Neil Benson Neil Benson

The Prince 2949 words

The Prince

The band at my Cousin Natalie's wedding reception played an endless stream of clichd love songs. I searched for a way to make a quiet escape. As I started to leave, I heard a commotion near the front door. A dozen or so men formed a semi-circle around a tall man with dark, curly black hair. I moved closer to find out what was happening. When I weaved through my relatives, I saw a man with dark, heavy eyebrows, a distinguished but well shaped nose, and a strong chiseled chin. He reminded me of a young Alec Baldwin. Uncle Tony pointed his finger at the man's face and said, "it ain't right to go away for so long without staying in contact with someone in your family." I couldn't hear the response, but it made everyone around him laugh. My Cousin Vincent punched the man in the shoulder. I moved closer to listen to the conversation. "Michael, so where ya stayin?" Vincent asked. "I've got a small apartment on west eighty-First Street," Michael said. My heart fluttered when I realized the rich baritone voice belonging to a distant cousin, Michael Baroni. He had recorded two successful albums, and all his concerts were sold out two months in advance. Five years ago, he walked off the stage in the middle of a performance and disappeared into the night. Neither his band, nor members of his family, knew where he had gone. His surprise appearance triggered family members into besieging him. I waited

while he had answered everyone's questions, moved away, and stood alone. I took a deep breath, whispered my mantra, and walked up to him. Michael, looking the other way, didn't see me until I was in front of him. "Would you like to dance?" I asked in a shaky voice. My dry mouth prevented me from swallowing. "Me?" He said with a bemused expression. His dark gray eyes twinkled, and his raised eyebrows exaggerated his response. "Yes." I pointed to the bridesmaids around us. "There are no other males within five yards." His smile widened and he nodded. He hesitated for a moment. "Will you lead, or should I?" My cheeks reddened, and my pulse raced after I blurted out my question. "I guess I'm a bit old-fashioned. I'm more comfortable when I lead." He took me to the middle, where several couples danced to the music of the small ensemble. His strong right hand pressed against my back. "You look familiar, but I can't remember your name." "Erica D'Amico." The band played the Power of Love. I closed my eyes, afraid that if I opened them Michael would disappear. "I don't suppose I need to introduce myself." He leaned his head back and raised his eyebrows, mocking our awkward situation. "Michael, I have had a crush on you since I was thirteen and you were twenty." "You embarrass me." His eyes captured mine, and he studied my face. "Wait, now I know who you are. You're Joey and Edna's kid. You used to wear your hair in a long ponytail." He paused and looked me over. "You're all grown-up."

"Glad you noticed." I blushed as his eyes lingered on my breasts. "As I watched the family converge on you, I remembered other times when you were the center of attention." "There seems to be much interest in me," he said. "You're a legend, Michael. For the past two months, rumors of your return to New York have dominated family gossip sessions." "I don't understand why people are so interested in me." He frowned for a moment, seemingly lost in thought. "Michael, you're the family hero. An All-American basketball player at the University of Pennsylvania and then two hit albums. All before you were thirty. To top it off, as my mother says, "Tall, dark, and more handsome than any man has a right to be." He laughed. "You're making me blush." "Everyone wants to know where you been for the past five years." "A subject for another time," he said. "Tell me about yourself." "I received a PhD in European history from Cornell. I worked as an instructor for a year at Columbia, and then they hired me as an assistant professor. "Congratulations on your professorship." I don't see a ring. Am I safe in assuming that you were not married or engaged?" "That's right." Engaged, I hardly went out. Are you seeing anyone? "No," I stammered. The music ended, and he held me for a few seconds. My body trembled in his arms. We would soon become the center of attention. He let go of me, and we walked off the dance floor.

"Time for me to leave," he said. "I came as a favor to Aunt Lenore. I don't enjoy large family gatherings." "Would you be interested in having coffee sometime?" My chest constricted, making breathing difficult. He laughed. "Are you always this forward?" "I've never done anything like this before," and probably never will again. "I applaud your courage. Give me your number, and I'll call you in a couple of nights." I took a card out of my purse and wrote my home number on the back of it. He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek, said "Au revoir," and walked away. I stood for a moment, unable to believe my boldness. My mind clouded at the idea of going out with him. I would be like Cinderella. This thinking would not be well received in my women's group. # When the phone rang on Tuesday night, my shaky hands nearly knocked over the coffee mug on top of the papers I had been grading. Michael suggested going to a restaurant in the Village on Saturday. It had excellent Italian food and a jazz band. I was in the mental haze during the week, barely able to teach my classes and communicate with colleagues. I glanced at the clock and realized he would come within a half hour. I spent most of Saturday deciding what to wear. I had chosen a green dress, and was putting on my last earring when the doorbell rang. "You look lovely," he said. He wore gray slacks and a blue sport coat without a tie.

"Thank you." We took a taxi to the restaurant and, even though we had a reservation, we waited thirty minutes to be seated. Our waiter told us about the specials for the evening, and then he presented the wine list to Michael. "None for me," Michael said. "Don't let that stop you from enjoying some wine." I chose a Merlot to go with my lasagna. I waited for the server walk away, and then I turned my attention to Michael. He regarded me with his soulful gray eyes. I dropped my gaze unaccountably tongue-tied. "Say something," I rebuked myself. "Are you singing anyplace?" I asked to break the awkward silence. "Not yet. I'm translating the notes I scribbled during the last several years." "Mind telling me what it will be about?" The server had arrived with our appetizers before he responded. We exchanged small talk as we ate. Only after we had eaten the tiramisu could we focus on each other. "You were going to tell me about what you are writing," I said. "I'm trying to capture the spirit of the counterculture in America, without resorting to rap or hip-hop. It won't be anything at all like my last album." "Please tell me more." I wanted him to talk, afraid that I might say something embarrassing. The band began its next set, and the trumpeter's high, sharp notes pierced the air. We sat there riveted by the skill of the young prodigy. When the set ended, I yawned despite my effort not to do so.

"It's after one a.m.," Michael said. "I think the history professor had a long evening." "But a splendid one." Michael used his body to navigate through the crowd waiting to get in. After a short ride to my apartment, he walked me to my door. "I had a fabulous time," he said. "So did I." For a moment, we faced each other. He leaned forward and kissed me softly. I started to press my lips to his, but he pulled away. "Will I see you again?" Tension squeezed my chest. "Sure," he said with a bit of hesitation. His lack of eye contact puzzled me ""How about coming over for dinner on Wednesday night? I don't teach classes on Thursday. Perhaps 7 PM?" "Okay," he said, and then he went to the elevator. I locked the door and leaned against it. I let out a silent shout of joy. # On Monday and Tuesday, I graded papers and worked on an article to occupy my mind with something other than Michael. On Wednesday evening, my heart beat faster as seven o'clock approached. Preoccupied with checking the chicken cacciatore, I jumped when the doorbell rang. I couldn't untie my apron and became distressed. Finally, I raced to the door as it rang it again. Perhaps I'm a little early," he said with his bemused smile. "As usual I'm running late. Dinner will be ready in about fifteen minutes. You can watch the basketball playoffs while I'm finishing."

"A woman who understands men. I'm doubly blessed." He laughed heartily. Despite my worst fears, dinner was a success. "You make marvelous chicken cacciatore." He touched his lips with his fingers and made an old Italian gesture. "Thanks. Are you sure you don't want any wine?" "No thank you." He smiled awkwardly. After we had eaten, he helped me wash and put away the dishes. "Let's go into to the living room," I said. He hesitated before he sat on the couch. I sat beside him, close, but I didn't crowd him. "You're an excellent cook." He stuck his stomach out and patted it. "Thanks, again. Can I ask you a question?" "Just one?" Michael blinked, his eyes becoming wary. "Besides your agent, how many people know what you did the last five years?" "Only my parents." "Would you be willing to tell me?" Michael exhaled and stared off into space. "You must not share what I say to you with anyone." "I would never do anything to hurt you." My chest tightened as I waited for his response. "Ask away." He tried to sound casual, but I noted tenseness in his eyes and mouth. "Well, where were you?" "I wish that I knew." He forced a laugh. "I can name the cities I spent time in, but not all the places I slept."

"How could you not know where you were?" I tried to comprehend what he had just told me. "Drunk or so stoned I didn't care." He shook his head and sighed, as if he were reliving painful memories. "Did you get into drugs they were readily available in the music business?" "I became an addict because I was so depressed I couldn't function. Doctors and all of their medicines didn't help me." A tick developed in his right eye, and he clenched his hands. "Weren't there were good antidepressants five years ago?" "Tried every one of them." He sighed, and his shoulders slumped. His body became lethargic while he talked. "Some of them worked for a while, most of them didn't work at all." He spoke with a mixture of anger and sadness. "Neither the drugs nor the doctors were of any use. The medications had strong side effects. At times, I wondered about my sanity. If they couldn't help me, I wouldn't let them hurt me." "Did you believe they would harm you?" Was he paranoid, or had some of the medications had made him ill? "I didn't give them a chance." His voice took on a sharp edge. "I headed west and wandered from city to city, staying in cheap motels and apartments. At times, the depression forced me to stay in bed for days, eating cold pizza and drinking warm pop." "How did you subsist?" I lived off the royalties from albums. But, I couldn't get all the payments at once. Occasionally, the depression subsided, and I sobered up long enough to write a few songs I sent to my agent. I used the money he wired me to buy more drugs. When I was broke, I did things I am ashamed to talk about.

Sometimes I slept with women, so I had a place to stay and food to eat. Other times I sold small amounts of drugs." He shivered, as if he experienced painful memories. "I stayed with old hippies, Goths, and once with a dealer who had never had a sober day." Michael stopped and his eyes drifted off into space. I wondered where his mind was taking him. I couldn't relate to his experiences. I'd attended elite schools and colleges. My first teaching job was at a prestigious university. I was unable to imagine what he had experienced. He had been treated like royalty, and then he found himself among the poor and outcasts of society. Mentally ill and a drug addict? Was this my Prince? "So writing music kept you sane," I said. "I apologize. Bad word to use. How did you get well?" "One day, I read about a new antidepressant that helped people who had never received any benefit from other medications. I called my agent, and he sent me money. Then I went to a clinic outside Santa Barbara. Over a month passed before the meditation began to help me. For the first time in a decade, my thinking was clear. I didn't feel emotionally overwhelmed most of so often." He sat still for a few minutes." "How long ago did this happen?" I shivered at the idea of becoming so lost, but I began to understand his ordeal. "I need to stay clean and sober as well as take the medication. After I had told my agent I was ready to record again, he got me an advance, and I found an apartment. I started to write a little at first, more with each passing day. The wedding where we met was the first family gathering I had been to since my return. Mostly, I run and I write."

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"Sounds like a monastic lifestyle." He needed to protect himself from situations that could pressure him. "That's all I am able to handle now." "You were charming and witty at the wedding." "An act, a sham. I can do that for a couple of hours. Then I need to leave, before I become so nervous I stutter and perspire." If he couldn't handle routine social situations, he was a long way from being well. I wondered about his relationships with women. "When did you last spend an evening with a woman?" "Stoned or clean and sober?" "Are you serious?" I asked. When I tried to make eye contact with him, he looked away. "Unfortunately, I'm not." "You're the first woman I've been out on a date with in over six years that wasn't high or soon-to-be so." I moved closer to him, but he leaned away. "I just wanted to comfort you." "I'm sorry." He lowered his head, staring at the floor. "What's the problem?" "I'm not sure I should be doing this," he said. He clenched his hands, and his tic became more pronounced. "Doing what?" "Getting into a relationship," he said. "We've had two dates and just started kissing," My shyness had always been a burden to me, but Michael's problem was far greater than mine. "There's chemistry between us. I can't take the chance of becoming involved." "What are you afraid of?" I began to appreciate his fragility.

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"I don't know if I'll remain stable. I've been on the new medications for only six months. There were other times when I thought I was okay only to find out otherwise. He leaned back against the couch; his eyes were unfocused and his face was wet with perspiration. "How long would you need to be stable before you let yourself become involved with a woman?" As soon as I asked the question, I knew I had pressed him too far. He didn't respond at first. After several minutes, he blinked and made eye contact with me. "I'm sorry," he said. A furrow formed in his forehead as he tried to answer me. "I can't tell you because I don't know." He leaned back against the couch and closed his eyes. "You don't have to apologize. It's best not to rush things. Better to give yourself time to become more confident about your stability." His need for comforting made me uneasy. Telling me the details of his five-year ordeal, and his fears regarding his mental stability, had overwhelmed him. His relaxed and witty style had disappeared. He was a vulnerable and fragile person. My dream had nothing to do with the man in front of me. Michael wasn't ready to go out on dates, let alone be in a relationship. He lay with his head against the pillows until his breathing steadied, and the pallor of his skin returned to normal. He glanced at me and gave me a half smile. "It's time for me to leave." He raised himself off the couch with the unsteadiness of an athlete who had lost consciousness from violent physical contact. There was an awkward moment after I walked him to the door. Neither of us knew what to do. So, I kissed him on the cheek. "Call

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me whenever you want; we can have coffee or go out to eat." I closed the door knowing I would probably never see him again.