The Playwright

And a sell-out it was.
I gazed from my usual place at the back of the house: not a seat left vacant. I begin to ponder, as I sit quite uncomfortably, the source of my agitation. This contemplation is useless, I know. My nerves have yet to escalate just prior to a performance. In fact, I was unsure as to if escalation even circled within the realm of possibility for my case of anxiety. The topic was one that haunted my mind: not the intensity of my perpetual uneasiness, but rather the source by which it was provoked. Paralyzing shyness proclaims control over my being in social situations and it was thoroughly understood that the works of Mousy Fineman were to be reviewed only in the midst of her absence. Traditionally, scriptwriters are acknowledged on stage subsequent to an opening performance; and while my name does remain safely tucked within the program, I reckon my existence will proceed free of public appreciation.
I may only hope that this, in time, will cease to change.

My hair embodies the soul of an untamable lioness: held now with a pin once belonging to my Bubbe. I cannot help but smirk to myself as I inadvertently recall the title The New York Times has most recently deemed me: fashion-forward. I collect my oversized eyeglasses from around my neck and fasten the stems behind my ears; the ancient diamond chain, mended to each respectively, chimes aside my face, which, in turn, is barely visible beneath my thick mane of spirals. Tonight I conceal my body simply; black, silken wife beater, tucked within equally dark trousers bearing a waist of immense height (the ankles prepared adequately for the unlikely event of a flood), and black, old-fashioned pantyhose, not unlike those worn by such classy women as my grandmother, made partially invisible by sequined flat shoes. Each item hails from a separate vintage boutique: a divine appointment between garments. The outfit gains a spirit separate from my own, like a tribute to the king, the queen, the supposed intellectual, the strong, and, in combination with my demeanor, to the weak. Oddballs must operate the publication, I think as my train of thought reverses.
They also say I’m a genius.

The rise of curtain is indirectly proportional with the dimming of the lights surrounding the house and as both occur, my latest creation acquires a heartbeat. My eyes focus as my mind races back to the recent recollection of a trace of my childhood. These two beginnings, after all, parallel one another; one written by me, the other, by the universe. Feelings of uncertainty arise and expectations develop at the progression of both. Did the show receive a good rating? Her mother works hard. The music is eerie. Other children stay away. What fantastic costumes!
‘A true visionary, not to mention fashion forward.’
The plot is riveting!
‘Give it a chance’ I think.
Give me a chance.

Act II, Scene I.
I stare through my eyeglasses, mouthing every line, silently directing all movement. I detest this part: A time where my mind becomes limited. My thoughts are restricted to my own head, already aware of the request I am dying to convey. I am a perfectionist and I thrive on control; even if without a sound.
“Control” I ponder. “What an interesting concept it is, and perfection.” At this I smile as my gaze falls. “ I am enslaved by its charm, its unavailability. But to obtain perfection; with this my existence may cease. It is the drive I enjoy- the destination, although endearing, remains an ambiguous mystery.”
“Upon arrival, does disappointment reign?”
I question if I may amend the mystery. “Is it perfect within a level, or does it symbolize a type of comprehensive purity?”
I can’t help but wonder if such an occurrence would steer my mind into despair with nothing to add, to subtract, to critique.
I’ve created a monster, or would have, if perfection had ever existed; my works have proven timelessly to become my almost monster.

I shudder at this contemplation: The strive that never fails to leave me thirsty. It frightens and entices me to witness my mind displaying a volume of magic that enlivens a piece so authentic, so flawless, so as it nearly ascends into genuine existence. Almost.

The inevitable incompleteness of my every doing left me astray in the eyes of my peers throughout high school. So bewitched I was by my schoolwork, I had no use, or interest, in fellow students. What I lacked in companionship, however, I compensated one million times for in intellect. What teachers and authoritative figures referred to as remarkable was only the beginning of what emboldened my uniqueness, at least in the small dimension of Westmont High. Never desirous of resembling my classmates, I walked the halls resembling a ghost with short, dark hair. After obtaining a weekend job at the department store downtown, where I would spend cloudy Saturdays admiring costume jewellery, I began putting small earnings away so I could one day go far, far away. My clothes often found me upon entering the local thrift shop (perhaps this may explain my persistent attachment to such establishments). I was tall, bony, and painfully shy. I was also very lonely; with the exception of my Mother, I rarely spoke to others. This may account for the presence of one particular conversation that continues to frequent my mind, even now.

English class concluded my Friday afternoons throughout all of Grade twelve. As I retrospect back to my youth, I see myself sitting at my desk patiently, and eagerly, awaiting the return of the collection of short fiction the class was assigned scarcely one month prior to this moment. ‘Ms. Fineman’ Mrs. Geller calls as my heart skips a beat. I take the booklet and grasp it tightly. Slowly opening one eye, a bright A+ becomes visible along with a slight note scrawled upon the front page;
‘See me after class.’

“Mousy, why don’t you have a seat.”

I do as I’m told as Mrs. Geller opens her drawer to retrieve a familiar compilation: My creative writing portfolio.

“I have observed your work since grade eleven.” She begins.

“More closely, this year. You are an incredibly gifted writer, Mousy.”

Silence.

“Your ideas are unbelievable! I’ve been meaning to ask, do you contemplate the concepts you choose to write about extensively, or are they just simply there?

I really, more than anything, wish I had a glass of water in this moment. I am very, very thirsty. So very thirsty for water.

“Mousy?”

“Oh, um, well, they are just sort of there.. you know. They are kind of around, sometimes…” I start rubbing my hands together and crossing my legs.

“What do you mean by that? Please elaborate, if you can of course. I’m highly intrigued by the content and expression that prevails in your work. Especially the short fiction you have submitted to me, it’s simply amazing.” She shakes her head, seemingly in ponder.

After staring down at my chipped, red fingernails, I decide I want to do it differently. I have always liked Mrs. Geller, even if from afar. There was something enchanted about her, something that I wanted to be. I decided I wanted to tell the truth, I knew that it was the only place that wisdom resided. I wanted to share my wisdom.

“Mrs. Geller?”

All she had to do was acknowledge my voice; as if knocking on the door to my world.
I let her in.

“When I close my eyes to sleep at night, I see different things inside my mind. The images become louder as I transcend into sleep. Sometimes I am in Vegas, where the casinos are all empty. I find Michael Jackson in the Monte Carlo, and softly, he asks me to dance. He takes my hand and I can feel him all around me. Einstein knocks on the door to my chemistry class once in a while, and asks only for me. He has invented a trampoline that bounces one to the planet of their choice. As we jump, time stops and in the midst of ascending to Jupiter, he reveals to me the secret to cure cancer. Strangely enough, I can never remember the remedy in my waking hours. I see a black, tiled floor, illuminated by stars, as if the world has been turned upside down. The stars begin to glow as Elvis Presley takes the stage, singing Can’t Help Falling in Love with You. There, at the other end of the floor, is my brother, Minkus. When I see him, I wish he really would take my whole life too. He walks over and we begin to dance. The next thing I know, we are young again, in the jungle running for our lives. He takes me to space and he teaches me to fly. We have to laugh to stay up high and sometimes we laugh so hard we almost miss the moon. Faces of the elderly circle the boarders of the universe. They are all the grandparents who watch their grandchildren sing and draw and grow from the maps of the heavens. They watch, through perfect eyes, all the things they can’t really watch because they are gone. I sometimes see my Grandmother, and when she sees me too, she waves. When Minkus brings me back to the dance floor, I know, even in dreams, that the world truly is upside down. My brother, along with the other people, animals, and plants that enter the vastness of my dreams, died long ago. Even the greatest fictitious fantasy could never bring them back.”

My eyes well up with tears.

“So I guess to answer your question, my ideas come from my desires, but mostly, they come from here.” I place my hand over my heart.

Silence reigns again.

“You’re the dark horse, Mousy. You are going to go far, far away.”

These are the words that inspired the savings account.