SERIES: Do You Like Boots?
(AKA: Box 18)
PART: 5 of 6
RATING: NC-17 (Explicit
Heterosexual Sexual Activity, Pos. kink, Adult thematic material, language,
adult content)
PAIRING(s): S/C; incidental L/L and F/E
DISTRIBUTION: To Myself so far; any other archives are welcome
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CATEGORY: Romance, Drama
FEEDBACK: PLEASE?!
SETTING IN TIMELINE: Post-Show canon; takes place in 1978, when
everyone is roughly forty.
SPOILLER/SUMMARY: Carmine and Shirley try to pick up the pieces
of their failed romantic lives by returning to what they know best...
NOTES: We need some S/C in this house...
***
“It was karaoke night at Village Beanery,” Shirley explained. “I used to go there, to sing away my blues.”
Carmine chuckled at the images filtering through his mind – Hoot
Nights gone past, and Shirley’s pretty voice melding with his. “No big shock there.”
“I went with a few girls from work, and there was a gorgeous
woman onstage singing a Shirelles medley.” She continued, “I couldn’t resist buying her
a drink, so we sat together and enjoyed the rest of the acts. She told me about her work in the theatre,
and I told her about Walter…” she was, Carmine realized, turning bright red.
Well, that was a fresh development. Then he frowned. “You and Harlette?”
She chuckled. “Is it
really so far-fetched, Carmine?” She
poked his chest. “I’m not exactly the
same Shirley Feeney who wouldn’t let you go to third base.”
She sure as hell wasn’t. “Yeah, but…you and Harlette, really?”
“Carmine! You sound positively bourgeois!”
“Shirl,
I’m anything but boujais.”
She chuckled at his
intentional mispronunciation. “I suppose
not. You did marry Evie
and she wasn’t very…” she turned red. “I’m
sorry, Carmine.”
“It’s
okay – you’re right, she wasn’t exactly what you’d call top-shelf classy…” But Carmine closed his eyes tightly and
sighed at the memory.
Evie.
***
She came on so sweet, at
first – a little
disco-dancing girl with big brown eyes and a great big ‘yes, please’
smile.
Like Shirley.
He figured out quickly enough
that there was something ‘off’ about her – quirky. His mother would say she was tetched, but Carmine, being a Sensitive New Age Alan Alda type (so said his agent), gallantly tried to avoid labeling
her. She was unique. Kind. A nice kid.
He figured out quickly enough that something was wrong inside of
her – that she wasn’t right. Maybe it
was the massive collection of antique dolls, or the slightly-winsome expression
she wore constantly. Her florid,
fairy-flower face seemed to hint at an otherworldliness.
Carmine married her – he’d knocked her up,
that was the right thing to do.
Her miscarriage a few weeks later didn’t change things – she was young,
they could have another. He had a soap gig that took up all of his time
and kept him late on the set.
Soon, she accused him of killing the baby. After that, the suicide attempts began. By the time he’d been forced to commit her
she had been diagnosed as a socio-affective schizophrenic.
The first year was torture, for she’d have moments of lucidity. Five years had gone by, and he had accepted
that she’d never return. It sent him
into a cocaine-filled binge that had lasted too long, ruined his voice and reputation,
and led him to a life with Julie.
***
“…Carmine, honey? Come
back!”
He jumped as her voice echoed through the room. “Sorry,” he said sheepishly.
“The past doesn’t matter anymore,” she informed him. “all that matters is…”
his phone rang, interrupting her thought.
“Dammit…who the hell could be calling
past eleven?” he got up, padded into the living room, and picked up the receiver. “Ragusa.”
“Carmine! Joe. Hope you’ve still got your tap shoes all
polished and ready to go, ‘cause you’ve got an
audition next week in midtown.”
“Midtown? We’re talking on Broadway?”
“Where else?” he could feel Joey’s grin. “Stop by tomorrow and pick up the script.”
“Waitaminute – what’re we talking
about? What’s the play about?”
“Doesn’t matter. All you need to know is
the author’s name.”
“Which is?”
“One word, Rags: Sondheim.”
Carmine shrieked. But it
was a very masculine shriek…
TBC