by dizzy turek
Anticipating Molly, he sits in the kitchen where they have a polished marble island, a humming fridge, knives sticking out the knife block, tasteful cutlery, flatware, two crystal glasses out, a dog bowl of dog chow, and a sliding glass door to the backyard. She comes into the kitchen and he smiles. In his smile, his three debts come back to him. Payday’s today. Sloth or acedia, as he saw it recently, is worked out on the fourth terrace in Purgatorio with running around. She stands there, looks like she’s about to say something and leaves the room with him and his thoughts and his words.
He resets himself back to start. It’s a start a little further on. An accumulated start, a memory’s memory. When they say stretch a dollar, he wonders about the tensile strength. Dollars are mirages. A flutter of whispers off in the dark. He grips the 20 he found in his pocket in case it was thinking of slipping out. She comes in again and he attempts a smile. Lifting the corners of his mouth, he doodles around with how it takes more muscles to frown than to smile. She isn’t smiling but she has bad news. Then again, everyone has bad news. They either carry it at the center of their skull or stuff it into the extremities, the tip of the skull, the back, the neck, somewhere lower. He got a massage earlier and the old Korean man removed the hoarded coins from his butt meat. His grandma had bought rare coins over the thousands of evenings, up, insomniatic, calling the television numbers nonstop, swigs of icy Kamchatka, amassing her dragon’s pile. One day, maybe sans her, it’ll pay, she thought.
The breeze from above tickles him but he stays still. He’s trained that way. Molly has already left again. This last attempt at a smile must’ve killed any moving forward. Acedia again, God frowns, flexing His muscles. He, anticipating again Molly, ignoring the tickling breeze, floats through this present moment to what is never going to be possible and imagines like 70,000 a year. Not greedy, simply substantial. Of course, your life grows to the shape of the container. There is something about 70,000 though.
***
He meets his girlfriend by the river where the city has placed public adirondack chairs. In them, they hold hands silently because the reservations–nice, not balling out–are at 7:30. The sun bends down, kisses the lake and the river and them and a ring on her left finger. He has no bag, he has no shoes, he has an ironed shirt on. The canoemen wave their heads jokingly. They wave back, free fun with strangers. Later, after dinner–very enjoyable–and with their nightcap putting them in a nighttime mood, they drive their fire extinguisher CR-V with the windows down and the heat up. This is how exactly he imagines their lives forever and now, in this present moment and he hadn’t been smiling in the kitchen and Molly has left to come back again.In the dark in front of them, where the director who has been watching from a few feet near is, where the wall with their stove and expansive counter space and new blender would be and maybe a tiny TV like in the 70s where a tiny tyke may be eating Fruit Loops against the wishes of both him and his girlfriend, he hears annoyed whispering. He hadn’t been smiling and he straightens his back and shakes out his thoughts and holds his breath. He wishes to be empty, he empties himself, he is prepped for the door. Molly would come in with him smiling and then the bad news and they’d get into it, wincing, bashing, a play at cruelty.
This has been only the second time on this scene without the help of their scripts. In this position, there would never be any way to do anything right. That’s how it was set to go, he knows that. He would always fail, there would never be a way out until she storms off after everything is said and done and the lights will go to semi-black and off he’ll go for his costume change. Soon, it will be six years later and he will enter. He has been dreading this moment out of any other, this whole time, underneath his thoughts and his words and his empty because this scene is painful and if he was in a fire extinguisher CR-V, he could drive to the city limit or to the state limit or to the Pacific Ocean. He could drive into the ocean and end up in China. He could have his car taken away and be put in a Chinese prison and he could work day-in, day-out. He could be a hostage, a diplomatic pawn between gargantuan nation-states. He could rot or he could be returned like a stolen toy. He could be without any compulsion, not Molly, not even anything outside of the scene.
Of course, earlier today, the coin appraiser told him his grandma’s coins were worthless. In an instant, boxes and boxes to scrap metal. He had stared at the Arkansas quarter, the one she had shook in his face when he was a little kid. “This stuff’s your inheritance.” It hadn’t been so long since she’d sent her body to science.
He had been smiling thinking but at notes, the director will let him know It was a distant unspecific smile, unpresent. The stage manager calls for a 10 minute break and everyone says Thank you, 10 except his scene partner, Molly, who huffs. At notes, the director will point out, You shouldn’t be anticipating. And take your hands out of your pockets. He says, Thank you, 10 and runs around the kitchen, getting his heart rate going, pulling his energy in. He runs for 10 minutes, fills up the 10 minutes with as much tension as possible, keeping the energy in and the stage manager calls again to start. It was time to run the scene again.
He takes his breezy seat. The director largely sighs. His scene partner is somewhere behind the door, presumably, hopefully, for the sake of time. Molly is beyond the door and he knows there’s bad news but he empties that out. He’s only smiling. The scene is about to start when he dashes his hand into his pocket. He frowns. The 20 must’ve slipped out. “What are you doing? What is he doing?” The director laugh-shouts. He is walking off into the darkness, out of the kitchen, through the wall. The little crowd comments on him, on whatever is going on in the dark. They have these jobs to do and they are doing them from time to time however there is of course downtime. A spare bit here to doodle or lounge or lose yourself. The director in notes later would whisper This whole day was a waste of money, only to quickly correct himself saying time. Molly is whispering loud enough for all to hear, “Is he done?” The little crowd titters, wondering if this is a part of it. The secret is: it all is. He returns to the scene. “People, let's remember what we have to get done here today”, the director begs. In the scene, Molly can barely contain her frown. While anticipating her, he sticks his hand in his pocket. He smiles.
______
dizzy turek writes in Chicago but is originally from Ohio. he also does theater. social media is: twitter:@dddddizzzzyzzz instagram: dizzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzyy .
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