Etiquette and Vitriol by Nicky Silver (classic fiction .txt) 📗

SERGE: Why don’t you take some of that money and go on a trip?

OTTO: I swore to myself I’d never spend one cent of the filthy lucre that miserable old fart left me! He hated me! He drank more than any two people I’ve ever known. The last time I saw my father, you know what he said to me? Do you? He was in the hospital. He was on an iron lung. He was dying. Frito?

SERGE: No.

OTTO: He had a completely obsessive personality—pathetic. So he was in the hospital, clinging to life by his nicotine-yellow fingernails. And he’s going on and on at me about my weight and being “light-in-the-loafers,” which was the darling euphemism he used for “fairy.” And his breathing was very labored—he had emphysema, or something. I can’t remember. I never paid much attention. So he’s on this iron lung, and his last words to me, the very last words he ever spoke: he reached out, red in the face, panic in his heart—he reached out and shrieked, “Otto! Otto! Please, no! Don’t touch that plug!!”

SERGE: Oh my God!!

OTTO: But it was too late.

SERGE: You unplugged his iron lung?!

OTTO: His television! What’s wrong with you?

SERGE: I thought—

OTTO: You thought I killed my father? You’re insane, that’s your problem. I unplugged his television. I went to visit him, I took time out of my busy schedule, which was completely empty as it happened, but he didn’t know that! I went out of my way to visit that old gasbag and he has the nerve to lie there watching TV! He was the rudest person I ever knew. It was a football game, or something. I don’t know. The one with the orange ball and hoops with nets. It was giving me a headache, so I unplugged it. And then he was angry—wouldn’t say a word. He just lay there, like a corpse. It wasn’t until later that I learned he had died.

(The phone rings.)

SERGE (Weary): Go ahead.

OTTO (Into the phone): Hello? . . . Oh hello. . . . No, we’re not back together yet!! . . . Yes, I realize that I’m a fat, ugly, lonely failure with nothing and no one in my life and that no one will shed a single tear when I die. . . . I’ll talk to you later. (He hangs up) It was my mother.

SERGE: I assumed.

OTTO: Let’s pretend we just met. Okay? Let’s pretend you picked me up in one of those bars you go to. I hate those places. Let’s pretend. You be . . . you! And I’ll be me. Okay? It’ll be fun.

SERGE: I don’t want to.

OTTO: You never want to have any fun, THAT’S your problem.

SERGE: Look! I’VE EXPLAINED TO YOU—

OTTO: I remember the first moment I saw you. How long ago was that? I can’t remember now. Was it six months? Eight months?

SERGE: It was FOUR years ago!

OTTO: Was it? Was it really? Time stands still when I’m without you. Four years? How much did I weigh then?

SERGE: Considerably less than you do now!

OTTO: You’re full of hate, baby! Hate just oozes out of you. Hate is gushing out of your skin. You wear hate the way the salesgirls in Bloomingdale’s wear makeup. In heavy layers.

SERGE: YOU’RE DRIVING ME CRAZY!

OTTO: Did I mention that I tattooed your name on my buttocks? I did! It was extremely painful. It hurt like hell, but I did it! You know I have a neurotic fear of needles, but I tattooed your name on my rear-end, in letters THREE feet tall!

SERGE: Listen—

OTTO: NOW I SIT ON YOU ALL THE TIME!

SERGE: I HAVE TOLD YOU—

OTTO: I know, I know. You’re expecting someone!! Well, where is this mystery date? I don’t see him. Let him come. I’ll kill him! Then you, then myself—or any order you want. But you see, I don’t think there is anyone coming over. I think you’re lonely and bitter. I think every day since we split up has been as torturous for you as it has for me!

SERGE: I’VE BEEN VERY HAPPY!

OTTO: OH HIDE YOUR MISERY WITH LAUGHTER! YOU CAN’T FOOL ME. YOU’RE GRIEF STRICKEN TO THE POINT OF HYSTERIA, ONLY YOU HIDE IT WITH UNCOMMON PANACHE. I KNOW HOW BROKEN YOU’VE BEEN, BECAUSE I’VE BEEN THE SAME! THE DAYS ARE LONG, BUT THE NIGHTS ARE LONGER! ADMIT YOU WANT ME BACK! DON’T LET STUPID PRIDE STAND IN YOUR WAY. WHAT’S THAT? SO SOONER THAN LATER YOU’LL BE A ONCE-BEAUTIFUL, FADED, MALE-INGENUE TYPE, WIZENED AND WITHERED ALONE WITH YOUR PRIDE. WELL, LET ME TELL YOU, PRIDE IS A COLD COMPANION ON A BITTER WINTER’S NIGHT! I KNOW PRIDE! I KNOW WHAT PRIDE IS! I have none myself, of course, BUT I’VE SEEN IT IN OTHERS. FORGET YOUR PRIDE, LOVE ME!!

SERGE: For the last time, YOU HAVE GOT TO GET ON WITH YOUR LIFE! Look at what you’re doing to yourself! You’re killing yourself!

OTTO: That’d make you happy, wouldn’t it?

SERGE: NO! No, Otto, it wouldn’t. You can think what you want. But I do not hate you. I don’t. God knows why, but I don’t.

OTTO: Is it hot in here? I’m having a sugar drop. (He sits on the floor and dumps out the remaining contents of his grocery bag)

SERGE: I look at you and I remember what you used to be.

OTTO: Before you destroyed me?

SERGE: Before you ate yourself into this state!

OTTO: Have I put on weight? Is that what you’re saying? I try not to get on the scale.

SERGE: You were attractive.

OTTO: I get vertigo from watching the dial spin, and spin, and spin.

SERGE: You were SANE! You were funny—

OTTO: God, I’m hot.

SERGE: I do not accept responsibility for you! I AM NOT TO BLAME!

(Otto eats Oreos rabidly, unscrewing them, scraping out the middle and throwing the cookie over his shoulder.)

OTTO: I can’t imagine it’s a question of blame.

SERGE: It’s been four years! Four long years! We dated briefly. There was no passion. No great love! We dated briefly!