DANIEL ZIMMERMAN

from I WANT, THEREFORE: a series of voices for stage and page

DANIEL ZIMMERMAN.

i overcame my fear of elevators because i had to.
you couldn't walk 90 stories.
you couldn't even live 90 stories.
but you could get in the elevator and after only a few minutes
a few stops
a few people do the on and off dance
but eventually
eventually you could step out and be half way to the sky.

i don’t know what i expected.
probably that i’d just go to sleep.
or maybe everything would just get real quiet
silent like
because they don’t teach you or
prepare
you for this sort of a thing.
my parents were always more
much more religious than i was
and of course i went to hebrew school when i was what twelve or thirteen sitting in shul trying to ignore the fact that Rebecca Stein’s tits are starting to come in
trying to focus on rabbi gelman because pretty soon i’m going to be up there reading from the Big Book of Judaism and
if i’m being completely honest
i couldn’t remember a thing
years later
i can’t remember a thing
not one word besides “shalom” and when my mother died a few years ago
cancer
i wanted to say something in hebrew at the funeral
something quiet
maybe a prayer
but i couldn’t remember much and i sat on the plane trying to recite it over and over again trying so hard but when i got there
when i got to the cemetery
i just got quiet
silent like
everybody was because these people
My People
they cry but only in solitary and they yell but only in private and when the rabbi didn’t say anything about
when rabbi gelman didn’t say “here lies Irene Zimmeran may she find peace in heaven” i was furious and i had to remind myself that my mother wouldn’t have wanted any sentimentalities like that
that she would’ve preferred to just sleep.

so when i got here
when the doors opened
the sunlight was so bright and everything had been grey and i had to shield my eyes so i could look for her so i could look for my mother.

is she here?
i shouldn’t have come so soon.
but this.
it isn’t so bad.
it’s almost familiar.

because when the elevators door open you can see straight
straight to the windows and out
and Mitch
The Big Man On Campus
Mitch loved being able to see the city
so we never closed the blinds
always left them open
Mitch called it "letting the sky in"
and this morning
oh this morning the sky was blue.

up here the clouds are big
they hug the building sometimes
but this morning
no
not one
not one hug
but no one complained
because you could see the bronx
you could probably see china from up there if you squinted hard enough

and you know when
when the first plane hit
the sky
the sky went from blue to grey in seconds
and you could feel it
you could feel the force of it
the building buckling
and all that grey sky hugging you
all that ash and power and fire just hugged you right there whether you wanted it to or not
and mitch
Mitch tried so hard to stay calm
he said
you know
the standard
"it's okay
remain calm
everyone
everyone to the stairs
and we were okay for a while
we were counting the stories
mine and hundreds others
and someone told a joke
and we were remaining calm
but at a certain point
at this point
the staircase
it
stopped
the stairs the steps below this point were all on fire or already ash and mitch
he started to cry right there
he was crying and i remember
or what you Up Here call remembering
i remember thinking i should hold him or give him my handkerchief but i was too frozen
or
maybe i don't remember this and it's all just hindsight
but Mitch he cried and cried and he said
"does someone have a phone
i need a phone to call my daughters
a phone
a phone"
and someone gave it to him and it was messy and ugly
but only for a moment
because pretty soon everyone decided to move
that we'd try another staircase
go up one floor and back across
and Mitch kept screaming and crying and i don't know if he moved because i lost him in the crowd i don't know if he ever got up and tried and that
not knowing
that'll kill me.
but when we got upstairs you could see
you could see the other building
the other plane
if you somehow kept your eyes open through all the smoke you could see it was all pretty hopeless
and the guy
the guy who worked in the cubicle next to mine
i never learned his name
i never bothered
that guy was standing at a window
it must've blown completely open
shattered
and there he was just looking out
not down but out
straight out
and
then
just
j
u
m
p
e
d
right there and maybe people screamed they probably screamed but I don't remember this part too well because that's when the floor got tired and the smoke and the ash just reached up and hugged us all caught us in its net.

and then
as fast as the smoke was there
it left and we were here.
the only calamity there was happened before.
everything after was fine.
almost easy.

is my mother here?
i don’t want her to know i’ve come so soon.

neat & tidy

from neat & tidy, a play currently in development

TRACY
my mother was not a nice person. she was often cruel and rarely loving. and at some point i had promised myself i wouldn’t be like her. no, i couldn’t be. but sometimes that
that
sickness
that sickness can live inside you and it gets very hard to lift your head up in the morning and you spend 9 months with them inside of you growing, breathing your air, eating your food, co-existing, but suddenly they’re out. they’re real and the only thing left inside is a ghost and the
the kid
it’s not what you expected because it cries and it shits and it smells and it burps and it screams and yes, you know, yes. you expected this sort of a thing. but somewhere, deep down, when it is was inside you, existing with you in perfect harmony, somewhere the expectation fades. and your husband loves her more than he loves you and again
again
i’m forgotten alone an after-thought waiting for
waiting for tom or my mother to notice me
waiting with a wine-glass full of skim milk
because there was a ghost between he and i
there was a distance that was cold and tangible and my teeth would chatter whenever i touched it.

i buckled myself in even though i’d already decided even though i already knew i put on the seat belt and made sure he did too
saftety first i told him and
if i was alone
if i was alone i would have left the car in the garage and i would have sat in it and turned the engine on and just let the fumes
do their
work
but when i heard him on the phone with
her
talking to
her
that he was going to meet
her
at the airport i rethought it
i reconceived the ending and
tom i said
tom
why don’t i drive you to the airport
why don’t you wear your seatbelt
safety first
tom
why don’t you put on the radio
tom we should get you gum for take-off so your ears don’t pop too much
tom
why don’t you close that window it’s a little chilly
and when he started to scream what are you doing what the fuck are you doing slow down stop the car slow down i just pressed a little harder on the gas straight to the floor pushed down and we drove right into it and fuck
fuck
it was cold
freezing
and tom
he kept trying to get the seatbelt off but that’s not easy when you’re freezing cold and running out of air and me
i relaxed
waited
like i always did.

life is 99% waiting and 1% having.

if i could have i would have bottled his blood and worn it around my neck.

before we went for the drive i napped and when i napped i dreamt i saw a fisherman on his boat in the water and i thought i wanted to marry him that i wanted to smell like him my fingertips would smell like him like fish like cold ocean water and fish and he i think he caught me looking at him across the space between us because our eyes locked for a moment and the sun it was right behind and right above him and i couldn’t see his face just a silhouette of something handsome something strong and i thought i could be that i could be that fisherman’s wife who could ride out on a boat on the ocean and i would rub his shoulders when he’s at the wheel and i would cook us the fluke and the flounder that he’d catch and maybe we’d ride the waves to hawaii because i said i’ve always wanted to try mahi mahi and he tells me if you want the mahi mahi i’ll catch you the mahi mahi even if i have to fish at dawn and at dawn we’d stand there in our robes and laughing, drinking coffee as the sun comes up all around us because it does that on the ocean and somewhere in the distance the white-shouldered mountains glisten and the lord whoever wherever whatever he is it’s like he just dropped me here right smack in the middle of the earth with my fisherman and his blood around my neck and everything is rich and the air the clouds they’re saying “please” and “thanks” they’re saying please and thanks and me i’m smiling because the cold feels wonderful on my toes and i’ve gotten used to this smell this beautiful smell ripe and alive and it is so strong it’s legs are so tall that it will never go anywhere it will stay it will linger it will wrap its arms around me and love me
love me
love me
love me
love
me.

and when we finally step off the boat with the sun in our eyes and the ground in our feet we walk to the car and we drive.

Like a hug.

(from NIGHTINGALES)

MARGARET.

There was a point where I
um
where I thought that maybe it wasn’t worth it.
All this waiting for so little having.
And I had fashioned a noose.
Probably not a very good one but
um
I suppose
it would do the trick.
Get the job
done.
And I’d made plans because that is what you do with this sort of a thing
you plan
because you want to go in a way that’s fast
easy
or if not fast than just not painful
easy
like a hug.
And me
I’d made plans.
I’d waited until it was about 11:30 in the morning because no one’s out at 11:30 in the morning on a Tuesday and I walked out to the woods about a mile away from home
and
in my bag was the noose
and I suppose I looked like I was probably quite possibly up to no good with my bag walking into the woods on the middle of a week-day afternoon but if anyone was going to ask I’d had a plan to say
I’d planned to say that I was going to paint.
I was going to the woods so I could paint.
But
no one asked because
I suppose
no one noticed.
And I’d found a tree with a very sturdy looking branch
very sturdy that I knew it could hold my weight and I’d put the chair down and opened my bag that had the noose and my letter
which I placed under the leg of the chair so it wouldn’t blow away and I climbed onto it and I’d gotten the loose end of the rope up and over the branch and yanked a few times
to make sure it was
secure
and when I went to place the noose over my head that’s when I saw him
and Death
I don’t know if you know this
but Death is very, very tall.
It’s a little crazy to think but He is
SO
TALL.
Like some kind of giant.
And He
I don’t know how long He’d been there watching
but He looked me right in the eye and
He looked so apathetic
INDIFFERENT
and when He yawned before walking away because even Death was bored with me
when He yawned I crumpled up
right there
on a purple folding chair in the middle of the woods with a noose dangling above my fucking head
I crumpled up right there and cried for an hour
two
three.

It was dark when I went home.
And I’d thought
I’d
maybe
heard Someone sigh.
Not heavy. But light.
And it started to rain. Pour.
And I didn’t run
or take cover I just walked
and I took my time
and I eventually made my way home to my cozy armchair with my fat cat and I sat in the windowsill and I watched Someone cry for me right outside my windows and so I stayed
and I woke up the next morning
and the morning after that
and the month after that
and the year after that
and it
life
is a constant struggle a constant battle and I do go to the woods now sometimes often
because I paint
and
you know
sometimes?
He’s there
really tall
in the distance.
And once I think I saw Him wink
yeah
but mostly He just watches me paint.

The Fan

for Brittany Velotta

NANCY CHAPIWIN. I like to keep the ticket stubs together. Some people hang them, others scrapbook 'em, some people don't even save them. But me? I like to keep them together in a pile. A nice big stack with a fat, red rubberband. It's easier to guess the number that way. And I find, that when I take them out at the stagedoor, the other fans -- well, they enjoy the guessing. But, since you don't exactly look like a guesser to me -- is that a fanny pack? Okay... Anyway, I'll spare you the details and just spit it out.

(She whispers this, as if it's size will shake the earth if she says it too loudly,)

Ninety-six. I've seen this show NINETY-SIX times. In fact, the star -- you may have heard of her -- Annie Ridley? She gave me her jacket a few weeks ago. Her assistant brought us backstage and Annie was SO excited to see me that she tossed it right at me! I've been wearing it ever since. Well -- except when I take a shower. Then I hang it on the bathroom door. (Models the jacket,) Do you like it? My mother thinks I look like a younger Annie, but I'm not sure. Either way, it's got some pretty great juju.

Y'know, the first time I met Annie, she stayed and talked to me for a while. She always signs my Playbill in block letters -- I think it's so she can spend more time talking to me and avoiding all of the crazy fans. (In a whisper,) There are some nuts out there. Let me tell you....

Anyway, Annie was writing in these big old block letters. A... N... N.... I... you know. And she looks at me and is all like, "Oh, honey, I LOVE your glasses. I have a pair just like these." And, you know, everybody else at the stage door just glares at me, the sharpie borrowers are all whathefuck? and I say, "Oh, yeah. You wore it in that Kiwi Shake video you did a couple weeks ago. I think I noticed that...." But I was totally full of shit, because I'd watched it fifty times. But shh. Don't tell Annie. I don't want to seem like one of those weirdos.

So, Annie asked me what my name was and I tell her, you know. Nancy Chap-i-win. Three syllables. Everyone always pronounces it wrong. Anyway, Annie keeps screwing it up, she can't pronounce it, and she's still block-lettering the 'd' in Ridley and laughing and goes, "You know what, Nancy Whatever? I'm just gonna call you Nancy Drew. 'cause I loved her when I was a kid and it'll just make it easier to remember." (beat.) I think I stopped breathing for a second. She loved Nancy Drew. She was going to call me that. Annie freaking Ridley LOVED me AND my freaking glasses!! One time, I heard someone at the stage door - you know the type, they always want to borrow your sharpie - anyway, I heard her saying that Annie only calls me Nancy Drew cause I'm nosy. Whatever. She's just jealous. And besides, I know that Annie calls me it deep down because she loves me just as much as she loved The Hardy Boys. Or whatever movie Nancy Drew is from. That's not the point. The point IS that Annie freaking LOVES me.

Anyway... Sorry. (She fixes her hair.) I get a little excited when I tell that story. It's all very... raw, you know? (Someone comes out the stage door.) Oh. That's the understudy. I've seen her once, but... I don't know. She's no Annie. (Beat. She whispers,) Too old. So. You two. You're from -- where? Minnesota? Yeah. Cool. I've never been there. I'm such a New Yorker. I mean -- I live in Hartford. Connecticut. But it's close enough. And I'm here ALL the time. I mean -- come on -- I've seen Next to Perfect 96 times. One time, I even saw two performances in one day. Yup. Matinee AND evening.

(The door opens.) Oh, shit. Oh, fuck. That's her. That's ANNIE! Don't freak out. She hates when people freak out. Hey-- is my mascara running? Ugh. I always cry when I see her up close. (Beat.) What? You don't have a sharpie? Oh, for God's sake, here.

(ANNIE steps up to her.)

Annie, hey! You were so fucking fierce tonight. I'm wearing the-- yeah. No. Nancy. (Beat. She's embarrassed. ANNIE is blanking on the Nancy's name.) Nancy Drew. (Beat.) No, it's not really Drew. You called me that last time I-- Chap-i-win. With the three syllables. (Beat.) No. Chap-i-win. Like "e". Chap-eh-win. eh, eh, eh-win. No... It's cool. Whatever. Everyone always pronounces it wrong, anyway.

Sense Memory

THE ARTIST (any gender).

There was a disconnect in the first grade. I'd gotten bored of the Legos all of the other kids loved so much. I was far more interested in Lewis Carroll than The Bernstein Bears. And somewhere along the way, an empty box on Saint Valentine's Day came to hurt deeper. When I'd discovered someone had torn a page of Charlotte's Web and put it back onto Mrs. Mullen's shelf, a piece of my heart broke and somewhere, a violin string burst.

You see, the artist feels things differently than most. (S)He is passionate and broken and ecstatic and expressive and sad and joyful and youthful and rosy-cheeked and his/her hair stands on the back of his/her neck when (s)he is anywhere near a stage, canvas, library, a piano, a guitar, a cello, a blank sheet of paper white as snow. (S)He is alive and dying at the very same time and when the door closes and someone leaves, that pain, it gets stored away, tucked in a pocket, a sleeve, a memory, a magic if. And somewhere the smell lingers forever and ever until (s)he uses it. If ever.

Some memories go unused. Like this one:

I was eleven years old when I was discovered eating my lunch in a second-floor janitor's closet. I'd been getting away with it for three whole weeks. And Mr. Brady told me I could stay while he rinsed the mop out. Someone had spilled paint in the art room and the water ran bright red for a while. Like blood. Mr. Brady told me I looked relieved when the water finally ran clear again. And it's true. I finally somehow eventually remembered to breathe because I'd been remembering this:

Memory. Eight years old. Pushed off my bike because I was tra-la-la-ing the Peer Gynt overture. I wasn't sure who had knocked me off as my glasses were shattered. My mother found me, after dusk, hiding in the Petersen's azalea bushes nursing a bloody knee. I'd thought it would taste like ketchup but instead it tasted like this:

Sucking on my mother's wedding ring when no one was looking. And coins. And my father's cufflinks. It was dull. Cold. Flavorless, but bitter. I wanted those germs. Desperately. They'd keep me home from school if I was lucky. Home, where I could watch my mother chain-smoke on the front stoop.

Memory: Six years old. The third time my mother had given up cigarettes. The smell had always been on our hands and on the walls and in the carpet and on our clothes, no matter how much detergent my father used. He hated the smell. Begged her to stop. Bought her the patch and the gum and it seemed to be working but sometimes, when she thought he wasn't looking or paying attention, she'd go outside. She'd hidden them in a hanging plant he never remembered to water. Her Marlboro Reds. I'd forgotten what it smelled like but when the nicotine came in through my open window like a ghost I knew exactly what it was.

Memory: I am young. 28 years old. When my mother dies of lung cancer. My father had sat in the hospital room for weeks and I was in New York. Rehearsing Chekhov. When the phone call came I opted to miss one run-through and half of a tech rehearsal in order to be at the funeral. The director said, of course, go. Be with your family. But I'd wanted to stay. Afraid that if I bottled up one more picture or place or smell or taste to use in a play or a story or a painting or a poem someday somewhere I would go insane. That if I stored it away in my being all of my memories would boil and brim over.

Memory: I am at Gisanti's Funeral Parlor on Merrick Road. I am smoking a cigarette outside. My father sees me through a window and shakes his head. I flick it away, not even half finished, and go back inside. Go on, I tell him. Say it. But he doesn't say anything. He just holds my mother's cold, hollow hand. And looks at her for a while. Crying. Not making any noise, just... crying. The tears keep coming and I keep hoping that they'll stop. I offer him a tissue but he ignores it. He just keeps looking at her and crying and eventually I hear him say, I'm sorry.

Memory: Age six. Back in my room with the smell of tobacco wafting in through my open window. And the sound of my father screaming at my mother words I've said in a speech by David Mamet. I climbed into the back of my closet, behind the shorts and the shirts and the pants and the jackets and the scarves, and I put on my my walkman and listened to Peer Gynt over and over and over until...

Until I learned to paint, write, draw, act, sing, reach, live & die, laugh, taste, dream, cry, breathe, see, create, dance, blacken white & whiten black and express myself. There were journals and scrapbooks and half hour showers where I'd discover notes & octaves that I didn't know existed. And when my voice changed and hair began to grow and I felt things I didn't understand I would write. Or sing. Or paint. Or draw. Even though I wasn't any good at it. And sometimes I would touch myself. Because I was curious. And somewhere, Alice was eating tarts and drinking fizzy drinks and I-- I was just-- I was here. In Land. No Wonderland. But if I explored and lived I'd see stars and rabbits where there were supposed to be clouds.

Memory: a recent one. I was at my nephew's birthday party and he'd asked me to lay in the grass with him. He wanted to tell me what he saw. He was very good at reading the clouds. And I'd realized that the clouds had become white. The clouds had become fluffy. The clouds had become something I'd never seen them as before: clouds. Nothing more, nothing less.

Memory: another recent one. I was in the rehearsal room with Uncle Vanya. And I was helping Aleksandr Serebryakov into his coat. And the coat felt light, almost weight-less. Until it hit his shoulders and his wrinkles wove their way into the fabric and somewhere another piece of my heart broke and somewhere else, another violin string burst.

Memory: yesterday. I was painting. My hand shook a little more than it used to and from the piano cello guitar playing, writing, touching myself, creating, drawing something inside of my hand had broken. A string. A muscle. A joint. A nerve.

Someone would have to help me into my coat somewhere someday. I would understand the gout and the rheumatism and maybe even Aleksandr Serebyakov's pride, too. Pride that I was still going kicking moving breathing living being.

These are the ways that I see things. Middle age came early. I was nine or ten when the onset began and the blood began to flow, long before I'd known it and long before any hair had grown. But death. Oh, it's here, now. It's palpable. I saw Him looking back at me from the painting, where a little white had dropped onto the purple. I left it there.

Maybe that's what happens to an artist when they're gone. The paint, paper, stage, canvas, sky. All goes white. Blankness. Back to neutral. Still.

Circle One: Yes or No

for Jennifer Spears

APRIL. I wasn't always this person. I didn't always have these hips. My cheekbones weren't always visible. My hair was sometimes greasy. My face was often broken out.

There were 9 diets. Atkins, Hydroxycut, South Beach, Anorexia, The Apple Diet, Nutrisystem, Bulimia, Weight Watchers and Cabbage Soup. And there were 4 facial cleansers. Apricot Scrub, Proactiv, Olay and Zenmed. And there were up-do's and down-do's, bobs and weaves, curlers and straighteners. It was brown and blonde and red and, for a little while, blue.

And, when you're an Unfortunate - that's what I like to call it when you're not pretty. When you're... ugly... When you're this Unfortunate person, you learn certain tricks in coping. You avoid mirrors. They're deadly. You get from class to class as fast as possible. Avoid the hallways. The hallways are where the mean kids look for bait. And you never, ever lust for boys. (Beat.) That last trick is always the hardest one to follow. Take Ian. Ian Galigher. With his bangs too long and his inability to be on time for class and his desire to always sit in the last row and that one time he shoved a kid for calling me fat. The one with his feet always on a cafeteria table. Ian was that guy. Pretty, but dumb. Tough, but gentle. Mean, but kind.

But when the spring fling was coming up and the girls were buying dresses and their fathers were renting limos and their mothers were taking pictures, I was date-less. Dress-less. Ticket-less. Unless I could get Ian to circle 'Yes' on my note. I suppose I should've known. I suppose I should've expected it. I suppose I should've seen it coming when Carol intercepted the note as I passed it from my desk to his in English Lit. And I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised when she stood up and read, instead of the sonnet Mr. Warner had asked for, my note.

Ian. I'm sure you already have a date. I'm sure you already have plans. And if you don't, that makes sense too cause you're probably too cool for a school dance and all. But I really like your hair. And I really liked it when you called Billy a jackass for telling me I was fat. And I don't think you deserved to go to the Principal's last week for falling asleep in Warner's class. But I was wondering if you'd like to escort--

Jesus Christ. Escort. Like I was some fucking debutante. A roly-poly, potmarked debutante in Hackensack.

I was wondering if you'd like to escort me to the spring fling. Circle "Yes" or "No" and pass it back.

Red-faced and holding back tears, I was able to stay until the moment I heard Ian join the laughter. Mortified, I ran out. Burnt like toast. Fried like an egg. But cold. Like the waitress at the diner forgot about me. Left me there to be something someone doesn't want, something unappetizing, returned without receipt. That's how I felt. Like I took a bullet to the brain and my marbles kept bouncing around the room. But my body just kept on chugging, moving, avoiding the gap. I ran straight to the girl's room on the second floor, where I stood on the toilet bowl so the oh-so-concerned hall monitor that Mr. Warner had sicked on me would think I'd gone to another bathroom. That I'd called my mom to pick me up. That I was hiding in the library.

I was sick the next day. The spring fling was that night and I'd woken up with invisible hives. And an imaginary fever. And a self-induced cough. And a make-believe sniffle. And my mother's pity spared me the humiliation of going back and reading Elizabeth Barrett fucking Browning, when we first met and loved, I did not build upon the event with marble..., in front of 17 snickering teenagers.

(Beat.)

And then college came. And I jogged. And my peers were too busy to be mean. Or to care. And I learned how to use mascara. And the perfect shade of cover-up was always available for a pesky stress pimple. And Alan Buffett took me out for drinks and kissed me in the rain when I was a size 9. And Jeremy Reading told me I looked hot when I was a size 7. And Patrick Lendon got lucky when I was a size 5.

So, it wasn't very surprising when, at a coffee shop on Bleeker in a size 4 dress, a waitress handed me a note that said, I'm sorry I was such a douchebag back then. Can I buy you some coffee, April? Circle "Yes" or "No" and pass it back. This was the first time in an hour that I'd looked up from my book. It was Baudelaire. Beautiful. Exquisite. Far more appealing than a note on the back of a receipt for a corn muffin and a latte. I glanced around the room until she pointed to my right. Just a few tables away. Ian Galigher. He gave me a wave. A little one. Awkward, afraid. Did he have the right girl?

I circled "No". You have to understand, it wasn't a grudge. And it wasn't that I didn't believe his apology. Time had just... Passed. It does that. And things -- people -- change. Sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse and sometimes not at all.... And Ian -- he still had those bangs. And his feet were still on the table. And the date on his note was wrong. One day late. (Beat.) I didn't want to go backwards. I didn't want to hit rewind. So,

...instead of giving her back the note, or passing him my polite ThankYouButNo, I crumpled it up into my hand. I never got my note back. Why should he? I left a couple of bills on the table and grabbed my purse. I didn't run this time. No fried eggs, no burnt toast, no running or red cheeks. Just my heels, the floor, and all the time in the world.

As I opened my umbrella outside, I let the little ball of receipt paper fall to the floor. Crumpled on the sidewalk in a rainstorm, just where it belonged.

Clean

JENNY. My dreams are better than my reality. And they're vivid. So, so vivid. By the time I wake up, I've lived more than Liz Taylor. I've been rich and I've been famous and I've been prettier than Marilyn fucking Monroe. But then there's morning, where there's the overwhelming feeling (day after day after day) that I have been splattered in blue paint by Jackson Pollock on a rainy Monday.

I take my first hot shower of the day and avoid the mirror completely. Which is easy, considering I covered them all up months ago, like I'm sitting fucking Shiva. Shiva for some part of me that got left there in the wreckage. I wait til there is steam and the water has reached a too-hot point and I step inside. Ssssss. My skin sizzles like an egg on a sidewalk in August. The blue paint has rinsed off and finds its way down the drain, swirling round and round until it disappears completely. Until tomorrow morning when it's back. On my hands. On my neck. On my back. On my legs. I wash furiously with an apricot scrub. It's grainy. Coarse. A little tough on the skin, but that's necessary to truly get clean. Sterile, is how my shrink likes to put it. It's always followed by a condescending this too shall pass.

To tell you the truth, I'm not entirely sure why I still see her. We've tried a number of tactics, but none of them seem to work. There were the tell-me-how-you-feel puppets. I swear to God, I'd put a fucking sock puppet on my hand and tell her in the most ridiculous voice possible that my vagina had closed up for good. There was the take-home journal I'd only ever write dates in. Marking time. Stating I was alive. That I'd woken up that morning. We'd turn my chair around so I wasn't looking directly at her. She'd ask questions. I'd answer. I'd tell her that I got to the bagel store and back without panicking. That I watched a sitcom and okay, maybe I laughed twice. That I'd tried masturbating like she suggested but that I couldn't even get wet.

These people -- these doctors -- these shrinks --there is a saying for them. Those who can't DO, teach. Or some variation on that theme, obviously. Those who don't feel, live vicariously through others. And Carol -- sorry -- Doctor Gruber -- what the fuck does she know about what I went through? What it felt like to kneel there watching him sniffing my panties, jacking off on my -- no, LETTING -- yes, letting him jack off onto my face. And all the while he calls me his bitch. And his princess.

(Beat.)

He didn't even know my name.

(Beat.)

Doctor Gruber tried to distract me with board games. She wanted my competitive side to let my guard down. Monopoly to get me to talk. Backgammon to get me to say the word. Chess so I would slip up and admit to being raped.

(Beat.)

Or something like it.

(Beat.)

The first man I tried dating after it happened told me that it was only rape if the guy fucked me. And that since the guy didn't fuck me, I'd be just fine. I'd need some time. But by the salad course, my date already wanted a blowjob and I wanted to stab with him with a steak knife. Doctor Gruber suggested I try again. That dating -- and eventually making love -- would get easier. Over a game of Chinese Checkers, she asked if I had been masturbating. She suggested that I touch myself. Maybe just my thighs at first. Some light exploration. Had I seen my vagina recently? I went home, with a hand-mirror I'd stashed at the bottom of a drawer, looked at myself. And looked. And looked. And cried. And took my sixth shower of the day.

(Beat.)

Sweat has a very distinctive taste. It's salty. A liquid pretzel. But its scent changes. A hot summer day smells different than looking over your shoulder at midnight. Excitement smells sweeter than fear. And as that scent permeates -- you wonder, will he remember it? Can he track me down? Hunting me like a canine, sniff-sniff?! So, I shower. And I scrub. Apricot, peach, pear, eucalyptus, kiwi, watermelon, coconut, citrus grove, lemongrass, lemondrop, pomegranate, lavender, strawberry, cucumber-melon, every scent you can imagine. I've masked my image with sheets over mirrors. And I've masked my scent with a fucking farmer's market.

Fourteen times in one day is the record. We -- Doctor Gruber and I -- we've gotten that down to six. I've had the occasional bad day. I've thought, suspected someone was following me. You know how, when it rains, footsteps sound louder right after a storm? Then. Then I shower.

I shower fourteen times. Only ten showers less than the hours in a day. 24 hours. Twenty. Four. That's how many months it's been. That's two years. And in 730 days, I've taken nine thousand, one hundred and forty eight showers.

That's how I measure time. In blue paint and water and soap.

The Game

PAUL. The Rook had been at F4 for a month. I'd checked the spam folder daily. You know, in case his e-mail had gotten lost in there. Malcolm never went more than two days without making a move. We'd been playing the game for six years and this... this never happened.

I spent two hours on the phone with a computer from Google, trying to track down Malcolm's phone number. When I finally reached someone -- under the pretense that my own e-mail was malfunctioning -- and a tech savvy geek from Mumbai starts rattling on about cookies, I begin a frantic explanation of the month's events. Or lack thereof.

He makes some imbecilic joke about Malcolm being the second coming of Bobby Fisher and I wonder how this jackass in Bangalore even knows who the fuck Bobby Fisher is, but I don't just wonder it, I say it. Out loud. And before I even realize that I've stopped thinking and started speaking, he hangs up and I've gotten absolutely nowhere.

I don't have the patience to sit on hold for another two hours, so I go directly to the library in search of all Sydney news papers. That's where Mal-kee's from. Syndey, (with a horrendous accent,) Austrayyyyylia, matey. (He laughs at his cleverness.) Anyway. I'm sitting at this tiny little cubicle, going through piles and piles of Australian obituaries.

Hey. You might think that's pessimistic, but you don't know Malcolm. A whiz like Mal-kee isn't just going to up and leave in the middle of a serious match like this one. And that bastard was only one move away from mating me. (Beat.) I've had a lot of time to analyze the board this past month.

And just when I'm about to give up, I find it. Right there. That picture is the one on his Google profile. I see it every time he sends me a move. (bad Aussie accent again,) "Hey, jackass. Knight to 3H. Bishop to 5B. Rook to F4." Carbon-monoxide poisoning. Suicide. Garage. Car. Pawn in right hand.

(Beat.)

Fuck.

(Beat.)

I put away the board last night. They'd been sitting out for a few weeks. I couldn't bare to do it. Hoping it was wrong. A mistake. Waiting for that "ping" the computer makes. Ping. Every time a message comes through. Ping. "Pawn to 4E." And I stood on the stool that rocks too much to stand on and just managed to get the box high up on the shelf. Tucked away. Hidden from view. Under an afghan my mother made one Christmas when I was still married to Susan. Malcolm let me win the week she left me. It was the only time I actually ever beat the prick.

(Beat.)

Carbon Monoxide.

(Beat.)

Shit.

(Beat.)

Checkmate.

January

for Laurie Strickland

JANUARY. Andy played the piano. He didn't play it well. In fact, he couldn't even read music. And he most certainly didn't know where Middle C was. But he could play a few songs here and there. And I suppose that reminded me of my grandfather, who only played the black keys. And when we'd moved in to the house together, there was that very All in the Family moment. I was the Edith to his Archie and we sat there singing and barely playing and mostly laughing. And piled around us were the many, many boxes neither one of us wanted to open.

There were the books. Hundreds, at least. So many doubles - his worn-out copy of Swann's Way and mine still with a price tag. His barely-opened David Foster Wallace and mine, dog-eared and beat up from my thirty times through. We'd argued about Infinite Jest one evening. The drinks had kept coming and we'd started raising our voices. He thought Wallace had attention-deficit disorder. I tried to explain his stream of consciousness, but Andy's cheeks were red and he only heard every other word. I didn't want to hear about Proust's red velvet cake. That's what Andy called it. Sumptuous and rich. I called it high-falutin' bullcrap. But eventually we'd stumbled out of the restaurant, me laughing at his taste in literature and him at my stubbornness.

There was a lot of that in those days. We were from the school of Opposites Attract, Andy and I. He told me that his mother always said "Love is about sacrifice."And we'd convinced ourselves that was gospel.

The day after our honeymoon, I came home from returning an overdue documentary we'd rented. I was jet-lagged but happy. Andy was sitting on the living room couch naked with a bowl of ice cream. Most people would be upset by his nudity but I was more concerned with the very red raspberry sorbet he was eating on my very white couch. "Marriage is about giving and taking", my mother said. After the the first spill, we flipped the cushion. The second time? A new red couch because raspberry was his favorite flavor. Give and take.

But eventually I got tired of seeing him there, night after night, wiping a new stain up before I'd catch him. And when I found his red raspberry fingertips all over my copy of Infinite Jest, I'd lost it. Instead of getting lost in this moment - his triumph - being happy that he'd finally gotten past Wallace's insecurities and intricacies, I was furious that he'd ruined my already tired copy.

So, I threw a pair of jeans at him. Then a shirt. And socks. And shoes. And bags. And boxes. (Beat.) And my ring.

(Beat.)

I'd been warned by mother that my having a name like January would be a hard sell. But that despite the cold, despite the bite, despite the colored air you breathe, despite the death... that it was her favorite month of the year. January. Everything white. Like you have an eraser. A constant start-over.

(Beat.)

While Andy packed, I sat at the piano played the only thing I knew -- the first three measures of Fur Elise. Over and over and over again. (Singing it,) Da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-dum..... Until I heard the door close and let my blinders down and looked around.

(Beat.)

Give and take.

Lipstick

EARL.

Fire Engine Red. It had to be. I picked up the mug and inspected it after she'd got up to go to the John and I can say, without a doubt, that was Fire Engine Red on her lips. I reckon she thought that I was leering at her, the way that I was staring. But there was something so innately feminine about her. When she walked past my stool I caught a whif of her in the breeze she made and it felt like flowers, I swear to fucking God. And I'm sure that was perfume or something. Liz Claiborne, I bet. But my eyes, Lord, I think they rolled right up into the back of my head and I suddenly forgot where I was. Sitting in some diner on the side of the road fantasizing about a lady I don't even know.

I paid my bill and went outside for a smoke. I left a ton of bacon on the plate. Just wasn't hungry. I dunno.

And you see, Doctor, I really did just want a smoke. But when she came outside, she stopped to touch up her make-up. She did it so effortlessly. No mirror. She knew the curves of her lips like the back of her hands and put it on like a pro. And when she dropped the tube and it rolled over under my boot, I suppose most men woulda let her bend down and they woulda enjoyed the view. But me, I just looked her right in the eye and said,

"I love this shade."

I bent down and picked it up.

"Can I keep it?"

She smiled at me this sorta crooked, half-smile like she didn't know what to make of me and nodded, backing away and I said something stupid.

"You smell real pretty, miss."

And she started to run and my feet, I guess, they were just glued down to the ground. Like I stepped on some gum or tobacco or tar. You know.

I didn't mean to scare her. I wanted to tell her truth. I wanted to say it out loud but you never know how they'll take it. Six foot tall, a scraggly beard I haven't shaved in weeks and I drive a tractor fucking trailer, you know what I mean? It's not everyday you meet a butch piece of white trash who secretly wants to be a lady.

Leaving

I'm sorry. I know that my coming back is the last thing in the world you wanted. Especially after the way things ended. The way I left. With just a note on the fridge. But I forgot my toothbrush and I was really hoping you wouldn't be here and you know how particular I am about picking out a toothbrush and how hard it would be for me to find one that I liked as much as you. It. As much as it. The toothbrush, I mean.

So, if it's okay... I'd like to just... Go in and get the toothbrush.

(Beat.)

Andrew, I know that you want to scream and yell at me. I know that, I do. I know you probably wanna smack me across the face and call me a whore. And I'd deserve it, too. But the truth is that you could do better. You could find someone less neurotic, less confused, less anxious and hell, you could find someone who didn't have these monster bags under their eyes. And I know that you don't want to find someone better, because you treat me so wonderful. You treat me so perfectly, like gold, really. But the truth is, Andrew, I couldn't take living in this house. I couldn't take watching you sit on that couch day after day, smile on your face as you watch the game, pretending that you're content in this smothering, suburban lifestyle with the housewife who has one very shitty uterus that won't conceive and one very fucked up brain preventing her from leading a normal life.

So, I'm going. And I really thought I could get out of here without ever having to look back. You know. Leave the ring on the counter, a note on the fridge and out the door I go. But I forgot the toothbrush. And so. Here I am.

Hungry

from the musical THE FEAST

It wasn't too terrible at first. Sort of a nagging, dull ache. And there was the eventual headache, but it really wasn't too terrible, at all. I suppose I thought it would be worse, the hunger, but after a few days you start to forget. And as your body eats away at the toxins inside, trying to cling to any sort of nutrition it can find, you get the occasional burst of energy. For a few hours, you're running around like a mad man, feeling more refreshed than you have in years. The sun seems brighter, the air feels fresher, the birds sing prettier. But when you turn around to go inside, the porch steps look daunting. They look terribly frightening. And your legs, as you lift them one at a time up the creaky stairs, weathered and aged, they maybe give out underneath you. Margaret, the nurse, she comes over and picks you up, practically carries you up the stairs. But once you're sitting down, oh, Dora, and you've caught your breath? You catch a glance of yourself in the mirror and my eyes... Oh, my eyes, they look so hollow. And my cheeks have caved in, my lips pale and almost blue. Someone's left a window open and a chill runs down my spine because I get cold so easily now.

I've befriended a nice young orderly. He's a black boy. His named is Thomas. He's a little younger than me, I think, and Dora -- sometimes, when I think I can't take the growling anymore, I ask him for a little juice. And he sneaks it my way when no one's looking. It feels so cool on my throat.

Yes.

That's it. The thirst is the worst. The growling, the weakness, the empty eyes-- that I can take, but my throat? Oh, Dora, it is always parched. In the morning the windows are wet with dew and sometimes I think to myself, what if I licked it dry? Those little blue crystals would feel so lovely on my tongue. But on the days that I feel strong? Oh, Dora, do I ever feel strong. Perhaps there is a method to all this madness. Perhaps there really is some possibility to it.

I miss you, Dora.

Affectionately,

your sister Clara.