Solo Sonatas and Red Lipstick

June contest entry for the Adam West Conspiracy

I spent a majority of my life in my car. At the time, I didn’t mind driving anywhere and everywhere, no matter the distance. Truth is, I loved my car. It was my dream car. The day I bought it, my daughter Zoe, and I decided that the car identified as a robot and used he/him pronouns. His name was Bay Max, and he was the tiniest Mini Cooper Countryman. I frequently let friends drive the car just for fun, and one had described the car as a little roller skate, having borrowed it to run an errand that took him through winding canyon roads.

During that era in my life, even though I was surrounded by people, and was in a relationship, I was alone and lonely a lot. One thing that I loved to do was drive from my home in Riverside, all the way to West Hollywood, in order to hang out with my boyfriend, Baron. During those drives, I would listen to various playlists I had made on Spotify, each tailored and curated to set a mood or vibe for the drive.

Sometimes, the playlist contained the most current pop and rap songs. They were upbeat, and had catchy lyrics, so I would frequently play the solo edition of car karaoke. I would really get into the emotions of the songs, belting out my own versions that sounded very similar to a cat in heat.

Driving along the 10 to the 101 here in California is nothing short of high speed chaos. My car had no issue keeping up, as you could certainly tell by the engine’s ability to get up and go. I would bop along, singing my heart out in my little car, as I sped along the highway.

When I would finally arrive in West Hollywood, finding parking off of Melrose was a bone of contention for the entirety of Baron’s residency there, which was years. I would circle the block again and again, eventually finding parking, but most days, it would be two or three blocks from his apartment. I would squeeze into the most miniscule spots with ease, having been taught to parallel park by my father years before I even had a driver's license. I would then break out my purse, and reach for my phone first, texting Baron to let him know where I parked, then reaching for the one essential item I never left home without; my MAC Russian Red lipstick. I would grab my mirrored compact and apply my signature lip color, before Baron inevitably would appear at the front of my car, ready to help me carry my bags into his apartment.

When I first met Baron, he made a comment on my lipstick, and told me that I should never leave the house without wearing that color. Me being me, I definitely took that to heart. It got to the point that I wouldn’t allow anyone to photograph me without lipstick on.

My relationship with Baron was in a constant state of flux. I never quite knew where I stood with him in terms of labels and standing. All I knew was that I was not his main girl, not only that, but I was probably one of five that he had on the hook. That man played puppeteer with every single one of us. But he was this gorgeous gothy model and artist, and he provided the craziest, most amazing experiences when we were together. I learned to ignore the outside goings on and focus squarely on the time that I did get to spend with him.

There were many instances that I would leave his apartment in a hurry after an argument, which seemed to happen quite frequently. I would run to my safe place, my car, and would escape to the predictable traffic on Los Angeles freeways. The music would come on, blaring, and I would rage sing in that car, speeding toward home.

Time went on, and Baron began struggling with addiction to alcohol. I was not around all the time, so I wasn’t aware of the severity of the problem until it got to the point that he was going through a bottle of vodka every other day. Somehow, I allowed myself to get roped into the role of caretaking for him. There were many instances that had me dropping everything, to race from my apartment, a county away, to Baron’s side. I began to resent the fact that I was put in this role, and had to rush there to quell his hallucinations of demons, or to go to the grocery store, to ensure he had food.

As if that wasn’t enough, during those dark days with Baron, my mother was diagnosed with terminal liver cancer and emphysema. I also suffered a miscarriage, but made the decision to keep the surprise pregnancy and loss completely to myself. No one had the time to hear me, or to provide care or comfort to me, so silence became my only recourse.

I had to cut the trips to see him in order to take my mother to her many appointments, and also on short drives all over to help her fulfill a list of things she wanted to see before she died. Two things were constant, though; singing in the car, and that damn red lipstick, ever present, through rapidly changing circumstances.

Juggling caretaking for two very sick people was taking a monumental toll. The music playlists in the car evolved to reflect the despair I was immersed in. The volume of my own singing lowered almost to a whisper, and I would often cry on those drives after dropping mom off, or leaving Baron’s.

Soon, the music stopped all together. I ceased singing out loud. I quit wearing makeup, totally. That MAC Russian Red lipstick was taken out of my purse, and put away in a drawer. There was simply no time for pomp and circumstance, let alone basic self care, like showering daily, or dressing in anything other than what was the least dirtiest item in my hamper.

I went through hell with Baron, and his disease was eating us alive. It got to the point that I had him hospitalized and put on a mental health hold in an effort to get him to detox. I had made plans with his sister and father in Colorado, and Baron would be put on a plane the day after his discharge from the hospital. His father had arranged for him to go to rehab in his hometown in Fort Collins.

That day, the drive to the airport was mostly silent. I knew this was going to be the big goodbye. Everyone but Baron knew this. I got him checked into his flight, and had his baggage checked before I embraced him one last time. I wept into his shoulder and kissed his forehead before walking back to my car. I called his father to report that I had gotten him to the airport. His dad sighed, and said, “Okay, kid… you went above and beyond for my son. Now it’s your time to rest. I love you, sweetheart.” I hung up the phone and screamed.

Three months later, I was driving to the same hospital Baron had been in, only this time, to say a final goodbye to my mother. We were there all day, until mom took her last breath and left us at 12:06, having beat the midnight death prediction from the doctor by six minutes. I stood in the same parking lot I had stood in just months before, grieving, yet again. I hugged my brother tightly under a full blood moon. He asked if I wanted to go over to the house he shared with mom to spend the night. I declined, saying I just wanted to go back to my apartment to sleep for a bit, alone.

At that moment, I felt more lonely than I ever have. But this was different. I refused to succumb to that brand of darkness, so I found a playlist on Spotify that was a collection of classical music. The song that began as I started my car was Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. At the time I remember thinking, "How apropos...". I leaned into the tune, checking out mentally, and it felt like I was driving on auto pilot. I pulled into my parking spot at my apartment complex just as the sonata ended.

The next day, I had to tend to my mother’s funeral arrangements. My brother had handed the responsibility off to me, and my mom’s friend, who was also my youngest brother’s mother in law. She would be meeting me at the funeral home. I had actually managed to sleep well for the first time in months, and woke up feeling relieved. Mom was out of pain, and had joined my father and grandparents, who had preceded her in their passings.

I wanted to appear like I had it together, so as I dressed for the appointment, I decided to put on a full face of makeup, and I reached for my old friend, Russian Red, and put it on. I drove to the mortuary alone. The classical playlist automatically started playing again, and it was then that I realized that my whole life had become one big theatrical production. A tragedy cloaked in scarlet lip paint, its soundtrack a sad sonata.