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Archive for the ‘ego’ Category

Walt Rorschach surpassed Brice Wickes by $4.5 million for Salesperson of the Year, yet was only in second place. Renee Frazier dwarfed all: $285.7 million in new sales for the fiscal year. After 3 outsized belts of 50-year-old Glenfiddich, Brice approached her with a smile, pumped her hand vigorously and whispered, “You rancid cunt.” Renee had blinked twice and turned away on her heel.

But that was last night.

Casey, Brice’s mistress (and Walt’s secretary), had gone flying through the window of his room on the highest floor of the lodge, her body pierced through by massive shards of breaking glass. A thunderous crack had interrupted them, the building groaned as it was thrown down the hill, and the screams of the trapped went silent as their rooms were either crushed or had filled with black, clinging mud. Brice’s grip on a sturdy wall fixture saved him.

The sky was faintly grey when, though a gaping hole in one wall, Renee found him naked and in shock. Her hands were dotted with tiny cuts and she wore mismatched shoes. Her filthy cotton nightgown was torn.

“Are you hurt? Can you move? We have to look for people!”

Uninjured, he crawled out shortly thereafter in what he could find; a pair of boxers, a tee, trainers.  On seeing her, shame overwhelmed him.

Brice climbed over broken planks to where Renee was kneeling.

“Renee, I…”

“No! Just dig!”

Brice caught sight of a motionless hand grasping at nothing through the muck and shut his eyes.

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Catcalling season is here. As it has been for 30 years, if I had a dollar for every man who’s already said something sordid and gross to me, I could get 10 people dinner at Peter Luger’s today. 30 years.  Since I was 11. Guess how young I looked at 11? I would be a multimillionaire with all those dollars.

Two days ago, some guy talked about my bottom for an entire city block. “C’mon, girl, gimme dat azz!” He was serious. I almost felt sorry for him.  And he was about the 7th or 8th rude man that day.

Perhaps you think that at my age, I’d feel complimented by men loudly talking about my body as I go along, minding my own business. “Listen, old broad, you should feel flattered”, right? Imagine your wallets, fellas, in clear view to passers-by; your money exposed, no matter how modest you were being with it. Every few yards, some woman loudly remarks about your money, how she’d like to get with your money, and “Ooh, baby, you know you wanna give me that money!” Would you consider her for your next date? No? But why not? She’s only complimenting you on your money!

Is there no other way for these dudes to feel manly other than trying to assert some masculine privilege on strangers? Do they somehow really believe they can roll up and get sexual favours from women? Not. Happening. Idiot!

I won’t look back on it at 82, thinking, “Damn, I was something in my day.”

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Despite the odds, we’ve made it. It wasn’t exactly a shotgun wedding, but we decided for the sake of the baby, we’d get married. I know my friends thought I was stupid, but I was already 21, Evie was 18 and Max was almost a year old, and, it just wasn’t right to me and Evie that we weren’t a family. So we became one. Our parents were relieved. They couldn’t hide that.

Then a year later we had Jess, so we were in it to win it. For a while we struggled, sure. Though the only time I ever seriously considered cheating was when I lost my job 10 years ago; the kids were almost out the door and my ego wanted massaging. One of the managers at the old office wanted to massage it, but I passed before things got to the point of no return. I also wanted to be able to look at myself in the mirror.

Max? He’s 27, a carpenter. Jess is 25 and a stand-up. She’s pretty good, once I got over hearing her swear. You never want to think of your little girl swearing. Our friends have little kids and teens, and you can feel the envy when they’re at the house, except for Trina; Trina met a friend of Max’s at our house and they’re together now. Trina’s 42. Will’s 30. They really hit it off.

I look strange? Yeah, well… Evie told me yesterday we’re pregnant. Jesus. Pregnant. I’m 47. Evie’s 44. I’ll be 65 with an 18 year old kid. 65!

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There are no two more different people on earth than my sister Lenya and myself, according to people who assume they know us well.

She is stunning. I am plain; such is the basis of all other assumptions about us.

And also of strangers. One day as we were walking, I stopped to tie my shoe on a busy city street and told her I would catch up. As it was, she loped ahead and I didn’t meet her until shortly after this:

The hot dog seller, the construction workers at lunch on the kerb, the university students; they all stared at her in awe of her litheness, her long, shiny chestnut hair, her perfectly proportioned oval face. One man’s jaw dropped. None spoke.  As I strode to catch up, I was greeted with vile cat calls from the construction workers.

“Yo, baby, shake that fat ass!”
“Hey, smile! Smile!
“Ungh! Ungh!”

I wanted to burst into tears, but dared not. I didn’t want to embarrass my sister or myself. When I finally did catch up to her, the innocent look she’d been wearing for those men dropped as she smirked at me.

“I’ll bet it really sucks to have to deal with that.”

Why do people think that just because someone is beautiful that they are all other good things? That biological indicators of symmetry, fitness and health equals honesty, intelligence or compassion?

I am a good person!

I must stop allowing the bitterness to take over.

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“Could I see a little more gravitas? Your father is dead and you think something’s going on, but you’re too afraid to find out, yes? Again. Please.”

“’K. Ahem! Oh, that this tootoo solid FLESH wouldmeltthaw and resolveITSELF in to a DOO! Or that th’Everlasting had not fixed hiscanon against self-slaughter! O God! GOD!”

“Stop.”

Rebecca Nelson warily regarded Colleen Lucas.  Rebecca hadn’t cast this all-woman Hamlet; she came on to direct only today, when Sheila Rodriguez called begging for help. Millicent Taylor had fallen ill. “Walking pneumonia”. No matter; the problem now was Colleen Lucas was terrible and Rebecca suspected Colleen had gotten extremely cozy with Millicent to get the part. There was no denying that she was lovely to look at, but seemingly that’s all she was. Was it too late to reframe the show? Rebecca knew several actors who would be splendid, including one who looked like a younger Kevin Kline.

Try to work with what you’ve got, Becs.

“You have read Hamlet?”

“Yes, ma’am. It was sad.”

“What do you think Hamlet’s problem was?”

“Hamlet’s the real king, and his uncle stole the crown.”

“Are you sure that’s the issue?”

“Yeah!”

“’Mad’ here means ‘crazy’, not ‘angry’.”

“Oh… OK. I’m so silly.”

Colleen batted her eyes.

Poor thing. I’m not gay.

“Why do you want to do this play?”

“’Cause it’s famous!”

Oh, Millie. You must bear the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, because this child must go.

“Come sit by me, Colleen. Let’s chat.”

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Dammit, here she comes. I hate these family weddings.

“Hello, hello!”

“Hello, Paula.”

“Look at you! Good to see you’re eating well. Very well. Incredibly well. Me, I can never keep down a bite.”

Pleasedon’taskaboutMatt.Pleasedon’taskabout…

“And Ryan’s over there.  He hates anything he has to wear a suit for, but he loves me, bless him. Where’s your fellow? ‘Malcolm’, is it? ‘Maurice’?”

“Matthew.”

“Yes, Matthew. The postman. Charming. So?”

“We’ve, uh, divorced.”

DIVORCED?! No! But how terrible! What happened?”

“I don’t think I want to…”

“Well, I’m sure he’ll find a lovely girl sooner or later.”

“I’m going to have to excuse myself…”

“Wait, Tricia, I must tell you. Must. We’re moving away from Manhattan!”

“Congratulations. I’m just going to…”

Fisher Island. It just feels right.”

“Great. Look, I see my mother…”

“Tricia, I get the distinct feeling that you’re ditching me.”

I should let her have it, right now. But Pegs would never forgive me. OK, Trish, reacting to all this would be our insecurity showing. But I hate her. No, it’s envy, isn’t it? But I want to smash her face in with a ball-peen hammer if it would for one moment make her shut the hell up about herself! Dammit.

“Paula?”

“Yes?”

“I’m glad you’re thin, rich and with a wonderful man. I wish I were just like you. There. Satisfied?”

“You’re a scream! Honestly! Lighten up. No wonder Matthew left you.”

Oh, so she walks away! How do I fall for this every! Single! Time!? How?

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