Exercises for 3.30.10

Exercise 4: Where were you last night?

“Where were you last night?” is a question I never wanted to ask myself again. When I awoke on the floor of a dim, subterranean studio apartment, a thick arm thrown across my stomach, contact-less, panty-less and confused, I swore I wouldn’t do this again.

Crouched in the backseat of some ugly 70s sedan, parked in an alley I don’t recognize, wearing a red leather mini and white lacy top that I am certain I never would have purchased, my ankles sore from being bent below me for who knows how long, I have to do it. Where was I last night? I have no clear answer, and shame burns in the back of my throat. I feel guilty already, though I’m not even sure what for. I make my usual vow: “Never again.” It rings empty.

The car door wrenches open with a shriek and I stumble out of the alley to the street where dawn and the halogen street lamps are vying to light the sidewalks. It’s too early for most commuters, though I can’t remember if it is a weekday or not. I squint at the buildings and realize I am downtown—the Warehouse District. I walk further down the street to look at the signpost, and my red-stiletto clad foot slips, throwing me forward. I catch myself on the wall of the building before my knee hits ground and the spray of vomit that caused me to slip. Feeling my own stomach heave at the sight, I hurry on. The hammering in my skull and the taste of whiskey repeating in my esophagus tells me that this time it was booze. Surprising, really. I don’t usually lose a whole night from just liquor. I reach the corner, look up and head right, down Second Ave. There are always cabs down by light rail, day or night.

Safe in a cab, I give the driver an address near my house. As I bend down to remove the not-my-shoes, a telling ache between my legs tells me that I broke another promise to myself last night. I ask the driver what day it is, and he responds shortly, “Wednesday.” I sigh with relief that I have not lost a whole day, and prepare myself for an unwelcome run. As the cabbie stops just blocks away from the address I gave him, I throw open the door and run down the street and between two houses. I can hear the cabbie screaming at me in something that sounds like grunting. I feel bad, but I don’t have any money to pay him. I add it to my list: Things To Feel Crappy About On A Wednesday.

Gasping for breath, my left foot bleeding from a tiny cut, I limp my way back to my house. I walk in the back door (I always keep it unlocked). The clock tells me I have two hours to make it to work. I climb the stairs, wishing I was dead, and crawl into the shower. I sit with my arms wrapped around my bent knees, let scalding water pour over my neck and sob quietly into my elbow.



Exercise 1: Beginning in the Middle
1. The first night Anna spent fucking Tom was significant for her in that it fulfilled adolescent fantasies and significant for him in that is was supposed to be the night he married Victoria.
2. When I fantasized about killing Mr. Achter, I never imagined it would be this bloody.
3. After Bella’s fourth suicide attempt, Christine vowed that she would not spend another dollar saving that damn dog’s life.
4. While some might have considered the Duomo the highlight of her Italian holiday, Star was more moved by the gypsy beggars who had descended on her in the Metro, thrusting a baby into her arms and stealing her wallet.
5. The horrors of spoiled campers, arrogant parents, cliquey counselors and forced cheerfulness receded each morning as I sat on the edge of the lake, watched the sun rise, and listened to the loons hail the morning.
6. Well into the fifth year of my obsession with Clark, I made a decision that would guide the next five years unfailingly into disaster.
7. “Why did I ever think I could run a marathon?” she moaned as she tripped into her 15th mile.
8. It was so unlikely, an illicit affair between the devout Catholic woman and the unwashed IT manager, that I didn’t believe the gossip until I caught a glimpse of them in the stairwell, locked in each other’s arms.
9. Laura knew she was supposed to feel blessed by the twin girls that erupted forth from her body like a zit popping, but as the voracious creatures latched on to her breasts, she was overwhelmed by a wave of distaste, followed by guilt for already being a terrible mother.
10. Since Hilton Head isn’t much of an island unless you golf or fish—neither of which I do—I resolved to pray for a hurricane to make my time there with my husband bearable.
 
Exercise 10: Oh! … That Sort of Person

Lily
She was the kind of girl who fell in love in a moment, and spent a life time justifying it.

She was the kind of girl who wore the perfect dress, with boy’s underwear on below.

She was the kind of girl who could pummel you in fury, then hug you five minutes later and forget it ever happened.

She was the sort of person whose stubbornness would lead her to cut off her hair on a dare, just to prove she wasn’t vain, then spend a day alone crying over it.

She was the sort of sister who would fight constantly with her brother, but knock anyone down who dared to insult him.

Emily

Emily was the kind of person who bought everything brand name, just to make you forget she grew up in a trailer park.

She was the sort of woman who could walk into a coffee shop where she knew no one, and walk out with three lifelong friends

She was the sort of person who deliberately started smoking American Spirits as an adult, simply to feel more comfortable at the coffee shop.

She was the sort of woman who married a silent man, so she would be able to monopolize every conversation.

She was the kind of person who felt threatened when people near her argued.

 
Exercise 12: Props

Character: Where were you last night girl

Refrigerator: Premium Beer, mustard, moldy cheese, plain wheat bread, olives, leftover pizza from davannis, two Slim-Fast shakes, Brita water pitcher with no filter, half-eaten take-out salad.

Medicine cabinet: birth control pills, super minty toothpaste, few loose q-tips, empty vicodin pill bottle with someone else’s name on it, a tampon, silver watch, a toothbrush that isn’t hers, expensive face cream, calamine lotion.

Clothes closet: A contradiction of well-pressed, hung suits and silk blouses, and trashier hood rat clothes, some hung hastily on hangers, others crumpled on the floor. There is very little lounging clothes. No workout clothes. No practical shoes, but lots of them. A strangely conservative black dress that doesn’t fit into the work clothes or the trashy clothes. A box of letters. A shoe box that contains random receipts. A large picture, framed, turned around and facing the wall.