Part 74: Elizabeth / Bobby

“The problem with my mother,” Elizabeth said, during Wednesday's performance, changing the emphasis (no two shows were supposed to be exactly alike, because no two shows ever were exactly alike, even when they purported to be; description become prescription), “is this: she’s a sociopath.”

The play’s writer, director, all-around auteress, an extraordinarily tall senior named MeghanRose (pronounced with the cadence of Pegasus), groaned audibly: either in character as a member of the group therapy session, which had a very AA-meets-prison, captive-population vibe about it, or as herself (notes were given onstage as a meta-commentary on theatre.) “I’m sorry, isn’t that exactly what you said last time?” The spotlight swung to her.

“Not exactly. The emphasis was different,” Elizabeth protested.

“Aren’t we supposed to be presenting new insights about our mothers?” She said this with an ironic tone, as if the words weren’t hers, but belonged to the group, and she was skeptical of them as well. Definitely in character, then.

“What if I haven’t had any new insights about my mother since last time?”

“Then you make one up. And in the process of constructing fiction, you will also construct reality." MeghanRose paused, as she always did after something wise. "And please. Try not to sound so rehearsed. It’s exhausting to listen to.” As the director now?

“I’ll try.”

“Let’s take it again, from ‘the problem with my mother.’ A five, six, seven, eight!”

*

“Hey, Cic, Bobby, just calling back to check in, see how it’s all going, hope you not answering means you’re busy writing or even better editing, haven’t seen anything posted online yet, so. Just please for the love of God tell me you’re not going to try and go the actual newspaper, magazine route, it is the year two-thousand-and-seven for Christ’s sake, online is better for quick dissemination anyway, and I’m thinking sooner the better here. Oh and by the way, been thinking, and don’t feel like you’ve got to hold back. Don’t spare my feelings or do me any favors because of what you think of as our friendship. Make me sound real evil, real like Dick Cheney, Henry Kissinger, ninth circle of hell sort of evil. And you need any soundbites, I’ve got some names for you. There’s this super uptight girl named Christina and a freakishly boyish middle-aged guy called Jacob from my hometown, they’ll give you some stories. Small town, first names will do you just fine. Alright. Don’t call back, just keep writing, don’t even listen to the rest of this voicemail, actually, just---”