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7/27/2024 We're About To Get Playfully Blasphemous Here (or...The Metaphorical Death and Resurrection of Me)Read Now2023 was the year I turned 33, and in case you didn’t know, many religious scholars cite that as the age Jesus was crucified and rose from the dead. Now, within literature there’s a trope called the Christ-like figure in which a character sacrifices themself and from that death, something happens in order to advance the plot. Usually that something is either the “dead” character rising from the ashes and obtaining new powers (think Gandalf the Grey battling the Balrog and then coming back as Gandalf the White) or the protagonist being so moved by the death of this secondary character that they are reborn in some way (think Red Badge of Courage’s Jim Conklin (JC…get it?) whose death changes Henry’s opinion on war.)  Fun fact: I say this line at least once a week...if only to myself.
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 This June marked nine years of working for Starbucks. As someone who didn’t think that they’d last a week there, I honestly consider this a massive achievement. I have learned so much about myself since becoming a partner, especially in regards to what I’m capable of and how to handle conflicts. This journey has had its ups and downs, but all in all, Starbucks has treated me very well.
As with any corporation, the biggest issues arise from people higher on the pay scale not understanding how things “at the bottom” work. I like to picture some big corporate suit walking into one of our stores and asking a barista, “What can we, as a company, do to help you?” The barista replies, “We need more people on the floor. Can we hire more people and have more labor hours?” Nodding and scratching their chin, the suit says, “What I’m hearing is you want us to update the sequencing of drinks so you now make three at a time rather than two and you want a free reusable cup.” The barista stares blankly at them and asserts, “That is not at all what I said.” But it’s too late; corporate has already thrown thousands of dollars at some lackey who is going to study the partners efficiency and see how they can make their employees do more with less. The gifted cup will come with stickers! Won’t that be fun?! While my time with the siren is about to end, I have picked up a few tips along the way. Not tips for the employees, mind you. No, these are tips for you…the consumer. I would say that ninety percent of the people who have come into one of my stores have been lovely and friendly individuals, but – ooh-weee!! – that remaining ten percent (especially at drive-thru stores. This is not to shame drive-thru stores or people to use them. Drive-thru stores are amazing for people with small children, social anxiety, certain mobility needs, etc. But there’s a certain kind of crazy that doesn’t want to get out of its car to get its coffee. And it’s usually the kind of crazy that insults the employees or throws hot drinks at them.) To help steer people away from joining that ten percent group, I’ve created this simple list of things everyone can do to help their baristas out and make the process go a little smoother. Yes, this is taken from the standpoint of Starbucks, but many of these points apply to any coffee shop. Let’s begin!
Oh, and full disclosure: when you tell us that you’re “running late”, we don’t care. We aren’t going to move your drink to the front of the line. If you’re running late, don’t stop for coffee. It’s as simple as that.
You can help us out by paying attention, and (hands down) the biggest distraction we see is the cellphone. Contrary to popular belief, baristas are not telepathic. If you want almond milk in that mocha, then you have to tell us. If you didn’t want that banana bread warmed up, then you have to tell us. We try our best to ask questions, but help us out…and more importantly, don’t get upset with us when we ask questions. I’m not grilling you for information on how you like your frappuccino because I enjoy bothering you or because I’m trying to lower your defenses so you join my cult; I just need to know what you want so we can avoid wasting time. Please get off your phone and tell me clearly what you want. If you don’t know, I am happy to answer questions and guide you towards what you’re looking for, but no matter how dexterous you think your mind is, you cannot simultaneously focus on the drama going on with your friend Becky and order an iced Tall quad shot shaken espresso, no classic syrup, sub five pumps hazelnut and two pumps sugar-free vanilla, light ice, chocolate cream cold foam, lightly sprinkled with cinnamon powder, in a Grande cup.
Just know that it’s our job to make you feel welcomed and comfortable, but that does not mean that we want to sleep with you. I did not really experience sexual harassment until I became a barista and then suddenly I had a flock of men (usually old and white) talking about my “pretty little lips” or asking if I wanted to share a scone with them or reaching across the counter and grabbing my arm to tell me that my skin is very soft. (Thankfully, my current boss is incredibly good at nipping any of that stuff in the bud and has a strict no tolerance policy for customers making partners feel unsafe or uncomfortable. Thanks, Char!) Stop. I am not your toy. I am just a person doing a job and trying to make a living. Yes, I do enjoy welcoming you to this third space and even establishing friendly relationships with anyone who comes in, but customer service me is not the real me. I am not trying to flirt with you, I don’t want you to flirt with me, and I will tell you when you cross a line.
So many of the terms used are Italian or at least Italian-derived and most Americans do not speak Italian. If you call it a “grand mach-yee-otto”, I will understand what you mean. As someone who spent years being afraid to order a sauvignon blanc because I knew that I wasn’t pronouncing it correctly, I get the instinct to try and “speak the language”, but just know that no one is going to laugh at you. And if they do, then you tell their store manager. Furthermore, don’t be afraid to ask us questions. We are here to help you figure out what exactly that one drink was…you know, the one your sister got for your last time (“I just remember that it was hot and it tasted like caramel.” Hey, I can work with that!) I don’t mind people asking questions; what I do mind is when people complain about having to wait in line but then get up to the register and only then think about what they want to order. Get your life together, Karen.
Stop. Look around. Are other people waiting? Are the baristas running around crazily? Is there a line of drinks on the counter? How many people are at the bar? During peak, there should be at least two (hopefully more if it’s very busy). Is one person running the register and the oven? Is there a pile of dishes laying off to the side? Is an employee yelling something like, “I need peppermint syrup on the fly?!” If you’re in a drive-thru, is there a line of cars behind you? If you answered yes to any of the questions above, the store is probably very busy. And, being very busy, there are going to be some longer wait times. I have worked primarily in a cafe store (meaning no drive thru), and our general rule is that we want people to be waiting ten minutes at the absolute most. Check your watch and ask yourself, “Have I been waiting longer than ten minutes?” If it’s very busy and the answer is no, then take a seat and calm down. (And, no, that ten minutes does not start when you walk in. It starts when you finish paying and your order goes through. See #1 if you have questions.) The amount of people who go into a rage because they had to (dramatic gasp) wait, is stifling. Take a look around and have some pity on the people making your coffee. If you truly feel that something is unacceptable (be it wait times, a barista’s attitude, etc.), the best thing you can do is email or call the store manager or the district manager. Stores should have business cards with contact information for both of these individuals. Said cards are usually located at the hand-off plane but not necessarily. Before you start yelling at the twenty-two-year-old who has been awake since 4am and is doing the best they can, contact someone higher up and complain to them. I know that it isn’t as cathartic (you maniac) as screaming in the middle of a Starbucks and getting up on some proverbial soapbox about how “no one wants to work anymore”, but you’re going to get better results if you express your frustration to the people who actually have a say in things like labor hours. All in all, friends, assume the best in others and have patience. If you can do both of these things, you’ll get your drink and us baristas won’t have to run to the backroom in tears. At the end of the day, it’s just coffee. Is this really the hill you want to die on? I didn’t think so.  © Copyright 2018 by Deanna Strasse CAUTION: Professional and amateurs are hereby warned that SUMMERS IN PRAGUE is subject to royalty. All rights, including professional, amateur, motion picture, radio, television, public reading and the rights of translation into foreign language are strictly observed. All questions with regard to licensing should be addressed to the author: Deanna Strasse [[email protected]] No performance of any or all of the play may be given without obtaining in advance the written permission of the author and paying the requisite fee. ::: Characters Mara, she/her/hers, American, thirty-five to forty Václav, he/him/his, Czech, twenty-seven to thirty-one Time and setting A hotel room in Prague. Present day. Summers in Prague was originally produced through Sidecar Theatre, in conjunction with Chameleon Theatre Circle for the 2018 Minnesota Fringe Festival. It opened on Friday, August 3rd in the Rarig Center Arena Theatre. Crew: Director………………..Kimberly Miller Stage Manager…………Jessi Kadolph Costume Coordinator…Kathleen Martin Dialect Coach…………Corey Boe Producers………………Megan West and Kimberly Miller Cast: Mara…………………..Samantha Papke Václav…………………….Avi Aharoni ::: It was further developed and produced through Windfall Theatre in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. It opened on Friday, March 20th, 2020. Crew: Director……………….Deanna Strasse Stage Manager………..Carol Zippel Costume Coordinator…Amanda J. Hull Intimacy Coordinator…Kara Penrose Cast: Mara………………….Melody Lopac Václav…………………Cory Jefferson Hagen ::: Part I A hotel room in the city of Prague. It’s nearly nightfall and summer time. There’s a breeze blowing through the open window, pushing the curtains aside delicately. Everything has an air of gentleness and cleanliness. Everything is perfect. A large four-poster bed sits upstage. Suddenly, we hear a cell phone go off. It vibrates wildly. Mara, a woman in her thirties, enters from the bathroom, anxiously. She’s half put together — a nice cocktail dress (nothing too short) is on but her hair is a mess and possibly she only has one shoe on. She does not want to miss this call. Nervously, she picks up the phone. MARA: Hello? Hi. This is she. Yes. Yes. Room 341. On the third floor. Correct. Correct. Yes. Thank you. I have the check ready and…oh? Oh? Of course! Yes! How silly of me! (She laughs nervously) Of course! That makes perfect sense! No! Not a problem at all! I have cash. Yes. Yes. Lots of cash. I mean…don’t go telling everyone that, but…(She’s embarrassed.) I…uh…not a problem…of course…thank you…oh! Uh…sir? I’m just…could you tell me the name of the gentleman who is coming tonight? Okay. Václav. Yes, that’s a nice name. Thank you. Yes. (She hangs up, embarrassed. But she doesn’t have time to waste. Mara dashes into the bathroom once more. A beat. Mara exits the bathroom with both shoes on and busily throwing her hair together. She’s in a panic suddenly, pacing back and forth, unsure of what exactly she’s doing. And then there is a knock at the door. The sound makes Mara jump and squeal. She gets control of herself and takes a breath before doing one last sweep of the room. She turns off her phone. She pulls the curtains. She checks her makeup once more. There is another knock.) MARA: (A little too excited) I’m coming! (She walks to the door, takes a breath and then opens it.) (In the doorway stands Václav: tall, dark and very good looking. He smiles winningly at Mara and speaks very good English but not without a distinct Czech accent) VÁCLAV: Ms. Wright? MARA: That’s me. VÁCLAV: (Holding out his hand) Václav. How very nice to meet you. (Mara accepts his hand and Václav kisses it) MARA: (Startled by this gesture, but enjoying it) Yes…um…please…come in. (She moves out the way so Václav can enter.) MARA: Can I take your coat? VÁCLAV: Thank you. (He removes his suit jacket and hands it to her) MARA: Oh…sorry…I…I wasn’t thinking…I thought…that’s what you say when people enter…I mean you ask them if you can take their coat but this is a suit jacket, which is typically something you wear…even inside…I thought it was a normal coat, but it’s not…I’m sorry. You can have this back. (She hands him the suit jacket) VÁCLAV: (Laughing a bit) No. Please. I wanted to take it off. It was very polite of you to offer to take it. (He lays the jacket aside) I’ll just put it there. Is that alright? MARA: That’s fine. That’s great. VÁCLAV: Very good. MARA: Would you like something to drink? VÁCLAV: Are you going to drink? MARA: I’ll probably just have water. VÁCLAV: I will have the same. MARA: Alright. Just a second. (She goes to the kitchen area and begins to run two glasses of tap water) I…uh…I talked to uh…to…uh…I have the money for you… VÁCLAV: Would you like to get that out of the way? MARA: Yes. It’s here. (She goes to the nightstand and pulls out her purse. She hands him an envelope with cash in it.) I just…I don’t want to you to think that I’d cheat you. (He goes to his coat and puts the envelope in an inner pocket before turning back to Mara) VÁCLAV: I know. MARA: Okay. Sorry. VÁCLAV: (He goes to Mara) You’re very nervous. MARA: Yes. VÁCLAV: (He’s very close to her) You don’t have to be. MARA: Sorry…I’m just… VÁCLAV: (Laughing) Don’t apologize. MARA: Sorry… (Mara stands there awkwardly with two glasses of water in her hands. She’s paralyzed by how close Václav is to her. Smiling, Václav helps himself to one of the glasses in Mara’s hands. He takes a sip and stares at Mara.) VÁCLAV: Don’t be nervous. MARA: Oh, I’m way past that. VÁCLAV: You don’t seem to understand, Mara. You control what happens tonight. It’s my job to make you happy, and I look forward to it. (Again Mara is paralyzed as she stares into Václav’s eyes) VÁCLAV: Would you like to sit down? MARA: On…on the bed? VÁCLAV: Anywhere you like. MARA: The bed is fine. (She sits on the edge of the bed and Václav follows) VÁCLAV: May I kiss you on the cheek? MARA: What? VÁCLAV: May I kiss you on the cheek? MARA: Um…sure. (He leans in and kisses her on the cheek) VÁCLAV: There. How do you feel? MARA: That was…that was nice… VÁCLAV: We’ll just go from there. You’re American? MARA: Yes. You’re Czech? VÁCLAV: Yes. MARA: You speak very good English. VÁCLAV: So do you. (Mara laughs) VÁCLAV: What brings you to Prague? MARA: Oh, you know…travelling. VÁCLAV: Prague is one the finest cities in the world. MARA: I’ve always wanted to go. And it’s just a train ride from Berlin. Everything is by train in Europe. I like it. It’s very…old fashioned. VÁCLAV: What do you think of our fine city thus far? MARA: Oh, it’s beautiful. VÁCLAV: Have you seen the Charles Bridge yet? MARA: I did that on my first day. I was nervous my first day. But…there are all those statues by the bridge you know. Well, of course you know. I’m Catholic and…I was raised Catholic at least…and just seeing all the saints…Saint Augustine was really good for me. I suppose that sounds silly. VÁCLAV: Not at all. MARA: I suppose even if it did sound silly, you wouldn’t say so. Sorry. VÁCLAV: Don’t be. MARA: (Suddenly rising) I’m sure you hear this all the time, but I don’t…I don’t usually do this. I’ve never done this. I don’t even know why I’m doing it now. VÁCLAV: Mara, I know why you asked me here tonight. MARA: Oh? VÁCLAV: Because it’s a shame for a beautiful woman to be alone in such a beautiful city. MARA: (Giggles a bit) Oh wow. You’re kind of ridiculous. (Stops) Sorry. VÁCLAV: Don’t apologize. What kind of work to do you do? MARA: It’s boring. VÁCLAV: I’m sure it isn’t. MARA: I teach…kind of. I teach English. The American School in Berlin. I’m a teacher. VÁCLAV: That doesn’t sound boring at all. MARA: Well…I don’t really…the majority of work that I do is just editing. Working with adults who already have a grasp of the language and writing essays and correcting it. VÁCLAV: But you are American, yes? MARA: Yes. I go home every once in a while. I went home for Christmas…uh…not this past Christmas but the one before it. VÁCLAV: Do you have a significant other? MARA: (Laughs) No. I wouldn’t…I wouldn’t be here if I did. VÁCLAV: Understandable. MARA: Though, I assume you get all kinds of people coming to see you. VÁCLAV: I do. It’s nice to hear that there is still some nobility in the world. You must be very lonely. (He takes her hand and runs his fingers across it. He gently kisses it) MARA: Huh? Oh…yeah…there are plenty of English speaking people…(Gesturing to him) Obviously. But…it’s still hard to…meet people. You speak very good English. VÁCLAV: Thank you. Americans seem to look at learning another language as something…silly or unneeded. Most everyone else knows that one language is not enough. MARA: Say something in Czech. VÁCLAV: Co byste chtěl, abych řekl? MARA: (She giggles) What did you say? VÁCLAV: I said, “What would you like me to say?” (Mara laughs) VÁCLAV: Smím tě políbit na rty? MARA: What did you say that time? VÁCLAV: “May I kiss you on the lips?” (Mara studies him for a second) MARA: Okay. (He leans in and kisses her gently on the lips) VÁCLAV: There. Are you alright? MARA: Yeah. VÁCLAV: May I kiss you on the neck? MARA: Uh…sure. (Václav leans in closely and begins to kiss her neck) MARA: (Giggling a bit) Ahhhh! VÁCLAV: What? MARA: Sorry. That tickles. Go ahead. Try it again. (Václav attempts to kiss her neck again) MARA: (Standing and giggling) Ahhhh! Sorry! Sorry! Sorry! I’ve never been kissed like that and your…your…your…uh…hair face… VÁCLAV: My…hair face? MARA: Yeah… VÁCLAV: My stubble? MARA: Your stubble! It kind of tickles. VÁCLAV: I can honestly say I’ve never gotten that kind of a reaction from one of my kisses before. (Mara opens her mouth to speak) VÁCLAV: And don’t apologize. In fact, you’re not allowed to apologize anymore tonight. MARA: This is how S&M starts, isn’t it? VÁCLAV: What? MARA: Never mind… VÁCLAV: Your neck tickles, eh? Perhaps I should kiss you somewhere else. MARA: You can try. ::: Want to read more? If you’re on New Play Exchange, check me out. PDFs of the script can be purchased by contacting me through [email protected]  © Copyright 2020 by Deanna Strasse CAUTION: Professional and amateurs are hereby warned that DANCING WITH HAMLET is subject to royalty. All rights, including professional, amateur, motion picture, radio, television, public reading and the rights of translation into foreign language are strictly observed. All questions with regard to licensing should be addressed to the author: Deanna Strasse [[email protected]] No performance of any or all of the play may be given without obtaining in advance the written permission of the author and paying the requisite fee. ::: Synopsis When the matriarch of the Flack family, Rosie, decides to remarry, her three grown children are not exactly thrilled with the idea. They are mortified, however, when their father dies tragically in a car accident just a week before the big day and Rosie plans to go on with the wedding. The Flack’s only daughter, Elvira, begins to see the whole thing as a tragedy…on a Shakespearean level. In the days leading up to the wedding, someone is out to sabotage the big day, someone just wants to survive it and Elvira can’t make up her mind. Hearts will break, but the show must go on. Characters Elvira Flack…she/her/hers, 30s Rosie Flack…she/her/hers, late 50s, Elvira’s mother Beau Flack…he/him/his, 30s, Elvira’s older brother Wilde Flack…he/him/his, 20s-30s, Elvira’s younger brother Tony Simms…he/him/his, 50s, Rosie’s fiancé Jean…she/her/hers, 20s-30s, the next-door neighbor to the Flack’s (A Greek chorus of sorts also plays an integral role in the show. It must feature at least four actors of any gender or gender-identity but can have as many as ten players. The lines of “The Player” can be delivered by one actor in particular or divided among the chorus.) Setting The Flack family home in an unnamed Midwestern city as well as dramatic limbos in Elvira’s mind. November. Present day. Production History Dancing With Hamlet was originally produced by Windfall Theatre in conjunction with Milwaukee Entertainment Group on March 15th 2018 in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Carol Zippel directed, and the cast included: Elvira…………..Melody Lopac Wilde…………..Josh Scheibe Rosie…………..Donna Daniels Beau……………Cory Jefferson Hagen Tony……………Emmitt Morgans Jean……………Amanda J. Hull ::: Act 1, Scene 1. The scene is set. All is dark across Denmark. Francisco stands at their post. Enter Bernardo. BERNARDO: Who’s there? FRANCISCO: Nay, answer me: stand, and unfold yourself. BERNARDO: Long live the king! FRANCISCO: Bernardo? BERNARDO: He. FRANCISCO: You come most carefully upon your hour. BERNARDO: ’Tis now struck twelve; get thee to bed, Francisco. FRANCISCO: For this relief much thanks: ’tis bitter cold, And I am sick at heart. BERNARDO: Have you had quiet guard? FRANCISCO: Not a mouse stirring. BERNARDO: Well, good night. If you do meet Horatio and Marcellus, The rivals of my watch, bid them make haste. FRANCISCO: I think I hear them. Stand, ho! Who’s there? (Enter Horatio and Marcellus) HORATIO: Friends to this ground. MARCELLUS: And liegemen to the Dane. FRANCISCO: Give you good night. MARCELLUS: O, farewell, honest soldier: Who hath relieved you? FRANCISCO: Bernardo has my place. Give you good night. (Francisco exits) MARCELLUS: Holla! Bernardo! BERNARDO: Say,What, is Horatio there? HORATIO: A piece of him. BERNARDO: Welcome, Horatio: welcome, good Marcellus. MARCELLUS: What, has this thing appear’d again to-night? BERNARDO: I have seen nothing. MARCELLUS: Horatio says ’tis but our fantasy, And will not let belief take hold of him Touching this dreaded sight, twice seen of us: Therefore I have entreated him along With us to watch the minutes of this night; That if again this apparition come, He may approve our eyes and speak to it. HORATIO: Tush, tush, ‘twill not appear. MARCELLUS: Peace, break thee off; look, where it comes again! (Elvira enters now, carrying a large urn) MARCELLUS: Thou art a scholar; speak to it, Horatio! (Elvira stares around, confused) HORATIO: Most like: it harrows me with fear and wonder. BERNARDO: It would be spoke to. MARCELLUS: Question it, Horatio. HORATIO: What art thou that usurp’st this time of night, Together with that fair and warlike form In which the majesty of buried Denmark Did sometimes march? by heaven I charge thee, speak! ELVIRA: Ummm… (Elvira begin to exit) MARCELLUS: It is offended. BERNARDO: See, it stalks away! HORATIO: Stay! speak, speak! I charge thee, speak! (Elvira exits) MARCELLUS: ’Tis gone, and will not answer HORATIO: Before my God, I might not this believe Without the sensible and true avouch Of mine own eyes. This bodes some strange eruption to our state. Heaven will direct it MARCELLUS: Nay, let’s follow it. HORATIO: Something is rotten in the state of Illinois. (They exit, following Elvira) ::: Act 1, Scene 2 The lights come up on the living room of a cozy home. It’s a lively place, filled with color. A large bay window sits upstage and doors lead off towards the kitchen, the rest of the house and so on. It’s late at night in November. Beau, a young man of about twenty-seven enters from the kitchen. While this is the home where he lived all his childhood, he doesn’t feel at home here. He treats the surrounding area like a museum, looking but never touching, afraid of possibly breaking something. He stares around and eventually meanders his way to the window. Everything about his demeanor says he’s uncomfortable. Off in the distance, we suddenly hear Beau’s brother, Wilde, whistling or humming (possibly something like “Chapel of Love” or “White Wedding”). Wilde enters from the main door, with a suitcase, having just arrived. The two brothers share a look. WILDE: Hey, bro. I heard someone was getting married! (Beau gives Wilde a wry look and then awkwardly exits to the kitchen. Wilde continues to hum as he walks towards the window. A moment passes and then he notices someone outside) WILDE: Jean! Jean! (Opening the window) Hey, Jean! Look who came home! Jean! Over here! Jean! Jean! Jean! Jean! Jean! Jean! (He continues with this obnoxious chant as he watches Jean, a pretty young woman about his age, walk up the front steps and enter from the main door) JEAN: Well, look what the cat dragged in! WILDE: Look who came home! JEAN: Wilde! (She goes to hug him. It’s clear that she’s enjoying the hug more than Wilde is) Look at you! You haven’t changed a bit since I last saw you! How have you been? WILDE: Terrible. Just rotten. JEAN: I was right. You haven’t changed a bit. You just get in? Me, too, actually. Just this morning. Funny how things work out. I was up north with Mom. Isn’t that funny? WILDE: Isn’t what funny? JEAN: I don’t know. You were traveling. I was traveling. WILDE: Yeah. Incredible. Where is everyone? JEAN: I don’t know -- WILDE: I saw Beau moping around, but where…(His words are drenched with sarcasm) …where, oh where, is that lovely blushing bride? (Jean clearly hasn’t picked up on the fact that he’s joking) JEAN: Oh, your mom’s around. Two days to the wedding. You can imagine that she’s a little in over her head. But I swear in all the years I’ve known your mother, Wilde, I’ve never seen her happier. You should see her. She’s like a whole new woman. WILDE: You’ve talked to her? JEAN: Yeah. She should be around here somewhere. (Walking to the kitchen, calling) Rosie! (Turning back to Wilde) Anyway, she told me that you and Beau will be sharing the guest room. And Elvira will have to sleep down here on the couch. WILDE: Weight room. JEAN: I’m sorry? WILDE: Weight room. She turned my old room into a weight room, right? JEAN: Uh…yeah… WILDE: How nice. I’m looking forward to seeing how bulked up she’s become. JEAN: I think it was mostly for Tony. WILDE: Ah, yes. Tony. Petite little thing. He could use a weight room. JEAN: Would you like some help taking your stuff upstairs? WILDE: Weight room. Guest room. Library. That’s what became of us. I became a weight room. Beau became a guest room and Elvira became a library. JEAN: Are we really going to do this, Wilde? WILDE: Do what? JEAN: How old are you? WILDE: I’m just saying -- JEAN: This is the happiest time for your mom. Just…try to be happy, okay? Forget all the melodramatic stuff. I know you and your mom are…you and your mom…but Saturday is going to be her day. WILDE: You only get married once. Oh, wait. JEAN: Wilde, if you saw how happy your mother is. WILDE: I can imagine. JEAN: Seriously, Wilde, wait until you see her -- WILDE: Why are you so perky, Jean? JEAN: Just in my nature, I guess. WILDE: I expected you to be a little more…(He can’t find the word)…considering everything. JEAN: Do you want to see your mom? WILDE: No. I’m okay. (He looks to the coffee table where a platter of muffins has been laid out) JEAN: Go ahead and have one if you like. They’re my special recipe. WILDE: What are they? JEAN: Muffins. WILDE: I can see that. JEAN: Honey, rosemary, Guinness. WILDE: (Examining the muffins) Honey, rose -- JEAN: — rosemary and Guinness. Muffins. My own recipe. (Wilde now stares at the muffins, almost frightened) WILDE: Yeah. (He looks to Jean who smiles and then he tentatively takes a bite) JEAN: What do you think? WILDE: Not as bad as I would have imagined. JEAN: Thanks…? Anyway…welcome home, Wilde. I should go back to my mom and…I’ll be back later tonight. Rosie said she wanted to take you all out for dinner, but she also wanted to work on cleaning this place up. So I said I’d stop by and get a head start on it. So you’ll probably see me -- WILDE: Wait. What did you just say? JEAN: Uh…well…We’re having the rehearsal dinner here, but your mom wanted to really give this place a good cleaning and -- WILDE: And you’ll be stopping by? JEAN: Well, yes. WILDE: You’ll be stopping by while we’re out to dinner? JEAN: Well, yes. WILDE: How will you be stopping by? JEAN: I have a key and -- WILDE: What? JEAN: I have a key. To your house. Your mom gave me a key. A while ago. Sometimes, when she and Tony are off doing something, they ask me to stop in and water the plants or feed the cats. WILDE: You have a key? JEAN: Well…yes… (Wilde considers Jean and then begins to laugh. Jean, not knowing what else to do, laughs as well) JEAN: Why are we laughing? WILDE: Nothing. Nothing. Never mind. JEAN: Okay. WILDE: Can I see it? JEAN: My key? WILDE: Yes, your key. For the house. JEAN: Oh. Uh…sure…(She takes out her keys, complete with a variety of quirky keychains and hands them to Wilde) It’s the silver one with the purple nail polish painted on top. I do that for all my keys. So I know which one is which. WILDE: (Assessing the keys) Very nice. This one.? (Holding up a key) JEAN: Yes. WILDE: (Staring at the key) Very nice. (A long pause while Wilde simply stares at the key. Wilde begins to laugh again. Again, not knowing what else to do, Jean joins in) WILDE: Isn’t that just grand? Isn’t that precious? So precious. I can’t believe that. JEAN: I know, right? WILDE: You have a key? JEAN: Yeah. WILDE: A complete stranger. You have a key to my mother’s house -- JEAN: I wouldn’t say I’m a stranger, Wilde -- WILDE: I don’t have a key. She said she wouldn’t feel safe with so many keys floating around. We’ve legitimately had this conversation, Jean. I can’t believe this. She gave you a key? JEAN: Yeah. WILDE: She gave you a key? JEAN: I live next door. WILDE: I don’t have a key. JEAN: You live two hundred miles away in Chicago. WILDE: You’re not seeing the point. JEAN: No, I’m afraid I’m not. WILDE: Forget it. Forget I said anything. JEAN: No. I’ve learned that when people say, “Forget it,” what they’re really saying is, “Please! Ask me! I beg you!” WILDE: Jean, this time I actually don’t want to talk about it. That’s just my mother for you. JEAN: There you go. “That’s just my mother for you.” Go on. Talk about it. Get it off your chest. You’re upset with your mother. WILDE: Of course I am. JEAN: So talk about it. WILDE: I don’t want to talk about it, Jean. (A long pause) WILDE: I shouldn’t have to say it, Jean. My god, you should know. You know what she’s like. JEAN: What did she do now? WILDE: This whole thing. This whole thing. Damn it, Jean, why are you so…perky? Why are you so…happy? JEAN: Just in my nature, I guess. WILDE: You honestly can sit there and not think that this whole…thing is a fiasco!? JEAN: What thing? The wedding? No, I don’t think it’s a fiasco. Your mother loves Tony. They want to marry each other. End of story. And if you’re wondering about your dad, Wilde -- WILDE: Of course it’s about Dad! (Sighs) Nobody understands. (Jean laughs) WILDE: What was that? JEAN: Well, I was just giggling at you. WILDE: And why? JEAN: “Nobody understands.” That is so…you, Wilde. (She rises, as if going to exit) WILDE: Where are you going? JEAN: I should get going. WILDE: What does that mean, “That is so…you, Wilde.” JEAN: Well, it is. If normal people had catchphrases, that would be yours. “Nobody understands!” You are such the youngest child. WILDE: What does that mean? JEAN: How long have we known each other? Practically our whole lives. And you got taller over the years. You moved around a couple of times. But you’ve always been the same. Dramatic. (She throws herself on the couch) JEAN : “Oh, I’m Wilde, and they got more than I did!” “Oh, I’m Wilde, and the world is so unfair!” “Oh, I’m Wilde and my mother didn’t hug me enough!” WILDE: That is not true -- JEAN: “When I was twenty-three, my parents got a divorce, and it ruined my life!” (Jean flops onto the floor, trying to be as dramatic as possible) WILDE: That is not funny. JEAN: “My entire childhood was ruined!” WILDE: That is not funny. JEAN: “I knew my parents weren’t compatible, but they should have stayed together and been unhappy…for ME!” WILDE: You’re not funny. JEAN: You’re the most dramatic girl I’ve ever met, and you’re a guy. WILDE: How can you say that? JEAN: You make it really easy! WILDE: I realize that he wasn’t your father, but he’s still…he’s still important. JEAN: Wilde, have you talked to him about all this? The last I talked to your dad, he was perfectly fine with all of this. He didn’t mind that your mom was getting remarried. He was happy that she had moved on and was starting again. Your dad is a good guy. I’m surprised I haven’t seen him around. (Beau enters now) BEAU: Oh. Jean. I thought I heard your voice. WILDE: (To Jean) What did you just say? JEAN: Your dad. He’s a good guy. I’m just -- WILDE: You don’t know. She didn’t tell you. You said you just got back from up north with your mother. You weren’t here last Sunday, were you? BEAU: Wilde -- WILDE: (To Jean) Were you? JEAN: Was I what? WILDE: You weren’t here. You don’t know. JEAN: Don’t know what? BEAU: Wilde, don’t lose your temper. I’m sure Mom was going to tell her -- JEAN: She was going to tell me what? WILDE: That bitch! She didn’t even think to tell you!? BEAU: Wilde! (Rosie’s voice is heard from upstairs) ROSIE: Tony?! WILDE: Mom! (He crosses to the stairs) ROSIE: Wilde? Is that you? BEAU: (Crossing to the stairs as well) Yeah! Wilde is here, Mom. He just got in. ROSIE: Is Tony around? BEAU: No. Tony stepped out I think. ROSIE: No, that’s fine! I’m about to make my entrance! Are you ready? Prepare yourself, Wilde! I’m coming down! BEAU: Jean is here, too, Mom! ROSIE: Oh, Jean, good! Are you ready? Beau’s already seen this! JEAN: Ready for what, Rosie? (Jean begins to cross towards the stairs) ROSIE: Wait! I don’t want you to see yet! Just wait there! Are you ready? All of you! Back away from the stairs! I’m about to make my entrance! (Everyone crosses back, allowing Rosie her full catwalk) JEAN: What is it? (Rosie begins to make her descent from the stairs. Rosie Flack is edging closer and closer to sixty, but she likes to pretend that’s not true. She is dressed in very white wedding gown that probably came from the prom section of the store rather than wedding. It’s a little too tight and a little too low cut. Wilde and Jean are both speechless. Beau smiles wearily) ROSIE: Well? What do you think? JEAN: (Biting her tongue) You look magnificent, Rosie! Oh my word! You look…stunning! I can’t…I can’t think of words. You look…look at you. ROSIE: It’s not too much? JEAN: Oh, no. Go big or go home I say. This is going to be the happiest day of your life. You should feel like a million bucks. WILDE: Happiest day of your life? JEAN: Well, one of them, anyhow. ROSIE: Wilde, you haven’t said a thing about your mother’s dress. (Wilde just stares at her) ROSIE: Wilde? What is it? WILDE: You didn’t tell her. ROSIE: Didn’t tell her what? BEAU: Wilde, shut up. WILDE: Afraid it would ruin your day? Your special day? God, Mom! JEAN: Wilde, what is it? ROSIE: What are you talking about? WILDE: Jean doesn’t know! She doesn’t know about Dad! You’d think that would be somewhat important information to relay to someone, but I can see where it would overshadow your special day. JEAN: What didn’t she tell me?! (At this moment, Elvira enters, carrying the large urn we saw before. All eyes are on her, especially Rosie’s. There is an eerie silence) ELVIRA: Well, hello to you, too. ROSIE: Elvira. What is that? ELVIRA: What’s what? ROSIE: What do you have there? In your hands. ELVIRA: Oh, nothing. Just Dad’s ashes. (The silence is deafening) ROSIE: I thought…they wouldn’t be done with…with that until -- ELVIRA: They called just this morning. Apparently, cremation business is really slow over there so they got to him sooner than expected. I just went to pick him up. (Elvira walks to the coffee table, setting the urn prominently at the center of the room. All eyes are on it) ROSIE : Not on the coffee table, dear. ELVIRA: Where would you like him then? ROSIE: I don’t know. Just not there. (Everyone is still staring at the urn) ROSIE: Elvira, I’m serious. Put it somewhere else. ELVIRA: Okay. Fine. (She picks up the urn and considers everyone on the room) ELVIRA: It’s actually a lot heavier than I expected. Would you like to try holding it? (Rosie suddenly bursts into tears and exits upstairs. There is a moment of silence. Without another word, Wilde exits out the front door. Jean considers Elvira and the urn) JEAN: His…his…ashes? Dennis? That’s…that’s Dennis? Dennis Dennis? Your dad Dennis? He…he’s dead?! BEAU: Car accident. This past Sunday. JEAN: That was four days ago. BEAU: Yes. JEAN: She…she’s going forward with the wedding? BEAU: Yes. JEAN: She didn’t…(Looking at where Wilde exited)…she didn’t mention anything to me. (Back to Elvira and Beau) They’re…they’re still getting married on Saturday? BEAU: Yeah. JEAN: Oh. ELVIRA: Yeah. Oh. (The lights fade) ::: Want to read more? If you’re on New Play Exchange, check out my collection by searching “Deanna Strasse”. Contact me at [email protected] to purchase PDFs of full scripts. Specifically, a “Harry Potter” fanfic.
(Hufflepuffs against TERFs!) ::: Overall, it had been a lovely holiday. Kreacher was still being his usual self, but at least he stayed away from most people. It was as if the Christmas Spirit was a stench he couldn’t stand. Most everyone assumed that the house elf had gone nocturnal and roamed about at night, doing his dirty work. However, it was nearly two in the morning and Sirius hadn’t seen any sign of him. Not that Sirius was worried or upset over Kreacher’s absence. He wasn’t wide awake, sitting on a moth-eaten couch, bouncing his leg in anticipation (and high levels of caffeine) to hear any of Kreacher’s moronic and disillusioned rants. Sirius was waiting for a far more interesting story. And at exactly one past two, the door opened and a figure shakily entered the Black house. The stranger shook the snow off his cloak and then pulled it off, throwing it upon a hook on the wall. He was rubbing his hands together and attempting to create some kind of warmth when Sirius realized he couldn’t wait anymore and pulled out his wand, conjured some light, and asked slyly, “So…how did it go?” The reaction was perfect. Remus had the look of a deer caught in headlights. He jumped and froze, staring at Sirius’s face and blinking a few times as his eyes got used to the sudden light. “You’re…you’re up…” “Well spotted,” Sirius had to use every bit of control not to laugh at his friend’s face. He took a breath and repeated the question, “So…how did it go?” Remus’s eyes hit the floor, and he went back to rubbing his hands together; now more out of nervousness than the cold. “You stayed up all this time just to ask me how it went?” He tried to walk past Sirius, but Padfoot blocked his escape. “Well, it’s a milestone of an occasion. Things like this don’t happen every day. Well, not for you, anyway, Moony. So…how did it go?” “It was fun,” Remus finally said after a few nervous bounces on the balls of his feet, “It was a lot of fun. I’m glad I went.” “You’re glad that I told you to go, you mean.” “I’m glad I went.” Had he said good night and run away quickly enough, Remus could have avoided any further questioning. But the fact of the matter is that both men knew there was a part of Remus (however small) that wanted to talk about what had happened that night. That part left him standing there, staring at the floor and waiting for Sirius to continue asking questions. “And…” Sirius obliged, “What happened? What did you eat? What did you do?” “Well, it was a Christmas party so we did…party-like things.” “Remus, I don’t get out much these days. Entertain me. Tell me about the party-like things. Tell me about Dora.” Remus ignored the way Sirius said her name and pushed on, “Well, Moody never showed up. No one was really surprised by that. Kingsley and a few other Aurors did, though, and they were all very nice. We had dinner. It was very good. The best food I’ve had in a while. Don’t tell Molly. Not that her stuff is bad at all. She’s fantastic, but Andromeda and Ted pulled out all the stops. Ham, turkey, black pudding, potatoes of every variety-” “Andromeda and Ted? You’re on a first-name-basis with the parents?” “I wasn’t very well going to go on calling them Mr. and Mrs. Tonks all night. She’s your cousin, afterall! We’ve met. We know each other. I thought you wanted to hear about the party. I was going to tell you about the food-” “Moony, you know damn well I don’t want to hear about the food! Who did you sit next to at dinner?” Remus didn’t have to answer that question; Sirius already knew so he just went on, “Did she ask you to sit next to her or did you just sit next to her all on your own?” Even in the dim light of the Lumos charm, Sirius could make out that his friend was turning a bright red color that he had not donned in ten years probably. Remus finally moved past Sirius and fumbled his way to the kitchen. Sirius was practically skipping as he followed him and asked, “What was she wearing tonight? A dress? What color was her hair? Did you meet any of the Muggle cousins? Did she look pretty?” Remus was pacing in the kitchen now, torn between his general embarrassment and that small stupid part of him that wanted to go on, “She was wearing a red dress. Yes, she did look very pretty. Her hair was black because, yes, the Muggle cousins were there, and Andromeda didn’t want her to scare them. I didn’t talk much with the cousins because they seemed utterly terrified to be in the same room as us-” “Did you kiss her?” Remus stopped, “What?” ::: Want to read more? Check out my profile on Archive of Our Own: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51479101 Specifically…a “Good Omens” fanfic.
Enjoy, solider. ::: Everything was so lovely. And that seemed odd…suspicious even. Aziraphale eyed Crowley from the passenger side of the Bentley and asked cautiously, “What’s the occasion?” The demon raised his eyebrows, “Occasion?” he purred. That was all the confirmation that Aziraphale needed. It wasn’t what Crowley had said (that one simple word), but how he said it. The demon liked to point out how easily he could read Aziraphale just based on tone of voice, but he himself wasn’t as aloof or mysterious as he liked to think he was. One word, said so whimsically that it was almost sarcastic, gave him away. Something was going to happen…something devilish. “Whatever do you mean?” Crowley went on, his eyes never leaving the road. “We just ate at Nachtigallhaus, a restaurant that you hate,” the angel pointed out before gesturing to the radio, “We are listening to Schubert, rather than your usual bebop music, and…” he leaned over to verify that this was correct, “We are currently only going ten miles over the posted speed limit. Something is up. Why are you being so nice to me? Have you done something?” “I didn’t realize that going a certain speed counted as being nice to you,” Crowley said dryly. “You know how much I hate it when you drive recklessly. Forget the speed limit. You hate German food and you hate classical music even more so I’m only left to assume that you have something up your sleeve. You’re trying to make me let down my guard.” Aziraphale said this all in a somewhat playful manner, but truthfully he was more than a little concerned. Crowley often got the pair into scrapes that required smoothing over (an unintended murder, a burglary that he conveniently forgot to tell Aziraphale about, and the like.) As a demon, his ability to get himself into trouble was limitless. Even after all the millenia, he still found ways to surprise Aziraphale when it came to disorder. (Truthfully, Aziraphale was no better, though his mishaps were usually unintentional, stemming from ill-planned attempts to do good while Crowley’s were always intentional and usually always wicked.) Crowley shook his head and laughed, “Could it be that I just want to pamper you?” he said, with a malicious smile. His hand left the steering wheel and found a spot on Aziraphale’s knee, “I am doing this because I like the things that you like.” “But you don’t like the things that I like,” Aziraphale argued, “Who has died? Did you kill them? Who did you anger this time? Do we need to leave London and create new identities? What is wrong? Just tell me. I can handle it.” Rubbing the angel’s knee with his thumb affectionately, Crowley attempted to assuage his counterpart, “I haven’t done anything. Nothing is wrong. Nothing is up.” “Perhaps you haven’t done anything, yet, but I can only assume that you’ve got something planned,” Aziraphale looked out the window to truly take in the scenery, “We’re going somewhere…certainly not home. Where are we going?” Not home was right. Somewhere between basking in the memory of the Black Forest Gateaux he had just eaten and a particularly lovely recording of Symphony №9, Aziraphale had lost track of time and direction. The pair were currently driving through dark backroads, lined with trees and the occasional open field. Every kilometer or so, a stray street lamp would appear, offering a tiny bit of illumination to travelers, but, for the most part, the whole scene was pitch black, save the Bentley's headlights. Admittedly, out of the city and away from the light pollution, one could truly appreciate the flickering stars and quarter moon that hung so perfectly in the inky sky. Aziraphale caught himself gazing at the beautiful celestial display and thinking, This is so romantic. That made him stop. It was just one more factor to add to the list. Something was going to happen. This was a premeditated apology or some kind of token to smooth over whatever Crowley was about to tell him. Sensing the growing tension, Crowley sighed, “We’re just going for a drive, Angel. Just a drive….away from the city. Just the two of us. It is nice, isn’t it?” The way he said that made the angel feel a twinge of guilt. It was very nice, after all. And the look on Crowley’s face when he said it was nothing short of darling, if not a little pathetic-looking. Even through his dark glasses, Aziraphale could see the demon’s eyes get wide and doe-like and the slightest hint of a pout had crossed his lips. With that, the angel melted and relaxed his shoulders before placing his hand over Crowley’s. A lovely drive in the woods with his beautiful demon while one his favorite composers serenaded them was decidedly nice. Perhaps even devils did the occasional considerate and amorous thing. He pulled Crowley’s hand to his lips, kissing it, as if offering an apology. They drove on in a comfortable silence, broken only by Franz’s marvelous symphonies. And then something did happen… ::: Want to read more? Check out my profile at Archive of Our Own: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51938647  Originally posted on Medium on 10/22/22
 Originally posted to Medium on 9/21/2021
I had a conversation with my thirteen-year-old self the other day She smiled politely, but I could tell She had questions Thirteen-year-old me is not a very good liar “Okay,” I said, “What do you think?” She was quiet for a moment and then, “You’re very pretty” Thirteen-year-old me is not a very good liar “No, really. What do you think?” She was about to open her mouth when I added “And you can tell me the truth I don’t care too much for bullshit” Her eyes widened Thirteen-year-old me can’t believe I just said bullshit “It’s just…” She started Not making eye contact Wiggling too much Uncomfortable in her own skin “It’s just…you’re not…very…” The words drip out of her like molasses Slowly…so slowly… “Thin” She finally says “You’re kind of…fat” Twenty-seven-year-old me is not a very good liar Either That remark stings But I don’t let her know She continues to stumble on her words, “I just thought. Maybe MAYBE By now you’d have figured the whole fat thing out” I almost laughed But I knew what a fragile doll she is “What else?” Thirteen-year-old me eyed my left hand I definitely laughed “Nope. Still fat. Still single.” “Do you live on Broadway?” She asked I shook my head “Milwaukee” “Oh! Do you work at the Rep?” I laughed again “No I’ve worked at some theatres Had some plays produced Directed a little” I wanted to explain that the Rep gets their actors from New York Or Chicago these days But I didn’t think that will help the situation “And you’re…how old are you again?” “Twenty-seven” I may as well have told her I was a hundred and two She wanted to ask so badly She wanted to ask the same question I’ve asked myself Every day Every night The difference between twenty-four and twenty-five Was day and night One day I was a college graduate trying to figure it out And then I was an adult with nothing figured out She wanted to ask so badly And finally she did “So…what exactly have you done with your life?” “Well… Like I said… I’ve worked at a couple theatres Nothing too fancy But I’m trying I’m trying really hard” Before I could say more, she began to cry She’d held it in so long She’d taken deep breaths and blinked Trying to push back the feelings But she couldn’t do that forever And here they are She began to cry And just like that, the grief tuned to anger At bone-crushing speed, she jumped from one to the other, A telltale sign of a diagnosis She won’t get for another five years “What have you done with your life?!” She demanded it now The fury in her eyes comes from sorrow Sorrow and fear That we all end up the same way Single Fat Not at the Rep Complacent She goes home every day to complacency It’s another member of the family Who sits at the dinner table And follows her to bed Who goes out to dinner with her And orders the same thing over and over again Always saying, “This time…something new” But something new never comes She wanted to know so badly that somewhere along the line Complacency died I knew this I knew she was speaking in anger But we’re so much alike I couldn’t help but speak in anger, too “Let’s get a few things straight here, little miss,” I started, “You don’t know anything I don’t know anything, but you You know even less You know a hundredth of what I know And I know a thousandth of what everyone else knows That’s how far off track you are That is how stupid you are” And then The two of us were crying For even though time separates us One facet of our beings has never changed: The need to be self destructive We were crying Wheezing On the verge of hyperventilating We were so upset with ourselves And then we took a breath Age (and drugs) Have helped me come up from the lows faster than she does She was sobbing still when I finally said, “This life is not that bad This life is truthful You wanted to walk out of high school And marry a movie star You walked out of high school And got educated You took a road trip You threatened to leave You did leave You wrote terrible plays That people will always remember You wrote incredible plays That people somehow forget You stood at the bow of the catamaran And chased whales across the Pacific There’s a dog And several men And an angel And everything in between This is not the life you wanted But it is a life” I wanted to tell her to ask Grandma more questions I wanted to warn her about the car accidents I wanted to suggest a thousand things But the future is hers And no one likes spoilers Originally posted to Medium on 10/18/2020
People don’t write songs about situations like mine. I’ve tried very hard to find comfort in records like “Don’t Start Now” by Dua Lipa or “Ignore Me” by Betty Who, but, at the end of the day, I am in a completely different world than these narrators. “Don’t Start Now” and “Ignore Me” (along with countless other songs that follow this archetype) have a storyteller with a giant metaphorical finger up in the air. Their past lover hurt them deeply only to come crawling back to them, begging for attention and/or a new beginning. What happens when the lover never comes back? I’ve yet to find a song that highlights that phenomena (probably because it isn’t nearly as uplifting or fun as being proven right by your ungrateful ex). And I’m not talking about sad songs; they are plenty of those. I’m talking about something that finds meaning in the silence, that finds strength in the rejection. Three years ago in July, we were doing a show together and after rehearsal, we went to get dinner at Qdoba. It was pretty much perfect for me. I got to eat a guinea pig-sized burrito and I got to talk to you. The employees eventually asked us to leave because they were closing up, and so we stood out by my car and chatted for a while. But it got late and you had to go. We said our goodbyes. We drove away in separate cars. And I never saw you again. Every conversation we’ve had after that night at Qdoba has consisted of sparsely-sent text messages and a few emails. There’s obviously at lot of context that I’m leaving out given that this is an open letter on the internet and perhaps the context doesn’t matter so much as the aftermath you left in your wake. We have a rift (I’ll use that term very generously) and then you left. Literally. You moved to a different town and told me to never speak to you again. Any attempts I have made to rectify the situation or at least get some kind of closure have been met with statements such as, “I hate you,” or “Do not ever contact me again.” It’s no secret that I loved you, but, first and foremost, you were my friend. You were my best friend and you told me more than once that I was yours. We often talked about how we were kindred spirits or cut from a similar cloth. I felt comfort with you that I had never experienced with another person, and you told me so often that I was special. You were my kryptonite (if I’m allowed to be cliche.) Make no mistake that my life is pretty fucking great now. I’ve grown a lot in the three years since you’ve seen me and probably for the better. I moved out of my parents’ place finally and live with my very close friend (who is one of the reasons why I’m here today; she was the first person I told when everything went down between you and me and she has helped me a lot to deal with the mess that you left). My writing is taking off (somewhat…more than I really ever thought it would), I have two beautiful nephews, I travelled to Ireland and Prague by myself, I learned to crochet, and I’m working hard on the social anxiety that’s kept me from really getting to know people all these years. 2020 has given me my fair share of shit, but I don’t want you to think that I am sitting around, crying into a wine glass every night because you didn’t love me back. (I did do that for a while.) But I am, in a lot of ways, still broken. I’m not the sweet girl that you left behind all those years ago; I’m a little tougher now, bitter, and cynical. You used to say one of the best things about me was that I was so bright and happy. I have lost some of that and I have spent countless hours in therapy trying to put my fears into words: you threw me away like a piece of trash; so I must be trash. When you first told me to stay away from you, I assumed that this was just a knee-jerk reaction to our “rift” and given enough time, you’d contact me when you felt it was right. I gave you your space. I fought the panic in my head that said it was over for us and we’d never see each other again; you would call me, we would settle things, and life would go on. You have never really made that call, but that doesn’t mean that I’m not still waiting on it (even if logic dictates that it’s never coming). My expectations for what you would say have slowly dwindled over the years. Where once I hoped for, “Deanna, I love you and I care deeply about you, but this is just insurmountable and we need to go our separate ways,” now I simply hope that you think of me and maybe feel a twinge of pity. That’s the part that hurts the most: every day you wake up and have a chance to reach out to me and make things right but you choose not to. Every night you lie down to sleep, apparently at peace with where we are now and how I feel about you. I made mistakes. You made mistakes. We hurt each other and we hurt other people, but once upon a time you told me things that made me feel like the king of the world. Once upon a time, your love made me so strong and so confident that I felt like I could do anything (again, with the cliches). If anyone who has read my work enjoys Summers in Prague or Dancing With Hamlet, they owe that enjoyment to you. You inspired me. You were my muse be it through character development or simply conversations that you and I shared. Once up on a time, you told me that I was important to you and you didn’t want to live without me. Times change and clearly you can live without me. I can deal with that, and I’m sure that I will eventually heal completely from this, but I’m also sure that this process would speed up a bit if I had some closure from you. This letter is just one more scream into the void: me, standing at the precipice of your absence and hoping that you’ll hear some echo and call back. I’ve yet to find a song that describes my situation. I suppose a sad one will have to do for now. If someone said three years from now You’d be long gone I’d stand up and punch them out ’Cause they’re all wrong I know better ’Cause you said forever And ever Who knew |
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