Gwen 4: Med Faire

The weeks after finding out about this situation were very hectic ones for me. I was engaged in dropping out of OU, finding a job (not to mention a place to live), and generally preparing for a new life in a new city. I was also juggling a girlfriend, Midian, and the love life of three other people.

On the last bit, I would get this sequence of phone calls about three times a week:

Gwen: "Oh, Jeff, I was with Ted again last night and he was so wonderful! But I feel really bad about Dee, because she's really sweet and I know it would just kill her if she found out! When am I going to see you again?"

Ted: "Dude, Gwen is so fucking hot! You have no IDEA what I did with her last night! She's fucking crazy, man!"

Dee: "Jeff, why is my husband cheating on me [bursts into tears]?"

The first two were pretty stable. The last, from Dee, evolved from "IS my husband" to "WHY IS my husband," then proceeded through the tears to "is it because I'm ugly?" to "he MADE me this way!"

While all this was going on, I was steadily growing more fond of Beverly and her board, Dreamscape. I also began chatting with one of her sons, who is about a year older than me, and who had quite a bit of experience on obsolete BBS systems in the Tulsa area. He was quite a character, and occasionally kept me up for more than an hour in the dead of night, tapping at the keyboard, talking about crazy shit. His name? You can call him "Minuard."

All of this persisted for a period of a month or six weeks--I was so busy it's hard to guess. In early April, though, Ted began to pester me about the Medieval Faire, which takes (took) place at a local park, and was something I had never really considered visiting. That specific park was one we used to play capture the flag in, some nights, and other nights we used it as a destination for walking and quiet talking about how we were going to live our lives. Those nights were almost too sentimental and idealistic for me to write about here, especially now, but suffice to say I wasn't too keen on My Park being overrun by crystal healing hippies and fat dudes with fake swords.

But, as usual, Ted talked me into it. On the afternoon before the Faire began, I cut class and headed up to his place to begin making my costume. This was a big deal, and we spent a lot of the afternoon wandering fabric stores and talking about my impending move into the city. Finally, we returned to his place and began cutting and sewing. Ted already had his costume, which he promptly dressed in so I could see what I would be walking around with, complete with shoulder scabbard for a big-ass sword. I was to wear a crossbow, a real crossbow that meant BUSINESS, and was meaner looking than all of my friends combined. The draw on it was too heavy for me to pull, which was OK because he didn't have any intention of giving me anything to put in it, anyway.

By 9:30, we had most of it hashed out, and Dee was fixing the three of us dinner, humming happily away as her husband sewed in the next room [for what it's worth, I can't sew. I can't even comprehend how a sewing machine works--you know how some people can't balance a checkbook, or can't do fractions? I understand those people a lot more now that I've experienced my own sort of mental blind spot].

We had just finished dinner, and Ted had just made Turkish coffee, when his pager went off. Instantly, Dee's face became closed and unhappy, and Ted practically leaped to the telephone--in the bedroom. A minute later, he returned with a hard look for his wife, a curt "I've got to go fix a printer," and a warning glance at me.

"What about this costume, man? When will you be back?"

"I don't know when I'll be back. I'll finish it for you tomorrow morning, before we come down for the Faire. Just hang around, though, I shouldn't be too long."

So Dee and I sat, and waited. I remember Ted combing his thick brown hair before he left, in the hallway mirror. The whole thing had taken less than 10 minutes. Dee stared at me. I tried to make conversation, but everything I said seemed to make her want to cry even more. I don't do well with women crying, even now--and back then, at age 18, I was substantially less prepared to deal. So we sat. I stared at her, when she wasn't looking, and counted the books in the bookcase when she was. The television babbled in the next room.

An hour passed, and Dee got up to clear the table. I asked carefully if she wanted help, she just looked at me. I moved out of her way. She cleared the table, then went to the living room and lit a cigarette. I followed, and sat on the couch.

After a second, she took a giant drag off of the smoke and turned to face me. I'd never seen a face like that before--full of warring emotions: love, hate, and betrayal. Her eyes vacillated between cold and hard, soft and tragic, and lost and tearful and lonely. She sat on the couch, beside me. I moved, looking around the room for a place to sit. She caught my hand, and wouldn't let me go, even when I said "I should get home." We sat on the couch, with her hand holding mine, as she stared into my eyes. "Don't go," she said, and leaned forward to kiss me.