Camouflage Fades

Luther and Penelope walked to an Army surplus store from the coffee shop. Once inside, they picked out two identical pairs of fatigues. They intended to customize the appearance of their outerwear.
“Do you think we should try to buy a gun?” Luther asked.
“It would be much more realistic,” Penelope concluded.
“Are we seeking peace or destruction at this party?” he then asked.
“I just want to make people laugh,” Penelope said.
“Costume parties make me nervous,” Luther said, “It’s so hard to think of something that’s not lame.”
“We are definitely not lame.” Penelope said.
The cashier rang up their military clothes, and they walked out into the street. Luther held the bag with their costumes in it, and Penelope held his other hand. At this stage, we might consider the concept of boredom, as this was a concern of Luther’s whenever it came to romantic interconnectedness. To his mind, there had to be total connection for there to be no boredom. But Penelope was not a very talkative person today.
“I’m all worn out from work,” she said.
Of course, what fails to be mentioned is how Luther did not know what role he was to play in Penelope’s life. Or rather, he did not know how to behave in relation to her. He did not know what she wanted out of him, and so he did not realize when he might be appearing insensitive.
“Do you want to come with me to my audition?” he asked her.
“How long will it take?”
“It depends on how many other people are there. It could be awhile.”
“I guess so. Why not?”
They boarded the train and went downtown. Again, the boredom returned, and this caused Luther’s eye to wander. After a moment, he then felt guilty. Why should he pay attention to anybody but Penelope? Or was she not really the one he had been waiting in vain for?
Much earlier, it was stated that as Luther drove down the expressway he believed that love would continue to elude him. That no matter how open he was to it, there would be none which would satisfy. At this point, we might say that he had stood corrected, but we might also regard with an eye for providence, the basic impossibilities inherent in his psyche which had rendered him essentially hopeless in relation to real and true mutual love. He merely wanted to be held. In the end, he could not be the one to hold.
Nevertheless, he and Penelope held hands on the train, and when they arrived at the site of the audition, they sat down on adjacent folding chairs and looked over the script that Luther was to read.
“Are you nervous?” she asked him
“It would be nice to get a real job.”
“You could find a real job easier than acting.”
“Any other job makes me feel suicidal.”
Penelope laughed.
“You could work in the coffee shop with me. One of my co-workers just got fired.”
“No thanks. I need something that’s really stimulating, that makes me feel like I’m doing something of real value.”
“Coffee is stimulating.”
“Pouring it is not.”
“But it’s not just brewing it, or pouring it, it’s the total package. The friendly greeting you give to the customers, the way you can try to make them smile, seeing how satisfied they look once they’re finished. That’s the pleasure of it,” Penelope explained.
“It is only liquids. If I get this acting gig, I will be recorded, and automatically become a part of something bigger than just a leased space, predetermined ingredients, greetings, profits, and some kind of comfort. For most people, real spaces are comforting. But for other people, real spaces are impossible, and some kind of art is all they know to live like, and they stay inside the boundaries of the imaginary. I am not interested in serving the needs of most people. But if I can do something that will seriously move a few of these so-called other people, then that success is forever.”
It was Luther’s turn next for the audition. He stood up and walked into the room where it was to take place. Penelope took out a book.
One woman sat between two men who were to be judging Luther’s audition. They told him he could begin whenever he was ready.
He began by walking up closely to the desk they were sitting at.
“What kind of pain have I felt? Is that what you want to know? How much have I suffered? I’ll tell you how much I’ve suffered—not enough. I’ve been protected from pain all my life. I’ve never broken a bone. I’ve never had to worry about going hungry. I’ve never gotten in a fight and I’ve never been targeted for an attack. I’ve lived in silence—words spoken, but lost in the air, a body on a physical plane, but a ghost in everyone’s mind.”
He stepped back after the last sentence.
“So you ask me, what kind of pain have I felt? Well, I ask you, what kind of pain have you felt? I need to know, because pain is relative. How can I be sure that how bad I’ve felt is justified in your eyes? Do you think I’m a pussy? Do you think I can’t take pain, because I’ve been protected from it? I know pain. I know real pain, but I still haven’t suffered enough. Do you believe me? Do you believe me if you see tears? I don’t cry because I can’t cry, and when I can cry I don’t want to be crying because it’s a sign of weakness, for me, as a man. Weakness and pain do not correlate with me. There is no good reason for me to cry, and to do it is to pity myself.”
He then sat down on the floor.
“But I would be lying if I said I never cried for something trivial. And I would by lying if I didn’t admit there was some personal satisfaction in crying for no good reason. To feel the burn in your eyes, to feel the despair choking you back, to feel the utter loneliness. To have no one beside you to give you comfort. So what is my pain that you want? Is the pain permissible? Can you quantify it by life experience, hardships, uphill struggles, challenges unmet and defeat? Or do you think pain only comes out of abuse—the unnecessary push to the edge, the advantage taken? No, that pain is justified, and that pain is understood by all, and because of that, it’s not real. No, the only real pain, the pain you care to hear about, the pain you want from me, is the pain I won’t admit I feel. This is the pain that I create myself. The pain that comes from within. The pain that comes from knowing and the pain that comes from guilt. My pain is my own responsibility, and you want to know what kind I’ve felt. Pain is personal. And I don’t feel like getting personal today.”
The three casting agents thanked him, and he quickly left the room.