Miserable Love Stories

by Alex Bernstein

  He helps me into the passenger seat, buckles me in.

  “Well, you could do that,” he says, “and there’d prolly be a lot of media noise and yer wife and kids would hear the whole crazy thing. Young buck at a bar meets up with—”

  “Stop! Stop it!” I say, helplessly, as he returns to the driver’s side.

  He looks at me and grins, gregariously.

  “Coffee?” he says, offering me a cup.

  I stare at him.

  “. . . sure,” I say, defeated.

  I take the coffee and we drive on.

  He turns on a local country and western station and whistles tunelessly as he drives.

  “She doesn’t love you,” I say.

  “Maybe. Maybe not,” he says. “Comes back a lot after some ugly nights with dudes like you.”

  “Like me?”

  “Oh hell, you ain’t the first guy got tossed in the port-a-ledge!”

  And he laughs heartily all the way back to the motel.

  Mother Pays a Visit

  JEFF AND BETH SETTLE COZILY ONTO THE COUCH WITH Chinese food and prepare to watch TV. Jeff glances over at Beth, and flirts with her. She flirts back.

  JEFF: I’m glad we got to spend more time together this weekend.

  BETH: Me too. It’s been great.

  They watch TV. Jeff puts his arm around her. They look into each other’s eyes, snuggle closer, as if about to kiss. Suddenly, a screeching, bird-like VOICE comes from offstage.

  MOM (OS): Jeff!? Jeff! Are you home?!

  JEFF: Oh no.

  BETH: Maybe if we’re quiet, she’ll go away . . . ?

  MOM: Jeff?! Is that you? Are you here?! I love you! It’s your mother, Jeff! Are you in there?

  JEFF’S MOM enters in baggy housecoat and loaded down with several large suitcases. When she talks, she sounds like a broken, skipping record.

  MOM: There you are! It’s me, Jeff! Your mother! I love you! Who’s this?! Who’s this?!

  JEFF: It’s Beth, Mom. You’ve met, like, five times.

  MOM: I’m his mother! I love him! Do you love him?

  BETH: (embarrassed) Uhm . . . well . . . uh . . .

  MOM: I love him! I’m his mother!

  JEFF: I didn’t know you were here, Mom.

  MOM: I yelled! From outside!

  JEFF: I guess I didn’t hear you.

  MOM: I yelled twenty-seven times! Since early this morning?

  BETH: What did you say?

  Jeff glares at Beth. She smiles, innocently.

  MOM: “JEFF! THIS IS YOUR MOTHER! I LOVE YOU! THIS IS YOUR MOTHER!”

  JEFF: Wow. I guess I just didn’t hear you.

  Mom suddenly withdraws a large knife out of one of her suitcases and threatens them with it.

  MOM: YOU DIDN’T?! I COULD KILL YOU!

  There is a short moment of intense fear.

  MOM: Just kidding. I love him! I’m his mother!

  She puts the knife away. They relax, slightly.

  JEFF: Why don’t you go upstairs and get some rest, Mom?

  MOM: Oh no! I’ll just stay here! I’ll stay here with you!

  BETH: (to Jeff) Maybe we could find her a hotel?

  MOM: (pulling out knife again) Jeff! Jeff! I don’t like her! I DON’T LIKE HER!

  Another moment of intense fear.

  MOM: Just kidding. Do you love him?

  Beth grits her teeth.

  BETH: Uhm—that’s such a strong—

  MOM: I love him, too!

  BETH: You’re his mother!

  MOM: Right! That’s me!

  Suddenly, Mom drops all her suitcases, opens one up and starts rifling through it. She tosses clothes all over the room looking for whatever she is looking for.

  MOM: Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait! It’s here! I know it’s here! I know it! I just know it’s here! WAIT! Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait! I know it’s here! I know it’s here!

  She stops for a moment and looks up.

  MOM: I’m his mother.

  Mom dives back into her bags.

  MOM: AH HAH!

  Triumphantly, she pulls out a DVD.

  MOM: Deadpool!

  She puts it in the DVD player, nearby, turns it on, and sits down. She opens another suitcase, which is full of nothing but popcorn. She eats and watches TV.

  BETH: I’ve never seen Deadpool.

  MOM: Great movie! Stay and watch!

  JEFF: (to Beth) Maybe we should go out?

  MOM: STAY AND WATCH!

  BETH: Why don’t we stay and watch for a while?

  They stay and watch. The movie comes on. After a moment, Mom leans over and talks to Jeff. He is annoyed by her talking during the movie.

  MOM: How are you? You look well. Grampa bought a new car! It has a stick shift. I can’t drive a stick shift!

  JEFF: (whispering) Shh . . . not during the movie, Mom.

  MOM: What’s Bunco?! Everyone plays Bunco.

  BETH: I think it’s a game drunk Soccer Moms play.

  MOM: Bunco! Bunco! Bunco!

  JEFF: Don’t encourage her.

  MOM: When I was young, I had a kitten!

  JEFF: Mom, please—

  MOM: Her name was Snowball!

  JEFF: Shhh . . .

  MOM: Snowball got hit by a car! BAM! No more Snowball! Ha ha.

  JEFF: MOM, SHUT UP!

  Beat. Mom looks hurt. Like she may cry. Jeff looks apologetic.

  JEFF: Sorry. I’m sorry. It’s been a rough day.

  Mom smiles. They all sit back and watch the movie. Mom starts singing.

  MOM: Raindrops on roses and soft woolen mittens. Flowers and laundry and two hundred kittens. Tie them all up with a big piece of string. These are a few of my favorite things.

  She starts eating lots of popcorn while she sings.

  MOM: Basketball, horseshoes, and watching the Beaver. Buying a new car and getting a fever. Pinching the waiter and having a fling. These are a few of my favorite—

  Abruptly, she starts choking on popcorn. They watch her without helping. She chokes, falls to the ground, spazzes a bit—

  MOM: Jeff! Jeff! I’m choking! I’m choking! I’m—Jeff! Jeff! This is your mother! I love you! I—I—I—

  She chokes. Finally, Jeff smacks her on the back. She coughs out a piece of popcorn and passes out. They wait a second and then Jeff presses his fingers next to her throat, checking her pulse.

  JEFF: . . . She’s fine.

  BETH: Want to finish the movie?

  JEFF: Sure.

  Pets

  LIVING IN BROOKLYN WAS A LOT LIKE BEING MARRIED. Nick and I had already lived together for a year by then. So, after one more year in Brooklyn we were about as domestic as you get. We never talked about marriage because that was a subject that was forbidden, taboo. At twenty-two each, we both knew we were too young to even think about marriage. So instead, we tried to live life to its fullest and never uttered the M-word that seemed to hang so heavily over our apartment.

  We had a lot of pets that second year. A dog, two cats and, ultimately, a tank of fish.

  We both talked a lot about getting a dog. But what we really wanted was a cute, perfectly housebroken Cocker Spaniel puppy. However, the North Shore Animal League was all out of those. So, instead we got a mutt—some twenty-breed mix that no one could exactly identify. They thought he was probably a Labrador-Beagle mix with a hint of Terrier in there, but we guessed he was just a mutt, through and through. He was no puppy. He had at least a few years on him, and he certainly wasn’t housebroken.

  We named him Derby. Derby was a lot of fun for a few weeks. Then he was just exhausting. And Nick and I decided we didn’t want the responsibility of having to take care of a poor dog in a small Brooklyn apartment when we both had to work long hours. So, we took him back to North Shore Animal League.

  Then Nick said let’s try a cat (because you don’t have to take care of cats—they take care of themselves, which seemed much more in l
ine with our lifestyle). So, I said sure, let’s get a cat, and back we went to North Shore, because we were always intensely broke and their pets were free! This time, we got two cats: a golden tan one and a dark grey one. “Domestic longhairs” is what they were listed as, but let’s face it, they were the cat versions of mutts. We named them Fritz and Felix.

  Our new cats were extremely bored and sinister and shedding all the time. They shed absolutely everywhere, and I spent most evenings vacuuming cat hair off of everything. The tan one, Felix, used to perch on top of my stereo. I always forgot to put the dust cover over the turntable and he’d just sit up there on top of Elvis Costello’s Punch the Clock and yawn and stretch and scratch away half of side one’s tunes.

  However, you couldn’t hate the cats. I could. But you couldn’t. Nick was right, I never really felt like they were our cats. I wanted something we could get more involved with and take care of, by ourselves. That was really ours to raise.

  So, we bought fish.

  We were very excited about the fish. We bought a $30 tank set with a four-gallon tank and a fluorescent light fixture and an air filter and colored gravel and a little sunken chest. We put it on a special table in the kitchen we bought just for our new aquarium. We bought all sorts of fish: red fish, blue fish, one fish, two fish, Neon tetras, goldfish and a catfish that would clamp itself up against the side of the tank and you couldn’t tell if it was just cool like that—or dead. I think for a long time he was just cool and then, a bit later, dead, because at one point he just started rotting. But that was much later, after everything went green.

  For the longest time we took really great care of those fish. I found the effect of watching them incredibly soothing. It was almost like watching tv, but more spiritual and holistic and centering. And, of course, no commercials.

  The real drag to owning fish was that once a week we’d have to change the water. You’d have to take out all the fish and put them in some temporary fish-holding appliance, a pot or a vase or Ziploc Freezer bags that always accidentally started leaking everywhere, and then you’d empty the four-gallon tank, clean it out thoroughly, and then refill it. So, we’d do that every couple of weeks. Then every third week. Then every other month or so. Then . . . less than that.

  So, the tank started to turn a deep shade of green and moss started to cover the top of the water. Nick told me he thought we might be cutting off their air, but I was pretty sure that all the stuff on top was algae and that they were eating it. So, now, instead of a fish tank, we had a small, organic pond in our kitchen. I was actually kind of proud of that in a way. We weren’t even feeding them at this point. But they seemed to be doing pretty well for themselves, just living their lives (except that catfish).

  And I got bored again and didn’t want fish anymore. There was no motivation to take care of them. In fact, I realized, I was done with pets. I’d had it.

  Soon, our lease ended, and we decided to move out of Brooklyn, and we knew that we had to get rid of all of the pets. Nick gave the cats to some friends. I flushed the fish. No remorse.

  Shortly after that, Nick and I broke up. Our breaking up was a lot like a slingshot effect, where it was very intense near the end, then it just broke and it was over.

  Right before the end, Nick admitted that he had thought about having kids with me. He had never thought about doing anything like that before, but he had thought about doing it with me. He liked the idea and thought I would’ve made a good parent. I was really touched by the thought. I beamed. For a moment, ignoring my relationships with the dog, cats and fish, I thought to myself, he’s right.

  I bet I would make a good mom.

  The Brittany Clarke Interview

  THE TAWNY RUMAINE SHOW IN PROGRESS. TAWNY PLAYS host to famous actress BRITTANY CLARKE.

  TAWNY: We’re back! So. Brittany. Brittany Clarke!

  BRIT: Yes.

  TAWNY: This was it. This was the year that Brittany Clarke took a second-rate character—Joan Johnson—on the completely forgettable show, Still Married!, which turned her into an icon.

  BRIT: Well, it wasn’t just me—

  TAWNY: (to audience) Did she not revolutionize television?! Yes! Yes, she did!

  BRIT: Thanks, but you know in my new movie, I play a very different—

  TAWNY: Now. It was an issue before Joan, yes? But let’s face it—it was Tee-A-Boo.

  BRIT: That’s—that’s right.

  TAWNY: Whose idea was it? Who said—let’s give Joan Johnson anal warts?

  BRIT: It—

  TAWNY: Was that an idea?! Who said let’s make an entire year of plot revolve around Joan’s anal warts?!

  BRIT: Not me.

  TAWNY: No?

  BRIT: Well, the show’s a team effort. The producer, Al Tandy. The writers, Jason, Phoebe and—

  TAWNY: Your husband—

  BRIT: Ex—

  TAWNY: Ex-husband—Mandy Notrob! Wow! He could see the impact warts would have on the American mind! How did he know? What made him think—Britty and warts?

  BRIT: Well, we were fighting, actually.

  TAWNY: Yes, you were!

  BRIT: I’d become friends with—

  TAWNY: Jerry Davici! Who wouldn’t cheat on their husbands with Jerry Davici? I would!

  BRIT: Yes, well, of course, Mandy found out. And the next day, Joan—

  TAWNY: Had anal warts!

  BRIT: Right.

  TAWNY: Wow! So, you think he knew? That you and Joan and Still Married! would explode?! So to speak?

  BRIT: Yes. I think that was his plan, actually. Hey—I brought a clip of my new—

  TAWNY: Zwerdansk—a major pharmaceutical—asks Brittany to become spokesperson for their new product Anal Wart Away. But Britty says no!

  BRIT: Well—

  TAWNY: Millions of anal wart sufferers—women mostly—are now looking to you as a role model. Doesn’t it make sense, then—

  BRIT: Okay. Okay. Look. Let me just say, the last year of Still Married! was one of the most exciting, challenging years of my life. I can’t tell you how moved I was by all the love and support from my fans. But—and I want to be clear about this—I do not have anal warts. I’m a thin, healthy, Hollywood actress who makes a living playing a tired, bitchy, mid-western housewife—

  TAWNY: With anal warts.

  BRIT: Had! Had anal warts! We took care of it! Remember?!

  TAWNY: Of course! We were there with you all the way, girl! Doctor’s visits, wart inspections, scrapings and burnings, your four-episode, thirty-six-hour surgery!

  BRIT: Joan’s free and clear, now! Just like me!

  TAWNY: Now—you’ve just won your first Emmy.

  BRIT: I did.

  TAWNY: What a dress! Versace?

  BRIT: Yes.

  TAWNY: I noticed, in your acceptance speech . . . you didn’t mention warts.

  BRIT: Look—

  TAWNY: (to audience) Questions for Britty?!

  A FRUMPY WOMAN in the audience stands and is handed a microphone.

  FRUMPY WOMAN: Brittany, I’ve had anal warts for thirty years. But because of you, I’m not embarrassed anymore. Honey! Kids! It wasn’t back trouble! It was warts! Big ones! With hair! Just like Brittany!

  TAWNY: Such an inspiration you’ve been!

  BRIT: Okay. Look—I know—each and every one of you has anal warts. I know you’re proud of me and you all want to share. But I don’t have warts! Or moles! Or boils! Or fungusy patches! Nothing! I have a perfect, perfectly healthy anus! And if I did have anal warts, I’d be so disgusted with myself, I’d probably blow my brains out!

  TAWNY: Alright! Let’s talk about that new movie!

  BRIT: New movie? Right! Yes. Right.

  TAWNY: Baste and Murder!

  BRIT: Yes!

  TAWNY: Which opens today in theatres across the country—

  BRIT: That’s—that’s right.

  TAWNY: You play tough, leggy detective—Maggie Anjowski—

  BRIT: Yes. Right—a detective—
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br />   TAWNY: With anal warts!?

  BRIT: No!

  TAWNY: Did they get you special chairs?

  BRIT: I—

  TAWNY: With fluffy cushions?

  BRIT: No! No! Look! Look! Wait—

  Brittany stands, starts trying to remove her pants. Tawny grabs her. They struggle.

  TAWNY: And that’s all the time we have! We’ll see you tomorrow on Tawny Rumaine!

  The Deli Chick

  6PM. SUNDAY. LATE DECEMBER. DRIFTWOOD PRICE CHOPPER. At the deli counter.

  “Quarter pound of bologna, half a pound of Swiss. Finlandia,” I say.

  “Alpine Lace is better,” says the Deli Chick.

  “Yeah?”

  “On sale, too.”

  “It’s good?”

  “Everyone says it’s the best.”

  “I’ll take half a pound.”

  “Honey ham’s on sale, too. Boar’s Head.”

  “Too oily. And he hates it.”

  “Try this.”

  She carves off a sliver. It’s good. Nearby, Ryan, my eight-year-old, shoves a giant carving board into the cart.

  “Ryan, put it back.”

  “It’s bamboo. Hard bamboo. The whole thing!”

  “We have, like, ten carving boards!”

  “Really?” asks the Deli Chick, impressed. She chomps her gum like a roller-derby queen.

  “No, not really,” I say. “Maybe four. Of different sizes, though.”

  “The bamboo ones are better,” she says. “Stronger.”

  “See?!” says Ryan.

  “Better for the environment, too,” she says.

  “See?!” says Ryan.

  “How’s a regular carving board bad for the environment?” I ask.

  “Well, forgetting the plastic ones, even the pine and oak ones wear out quickly. Whereas these are made out of—”

  “Bamboo?”

  “Which is a more plentiful resource, lasts five times as long, and is much easier to wash. Not that I’m saying you should get one . . .” Chomp chomp.

  “See?” says Ryan.

  “If you say ‘see!’ one more time, I’m going to put you through that meat grinder,” I say.

  “See see see see see see see see see see see,” he says. “Put me through the meat grinder! Put me through the grinder!”