The Exact Opposite of Okay(56)
It’s exhausting, and I want it all to stop.
Remembering how refreshed and centered I felt after filming the selfie-pay skit, I sit down to try and flesh out a three-act structure plan for my latest screenplay idea – the lesbian couple with the failing marriage until one loses the power of speech. It’s like pulling teeth. Except more painful. Everything I come up with is either dull and boring or incredibly clichéd. Normally I can visualize key scenes in my head, but tonight I have nothing.
Maybe I’m just too tired to focus on a big project. Maybe I should write a skit or two to get my writerly juices flowing.
Again, usually my mind is filled with hundreds of sketch ideas, and I just have to reach out and pluck one from my subconscious and get it down on paper. But nothing funny or clever or imaginative comes to mind.
I scroll through today’s news, hoping something will jump out and inspire a satirical idea. I read interviews with athletes and profiles of politicians and coverage from the Middle East, but nothing is remotely funny. Especially since I have to force my eyes away from the Most Read sidebar which shows ‘Senator’s Son In Sex Scandal’ as the fourth most viewed piece of the day.
No. No no no. Shake it off, O’Neill. Do not engage.
What about a parody? What movies have I seen or books have I read recently that I could take the piss out of without much trouble?
Nothing.
My creative resource pool feels as dry as the Sahara.
8.03 p.m.
I text Ajita. I want to tell her about Mr Wong, first of all, and also about Carson not sticking up for me. And, for once, I want to actually open up about how I’m feeling. About the panicky, powerless sensation gripping my very bones.
Feeling kinda bummed. Wanna come over?
It takes her at least fifteen minutes longer to reply than it usually does.
Sorry kid, I’m hanging out with Carlie after tennis practice. Tomorrow? xo
I shove my phone underneath my pillow and curl up under the covers, probably looking as pathetic as I feel.
10.14 p.m.
I’m just taking my makeup off when there’s a buzz at the gate. After a few seconds, guess whose voice I hear at the door?
Danny’s.
Thursday 6 October
1.02pm
Was so mad last night I couldn’t even bring myself to type out the exchange with Mr Wells. In fact, I’m still so angry I’m just lying in bed in a vague state of furious nausea, like how I imagine Melania feels when she watches Donald remove his shirt.
So he arrives all sheepish-looking [Danny not Donald Trump] and asks to come in, and Betty kindly offers him a whiskey hot cocoa even though he drove here. He declines and asks for some privacy with her granddaughter, which is quite hilarious considering our apartment is about six square feet so there’s no such thing as privacy [something I discovered around the same time I located the bald man in the canoe]. Anyway, Betty goes to the living room and promptly presses her ear to the flimsy wall, which I know because I can hear her trying to suck a poppy seed out of her false teeth from about a yard away.
“What’s up, Danny?” I say in a very traditional and unIzzylike manner. At this point I’m unsure what the tone of the conversation will be, so I play it safe. [In retrospect I wish I’d begun with, “Hello, you horrid little cretin,” but you live and learn.]
Dumbledore watches with interest. Danny runs his hands through his wild hair, which is bordering on dreads at this point. I consider lecturing him about cultural appropriation, but decide against it.
He eventually says, “I just . . . wanted to see you. Make sure you’re okay, with everything that’s going on.”
Better late than never.
We haven’t spoken much since he offered me money to help with my career. Even when BuzzFeed first got hold of the nude picture story, he kept his distance. So it kind of feels like this is too little, too late, but I figure he deserves the chance to make it right again. We’ve been friends for too long not to give him that. He’s practically family, and he’s going through a hard time too.
“Oh, you know, I’m all right. It sucks a bit. But you know. Fine.” This is an understatement on a par with “the political landscape in the Middle East is a little tense”, but I’m not in the mood to go into specifics.
Honestly, he looks terrible. His skin is all flaky like a dry bit of pastry, and his eyes are red-rimmed. I thought I had trademarked this esthetic last year when Ajita went away to teach textiles at a summer camp and I missed her so much I couldn’t sleep, so it’s strange to see it on Danny for a change.
After shuffling awkwardly for a few more seconds and absent-mindedly brushing toast crumbs off our counter [Dumbledore nearly has a seizure with excitement and immediately begins vacuuming them up], he says, “Good. I’m glad. I just . . . um, I just wanted you to know that . . . well, I forgive you, Iz.”
I was not even a little bit expecting him to say this. As far as I can remember, I have not wronged him in any way, other than maybe kissing him when I didn’t intend for the kissing to be a recurring event. Last time I checked, this was a thing I am entitled to do, and something menfolk do all the time. Maybe not great to do it to your best pal, but still.
“I . . . what?” For once I am actually quite speechless.
“I forgive you. Really. I do.”