36 Questions That Changed My Mind About You

by Vicki Grant

  PAUL: “… go for a walk, maybe get myself a green tea smoothie or, if I’m feeling decadent…” I don’t have to look at you to listen. So go on. Anything else you’d like to add? A hot yoga class? Some journaling? Maybe a mani-pedi with a few of your BFFs?

  HILDY: I knew you were going to make fun of me but I promised Jeff that I was going to answer the questions honestly so that doesn’t bother me. And, yes, I probably would do some hot yoga, just as I will when I finally get out of here. It’s an excellent way to relieve tension. I don’t, however, “journal,” primarily because that’s not a verb. Neither is “BFF” part of my vocab, which, I’d have thought, would be pretty obvious by this point. Now let’s hear about your perfect day, shall we? Or are you living it?

  PAUL: (Laughs) Good one. Okay. I’d get up late. I’d have three Egg McMuffins and an extra-large Dunkin’ Donuts coffee, double creamer. I’d play the drums for a while. Eat again. Sleep again. Repeat as necessary.

  HILDY: That it?

  PAUL: There’d probably be a girl at some point, too.

  HILDY: Just any girl?

  PAUL: Oh, nice. Like I’m an animal. I have my standards.

  HILDY: But not a particular girl?

  PAUL: Depends on the day but, at the moment, no.

  HILDY: So not the one whose hand you’re drawing then.

  PAUL: I’m not drawing.

  HILDY: Then what are you doing?

  PAUL: I dunno. Doodling.

  HILDY: Pretty good for a doodle.

  PAUL: Yeah, well, “pretty good” is in the eye of the beholder I guess.

  HILDY: Come on. Can you at least be honest about this?

  PAUL: No idea what you’re talking about.

  HILDY: Oh, right. “This old thing?” Like I’m too stupid to get what’s going on.

  PAUL: Still not computing.

  HILDY: Well, then let me spell it out for you. That’s not a doodle. It’s a drawing. And it’s really good. And you know that.

  PAUL: I do, do I?

  HILDY: Yes, you do.

  PAUL: Thanks for telling me.

  HILDY: No one has ever told you that before?

  PAUL: Didn’t say that.

  HILDY: Did they mention how fast you are, too?

  PAUL: Speed doesn’t count. This ain’t Pictionary.

  HILDY: You draw a lot?

  PAUL: Doodle. Yeah. Better than biting my nails.

  HILDY: So it’s a nervous habit.

  PAUL: It’s a habit. I’ve got worse ones.

  HILDY: Oh, do tell!

  PAUL: (Laughs)

  HILDY: Or don’t.

  PAUL: That’s a better idea. Trust me.

  HILDY: Okay. Well. Fine. We won’t go there. But I’m serious. That’s some “doodle.” It’s so realistic. Something about the bend in the fingers. It’s almost like the hand’s alive.

  HILDY: That was a compliment.

  PAUL: I get that.

  HILDY: What’s with the look then?

  PAUL: Nothing.

  HILDY: Wow. I’d hate to see you if something was actually bothering you.

  PAUL: Yeah, well, I’d hate to see you if something was actually worth getting excited about. It’s a doodle.

  HILDY: So you keep saying, but hands are super hard.

  PAUL: What? You draw?

  HILDY: No. Not really. I tried. I took lessons for a while but—

  PAUL: Lessons? You don’t need lessons. You just need to pick up a pencil and keep drawing until you get it. That’s the problem with you South End kids, you—

  HILDY: You don’t know I’m from the South End.

  PAUL: Are you?

  PAUL: I knew it. (Laughs) You’ve got nannies and playdates written all over you.

  HILDY: Tone.

  PAUL: What? I changed my tone.

  HILDY: Yes. From belligerent to smug. Big improvement.

  PAUL: But sarcasm is apparently okay.

  HILDY: You know, for a few itty-bitty shining moments there, I thought we were going to manage to have a conversation, but now I’m not so sure that’s ever going to happen. I can’t even give you a compliment without kicking off another argument. You know what? This is a waste of time. I’m going home. I’ve got stuff to do and, frankly, I don’t need the abuse.

  PAUL: Here. I offer my hand in a gesture of peace.

  HILDY: (Laughs) Very funny.

  PAUL: No. Take it. It’s yours.

  HILDY: Gee. Thanks… You shouldn’t have torn it like that. I would have liked the whole thing.

  PAUL: Girls. Give ’em an inch and they want your whole body.

  PAUL: You’re blushing.

  HILDY: I am not.

  PAUL: Yeah, right. You’re just naturally fuchsia.

  PAUL: What now? Where’re you going?

  HILDY: I told you. Home.

  PAUL: Relax. Sit down. Boy, you complain how I react when you give me a compliment. Least I don’t storm out like a—

  HILDY: Saying I’m fuchsia is a compliment?

  PAUL: It is. Pink’s your color.

  HILDY: Right. Really smooth. This is ridiculous. I’ve got enough problems to deal with at the moment. I don’t need your constant little jabs and—

  PAUL: Sit down, would you.

  HILDY: I don’t take orders from you.

  PAUL: C’mon. “Honor bound.” “Doing the right thing.” Blah. Blah. Blah. Nelson Mandela wouldn’t just give up after a little spat.

  HILDY: You’re unbelievable.

  PAUL: Why, thank you! So sit.

  HILDY: No. Why? You’ve been doing everything you can to infuriate me; now suddenly you want me to stay? How come?

  PAUL: ’Cause we’re almost there! Only thirty-two questions to go…

  PAUL:… which you solemnly promised Jeff you’d answer…

  PAUL:… in the interest of science…

  PAUL: Attagirl.

  HILDY: Shut up and read the next question.

  QUESTION 5

  PAUL: When did you last sing to yourself? And to someone else?

  PAUL: Wow. Mood swing. What are you smiling about all of a sudden?

  HILDY: Funny question.

  PAUL: That’s funny?

  HILDY: Well. Only because I do it a lot. I don’t even mean to. When I was little, my grandmother—like my father’s mother; she’s dead now. Anyway, she used to sing this song about how the war—as in World War Two—was going to end someday, and when that happened, everything was going to be perfect. Love. Laughter. Peace ever after. The whole, like, shebang. Whenever I feel worried, that song just kind of pops into my head and then just kind of pops out my mouth. I’m almost not even aware of singing it. I guess it’s some sort of a self-soothing technique. I probably sang it this morning, or at least hummed it or something.

  PAUL: What have you got to worry about?

  HILDY: What does that mean?

  PAUL: You got a leather satchel and drawing lessons and coffee in, like, bowls and—

  HILDY: Forgive me if this sounds rude, but you have an incredibly shallow understanding of the human psyche.

  PAUL: You mean, unlike Jeff? The, you know, psychologist?

  HILDY: Unlike anybody. I mean, I get it. I’m lucky. Way luckier than most people. But seriously. You really think having enough money to occasionally buy a good-quality handbag is enough to solve all life’s problems?

  PAUL: Sure would love to have the opportunity to find out one of these days. But to answer the actual question, no. I don’t sing to myself.

  HILDY: Never?

  PAUL: Never. Question 6: If you were—

  HILDY: Wait. You’re skipping. There’s a part two. It says, “When did you last sing to yourself? And to someone else?”

  PAUL: This is starting to piss me off. The guy specifically said there were thirty-six questions. That’s what I signed up for. But then it turns out, no, actually there are thirty-six questions plus a shitload of subquestions which I also have to come up with subanswers for. That’s misleading advertising.
/>   HILDY: That’s splitting hairs. And if you just answered truthfully instead of having to “come up” with something, you wouldn’t find it quite so draining. But that’s an aside. I’m just going to answer the question myself. When did I last sing to someone? Hmm. Do dogs count as someone?… Why am I asking you? You don’t care… So I’ll make a ruling myself and say no, in which case Friday evening would be the last time. There’s this little girl I babysit. Hazel. Adorable. I always sing her to sleep. Sometime I sing her a real lullaby. Sometimes, I just take some song I like, slow it down, and then just keep singing it over and over again until she passes out. Okay, you.

  PAUL: A while ago.

  HILDY: Can you be more specific?

  PAUL: Can I or will I?

  HILDY: I can’t force you, obviously, so will you?

  PAUL: No.

  HILDY: Okay, then to whom?

  PAUL: It doesn’t ask to whom.

  HILDY: Was it a female perchance?

  PAUL: Yes, for your information, it was.

  HILDY: Why are you saying it like that?

  PAUL: Like what?

  HILDY: “Yes. It was,” emphasis on the “was.”

  HILDY: Oh, I get it. Was a girl—now a boy? Did your girlfriend transition or something?

  PAUL: Goddamn.

  HILDY: What? That’s not that crazy. You’re not homophobic are you?

  PAUL: No.

  HILDY: Then what’s with the you’re-an-idiot look? Or is that just your resting face?

  PAUL: It’s not my you’re-an-idiot face. It’s my you’re-wrong face with my you’re-really-starting-to-bug-me eyebrows. Can we just move on to the next question? Please.

  HILDY: Gee. You smiled.

  PAUL: Yeah, well, I was desperate.

  HILDY: You should be desperate more often.

  PAUL: So help me if the next thing you say has anything to do with “turning that frown upside down,” I’m out of here.

  HILDY: What are you drawing now? It’s hard to tell from this angle… Oh my! That’s not some type of erotic doodle, is it?

  PAUL: You are so wrong.

  HILDY: Those are definitely women’s legs.

  PAUL: No, they aren’t.

  HILDY: They so are.

  PAUL: No, they aren’t. They’re…

  PAUL:… antlers, see?

  HILDY: Yeah, well, now they are. Very clever.

  HILDY: Oh my god! That’s The Great Prince from Bambi! I love that book!

  PAUL: Bambi’s not a book. It’s a cartoon.

  HILDY: But it was originally a book.

  PAUL: Which nobody but you knows.

  HILDY: Untrue. Millions—no, maybe even billions—of children have read the—

  PAUL: Well, I don’t read. Oh. I forgot to mention that part of my perfect day. Absolutely no reading. Or bickies, whatever the Christ they are.

  HILDY: That’s what the Brits call cookies. My grandmother grew up in the UK and orders them for Christmas and I just love—

  PAUL: Oh, sorry. You misunderstood me. I wasn’t asking.

  HILDY: You know, I think you’re nowhere near as bad as you like to make out. There was this little flicker of real emotion in your eyes when you had to admit you sang to someone, and your smile—I mean, your smile when you’re not being totally obnoxious to me and inexplicably pissed off at the world—is pretty, like, you know, lovely.

  HILDY: Hey, you did it again!

  PAUL: Yeah. Well, don’t get used to it. And the fact that I’m pissed off is not inexplicable. Trust me.

  HILDY: How so?

  PAUL: None of your business. Question 6:

  QUESTION 6

  PAUL: If you were able to live to the age of ninety and retain either the mind or body of a thirty-year-old for the last sixty years of your life, which would you want?

  HILDY: My mind. Obviously. You?

  PAUL: Depends on whose body I get to retain. Can I retain the body of a thirty-year-old female? Every ninety-year-old man’s fantasy.

  HILDY: (Laughs) I’m not sure that’s what “retain” means.

  PAUL: Yeah, well, does to me. And whom would I like to retain? The redhead in that sci-fi movie. Impossible Something or Other.

  HILDY: Impossible Forever? That’s not sci-fi. That’s speculative fiction. Two entirely different things. Sci-fi is—

  PAUL: Yeah, well. I’m speculating she must be about thirty. I wouldn’t mind retaining her. Not against her will, of course. I’m talking about a consensual relationship.

  HILDY: A thirty-year-old movie star and a ninety-year-old you. Consensually? Good luck with that.

  PAUL: Thanks. And good luck with retaining your mind.

  HILDY: (Laughs) Good point.

  QUESTION 7

  HILDY: Why don’t I ask the questions now? Don’t want to get in the way of your artistic pursuits—especially since you’re waaay more docile when you’re drawing.… Who is that, anyway?

  PAUL: You at ninety.

  HILDY: It is not. If anything, that looks more like me now.

  PAUL: Yeah, well, plastic surgery is getting better all the time.

  HILDY: I don’t believe in plastic surgery.

  PAUL: Maybe now you don’t.

  HILDY: Ever. Beauty isn’t just about being young. It’s about—

  PAUL: Yeah. Talk to me when your pretty face starts looking like that cowhide satchel of yours.

  HILDY: I get the feeling that in your world looks and money are all that matters.

  PAUL: In my world. While in your world it’s the—let me guess—spiritual values that really count.

  HILDY: Amongst others.

  PAUL: Well, lucky you. Frankly, I don’t have time for that shit. Speaking of which, if you’re going to ask the questions, do it now or I will.

  HILDY: I don’t feel it’s fair letting you have the last word on that particular issue. You’re making it sound like I’m some pampered kid who’s never had to—

  PAUL: Okay. I’m asking the questions.

  HILDY: No. I am.

  PAUL: Then do it.

  HILDY: (Sigh)

  PAUL: Do you have a secret—

  HILDY: No. It’s my turn. Do you have a secret hunch about how you will die?

  PAUL: Yes. Before I get the chance to retain that thirty-year-old’s body.

  HILDY: This is getting tiresome.

  PAUL: I’m serious. Old ain’t my thing. I’m dying young.

  HILDY: Well, then, how about this? Same way you think I’ll cave and get the plastic surgery, I think you’re just saying that because you’re young. Maybe if you knew what it was like to be old you’d think differently. Maybe it’ll turn out you enjoy the wisdom that comes—

  PAUL: Look. I answered the question. Drop it.

  HILDY: Crabby or what.

  HILDY: Fine… How I’m going to die… Gee. When you think about it, that’s a terrible question. It could be very upsetting for some people. What if one of the participants knew they had cancer or a predisposition to a fatal illness? That might be—

  PAUL: I don’t. Do you?

  HILDY: No.

  PAUL: Okay. So enough with the ten-minute intro then. Answer the question.

  HILDY: Alone.

  PAUL: What?

  HILDY: I think I’ll die alone.

  PAUL: Yeah. So? Everyone dies alone. That’s what they say.

  HILDY: No, I mean, like in an unheated basement apartment with a bunch of mangy cats crawling over my bloated body. That’s the kind of alone I’m talking about.

  PAUL: Right. You’re more likely to be the next Nelson Mandela. And anyway, you got a bunch of mangy cats crawling over you, you’re not alone.

  HILDY: Very funny.

  PAUL: See? Look how much they love you. They’re not crawling over you. They’re comforting you.

  HILDY: (Laughing) Nice drawing. I like the cat with the peg leg.

  PAUL: Yeah. Poor old Tripod. Sucks to be him. He also has a serious smack habit, which is why he has those cords tying off his good l
egs.

  HILDY: That’s terrible.

  PAUL: Yeah, well, he’ll be dead soon, too. Despite the love of a good woman who—side note—he still finds beautiful under all that baggy old skin, he just can’t get his demons under control… I figure you’re the type that takes in the hopeless cases.

  HILDY: And yet, ironically, is still alone.

  PAUL: Yeah… you… alone. I bet you’re ten minutes late for dinner and your parents start calling the police, all frantic and everything.

  HILDY: So? What if they do? I’m not talking about now. I’m talking about later. When I’m older. They’ll probably be dead by then.

  PAUL: Nice.

  HILDY: I don’t mean I want that to happen. I just mean it’s true. They probably will be.

  PAUL: So? There’ll be somebody else to take their place.

  HILDY: How do you know?

  PAUL: Because. It’s obvious. It doesn’t take a genius. You’ll be married to some lawyer or doctor by then.

  HILDY: Like I need some rich guy to look after me.

  PAUL: Okay. Fine. Some starving artist who’s also your soul mate and a loving stay-at-home dad to your three perfect children. That better?

  HILDY: Marriage is not in the cards for me.

  PAUL: Yeah. Right.

  HILDY: You have a totally distorted image of me. And anyway, marriage isn’t everything it’s made out to—

  PAUL: Fine. No husband then. You’ll still have all your friends from work, from book club, from yoga, from girls’ night out, from crafting circle, from Save the Squirrels—

  HILDY: Save the Squirrels? What are you talking about?

  PAUL: From whatever. Doesn’t matter. You’re not going to be lonely. Crazy maybe, but not lonely.

  HILDY: If I didn’t know you were trying to insult me, I’d say you were just saying that to shut me up.

  PAUL: You mean “in a vain attempt” to shut you up.

  PAUL: Oh. Hey. I can’t believe it worked.

  HILDY: I’ve always been terrified of ending up alone.