First Night With Ruslana
Written 9/22/24
A semi-sequel to May 1968. Takes place shortly after Emile returns to L.A. from his country town.
!!! Content warning: !!!
Ableist sentences are present in both parts, particular part one which is told from Ruslana's perspective. She is not a very good person... frequently judging Emile's intelligence and weight in the prose. As always, everything is told strictly through the minds of the characters but if you'd be uncomfortable reading, then skip out.
Part One: Ruslana's Perspective
It was around 7:30 PM when there was a knock upon the door. Having just put away the last of the dishes in the kitchen, Ruslana, wearing a simple blue dress, rushed across her tiny apartment to get it. The place had otherwise been dead quiet that night. It wasn't her usual time of year to get visitors, busy as she was with her newest restaurant job. But as soon as she heard the sound, she could guess who it was.
Upon opening the door and seeing his face, she was brought back to June of 1967. Across the table was one of the strangest blind dates she'd ever met. Emile Duncan, a young rock singer who was in her mind distinctly American.
At first she thought fate had played some kind of cruel joke. There was nothing to admire in his soft, droopy features. There was no humor or wit to make up for his pudgy body. She concluded, in fact, that his mind must've been stunted in development. He seemed to have an even smaller understanding of the English language than she did; as easy as his slightly lethargic albeit thickly country speech was to follow, his clumsy tangents left her puzzled. She could only nod along, taking in what she could about his odd life.
Soon, however, she knew what to expect and the awkward pauses became a little less uncomfortable. She had even begun to like him in a curious way. He turned out to be rather sweet as well as innocent. Although he didn't have a chance of being more than her friend, he asked for nothing more than somebody to talk to. And talk they did, off and on, for the next few months. Yet she intentionally kept him at arm's length. During the couple times that they met again, he would mention among his other simple-minded comments that he was dating, or attempting to date, other women. But he clearly saw it differently than she did and she didn't dare corrupt him. After all, it was surprisingly nice to have a break from that side of herself. She almost wished that they could've spoken more. Maybe this year would've been easier for it.
Somewhere down the line, though, their conversations became less frequent. Eventually they had ceased all communication. Ruslana recalled feeling a little disappointed but life soon moved on. Emile himself was quickly pushed away by her bigger worries. She figured that he would've forgotten even sooner.
And yet... there was his voice on the telephone asking to talk. Now he was at her door, donning slightly longer hair down to his shoulders and an untucked floral button-up. At a lower glance, he was also weighed down by a large suitcase in one hand and a guitar case in the other. Ruslana stepped away to give him room, and he flashed her a relieved smile. But all was quiet until she closed the door.
"Hi, Ruslana," He spoke up, causing her to turn around.
"Hello, Emile," She replied quietly. He was never one for one-liners, she knew- neither giving nor receiving. Yet something felt more awkward now than ever. At first, she assumed it was the passage of time. Then, upon glancing around, she realized that this was the first that he'd ever been in her apartment. The thought was immediately suffocating. This place was far too intimate. But it was too late to turn him away.
"Did you have dinner already?" She eventually asked after the long pause, to which his jaw dumbly sagged, as if in confusion, before he nodded.
"Oh, yes. At Digby's."
"Digby's is a good place," She replied, hiding her disappointment. Not willing to let the next silence last as long, she reached down for his suitcase. "I move these to the wall. You can sit anywhere."
Watching her for a moment, Emile hesitantly walked off, the soft click-click of his loafers slowly fading. As she pushed the luggage into place, she worked intentionally slow. All the while, she ran over their last and very brief conversation over the phone. He had seemed unsure of why he had even called her which wasn't unusual for Emile. His passion, or rather pleasure for music must've been the only conviction he'd ever had in his life. But she felt slightly guilty reminding herself of this as the call went on. It became increasingly obvious that there was more that he couldn't tell her. "I-I just need somebody to talk to, I guess..." He had said after a long sigh, one of the rare moments that he had expressed a deep emotion. So much so that she couldn't pin it herself. Defeat, maybe, but from what?
The question lingered in her mind as she slowly approached the living area. Around a rattan coffee table were a matching green leather sofa and chair. Emile sat in the former, staring at his hands, appearing lost in thought. Although his eyes had that permanent sad look to them, she couldn't help thinking that he looked especially mellow tonight. The thought was briefly discarded when his gaze met hers and he faintly smiled.
Modestly, she approached the chair but didn't sit down, only running her hand along its soft top. "It's been a long time..." She commented as she did so, her look shifting between Emile and the leather.
"It sure has," He agreed as he straightened himself a little, his own eyes wandering away from hers, "I'm sorry I didn't say anything to you. I guess there was a lot goin' on."
"No, it's okay," She hastily reassured him, "You're... twenty-three now?"
"Twenty-four."
"Ah, I remember when I was that age. It was not easy."
Emile looked at her nervously, "But it's- uh, better now?"
She paused for a moment, before faintly nodding. "Yes," Was all she said before going quiet again. There was still much that she couldn't tell him. So much that he wouldn't understand. Yet, if he was here, perhaps she should give him a little bit of credit. And from there, she changed the subject. "I'm surprised that you did not forget about me."
He awkwardly shrugged in response. "I must've lost your number for a while, actually. I found it today in my songs. I wrote it on a paper."
She recalled then that he had been a songwriter, too- his one trait of some mystique. In the past, he had enjoyed talking about his music. So she asked, "And your band...?"
"We broke up," He stated abruptly, however. A sort of stunned silence filled the room. When she looked at him again, he resembled what she first saw when she had walked over. His somber eyes had fallen to the floor, his lips pinched in a frown. She couldn't chalk it up to her imagination this time. He was truly, deeply sad.
Ruslana was still as a statue, her mind traveling all sorts of places in that short moment. The band had obviously mattered a lot to him, and once again she remembered his mood during their phone call. The defeat. The hopelessness.
"Is this what you came to talk about?" She finally asked, leaning forward over the arm of the chair and trying to search his face. Although she could only assume that he tried, his expression didn't change when his brown eyes met hers.
"It's a lot of things..."
With a sigh, he turned away. Ruslana wasn't surprised. She figured that she would have to do more to get whatever it was out of him, but at least she had an idea now. Her slow approach towards him was almost out of instinct and her other half tried hard to pull her back. Don't embarrass yourself! It screamed over and over. Indeed, she wasn't really sure what she was doing. She was a little too close for comfort as is. But Emile perhaps wouldn't leave until he got over it, she reminded herself. The sooner the better, right?
The less space there was between them, the more claustrophobic her apartment suddenly felt. Nevertheless, she touched the couch, bending down beside him without fully sitting.
"Emile, you don't need to talk about it," She gently reassured him as she did so, "But I'm here, yes? I can listen. Tell me what happened."
By then, she had already begun to sit down next to him. For extra measure, she placed a light hand on his back. Deep down, the whole act made her almost gag. But he didn't suspect a thing, only glanced towards her with a whirl of emotions on his face- vague, but certainly there.
"I guess it began when Doc and Obie started to fight," He finally began, "They never agreed on anything. But I never thought that they'd hurt each other... Well, we didn't tell anybody what we saw. I thought we could keep goin' for a few years. But while we were recordin', Doc just ran away." He drew in a shuddering breath. "And then Jo left right after that..."
Understanding dawned on Ruslana as he spoke. She would've been surprised if the break-up was his decision, anyway. With a slow nod, she came up with a generic, "I'm sorry, Emile. I know that you liked the band."
"Oh, but that's not all," He continued, his voice rising with fervor, "I-I tried to go home soon enough, but the house, my family- everything was gone. It was all destroyed. They left me, too."
This, on the other hand, took Ruslana aback a little. The loss of anyone's closest friends and family in such a short time frame would be cause for some sympathy. Even so, his reaction struck her as a bit excessive for a man of his age. He bent over, cradling his face, and from him came some sort of odd noise between a whine and a moan. Only a few seconds in did she realize that he was crying. At first her gaze shifted awkwardly, thoroughly unprepared for this path, but when he began to put things into words again, she couldn't help but stare.
"Everyone that I love leaves me..." He loudly sobbed, "It's because I'm stupid- I'm so stupid. I can't do anything right."
Admittedly, his words made her shudder then. Although her unease rose even more, so did her pity for the little innocent. Despite his shortcomings, he never did anything wrong that she knew of. She struggled to understand, but still knew too well, the cruelty of circumstance. With some hesitance, she extended her hand to his other shoulder. Closer she scooted, too, until their knees touched. By then, his whimpers had reached the point of unintelligibility for her. "I try so hard-" and something about being "alone forever" she caught more than once.
"Oh, Emile, that is not true," She repeated softly, "They only left because they need to. It is not your fault. You will find someone new."
The phrases, however basic, slowly calmed him down. His body gradually shivered less, and more and more of his sobs were replaced with loud sniffles. When he finally began to rise, he still couldn't bear to look at her. But from the half of his face that was visible, his round cheeks were tightly pinched and stained with tears. Following the marks revealed his eyes red and puffy. Ruslana recalled how his emotions, however offbeat, always seemed so genuine. For sadness, it was more true than ever, and her heart panged with a foreign pity. After all, it should've been easy to dismiss him as an overdramatic manchild. She could only assume that it was some sort of motherly instinct that willed her to help him. Then again, perhaps there wasn't any harm...
"I'm sorry for cryin'," He said at last in a nasally voice, interrupting her thoughts, "I just- I don't know what to do. They were all that I had..."
"You are confused?" She asked, and when he nodded, she felt a sudden sense of clarity. The next words came almost naturally to her, "The answers will come soon. Sometimes it takes a while. Maybe a week, or a month, or a year."
But to this, he whined in protest. "If I was smart, I would know right now."
"You are smart," She said quickly, realizing too late how false it sounded. Whether Emile noticed or not, she couldn't tell, but she added just in case, "Anyway, it's not important. The most smart would think that it's hard, too. You should allow for time."
With that, Ruslana removed her hand, scooting slightly away from him. For a while, Emile was silent aside from the occasional sniff. His gaze remained on the floor as he seemed to take every word in. Eventually, he rubbed his eyes, staining his sleeves with his tears, and swallowed.
"Thank you, Ruslana," He replied in a more calm, albeit hoarse tone, as his eyes finally rejoined hers. "It means a lot to me- really."
Suddenly aware again of how awkward it was, she tore her own gaze away. As much as she tried to push it down, his words had flattered her a little. "It's nothing," She told him, unable to express how little she truly deserved it. Seeing him gradually return to his usual self, she was reminded of what he actually meant to her. Confused, cumbersome Emile, always about to turn on a dime. She had been perfectly willing a moment ago to keep her mouth shut and let him work it out himself. So hadn't she only done all of that selfishly? It was hard to tell anymore.
"Oh, it's probably late-" His voice abruptly broke her train of thought, "I-I should go..."
He started to get up only for her to blurt out, "Wait."- How late was it? She craned her head to get a better view of the wall behind the couch. A quick glance at the clock revealed that it was almost nine, and she looked up at Emile again.
"Do you have an apartment still?" She slowly asked him.
In his hurry, he told her "Yes-" then "No...", his shoulders sagging at a loss. "I don't really have anywhere. I got ready to leave L.A. to live with my family."
She lowered her eyes, trying to hide her disappointment. Of course, it was never too late to get a hotel room or buy a cab in these parts. She could even drive him herself. But was it worth the trouble? The question led to a sinking realization. Even after all that time, Emile still managed to endear her. More than that, though: her pity was getting the best of her common sense. As much as she tried to tell herself that only time could fix him, his lonely act had gotten through to her more than she would've liked to admit. Maybe it even resonated with her, different as the two of them were...
"You can sleep here tonight," She finally offered, to which his tear-rouged eyes widened, "There is a bedroom that I do not use."
"Really?" As he brought his nervous hands to his chest, he managed to weakly smile. "You're much too kind, Ruslana. I won't get it muddy now."
Standing up herself, she walked around the couch to show him. The room was opposite to her own and mostly bare aside from a window, a wooden chair and vanity, and a queen size bed with floral sheets. It all came with the apartment, the old renter not caring enough to even sell them. And although she had played with the idea of using the room for something when she had just bought the place, that day never arrived. It mostly sat there empty.
Still, Emile must've been really desperate. He thanked her profusely once more, to which she merely repeated "It's nothing." As he went back to heave his suitcase into the doorway, she had already retired to the couch, watching his movements from the corner of her eye. Unwillingly remembering now how clumsy he was, she couldn't help but briefly regret her decision. But it was too late to go back on letting him stay. It was too late to go back on anything that she had done that night. There was nothing left to do but sleep it out.
And as the light from the bottom of the extra room's doorway shut off, she too headed for her own room to get some shut eye.