Where is My Muse
PART ONE
‘ACT III’
“What brings you here?”
“Couldn’t tell you.”
“Why don’t you try?”
“But where would I begin?”
“How about with that ribbon on your boot?”
I look down. Brown leather binds my feet, eyelets drawn taught with string. Threaded through one is a strip of red satin, its loose ends unravelling, dragging on the floor below.
“Just for decoration.” My eyes flit, unable to meet his cocked stare.
“You don’t think a decoration like that might make you a target?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Alright.” He turns his head to the back of his chair, his elongated torso and spindly limbs
following the crook of his neck as he springs himself over the side of the armchair.
“I’ll let up for now. Give you a break.” Big white palms facing me, fingers outstretched,
motioned in a facade of defeat.
“You’ll let me make you a drink though, won’t you?” His head is tilted slightly on its axis again, and I have a great urge to reach out, grab him by the skin of his hollowed cheeks, and set it straight.
He wheels around a bar cart, standing just front-left of my chair, so that I can watch his silhouetted frame as he busies himself with bottles in hues of mottled green and deep orange. A slight clinking rings out from two short, fat glasses that rub together, cradled in his large left palm. I am handed my prop old fashioned, and the sheets of light above make the rubber ice sparkle. Though I know none of it is real, I swear I can smell the perfume of fresh orange zest, almost taste the buzz of whiskey on my tongue. I clink my glass with his, both of us looking slyly out to the sea of shadow blanketed faces that bob below, before the curtains draw to a close.
★
In the darkened velvet dreamworld that is backstage, I watch makeup artists and set designers scurry back and forth, checking their wristwatches as the intermission tapers out and the time bomb of the final act peeks through the curtains. The rest of the cast mingles excitedly, the thrill of the closing night washes across their painted faces in excessive emotion. I hang back, preferring my usual spot amidst the prop boxes, where the innards of the theatre lie exposed. Lengthy wooden beams run along the ceiling, thick yards of rope are draped through pulleys like webs. I hear a chorus of tapping and scuffing along the worn floorboards, and I know that somewhere James has risen from his director’s chair, and is circling the cast like some sort of sheepdog, eyes bulging, clipboard raised above his head. He must always perform some ridiculous, desperate dance in an attempt to marshal everyone into place. I rise from my spot amidst the darkness, dusting my skirt and stepping a pointed heel towards the light.
I stand in line to re-enter the stage, fidgeting behind that large frame, my eyes drawn to the little red thread that hangs from the back pocket of his denim jeans. The loose thread comes from a ribbon that is a twin flush of crimson to the one at my feet. We’ve built a world around its weaves and wefts, and when he pulls it from his pocket, it will send the viewers spinning in their seats. We’ve practiced it endlessly, the perfectly calculated flick of the wrist to unravel it, the correct arrangement of overhead lights to make it shimmer just so. It is the play’s tipping point, the big reveal, our characters no longer enemies, but allies all along. The meaning of the thread will extend from the world of our play to the audience, pulling them forward in their seats, leaving their mouths agape. For a moment, everything will still, like a hitched breath. But it never lasts, and as the audience breathes out, they’ll slap their knees and shovel one last fistful of popcorn into their yawning mouths, leaving burnt kernels scattered down stairs, running their greasy hands over the carpeted chairs as they head to battle for a taxi back to their ordinary lives.
I watch his hands move to his pocket. Long nimble fingers reach in and writhe, faster, frantic. They stretch from one corner to the other, feeling only raw seams and fraying denim. A giddiness overtakes me as the light warbles over his face, expression twisted, capturing his panic, true and raw. I say nothing, do nothing, as the poise of the production unravels, like a chugging train grinding to a clunky halt. Hands behind my back, I twist the red ribbon through my fingers, hoping no critic notices my stifled smile.
PART TWO
The Sun Fades Beyond the Skyline
I scramble to push papers out from under me, making room for the plate that descends from above. I’m determined to stretch the eating process out as long as possible, enjoying the time where there’s a reason to put the futile scribbling in my notebook aside.
The deadline Simon gave me has been and gone; the talent he sees in me stays lodged, unmoving in my chest. Like clockwork I drag myself to the cafe each morning, to sit amongst all the others in town with nowhere else to be, attempting to write. But my efforts cannot force phrases to materialise. For now I have passively accepted my role as simply dealing with the words of others. Small editing jobs for students and freelance writers earn me what little income I need to pay for my cardboard box apartment in Chinatown. I eat, sitting with the surety that this morning will follow its usual progression. I will end up shuffling the heap of blank papers back into my bag, promising to try again under the inspiration of tomorrow’s morning sun. Then I will waste the hours wandering amidst the turning-golden October leaves, admiring shopfronts and passers-by.
Each walk grows duller as I come to expect the scent of each bakery, the display of each window, no longer dazzled by the new. Nonetheless I step one foot in front of the other, stopping when I reach the one place that still makes my heart leap. My heated breath fogs the glass before me, and I marvel at the mess beyond. Lamps made of rattan and fringe, silk curtain drapes and fine-grained wooden dressers cluster together. I dizzy myself imagining the lost lives of each item: soft green folding screens from Japan, ornate tiles from Marrakech, gilded gold frames from Paris. From each hangs a brown paper tag. Unassuming, yet I’ve turned over enough to know my place behind the glass.
The gentleman manning the till is scrawling in a notebook, likely tracking the journeys of the incoming and departing items from one wealthy American household to the next. I allow myself to step inside, and when the creak of the glass paneled door yields from him not even a glance, I begin to work my way through the store. From my pocket I pull the pen that refuses to pen plays, and begin to make scrawlings of my own. With each price tag I deface, my pulse quickens, blood pumping to my fingertips in desperation to make the tale of each item more enticing than the last. I do not stop until a good chunk of the store has been livened with tales of origin, the imagined pasts of the antiques realised on their little paper tags. I see the shop owner’s eyes flit upwards from below his darkened brow, and I turn on my heel, recommencing the humdrum click of my boots down the grit road.
★
Not an hour has passed when the jacket catches my eye. Marie the shopkeeper stands to the side as I admire the fit, its short crop and fluted cuff sleeves slick around my body.
“I like the ribbon on your boots.”
“Thank you,” I nod, my mouth forming a stilted smile. I glance at the boots I’ve placed on the change-room stool, “Just for decoration, really.”
“I can see you’ve an eye for such things.” She catches my eye in the mirror, her gaze flitting over the second-hand ensemble I’ve settled on. I’d chosen a structured black skirt that just grazed my bony knees, and from the sale section a pair of just-oversized men’s penny loafers. Like a snake shedding its skin I wish to slip free from my gaudy fringed shawls, the colours of which have grown faded under the relentless Los Angeles sun. Now I am engulfed in the palette of Chicago’s smoke stained sky, understated and tasteful. I give myself a final once-over, before clasping my hands together and turning my head towards Marie, flexing my shoulders and poising my chin in my decision-making pose.
“They’re perfect. How much for the lot?”
“$50.” She adds, “$45 if you leave the boots with me”.
I glance at the stool, the pointed lace numbers scuffed with San Francisco gravel, the soles worn from marching across each stage in the old theatre district. Each one stripped of their original laces, rethreaded with ribbon, twin in their crimson-flush.
I pull my gaze back to Marie, yet the muscles in my neck feel so strained I feel their fibres may tear and snap as I force my head to face her.
“Done.”
Though the price she’s asking is decisively unreasonable, I pull the $45 worth of crumpled paper from my wallet. Anything that’s been passed through the clammy hands of Hollywood, I am glad to part with.
The shop-front bell tingles above my head as I step out into the cool Chicago breeze.
Back in my cardboard-box, I take pleasure in changing out of my day clothes and carelessly throwing them across the room. I sit curled on the pull out sofa, the tic, tic of the wall clock seemingly slowing as my eyes bore into the glass of the apartment’s sole window. I wait for the day to draw its last breath.
But as the sun fades beyond the skyline, a gnawing pain hums steadily under my ribcage, and now I’m rising to take the apartment keys from the coffee table and clutching them to my chest, shimmying on the day’s new purchases and clunking down the echoing stairwell.
The evening air is cold and biting, and my usual pace is slowed by the too-big penny loafers scratching at my heels. I reach the familiar shopfront, and stop sharp, pulling a pin from my hair. I let the strands fan over my face, shielding my profile as I stoop over in concentration until I hear the click of the old lock. I welcome myself in, careful not to open the door wide enough to hear the tinkle of the bell above. In the corner, a trail of crimson marks the spot where I left my shoes. The gnawing at my chest eases once I am finished slipping on the leather, and pulling the ribbon tight around the arches of my feet. In their spot I place the loafers, and a note scrawled on a brown paper tag.
“I’m sorry Marie, please do forgive me.
I’ve found I can’t walk in these silly loafers, nor rest without my boots.
It’s rude of me to barge into your store as such, but please feel free to call the cops. I am not busy tomorrow and would like some excitement.
Yours truly, a dreadfully regretful customer.”