Dramatis Personæ

Hello. I'm Jillachetti. I'm in charge here. Miss Artistic Director...

...Jill Writes--she seems to think that she runs the place. But she's not doing too good of a job. She confuses people. She lets this one...

...the one that babbles--take over indiscriminately. That's right. I said "indiscriminately". What, you think just because I'm not old enough for pre-school, I don't know big words? A lot you know. I know enough to realize that someone needs to set things straight around here. And our "fearless leader", trying to juggle the play and the poetry and the expository stuff, she confuses people. She is vague. She is ambiguous. She writes random posts directed at God-knows-who--

I'm not God.

What?

I said, I'm not God.

Well of course you're not God. You're a chick from a Renoir.

Well, yes, I'm that. But I also know who JillWrites writes about. You said "God-knows-who", but I know who. And I'm not God.

Oh really, Miss Smarty-Impressionist-Pants!

Muse will do. You can drop the "Miss."

Uh, wait. I thought he...

...was our muse.

He is.

Not so easy to keep it straight, now, is it?

I didn't hear any one talking to you.

I was. You're me, kiddo. You were confusing yourself. Thus, you were talking to me.

Us.

Us.

So you're our muse?

I'm the head muse. I found him.

Why does he get the iPod avatar?

Because.

That is so not an answer.

Well it's a better answer than--

You're bickering with a fictional character.

What do you expect when she acts like you?

I expect you to remember which one of us is which.

You can't even keep it straight. I bet if Damon and I were both standing--

Someone call me? Hey man, what's up?

Wow.

Ambiguity. Ambiguity is up.

What do you have to complain about? You know exactly what's going on here.

Wow.

What?

And now you're male bonding with a fictional character.

Wow.

He's not fictional. He's me. Sorta.

I didn't think it was possible for you both to be in the same place, but... Wow.

This is not the time!

Are you kidding? This is the only time. This is the hottest thing I've ever seen.

I would have to agree.

Of course you agree. You're the one that gets us into these messes.

I would hardly call a well-developed appreciation of the male form and the male aura a mess.

What would you call it, then?

I think I'm too young for this.

Limitless inspiration.

You rang?

OH

MY

GOD.

I thought you'd see it my way.

Avatars courtesy of:
"Limitless Inspiration": Flandrin's Young Nude Male
"Muse": Detail from Renoir's Luncheon of the Boating Party
"Damon": Detail from Tillmans' portrait of Moby

Callie has a meltdown.

As many of you are already aware, Callie and Damon have some communication problems. For an introduction to C & D, check out the links in the sidebar under "Someday on Stage". They're quite the pair. Oh, yes, and Jill has a habit of referring to her fictional characters as if they were real.

Jill

I miss my characters. And they are getting mad at me.

Other person

Okay, there's suspension of disbelief...and then there's borderline schizophrenia.

Strangely, Callie seems to have a bit of a personality split as well...

Callie

Do I ever seem like two different people to you?

Silence. Then laughter. Damon finds this endearing, and amusing, and probably unnecessary.

Callie

I'll take that as a yes. I'm sorry.

Damon

Why? It's just you, I guess.

Callie

But I don't want it to be "just me". Really, I want me to be... I don't know. A different me, a better me. A me that knows how to converse like a regular person. Like, I'm sorry for all the times I wanted to say something but I didn't. Or you wanted me to say something. But I didn't. Probably on purpose. Sometimes on purpose. Just, you know, because I didn't want to, you know, let you, you know... Ok, but not maliciously on purpose. Never maliciously.

And all those times when you were expecting me to say something? You know, because that was the normal way the conversation would have been going? And then I said something totally out of left field. Not even left field. Like, waaay over the Green Monster. Or, on the other side of Monument Park. Or, you know those buildings outside of Wrigley? Where the people hang out on the roofs? Over their heads. Yeah. That far out. I know I do this. Trust me. I know. You're not the first person I've done this too.

(To herself) Great, I'm sure that's exactly what he wants to hear.

(Back to Damon) Could we scratch that? You know, forget I said it. I'll try again. You... You make me want to be more me. More me than maybe I've ever been before. Or maybe not more me. Maybe, better me. Braver me. More better braver me. So it's not that I don't trust you--all the random answers, and the "way out in left field"--it's not that I don't trust you. It's that I do. You understand? From the first time I spoke to you. I had an impression of the you that I was expecting you to be and I turned out to be right, but even though I was expecting you to be that you, I wasn't expecting me to be right. You know? I know, right!

Like I said. It's not that I don't trust you. It's that it was so easy to trust you.

Will you say something?

Damon

Green Monster? Monument Park? Wrigley?

Callie

You don't watch much baseball, do you?

They meet.

This is a monologue I'm playing with for the play-in-progress. Damon is a DJ. (Which is why the photo of Moby's jeans was particularly suitable as his avatar in my brain.) Callie is a compulsive overthinker who can only find peace when running or dancing. (This character is not the least bit autobiographical. But before anyone asks--no, there is no DJ.) Callie speaks to the audience. Damon is onstage, but not interacting with her.

Callie

It's happened to all of you. I know it has. There you are, just minding your own business, doing whatever it is that you are doing, whatever it is that you do, you look up and... You don't expect it, you don't even necessarily want it, but there it is. Someone staring at you. Someone smiling at you. And you just can't help but stare back. It's like this person has some sort of hold over you. And no matter how hard you try, you can't turn away. Like in Star Wars, when the Millennium Falcon arrives in the Alderan system, only to find the planet obliterated, and Imperial fighter flying around what appears to be a small moon. Only it's NOT a small moon. It's the Death Star. But before Obi Wan realizes it, the ship is caught in a tractor beam and pulled inexorably toward--right, well, you get the picture. There's no escape.

* * * * * *

Let me take you back. I avoided him the first night, and then most of the next time I saw him--the next week. I always make it a point of making friends with the DJ. Sometimes they're interesting. Sometimes they're assholes. But this time, I killed my normal routine. I fully planned on continuing to avoid him. But he caught me by surprise.

I thought I could get by him. Sneak by under the radar. No. He was just standing there, his hands on the table, leaning forward, looking out over the crowd, thinking I don't know what. I was thinking "Damn, those are some well-defined arms. Wonder what those feel like." Seriously. Will you look at those forearms? But...uh...whatever he was thinking, it wasn't cocky. There was a big crowd, they were all into it, but he wasn't standing there thinking "This is all about me." He's not like that.

Anyway, I figured I could get by him quickly. I pried my eyes away from... those arms... and he was looking. Caught-cha lookin'! Well, I guess he caught me, too. But he was gracious about it, not like those losers who fix you with the death stare--they try to be all hard and manly. They never smile. Damon, he smiled. He was in. Exactly what I was avoiding.

"C" is for Clueless

Late 1992.
"He's looking."

"Who cares? He's not him."

"And he's looking."

"Also, not him. Do you think he knows?"

"Can you think of anyone else? There's like a hundred guys here."

"Right. So, do you think he knows?"

"Yes. No. Maybe. You act too cool."

"So I should be more obvious?"

"Yes. Try obvious."

Latest 1992
"Do you think I was too obvious? I mean, I nearly spelt it out for him."

"Boys need the actual spelling out."

"Not the nearly?"

"Not the nearly."

Early 1993
"He read me Yeats. So do you think he--"

"Uhhh...yeah."

"But maybe he was just, I don't know, in the mood to recite poetry."

"Right."

"Studying for an English exam?"

"Try again."

"You think he meant it?"

"For someone so smart, you're awfully dumb."

Later 1993
"That's it. Today or never."

A day later, 1993
"Detention. Yep. Detention."

"You're joking."

"No joke. It's a message. From the universe."

"What's the message?"

"Learn to spell."

2001
"So, uh, when did you figure it out?"

"What?"

"You know, that I adored you."

"Huh?"

"Adored you. Couldn't tell you."

"Now."

"How clueless were you."

"Pretty damn. So what about you?"

"What about me, what?"

"When did you figure it out?"

"Huh?"

2005
"So what did we learn from our fiasco?"

"Not nearly enough, apparently."

"Not nearly."

"But I couldn't be more obvious."

"Not nearly enough. Take it from me."

"You would be the expert."

"I am. Spell. It. Out."

"Next time the phone rings. I swear."

What It's Like to Be Me, Vol. II: Sexy If and Only If Math Turns You On

My father’s birthday. We go to Atlantic City to play poker. I can’t play poker recreationally. I start counting cards, calculating probabilities, and wishing I could be one of those evil geniuses who beats casinos out of large sums of money. Also, I would rather spend discretionary funds on new shoes than on gambling. I have no problem spending $20 on a dessert plate.

Last winter. My brother decides he will no longer play Clue with me. He takes one of my used note sheets—a pattern of checks and x’s and question marks that makes no sense to anyone but me—and hangs it up in the kitchen as a reminder. Grocery list; important phone numbers; reasons why no one should play logic games with my sister. I don’t know why he would do that; I'm sure he won the most that night.

Thanksgiving dinner: My cousin is in the midst of an LSAT prep course. His girlfriend is a grad student in accounting.
Girlfriend: I should have taken a prep course for the GMAT.
Me: I love the GMAT!
Girlfriend: (laughs)
My brother: She’s not kidding.
Girlfriend: But I thought you were a writer.
Me: Did I mention I used to work in test prep?

A few summers ago. The Public Theater produces Shakespeare in the Park each year. Most of the free tickets are distributed at the Public and the Delacorte Theatre in Manhattan, but representatives are also sent to the outer boroughs on certain Saturdays. Usually, the line in Staten Island is negligible, but this time my friends and I arrive to find a crowd already gathered. We get in line anyway.

People behind us: I think they only have 100 tickets.
Me: Then we probably should just leave.
Them: Huh?
Me: Well, there are 140 people in front of us. Give or take.
Them: Did you count?
Me: No.
Them: Estimation?
Me: Eyeball.

When an employee distributes numbers, I am #141.

Me: Did I mention I used to count crowds every day?


1994, or thereabouts. It is my job to inventory everything in the movie theater. Every night. Five concession stands and a stockroom. In each stand, there are four sizes of soda cups, four sizes of popcorn cups, about 20 different types of candy, and a few random items. There are hundreds of each. Total number of entries on the spreadsheet: 180. Give or take. I complete it in 50 minutes. Give or take.

Lately, things are disappearing. Money? Cups? Candy? I know my counts are perfect; the problem is somewhere else. Someone on staff is way too comfortable. My boss thinks my “emotional state” due to my “asshole boyfriend” would compromise my math. Silly man. I may have been crying in the kitchen, but math is beautiful because it is not arbitrary like an insecure nineteen-year-old actor. I go home before 1am.

When I arrive the next morning, he has recounted everything. I am fuming.
Me: Fine, if you’d rather not sleep.
Him: Well, I had to find the mistakes.
Me: Where were they?
Him: (Silence.)
Me: Did you find the money? Did you find the mistakes?
Him: There was a nacho dish hidden in the kitchen.
Me: HUH?
Him: Someone hid a nacho dish.
Me: You didn’t find any mistakes, did you?
Him: (Silence.)
Me: So you’re buying me lunch all week, huh?

Justified gloating is sweet. Like all the ice cream sundaes he bought me.