Charm School, Part Three | When the Professor Met the Nightclub Owner

Like I said, Eva was supposed to have accompanied me to the literary discussion of The Postman Always Rings Twice that Saturday night in October of 2007. But when I showed up at her River North condo, the doorman said she wasn’t answering. I called her cell, which went straight to voicemail. Then I called her roommate, Marie-Claire, who did pick up the phone, but who sounded weird.

Marie-Claire: “She’s not here.”

Me: “Well, I kinda figured that.”

Marie-Claire: “Sorry, I can’t help you.”

Dead pause.

Me: “Okay.”

She hung up.

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Like most of us, Eva Parker hungered to love and be loved, AND trembled at the thought of revealing her true self to another.

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So, coldness. From Marie-Claire, the sweetest person in the world.

A mere three months earlier, on the marble dance floor of the WAC, during the Midsummer’s Eve Soirée of 2007, I asked Eva to marry me, on bended knee, in front of a hushed crowd, with a 5000-dollar ring (not much by her standards, but all I could afford). She said yes. Everybody cheered. Amanda Wolff, fronting the Alan Gresik Swing Shift Orchestra, sang Red Sails In the Sunset. Other couples joined us for the Great American Staggering Hug ritual, otherwise known as slow dancing.

Red sails in the sunset, way out on the sea
Oh, carry my loved one home safely to me
She sailed at the dawning, all day I’ve been blue
Red sails in the sunset, I’m trusting in you

Swift wings you must borrow
Make straight for the shore
We marry tomorrow
And she goes sailing no more

(lyrics by Jimmy Kennedy, 1935)

When the song was done, my right lapel was stained with the tears and snot of Eva Parker. And yes, I’m aware that that’s not a bad name for a romance novel parody.

Looking back, I think the waterworks were generated more by terror than joy; but also, the war between the two. Like most of us, Eva Parker hungered to love and be loved, AND trembled at the thought of revealing her true self to another.

I decided to attend the literary discussion anyway, without Eva, because this disappearing act had become common. And I had resigned myself to not chasing after her anymore. I knew what was going on; but I didn’t want to deal with it. That is, I didn’t want to ponder the notion of a hot young woman of affluent means chasing after her freedom. For Eva, freedom meant doing whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted, with whomever she wanted. And since our engagement, I had sacrificed my freedom, as well as my comfortable world of scholarship and pedagogy to serve as Eva’s courtier, rather than her king. And I was tired of it!

I don’t remember much of anything about the discussion, other than Richard Roeper and Michael Phillips were on the panel to discuss the movie versions. And I sat between Sarah and Izzy. And I didn’t ask any questions. My mind was preoccupied by the Eva within.

Sarah and Izzy used to love having me to themselves. They played with me like a doll. They hung on my arms and pinched my cheeks and when they were sleepy, they would snuggle against my shoulders and yawn without covering their mouths. I was the boyfriend that they didn’t sleep with, a role typically played by a gay man.

After the discussion, cake and coffee were served in the hallway outside the auditorium. Sarah and Izzy fawned over the panel until it became clear that the panel was fawning over the students; at which point my little pussy posse retreated to their bunker — me.

Sarah: “How’s it going with your dissertation?”

Me: “I can’t decide on a title.”

Izzy: “What’ve you got?”

Me: “Knight Takes Queen.”

Sarah: “You’re kidding.”

Izzy: “What, are you writing a chess manual?”

Me: “Maybe love is a game.”

Sarah: “And maybe we need a manual.”

Me: “For Her Majesty’s Honor.”

Izzy: “Sounds like a Bond movie.”

Sarah: “Oren, what’s wrong?”

Izzy: “There’s something on your mind.”

I looked at the floating tea bag in my cup.

Me: “Eva was supposed to be here.”

The girls rolled their eyes.

Sarah: “What do you expect?”

Izzy: “Oren, you’re dating a child!”

Just then, Dr. Rutter touched me on the arm. “May I have a word with you?”

We stepped away.

Dr. Rutter: “The Independent Studies Committee wants you to find a way to apply your methodology to a real-world situation.”

Me: “Like a real-life royal court?”

Dr. Rutter: “They want you to document some examples of courtly behavior that are going on right now. And not celebrities on TV. They want you to create your own data set.”

Me: “Data set? I’m writing about cultural trends. I’m writing about . . . comparing medieval courtship to modern courtship.”

Dr. Rutter: “Yes, but there has to be evidence, me boy. You can’t just write your beliefs. This is academia.”

Me: “No shit.”

T. put a hand on my shoulder.

Me: “Where’s Jonathan?”

Dr. Rutter: “Oh, he couldn’t come. Again.”

Me: “Why not? I’ve always thought The Postman Always Rings Twice would make a great graphic novel.”

Dr. Rutter: “Jonathan refuses to come to any more of my functions until I read one of his comics.”

Me: “Well, you should support your partner’s work, Dr. Rutter.”

Dr. Rutter: “Oh, really? Where’s your partner?”

Me: “She couldn’t make it tonight.”

Dr. Rutter: “Enough said.”

And that was the last thing I remembered before waking up the next afternoon with a hangover.

As I said, I came-to in more ways than one. Not only did I wake up from my blackout stupor; I also woke up from my romantic delusions. Specifically about Eva.

Also, there were these bloody bandages, too tight, on my left forearm, cutting off the feeling in my hand. And then there was this note on my nightstand.

Vic? Vic? Vic, who?

I took a Xanax and opened a pack of Alka-Seltzer.

Plop, plop . . . fiz, fiz . . . oh, what a relief to get the bandages off my arm. Until I saw . . .

An outline of the letters “G”, “O”, “O”, on my upper forearm close to my elbow; as well as a few nasty scratches and puncture marks, which is where the blood had come from. No pus. Scabs had formed.

I washed the whole mess with peroxide, which opened the wounds again. No matter. I took a soapy washcloth to the letters, blood and all. But . . . the letters weren’t coming off. I had a permanent tattoo. Or rather, the beginnings of a tattoo, not fully inked in. Nothing arty. Helvetica typeface.

I grabbed a handful of Kleenex and pressed them to the wounds, to stop the bleeding. Then I lay back down, waiting for the Xanax to work because I was too nauseous to drink the Alka-Seltzer.

If you’ve ever experienced a blackout hangover, then you know what comes next. One by one, embarrassing fragments of your drunken escapade flash behind your eyelids, even as you blink; especially when you close your eyes but can’t escape back into sleep.

— I remembered wandering through a dark, stinky nightclub with the stupid techno boom chicka-boom chicka-boom reverberating through my chest. Or maybe that was my heart.

— I remembered upending a table at the nightclub by falling through it; which must have made at least one person laugh. I would have laughed.

— I remembered vomiting in a public toilet with a bunch of young women click-clacking around me with their high-heels. Voice saying, “Dude is fucked up!”

— I remembered taking a nap in front of a dumpster, after urinating behind it . . . a very kind man — big guy in a suit — picking me up. An angel, silhouetted by a street lamp.

— I remembered fighting with a wiry hipster in a brightly lit retail store — fluorescent lights buzzing — with iron bars on the windows; then being escorted to the sidewalk by a huge bouncer type wearing a flak jacket and a pistol.

But how did I get home?

I sat up, took a swig of Alka-Seltzer, and called this Vic person.

Vic: “Oren.”

Me: “Vic.”

Vic: “How ya feeling?”

Me: “Not well.”

Vic: “I’ll bet.”

Me: “You have my keys.”

Vic: “Indeed, I do.”

Me: “How did I get home?”

Vic: “You don’t remember?”

Me: “No.”

Vic: “That’s too bad, because you and I made sweet man-love. It was the best sex I’ve ever had. In fact, I never knew I could feel that way about another man.”

I laughed.

Vic: “Look . . . get yourself together and meet me at the club after six tonight. I’ll be there doing some paperwork. I’ll explain everything.”

Me: “Club?”

Vic: “L’Enclave.”

Me: “Long what?”

Vic: “Haha, funny. L’Enclave. It’s French. It means, ‘The Enclave.’ It’s on Rush Street, just south of Oak.”

And then a wave of anxiety hit me, because I knew from overhearing some of Eva’s phone conversations that L’Enclave was one of her hideaways.

Me: “But . . . who are you?”

Vic: “Your guardian angel.”