(On PCP) by how I look. Don’t judge a book by it’s cover

It was another two weeks before I saw that ass again. This time it was packed into a maid costume. The hair was longer (a wig) and the makeup different, but I never forget an ass.

For once I had a night off from being onstage (my first in six months), so I decided to mingle with the Basement People. The Basement People were an odd phenomenon. Ranging in age from the late teens to late twenties, they actually paid for a ticket only to not enter the theater but to hang out on the lower floor. The Hollywood’s basement was accessible by a pair of broad carpeted staircases, the deep wine red of the carpet contrasting jarringly with the stark white of the walls, and was the location of the restrooms and an ill lit storage area that the cast used in place of a green room.

I was as sober as a judge that night, having only smoked up once early on in the day (I had the day off from ringing register and T was hanging around the third floor walk-up that I called home at the time, so… weed happened), when I slid down the wall into a squat next to Mallory. Mal hung out with us sometimes outside of Rocky, and had recently joined our V:tM group, but I didn’t know her well beyond that she affected the look of a badass with her biker jacket and mirror shades despite topping out at five foot nothing and maybe weighing a hundred pounds soaking wet, and that she had a huge crush on half Asian Steve (who, if you remember some of my previous rants, you know was at the time involved with my on-again, off-again unhealthy obsession, Carrie).

More importantly she was the unofficial “mayor” of the Basement People, making sure no one left a mess or generally did anything particularly stupid, and in her little fiefdom her knowledge was unsurpassed.

“So who’s that in the Magenta get up?”

Mal took a pull from the little silver flask she carried around with her, offering it to me afterwards (which I declined; girl drank straight gin which to this day I’ve never developed a taste for), before responding. “Dude, there are six people in maid costumes just in this basement alone. Gonna have to be more specific.”

Fair. Magenta’s maid costume was actually one of the least scandalous and outré of the bunch despite the corpse paint, so it was kind of an entry point for people looking to cosplay (yes, fans of Rocky invented sexy cosplay. You’re welcome). Not wanting to make myself too noticeable, I inclined my head in the direction of the ass that had so caught my attention. “Over there. The one with all the detail.”

Said ass was propped up against the far wall, a serene island in a sea of chaotic boobs and grease paint. The head that was a couple feet above it was bent over a fairly thin mass market paperback, which itself should have been enough to gather attention. No one came to the Hollywood basement to read in a corner. Sure, some people ostensibly brought text books for whatever schooling they were involved in, but Christ this was a Saturday night in July, and in what was basically a liminal space where the norms of society were mere suggestions and Crowley’s Law (Do What Thou Wilt) was the lay of the land.

“That’s Bob. Talks to almost no one, comes dressed in costume all the time, different one of the girls from a different scene. And all the costumes are really good.”

“Never Eddie or Riff?”

“Gabe, have you seen that ass?”

Well, she had a point.

I mingled a little bit, dodging a group of particularly aggressive sixteen year old groupies (yes, attention from young girls is nice, but just… eww), and weaving my way to the opposite wall. I sat down next to the ass in the maid’s uniform and waited as patiently as I could for what I judged to be the right moment.

“Whatcha readin’?”

Are you familiar with the phrase ‘deer in headlights’? Well, the first time I got a good look at Bob’s face, that was basically his expression. Still I took in those features. Beneath the corpse paint and **** eye makeup were soft if angular features; a sharp nose framed by big blue eyes that were a hair too wide to be considered manly sat above a pair of sexually full lips, all of this set upon a pleasingly heart shaped face that just skirted the line between masculine and feminine. Pretty wouldn’t be the right word. Striking comes closer. Those wide eyes softened, the panic dropping from them as acknowledgement of my question worked its way past the fight or flight instinct. The voice was soft, higher pitched than I would have assumed, breathy… “Illusions. Richard Bach.”

“One of my favorites.” True. I’d been given a copy by one of my exes, and to this day I read it once a year. It’s a short book, only 128 pages, that chronicles a story about a pilot and a mechanic as a framing story for what’s essentially a manual for self-actualization. I recommend it for everyone, and often give copies as gifts. “Argue for your limitations, and sure enough, they’re yours.”

A quote from the book brought a light into those blue eyes, and painted full lips creased into a warm smile. “Happiness is a choice. It’s not always an easy one. I’m Bob.”

“Gabe. Nice outfit.”

He blushed, blue eyes cast down toward his book again, but I could see the corners of his lips trying to tug their way up into a smile. “Yeah, I know who you are,” he mumbled, clearly self conscious. “I’ve been coming here for a while.”

“Always good to meet a fan.” My words seemed to put him at ease, as those eyes traveled back up to my face, pupils dilating as they met my own green eyes. “So I’m not gonna keep you from your book, gotta mingle and all that, but… say, ya wanna grab a coffee sometime?”

His face lit up like Time Square on New Years. We exchanged email addresses (I was pleased to note that his was from Pitt, indicating that I had not, in fact, been chatting up a high school student), and I took my leave, heading up to the theater; my last words to him of the night being another Bach quote: “Don’t be dismayed by goodbyes. A farewell is necessary before you can meet again.”