The Former Miss Cheddarworths Grandson – Ellena Espejo #5
A deep breath through the nose, concentration reset, then a shout.
“THEN that thirty-year-old man thought it might be fun to test the quality of the company he kept. Not for science—social or otherwise—but as a locker room yardstick. We were to say our surname out loud that he might inspect each for its nobility quotient.”
Someone in the audience gasped. A hand reached out of the dark to grab a clipboard from the chair by the CD.
Underneath Xander’s continuation of the story, he assessed whether his chosen piece was appropriate.
“At first, I was intrigued that the chivalric heirs of Prince Charming might have populated our spontaneous gathering. However, soon enough weird displacement smacked me across the face?—”
“OH MY GOD!” the voice blurted out, startling Xander. Everyone turned, apologies hissed through the air below.
Genuinely offended that this audience member didn’t just leave if they disapproved of the material—or his acting—Xander stared directly at the dim form and spoke to them.
“I’ve always cherished all of who I am but never expected acknowledgement of it…
” The right index finger counted off digits on the left hand.
“…other than admiration, fascination, or the indifferent reaction anyone might receive. My nationalities are for my use and my conversation—NOT for anyone’s judgment.
It took time to fathom that the statements made by our beloved, well-intentioned scrubber of steam-trunk-sized pots were those of a thoughtless, arrogant colonizer.
And in retrospect, I succumbed to that same thoughtlessness, appraising my value by it. ”
With a final hard stare, the actor released the shadowed miscreant and paced in demonstration of the campsite parameter.
“In a wave circling the group, we indulged Jake, imparting personal information to merit our Anglo-Saxon friend’s antiquated sense of distinction.
Roll call agreed with his hypothesis; we were not merely adequate acquaintances but in fact, superior friends: Siebert, Foster, Louis… ”
As the actor, they tapped the air at each white ghost. “Rupert, Griffith, Stewart, Lawrence, Bernard, Thompson…name after name, each designation rang out as so distinguished, so proud, so ivory they could decorate the wall of a hunter’s den.”
As Xander Somerset, he tried to forget his part in this circumstance. “Raleigh Ambrose—two seats from Jake—claimed to be a member of the British aristocracy, descended from a baron, no less. ‘If you think Ambrose sounds highborn,’ he laughed, ‘my grandmother’s maiden name is Cheddarworth!’
“Until my turn, exclusion never occurred to me. Discarding built-in punctuation used as hardware on a gilded door, my bland American accent flattened any floral note or lilt looking to take wing. ‘Ibánez’ bounced off my tongue, and an awkward truth slapped me across the face.”
Pérez ...reenacting the moment returned the missing sound to him, and cold understanding boiled over to shame. Clearing his throat, the actor in him fought on.
“I never saw it as a typical name, but that was the precise moment I discovered what I was. Such a name did not fit inside stories about Robin Hood or King Arthur. Not as an associate of Merry Men, or Knights of the Round Table, neither as their mother or daughter, though perhaps as their villain. Jake offered a diplomatically neutral comment. The circle eased forward, their fancy club not directly or blatantly excluding me. They did not push me away.”
Under ellipsoidal light, a swaying gaze portrayed contemplation of starry skies. “Rather, that was the moment I pulled myself away, dumbstruck. For the first time I saw the only culture I considered mine had perpetuated my disqualification from its prized idealistic archetype.”
The actor tore at their hair, yelling in impassioned bewilderment. “Having never before tallied up the strangeness of my surname, it was suddenly there plain as the sun: I have a ‘Z’ in my name ! As in Zeus and zebra and zoological! And an accent, and—for God’s sake—there’s even a tilde!”
A pause lingered before the coda as if the actor forgot there were other people around. “I know there is nothing wrong with my being Mexican. There is nothing wrong with my name! And yet to contrast it against that crowd exposed disparity in what had been my normalcy.”
At center stage once again, he let out a breath and dropped his head in a subtle bow. Enthusiastic applause clattered from random points.
The CD nodded. “Thank you very much. We’ll let you know, probably next week.”
Xander thanked her and exited the stage, not interpreting whether her plain words betrayed indifference or concealed warmth.
He was a naive teenager ignorant of his accessory in Jess’s alienation, now he imagined that expression on her face when she said her name out loud.
Pérez . Jessenia Pérez . Finally, a name to search for on the internet.
He went to collect his jacket but sat down for a moment and cooled his burning face with icy hands. Clamor around him modulated from a dull hum into a tune. Then a solo voice returned all other sounds to undetectable corners.
“Xander.”
A thought sparked in him; discovering the book was one of those undeniable spiritual moments, a veiled prophecy unnoticed before fruition. It was destiny shoving open the armored door a crack, signaling to him. He must respect the intentions of preposterous synchronicity.
Short bouncy curls he once knew had grown quite long and tumbled over one shoulder.
She tugged, anxious, on the charcoal locks.
Recognition flickered between knowing it was her and knowing that was impossible.
Then her nervous laugh slipped from lips of the same earthy-yet-bright pink of the murals at the library.
Picturing cold scissors to fight arousal, he leaned forward to pull the jacket off the back of his chair.
Draping it over his arm as a strategic cover, he stood up and grasped his right elbow with his left hand.
Each breath hit a wall, producing no words.
Finally, he closed his teeth, then sprung his jaw open to release the name.
“Jess?”
Inhaling, she pressed on her chest. “I didn’t just hallucinate all that!?! It really is you and you really did just perform my book at me! My book about you!”
She would have to accept his bobbing head and half-smile as an answer, because he didn’t breathe.
Falling at him, her head jarred against his chest and hands clapped against his back.
The hug spoke without a word. She missed him, and the book showed him just how much he missed her.
He hadn’t allowed himself the option to dwell on it.
They held each other, his cheek resting atop her head as he stroked her hair.
A glance around detected curious smiles from the remaining actors and crew.
The lady wearing the baseball hat cocked her head and mouthed, “AW!” at them.
She then left the moment behind and shouted a name.
He straightened up, moderating the embrace from affectionate to platonic until he could confirm her marital status.
Jess loosened her grip to look up at him. “What are you doing here? Did you know?”
“I’m auditioning for a movie. Did I know what?”
“Yeah, but—did you know it’s my movie?”
“Your movie…how?”
“I wrote it. It’s my screenplay from my novel.”
Hoping to disguise his mediocre life as one of adventure, he searched for a verbal costume and finally just crawled his way through a response. “That’s amazing! Congratulations!”
The once romantic aura of broke-waiter-in-LA-planning-to-progress-beyond-local-commercials-and-hundred-seat-theaters sprawled, flattened under her early career accomplishments.
“I kind of screwed up,” he said. “My agent couldn’t provide too much information. That I managed to show up at all was chance, as was memorizing a passage from your book that happened to fit the theme.”
“It wasn’t exactly a bestseller. Where on Earth did you find it?”
“At the library—sort of.”
“Sort of?”
“It’s a long story.” Caution flew, carried by the wind. “Are you single?”
She laughed. “Well, yeah. Very! Oh, but—are you?”
“That I am. You wanna go somewhere? For dinner or something?”
She scanned the room. “Um…there’s only a few people left. So, like, in an hour?”
Xander secretly exhaled with relief when she suggested a nearby fifties diner with reasonable prices.
His plan was to be honest with her, and going into debt for dinner would look asinine.
They ordered drinks and scanned the menus.
Periodically they glanced up; weird silence danced naked on the table between them.
Jess laid the bill of fare flat on the table. Resting her elbows on it, she leaned in. “My recall is both spotty and yet vivid. Like, I know that night happened before the end of November, only because I hadn’t yet moved into the dorms for winter.”
Xander nodded. For him as well, memories were tossed randomly into a mental sack, never stored neatly inside a mental display case.
Jess continued, “I mention that because—did you always want to be an actor? I’m certain a detail like that would have stuck with me.”
“Drama club was my clique in high school, but it took missing those times and joining an improv troupe to…uh, find myself. I didn’t know you wanted to be a writer, but I remember your photography.”