That's What She Said
While I was trying to figure out what to do for today's column I came across this Word doc on my computer called "dialogue." It's apparently something I jotted down a few years ago for a screenplay I wanted to write. There are three snippets of conversations between two unidentified characters, although one is clearly based on me and the other is clearly wise to the "me" character's bullshit. Here it is, in its entirety:
On a separate note, here's something that happened to me at a bar last night. I was with two friends and I was low on cash so I gave the bartender my card to open a tab. I ordered three Smithwick's, using the correct pronunciation "Smitticks." My two friends drank their beers slightly faster than me and they ordered their next round. Then the bartender looks at me and says, "Can I get anything for you, Princess?"
Princess.
What the fuck about me made him say that?
I went to the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. Ok, fine, there's the blonde hair, but it's not like I had tiny purse slung over my arm or a DKNY bedazzled blouse or anything else particularly prissy. I'm just some person. So why princess?
It then occurred to me that, for the most part, I see myself from the waist down and other people see me from the waist up. I look down when I walk so I see my camouflage Converse or my decaying black thrift store boots and the muddy, worn cuffs of my jeans and think, "Stay the course, girlfriend, you're edgy yet plain." But other people see the blonde hair, blue eyes and benevolent grin and never realize that it's all masking a sincere desire to start a fight club at that very moment. I was in a bar once a long time ago and this guy who had been hitting on me for a while says, "You know, I'm really attracted to innocence."
Ok, let's just let that sink in for a second.
"I'm really attracted to innocence."
Let's set aside the 5,337 other things that are wrong with that sentence and focus on the fact that he said that to me and he meant it about me. I responded with the first thing that popped in my mind: "Yeah, well, you can't fuck innocence in the ass, can you?"
I guess the point of all of this is that I tend to feel like I'm a tough person or a bad person, but never a nice or sweet person, yet somehow I'm almost always given credit for being more like the latter than the former. I'm like Dave Foley's "bad doctor" character from The Kids in the Hall: "I mean, how far can you coast on charm? Well, pretty far, actually."
So from now on when you're talking to me, do me a favor and keep this one idea in your head: at some point during our conversation I've thought about what would happen if I stabbed something in your eye, and I've tried to remember what Lee Marvin looked like before his hair turned white. This should help avoid any confusion about who the fuck you're talking to.
You know, I don't think the best scripts come out of 86 pages of one person having a conversation with herself, so I'm kind of glad I never went any further with that. Still, it's interesting — or is it depressing? — to realize that I've been spinning my wheels on the same ground for several years now. Maybe there is a good screenplay in there somewhere but it needs at least two giant steps back from the solipsism.
Who cares...he’s dead.
It’s not your fault.
I wish it was. I wish it was that clear.
You have to stop that.
No. All I have to do is accept it. I hated him. I even wished him dead. I just never had the guts to do anything, not even to leave. I waited for him to die. He made a choice and followed through with it. Not me. I did nothing. That’s sick. I’m sick.
You’re not…
I’m worse than sick…I’m a coward.
No, you aren’t a coward. You’re a self-pitying obsessive.
Oh…[laughs] Maybe that’s why dad avoids me.
You’re ridiculous. Should I come back when you’re ready to get over yourself?
When do you think that’s gonna happen?
[he laughs]
Every time I try to do something, I think of everything else I should be doing and I get frustrated…so I don’t do anything. I had an idea for this funny story about a girl who is so afraid of dying that she kills herself.
That’s not funny.
That was the problem.
You used to be funny.
Oh…well, I’ve moved on to being disappointing.
Suits you.
Maybe we should have a fight. A big bar brawl. And someone could be thrown onto the bar and slid down the whole length of it – smashing into beer mugs and stuff – like in a Burt Reynolds movie.
You know something, this whole thing you do…the cute thing, the knowing thing, the saying things you don’t expect girls to say thing...I understand. I know “why” you do it. It used to be funny. But it’s not anymore. You’re kind of annoying now. And not in an interesting way.
And my breath stinks.
Yes, it does. Stop with the Jack and Coke.
So why do you still talk to me?
I’m not going to reassure you right now, sorry.
On a separate note, here's something that happened to me at a bar last night. I was with two friends and I was low on cash so I gave the bartender my card to open a tab. I ordered three Smithwick's, using the correct pronunciation "Smitticks." My two friends drank their beers slightly faster than me and they ordered their next round. Then the bartender looks at me and says, "Can I get anything for you, Princess?"
Princess.
What the fuck about me made him say that?
I went to the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. Ok, fine, there's the blonde hair, but it's not like I had tiny purse slung over my arm or a DKNY bedazzled blouse or anything else particularly prissy. I'm just some person. So why princess?
It then occurred to me that, for the most part, I see myself from the waist down and other people see me from the waist up. I look down when I walk so I see my camouflage Converse or my decaying black thrift store boots and the muddy, worn cuffs of my jeans and think, "Stay the course, girlfriend, you're edgy yet plain." But other people see the blonde hair, blue eyes and benevolent grin and never realize that it's all masking a sincere desire to start a fight club at that very moment. I was in a bar once a long time ago and this guy who had been hitting on me for a while says, "You know, I'm really attracted to innocence."
Ok, let's just let that sink in for a second.
"I'm really attracted to innocence."
Let's set aside the 5,337 other things that are wrong with that sentence and focus on the fact that he said that to me and he meant it about me. I responded with the first thing that popped in my mind: "Yeah, well, you can't fuck innocence in the ass, can you?"
I guess the point of all of this is that I tend to feel like I'm a tough person or a bad person, but never a nice or sweet person, yet somehow I'm almost always given credit for being more like the latter than the former. I'm like Dave Foley's "bad doctor" character from The Kids in the Hall: "I mean, how far can you coast on charm? Well, pretty far, actually."
So from now on when you're talking to me, do me a favor and keep this one idea in your head: at some point during our conversation I've thought about what would happen if I stabbed something in your eye, and I've tried to remember what Lee Marvin looked like before his hair turned white. This should help avoid any confusion about who the fuck you're talking to.
posted by Carol at 9:54 AM
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