Neurotic Fan Part II–Am I Invisible?

I shuffle upstairs in my long black kimono, the show starting soon.

I go to the bathroom to piss out my beer and stand in line, nobody talking to me and me talking to nobody. I think of what a little city Eugene is. People say it’s a real friendly city. I’m not entirely convinced. I remember bathrooms down on the border of Mexico and how they came practically stocked with cocaine and how that really brought the women together, really opened up the lines of communication, har har.

Eugene needs more drugs, for sure. Women here care about health and spirituality and jogging. Fucking. Jogging.

I emerge from the bathroom stall and am the only person left. Good. I wash my hands and check myself out in the mirror, remembering the young girl who didn’t check my ID. Bitch.

Then I hear a stall door open and close. And though I didn’t know it yet– I hear the sigh of Chelsea Cain’s pre-show nervousness or boredom, I don’t know, but it was a sigh…a famous-author-sigh and Famous. Authors. Are. People. Too.

“Oh. Hi!”

I perk right up as Chelsea Cain emerges in her pink lipstick, short nighty and fuzzy bunny slippers.

“Hi!” She smiles her bright, gorgeous smile.

“I like your nightgown. Very vintage.” I smile back. Again.

“Oh, thank you.”

“Well, have fun!” I wave while leaving the bathroom.

I look for Lidia but she’s hiding (she does that) and I think, gosh, I hope Chelsea knows I know who she is. All I did was talk about her clothes. I could’ve mentioned her books.

But the truth is, I hadn’t yet read her. But I liked her–just for being her–she was perky and charismatic, I knew that. A week later I would read her memoir Dharma Girl, which wasn’t a struggle, not at all, it was very well-written and introspective but lacking a little spice and danger.

Reading Dharma Girl after reading The Chronology of Water reminded me of when I replaced methamphetamine with cocaine (we’re talking daily use here). So mellow it was hardly even potent. But it’s all relative–if I did cocaine now I’d be swimming the clouds. Back-strokes n’ shit.

I’m sure, no I’m certain Chelsea Cain’s murder mystery shit is potent as hell.

So I look for Lidia and she’s still nowhere to be found. I get in line for a stuffed animal and I’m the only one there and there’s an empty box behind the deserted foldy-table.

Oh well.

I join the fifty-thousand fucking horny college kids with their iPhones and now their huge cheetah and lion stuffed animals that they’re literally making hump eachother.

I sit on the floor cross-legged with my faint close-lipped smile that says I’m approachable and someone elbows me in the mouth and a round girl in front of me scootches back to make room for her friend, a sexy blonde in a black kimono and they snap a picture together and they’re so close I could lick the backs of their heads. I shift uncomfortably and think Am I invisible? Like, really. No, I invisible?

4 thoughts on “Neurotic Fan Part II–Am I Invisible?

  1. I moved to Austin not knowing nobody. Sometimes I would weave the streets and back alleys of downtown and find a bar that had plenty of open seats. I would order a beer, pull a small sketchbook from my pocket, and draw to become someone. Or to get laid, though that never worked. Invisible is a good word.

    I would draw a hand resting on a glass, or maybe some couple in a drunken embrace. There would be a band sometimes, the kind with an old black man who only the bartenders knew was a legend. Drawing dark, shiny, bulging features, I would feel camaraderie with the man. A legend drawing a legend. A legend playing the trumpet for a legend. The power of invisibility comes with a sense of superiority, real or imagined.

    Emerging onto the late-night sidewalk, hands dug in my pockets, chin tucked in my chest, inevitably some drunk stud would knock me sideways. I would glare at him: boisterous, confident, a pair of wobbly, high-heeled legs on each arm. He would shout some profanity laced command at his posse, and swiftly move to the next destination, having not seen me at all. There was a part that wanted to hold his dumb face underwater, and another part that wanted to be him. With a pocketful of drawings, I would tell myself that I had used the night to inch one millimeter closer to my goal. All he would have to show for it was a hangover and a venereal.

    These blog posts make a better souvenir than any stuffed animal. Invisibility is a cocoon. Don’t be too quick to give it away.

    1. Hey Dallion,

      I love how this comment is an extension of the story. I think my readers will appreciate it–maybe it’ll get them writing about bar-going too.

      So, you know where I’m coming from.

      If you’re not from Austin where are you from?

      P.S. Write. Draw. But write.

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