The Weird Kid
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Stick to the Script
For the most part, I still refuse to admit there isn't a camera on me. I swear to god I can occasionally hear the soundtrack swelling in the background, if I'm experiencing something especially poignant. And, you know I'm a poignant girl.
Life has always been chipping away at my narrative, trying to reassert itself as callously non-fiction. People not laughing at a punchline, people not feeling ashamed when I invite them to. I remember, this applies, when I went to France after my Senior year, to study French (badly, so badly) at a school there.
There was a Spaniard American gentleman there, also in the program. He was in his mid 70's, always dapper in a blazer, with a wig that I was willing to believe in. Because he was tidy and charming I decided he could be in the story.
He sucked at it. Truly. I was struggling that summer,( I simply must always struggle) with my inadequacies. One summer evening I sat with him on a park bench on the side of an Alp and poured my heart out. It wasn't easy because he kept wanting to talk about his ex-wives, but I was determined to have poetry in this moment. "I'm not a good person. I just don't try hard enough," I said. "I'm just so lazy."
He didn't have any wisdom, and no comfort. He spent the rest of the summer grinning conspiratorially at me and saying, "Here comes the lazy girl." "If I say, 'pass me the salt', will you be too lazy to do it?" "I can't invite you to sit with me. You're not a good person."
In the retelling it sounds like harmless teasing, but it pissed me off beyond all measure. The script was quite clear, "grandfather offers comfort," not "old man is inept bully."
Eventually he got lost on a trip to Paris, and the school's bus left him behind. He, not remembering how to contact the school, alerted both the American and Spanish embassies. He found his way back. My last memory is of him smiling and holding his wig down against the wind during the parting ceremony.
Now here the script reads, "Bloggers enjoy post immensely. All clap."
Life has always been chipping away at my narrative, trying to reassert itself as callously non-fiction. People not laughing at a punchline, people not feeling ashamed when I invite them to. I remember, this applies, when I went to France after my Senior year, to study French (badly, so badly) at a school there.
There was a Spaniard American gentleman there, also in the program. He was in his mid 70's, always dapper in a blazer, with a wig that I was willing to believe in. Because he was tidy and charming I decided he could be in the story.
He sucked at it. Truly. I was struggling that summer,( I simply must always struggle) with my inadequacies. One summer evening I sat with him on a park bench on the side of an Alp and poured my heart out. It wasn't easy because he kept wanting to talk about his ex-wives, but I was determined to have poetry in this moment. "I'm not a good person. I just don't try hard enough," I said. "I'm just so lazy."
He didn't have any wisdom, and no comfort. He spent the rest of the summer grinning conspiratorially at me and saying, "Here comes the lazy girl." "If I say, 'pass me the salt', will you be too lazy to do it?" "I can't invite you to sit with me. You're not a good person."
In the retelling it sounds like harmless teasing, but it pissed me off beyond all measure. The script was quite clear, "grandfather offers comfort," not "old man is inept bully."
Eventually he got lost on a trip to Paris, and the school's bus left him behind. He, not remembering how to contact the school, alerted both the American and Spanish embassies. He found his way back. My last memory is of him smiling and holding his wig down against the wind during the parting ceremony.
Now here the script reads, "Bloggers enjoy post immensely. All clap."
posted by Imez at 9:57 PM
10 Comments:
I refuse to adhere to the script, so i will whistle and stomp my feet instead of clap.
Can I just say, "...a wig that I was willing to believe in," may be my favorite part of any entry from any one that I've read in a long, long, long time.
Yeah, I'll stick to the script. I'll clap. I may even throw in a woo-hoo for good measure.
Hee hee. Did you then explain to him that karma's a bitch? What an asshat.
So you've always thought like a writer. A curse and a blessing, making you both painfully self-conscious and acutely observant.
You know, of course, that this blog post would flesh out into a perfect short story, right?
*clapping furiously* brava!
Standing O--Mingnon is right--I see a short story, or short screenplay.
Heartbreaking and hilarious - that's talent.
::::clapping::::
I'm clapping.
Really.
is it too late to start NaNoWriMo? you could use the rest of the month for ImShoStoWriHaMo! (Imez Short Story Writing Half Month.)
I really, really love your perspective; the way you see things and write about them. Today, I'm clapping for the line about the script, "grandfather offers comfort..." Good stuff.
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