Nobodies Page 10
“I’m going to bite your dick off.”
Max grins, staring up at the star-studded ceiling. “Is this how you always imagined your first time?”
“Yes,” she says sarcastically. “This is exactly how I imagined my first time. Right down to the . . .”
“What?”
“No, never mind.”
“What?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Come on. I’m curious.”
“It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”
He scans her face for clues. “Are you screwing with me?”
“Yes,” she replies, turning away, “I’m screwing with you.”
His grin fades. “Holy shit. You’re not screwing with me.”
She massages her temple.
“Please tell me you’re screwing with me.”
“I’m screwing with you.”
“Oh God.” He looks up at the ceiling, this time ignoring the stars. “What did I do?”
“What?”
“I thought you were happy. You looked like you were happy. You sounded like you were happy—”
“Happy with what?”
“WITH MY PERFORMANCE.”
Mel starts laughing.
“Stop laughing at me.”
“I’m not laughing at you.”
She keeps laughing.
“It seems like you’re laughing at me.”
“I’m not, I swear. It’s just . . . your ‘performance’”?
“So I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“No, you were fine.”
“You were totally satisfied.”
“Well . . .”
He glares at her. “Well, what?”
“I don’t know about totally satisfied. I mean, are we ever totally satisfied?”
“I was!”
“I know you were. God, the neighbours know you were.”
“They probably think I was alone.”
“Stop it. You were fine.”
“Just fine?”
“You know what I mean.You were good.”
“Good?”
“It was awesome, okay? It was a religious experience. I finally know the meaning of life.”
“Okay. Jesus.”
“He was there too. And Joseph. And two of the wise men. The third guy couldn’t make it.”
“I get the picture.”
“Great.”
He folds his arms. “So what was it exactly?”
She groans.
“I think I have a right to know.”
“It wasn’t anything in particular.”
“Was it anything in general?”
“It wasn’t anything at all. I can’t even believe we’re having this conversation.”
“Well, if you would just tell me, we could stop having this convers—”
“TICKLE MY EAR! TICKLE MY EAR! WHAT THE FUCK IS TICKLE MY EAR?!”
Max is stunned.
“Who says that? God!” She turns away completely, pulling the sheet tight across her chest.
“For the record,” Max mutters, “the ear is a well-known erogenous zone.”
“Well-known to whom exactly?”
“The people . . . who know . . . about erogeny.”
“It’s well-known to sewer fish.”
“Those exist, by the way.”
“Why are you awake? Aren’t men supposed to fall asleep after sex?”
“I had a latte. Caffeine keeps me up.”
Mel exhales deeply, half-frustrated, half-fatigued.
They stare at the ceiling. Both notice the stars. Neither care.
“Now what?” asks Mel, after a long silence.
Max turns to her, smiling. “Wanna go again?”
Mel turns to him, expressionless.
MAX SR. & RUTH
Max struggles to eat his sandwich with damaged hands: the left from the knife, the right from the wall. He takes slow, lethargic bites. Ruth chews her salad noisily, using her whole jaw to crush the celery between her teeth.
After she swallows, she asks, “How is it?”
“Good. Really good. Thanks, hun.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
“How’s your salad?”
“Perfect. Thanks for asking.”
“I’m sorry about earlier . . .”
“That’s okay.”
“It’s no way for a man to act.”
“Hey, Maxy?”
“Yeah.”
“Would you mind doing me a favour?”
“Anything, Ruthie. What is it?”
“Would you mind running down to the post office to drop off my resumes?”
“Uh . . .”
“The doctor said I shouldn’t strain myself.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“I shouldn’t walk unless I have to.”
“It’s okay, Ruthie. I’m happy to do it.”
“Thanks, hun.”
“Is there anything else I can do?”
“No, nothing right now. Thanks for asking though.”
“Anytime, Ruthie. That’s what I’m here for.”
Ruth suddenly stands and takes off her bathrobe, revealing the nightgown underneath. “Maxy . . .”
His mouth hangs open. A chunk of bread falls out of the corner and lands on his swollen hand.
She climbs on top of him and starts to feel his chest. “Do you still want me?”
“Uh . . . yeah. Of course.”
“Do you want to keep me?”
“What . . .”
Ruth reaches between his legs and grabs his crotch. He gasps. She moves her face closer to his, as if to kiss him, but then positions her mouth by his ear.
“Then keep your fucking job.”
She climbs off and goes to the bedroom, closing the door behind her.
Max looks around helplessly, unable to speak or move. He studies the empty hallway, half-expecting her to appear. He gets to his feet and takes a few steps towards the hallway. He looks at the stack of resumes on the table by the door and the envelopes beside them.
“Ruth?” He starts to walk down the hall. “Honey?”
He stops at the bedroom door, raises a hand, and knocks softly.
“Honey? . . . I’m . . . I’m gonna go to the post office to drop off your resumes.” He waits for a response. “Okay?”
He puts his ear to the door. “Ruthie? Does that sound okay?”
He tries the handle: locked. “Honey?”
He closes his eyes and rests his forehead on the door. “I love you.”
MAX JR. & MAX SR.
Max Jr. unlocks the front door and enters the apartment. He looks around, then slams the door behind him.
“Junior?”
“Yeah.”
His father enters the living room.
“Where’s Mom?”
“Uh, Mom’s not . . . She’s sleeping.”
“Is she sick?”
“No. Just tired.”
Junior studies his father, who avoids his gaze.
“You forgot to do the dishes.”
“I didn’t forget.” He throws his coat on the couch.
“How’d things go with Mel?”
Junior shakes his head in frustration.
“That bad, huh?”
Junior lets himself fall back onto the couch.
“You think you’ll see her again?”
“I’d like to.”
“You think she’ll see you again?”
“I don’t know. I doubt it.”
His father scratches the back of his head and looks around awkwardly. He goes to the kitchen to pour another drink. “Well, try not to worry. Every couple ha
s growing pains. Your mom and I were also pretty . . . adversarial when we first met.”
“And now look at you.”
“What did you do to her?”
“Who?”
“Mel.”
“Nothing.”
“What did you say to her?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Well, you either said something or you did something. Women don’t get pissed over nothing.” He raises the glass to Junior and takes a sip. “Correction: women don’t get pissed for no reason. They frequently get pissed over nothing.”
“Men, on the other hand . . .”
“Are rational.”
“Completely and utterly rational.”
He ignores his son’s sarcasm and takes another sip. “So what did you say to her? Something rational?”
“I didn’t . . .”
His father feigns shock. “Something irrational?”
“I asked her . . .”
“To . . . ?”
“You’re gonna laugh.”
“Probably.”
“I asked her to . . . tickle my ear.”
A loud, judgmental laugh bursts out of Max. “What?!”
“It’s not that weird.”
“Yeah, it is.”
“The ear is a well-known erogenous zone.”
“How did you say it?”
Junior furrows his brow.
“I mean, did you ask politely? Did you say please?”
“I didn’t . . . I didn’t technically ask . . .”
“You told her to tickle your ear? You ordered?”
“I wouldn’t say ordered.”
“What would you say then?”
“I’d say—”
“Tickle my ear.” He laughs again. “That’s what you’d say.”
Junior looks away, embarrassed.
“Don’t worry about it. She’ll be fine in the morning. Women are—”
“Women aren’t anything, Dad. That’s your problem. ‘Women are x.’ ‘Women are y.’”
“Women are women, in my experience. Men are men.”
“Women aren’t anything.”
“Don’t let your girlfriend hear that.”
“And neither are men, for that matter.”
“Well, maybe some men.”
Junior glares at his father, then looks away. “People are people.”
“People are never just people.”
“In your experience.”
“What other experience is there?”
Junior massages his forehead.
“Look,” his father continues, “here’s what you do. Buy her some—”
“I don’t want your advice.”
“I’m just—”
“Or need it. I don’t want it. I don’t need it. Whatever you suggest, I’ll do the opposite.”
“Have it your way.” He goes back to the kitchen.
“Thank you.”
“Just let her sleep on it.” He pours another drink. “She’ll be fine in the morning.”
Junior notices the dishes on the coffee table, covered with crusts and a half-eaten salad. “What happened to Mom?”
“I told you. She’s taking a nap.”
“She never takes naps.”
“Well, she’s taking a nap now.”
“What did you do to her?”
His father scoffs. “What did I do to her . . .”
Junior gets up, afraid, and walks to the bedroom. He knocks. “Mom? It’s Max.”When he hears the knob unlock, he opens the door. “Mom?” He goes inside.
His father watches nervously from the living room.
Eventually, Junior returns. “She’s not sleeping.”
“What’s she doing?”
“I think you know what she’s doing. The question is why is she doing it.”
“What the hell is she doing?” He pushes Junior aside and marches to the bedroom. “Ruth?” He sticks his head in the doorway. “Ruthie?”
Junior watches his father enter and close the door. He glances at the dishes on the table, then at the dishes in the sink. He picks up his father’s whiskey glass and examines it, watching the last amber drop roll around the bottom.
He looks down the hall, then picks up his backpack and leaves.
His father returns to the living room. “Junior?” He looks around. When he notices that Junior’s backpack is gone, he sits on the couch and turns on the TV.
The sun has begun to set, but the campfire is burning strong. The two Maxs are sitting side by side on a log, roasting marshmallows.
So whaddya think, Maxy? Just us boys, roughin it in the bush. Not a girl in sight.
Who needs em!
Max laughs along with his younger self, the same prideful laugh.
That’s ma boy.
Max mutes the TV but keeps watching. He chuckles and shakes his head. “Tickle my ear . . .”
INFAMOUS ENDINGS
John Keats: 26, tuberculosis
Ernest Hemingway: 61, suicide
Sylvia Plath: 30, suicide
Franz Kafka: 40, tuberculosis
Truman Capote: 59, liver disease
Jack Kerouac: 47, liver disease
Dylan Thomas: 39, liver disease
David Foster Wallace: 46, suicide
Virginia Woolf: 59, suicide
Hart Crane: 32, suicide
Bruno Schulz: 50, killed by Nazis
Stephen Crane: 28, tuberculosis
Sarah Kane: 28, suicide
Mark Twain: 74, heart attack
Robert Lowell: 60, heart attack
Georg Trakl: 27, suicide
Lucan: 25, suicide
Yasunari Kawabata: 72, suicide
Arthur Koestler: 77, suicide
Christopher Marlowe: 29, stabbed in the eye
Anton Chekhov: 44, tuberculosis
Emily Bronte: 30, tuberculosis
Honore de Balzac: 51, tuberculosis
D.H. Lawrence: 45, tuberculosis
Katherine Mansfield: 35, tuberculosis
Albert Camus: 46, car crash
NOBODIES
A bare stage with a table in the middle, a chair on either side.
Todd, an average-looking undergraduate wearing ripped jeans and a leather jacket, enters from stage right with a script in his hand.
Todd: “Who’s there?”
Tucker, another average-looking undergraduate, dressed from head-to-toe in form-fitting plaid, enters from stage left, frustrated.
Tucker: Start again. This time, with passion. You have to stomp in and say it from your gut. Enunciate. Project. Emote.
Todd: We’re just writing. We don’t have to perform the damn thing.
Tucker: Just trust me. Do it again. You’ll see the difference.
Todd rolls his eyes and drags his feet off-stage, letting his sneakers slide and squeak.
Tucker rubs his well-plucked brow as he disappears into the wing. His loafers click like hooves across the floor.
Todd: Ready?
Tucker: Ready!
Todd enters, stomping.
Todd: “WHO’S THERE?”
Tucker walks out casually, adjusting his thick-rimmed glasses.
Tucker: You know, if you’re not going to take this seriously . . .
Todd: “Who’s there?”
Tucker: With passion.
Todd: Fuck you.
Tucker: There! Say it like that.
Todd: What’s so important about “Who’s there?”
Tucker: It happens to be the first line from Hamlet . . .
Tucker turns to the empty seats and raises an arm, as if on the verge of a soliloquy.
Tucker: . . . whe
n the brave Barnardo stands guard on that fateful night—
Todd: Never mind. Let’s just get on with it.
Tucker: Am I keeping you from something? Todd: Yes. It’s Friday night, and instead of getting drunk I’m stuck in an empty, depressing theatre, working on a shitty play with you.
Tucker: (crossing his arms) Well, that’s not very nice—
Todd: “WHO’S THERE?”
Tucker: Fine.
Tucker closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.
Tucker: “It is I, Godot. I hear you’ve been waiting for me.”
Todd looks at the script, confused.
Todd: “Oh, it’s you. At last.”
Tucker: A little passion, please . . .
Todd glares at Tucker, then starts flipping through the pages in a panic.
Tucker: “Yes, I’m sorry I was late—”
Todd: (scanning) Romeo . . . Antigone . . . Henry the Fourth . . .
Tucker: And that’s Pirandello’s Henry the Fourth, not Shakespeare’s.
Todd: Who’s “Shelley”?
Tucker: “The Machine” Levene. Glengarry Glen Ross.
Todd: We’re supposed to write a normal, realistic play—
Tucker: It is realistic.
Todd: How? How is this realistic? To start Act Two, you’ve got Oedipus making out with Hedda Gabler . . .
Tucker nods enthusiastically.
Todd: And Act Three finishes with what looks a lot like Macbeth’s “Tomorrow and Tomorrow” speech, which is, quote: “sung by Rosencrantz and Guildenstern as they are being hanged by Richard the Third.”
Tucker: Just give it a chance, Todd.
Todd: And this. “Pause. Hold the pause for twelve and a half seconds.”
Tucker: I thought thirteen was too long.
Todd: Twelve and a half?
Tucker: Todd, my young friend—
Todd: I’m six months older than you.
Tucker: Todd, my old friend . . .
He sighs.
Tucker: . . . read between the lines.
Todd: I did. You’ve even written extra lines—in pencil—between the actual lines.
Tucker: Genius, isn’t it?
Todd: I can’t tell. They’re written in French.
Tucker: Exactly.
Todd: Exactly, what?
Tucker: That’s for you and the audience to decide.
Todd throws the script at Tucker, who struggles to catch it.
Todd: The audience doesn’t have a script in front of them when they’re watching the damn play.