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Pussypants signed my guestbook today. Can I mention for a moment how ridiculously excited I get when someone signs my guestbook or my analyzer? It�s rather pathetic, really. Like "hey, someone validated me!" I shouldn�t need that. And I guess it�s not that I need it, exactly. But it�s nice to have.
Anyway, I went and read her entries, because I was intrigued by her saying she�d had an artboy herself. Hard to see shadows of yourself in someone else�s writing. It reminded me of a night, not so long ago or far away, that I�ve mostly managed to forget. Although I�m not sure forgetting is the right thing to do, since that makes it possible to go back. As long as I remember, I won�t let it happen again.
Gather round, kiddies. I do believe it�s Artboy story time.
The Artboy and I had a friend named Metal Bob. Still have, actually. I didn�t lose custody of him in the separation. He managed to remain in both camps, although he had to move away to do it. He�d started off, like so many of my other friends, as the Artboy�s friend, but we bonded over 80�s heavy metal hair bands and our mutual inability to hold our liquor. Metal Bob worked for a small offshoot of Sony, and spent a lot of time either in record stores or at shows, promoting the bands on his labelet. Frequently, he�d get extra passes for things, and would invite the Artboy and me along. This one particular night, it was a show we were all fairly excited about going to see. The boys had been sitting in the house playing some random Playstation game for hours. I�d mentioned it was getting to be time to go several times, but got the "just a couple minutes" response enough that I stopped hounding them. Instead, I camped out by the door with my book and waited.
Finally, they came out, pulling on jackets and muttering that we needed to get going right now! I grabbed my stuff and followed Metal Bob and the Artboy out the door.
I climbed in to the back seat of Bob�s Toyota, pushing CD�s and flyers out of my way. The Artboy got in the passenger seat, handing me posters from the floor up front. Bob closed his door and sped down the hill to the main street.
We stopped, waiting for a break in traffic to turn. I had a momentary panic. "Hold on, Bob, before you pull out�let me make sure I have my ID." I have this continual fear of getting to places and not being able to get in. As a result, I compulsively check my pockets for my license, my money, my bank card. I went to reach in and check, but Bob put his hand on my shoulder and stopped me. "Get out," he said.
"What?" I asked, confused. "I just want to check my pockets."
"I don�t have time for this. I can�t be late. (Artboy), let her out of the car."
Artboy and I stared at each other for a moment. Then, he opened his door, climbed out of the car and moved the seat forward. Dumbfounded, I got out.
The Artboy moved the seat and returned to the car. He closed the door and Bob drove away, leaving me at the bottom of the hill in the February night. I watched them drive away, sure this was a joke. Any moment, they�d reappear and the Artboy would open the door, and we�d all go to the show.
Finally, I turned and walked back up to the house. The Artboy�s roommates were all still in the living room, playing with the Playstation. "Hey Jennifer, did you forget something?" one of them asked. I shook my head, then told them what had just happened. More than one "Fucking Artboy!" reached my ears. I sat down and watched the game through wet eyes.
Somewhere around 1:30, Metal Bob and the Artboy came back in. I waited on the couch until they shut the door, then walked up the stairs to the Artboy�s bedroom without saying a word to either of them. "Jen, come back!" Bob called from the stairwell. I didn�t answer. "I brought you a snack," the Artboy yelled up. I was silent. I heard them walk away, into the kitchen. Half an hour later, I heard Metal Bob drive away.
The Artboy came upstairs into his room. I was under the covers, with my back to the door. He sat on the edge of the bed and undressed in the dark, then climbed naked into bed next to me. I ignored him. He put his arm around my waist and started kissing my neck. I didn�t move.
"Hey, are you mad at me?" he whispered. I still said nothing. He slid his other hand between my legs, pulled me in closer to him. "C�mon, don�t be mad. The show wasn�t very good, anyway." I rolled onto my back and looked up at him. He kissed my neck, my face, other parts of me. Eventually, I kissed him back. He climbed on top of me. I closed my eyes and tried not to cry.
The next day, neither of us mentioned the show, or his arrival home. I ate the leftover pizza in the refrigerator. The box said, "To Jen: We missed you! Metal Bob and the Artboy."
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