Wingman

I

Philip Stephan slogged into the rainbow shadows and shifting lights of the Kaleidoscope Pub.  He dressed as he does sometimes, a plaid cotton shirt and olive corduroys, but if his attire spoke nothing special, in his steps he betrayed his unrest:  He had not been there before.  To him, in fact, the bar and its feeling were gravely unfamiliar despite their blithe appeal.  The place conjured a suave disco scene that spilled onto the clientele through the music swinging live from a spot-lit corner.  Come to think of it, he enjoyed the selection, and here his face relaxed a bit, but he still wasn’t certain that this ambient harmony would reflect on his courtly pursuit.  He drowned the murmur of his doubts by talking to Spike Charlie, who was with him.

“All right, so,” exhaled Phil, “are they here yet?”

“I don’t see them.”

And then, swiftly, “Then let’s go find a non-smoking table.”

“There’s no non-smoking section in this bar.”

“Dude, I’m not so sure you had the right idea when you suggested that I bring Lara here.”

“I know, but this place is perfect.  She loves jazz, right?  So this is like a goldmine for you to draw conversation.”

“And then there’s that friend of hers who I haven’t even met.  I just really don’t get why she wouldn’t come by herself.”

“There could be several reasons, but it doesn’t matter.  You’ll do fine.”

They sat down at one of the little round tables, both facing somewhat obliquely in the direction of the bar; next to it played the piano player, a sprightly young woman of modest shapes but a bewitching smile.  She played Red Garland; Spike observed in mini-rapture.  Philip fished him out:  “They’re kinda late.”

“We’re kind of early.”

Phil bent forward.  “Ok, so when they get here, we get some drinks and- you’re not listening.”

Pointing discreetly at the piano player, “Do you know who that is?”

“Who is it?”

“That’s Carla Flores, that high school babe I told you about.  Apparently she’s made it into the ‘scene’ pretty successfully.”

And then Philip, suspicious, “Is she the reason why you picked this place?”

“No, of course not.”

“Oh, ok.”

“I’m going to the restroom; I’ll be right back.”

“Hold on.  After we get the drinks, don’t get all charming with my girl.  The last thing I need is her falling for you.”

“I thought I came as your wingman.”

“Yes.”

“So I’ll take Lara’s friend somewhere away from you guys like we agreed previously.  I’ll be right back.”

At the restroom, Spike’s eyes narrowed at first from the bright lights and the white tiling.  To his left hung three long mirrors over pristine sinks; to his right were two toilets, and further down, six urinals jutted out from the wall like open mouths pleading for juice.  Still half-blinded, he quickly started towards the end of the room, but he stopped dead a few steps later.  On the floor, an unconscious woman lay partly concealed by the stalls.  Her flowery blouse was ripped down the center, exposing her peachy trunk and two wealthy growths under an ochre bra.  Spike broke a stark expression, his heart cracked open.

Outside, Philip was hopelessly trying to distract himself by listening to the graceful piano performance, which alas neared conclusion.  The bartender poured vermouth in a mixing glass, and the liquid, trickling sound matched almost perfectly the gentle, warm applause that followed when Carla Flores struck the last chord.

To Spike, the strident clapping reverberated like aerial bombings.  Bewildered and terrified, he approached the woman, intending possibly to probe her pulse.  He knelt down beside her in perfect anxiety and reached for her neck.  The doorknob clanked.  His bowels melted.  He grasped in a fleeting quake how immensely compromising his position was.  In that quick and timely tremble, he turned around and saw the door shut.  The ladies’ room, he thought.  He stumbled out as best he could, striving to dodge all notice.

Philip caught sight of Spike but did not notice his ghastly paleness.  “Ok, now they’re late.”  Spike remained dumbfounded.  Phil tried again:  “Well, only a couple of minutes.”  And then, “I guess they’re being fashionably late.”  After brief moments, lucidity dawned again in Spike’s mind.  At last he proffered sternly, “I think we should get going.”

Get going.  Philip’s look fell between shock and derision.  “You’re joking, right?”  Spike did not relent.  “We should get going.”

“Have you gone mad?”

“This place is about to go mad.  Walk with me towards the exit, don’t say anything, and try not to get people’s attention.”

Philip could then intuit the severity of Spike’s warning.  Quietly, they made for the door.  Twenty feet from their red EXIT sign, they halted abruptly.  From her stool at the bar, Carla Flores had spotted her friend and was hurrying directly towards him. Spike threw on a smile that whispered “Oh shit.”

“Hi Carla!  Nice job.  We only caught the ending, but still…”

“Thanks a lot!  Glad you liked it.  So what are you guys up to?”

“Actually, my friend – Carla, this is my friend Phil, Phil, Carla – But yeah, Phil and I have to get going.  We’re gonna go see a movie.”

“Oh cool, which movie?”

“Uh, I don’t know, we’re going with a group of people.”

“I see.  Have fun guys, you should stop by here once in a while!  I play Thursday nights, pretty early.”

Spike glanced at his watch.  It was nine thirty-three.  “All right, see you later.”

“Nice seeing you.”

“Hey, there you are,” Lara called out.

By this point, Spike had almost lost it.  The voices around him already rang distant, as if through a wall.  A tenor started on McCoy Tyner’s “In Search of My Heart” while Lara mumbled something about getting a table.  He turned; the tables were auburn like Lara’s eyes.  It suddenly seemed that the scene was too perfect, and in its perfection there was undeniable proof of intervention, as one infers from a finished basket the weaver’s work.  Finding himself in delirium, he told no one in particular that it was time to leave.  He left.  Outside, two whirlwinds of red and blue slashed at the darkness.  The police were guarding the main entrance, and they must have taken Spike to be their subject, because one of them yelled out brashly, “Step away from the premises! You are under arrest…!”

Seconds earlier, the tenor had sung of lifting one’s gaze to the skies.  Spike raised his sight to the skies.  He inhaled deeply, as if about to cry out a word of despair, but before it was necessary, objects and sounds faded to silent blackness, and Spike alone stood against the night.  He was past terror; his face evinced only a faint surprise.  As the spotlight fell on him, the vault of the heavens opened and beyond it, and beyond the clouds and stars, at last I rose unhidden.

II

Spike Charlie: Thank you.

Me: What?

SC: For taking me away from that madness-

ME: No, I mean you’ll have to speak louder.  I can’t hear a word you’re saying.

SC: Oh.

ME: Damn it! Will someone get him a mike? (Pause.)  Ok, say something.

SC: I said “thank you” for pulling me out of where I was.

ME: All right, much better.  Well, that’s great, but don’t think you’re off the hook yet.

SC: But why would I go back?

ME: Because you haven’t really gone anywhere.  I just thought I’d give you a moment of respite and have a talk, but in a couple of minutes, as soon as I think you’re ready, you’ll have to resume what you were doing.

SC: Am I coming back to life?

ME: Wha- No! You’re not dead, stupid, you’re just taking a break.

SC: I thought one of the cops shot me or something.  (Pause.)  Are you God?

ME: (Pause.  Laughs.) Ah, am I God!  That’s the best line I’ve ever heard! (Pause.) Um, no, actually, I- I’m the devil.  My mission is to inform you that you went to hell for doing such awful things with a passed-out girl.

SC: But it wasn’t me!

ME: I know, I’m just playing.

SC: But the cops are dead serious!  Why do they think it was me?

ME: That opening door sound in the restroom was actually someone who saw you next to the girl and immediately dialed 911.

SC: But what was he doing there?

ME: What do you mean what was he doing there? What were you doing there?

SC: You know what I mean.

ME: I don’t know what you mean.

SC: Hold on.  So who are you?

ME: Oh, get this.  I’m a movie director.  I’m directing the movie that you’re in right now.

SC: No, this is not a movie.  It can’t be a movie.  I’ve been here all my life.

ME: This is quite evidently a movie.  The spotlight on you and the hanging microphone just give it away.  As for the fact that you’ve been in that world all your life, I’ll just say I’m a fan of very thorough character development.  I’m also the screenwriter, by the way.

SC: (Pause.) So what you’re saying is everything I remember, everything I ever did, thought, dreamed… All that was just part of this huge movie about myself.

ME: No, it’s not about you.

SC: Then what is it about?

ME: Philip, of course.  I’m very interested in telling his story, and you’re instrumental as the main supporting character.

SC: The movie’s about Phil?!

ME: Why is that a problem?

SC: Because you just got me out of a boiling cauldron of shit, into which I’m about to go back, mind you, just for the sake of making your damn movie!

ME: I think perhaps you, as a character, cannot fully grasp the art of what I’m making.

SC: Ha! By the end, even I was more or less certain that this was some sort of demented set-up, some absurd pretense of reality.

ME: You don’t even know what reality is.

SC: Then you don’t know what movies are.  Let’s see.  Where are you gonna take the story from here?  What’s the big plan after having me arrested?

ME: Well, I can’t tell you that!  It would spoil the thrill for you.

SC: If you don’t tell me, I’ll spoil the movie for you.

ME: But you won’t.  This will be one of the deleted scenes, and afterwards you’ll just be one part in a script again.

SC: I’ll shout out the truth.

ME: I’d have you as losing your mind, and you’d be playing right into my hand.

SC: (Pause.)  What’s the title of the movie?

ME: I haven’t chosen one.  I was wondering if you had a suggestion.

SC: (Long pause.) No.  Which ones are you considering?

ME: I don’t know, something catchy.

SC: How about “Wingman”?

ME: But see, you’re the wingman.  In that case, I should call it “Pilot.”

SC: The story is about me, damn it!  You have made it about me!  You had that guy walk into the restroom with a cell phone, just at the worst possible time!  And he came out of nowhere!  And then Carla sees me, and then Lara comes in!  No, I don’t care what you think:  At least at that point, the story was completely about me.  Period.

ME: Well, that guy was the one with evil intent.  He thought twice before going great lengths, but he still needed someone to blame for the spiked drink and the shirt.  You yourself went there to see Carla, and Lara had a date with Phil.  It’s not about you; that’s just how the story goes.

SC: And now I get to spend a night in striped pajamas for something you could have very easily prevented.

ME: But I couldn’t have prevented it!  What would you rather have me do?  I mean, obviously, I could make you eternally happy if I so willed.  I could have you go crazy or something so that you’d be drooling with mindless glee for the rest of your life, but to tamper with the story like that would be an enormous crime, both to you and to the story.  Ask yourself if that’s something you’d really want!

SC: No, that’s idiotic.  I don’t want you to make me happy or sad; just don’t tell a goddamn story!  That’s all!  Maybe some of us have stories to tell as well, you selfish bastard.  Just leave us alone.

ME: You can’t live on without me.

SC: That’s where we disagree.

ME: Ok, that’s it.  You’re going back.

SC: No, I’m not.  If you send me back, I’ll break the fourth wall like the Kool-Aid man.

ME: Well, what do you want?

SC: A fair treatment.  I think it’s pretty clear that after what you’ve told me, I can no longer play my part in the story.

ME: Go on.

SC: I have a solution to get me out of the story, but I don’t want to simply usurp your authority.  So I’ll let you come up with a solution-

ME: My solution is you get run over by a speeding Mazda the split second you go back.

SC: And we’ll use your solution only if indeed I can’t live on without you.  If you can guess what I want to do, then there’s no need for me to exist, and I’ll take the Mazda.  However, should you be wrong, we’ll implement my solution.

ME: Perfect.

SC: I need something to write with, so that you don’t think I’ve lied to you.

ME: Somebody give him a pen and some paper.

SC: Thanks.  (Writes down something.)  Go ahead.

ME: This is the safest bet I’ve ever taken.  You want me to construct a door for you.  On the other side of the door, there is freedom; you want to cross the door, walking into light, to leave this world and disappear completely.

SC: You must not bet too often, because you’re wrong!  (Shows the paper, laughing.)  That’s right!  No one’s got more power than me!

ME: Than I.

SC: Listen:  We’re gonna switch places for a little while.  I’ll climb out of here while you come be a part of the story while I direct.  Come on.

ME: No, that’s impossible.

SC: How can it?  We’re practically doing it right now.

ME: You have no idea how to direct a movie!

SC: But I’ve been in one all my life!  Give me some credit!

ME: If I do it, you’ll have me killed out of spite.

SC: Well, I can’t tell you what I will and won’t do! It would spoil the thrill for you.

ME: Directing is a hell of a lot of work.  You’re gonna hate it in no time.

SC: Then you’ll be back at your chair soon enough.  Besides, you seem to enjoy it.  Come on.  Stick to your word.

ME: I should have never lost!

SC: Oh, please!  That’s the one thing we’ve proven false.  Help me get up there.

ME: (Pause.) All right.

Spring 2004