Chapter 18
JASON
Since when did I stop listening to my own advice?
We stay quiet as the movie begins, but I can only do that for so long. Who doesn’t like to sing along? This is one of the best Disney movies ever because of the songs.
“You’re so dramatic,” she says later as I lift Max up like Rafiki does to Simba... for the fifth time.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I tell her. “I’m just a lowly amateur performer, starving for applause.”
She stares blankly for a moment. Shit, what does that expression mean? I’m just fucking around in my future cousin-in-law’s sister’s apartment and it’s weird now. I can’t remember the last time someone left one of my jokes hanging, let alone left me hanging with stress sweats.
What is this?
“Amateur, huh?” she says carefully. “I’ve never heard an amateur put that much power into Hakuna Matata.”
I shrug, putting Max on the floor and out of his misery. Taking a swig of beer, I sit down next to her. We watch in silence for a while. It doesn’t matter what she thinks. It doesn’t matter how I sing or where I do it.
Who fucking cares?
I don’t even know what she’s thinking.
“Why does it matter?” Fine, I do care what she thinks about me.
“Say what now, Pumba?” she says dryly.
“Who cares if I’m an amateur?” I argue.
“No one,” she says slowly. “I was just thinking... a guy like you—”
I take a look at myself and frown. “Like what?”
“Rich, conventionally attractive, with a decent set of pipes.” She lists out my attributes on one hand. “I don’t see why you couldn’t throw some money around, be semi-professional maybe?”
I smile grimly. “Would if I could.”
“But you can’t?”
“It’s too late.”
“Too late for what?”
“For—” I sigh in frustration. “I don’t owe you my tragic backstory, alright?”
There’s nothing tragic about not going into acting. I was decent at best. Do I love it? Yes, who doesn’t love to get on stage and sing a few songs while pretending to be someone else. But as much as my parents supported my dreams, they also kept me grounded.
“Jason, do what you love, but also what you are good at,” Dad told me after the twentieth failed audition. I didn’t get one single callback, and it was amateur theater.
In the end, I understood I was good. Not good enough to become Jonathan Gruff, Christian Bale, Gary Oldman, Neil Patrick-Harris or Jeremy Jordan. Maybe it was somehow tragic when I was eighteen, but I’m over it.
Eileen stares at me blankly... again. This is getting on my fucking nerves. Why doesn’t she just say what she’s thinking?
“Okay,” she says a million years later.
That’s it? “Okay what?”
“Just... okay. You’re right,” she says. “I was just curious if you knew how good you are.”
Well that’s—something.
I squirm in my seat. These couch cushions are so fucking uncomfortable.
We’re so quiet I barely remember to recite all the lines in the third act. Eileen’s so... confusing. It’s like she sees right through every single joke with some special x-ray vision and calls me out on some of my shit, but also doesn't? I don’t get her.
“Didn’t you have something you wanted to be when you were a kid,” I say apropos of nothing.
“Sure,” she agrees without giving any context.
“Wouldn’t you have done anything in the world to become that?”
She nods, and I wait for her to tell me. Nothing.
“Well,” I ask. “What is it?”
She takes a deep breath. “I guess when I was really young... but then, you know, I grew up. It doesn’t pay the bills.”
“Exactly,” I say, unsatisfied by her answer but she has a point. “You have a dream. It gets destroyed by adulthood. You get used to disappointment. Reality settles and you move on. End of story.”
“But what about now?” she insists. “Don’t you have enough to pay your bills?”
“Not forever. Can’t make a career out of a three-month vacation,” I argue.
Or maybe I could if I really want to. Perhaps it’s true what they say, you have to allow yourself to change your mind to be happy. And I can’t say I’m happy, but I’m pretty close to content.
Clearly, she gives it some thought before toasting her drink against mine. “To stolen dreams, I guess.”
The thought sinks in and simmers deep in my gut for a while. Did I give up on my dream? No, I talked it through. It wasn’t relinquishing, more like finding something better. Was it? It just happened. Even if it kinda sucks.
“What was yours?” I ask eventually. “Uh, dream I mean.”
“Muralist,” she mumbles while she pours herself a second glass of wine. “We should order some food.”
And that’s— “Really? You?”
She goes red. “Loved to paint, wanted to be some... I don’t know, social activist? Banksy, but less shitty I guess.”
I laugh. She joins in and it’s so fucking beautiful. And just like that, she stops, sighing deeply.
“What happened?” I question, reaching for her hand.
“My sister became an art major on a whim, didn’t know how to do anything, but bullshitted her trash into this last-minute symposium on anti-capitalist structures.”
She sighs. “With someone else’s portfolio.”
Charlie isn’t smart enough for that. “So, she plagiarized your work,” I guess.
“Yep,” she confirms. “Then, they kicked her out of the program. Obviously, she ran out of money and forced my parents to come save her ass. They told me a week later they wouldn’t pay for art school.”
“Holy fucking—” I say. “How is your family that shitty?”
“You get used to it,” she says.
Who does that to their sister? And who takes one kid’s mistakes and punishes the other for it? What the fuck is wrong with these people?
I think I hate them just a little.
Worst of all, why can’t she see how messed up that is?
If that were my family, I would’ve hashed shit out or walked out a long time ago. Then again, I’m not her. And though my parents aren’t perfect, they are fucking great. I’m not judging, but come on, they could’ve done a lot better for Eileen.
I remember back when Marek was my best friend growing up. Before all the bullshit and lame excuses. I’d do anything for that kid, even if I could barely give a fuck about the guy he became. Wonder if Eileen’s waiting on some version of Charlie that won’t come back.
I nudge her shoulder. She looks up wearily.
“Hey kettle,” I say lightly. “Wanna finish this movie and wallow in some more alcohol?”
“Only if you order some food,” she responds.
At least she doesn’t do that fake smile I’ve seen thrown at her family around me. Her smile is sad but genuine. She’s lively and funny without them, relaxed.
“Bar food, right?”
“Yeah, pot,” she says. “I’d love that.”
I hate to admit that this is by far one of the best nights I’ve had in a long time, but can it be sustainable? When will I fuck up?