Conversation

I wrote this a while ago, and want to tighten it and refine it so its no so all-over-the-place and no so melodramatic. Let me know what you think; brutal honesty is appreciated.


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She heard the lock shake, but before she could move her books from her lap, she heard,
“Cate! You’re door is broken, let me in, I’m going to pee myself!”
She hastened her movements. Setting her notebook on the table and throwing the blanket next to her, she hopped over the side of the couch, stumbling slightly as her back foot caught on the cushion.
“I’m peeing myself right now. Your neighbors are staring, its kind of awkward.”
She continued towards the door, her shoulders moving in front of her feet, only stabilizing herself after she collapses into the door. She twists the doorknob with both hands, moving behind the door as she pulls it open.
“There, you’re in. Go.” Laughingly, she steps out from behind the door, shutting it, as Grace walks in and tosses her backpack against the wall.
“No, I’m fine. I just wanted you to move a little faster.” As she speaks she roams into the kitchenette and Cate walks slowly back to the couch, this time around the chair, and she sits down pulling her belongings back on top of her.
“That was my subtle way of letting you know that we can’t be friends anymore,” Cate says as she bends her legs against her little plastic coffee table. “P.S. When is the movie?”
“Uum, if we want to see the new Altman movie, we need to leave in twenty minutes? If we want to see any of the other genocides of cinema, then we can leave whenever. And, oh, I don’t do subtlety,” her words fall between the little clumps of clinking sounds she makes while rummaging. “You’ll have to spell it out, or I’ll never leave you alone.”
– bang–
Cate perks up, but Grace never falters her line of dialogue, “Or move...and change your name...”
By now Grace has entered the living room holding a box of Ritz crackers, peanut butter, and a can of Pringles. She looks directly at Cate, who has yet to respond to any of her ranting. Grace stands still forcing her eyes to glaze with a hysterical joy, and spreading a frenzied hungry smile across her face. She stands waiting until Cate looks up, stares at her and says, “...because we’re BFF’s and we’ll always be– cccgh,” she chokes on a cracker, but recreates her fanatical stare and continues, “we’ll always be together.”
Cate finally acknowledges this with a smile, saying, “Wow, you are the creepiest person I’ve ever met.”
“Creepier than that dirty guy at the library who always checks out Skin Diseases of the Elderly for casual reading?”
“Yes, actually. Congratulate yourself, you’ve managed to freak me out more than a shady man who mumbles to himself while investigating advanced cases of pruritus.”
“Sweet” she replies with exuberance, and then as an after thought, “There’s probably a trophy for that, but I don’t think I’ll be approaching Crazy Skin Disease Enthusiast Man anytime soon to ask.”
“That might be the right choice. But, before we have to go, and you eat all my food, did you read what I sent you? Was it a complete absurdity? Too Marrianne Moore wannabe?”
“No, I thought it was actually pretty good, it reminded me a lot of Moments of Being actually, without the really tragic parts, and the mental breakdowns.” She gets up and moves toward her backpack, “I have it with me, and all of my comments. You can have it,” as she hands a packet of papers back to Cate, “I really thought that these were a lot better than the other ones. Much less Victorian, much more... not sucky.”
“Good. I didn’t get a chance to read over your stuff. I’m sorry, my Mom needed some help putting together application letters and...”–Grace interrupts–
“No, don’t worry about it. I don’t think I need it right away, but my teacher wants me to try and submit it by the 16th, so if you could look at it by next week, that would be great.”
“Good, I’m really excited to look at it. Actually, the way you described it sounded really neat. Very, Sally Potter in short-story form. Did you ever figure out when the other one’s get published?”
“I don’t know, to be honest, but Ms. Nuetson is flipping out... I think she’s in love with me,” Grace’s tone grows more and more amused, while she tries to adopt a worried warble in her voice, “She just keeps telling me how talented I am... and then she sent me flowers...”
“Yeah, that’s pretty weird,” Cate says, mixing the words with laughter. Then, however, in utter, uncomfortable sincerity, “But getting two stories published is pretty impressive... Its actually really good, Grace.”
“Ew, I’m not sure how to react to this...emotion. Thanks? They’re only little magazines, they probably needed extra stories to put on the back of their adds.”
“No really, I think that they’re right, if you work at this, it could really be something. I’m definitely going to get you your story back...after I plagiarize it and send it in as my own...”
“Good, I think that will go over well. But, we have to go if you don’t want to end up watching garbage.”
“Alright, one minute.”










A Development
A young, colorless woman stands against the wall of a lobby, holding a cell phone. She is wearing a trendy tweed jacket over a silk dress blouse, matching three inch heels, and expensive, well fitting jeans. The clothing is perfect, but it seems too vibrant for the girl’s muted expression. Her only active feature is her blue-white eyes which seem lost in her placid face.
The phone clicks to life, and she animates her voice with what seems like mockery, “Hi, this is Cate Allen. Yes, I had called yesterday to speak with Mr. Cann about some poems.”
“One moment...”
“Okay, great! Absolutely,” she clicks her cellphone shut. A young man has watched her speaking and now moves toward her. When she moves in the opposite direction, oblivious to his aspirations, he circles and walks behind her. She waits at the elevator and then shuffles in with a limp sort of grace. He follows, shallow behind her and weasels his way through the people to a spot near her.
“Which floor is Cann and Bettis?” she asks to anyone.
Seeing a gift he replies, “It’s 76. I’m actually going there too. Are you interviewing for the Copy Editor spot?”
“No, I’m here about getting some poems published.” She is curt and distracted, she crosses her arms over her chest, pulling herself against the wall.
“Oh, well I am a scout...The guy who reads submissions and sends on the best ones. They’re probably going to tell you that you need to submit it that way,” and seeing that she is uninterested, “but I could put yours up front, you know, to get read.”
“Um, thank you, but they’re not mine. They’re a friend of mine’s from highschool, and they already were approved for a collection, there’ve just been some problems that need to be resolved,” then, as an unconcealed afterthought, “but thank you.”
“Oh,” teasingly, “why are you stuck doing your friend’s dirty work?” Cate visibly tensing, her light eyes grew frenzied, and her sedated face becomes lucid with rapid thought. He realizes that he has unknowingly crossed a line. Something beyond first meetings.
Cate’s mind flutters through snap-shot ideas trying to divert him. “Oh I used to be so good at this,” she thinks, “God! Say something funny and charming.” But then for no reason, and without knowing why, she says something very unfunny, and not charming, and true.
“Grace, my friend, had a stroke three years ago. She can’t write anymore, and she could never wade through all this. It’s made her unable to control her impulses, she just collapses into fits like a three-year old,” the words had began and wouldn’t stop. Cate was trying to siphon them off, whittle them down into a comfortable ending, but she wanted to let this man know, someone know. She wanted to tell him this before she cut off the story. She wanted a suave way to end it, but she couldn’t. And so she steps back, bumped into the wall, and awkwardly begins looking through her purse. “I’m sorry. This is so not what you thought you would hear, right?” she says as she chokes down tears of panicked awkwardness, and forces up a broken chuckle. “Actually, you should read these, if you want.”
As she hands them to an unknown man on an increasingly empty elevator, she realizes how great of a story this would have been to for Grace. The awkwardness, the near crying fit, almost falling into the wall. Grace would have relived it, this time adding funnier lines, or an unsolicited rendition of “Love in an Elevator” just to make it more awkward. Cate would have exaggerated her responses to make it more slapstick. Grace will laugh for hours about this.
While he reads the first group of poems, she continues to think, “God I’m stupid but this is a funny story.” When he keeps reading, Cate thinks, I wonder what he thinks. When they pass the floor, and he keeps reading she thinks, maybe this is good. And when they hit the top of the building and he is re-reading, and nodding, and hasn’t fled yet, Cate muses, “I should ask him if her would like to meet Grace.”
“Yes... he would like to meet her,” he replies as he looks up. He smiles when she reels back, “Yeah, you were kind of mumbling. And though agreeing to go with you means agreeing to follow a stranger who mumbles to herself, I feel fairly confident that I could take you if this leads to me being jacked in an alley.”






















A Reunion
She lay there, her face filled with fat of a few extra pounds. She held a remote in her good hand, the other lay crumpled across her chest. Sometimes it jerked in mimicry of past abilities, mostly it lay, the muscles permanently tightened into a ball. Her eyes jolted around the room, and she switched the channels on the T.V. rapidly. She waited for Cate’s visit. She would try to control herself. She wanted to show her what she could do this week. She knew she was coming today.
***
Cate signed in, and, as she walked down the hall with a man whose name she just learned was Dave, she regretted having ever invited him. How will he respond? How will Grace respond? What if she has a fit? Damn it. What the hell was I thinking? She couldn’t answer herself, and as she walked into Grace’s room she couldn’t think of anything else but Grace.
Grace pulled her legs over the side of the bed and sat up. A child’s smile flashed as she saw Cate walk in. It quickly faded when she saw Dave walk in behind her.
“Cate...who...how are you? How are you...I mean how was your week?”
“I’m good, Grace. This is Dave, he works at the publishing company that’s looking at your poems. I met him while I was visiting there.”
“Hi Dave,” she replied mechanistically, and without making eye contact
“Nice to meet you.”
“Cate,” she quickly redirected her eyes to Cate while speaking, ignoring Dave, “My cursive is getting very good. I’m getting through the capitals.”
“Good, good. You should practice for when you have to sign your book.”
“No.”
“No? Don’t you want to sign your books for your friends?”
“NO!” And Grace lay down, and turned away.
“Grace, come on,” she pleaded, she walked around to the other side of the bed. She leaned in close to Grace and whispered, “Grace, do you want Dave to leave?”
But Grace was done. She was reaching for the remote, their meeting was over. Cate looked over her to find Dave. He was far away, in the corner, glancing over Grace’s old poems. Again whispering she asked, “Dave, can you give us a couple minutes?”
“Yeah definitely, I’ll be in the hallway.”
As he stepped out Grace pulled her body the other way. Cate moved back to the other side. “Grace I’m not sure what you want me to do. I thought it would be good for someone new to visit.” Grace was shaking. She started to cry and thrash. Cate climbed on to the bed, and held her arms still while sitting across her waist.
“Gra-ace” she rolled the name slowly off her tongue while Grace continued writing, “Gra-ace, come on, settle down. Be a big girl. Be a big girl.” She singsonged, “Gra-ace, if you stop we can watch cartoons. Gra-ace come on.” She vacillated between crushed panic, and frustrated pleading, but Grace was angry. She couldn’t stop. Cate held her until she calmed; out of exhaustion.
Cate moved off of the bed, sweating, and sat on a chair next to the bed. She pulled her knees onto the coffee table in front of her. Silence expanded, and covered the room in a thick choking steam. Cate stared at Grace who now laid there crying silent hot tears of embarrassment and anger. Cate felt sick, she wanted to leave. Her chest tightened with guilt for having the thought. She sat there, pulsating with cacophonous emotions, hating herself, and hating the situation. Finally she moved forward in the chair. “Do you want to watch a movie, Grace?”
“Okay.” she sounded weak and apathetic.
“Any cinematic masterpieces on...” But her voice trailed off as she saw Grace become frustrated and lost. “What do you want to order?” she quickly asked.
“I saw something. On earlier. It looked good.”
“Okay, you find it. And I’ll be right back.”
Cate stepped outside. Dave was on his phone, calling for a cab.
“Yeah that’s good, I’ll be outside,” he was saying. He hung up the phone and turned to her, “Hey, I saw you calmed her down. I’ll head out, but I’m going to take these with me. They’re good. Really really good. Maybe I can convince the bigger guys to take it.”
“Good, I think she would like that.”
“Well... and you’ll like it.” he paused, “But listen, I have to go, a cab is coming for me. Here is my number at work. Call me and I’ll let you know if I make any headway.”
“Okay thank you...and I just want people to know. I just want everybody to know how unfair it was. I just want them to know, and right now I’m the only one. I’m the only one who knows those. I’m the only won who knows who wrote them.”
Dave nodded, but did not know what to say, so he left offering, “I’ll really try. I can’t promise anything. I’ll try.”
Cate turned and looked in room where Grace was already asleep on the bed, her arm was twitching, and the movie menu was still up. Cate went in, turned it off, and sat, next to the bed, talking. Talking to Grace about the absurdities of the day. Talking about how great the new Rushdie book was, about the Darfur rally she went to. Grace responded beautifully. Edifying and ornamenting, rebuilding and laughing. She talked of Magical Realism and UN bureaucracy. She was funny and full of promise. She deflected compliments with a soft practiced sarcasm, her jokes were tinted with a developed sense of irony. Cate reveled in their word play, and mutual understandings, their silliness, and openness. It was great, and illusory.
Cate, engrossed in conversation, Grace entangled in peaceful dream. Engaging and witty, Grace laid asleep next to Cate, who was sitting by herself, having a conversation with an old friend.