Ladies And Gentlemen , Whispers The Clown.
On the morning Of Michael's departure, he had called me from the bathroom at the Sutter/Larkin Hotel, to tell me he was running a bit late . I asked with great concern, how late?
His voice merely a whisper over the phone said "I don't know maybe half an hour." But he said that half an hour ago and another half an hour before that , all the half hours Michael was late for totaled three hours of wasted time.
I tried to contain my frustration, but I could feel it welling up inside of me, like I was the incredible Hulk, only I wouldn't be green , I would be a very tranquil shade of perriwinkle or disco. But whatever, I had to not lose my cool. With a steady voice , I asked Michael how long had he been in the bathroom, all of my words dripping in sugar and, faux sugar.
Four hours, and the only thing I could say to that was, " Why the fuck have you been in the bathroom for four hours, there isn't even a mirror in there."
Whispers crawled towards my ear through the receiver , Whispers I couldn't understand , because, they were barely words, he was barely Michael . Stranger still was , even though he knew what he was doing was absolutely crazy , he couldn't stop himself, he wouldn't stop himself , refusing to give up his perch on his porcelain throne. One after another he ignored calls from people he had made plans with half an hour ago, an hour ago , two hours ago, two days ago. People he had promised services to, to have lunch with, to visit with , but, he never made it .
He would answer my calls occasionally to reassure me with a whisper , that he was OK, and he would be out soon.
Logically , he would have to be out sooner than later because, there is no food in that bathroom , and it's used by everyone on that floor and, it would be surely missed.. And, so would Michael . Someone in that hotel would notice he isn't in room 6, and that there are some very angry people banging on the door of the second floor bathroom..
I gave up on Michael after the sixth hour of this ordeal. He reminded me of baby Jessica and her famous well. Michael had found his well , and he couldn't find his way out. If I had any conscience about the situation I would have called the hotel manager or the police and informed them of Michael's dilemma. "He's locked in the bathroom on the second floor and he can't get out."
Is what I would say, and then after I said it, I would feel like the biggest moron for trying to convince anybody that Michael was in danger.
On his final call to me , he started to say I'm OK , but I hung up on him after I'm. I stood quietly staring at the phone , waiting for it to ring again but, it never did. There was a moment of sadness and then , a bit of laughter at the absurdity of it all, and then a moment where I felt I should say goodbye. For some reason I felt I would never see him or, hear him whisper another lame excuse for flaking ever again. And you know what, I was OK with that. File this under Sad Tales of Deconstruction, The Michael Z Story Of Bad Circumstance or, How Michael Became Whispers The Clown In One Trip To The John.
