Something To Read

I'm posting a non-fiction story/play that I wrote. It might need a new title. Or it might not. It's pretty silly, so be prepared.

Clusterfuck

A Play (of sorts) In Three Acts

Act I. Scene I: Party Number One

Streetlights flicker to reveal a tall, slim girl, aged 21 or so. Her hair is a curly mess pushed back out of her makeup-less face. Dark circles under her eyes are visible from lack of sleep. She’s wearing a blue herringbone jacket, her favorite owl earrings, a yellow and grey scarf, and a look of distaste. Her hands are in her pockets, keeping warm. She is outside, and her face is flushed with the cold. She narrates:

I’m staring at Monkey Beans, a small brown and black mutt I just met. His hair is soft and wiry and he wears a green nylon collar, with a leash of the same color dragging the floor. He keeps trying to escape whenever a beautiful drunk girl opens the apartment door. Suddenly the door opens again, the girl exits with a new beer, and a momentary thought flashes on Monkey Bean’s face: freedom. The door shuts. I stare at the chipped white paint on the aluminum door, picturing his disappointed face behind it. I’m trying to figure out how to say his name in Spanish…Mono Frijoles, I think? I don’t know. All I ever do with the knowledge of a different language is think up funny names for things and people.

Scene II: Party Number One Continues…

This is a dance party, of sorts. When the door swings open, I catch a glimpse of two people drunkenly dancing in the center of a dim room, to loud-happy music. Everyone else is outside the apartment with me, offering cigarettes, stories, and alcohol. I shake my head no, and look to my right in the direction of the parking lot. Solid sheets of ice are illuminated by the harsh, buzzing streetlights. For a moment it seems like an untouched, pristine ice-skating rink. The streetlight is reflected on the ice, and an ethereal glow appears, giving the parking lot an otherworldly feel. I think the ice looks quite nice like that, and I wonder why can’t it always be like that. I keep staring. A short girl with dreadlocks and a pretty face appears stage right. She is riding her bike on the ice, carrying a backpack, but her wobbly rubber wheels do not withstand the slippery ice. She crashes and her body is splayed out in a heap on the cold, frozen surface. I picture bones cracking, bruises forming, and embarrassment rising to her cheeks. She lays on her back, calm and staring at the heavens. She is stunned, like a bird crashing into a clear, clean window. I watch and wait to see what she will do. She slowly sits up, and reaches for her backpack. She carefully pulls out pieces of glass from two broken 40s and sighs. Still searching in her backpack, she pulls out a third 40, still intact. All is not lost. By now two dashing young lads have come to her rescue, and she is lifted like a feather to her feet. She smiles gratefully as they pick up her bike, and lead her in my direction, toward this party.

I look back to the door, and it opens again. A boy with piercings stands in the doorway, and I stare inside. Glowing red lights line the white walls of the room, and for a moment it feels like a darkroom with no pictures. People are huddled on a couch, in the kitchen drinking beer, and in the hallway near the bathroom. Some are chattering, some are moving their upper bodies to the music’s melody, and others are passed out on the shoulders of friends. There’s so much energy concentrated in one single space, and I wonder if I’m a part of it too. How many other people are doing the same thing as I am tonight? Are they happy? Am I? I glance over to Monkey Beans and find his sad eyes staring back into mine.

Scene III: Party Number One, Later in the Night…

I don’t even know why I’m at another one of these parties. I keep telling myself that every party makes the pathetic attempt to strengthen the human connections between people, right? Somehow, I always seem to miss that connection. If anything, parties give me a chance to observe human nature. But it’s cold out here underneath these rusty metal stairs, and my breath is a small cloud in the air. It mixes with the puff of cigarette fumes and other hot breath, besieging us partygoers in a swirl of hazy white fog. A boy with red hair has introduced himself to me four times. His name is Steve. I’m aware, Steve-four-times-over, that you are indeed the entity called Steve. Go away. The pulse of music agitates my growing headache, my fingers feel funny and numb, and I’m thinking horrible thoughts about these seemingly nice people. I need to get out of here, but I find myself unable to move. Why? What would happen if I just left, and an empty spot were to remain where I once was? The bodies in the cigarette circle would shift, and a new person would be left in my absence. Perhaps that presence would be more enjoyable and lively than mine. Where would I go if I left? What would I do? I’m having fun, aren’t I? No. But I’m enjoying the meaninglessness of it all: The fake compliments, the feigned interest in majors, and the conversation starters. And then something like this happens:

Conversation Option A:

Them: “Do you want a cigarette?”

Me: “No.”

Them: “Want a beer?”

Me: (This answer varies. Depending on how I arrived to the location, or how crappy I feel. Usually I reply:) “Sure. Do you have wine?”

Them: (Bypassing the wine question, they immediately jump into:)“Gosh, you’re tall. How tall are you?”

Me: ( I hate it when they ask this.) “Oh. Uh…somewhere around 5’11.”

Them: (They hand me a beer.) “Wow, that’s so tall. So I heard you say earlier that you’re an English major. That’s neat. What are you going to do with that?”

Me: (I don’t even know how to answer this.) “Oh you know, read. I love reading. Read. Read. Read! I’ll probably teach.”

Them: “Say, what’s your name again?”

Me: (Here it comes.) “Er…Ryan.”

Them: “What an awesome name! I’ve never heard that for a girl before, have you? Those are cute shoes.”

Me: What do you say to this? Well, you don’t. But you do end up staring at your shoes, as if maybe they are somehow to blame for this whole incident. I should have lied about my name, or maybe I should have not worn shoes at all. I could have ditched the shoes on the way to the party, I could have thrown them haphazardly in the backseat, or out the window even, and shown up sans shoes. Upon my arrival to the party, I would burst in the door, shouting, “I’ve got no shoes, ladies and gentlemen! How cute are they?” Okay, maybe that’s a bad thing to do. Don’t do that.

Act II, Scene I: Party Number Two

Our main character, Ryan, is at a different party on a different night. She can still be wearing the same thing, or not. It doesn’t matter. The important thing to remember, is that she is wearing different shoes. Watch those shoes, dear reader. Again, she narrates:

I’m sitting on a sunken futon in a tiny apartment, wedged in-between two girls. They are petite, and beautiful; they wear glamorous eye makeup, dresses, and their eyes glow with excitement. I learn later that it’s probably just the cocaine that makes them so glamorous, so giddy, and so untouchable. I pour myself a glass of wine that I brought, and then the girls start chattering. They turn to me with bloodshot, watery eyes. It goes like this:

Conversation Option B:

Girls: (Taking a swig of beer) “So, Ryan how did you end up here?”

Me: (Taking a sip of wine) “Oh, I told someone I would drop by and say hello for a bit.”

Girls: (Eyeing my wine, and then pointing.) “Can I try some of that?”

Me: (The two girls exchange looks with each other.) “Sure, go ahead.”

Girl 1 to Girl 2: (They pass the glass between each other and begin to titter.) “So, I guess Ryan is making an appearance. She’s doing her social duty for this month. After this she won’t have to go out until April.”

Me to Girl 1: (I smile.) “Yep, just doing my duty. Say, where did you get that tattoo, it looks great. Is that a bird or something?”

Girl 1: (Blushes and turns to talk to someone else on the futon.) “Yeah, it is. Thanks.”

Girl 2: (Handing the wine glass back, empty, she stands and stares at my feet.) “I really like those shoes, I’ve never seen ones like those before. I’ll be right back.”

Me: “Kay.”

Scene II: Party Number Two Continues…

She doesn’t return. I lean back into the futon letting its uncomforting shape engulf me, as I stare out the large window to my right. The night looks cold and unfriendly. The wind is blowing, and occasionally you can feel gusts of wind sideswipe the building. I look around the room, and then pour myself another glass of wine. The apartment is warm and full of people and energy, and I’m thinking about seals. Big, fat, blubbery seals. I take a sip of wine, wondering if anyone can read my thoughts. Seals. I keep thinking of how the seals at Pier 39 in Fisherman’s Wharf just lie there all day in the harbor in a fat stupor, eyes squinted, and barking at the sea gulls baking in the sun. So many people flock to see the seals and massive crowds form at Pier 39, everyday. It’s easier to see them if you go around to the pier right beside of it, Pier 41 or something. There you can stand on the railings without the cluster of little children, and just stare at a hundred or more seals, for however long you like. When you’re standing there watching those seals, you feel as if you’re catching sight of something you shouldn’t. You feel as if you’ve stumbled upon some private, intimate moment, but you find yourself unable to look away. Like a car crash, or a gory horror movie. It just makes it worse that there are all these people around for this seal-gathering. The seals just happily lay there, and occasionally you will see a flipper rise up out of the fat masses. The seal will wave it around and start barking, and then put his flipper back down. Perhaps another will raise his flipper in response. Often you will catch sight of the king seal, the territorial leader of the pack. He continually barks and waddles in place, his flippers flailing about, like he’s having a seizure or something. He dives in and out of the water, barking to the others, commanding authority and respect. Taking a look around the apartment, I stare at my fellow seal-mates. They are content, at ease. I guess the wine is getting to me. I begin to try and identify the king seal. He approaches me before I have a chance to escape:

Conversation Option C

King: (Sitting down on the futon beside me) “Ryan…where have you been all night?”

Me: (Sipping wine) “Here.”

King: (Putting his hand on the back of the futon, close to my back) “Why didn’t you say hello?”

Me: (Sitting up, awkwardly) “I…don’t know.”

King: (Scooting closer, a hand moving near my leg) “What was I doing, Ryan?”

Me: (Looking into his eyes) “Snorting coke or something of the sort, perhaps?

King: (Standing, confused and offended) “Oh. Yes, well. Talk to me later, okay?”

Me: “Will do.”

Scene III: Still Party Number Two: Thoughts on a Futon

I’m a jerk, aren’t I? I’m sipping on my wine, being snobby and judging others by their lifestyle choices. Who am I to attack these innocent people? I’m no better than any of these people I have met. If anything I am either their equal, or worse. Is there a reason behind all of this nonsense? Possibly. I would say that these parties make me feel lonely, but that would be wrong. It’s not so much about being lonely, as it is about being disappointed in almost everyone I meet. They (them, these partygoers) are lackluster, uninteresting, and unquestioning. And I think it’s their lack of curiosity about the world that kills me. It is their complete lack of desire and passion to learn or discover anything new about themselves or each other.

Maybe this is selfish, bitter, and egotistical of me to try and expect that everyone I meet is going to have something to say—something real to say, something to say that I haven’t ever thought about. I am afraid that we are only allowed to exist within the confines of Conversation Options A, B, and C. Moreover, I worry that we have become trapped in the cyclical surface conversations, and have forgotten how to dig deeper and really interact with each other. Why has the heart of every conversation been ripped out, and left with nothing but entrails, mere fragments of a whole, which amount to nothing more than a conversation about shoes. These surface conversations make me feel dead inside, and I wonder if others feel like it too. Instead of digging deeper, we are covering each other up. Is this why we drink ourselves silly, and resort to drugs for escapism? Who knows. I have exhausted myself on themed parties and glitzy soirées; my reward is only to be let down by all of you. I have tried to find some human connection, only to be overwhelmed with the monstrosity of human nature. Maybe I have it all wrong. I hope so. But maybe the real answer is that we need to return to something, to nature—to something else. A return to the essence of life, perhaps? Because this isn’t working for me.

Act III, Scene I: Again, Party Number Two: A Flicker Of Life

Ryan has decided to get up and dance, because sometimes Party Number Two, or any party for that matter, has the ability to morph into something entirely different, and unexpected. She narrates:

A little drunk, I wobble over to the group of dancing people. Everyone is in their own little world, seemingly happy and intoxicated by the alcohol and pulsating rhythm of music. Here your energy and thoughts can get lost in the dim rope lights near the window, the shadows of moving bodies reflected on the walls, and the upbeat music that vibrates and resonates in tiny apartments. While dancing we all come together and share a mutual moment, lost in the excitement and innocence of a song. We create a feeling, and for a split second, we might even be happy. I look up from my dance entrancement, and find a friend sitting near the window, by himself. I walk over to him, panting and out of breath, but smiling. He motions for me to sit down beside him, I do, and then this happens:

Conversation Option D:

Him: (Looking into my eyes) “This is fun, you know?”

Me: (Staring back, grinning and full of energy) “Yeah, it is. This dancing, this loosing ourselves. I wish it were always this simple.”

Him: (A shift in mood. He looks down at the floor, perhaps staring at our shoes) “But it isn’t, is it?

Me: (Lost in the pattern of my shoes. They are green and suede and ruined by rain.) “No. Things complicate things. People complicate things. We loose meaning, we loose passion. We loose desire. (Looking up.) I have to ask you something.”

Him: (Staring at my face, searching) “Yeah, go ahead.”

Me: (Meeting his eyes, then focusing a gaze at the people dancing) “Do you love her?”

Him: (He sighs, pauses before answering, and stares at my face, confused. My gaze remains fixed on the dancers. I can see him in my peripheral vision, and his brow is wrinkled.) “No. I don’t. And I can’t pretend anymore. There’s just no spark, there’s no real connection that drives me. There isn’t any love with her, and when there isn’t, you feel that absence. It’s horrible.”

Me: (Looking to him.) “I know that feeling. And it’s the worst. It consumes you—that knowing, that feeling that won’t go away. It’s that dark possibility that you are utterly incapable of loving someone else, besides yourself. (Turning away, staring at the dancers) You start to wonder if you will ever truly love someone, or even just be passionate about the circumstances you’re in.”

Him: (Concerned, staring at the ground) “Do you love him?”

Me: (Biting a cuticle, joking.) “I can’t answer that. I’m too afraid to. Ask me later.”

Him: (Laughing) “That’s fair. You’re right though.”

Me: (Staring into his eyes, searching) “About what?”

Him: (Returning my stare, then looking away.) “About everything.”

Scene II: Party Number Two, Later That Night

Ryan is still sitting on the futon, but will leave soon. She has not remained on the futon the entire night, only most of it. If you aren’t entirely drunk, and if you manage to catch her face in just the right light, you will notice that she is a bit sad. Again, she narrates:

My wine has worn off, the music has slowed to a mellow beat—a harmonious acoustic something or other, and I am left watching the last of the party people chatter quietly. By this time of night, we are all left in an introspective trance. Nothing has happened, and nothing will happen. What has been said, or not said tonight? Maybe it’s the aftermath of the wine, maybe not, but I feel smothered and I have to get out of here.

Scene III: Party Number Two, The End of the Hall

Ryan walks down the narrow hallway, and the lights begin to dim as she moves farther away from the remaining partygoers. As she reaches for the doorknob leading to the exit, in almost complete darkness, she thinks:

Sometimes within the cluster of plump seals at Pier 39, you will see one or two seals away from the rest of the group. They are isolated and on a different plank of wood. At first glance these seals are unnoticeable, but looking closer you realize that they are a different type of seal. They are smaller, and with a few spots. Sometimes they bare scars, manmade or seal-born, I do not know. These seals aren’t lying down, but rather they have propped themselves up, with one flipper transfixed in the air. When the weight becomes too much, they trade flippers. The odd seals continue this pattern until a larger seal, perhaps the king seal, comes along and pushes them off. They are then given a choice: they can either repeat the entire process over again by fighting for their plank of wood, or just swim away, in search of a new place.