(no subject)
Brightly lit, so muted yellow and orange, plush chairs facing across an oval table, bright lights obscuring the audience that might not be the re. A woman with blonde hair and a million watt smile crosses the stage and waves in the direction of applause. “Good morning, good morning,” she says, “How is everyone today?”
An indistinct noise.
“Today we have a very special guest! You might not have seen him in quite some time. I do know you’ve all missed him. Please welcome to our studio again Mr. Peter Epstein!”
He felt like he was everywhere, in the audience, on the stage, the omniscient eye of the set. He emerges and waves at the lights or the audience. The identity of the mass beyond the stage shifts with every turn of the mind. The host is obscured by the light as he shakes her hand. He takes a seat, looks at her, looks at the audience, looks at the lights.
“So tell us, Peter, where have you been?”
“Oh, I’ve been everywhere. I’ve been to places you can’t even imagine.” He taps his forehead. “In here.”
“But not always in there.”
What made him a regular convert as opposed to one who abused his power?
“I know my limits.”
“Peter, some say you’ve been taking these journeys to avoid facing the real world. Are you really such a coward?”
“I’m not a coward. I’ve been writing a book. And I can’t help this…taking all of these…these ‘journeys’ because that is a flaw-“
“Inherent in your body chemistry. But you show such flagrant disregard for it, anyway. You don’t take your medications, you’re a drunk and hopelessly addicted to caffeine…”
“But I’ve been writing a book! Wouldn’t you consider that progress?”
“Oh God,” says the host, her British accent becoming more pronounced, “compared to all of your other flaws? The cowardice you display in so many of your actions? Drowning yourself in the bottle to mute the pains of reality, drowning yourself in espresso to mute the reality of your condition, drowning yourself in sleep to completely cut yourself off from the real world all together? Who cares if you’ve written a damn stupid book about me, anyway?”
“I am not a coward! I am not a coward. I’m not. Everything that’s marred my life for the past three years have all been marked by you. You know I almost felt completely good about myself when we were together? Then you went ahead and ruined it, because I didn’t need self-esteem at all. And now I have none, while you’re still out there making money and music videos and wasting your hard-earned education on gratuitous ass shots while making people feel like shit because they’d rather use their education on more productive things that just so happen to require them to go out of the country for a while. What difference does it make if my job took me to Spain and yours to Los Angeles?”
“You couldn’t stay awake for your job, that’s the difference.”
“You think I have control over this!”
“If you were really interested in anything, you’d certainly stay awake for it. I know you’re trying your hardest to stay awake at the bookstore, but sooner or later you’ll fuck that up, too. You’re extremely talented at that sort of thing, Petey, you really are.”
“This is a very unfriendly interview and I’m going to walk away from it now.” Except he can’t move a muscle. The host…Lindsay…whoever…laughs.
”That’s so typical of you, Peter. When the going gets rough Peter Epstein gets going.”
“Shut up, Lindsay! Please. Just stop…stop abusing me in my dreams...”
“Will someone wake him up? We don’t need anymore false accusations on my show.”
He feels a hand on his shoulder, and turns in the bed, staring at the nothing that pulled him aside. It’s 8:15 on Saturday morning. The store opens at 10. He has better things to do than stay in bed, dreaming of his inadequacies.
An indistinct noise.
“Today we have a very special guest! You might not have seen him in quite some time. I do know you’ve all missed him. Please welcome to our studio again Mr. Peter Epstein!”
He felt like he was everywhere, in the audience, on the stage, the omniscient eye of the set. He emerges and waves at the lights or the audience. The identity of the mass beyond the stage shifts with every turn of the mind. The host is obscured by the light as he shakes her hand. He takes a seat, looks at her, looks at the audience, looks at the lights.
“So tell us, Peter, where have you been?”
“Oh, I’ve been everywhere. I’ve been to places you can’t even imagine.” He taps his forehead. “In here.”
“But not always in there.”
What made him a regular convert as opposed to one who abused his power?
“I know my limits.”
“Peter, some say you’ve been taking these journeys to avoid facing the real world. Are you really such a coward?”
“I’m not a coward. I’ve been writing a book. And I can’t help this…taking all of these…these ‘journeys’ because that is a flaw-“
“Inherent in your body chemistry. But you show such flagrant disregard for it, anyway. You don’t take your medications, you’re a drunk and hopelessly addicted to caffeine…”
“But I’ve been writing a book! Wouldn’t you consider that progress?”
“Oh God,” says the host, her British accent becoming more pronounced, “compared to all of your other flaws? The cowardice you display in so many of your actions? Drowning yourself in the bottle to mute the pains of reality, drowning yourself in espresso to mute the reality of your condition, drowning yourself in sleep to completely cut yourself off from the real world all together? Who cares if you’ve written a damn stupid book about me, anyway?”
“I am not a coward! I am not a coward. I’m not. Everything that’s marred my life for the past three years have all been marked by you. You know I almost felt completely good about myself when we were together? Then you went ahead and ruined it, because I didn’t need self-esteem at all. And now I have none, while you’re still out there making money and music videos and wasting your hard-earned education on gratuitous ass shots while making people feel like shit because they’d rather use their education on more productive things that just so happen to require them to go out of the country for a while. What difference does it make if my job took me to Spain and yours to Los Angeles?”
“You couldn’t stay awake for your job, that’s the difference.”
“You think I have control over this!”
“If you were really interested in anything, you’d certainly stay awake for it. I know you’re trying your hardest to stay awake at the bookstore, but sooner or later you’ll fuck that up, too. You’re extremely talented at that sort of thing, Petey, you really are.”
“This is a very unfriendly interview and I’m going to walk away from it now.” Except he can’t move a muscle. The host…Lindsay…whoever…laughs.
”That’s so typical of you, Peter. When the going gets rough Peter Epstein gets going.”
“Shut up, Lindsay! Please. Just stop…stop abusing me in my dreams...”
“Will someone wake him up? We don’t need anymore false accusations on my show.”
He feels a hand on his shoulder, and turns in the bed, staring at the nothing that pulled him aside. It’s 8:15 on Saturday morning. The store opens at 10. He has better things to do than stay in bed, dreaming of his inadequacies.