Chapter 5: Nothing Disappears

13 September 1974, early morning

“I HOPE I DIDN’T embarrass you at the show tonight. It’s difficult to tell if a person is willing to play or is just feeling forced into action. But it’s so much more fun if I can find a willing participant who isn’t drunk and falling over the trick.”

“No one forces me,” Serepte said firmly. “In anything.” Paris was taken aback by the abruptness—fierceness—of her response.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said earnestly.

“I know. Family pressure, you know? I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“You left in a hurry after you were on stage. I was afraid I’d embarrassed you. And then finding you as we drove down the parkway, that uh ... I’m stammering all over myself. I don’t usually do this kind of thing.”

“Pick up show groupies?”

“No. Uh ... Yes. That, too. I mean,” Paris blushed scarlet as he struggled to find a way to explain himself. Serepte laughed at him. “Not only do I not pick up show groupies—I’m not even sure I’ve ever known one—but I don’t usually go out after a show at all. Usually, I go straight to my hotel and try to get rid of my headache. I take aspirin, a shower, sleeping pills—anything to get some relief. Working in smoke filled showrooms with the heat and the lights in my eyes just gets to me.”

“There must be a lot of pressure on you when you perform,” Serepte said softly. She sympathized with her companion. Always pressure to perform.

“Oh, yeah. But that’s not all. I end up not eating. Too nervous before a show and too sick after. I’m probably getting lung cancer from secondhand smoke,” Paris laughed. Serepte sat back and looked him over closely, suspicion and a hint of fear in her eyes. It pained him to see that look. He wanted to rub it out and see the expression of sure confidence he had felt earlier. At the same time, he felt she had examined him inside and out in that one look.

“Hey. Did I say something wrong?” he asked.

“Not really. Um ... Just please don’t joke about being sick. You couldn’t have known that I’m sensitive about that.” Paris looked at her as carefully as she had examined him. Was she sick? Wouldn’t it be just his luck to get stuck on someone with a terminal illness? The thing bad movies were made of. Goodbye Minneapolis. Before he could respond Serepte changed the tone. “Who are you really? I feel silly calling you Paris. I mean...” she blushed. “If that’s your real name, I’m sorry. I thought it was just a stage name, you know?”

“It is,” he laughed. “Allow me to introduce myself. Paul Mansfield at your service.” He stood slightly at his seat and bent forward offering his hand—a move that brought his head in contact with the potted fern. Serepte took his offered hand as they laughed at the ridiculous action.

“Is that part of some mystic ritual? Cracking your head on a plant when you introduce yourself?” she laughed. Then she stood, intentionally popped the plant with her forehead, and said, “Serepte Allen. Pleased to meet you.”

“Take it easy on the furniture,” Lissa said coming up to the table with their drinks and an order of fries. “Every evening, I come through the restaurant with a little plastic watering can and imaginary water to sprinkle the plastic plants. That’s what keeps them so green.” She set the fries in front of them. “Cooks mistook a two for a three on my last order, so there’s an extra batch of fries. You looked like you could use them while you’re waiting for the real food.”

“Thanks,” Paul said. “Uh ... Sorry about the plant.”

“Don’t worry your pretty little plastic heads about it,” she laughed as she scurried away to another table.

“If I were really able to make things disappear, I think I’d vanish from embarrassment right now,” he said.

“Oh, just move our pesky waitress from one place to another with a wave of your hand,” Serepte rejoined. Soon they were talking about their lives and Paul found himself revealing much more than he normally did. She enjoyed his stories, but picked up on the fact that he was leaving things out. He said he was in his twenties and a college dropout. Serepte said she was eighteen, but she looked to Paris just a little older. More mature than college would suggest.

“So, anyway, I quit college in my senior year and went on the road as an opening act for this comedian. It was a real kick, though a jolt for my conservative parents. Mom was never all that happy about me doing magic tricks as it smacked of ... I don’t know. Something not within her Congregationalist upbringing. The devil made me do it,” Paul laughed. “But at some point, you become an adult and assume you can make it on your own. They have to accept it, too. Besides, they had five other children they could fall back on.”

“Big family.”

“I was an unintentional late addition,” he sighed. “That’s when I adopted the stage name of the Great Paris, even if I wasn’t so great. Vanity? Or some desire to protect the family from the shame of a Mansfield doing magic? Not that they needed to worry. Who would go see Paul Mansfield do magic?”

“I would. At least I would now that I know you.” Serepte’s eyes were still laughing.

“But that’s the point. You only know Paul Mansfield because you came to see the Great Paris. And because, in spite of a number of minor faults that don’t bear mentioning, he had the good taste to recognize you while speeding down the parkway in a runaway taxi and sweep you up with him into the glamour of the stage and adventures not yet told or remembered.”

“Remembering stories is important,” Serepte said. “My father, though he was gone before I was born, once said that all the things that ever existed had their being only because people remembered them. And there were incredible things that could bloom into existence if only they could be remembered.”

“Wow. I’m ... uh ... sorry about your father, Serepte. Just when we need them, things disappear on us.” He crumpled a napkin in his hand, rubbed his palms together, and opened them empty. Then he reached toward Serepte and seemed to pull it from her hair. She laughed—green eyes sparkling, lips parted and turned up in a wide smile. Paul’s heart skipped a beat while he looked at her.

“So, what more genuine name would you like to have?” Serepte asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. Something like ... like...” he faltered, still caught in the depths of her eyes.

“Like Paul!” Serepte finished, breaking the spell.

“Hey! That’s not bad. I could change my name to Paul. Paul Paris. Oops! I mean Mansfield. Sometimes I forget what my real name is.” He reached across the table to put his hand on hers and felt her tense as the laughter echoed into new-found silence. Their eyes did not waver from each other’s. The light he had seen there changed to something deeper, fierier. Paul released here hand.

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t meaning to be forward. It was just...”

“Don’t apologize. I like your hands, Paul. Please ... I just have a hard time touching people. I can’t explain. Sometimes it hurts.”

“Does it hurt? To touch me, Serepte?”

“No. Not now. Please give me another chance. I don’t believe you would ever hurt me.” She reached out her hand and Paul took it gently in his own. There was a mutual flow of trust between them. Paul normally avoided touching people more than necessary. He never knew what a touch might reveal.

“Isn’t that sweet?” Lissa said as she approached the table with a platter of ribs, more fries, coleslaw, and Serepte’s mac-n-cheese.

“A touch of magic, Lissa,” Paul jumped in, immediately. “We joined hands to invoke the presence of food and voila! The messenger of the gods arrives with more food than we will ever be able to eat!”

“Honey,” Lissa said, turning to Serepte. “Raise those hands a little higher. I can see your watch is only waterproof and the bullshit is getting deep in here.”

“What a terrible way to talk about your employer,” Paul said quickly. “Demeaning his establishment.”

“Touché,” Lissa said. “I like you. Haven’t had a good challenge like you in five years. I hope you two come back here often.”

“I think I might keep him away from people like you,” Serepte said, playfully scowling at the waitress.

“Okay! I know when I’m not wanted. Messenger of the gods, indeed. I’ll just disappear now.” Lissa turned and wiggled her butt a little extra as she walked away from the table.

“I think she’s an actor,” Paul said, shaking his head.

“I think that’s all they hire here. I actually saw her at Park Square Theater this summer in Moon for the Misbegotten. She’s quite good.”

“Do you know the way to San Jose?” Paul sang softly. “And all the stars that never were are parking cars and pumping gas.”

“You aren’t.”

“Do you know how many of us standup entertainers started out wanting to be legitimate actors?” Paul asked, pointing at the poster of Rudolph Valentino with a rib in his fingers. He didn’t wait for the response before continuing. “I went to college, but there was no degree in standup comedy and sleight-of-hand. I ... advanced very rapidly through school when I finally started. Being a standup is more about how quickly you can think and improvise than about how skilled an actor you are.”

“How do you manage to keep so much in your head all the time?” she asked. She tapped a fry against his nose and he opened his mouth so she could feed it to him. He could no longer hold her hand because they were covered with barbecue sauce.