gas?!” My voice is cracking a lot because I’m in competition with the band that’s still playing. This guy has such an attitude. He’s totally baffled at the fact I’m even talking to him. He swings his right arm up in the air and attempts to slap me repeatedly as I shield myself. I continue to argue, “We brought more heads to this show than anyone else and you know that! We deserve something!” There’s just no persuading this stubborn asshole. I head to the back so I can meet up with the rest of the guys. Behind me, the black dude has a skateboard in hand as if he’s about to ram into me on it. I look outside and realize I’m at least 100 stories high. I was about to climb down the side of the building (I remember coming up this way and it being incredibly easy), but two security guards are nearby. So I go back in to look for the elevator. There’s a church service going on now. I hear a simple chorus being sung over and over again. It’s a sweet sound. I follow a few kids through these double wooden doors. Asking a man, “Do you know where the elevator is?” He directs me to another set of double wooden doors inside the concert hall.
Waking up around 5:30 p.m.
Art discovered his facebook page. He was not aware of it until now. This is not good.
Breakfast: Toasted Bagel Plain with Cream Cheese. Orange Juice. Zinc, Vitamin D.
Business.
Art and Roma get back home from their weekly work out.
Showing Art his facebook and the fake online persona Becca and I created for him.
Me: “I can’t believe it took you this long to find it.”
Art: “Dammit, Robert.”
Stretching. Crunches.
Lunch: Egg Salad Sandwich with Tomato. Salt n Vinegar Chips. Honey Green Tea.
Music licensing business. Uploading more songs.
[INTENSE MOVIE-ESQUE SITUATION AND DIRTY LAUNDRY ALERT] Okay, so she calls me around 1am needing me to pick her up from some house way out by the courthouses. She had already forewarned me she would be drinking with some friends and might need a ride. She’s barely coherent over the phone and sounds irritated that I can’t come right this instant. “I’m in the middle of something right now. I can get you around 2 okay?”
It’s a 20-minute drive to get to this house. Some dude that seems high off the heavens answers the door and says he doesn’t know of a Margot here. I considered the possibility I may have the wrong address. I call Doug, who’s still at home, to check my google maps history on the computer just to confirm it’s 2428. I had it right. The same dude comes to the door. “Look man, I know I have the right address. I’m just here to pick up my girlfriend.” The other people in the house realize what’s going on. After a few minutes of waiting, she finally comes scrambling out the door.
We get into the van. “Hey, I tried to call you.”
Starting to slowly move down the street. “Hey, are you okay?”
Her lips transform into a huge upside down arc and she begins to cry.
“Hey, what’s wrong? Did something happen?”
And then it comes out, “I had sex with somebody.”
Not certain how to respond, I start asking questions to make sure it wasn’t something forced or borderline rape. Apparently, this horny idiot told her not to say anything to anyone. He even knew she had a boyfriend. However, it was consensual, even though she reassures me that she didn’t want to. My body tenses up but I’m surprisingly calm. It’s only a cover up—my body’s way of protecting itself. “Why didn’t you just say no?”
She’s whimpering and repeating herself, “Please…please…please…I love you.”
“I believe you. But I can’t talk to you right now. I’m taking you home.”
I’m parked in her driveway now. It sounds like she’s hyperventilating. “Margot, just breathe. C’mon.” It seemed she was on the verge of going unconscious at any second. I guess the realization of the damage that’s been caused is shocking. Pulling her out of the van. I figured I’d at least get her inside and make sure she’s okay. On the couch, she’s still whimpering and crying. I’m just standing there in the den. For some reason, my right middle finger has gone completely numb and lifeless, caused not from the cold, but from this shaky and disastrous moment.
I have her explain everything to me again but none of it makes sense. She had the opportunity to say no and she didn’t. Just as much as he took advantage of her, she went with it. But Margot is stronger than that when she’s sober. She’s expressed to me her faithfulness many times. Ever since we’ve been official, none of us have ever cheated on each other.
“Look, I love you too. But I don’t have sympathy for you. You chose to drink. You lost control! You let alcohol control you. You screwed up and now you have to deal with the consequences.” And so do I. But I didn’t have to say that.
I imagine driving back to that house, walking straight into that jerk-off’s room, pulling him out of bed, and punching him with every ounce of angry vengefulness in me.
She’s begging me to stay as I make my way to the door. I hate seeing her in shambles like this. I know she’s really sorry and regrets what she did. But I can’t forgive her right away. This kind of shit takes time.
I stand there and I let her embrace me. My left hand still in pocket and my right arm holding tight around her back—her face mashed into my chest—tears, pain, disbelief. I leave shortly after but only after a defiant attempt on her part to follow me to the van. I left her there in the driveway. It’s sad. It’s so sad. I feel sad. Everything inside me tightens into a painful knot. It feels like death. In fact it’s too horribly similar to what it felt like when my sister died. What the fuck.
Back at home. I take a walk through the neighborhood—smoking a Sampoerna cigarette—breathing in the fierce cold air. I need to get into a fight with somebody.
Dinner: Leftover Tumeric Ginger Rice with White Kidney Beans and Mixed Vegetables. Dinner Rolls.
Finishing Let the Right One In [2008]. This is one of the most beautiful complex vampire films I’ve ever in. I hear the American remake is just as penetrating.
Playing Unreal. Destroying and killing in a virtual world is a good substitute for the real thing.
Chocolate Milk.
Sleep 8:45 a.m.
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