Carole King's Longing

MARIE:
Marie sits lonely on her bean bag chair circa 1979 with a cigarette in her left hand and a coca-cola in the other. Her head is surrounded by the black plastic warmth of headphones. She is singing along to some old Carole King song she had heard a band cover earlier in the week down at the Western Club. She had never much paid attention to “that old rock and roll stuff” but she figured if it was good enough for them to cover then it was good enough for her to waste time on. Time was one thing Marie had plenty of to waste these days. She had just quit her job at the video store. She was your standard “I know more about movies than you because I work in a video store” character. She was always right about movies.

Right now, Marie was miserable. She sat low and tired with the stench of cigarette smoke lingering above her body, her slightly acne covered face light with sweat and oil doing damage to her pores. Soon the cigarette smoke would find its way up to decay and putrefy the pages of her books on the shelf above her. An old copy of “The Old Man and the Sea” that will smell even worse in a couple of years, a high school yearbook’s pages vandalized with punk rock inscriptions from forgotten friends might age prematurely, its hand drawn skulls could possibly get wrinkles or the fingers on the cartoon devil hands could jaundice and fill with cancer. Just like people, some things can’t last forever.

Right now, Marie was in the losing corner in a bout with depression. Her heart was too weak to be broken fully, too damaged by all the smoke left there to rot. It was put there by James, her ex-boyfriend who really never gave her much besides a couple of guilt trips and a nicotine addiction that she couldn’t fight. Her phone started to ring in the next room but “You’re So Far Away” was bleeding into her ears at such an obscene volume that she didn’t notice. The song was making her start to cry. The tears on her cheek continued on down towards the corners of her mouth, reflecting her cutting edge book collection along the way. Thought after thought transcribed on page after page, glued in between cover after cover. Half the books she hadn’t even read yet, the covers just looked interesting. Most of the time she judged books by their covers. She judged most things by their appearance. That was her first mistake with James.

Her phone continues to ring but she is too lost in Carole King’s longing to notice. Nostalgia was her drug of choice and right now she was overdosing.

JAMES:
I hold the receiver a few inches from my ear and wait for an answer. The phone just rings and rings. A call comes in on the other line but I don’t dare pick it up because it will undoubtedly be some dumbass customer who wants to know what time the 7:00 show starts.

Just then a woman enters the door to the lobby and I am instantly stunned by how much she reminds me of my Grandmother. Coming to a love story alone, her hair recently done and her face lightly touched with discount make-up of which her supply is surely dwindling. She doesn’t buy it for herself anymore and the husband who used buy it for her is long gone. I can smell the make-up from here and it is making me homesick. I can see her walking out of the movie, smiling, getting her bus fare ready from her pocketbook to return to an empty apartment on the edge of town that’s embarrassingly clean in the hopes that she will have company again one of these days. The woman asks for a senior ticket and I feel like a kid again. I am a sucker for nostalgia. Even to the point of being nostalgic for things that hurt. This is why I am calling Marie. Maybe she wants to meet for coffee? I suddenly realize that I am still on the line and it is ringing hopelessly. I hang up. It is probably for the better. The old days with her weren’t as golden as I’d like to think, I suppose. Hindsight is 20/20.

It is 6:59 and the movie is about to start. The other line is still ringing.