Inappropriate sharing, incomprehensible ramblings, uncalled-for hostility: yup, it's a blog.

Sunday, October 17, 2010

Relationship stuff

So Saturday morning, dead asleep, I sat up in bed and told Greg some awful things.

I imagine the scene must've been very Exorcist-like, with my eyes rolled back into my head, perhaps my head spinning around on my brain-stem, and, after the words, some pea soup shooting out of my mouth.

Here's the thing: I don't remember saying anything at all. I don't recall anything other than deep, comfortable sleep. When I woke up Saturday, Greg was out--as he was supposed to be--so I went about my day, doing domestic things, taking the dog for a walk, looking forward to going with Greg to see the second part of Angels in America.

Right. So. Took the dog out, brought him home, realized we needed a few things from Rite-Aid, left the dog at home, went back out. Got what we needed. Came back home.

Greg, in the meantime, had also arrived home. He was sitting at his computer when I returned. Waffles danced around my feet.

"Hey," I said.

"Don't act all friendly to me," Greg shot back.

"What?"

"I was so happy when I got home and you weren't here."

I set the Rite-Aid bag down. "What'd I do?" I often ask this question. I am, admittedly, a terrible person constantly doing things that require a 'what'd I do?' follow-up.

"What you said," Greg replied. "Not what you did. What you said."

And what I'd said was pretty bad. Not as bad as the time, a few years back, that I'd sat up in bed and announced to Greg, "No wonder your father killed himself. He did it to escape you and your mother." Greg's father died in 2007, when a tree landed on him. It was a sudden and violent death. Why I declared it a suicide is beyond me.

This Saturday morning, tho--whatever I'd said to Greg had been weighing on him all day.

(Curtain time for Angels in America: 2.5 hours.)

"What did I say?" I asked, without a response. "Greg, really, I was probably dreaming." No response. "The only thing I remember is I was watching 'Married.... With Children' on the laptop. I closed the computer, set it down, and went to sleep."

"'Married... With Children'?"

"It's available on Netflix. It was the first episode. I was curious."

"Marc, you sat up in bed and... proclaimed things. You looked me right in the eye and... I can't do this, I don't want to do this right now. I'm tired, and I have to go to a three-hour show."

"Do you even want to go to the show?"

Greg, no longer at his computer but up and pacing: "Yes. Yes! I want to go to the.... I've seen the movie, I liked the first part on stage... I want to see it."

"What did I say?"

"You sat up in bed."

"And I said...?"

"The alarm went off. I got up. I mumbled something about not wanting to be awake this early. You looked right at me just like you're looking at me now, and you said... fuck it. I don't want to do this right now."

"What'd I say?"

(Curtain time for Angels in America: 2.3 hours.)

"Whatever I said," I said, "I'm sorry. I wasn't awake. Believe me, when I'm vicious, I remember. It was a dream." I'm not a fan of Mike Bribiglia for the hell of it. I identify. All my life, things seem to happen between going to sleep and waking up.

"You were right," Greg said. "You're always right."

Here's another thing: Greg is the most important thing in my life, and I'd rather he be right.

After a long, semi-heated discussion, Greg and I agreed we'd try for another night--we'd call the box office and relinquish our tickets, and go sometime later. The tickets were free, after all, a nice gift from a friend who'd worked on the set.

(The set, btw, is fantastic. It works like a puzzle, this set, and compliments the text. The set is a dichotomy--two essential pieces, stage left and stage right, spinning around to accommodate, say, the Pitts' living room, or Roy Cohn's hospital room, or an office in the court house.)

I called the box office to reschedule. It was closed.

"Then we'll go," Greg said. He started to gather his shoes. Waffles attacked his face.

"You aren't in the mood."

"I'm tired. Three hours is a long show."

"We'll go another night. Tickets are cheap."

"Jon got us the tickets and it'll look bad if we don't take them." (Fun fact about comp tickets: if someone gives them to you, you get on a shit-list if you fail to use them.) "Go. I'll be fine." Waffles still attacking his face, shoes set aside.

"I don't want to leave you alone."

"I'm fine," Greg said.

"What did I say?" I asked.

"Go."

So I went.

I ended up going to see the second part of Angels in America alone, which turns out to be a worse idea than sitting up in the early morning and announcing, "Your father killed himself to escape you and your mother."

I got our two comp'd tickets, gave one away to someone hoping to see the show--a young woman reading, no kidding, The Executioner's Song. Before curtain, she sat down and pried open a hardback edition of The Executioner's Song, read til the lights dimmed, and then during the two intermissions she'd whip that book out and continue reading. When, on stage, Prior says to Louis, "I love you, but you can't come back," I wished it were Greg sitting next to me. I missed Greg. And I missed my copy of The Executioner's Song, which is in a box in AL, rotting.

And then I came home, after the young woman in Greg's seat and I gave a standing O to the cast.

When I came home, the final lines of the play were still with me: "And I bless you. More life. The great work begins."

Even though I wanted to, I didn't ask Greg what I'd said--I just kissed him. He kissed me. Waffles danced at my feet. "You okay?" I asked.

"Better."

I hope the next time I sit up in bed and make a declaration, Greg has sense enough to slap me.

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