"You're a loser, Mike."
"Jess, baby. Don't say that."
"Okay. You're an asshole."
I tried a feeble attempt at humor: "Jesse, I'm going to have to break up with you if you keep talking to me like that."
"Go ahead! Stay in la-La-land, for all I care. I don't want to see you, anyway."
"Jess..."
"Don't 'Jess' me. you gave those girls your home phone number. Did you think they wouldn't call?"
"They're just fans, sweetheart."
"You don't even try to hide that you're banging them! I know the difference between a groupie and a fan!"
"I love you, Jess."
"Like hell you do! Just to let you know, I sold your clothes and your CD collection..."
"You what?" I choked. "Why?"
"Your part of the rent, sweetheart."
"My CDs?"
"All of them."
"Is there any money left over?"
She hung up the phone. I guess I wonât be buying her any presents this year.
The Chief Choreographer for the dance company had a smirk on his face when I asked him for my job back.
"No way," he said. "You're a loser, Michael."
I'd already heard that one, today.
"And a womanizer."
Coming from a fag, that was a real crusher.
"And you have a drug problem that's affecting your performance."
"Think back a sec, Walter. Who hired the fat-ass lead and then prescribed 'vitamins' for me when I blew my knee out trying to lift her?"
"Michael, your excuses are becoming as pathetic as your dancing."
Ouch. That one hurt.
I tried the humble approach.
"Walter, I'll do whatever I have to."
"I wish I could believe that, Michael. I really do."
"This is important to me. Just tell me what I have to do."
He paused and looked me straight in the eye, like an old schoolteacher preparing to berate her favorite trouble-maker.
"This company is a team, Michael. We're only as good as our weakest dancer. Nobody wants you around. They don't trust you."
"I'll go into re-hab, if that's what you want."
"I offered you re-hab, before and you turned it down."
"Is there anything I can do?"
"Yes," he said. "You can leave."
