GLORIA
by
Thomas Thomas




She looked at the clutter before every show and had always done so. It was something that she just did; it was a matter of routine. Every night going through the same process of putting on the make up, rustling through her bag, unpacking and repacking. The same dusty mirror that she had to clean with the never-ending supply of baby wipes at hand. The noise from outside her room that unnerved her before every show made her want to yearn for something better. Maybe she’ll retire, maybe she won’t.
She didn’t worry herself about it, feels as if it doesn’t matter anymore, with so many days spent lying in the sun, so many nights laughing and talking and singing, singing her song. It was always for the entertainment of others, others too who glanced back at her, their eyes always following her around the stage. She would sleep with those men, just for a night of hot steamy sex, as passion was something she believed she needed, really yearned for, those men who she sometimes fused with; but the spark was always distinguished by her self. And the clutter reminded her of the absence that still ached inside of her for the men that slipped through her fingers.
It was a Friday nigh and close to the end of the summer season in Torremolinos, on the southern step of land that bordered Europe to Africa, in the country of Spain that many British holiday go to, to seek the sun; and the fun, that would not be given so freely to their own fellow compatriots, who usually paired in fours, sixes or dozens. Sun seekers and fun seekers, herded into hotels and crowded around bars that they would not normally venture into, or come into contact with people they usually kept away from.
“Gloria”, she said to herself into the mirror, “You’re looking old and past it, but you still have a sparkle in those eyes, like you have always done. But this night will the be the last.”
She applied more lipstick and more slap. That’s what she called it. She smiled, but appeared sullen. Like as if the smile should have the effect of a grimace, because that’s what she felt like when the season was coming to a close.
She put on her dress, a silver sequined number she bought in a charity shop in her hometown of Neath, in Wales. A country she had long ago felt was not her home no more. It was the time her father had passed away and she had to return, felt it her duty. She remembered how she walked confidently through the town on that day, as she knew she would never return, felt that she could really be herself, as she always wanted to feel that release, a unfathomable experience she did not expect to be feeling.
She wandered around, amiably smiling at the folks that glanced at her, not caring anymore what people thought. Instead she looked confidently at them and smiled. Usually she thought it best to amuse herself by thinking she was better than them, trying to put herself above other people, but then she felt…the same. And her feminine charm was seen as alien to most of them, most that would have taunted her, if she not paraded but mingled; and so she did. The loss of her father was the best gift she could have ever wanted it seemed to her then.
The dress was a little tighter tonight than it had ever been, what with less shows, and less rehearsals, more time in bed and more time drinking and chatting, as there was pretty much nothing else to do.
“Oh, my God,” she squealed laughing at herself. She would have been close to tears a few months back, before the crash, before the heartache, before the before. Then was a time when the ending of a show, with all the wigs and make up and lipsticks, false eyelashes and such, would make her feel despair at the life she was living. But this night was to be her last.
“Regrets, my darling Gloria, are like the veins beneath our skin. They are there, they will always be there, and are permenent, and have a purpose.” She said aloud as she looked at her self in the mirror.
Gloria was all aglow, with the sparkly silver sequins shinning up to her face to reveal the once glittered and self styled actress that she was with all those men, all those big and strong, meek and mild mannered, with indolence rays of youth expounding from within. The wild ones she lusted after, dreamed about spending her whole life with, because the wonder of lust was for the taking, for the making, as each and every one of those men had a girl too. Well most of them. Gloria loved the danger of it all. Maybe her father was the cause of all this lust, this want, this need, and the need for attention, sex, and money, to fill a gap for love?
“Yes, Gloria,” she shouted. “Be the one who will tease, provoke, lie, deceive, pretend and enjoy, but must also be able to escape.” Then she laughed, as that crooked smile of hers pricked up her ears, and the dark circles emerged seemed hallow and untrustworthy. She then slid her hand across the clutter on the table and started brushing the blond wig, re-immersing herself in the memories that would be remembered as good ones; the bad ones left to lie in deathly space, where time would no longer give rebirth to them.
She stared at herself in the mirror, longer than was necessary, longer than she really had to, because she wanted to live within that peacefulness. The spirit of her father was lingering around her it seemed, as if the long lost thoughts had to be rehearsed so that they could be released, let go, out of her life, as she believed she never really loved him, never felt any loss.
“Hi Gloria, love. You ready for the big night, you all excited?”
It was her best friend and companion Shawny Richards. A friend who had spent most of her time in the same bars and clubs and beaches and sun-drenched cafes; the friend who fought over men, laughed around, even slept together on occasions. Yes, they used one another, they partied, they had always done, still do. The two were inseparable sometimes, only letting one-night stands and estranged husbands and lonely people come to them, as they knew they were lonely too.
“You got a big crowd out there, my darling. They will love you all night and sleep with you memories afterwards,” said Shawny, winking as she did so, playing with a bunch of flowers bought by her, even though she said it came from an admirer from the awaiting audience.
Gloria remained silent, a little nervous, her stomach churning at the very thought of it being her last performance, her last night to a new day.
Shawny knew she was mentally preparing herself for the gig, so she kissed Gloria on her forehead, as two loving sisters would do to each other, then said, “Good luck my sweet. Go kill ‘em.”
Shawny walked toward the door and looked back at Gloria. “You are one of the lucky ones. Don’t waste what fortunate circumstances have prevailed. Leave your past behind and live for the now.” She blew a kiss to her friend.
Gloria looked at her and said, “I believe in life after death, Hun. I believe we all live after we die. They are in our dreams and they will always be; and others will dream of us, but for how long – for eternity, or for few microseconds of Earth time?”
“You believe what you have to believe, my little buttercup. We have to live with it.”
Gloria looked at her friend. “Live with what?”
Shawny sighed, “Like all human beings do my darling; the process of living our lives, the understanding of it all. Because after the parities and the dancing and the singing and the never-ending sunsets in summer, we…well, we try to create our own world that justifies our lives. That’s what we have to live with: the memories and the order upon which we surrender to, accept, or destroy them. It’s up to you, it’s up to me, its up to everyone on this planet to do so.”
“I love you Shawny,” said Gloria, smiling as she did so.
Shawny was surprised by the tone of her friend’s voice. She had to admit to herself that she did look silly with the make up and lashes and the shinny silver sequined dress that sparkled. Her hair was flat, greased down, prepared for her wig to be placed on top. She blew a kiss to Gloria and said, “I love you too, darling,” and then suddenly left.
The flowers are beautiful, Gloria thought to herself, knew too that her best friend had chosen them wisely, probably ordered them direct from abroad herself. They created a scene within her, the scene at the funeral, as she knew what to expect then, knew what was going to happen, as she had buried her mother two years back. She cried then but not on that day. She refused to cry now.
She remembered the day like it was a scene in a film, so foreboding and grey and wet it was, with the distance faces all etched in sadness, and the mournful murmur of crying echoing around the graveyard. When she threw the carnations onto the coffin, she did not say ‘Goodbye Dad’, like she had to her Mother. Instead she dropped the flower into the grave as if it were an accident, like she was told she was by her father a few years before. They argued. She was arrogant; he was disappointed. She promised never to return, ever. Miss Independent, that’s what her best friend and companions said to her. And she was.
Before she knew it, she was standing at the station with twenty grand in her suitcase, already spent, and already put away, to adapt to the years of uncertainty and change that now lay ahead for everyone, it seemed.
“Yes,” she said to herself, as she looked up at the rain clouds hovering above and over the misty mountains in the distance, “Back home to my family of friends where I belong.”
Gloria brushed her fine blond wig, knowing that the men she knew and who had returned every year to visit, to stay, to make love, to appease her, to, one day, fall in love with. Some of them have already lost their once thick head of hair, some of the men already gone bald, hiding their crown with the cloth of a hat. Some too feeble with their tenacious fingers, too eager to please, will come and go, but she will survive it all. She had grown up, had too. After all, to all those men that came, she was their Queen.
She had fallen in love herself and lost them. She had fallen in and out and out of it all, just for the sake of a strong pair of arms to comfort her. She had fallen for the wrong sort; the bad boys and men that still come to her. She feels she looks cheap and nasty at times, when the animal instinct of charm and false admiration comes calling, whispering, and dreaming. But these were the boy men that she adored, felt elated to be with, made her feel so special.
Gloria felt so alive with the community of bars that accepted her, fondled her, pretended and deceived, helped her and abandoned her. The sunshine was all around her, blemished only by the incompetence of her youth, her strange and wonderful mind that was only the cause and effect of others that took advantage of her good nature, spat at her, verbally abused her, trampled on her; an every month event now, not as bad as it was back home. Because it was the sunshine that made people feel better, and it is the sunshine that healed her too.
Then suddenly one of the bar men entered the dressing room. “Are you ready, George?” asked Gary.
“Yes, my darling. I am ready. Just cue the fanfare and dim the lights.”
She brushed her hair, fiddled with her lipstick, and added a bit more slap.
“Well, Dad,” she said to the mirror, “This performance is for you. I know you hated me, wanted me to be some one better, some one who you could be proud of. I know that you wanted a boy and I was not that either, so how could I become a man! I know too that what you helped gave birth to, was nowhere near what you expected, even in your worst nightmares.
“Hey, Dad, look at me, look into my mind and see what I might have been if the world wasn’t so cruel. But it is, and we have to live within it, survive it.”
Gloria spayed some eau de cologne onto her neck, fiddled with her hair, and then stood up. She began singing, quietly at first, a little soft, unable to gain any confidence, then louder and louder, without any music accompanying her raucous voice, reaching a pitch to begin the chorus. Then suddenly stopped, looked into the mirror, and said, “I could have been some one else.”