This one-act was written as part of The Vagrancy's Rituals: A Bacchanalia (24 hour play festival). I received the above prompt with my theme (Fear), my image, and a sentence I would have to use in the play. I was also assigned a director and two actors and given their headshots. I received all of this at 8pm on Friday evening and had to turn the play in no later than 8am on Saturday morning for the actors and director to begin rehearsing. And at 8pm Saturday night they performed it to a packed house! It was a terrific experience!

FEAR by Andie Bottrell

SETTING: Lucinda’s Stomach - Current Day

CHARACTERS:

GARY SINTARY - Middle-aged, low self-esteem, rageful tendencies, always serious, husband of Lucinda.

MIKE O’TOOL - Middle-aged, always smiling, a nervous giggler, excited about everything everything everything, is having an affair with Lucinda.


ACT I

A middle-aged man, GARY SINTARY, slides onto stage with great force, as if having just plummeted down a great depth. He screams as he lands and examines the dark empty space with equal parts horror and confusion. He also examines himself to make sure he is not injured- checking his limbs and head.

GARY
Are you kidding me?! ARE YOU KIDDING ME. You fucking ATE ME!? HEY! HEY!

He pounds on the walls and floors.

GARY
LET ME OUT OF HERE! Lucinda! Lucidna, you let me out of here right this minute! If you don't open up that big yapper of yours and burp me up right this minute I'll- I'll... Well, I'll tell you what I'll do... I'll...

He frantically looks around.

GARY
I'm gonna...

He finds a chair, holds it up, looks at it, considers options, slams it down and as he does so hits his funny bone. He yelps and rubs it.

GARY
Oh! Funny bone!

His face shows the inner workings of an idea.

GARY
Funny bone. Funny bone- Hey, Lucinda! You still chronically ticklish? Hey, let's find out!

He lifts a finger and begins to tickle the walls and floor. He tickles more and more, gaining confidence in his plan.

GARY
Remember our wedding night? Every time I touched you, you erupted into a fit of laughter, your body convulsing- contorting in ticklish discomfort. Yeah, it was cute that first time, but after that it just got frustrating as HELL!

A scream fast approaches and suddenly another middle-aged man, MIKE O'TOOL, enters the same way as Gary, and barges into him.

The two men stare at each other for several moments, like a pair of wild animals encountering each other in the wild.

Mike eventually extends his hand.

MIKE
Mike O'Tool.

Gary does the same.

GARY
Gary Sintary.

MIKE
Oh, Gary! I've heard of you. Neat. Yeah. Neat. I'm Mike! (pause) Mike.

Gary shakes his head.

GARY
Sorry. How do you know Lucinda?

MIKE
Oh, well... (he laughs)

GARY
What's so funny?

MIKE
Nothing, it's just.... it's a little awkward is all.

GARY
Yeah.

They both look around.

MIKE
I thought it'd be slimier in here! You know, gooey? Bloody? Something!

GARY
Yeah. So, how do you know Lucinda?

MIKE
Oh- uh, well... (he laughs) We're sort of dating.

GARY
You and Lucinda?

MIKE
Yeah. Yeah. She's sweet, isn't she?

GARY
Yeah.

MIKE
And legs for days, huh?

GARY
Uh huh.

MIKE
And those breasts...

GARY
Right.

MIKE
But I tell you what- it's the personality that I love the most. That's a prize winning personality she's got. Hey- you ever notice how she's ticklish on every part of her body?

Gary stares at him.

MIKE
Like- like, you could be stroking her hair and she'll burst out laughing! It's so adorable. Ah, yeah, she's the cutest, huh?

GARY
Yeah. (pause) Listen, here, buddy.

MIKE
It's Mike. Mike!

GARY
Mike. Right.

Gary pulls Mike close and under his arm, gripping him tightly.

GARY
She's mine, Mike. You got that? Mine. You see this? You see this? Huh?

Gary shows him his wedding ring. Mike struggles to get away.

MIKE
Oh, sure. Eh, sure. No, she- and I want you to know this- she told be about you. Oh yeah. She was upright and straight with me. Yeah. And hey, she really likes you. She really does. Well...

He looks around.

MIKE
She liked you, anyway. What did you do?

GARY
What do you mean?

MIKE
Well, I mean, she wouldn't just eat you for no reason, right? Like, me? I know why she ate me. Saw it comin' a mile away. Don't know why I came anyway. Must have been that prize winning personality- couldn't stay away! Am I right? Am I right?

GARY
Yeah. The personality.

MIKE
So, what happened?

Gary looks around. Mike looks around. Gary sits, defeated with a sigh. Mike nods and sits next to him.

GARY
She caught me with another woman.

MIKE
Another woman? Oh, shit man.

GARY
Yeah. But now- NOW!

He gestures at Mike.

MIKE
Right! She had no right to eat you when she's- she's no better! She's sneaking off with me- despicable. Just disgusting. It's disgusting's what it is!

GARY
And I-

MIKE
No right! She's got no right, Gary. What she did to you... shameful.

GARY
It's just that I haven't been feeling very-

Mike puts his finger to Gary's lips.

MIKE
Let me guess. You were about to say "sexy" weren't you? That's what you were gonna say, weren't you? "Sexy."

GARY
Well, not exactly-

MIKE
You don't feel attractive anymore, Gary. And that's a problem. That's a problem because you're a very attractive man. I mean, GOD, look at you! Just look at you!

Gary looks down.

MIKE
Yeah! Come on and stand up- let's get a better view of that magnificent man meat you've got going on there.

Gary hesitently stands and Mike spins him around.

MIKE
Yeah, Gary! You listen to me- you do not let this woman defeat you. You are a sexy ass man, okay? Say it!

GARY
I'm sexy.

MIKE
Say it louder! Make her hear it! I'M A SEXY ASS MAN!

GARY
I'M A SEXY ASS MAN!

MIKE
Yeah!

Mike pulls Gary close to him.

MIKE
Let me tell you something you may not realize, Gary. There is one major contributor to the middle-aged crisis, and that is sex.

GARY
Yeah.

MIKE
And let me tell you another thing. M.A.C.'s are NOT your fault. It's a disease!

GARY
M.A.C.'s?

MIKE
Middle-Aged Crisises. Yeah, just this year they got upgraded to a Disease. Not responsible, man! You're not responsible. It's the chemicals in your brain making your fuck other women, making you feel inadaquete and unsexy. 'Cause let me tell you man... I'd do you. I'd hit that. Rarrrrrrrr.

GARY
Alright! Enough- get off me!

Gary pushes Mike aside. Gary goes to the opposite side of the area. He looks over his shoulder at Mike.

GARY
Do you mind?

MIKE
What?

GARY
I'd like a little privacy with my wife.

MIKE
Oh, oh sure. I'll just...

He covers his ears and hums.

GARY
Lucinda. Lucinda! Listen, I know I haven't been an ideal husband lately. To be honest, you haven't exactly been an ideal wife. But listen- I don't blame you. I blame myself. I've just been feeling...

He looks back at Mike, who is staring at him, but on his glance, looks away, before carrying on.

GARY
I haven't been feeling very highly of myself lately. I mean, I haven't accomplished the things I wanted to by now. Our life- well, it's just the same every day. We wake up, we eat breakfast, we go to work, we come home, we go to bed. There's no excitement. Nothing to make you feel really alive. And I guess I needed that. I guess you needed that to. Ha, isn't that funny? Us both needing the same thing? If only we had talked with each other none of this... none of this woulda happened. Lucinda. Lucinda, I'm sorry! Would ya please burp me up? Huh, Honey? I'd hate to go the way of the... doo-doo bird.

MIKE
Dodo bird.

GARY
What?

MIKE
I think you mean Dodo Bird! Common mistake. The extinct, flightless-

GARY
(angry)
No, I mean doo-doo. Like shit? It's a play on words.

MIKE
Oh! A play on words! Oooooh. Very nice. Very nice, Gary. I like that.

GARY
Shut up!

Mike goes back to humming.

GARY
So, what do you say, Lucinda? I can forgive you. Can you forgive me?

He waits. Mike glances over anxiously. Suddnly a strong force of wind sucks Gary out the way he came with a loud BURP! Mike jumps up and looks around.

MIKE
Gary?

He looks the way Gary left.

MIKE
LUCINDA?! Hey, Lucinda! Don't forget about me! Huh?

Lights start to fade.

MIKE
Lucinda...? Gary...? Oh, doo doo!

Black out.

Listening to some of the arguments for and against "gay marriage" I found it very difficult to keep a cool head. What is the problem, here? What is the real issue? What is the concern, the threat, the fear, the trepidation in allowing same-sex couples to wed? I kept listening trying to hear a real, concrete reason from the opposition. Here are the only two arguments I heard over and over again: 

1. Marriage is intended to support procreation and 

2. There isn't enough "Scientific evidence" "Data" or "History" to show what effect same-sex marriage will have on our society. 

Okay, let's just take a breath and look at #1. Marriage is intended to support procreation.
I think that some good responses came from those fighting inside the Supreme Court for Equality for Same-Sex couples when they brought up the question about infertile couples and couples getting married over 50- should they not be allowed to get married because they can't naturally conceive children? I think that is a good rebuttal and one, at least from my perspective, that was not able to be counter-argued. But, that said, I personally find so much more wrong with that argument. They are arguing that marriage is more about having biological children than about two adults wanting to create a legally recognized union or about two adults wanting to create a legally recognized union and creating a family with children of varying DNA. 

Why are we still so concerned about making sure people are getting married to procreate? Yes, I think the more family a child can have the better. But when I look at the world what I do NOT see is a world that needs MORE children! There are so, so, so many children that don't have ANY family. The world's resources are being depleted, people are dying of hunger and dehydration. Children are falling between the cracks of a fallible and often failing system- they are growing up never having been taught love. How a person can bring a new child into this world is not something that I can understand- I mean, of course, I understand it in a primitive desire kind of way, I understand the primal urge born in us from a time when our survival depended on it, but not the capacity to make an intelligent decision today with the perspective of our current world in mind. Maybe these people arguing this "marriage for procreation" should take a better look around and realize that we do not have a procreation problem in this country. If anything, I would argue that we have an overpopulation problem- especially when you look at the rate of increase in population and it's predicted continual rise and what that means for our resources. 

Now let's look at that second point about there not being enough "Scientific evidence" "Data" or "History" to show what effect same-sex marriage will have on our society. That Meme that was going around Facebook about what will happen if a same-sex couple gets married kept popping into my head when they mentioned this argument. They said, you know, that "traditional" marriage has been around for thousands of years and that "gay" marriage has only been around since, what 2001- beginning in the Netherlands? Of course they can't foresee the future, but they can hypothesize, they can list out potential outcomes. For example, if a same-sex couple marries… then what? Seriously, then what? Give me ONE example of how allowing same-sex couples to marry ends in devastating debauchery for our society? Because I only see the benefits. 

When same-sex couples ARE allowed to marry that means that over time more and more people will come to accept it as the norm, will begin to see gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgendered kids as normal, will allow those kids to live with in a world without fear of being themselves, will allow two loving adults to adopt a child that may otherwise have never known what a family was, will SAVE the lives of kids who may feel their only options are suicide or running away. I see nothing but a world improved.

"Tradition" is NOT A GOOD ENOUGH REASON to keep doing something and, with all my heart, the day cannot come soon enough for equality to earn its meaning in our country and truly protect the basic human rights of all who dare to love, who dare to stand by someone for better or worse, in sickness and in health as long as they both shall live.

The house was a mess. The mess was a distraction. I couldn’t stand it, but I did nothing about it. The doorbell rang. I answered it. It was Bill. Bill Biggins. Bill Biggins said, “I came by about the horse.” The horse in question was a rocking horse. A child’s toy. I was going to throw it out. Well, I was considering it. I mentioned the idea in passing on the way to church with my mother who must have then told her boyfriend’s son, Bill Biggins, about it. Bill Biggins was married to Syl Biggins and she had just had a baby two or three years ago so it was time for him or her to learn to ride the rocking horsey. Bill Biggins said, “I’ve come about the horsey.” I said, “Yeah, alright.” I pointed at the rat and tattered thing. Part wood, part cloth, all stained. I said, “Fifteen dollars.” He scratched his head, “For that?” “Well,” I said, “Five at least.” He scratched his shoulder, “For that?” “Well,” I said, “Four?” He scratched his neck, “Again, I ask, for that?” “Three?” I barfed. He scratched his forehead and opened his mouth. I cut him off before the words produced sound, “What’s a matter with you- you got fleas?” “Huh?” He baffooned. “Scratchity, scratch, scratch, scratch.” “Oh.” He said. “No fleas. Just the winter itch.” The winter itch, pffftt, I thought. Dirty sonofabitch, I thought. “Get outta here, Bill.” I said. “Come on. I want it.” He begged. I said, “Fine. Ten dollars.” “For-“ “Yeah, for that. For the horsey. Ten dollars.” “Fine.” He said and handed over the green. He picked up the horsey with great grumpiness and stormed out with nary a thank you. I put the green in my secret money hiding place and went about my day. This included laying on the couch and watching reality television while eating potato chips and drinking diet coca cola.

I should give you the tour. Pardon the mess. It’s a 6 bedroom ranch style home in southern Arkansas. There are 2.5 bathrooms. There is a 20 acre yard with a garden. I have a lot of money. You probably wouldn’t guess that if you met me on the street, but there you go. You’ve got the inside scoop. I inherited most of it from my grandparents. They owned stuff, like, important stuff. I don’t know too much about it on account of my parents were estranged from them and refused to talk about them, which is why when my grandparents died the money skipped straight past them and right into their only grandchild’s lap- that’s me. I am, since you can’t see for your own two eyes I’ll tell you, 5 feet and 4 inches tall. I have brown wavy hair that comes to my shoulders and I mostly wear it in a ponytail. I am 28 years old. I’ve lived in this house that I bought with the inheritance money 5 years ago. I also quit my job about 4 years ago. See- I kept working for a little bit after the money came, which I think says something good about me. But then, eventually, I quit and now I don’t do anything, which I think says something bad about me. So, I have money. So, you get it.

My best friend is Marshal. He is 27 and he works at Subway. He’s kind of ugly. But so am I- I guess. I weigh a bit more than “they” say a person of my height’s supposed to weigh. So, I’m fat and Marshal’s ugly on account of his acne and his deep brown circles swallowing his eyes and his lankiness and his occasional drug use and his long hair. So, that’s us. He stays with me sometimes but then I always get sick of him and throw him out.

My parents sometimes want to borrow money from me, which is fun and funny. And most of the time I say no but sometimes I say yes. It’s nice having that power over them now. Growing up they were dumb as rocks and never gave me an allowance and wouldn’t let me do anything of the things I wanted to do, like go to space camp or ride the mechanical horsey at the supermarket. So, now I get to say what and when and whatever they can and can’t do. So, ha!

I get these huge cysts behind my ears. Well, not HUGE. It’s not like anyone else can see them, but I can feel them. They are huge and painful and sort of itchy and I always try and pop them like a zit, but they’re not a zit and it just makes them hurt more but then sometimes they do sort of pop and this white puss comes out of them and the bump goes down. I inherited that from my father. Real nice, right?

Oh, look. Here comes Jim. Jim’s my occasional boyfriend. He’s ugly but not so ugly as Marshal. He’s kind of cute ugly- you know, like one of those mutt dogs? He’s like that. Scraggly. He’s about 43 though so the cute’s bout to start wearing off and then he’ll just be ugly. He’s knocking on the door right now and I’m answering it. “Yeah,” I say. He doesn’t say anything, just walks right in, goes to the couch and takes his clothes off. “Okay,” I say. I take just my sweatpants and underpants off. I get on top of him and ride the horsey. We finish quickly and I roll off of him and we watch some TV.  He coughs. We watch. He coughs. We watch. He coughs. “Jesus,” I say, annoyed. “What?” He asks, annoyed. “Coughity, cough, cough, cough.” “I can’t help it. I’ve got bronchitis.” “Shit, man. Did you just give that shit to me?” “I don’t fucking know.” “Get out of here. And take some goddamn vitamins!” “Ah, fuck you.” He gathers his clothes, puts some on, leaves some off, and slams the door.

“Jesus.” I say to the empty house and then get up and run a bath. I like to bathe. It’s pretty good. That steam rising up off the hot water and twisting and turning out the open window. It’s snowing outside right now. They say we’re supposed to get about 10 inches by tomorrow. We’ll see about that. I call up my Mom while the water runs.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” She says back, and I can hear the clanging of plates in the background.

“What are you doing? Eating? Or doing dishes?”

“Polishing the silver.”

“What silver?”

“The silver.”

“Huh. What did you do today?”

“Worked. Came home. Made dinner. Cleaned. Polished silver.”

“Cool.”

“What did you do?”

“Ya know. Same old.”

“Nothing.”

“No, not nothing. I did something. I sold that old wooden horsey grandma left me.”

“You did? Why?”

“Well, I was going to throw it out, like I told you last Sunday- didn’t you tell Bill Biggins that?”

“Oh, right. I mentioned that to him. But I thought you’d just give it to him. That’s what I told him.”

“Well, why would I do that?”

“Well, you don’t need the money, do you? And they’re hard up.”

“Well, that’s life, isn’t it? You can’t get something for nothing.”

“Well, you did. Didn’t you?”

“Well, that’s me. I’m the exception.”

“Think mighty high of yourself.”

“No, Mom. It’s just the facts of the lottery of life. I don’t think I deserve it, but I don’t not deserve it. Same as anyone. Just happened to happen to me. Can’t help it. But that don’t mean I gotta go giving everything way.”

“Well, what did you charge him?”

“15 at first, but he only paid 10. See, I’m nice.”

“10 for that old piece of crap? I’m not even sure it’s safe for kids anymore. You test it out?”

“On what? It’s not like I can ride it myself anymore.”

“Honey, you couldn’t ride it when you were a kid either. You little chubbybubby.”

“Thanks. Well, I’m sure it’s fine.”

“We'll see.”

“Okay. My bath’s ready for me now. Don’t want to keep it waiting.”

“Alright then. Talk to you tomorrow.”

“Bye.”

I stuck my toe into the water and it zapped me with its scalding temperature. “COLD!!!!!!” I yelled, even though the word I wanted was to say was HOT. That ever happen to you? You go to say something and you end up saying the opposite? Weird brain stuff, huh? I ran some cold water as I undressed the rest of the way. I put on a fancy facemask to make my skin look radiant. I tested with my other toe. Just right, said goldilocks. I slipped the rest of the way in and under and listened to my heart beat under the water.

When I tell the story I am cool as codfish and no one reacts sentimentally. It’s a tragic tale- father disowns daughter, takes entire extended family with him, turns them against her, leaves her to fend for her own. But the way I tell it, you don’t feel too bad, none of the parties become sympathetic. You forget the humanity of it and just hear the words like a telephone book being read aloud. And when I’m done we all take three beats and then go for pizza and a song. The past, the past, it’s all so forgettable, isn’t it? No one’s left who cares, yet still, we get bored so the tale gets told and then we carry on through the devaluing world.

I like Dominos pizza the most. I get the vegetable kind on account of I don’t eat animals because animals are basically humans, too. I mean, do you know what I mean? They feel and fear and get pain and sadness and happiness and they know more than some of you but yet they are defenseless. If you take advantage- like we’ve taken advantage for so long- so long- so long- so much advantage taken- so much rank pulled- we are HUMANS GODDAMN LOOK AT US HEAR US ROAR- well, I say, fuck off HUMANS! Fuck the fuck off! You’re nothing special to look at. You make me sick.

I saw it once. The killing of the pigs. They knew what was happening. They were afraid and it was OB-VI-OUS. They coward and tried to hide behind each other, crowding in the back corner as the gun-thing, killer-man approached and shot BANG BANG and as they watched their fellow pig-ones die they became more and more distressed. They vocalized this distress and tried and tried to hide and hide and BANG BANG BANG ‘till all were dead. My body went into shock. I convulsed. I cried. I moaned. I cursed the killing-man. I swung my fists, tried hitting him. I could not be comforted. It was a massacre and it happens several times a day all over and in every state. Precious baby animals being born into this world to be abused and used and made into super-duper processed chemically enhanced PRODUCTS. THESE ARE NOT PRODUCTS! They have hearts and minds! They hear, see, feel, beat and comprehend. And humans have abused their abilities to the most evil of extents. See: dollar signs.

And no one cares.

“Let’s eat,” they say. “Habit and I couldn’t because… inconvenience and taste and nutrition and-“ so much bullshit I can’t even re-spout it. But who cares right?

To HELL IN A HANDBASKET! The hurt of the world’s become too much to bare- we numb it all away- don’t dare to feel a single ounce.

Tomorrow they are coming over- into my house. The maintenance people- to insert a carbon monoxide detector. This gives me anxiety. I don’t want these people in my sacred space. My home. And my animals disrupted. What if they try to kill and eat them? Plus, I have erotic art on my walls. I could take it down- I wont. I will force them to see the giant penis. The cunt. I will force their eyes to be opened. I will cut them up and slice their civility until they realize civility is a useless cloth, a veil to keep us from reality- contain our humanity. Where is the humanity in our lives anymore? Show me some! There’s such deficiency. The whole race needs a giant vitamin.

I have this friend- this homeless friend- I can’t speak to anymore. I don’t want him to ask me for anything. I don’t want to feel obliged to give him anything. I can barely contain my own contents. I can’t hold his. I can’t be responsible. I turn my face the other way and close off my heart to him. I wait for him to shrivel or thrive. Shrivel or thrive. At the same time, my own existence rests on my own ability to shrivel or thrive. Shrivel or thrive. Which way will it go? For each it’s the gamble of the universe.

I can’t tell you about the loneliness I feel because it’s not active enough. A story’s got to be active, you know? Protagonist. Antagonist. Comic relief. Confidant. I must be all these things because I live inside of the loneliness of being just one person. One person alone. Well, expect for my animals. They are my safe keeping, they guard my soul. Though if I were to die of natural causes and they ran out of food, I would fully expect them to turn on me, but in that case it would be an act of love. On both accounts. Oh, the loneliness. I wish we could talk about it. I wish there were a way to say it. But there’s not. So, on we go- plowing through the fields of-

Glory! Have you felt GLORY before? What GLORY doth GLORY be? Where can it be found? Tell me? Is GLORY a part of my humanity? Or is it a heavenly manipulation intending, like capitalism, for ambitious structure?

How are your finances? In order? Mine… are not.

What does it feel like to be loved? To be pursued? To be so comforted on the regular? What’s it feel like coming home? What’s all this about the one? What’s the family like? What’s the feeling of being liked? Where’s the person I’m supposed to meet? What’s the deal with this thing called life? And why- most of all I ask you WHY all the GODDAMN LIES? Life is not a storybook! Movies are not life! Disney is not the end-all nook. News is wrong as the day is long. I cannot tell you anymore what I was expecting to find at the end of the rainbow- all has been forgotten in the wake of these endless and lonely, disappointing, adulthood tomorrows. All I can say is to the adults of the 80’s- YOU GOT IT WRONG. That was not the life I lived- the one I thought I was getting. It’s not real.

I told my dogs twice today and twice yesterday and twice I will tomorrow- they try eating things- not food- things- I shout- “NOT REAL!” They look at me. “NOT REAL!” I keep shouting it and it resonates within me on a deeper level. I get it. NOT REAL. NOTHING FEELS REAL- how could it? I spent a childhood expecting another reality and the one I’ve got's so much farther from the one I thought it’s impossible to reconcile them. I live alone.

You know?

Do you feel the beat of my words? The heart underneath? Do you see my invisible soul? Does such a thing exist? Do I now? Where and who are you? And what’s taken you so long to come? And will you leave me soon? And will I forever be alone? And do you feel the beat of my words? And do I have a heart? And am I worthy of your love? And will my efforts ever be enough? And will I always fall short the things I want most? And how many tomorrows shall I go on? And will the world ever improve? And why do people keep having children when there are already children here who have no people? Don’t they understand LONELINESS? GODDAMN.

Don’t be cool as codfish. Care. Feel. Bleed. Need. And do it better than anyone. We are not the BLASÉ FAIR generation, if we so chose not to become.

My appearance is a passing entity all its own,
separate from me.
It's like the atoms of my being are still shuffling around
putting puzzle pieces in different places,
trying to find the algorithm of my soul,
but no appearance seems to match it perfectly
so they just keep shuffling around, 
unsettled and unsatisfied.
Similarly, I find I have the need to try and try,
and while in moments rare I feel a closeness to the end,
by morning's yawn I wake to find the similarity's gone and
I'm left an awkward shell housing this strange soul
whose appearance can't be found.

I'm just a physical object.
I'm here. I'm there.
I'm putting things together,
while life slowly pulls my
atoms apart.
One day I will break.
I will break in all the ways
that count.
That will be the day I cease
to exist in all the
matter-able ways.
My body will still be here
for a little while,
unless I explode into
pink mist.
If not, some scientists or
doctors will take apart my parts
and make use of any that they can.
I like that thought.
I like to be useful.
I like to keep busy.
No good to be laying limp and lazy
under earth.
No good burning up all these useful goods.
Even in my death, I'd like to think I have some goods.
I like to be useful.
If I can.
I consider it a joy to be utilized.
There is much I have to offer.
I am an incredible physical object.
I can do so many wonderful things!
I can lift and pull and build and dance!
I can reason and learn and question and become surprised!
I can emote and create from scratch and emulate and empathize.
And I have thumbs!
I can sit, stand, fall in love, scream and sleep and dream!
I can see sunsets and smell flowers and cuddle animals and eat ice cream!
I am extraordinarily lucky in life.
I could have ended up a pen or a cup or a watch.
I could have been mud or a truck or a truck stop.
I could have been just a single, simple molecule floating in space.
I could have never evolved to live, to love, to leap, to yearn, to read, to experience, to hear music, to be embarrassed, to fail and then succeed. I could have never lived at all.
But my object was chosen to Be.
I won the lottery of Being.
I am lucky.
I am here.
I have lived well.
An incredible physical object am I,
to be so well utilized.

We are not the fortunate ones; we don't have the privilege of forgetting. We lay in streets, where others, if tired, resist the urge because it is not "proper." Proper things, the civility of life- it all goes out the window when you hit dog poor. If you are helpless and no one can or will or wants to help you, you lay down wherever the hell you damn well please to. It's the one comfort you have.

"How opposites appear
side by side!
Here the solemn - and
right beside it, the
comical.
To me they seemed
absolutely to belong
together"
-Otto Dix

I had always seen them. I guess not always. Maybe when I was younger and living in a small mid-western town, I guess I don't remember seeing them then. It probably wasn't until I moved to the city. Then, I definitely saw them. I saw them a lot. I don't remember the first one I saw, but I remember the first one I saw that was definitely dead.

I didn't do anything about it. Which made me feel bad. I just kept walking. But what could I do? He was already dead.

Then again, I didn't do anything for those who weren't dead either. What can you do? You can't help them all. Maybe I could have helped one or two. Maybe I could have done that, spared a dollar, you know? But what good is a dollar, really? What difference does it make? They'll always need another and you can't keep giving. I don't have that much myself. I mean, I have enough. I have enough for me, that is.

So, I don't do anything. I don't know if I should look and nod and smile or just look straight ahead. I alternate it. I'm never mean, though. I don't look down on them or anything. I keep an open mind. I picture the best case scenario that could have landed them there. I make it so it's not their fault and I never think they're on drugs or drinkers. I blame the government and the economy and the under staffed, under funded vet programs and mental illness and the housing market and personal tragedies.

"How opposites appear
side by side!
Here the solemn - and
right beside it, the
comical.
To me they seemed
absolutely to belong
together"
-Otto Dix

They walk by me with their iPods and their Starbucks and their bubbles for their bubble baths and their cat food and their DVD's and they can't spare a dime. Can't spare it. Don't have cash. Hell, I'll take your card. Give me the plastic. The paper. Whatever ya got. They can't spare it. Meanwhile, they live in excess and they think they're struggling to get by. Buddies never seen a struggle in their lives.

Sometimes they smile. Don't give you nothing but a smile. Smile don't keep your stomach down. Don't keep you warm. But a smile's better than a scowl. Better than nothing. Let's you know you're still visible. Makes you feel almost human for a second. 

The hardest part of all of it is the transition into it, out of wherever you're coming from. Accepting it. Once you stop fighting and accept it. It's all easier from there. You realize what matters. And things ain't it. They just toys to keep the fortunate mesmerized and distracted while the devil sweeps in unnoticed to steal their souls.

"How opposites appear
side by side!
Here the solemn - and
right beside it, the
comical.
To me they seemed
absolutely to belong
together"
-Otto Dix

I like clothes. I like buying clothes. I like getting dressed, putting on make-up, doing my hair. I like becoming characters and transforming myself and getting lost in it. Escape. I like movies. I like going out dancing or to dinner with a group of well dressed friends. Sometimes on our way in or out we have to side step around some street people. I hold my breath until I'm a few feet away. It can be hard to hold it for so long, but it's better than whiffing in that disgusting scent. It gets stuck in your nose and you can't get it out.

I know it's a problem. These street people. It makes me feel bad. Sometimes I think about what if circumstances ever turn out so that I end up on the street? How would that be? I don't think it will happen though. I have family and friends and I'm a pretty resourceful worker. 

I wish everyone had a place to live and food to eat, but at the same time, you gotta wonder... how many of them choose to be where they are? Couldn't they help themselves if they really wanted to? I guess most of them can't though, for mental or physical reasons, or maybe they just don't have anybody to give them a hand. I guess I could give them a hand. Somehow. Maybe. I don't know. I mean, it's not really my place, is it? I mean, who am I? I'm nobody! 

I'd really just like to stop thinking about it now. I think I'll go watch some TV.

"How opposites appear
side by side!
Here the solemn - and
right beside it, the
comical.
To me they seemed
absolutely to belong
together"
-Otto Dix


Everyday we wake up to reality slapping our faces. Sometimes that reality is the police or a rat or a stranger's boot or another vagrant snooping for goods or your own pain from a hard nights rest. There is no escape for us. Just reality, day in and day out. The plain, cold, hard facts. The truth. The ugliness. The rare, unexpected beauty. The brutality of human nature and mother earth. We're forced to face ourselves every bit as much as well, which is perhaps the harshest reality of all. There is no escape from our thoughts. We're at the mercy of others. We're living in Sartre's hell.

These people passing by- the epochs of each generation, different and yet the same- and we've become the life stamps, pounding our faces into the journals of the pavement for them to walk and shred upon like objects- artifacts in a Neue Sachlichkeit movement.

Anger is a naturally occurring human emotion that does not pass through a conscious check point before being released into feeling.

Expressing that anger, however, does require the subconsciously occurring anger to pass through a conscious check point that allows for logic processing and perspective before being given the green light to be expressed.

In my opinion, far too many people these days are not taking full advantage of this check point before giving their anger the go-ahead of expression.

This leads to prematurely expressed anger that cannot be fully supported by logic and perspective. If questioned, after the anger has been expressed, by a logical person with perspective, the person expressing the anger is likely to become even angrier- a further example of the synaptic misfirings that are holding them back from developing as an intelligent and rational person.

When I passed her first, she was sitting on a bench on Cahuenga Blvd. outside of a natural food store with her hands held palms facing up on her knees. She certainly had an air of holiness to her- an otherworldly sense, though her clothes where utterly pedestrian-

I must stop this description now, in the midst, because she has just passed by me again and taken up a seat just one chair beyond my own outside of Coffee Ethic Cafe. She is muttering something now, not English, and pointing- she has stopped. She sits peaceful again.

Continuing- her clothes. Utterly pedestrian. A white turtleneck, with a blue sweatshirt on top, even though it's summer in Los Angeles and nearly 80, maybe 90 degrees, and I'm sweating in a mini dress and tights.

She mutters something again.

She looks at me. I look at her. She speaks in plain English this time, "Tell that camera to go away. I'm not from Malibu..." and then more that I sadly cannot understand.

She is wearing make-up and quite a bit, too. White glowing powder around her eyes that stands out in stark contrast to her cocoa-molasses skin. Her lips are red with smeared and melted lipstick that extends well beyond the thin line of her lips.

Her hair, grey, black and curly, is pulled, best as it can be, into a ponytail- though only now do I notice that there seems to be no tie holding it up- it stands on its own, as if by some magical force.

At last, proving she may perhaps be human after-all, she takes her sweatshirt off revealing her long black skirt to, in fact, be a dress.

She goes through receipts and old papers. A homeless man next to us a few seats down chats up some girls and then turns to the old woman. "My friends," he explains.

The old woman responds with something again about the camera's and not being from here and Malibu.

She pushes up her sleeves and I am now certain she feels the heat.

Suddenly I am aware of a voice, low and accented, a figure catches in the upper peripheral of my vision. I look up. A young Asian man wearing a blue shirt with UCLA printed in yellow letters on it stands before me holding an army of white books.

"Hello..."

I don't catch all of it, but from what I do, he's out promoting a book written by another, older, Asian man. It's about "family values" and... youth? I don't know. The seven leaders of the world- are there only seven? For the whole world? Well, they've apparently all endorsed it! He shows me the back as proof and then offers me the book.

"Is it free?" I ask. I never turn down a free book. I'm something of a collector. I used to find it a sin to own anything you didn't stand by, but books are very useful for several things other than reading. And sometimes in reading, not agreeing with them can be more fun. At any rate, it's always an enlightening experience. Much like traveling.

He tells me it's for donation only and something about orphanages.

I don't have any cash with me. I think he might give me one anyway because he says something about "promotion," but instead he just thanks me for my time, wishes me a happy weekend and continues on down the sidewalk.

The old woman shares a look with me and again speaks, though it is indistinguishable.

She gets up now, and walks away.

My mind wanders. I would like to help the orphans.

Imagine if the book was full of blank pages!

I wonder why my friend hasn't texted me back yet... perhaps he has. I'll check.

No.

She was no angel. She was simply lost, like the rest of us, maybe more so.

And now traffic is picking up. Someone honks their horn in protest and yells, "Wake up!"

The sun is melting me and I begin to notice a splendor of glitter on my hands- more than usual. Ever since I was a small child I have been aware of the constant presence of glitter in the skin of my hands. I used to think it meant that I was destined to shine in greatness. Now, I think there must be something in the water.

Angels are crazies.

Destiny is often misunderstood.

And lots of cars have squeaky breaks.

When the postal worker knocked on her door she was in the middle of beating her laptop violently with her fist. It had been making this whirring sound, this very, extremely loud whirring sound like a fan (literal, malfunctioning, mechanical fan, not screaming, hyperventilating, crying teeny-bopper fan). She found this whirring noise surprisingly intolerable to the point of destruction, despite logically knowing that beating her thousand dollar machine which held her life's work was not the right decision. It was 1:30 in the afternoon and Michelle was still in her pajamas, a perk of her new work at home lifestyle. Her frizzy from being over dyed hair stood out from her head like she'd just been the victim of a deadly electrical shock, with the few missed stray grays adding a theatrical element to the electrical touch. She'd had a huge zit explode from over digging and prodding- the zit proved to be another source of intolerability leading to eventual destruction- which now, days later, was nothing but a bloody, sore scab covering a small but all too noticeable portion of her face. When would the zits end? She wondered. The wrinkles were now doubling down and it didn't seem fair to have to endure the blights of both youth and aging at the same time. When she opened the door, her cats clawing through the crack and meowing like starving children abducted from their loving homes, the postal worker did his best to avert his eyes and keep a nonjudgmental face, but subtle and convincing he was not. Michelle signed quickly for the package, shut the door and retreated back into the safety of her lonely, but nonjudgmental haven.

Setting the large box down on the dinning room table she remembered the collection of S. B. Pearlbaum books she'd ordered online recently and assumed it to be them. Gathering her scissors from the other room she tore into the box excitedly. What she found, however, could not have been more opposite from what she expected. Inside the box lay, surrounded by packing peanuts, a smaller black, velvet box. Ring size. She pulled it out, peanuts falling to the floor which the kitties happily pounced upon. She opened the smaller box with baited breath. Inside, a ring. Silver, with a huge diamond. With one hand she covered her mouth, while her head subconsciously shook from side to side, brows furrowing in confusion. She set the ring back in the box, the box back on the table. She dove back into the peanuts searching for an explanation. At the bottom of the packing peanuts, a letter in an envelope. She tore it open and unfolded it.

Michelle,

As I write you this letter it is also present in my mind that the last time we spoke was 15 years ago. Even as I write this sentence it doesn't seem true, but my diary tells me it is so. I keep a diary, Michelle. You can make fun of me for that later. My sister always did. Speaking of Trudy, I assume you heard the news. I hope you heard the news. I don't want to be the one to break her death to you, but if I just have, I'm sorry. I guess there's no real great way to find out, though. Cancer's a horrible way to die, but at least we all got to say our goodbyes. Well, except you, but then, from what I gather, you both had your own version of closure some time ago. 

This is a hard letter to write. It's probably not easy to read either, huh? I'm not the best writer. I always envied them. Writers. Like you. I'm better in person, I think. If I could have come in person, I would have. You are probably grateful that I haven't, though. Imagine if it had been me instead of the postal worker at your door! Surprise! haha-

Michelle sank into her chair, "Oh, God-"

Truth be told I almost didn't write you at all. Truth be told I still hold onto some hurt and anger in regards to you and how it all ended. But... well, a promise is a promise is a promise to oneself. Fifteen years ago you broke my heart. I was standing up alone at that alter long after everyone else had already gone just hoping you would change your mind. It was Trudy who finally dragged me down and away. It was Trudy who eventually explained your reasons- many of which, truth be told, I still can't rap my head around. If we could have had a conversation about it... you know, I'm much better in person. But I know you hate the face to face confrontations. I would have tried not to make it a confrontation, though, I would have tried to understand, do what I could.... you know? 

Alright. I didn't want to go down that path, but here I've written in pen, so no going back. Also, I'm getting to an age where I don't want to apologize or go back on what I feel or say any more. I feel how I feel. So... 

Trudy said you loved me, but that you couldn't allow me to love you at that time. She said you needed time. She said you needed approximately, exactly fifteen years time. She said a lot of things which now seem vague because she stopped elaborating and repeating them after about a week of my pleading with her to rehash the whole event. She mentioned the CIA, which she said she wasn't supposed to and probably now you have to burn this letter or something. I'm terribly naive about all that government stuff, but I've watched enough TV to understand that if you were involved in the CIA, or whatever, that it could maybe be difficult to be in a relationship with someone or something. I don't know how much of that played into your decision, I don't really know anything at all or if it's true or if Trudy made it up to spare my feelings, but the way she emphasized the 15 years business makes me think maybe it's true. And, truth be told, it's the tiny strand, the only explanation I've been able to hold onto to keep going all these years. 

God, that sounds pathetic. Can I take that back? No, I guess not.

Trudy said you loved me. Trudy said give it time. Trudy said 15 years. So, I've waited. I mean, I've had a life. I've dated and all that. I haven't just waited, but mostly... I've waited. 

God, I hate myself. Do you see what you've done to me? I'm trying to be cool here, but that's not me, I guess. 

I've been waiting for you for 15 years. After you left me at the alter. Because my schizophrenic sister told me you loved me and wanted to marry me in 15 years after you were out of the CIA. Did you know Trudy was schizophrenic? She was only just becoming symptomatic the year you left, but the doctors said all the signs were already there. Maybe you could have forgiven her more easily for all those fights you two got into that year if you had known that. She wasn't trying to be difficult or mean... her brain was just making everything difficult and it made her mean. You know?

Michelle set the letter down. Tears were welling in her eyes and breath was catching and stopping in her throat. She stood for a glass of water, but had to brace herself to keep from tripping over one of the cats. The room spinned like she was drunk and she had to close her eyes and count to ten to keep from toppling over. Once she'd had the water, she sat back down and picked the letter back up.

So, now it's 15 years later. I got your address from your brother Mike, who I found on Facebook. I hope you don't mind. I hope you're not angry. I don't know why you would be angry, but if you are, I hope you can find a way to understand why I had to get back in touch with you. Every year I wonder if it will be the year we reconnect. Every time I'm in an airport I wonder if it will be the day we magically run into each other. Every time I see a green Subaru forester I look for that little cat bumper-sticker in the back window. And I've come to the point in my life where it's 15 years later and I feel how I feel and if I don't take a chance, if I don't say it all then that "time" is never going to come so... it's all or nothing. You know?

If you love me, if you ever loved me, if you NEVER loved me.... I need to talk to you. I deserve at least that. If you were in the CIA or whatever (I can't even write that without laughing at myself- how crazy I sound.... but... I don't know, maybe it's true. It's kind of fun imagining you as this sexy, spy girl out protecting our country from terrorists and such... Alias style) Anyway.... If you were CIA, if you loved me but you needed 15 years to serve the country.... if you love me still, or think you might, or think you could... well, the ring is yours. Either way. The ring is yours. 

If you don't love me, if you just wanted to bow out gracefully and didn't have the heart to face me and explain that I just wasn't what you wanted or needed or whatever... well, truth be told, as much as it would hurt, I need you to say that to me. I really do need to hear that. Because otherwise, I'm such a goddamn optimistic romantic that I'll go on waiting another 15 years believing my dead schizophrenic sister that you love me but can't be with me because you're Jennifer Garner in a red wig on a secret mission living in some J.J. Abrams script. I really will. 

If I could have come in person with a dozen roses in a fresh haircut and that blue suit you always said you loved, I would have, but as luck (or fate) would have it, I got into a car accident pulling out of my driveway to pick up that suit from the cleaners and broke both my legs. My mother (yes, Greta's still alive and well and sends her well, if begrudging, wishes) was kind enough to mail this package for me while I'm recovering in traction. I didn't want to wait any longer. 15 years is long enough, don't you think?

Well... I guess that's just about everything. I hope you are safe and healthy and happy out there in California. I was surprised to learn that's where you've ended up, what with your aversion to the sun, but I guess that's life for you... full of surprises. I'm still here in Vermont, as the return address will tell you. I put the hospital as the return address, 'cause I'll be in this room for the rest of the month they say, so I figured if you wanted to write or call or, hell, stop on by... well, this is where you can find me. After that I'll be at Mother's, and you know that address-- Christ, listen to me. "Mother's." There really is no hope for me to be "cool" is there? Well... oh, well. 

I love you, Michelle. In all my life I've never met anyone with whom I've connected with like I did with you, with whom I felt like how I felt when I was with you, with whom I would trade the world in just to see smile, with whom, through all the hurt, I could hold out forever just to hear the excuse that I may forgive and forget. 

So.... I guess that's it.

Jeremiah F. Remsky 

Michelle set the letter down, then picked it quickly back up and brought it to her nose. She closed her eyes to more fully appreciate the scent and then set it back down and looked at her cats. Then at her computer, still whirring. Then at the door. Michelle lifted her body up and walked to the phone, she dialed.

"Burkowitz? I know, it's been a few months.... Oh, I'm adjusting quite well. I've started writing again.... A novel.... Yes, well.... Listen, I was wondering if you could take care of my cats for a while... Yes, I'm going away.... to visit a friend... Oh, that'd be great. I'll stop by tonight. Thanks so much." She hung up and went back to the table and picked up the ring. She set the ring back down, safely in its box, and disappeared into the bathroom where she applied cream to her zit and to her wrinkles and another kind of cream to ease her frizzy hair. She thought of her S.B. Pearlbaum collection and remembered suddenly that it was Trudy who had introduced her to the writer's work when they were in grade school. Then, it read far above her head, but in recent years had been reintroduced to her by someone else and had suddenly clicked- inspired her to write again, which had been, previously, her life's ambition, before the CIA.

Poor Trudy, she thought. She'd heard about the cancer from her brother, but not the schizophrenia. They must have tried to keep that secret. In retrospect it made sense, and she could only hope to offer the same kind of sense to Jeremiah. Poor Jeremiah, she thought. He hadn't deserved all that, but at the time she felt she didn't have a choice. She couldn't tell him and she was to leave on an undercover mission in the next few days after the wedding. She tried up to the last hour before the wedding to figure out a way to keep her promise to the CIA and her promise to marry Jeremiah, but in the end it seemed there just wasn't a way to make it work. So, she chose and she hoped it was the right choice. In the years that followed, though she questioned it, she often found the work rewarding and felt the decision was just. When she left the agency, she thought about contacting Jeremiah, but thought for certain he'd moved on or would be too angry. Afterall, Trudy was. Trudy cut all ties, told her she hated her for leaving her brother like that, would never forgive her, hoped she'd burn in hell and all that, but perhaps that was in part the disease beginning to take hold. Or perhaps not. She hadn't told Trudy about the CIA and wondered how she had found out.

The fact that Jeremiah still was holding this candle for her all these years later did make him seem a little pathetic, but he surprised her with his honesty and the way he was able to self-deprecate and self-appreciate almost simultaneously. Rare traits, indeed. He was right, at least, in that she owed him. She owed him the face to face. And, truth be told, his was a face she couldn't wait to hold again.