Warning: Some brief sensitive content.
Elena figured the atmosphere was similar to the end of World War Two.
The oral vaccine was working, and Molly Unger, the pop star, the leading denier/ microchip theorist had switched sides and told her socials she had been vaccinated.
People had paid for pills and crushed them, trying to find microchips. None, to Elena’s knowledge, were found.
Food vendors returned to the streets. People hugged.
The Megabus was filling up, something she had been prepared for, bringing two masks in case the first got sweaty and gross in the 6 hour trip between Detroit and Chicago.
No chances. Not yet.
As departure time neared and the seat next to her was still vacant, she got a spark of hope that she would have the seat to herself. Masks were no longer mandatory and she would even consider taking hers off if the grey plush seat to her left only housed her feet.
But then a shadow crept along the interior windshield.
A late arrival walking up the stairs of the bus.
Tall.
A flat-top haircut. So out of fashion, she wondered if it was coming back.
The man turned at the top of the stairs and walked up the aisle, checking his ticket.
She knew he was her seatmate.
He also might have been the most handsome man she had ever seen, despite the haircut and a pale blue windbreaker of no discernible manufacturer, nor outwardly representing any sports team or college.
She slid so that her hip hugged the wall, and pulled on one of her masks, choosing an original Eric Fogle art design that was a gift from her agent.
The man approaching was maskless.
If I looked like him I wouldn’t wear a fucking mask either.
She chuckled at herself for thinking it, as she had been a very staunch advocate of pandemic caution, getting groceries delivered well beyond her budget.
He tossed a small duffel bag in the compartment above the seat. This certainly wasn’t a business trip for him.
No watch. No rings.
Hard to gauge an economic status, though it was, after all, a discount bus. His long legs had thrust his shoes under the seat in front of him so his footwear couldn’t be used as a hint either.
Now she admonished herself.
Look at him. Who cares if he has money? He’s gorgeous.
Elena imagined Chicago would be a drinking weekend for him and some college buddies. Rather than converse, she made up a whole scenario in her head.
He would meet the friends, they’d have something to eat, a few beers, and reminisce at his old roommate’s high rise on the gold coast, they’d attend a BLM march somewhere near the southside…
Now you’re making him what you want him to be, girl. Just talk to him. If he’s an idiot, you can tuck the fantasy away. If he’s not an idiot, you have nothing to do after your appointment. Shit, he could have an equally gorgeous wife, ring or not. Maybe they have matching tattoos…
“Going to Chicago?”
He nodded, turning his head only slightly toward her, then back.
Her agent sometimes told her that her eyes booked commercials. Lottery, car dealership.
She wanted him to like her eyes as much as Chuck, her agent did.
“Me too,” she said. There was one stop in Grand Rapids, college town. Both of them were ten years on the other side of college, easily.
He nodded again.
“That’s cool,” he said quietly.
Is this guy shy? No way. He’s a damn fragrance commercial who needs a new stylist. He can’t be shy.
“Yeah,” she said.
Did you just squirm, Elena? You squirmed. You’re about to break a rule.
“Ever see Windy City Fire?”
She was breaking her rule about not bragging about being an actor.
You’re not a fucking doctor, Elena, get over yourself, her mom always told her.
“I know what it is, yeah.” His voice had a masculine rumble underneath a quiet purr, like her brother’s ‘72 Nova at a stoplight.
“I have an audition for it.”
“Wow,” he said and smiled. “Good luck.”
The smile was a fireworks show above a waterfall full of disco balls. Radiant. Amazing.
As the effect of it cascaded through her, she noticed his head. It didn’t return to a forward position. It distinctly moved past center, looking left, away from Elena. The alluring effect of the smile began to circle the drain.
He isn’t the least bit interested in your under five-line, procedural TV shenanigans. He probably watches art cinema. He might be in art cinema for all you know. Ask him about himself, dummy.
“You going for business or fun?”
The bus had just started rolling. Not even on the freeway yet. If it was a one-word answer it was going to be a long, awkward trip.
His head turned slowly. There was a hint of a scar on his jawline, underneath what looked to be a two-day growth.
“Medical tests.”
Elena gulped, a squeak of air entering her throat. She was certain he heard the squeak.
“I’m sorry for prying,” she said. “Sincerely, best of luck.”
“It’s not like that,” he said. His purr was natural, it seemed to her. “Not life-threatening. I don’t think.’
“That’s good,” she said and patted his thigh in some kind of reflexive show of empathy.
You just touched a stranger’s thigh, Elena. Not appropriate. Not cool. If some guy on a bus patted your leg…
She saw him swallow. He wanted to tell her it wasn’t appropriate. She knew it. He was being silently polite.
“I didn’t mean to touch you. I... I’m so sorry. It was not the least bit…’
He nodded, which she hopefully believed was an apology acceptance.
“I’m part of a small group. A very small one...involved in an experiment with the new vaccine.”
She shrunk back a bit.
“Were...were you COVID positive?”
“No, no. Nothing like that.”
His hand moved as though he was going to pat Elena’s thigh in reassurance and he quickly retracted it.
A crimson blush took over his handsome face. He was mortified that he had almost done what she had done.
The awkward was like a blanket of fog on their little two-seat island. It was too early in the trip to excuse herself to use the restroom.
She flipped a little conversational database she had in her head, trying to diffuse the awkwardness, segue into a comfortable quiet.
He was perfect, down to his nostrils. Even the scar was perfectly aligned with his jaw.
“My agent’s always looking for new faces for commercials and print work.”
The rare times she had said that to people, they usually lit up.
“Do you really think I could?” they’d say.
Sometimes they’d clench up: “I’m afraid of cameras”.
Was he a lighter or a clencher?
“I’m afraid I ruined any chance I had at that about ten years ago.”
She tried to understand what he could mean. Her mouth jumped the fence.
“The scar?”
She immediately regretted saying it. She was rapidly turning into a Chris Farley skit.
The man paused, then pointed at his jaw.
“This? No. Though I’m sure...no. I got that a few years ago. In prison.”
“Oh. No, the scar’s not anything. It’s...It’s a good scar.” If she had been two rows back, listening to herself, she would have wanted to punch herself.
He smiled, a softer one than the dazzling one before. If she had been casting the man in something, she would have said he didn’t look annoyed, he looked...sad.
Prison?
“I take a drug to...resist impulses that I have. I was convicted of wrongful imprisonment and aggravated...umm...battery. My...the woman...she lobbied on my behalf...that I have...an illness.
She was...well known...and…”
Elena shifted, pressing her back as hard as she could into the wall of the bus and the corner of the seat.
“You’re Corey MacTavish.”
He nodded.
Now Elena could feel the sorrow, like Corey Mactavish was molting it.
All of Elena’s embarrassment evaporated.
“You abducted Darlene Woodbine, the Wondermop lady.”
He nodded again.
Elena stared at him.
She was on a bus, flirting with a man who had kidnapped and sexually assaulted a sixty-three-year-old woman.
“They let you on the bus?”
Corey hung his head.
“I’m on medication and an ankle monitor. They know where I am at all times. They are afraid the oral vaccine will inhibit my medication, so I’m on my way to Northwestern University to…”
“Excuse me,” Elena said, standing.
MacTavish stood and allowed Elena to move into the aisle.
He was certain she would say something to the driver, but she moved toward the back, entering the restroom and slamming the door.
Elena sat on the bus toilet, fully clothed.
Darlene Woodbine testified before Congress that sexual offenders should not get protracted jail sentences, and instead should be offered counseling and medications.
People on Twitter had torn her apart.
People said that the poor old woman had Stockholm Syndrome, that she had fallen in love with her captor, at the time a law student in his mid-twenties.
Elena Piedmonte had been one of the people tearing. She made jokes about Corey Mactavish. About Darlene Woodbine. Her profile went up. Her numbers on the Internet Movie Database increased. In a way, her response to the tragedy had boosted her career.
She had been throwing tomatoes, blind, from a balcony.
“Hang the guy,” she thought.
The guy she would have had sex with in her hotel room in Chicago if he had told her he was Mike Brown, an antique furniture restorer.
His honesty was both admirable and frightening.
Her Twitter account would have stabbed him.
Elena Piedmonte, she was sickened, but…
She returned to her seat.
She pulled her audition script and escaped into it.
They rode in silence.
Exiting the bus on Polk Street in Chicago, the rumbling purr of Corey MacTavish said “Break a leg.”
She didn’t respond.
***
The audition was on the 4th floor in the same studio complex they shot interior scenes for Windy City Fire.
The waiting room was opulent, cavernous, and packed.
After a forty minute wait, a door opened and her name was called.
Elena stood and walked through the door, gracefully removing her mask.
The casting director peered over her glasses at Elena.
“At the bottom of page two, the director would like to see you cry. Do you have the ability to produce tears?”
Elena Piedmonte nodded, and before she spoke one word of dialogue, immediately began to sob.
***
Resharing some of the work from my very first months on Substack It would be great if you could buymeacoffee.com/JimmyDoom or throw a tip my way Venmo James-Graham-80
Yet another wow.
Amazing. Love the '72 Nova line.