Like Dizzy Gillespie's Cheeks

Seventy-three

Thank God the phone woke me from my nap. I was having a bad, bad dream. There I was, playing some anonymous black tie charity gig, and suddenly, as I was playing, each of the eighty-eight keys on the keyboard turned into snakes. Big, fucking vicious snakes with beady eyes and slimy skin. Sure, the snakes were bound to the keyboard by their tails, but nonetheless, they could still wiggle about and show their big, fucking vicious fangs. The funny thing was, as I pulled my hands back in fear, it was apparent they weren't after my hands at all—as they all lifted in unison, it seemed as though they were looking at my zit. And just as a dog in puzzlement, the snakes all tilted their heads to the right—until one of them got greedy and went for my zit. At that point, I bolted upright, opened my eyes wide, and found myself disoriented and drenched with sweat.

Why did I take a nap? Why didn't I listen to more Ben tapes, like I planned that morning? What the hell was that dream about? I think snakes in dreams have to do with sex or death or something consequential. Actually, sometimes sex is death, so maybe it has something to do with caution. Or maybe I was simply obsessed with my zit.

I went to the bathroom to throw some water on my face, and as I looked in the mirror, I noticed one of three things had happened to the zit—I just wasn't sure which: It had either gotten smaller, my face had swollen up around it to make it look smaller, or I was simply getting used to having it. I wasn't sure which, but knew I had to find a way to either get rid of it by tonight or cover it up in some way.

"Here, try these on," I remember Liz saying as she held out an oversized pair of Jackie O–type sunglasses. She and "what's his name" were kind enough to give me a ride home from Helena's—which, in some ways, was potentially an uncomfortable situation. I didn't really feel like I could talk to Liz the way I would normally talk to her because of "him." But thankfully, Liz is Liz, and she's the same with everyone, no matter what.

I put the sunglasses on, and sure enough, they covered all three of my eyes. I guess I had a choice to make: look like a fool wearing sunglasses, or look like a fool with a big, red pus-filled distraction on my forehead.

"Keep the glasses for now ... you can always get them back to me. The only other suggestion I might offer would be to use a little Cover Girl ..."

At that point, I thanked them for the ride, told them I'd see them at Springer's party, and went up stairs for my nap, which, little did I know, would hold for me a bad, bad dream.

I turned the shower on for another steam treatment/shower, and while the water heated up, I moseyed to the bedroom to find my tux and all the accoutrements that went with it. It was after five, and I was getting more and more nervous for the night's pending events. Nothing in particular, just nerves, I thought. Then looking at the tux, I was lost in the anticipation of being with Kate all night, from the wedding to the kiss at New Year's, and I guess that started to get to me. A lot of together time—but then I remembered, I'll be busy most of the night at Springer's, so I won't be spending time with her—but other guys will, which made me nervous in a different way. Then performance anxiety hit as I thought of having to play at Springer's with the potential of celebrity hotshots of every industry judging me. My nerves made the zit pulsate. I turned my attention back to the tux.

Everything was there except the bow tie. The shirt, the jacket, the pants, the shoes, I even found the black socks in my jacket pocket. But no bow tie. I did a cursory search for the bow tie until I noticed the steam as it began to waft out of the bathroom. I left the tux, entered the vapor chamber, striped to nothing, and never felt so alone in my life. Actually, that's probably a misstatement—I'm sure I've felt empty, lonely, and without direction several times in my life, starting with my childhood, but all that becomes immaterial in the present, because all one knows in the present is really all that matters. And in the present, all that mattered was I was naked and forlorn.

I cooled the shower down to a humanly tolerable temperature, and stepped in. I stood with my back to the showerhead, tilted my forehead back, and let the water wash over my face, taking away with it a stream of tears. Although the timing seemed strange, apparently it was time to grieve Ben's passing.