He was all over the telephone, sorting out (and paying for) The Extended Stay In The ‘City of Light’ with his new Love.
As soon as I got everything sorted, settled and paid for, Ela telephoned her two kids: A daughter and a son—Bout 9 and 12 respectively.
It was kind of a ‘conference call’ from what I could glean, but only hearing Ela’s words, and watching her begin to get all misty-eyed and then break down in tears, I could only surmise:
This could, in no way, shape, matter, nor form bode well…
She hung up and through her crying eyes, announced,
“I have to go home. Now.”
“My children are distraught. They expected me home tomorrow, not in four days.”
“You wanna see ‘distraught?’ Look at me!”
Now, mind you, I really did not give a shit about the six grand it had just cost me to sort out the extended stay at our hotel (Since I no longer had a reservation and they claimed to be booked solid they broke it off in my ass—ditto Air France—at least six grand all in, but who’s counting at this point?
I could always go back to ‘The Sandbox’ and make Six-Grand in two Weeks, but that wasn’t really the point, was it?
I wanted MORE TIME with HER!
We spent that final night under a bridge across from Notre Dame, drinking wine and holding hands.
First thing next morning, I grabbed a cab and took her to the airport.
As we were waiting in-line to get her boarding pass I made an incredibly stupid decision:
“I am flying with you—to Springfield,” I blurted out.
(Yet more money down that drain)
“You sure?” She asked.
Sorted out my new plane ride logistics (And ass-raped once again by Air France)
We got our boarding passes, our carry-ons and boarded the plane.
What the Fuck had I just done?
I was certain I would pay for this folly, and probably much sooner than later.
Thirty minutes passed and we were Wheels-Up and non-stop to New-Fucking-Jersey (To catch our connection to Springfield)
(I like to think myself an intelligent, worldly man, but this. THIS was a bone-headed, stupid move)
Trust me, Gentle Readers, it gets worse.
To Be Continued…
Added Value To Accentuate My Point:
(This song will become more relevant in upcoming chapters)
And try to guess who stopped giving a shit first.
You have only two options–these are easy odds
Not like betting The Ponies, or Roulette. Or A Crap Shoot.
Go ahead: Put your Money On The Table–Take A Shot.
I love You Sheryl–Always Have–Always Will
(Even if you do resemble some Crack Whores I have called ‘Friend.’)
We spent an inordinate amount of time in our lovely, comfy little love shack of a hotel room.
I had fetched along some of my most – favorite movies to share with Ela—Yes, at this point, she had instructed me to call her “Ela” because that was the moniker she went by, but reserved for her ‘closest friends.”—I figured ‘Lovers’—but whatever. I had made it to “Ela Status.” Hoped this boded well for our relationship.
Got one of the Hotel Staff to hook us up with a DVD Player so we could watch the movies I had brought to the soiree:
We wasted (well, not wasted to me) a lot of time holed up in our little room watching these movies, drinking vin rouge, and making love. I was in Heaven. I had already seen much of The Paris I was interested in seeing (This was not my First ‘Paris Rodeo’—Had been to Paris several times already. As had she.
So we just drank, made love, watched movies, and fell deep IN-LOVE (for the most part)
We did go out, usually in the late evenings to stroll down the Champs-Élysées and hang out at the Café George V.
We were having a wonderful Paris Experience.
But, it was rapidly coming to an end.
She had to return to her ‘Main-Mundane’ in Springfield and I had to return to ‘Le Sandbox’ that was Iraq. We kinda grew morose.
Then I had one of those ‘epiphany things.’
“Ela,” I broached. “Why cannot we just extend our stay here a few more days? I can change our plane tickets, sort things out with the hotel. My job won’t fire me. I am too good at it, as I am sure you are at yours. Let’s stay a few more days.”
She blinked at me through teary eyes, embraced me, kissed me and said, “Oh Yes! Oh Hell Yes!”
Then I got on the telephone to sort out all the logistics and the dice were cast.
It turned out to be a not-so-very-good crap-shoot, but it took some time for that realization to make manifest.
I first met her as “Paige” via eHarmony. She taught French at a High School in Springfield, Missouri. I was working and trying to stay alive in Mosul, Iraq, circa 2008.
After about a week or so, we ditched eHarmony and exchanged emails, more photos, and phone numbers. And she confided to me that ‘Paige’ was her middle name and that her first name was ‘Elizabeth.’ I told her that if she didn’t mind, I’d prefer to address her like that. She said, “Bien sûr!” (Of course)
About two weeks later, as Parsons owned me an R&R I broached the idea of her rendezvousing with me in Paris (France, not Texas).
She was all for it, but then confided in me that she did not have the funds for the plane ride.
“Silly Girl! I will purchase your plane ride and I will pay for everything else—I am Rich!” (She would ‘rectify’ this ‘situation’ a few years later—but I am getting a little ahead of my narrative.)
She could only get one week off from her HS French teacher job and I had two weeks of R&R owed me, so I told her I would spend a week in Dubai and then meet her in Paris.
Good to go.
So I went to Dubai, stayed drunk, and hung out at the pool every day in the Five-Star Hotel where I was staying. (I wanted a tan so as to look my best for her.)
I even brushed up on my Français, hoping to impress her with that in case my awesome tan and hard body did not move her (I had been working out like a mad-man in the weight-room there in Mosul)
I was READY for some Great Sex.
On the short plane ride from Dubai to Paris, I downed a few vodkas (Prepping myself).
Hooked up with her at Orly International Airport and we grabbed a taxi to our hotel.
She demonstrated her command of French, speaking to the taxi driver.
I was properly impressed.
Oh, and yes! She was just as advertised in her photos:
Long blonde hair, six feet tall, and absolutely stunning.
Built like a Brick Shit-House, to use the Texas Vernacular.
She had a soft, very sexy voice, but I knew this already from our many telephone conversations, but live and in color it was even mo’ bettah.
I was already in love.
Pretty sure she was falling for me too (Yeah, I was that confident and vain)
I could not wait to get her into bed.
But she said to me after we had settled into our hotel,
“Can we take this kinda slowly? Maybe go down to the Champs-Élysées and hit a side-walk café, like Café George V. It is one of my favorites. They have awesome Canard à l’orange.”
“Sure, I said. We can do that.” (Over the course of our time in Paris The George V Café became ‘Our Place’ and we went there at least twice a day—sometimes for food, sometimes for coffee, often for vin rouge. (Red Wine)
Our hotel was within walking distance of the Champs-Élysées so we started walking. (I had picked the hotel for its location and it was very expensive, but I didn’t care. I had a woman to impress.)
As we were walking to the café, she said this, “I thought I smelled alcohol on your breath when you picked me up at Orly.”
“Uh, I had a glass of wine on the plane,” I lied.
Anyway, we got to George V Café and spent a wonderful afternoon there, over duck, red wine, conversation, and some building sexual tension. We were very hot for each other. This was obvious.
When it had reached critical mass, I quickly used my French and said to the garçon, “l’addition s’il vous plaît” (Check please)
Then we hastily beat feet back to our hotel and fucked each other’s brains out.
And it was glorious!
But then as we were basking in the warmth of the sexual afterglow, she said something incredibly stupid:
“Lance, I have never been faithful to any man in my life.”
This honest revelation of hers threw me into a tailspin.
(Fidelity was important to me back then, especially when relating to a woman I intended to wed.)
She had sucked the wind right out of my sails.
It was rather devastating, in fact.
And from that day forward, that one concise statement became an albatross around my neck.
I eventually married her anyway.
(Against My Better Judgement)
To Be Continued…
My much admired and respected by me, Great, Good Friend, John Coyote, wrote this recently.
I had to lift it, as it perfectly adds to and fits my narrative
Light and dark collide when I found you. You are my black magic woman who make me wish for enchanting nights where you and I. Are free and wild. Free of locked door and dormant passion. We will become wild in spirit and we will try to consume the night like the wild beast.
My Gypsy woman. Let’s find the sea and share some vodka and juice. Let’s dance for the midnight moon and the stars. Let’s pray to the sleeping gods. Pray for them to come alive and join us in the dance of freedom.
Damn your eyes. Those eyes make me forget I’m a prisoner of controlled and useless life. You make me want to stripped down to nothing. Run nude and denounce my ordinary life and self-made prison. I want to be locked-up in your eyes and your embrace.
You and I have found the sea at Monterey. The Monterey sleeping ghosts come alive for us and we danced the movement of freedom. You and I. We beckon sacred place where love can be true and we can show real face. Dispersed of fake goals and dreams. I whispered to you. Your eyes, your face, your wild heart make me want to live and die in your embrace.
Tonight we will live and tomorrow?“
This is just a ‘Teaser’ for my upcoming Chapter Two On Elizabeth.
I emailed her Chapter One,
(Which if you have come this far, you have already read above)
Not sure how it would ‘fly ‘with her.
I gave it fifty-fifty: Pissed, or Flattered.
Turns out she did not ‘Flame’ me.
But She was gracious and sent this respond. Perhaps She and I could give it another go?
Never gonna happen, but is a Pleasant Fiction to Ponder.
I did love her once.
“You write well, and your talents are known by just a fortunate few.You are so full of words, but with me, you don’t need to be. We were more than words.The other day this song came on the radio, and my Lance Anthony came to mind immediately. I trust you remember how I referred to this song- about you, about us.”
She attached this song,
(Pasted in a few lines in below)
And so very apropos, given our history.
“Ela, you were never much for words, but you spoke volumes to me in other, better ways.”
I still love you.
I never stopped loving you in fact:
I just could not live with you anymore.
I will send this back at her.
It describes me (and her—and our ‘Relationship’ to a T)
She talking at me, not really verbally.
(Verbosity was MY THING.)
But her message was always clear.
“Well, I’ll be damned; Here Comes Your Ghost Again.”
“Now you’re telling me You’re not nostalgic Then give me another word for it You who are so good with words And at keeping things vague.”
Video Credit: Dave Bing
Hey Asshole Dave Bing! We do not need the lyrics fucking up this vid! Most of us have ears.
Here is a Teaser Song which will be a Centerpiece of Chapter Two.
(Elizabeth, How I first Saw you–Us–Together–A Wicked Game, but so, oh so… captivating!)
“Ela, I once called you ‘Ethereal’–I meant it when I first said it, and I say it again–Some things I hang on to, and will never let go.
You were My ‘Magical Mystery Tour-de-Force.’
I am playing a very dangerous, potentially deadly–for my heart–game with Elizabeth.
She is the quintessential Game Master–Mistress.
I am good, but not in her league.
Not even close.
She is much more skilled than me.
I may be in over my head.
But you know what?
I love The Game, or to quote Omar
From “The Wire”,
“It’s all in the game Bro.”
And it never fails to excite or stimulate
And as an aside, & IMHO,
Christine McVie was/is The Most Underrated Member of The Super-Group
That Calls itself
Stevie Stole All The Glory.
Now, Do Not Mistake Me:
I love Stevie Like Cash Money, but…
Christine was/is also
‘Top Shelf’ and Deserves
Much More Recognition
Most people who write about ‘Fleetwood Mac’ Write about Stevie. I write about Christine.
I only drop this one in for Elizabeth.
Of course She was the only one who understood that “The Joke” was always on me.
But instinctively I knew it too, but did not care:
Months before the events inked here, here, here, and here, I found myself in Paris (actually two Paris’s—One Texan—One French). Confus’d yet? Stand by: it grows worse(r)
Let’s back up a mite (mites are hard to back up by the way, militarily that is: damn small and damn slippery, them mites… and they tend to mite-bite one, usually on one’s ass)
We call that “Green on Blue” and if you are following the recent news cycle, you will surely know that, that is inappropriate. But that is just how I roll. Fuck Afghanistan and their pretended bullshit “We gonna take over security of our country…” Won’t happen. But after ten plus years there (and some several months there by me, after Iraq–got ‘liberated’–now there is yet another joke, I can speak to the idiocy that is ‘our’ foreign fallacy.
I was in Sinai, 1978 (if memory serves), and I received a letter from my step-sis. This was not unusual back in those days, as we were still ‘speaking’. She sent me a rather long and boring letter regarding Honey Grove and all the ‘Happenings’ thereabouts. The letter was indeed ‘boring’ until I got to her ‘PS’. It read and I quote (loosely), “By the way, R is marrying J. Jesus-Beezus!”
This was, to me, devastation by way of bad, unspeakable news!
‘How could she?! She was MINE. Mine to mine and to have and to hold… just as soon as I finished with my wanderlust. How dare she?!” How DARE she?!
What to do?
Well, I had some R&R time ‘on the books’ so I hopped on a freighter (airplane), and flew back to Texas, ostensibly to break up the marriage, just like Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate. Problem was, was that I screwed up the dates and the logistics, and arrived not in time to bust up the wedding, but just in time to see the happy couple speeding off fast to Waco and their honeymoon…
Never having been more depressed at missing a rendezvous, what to do? Rebound Son! Rebound!
So, I sought out Janet. Let’s call it a ‘bank shot rebound.’ I knew she was working at the Hopkins Lamar (See? To this day, I never know which county I am in) County Courthouse as a probation officer, so I timed (this time, my timing was spot on) my entrance during her lunch break: Intercepted her coming down the stairs of the courthouse.
“C’est moi! How’s Trix?”
“You are supposed to be in Egypt,” she said.
“I escaped,” I said. “Wanna have lunch?”
“Uh… Sure. Why not?” (Why not indeed)
We went to lunch. Then she took the rest of the day. We went to her apartment and drank gin. Later that eve, after I had regaled her with fantastical tales of the Middle of the East, she took a drag from her Virginia Slim and asked, “So are you gonna fuck me tonight, or what?”
I said, “No Ma’am; I am gonna make love to you—something I should have done five years ago.”
So we did—I did—make love to her.
The problem now became that I had a plane to catch to that other Paris: that one in France. The other part of the problem was that my plane was waiting in Houston. I was about five hours at seventy miles per hour away from my Air France plane at Houston Intercontinental. I had to go. Now.
I hit the road to Houston, not really wanting to go, but I had promised my buddy, Bart, Black Bart, that I would meet him in Paris on such and such a day. Naturally, I ended up missing my flight and arrived Paree a day late. On the taxi ride from Charles de Gaulle airport, we drove under a bridge and the taxi car lost its windshield to a lone rifle shot. (my theory) “Terrorist?” I asked the cabby? (en français).
“Merde!” Was all he said, as he dodged the flying glass. (true story). I did not care anyhow, but this rather happenstance occurrence did not bode well for my first day in Gay Paree…
“There’s my hotel!” I exclaimed as he had managed to (somehow) keep driving.
I paid him off, got out of his now mangled, windshield-less cab and made my way into the cheap hotel lobby. Went up to my room, dropped my shit; then went looking for my buddy. Found him at last sitting on his rack, rather sullen in mood. I checked out his room. It had a wonderful view of the Eiffel Tower.
“So Bart,” I asked finally, “What have you done here in The City of Light for twenty-four hours?”
“You see that tower there?” he asked, pointing to the window.
“Yep,” I said. “That would be the Eiffel Tower.”
“Well, since you didn’t show, I went out on my own… and hey! Ya know, they don’t speak English here? I went out on my own. (You mentioned that) Walked over to that tower, looked up at it—kicked it—and said to myself, ‘Yep. That there Bartamus, that there is the Eiffel Tower. Then I came back here and took a nap. And would you please tell that France Maid that I do not want no fuckin’ breakfast? She wakes me up in the fucking morning with her biscuits (‘croissants’ Asshole) and lousy coffee.”
“Sure Bart,” I said. “I will post a note, en français on yer door.”
“You speak France?”
“Well Hot Damn then! You be Bogey. I’ll be Bacall.” (of course)
“I weren’t able to bust up the wedding.”
“Oh you mean between R and J?”
“Yep. That one, you moron.”
“Yer better off,” he said.
“OK. Then why am I so depressed?”
“Dunno. Did you have any other adventures while you were back In-The-World?”
“Matter of fact, I did. I hooked up with Janet.”
“Nope. No bullshit. Why I missed my flight, in fact.”
“Well, I was just about pissed off at you, but now I unnerstand.”
“Thanks for that,” I said.
“Hey!” he said. “Let’s smoke a bowl and you can tell me all about it while we go and kick this town in the ass.”
“Light her up,” I said. We smoked and drank and then off we went stoned and semi-drunk and in Paris (France) Just two more ugly Americans (Texans)
I hesitated while choosing the vid to represent this post. Then I swerved onto this one below. It is somewhat depressing, yeah. But, but… This is how I see my life ending up. I hope you will take the time to watch, listen, and comment.
“Kate: How do you say le pied (the foot) et la robe (the dress) Alice: The foot (how sounds like foutre which means to fuck) and the clothes (that she doesn’t pronounce well and sounds like con which means assshole) Kate: Foutez le con? (fuck the asshole?) For God’s sake, this words are horrible, they are mean, indecent and not proper for a lady, I wouldn’t like to pronounce those words in front of the lords of France. Foutez le con???!!! But I least I can recite all that you taught me.”