Miserable Love Stories

by Alex Bernstein

  “Who assumes it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What?”

  “Third base!”

  “You lost me.”

  “Why is it assumed?”

  “Because—because it’s—natural. It’s normal. It’s just naturally assumed that you’re—perfectly fine. Normal.”

  “According to who?!”

  “Society. Society. That’s who. Jesus.”

  “Look. Let me ask you—if I felt compatible with my own gender, wouldn’t you want me to tell you that? To confess that?”

  “If you were—?”

  “Say it.”

  “Gay.”

  “Yes.”

  “I—Sure. I mean—sure—I don’t know. I guess so. If you felt like it. I mean—if I couldn’t already figure it out for myself. Sure. But I’ve always been pretty goddamn sure that—”

  “What if you weren’t so sure about it? What if you didn’t know—and it kept you up at night, worrying about it? Wouldn’t you appreciate the clarity?”

  “I don’t know. I guess so. But that’s not the situation—”

  “Well, I’m clarifying it for you, anyway. That I feel compatible—”

  “With people of the opposite gender. I get it. I get it.”

  “Great.”

  “Is that it?”

  “Sure.”

  “Sure?”

  “I thought having this conversation would give us—I don’t know—a moment of understanding.”

  “Okay.”

  “And also, by having this conversation—this moment of understanding—I’m expressing solidarity with all of my friends who somehow currently feel the need to confess whatever stupid shit that they’re currently confessing. I mean, if some people should feel compelled to confess, then why shouldn’t we all confess? Or maybe we should all just confess that none of us really knows anything about ourselves.”

  “Carrie—”

  “And honestly? The whole confession thing? I find abhorrent. Seriously. I don’t know why anyone should have to confess to who they like or don’t like. It’s insane to me. So, I figured if one person should have to do it—then everyone should do it. So. So, that’s why I’m telling you all of this.”

  “Carrie.”

  “What?”

  “Who came out?”

  “What?”

  “Carrie . . .”

  “It’s not about—”

  “Carrie.”

  “. . . Jason.”

  “Ah. Okay.”

  “That’s not what this is about.”

  “Honey.”

  “It’s not a big deal.”

  “Honey. Carrie. I’m so sorry.”

  “I just—I just—I just feel so—”

  “I know.”

  “Stupid.”

  “I know. I get it.”

  “God dammit.”

  “Honey. Carrie. You know that I would support anything you do.”

  “I know.”

  “Any decisions you would ever make in this regard.”

  “I know. I know. Thanks. Thank you.”

  “And sometimes life just fuckin’ sneaks up on you.”

  “I know.”

  “And it’s going to do that over and over and over. You should get used to it.”

  “I know.”

  “Carrie.”

  “I know.”

  “I know you know.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  The Eight-Hour Kiss

  A LOVELY SUMMER EVENING IN THE EARLY 1960S. TWO AWKWARD teenagers, TIM and DEBBIE, both 16, sit next to each other on a large couch on Debbie’s front porch. There is a large clock hanging near the front door which reads: 12 am (midnight). Light sounds of the night—CRICKETS CHIRPING, an occasional BULLFROG—can be heard. They look out at the stars.

  TIM: Thanks for coming to the mixer with me tonight, Deb. It was sure a lot of fun.

  DEBBIE: It sure was.

  They sit awkwardly for a moment.

  TIM: Great—great porch you’ve got here!

  DEBBIE: Thanks.

  They relax, slightly, and say nothing. We hear their thoughts in VOICEOVER.

  TIM (VO): Okay. Okay. I think—I think I can do this. I think—I could try—to—to—to actually—kiss her.

  DEBBIE (VO): (gazing at the stars) Oh look—Saturn is at its greatest eastern elongation. How lovely.

  TIM (VO): I’m just gonna . . . just gonna . . . reach over . . . here I go . . . nice and smooth—

  He does nothing.

  DEBBIE (VO): Probably no impact on the tides, though.

  DEBBIE: Are you—are you comfortable?

  TIM: Oh—oh sure! You?

  DEBBIE: Uh huh.

  TIM (VO): Nice and smooth—just put your arm around her . . . one . . . two . . . three . . .

  He does nothing. BLACKOUT. Lights come back up. The large clock now reads: 1 am. Tim and Debbie are still frozen in the exact same spot.

  TIM (VO): One . . . two . . . one . . . one . . . one . . . two . . . one . . . okay . . . okay . . .

  TIM: I—I always did love all the sounds of the summer.

  DEBBIE: Me, too.

  The SOUNDS of the night grow louder. Debbie, in particular, listens.

  TIM (VO): Okay—I’m gonna do it. Here we go.

  He does nothing.

  DEBBIE (VO): Say, that’s the mating call of the Rana catesbeiana—or as we more commonly refer to it—the Canadian true bullfrog.

  TIM (VO): I’m really gonna do it now! I really am!

  DEBBIE (VO): Why—it’s a complete chorus!

  TIM (VO): Okay—I can do this—I can do this! I can! (beat) I can’t do this! Why do I have to do it? Why can’t she do it? This is the early 1960’s! She could be assertive!

  DEBBIE (VO): Alright. I guess I’d better take charge.

  Debbie touches Tim’s knee ever so slightly with her knee. Tim becomes aware of this. Debbie smiles to herself. Tim goes white, terrified. He doesn’t move.

  TIM (VO): Did—she just touch my knee?!

  DEBBIE: (sighing) Ahhh . . .

  TIM (VO): If she touched my knee, then that means . . . something!

  DEBBIE (VO): He’d better not move his knee.

  TIM (VO): I better not move my knee.

  DEBBIE (VO): He’d better not move that knee.

  TIM (VO): Is it moving? Is my knee moving? Did I just move it? Was that a movement?

  A FLY buzzes around. They notice.

  DEBBIE: Could you hand me that flyswatter?

  Tim looks around for the swatter.

  DEBBIE: It’s over there.

  She points to the ground, on Tim’s side. He reaches for it. He can’t reach it without moving his leg. He strains. He strains. He gets it. He gives it to her. She swats the fly quickly, efficiently. Tim perspires heavily.

  DEBBIE: Got it.

  BLACKOUT. Lights come back up. The large clock reads: 2 am. They are still frozen in the exact same spot.

  TIM (VO): I can’t feel my leg. I CAN’T FEEL MY LEG!

  TIM stares at his leg. His leg starts nervously twitching. They both stare at it.

  DEBBIE: You okay?

  TIM: Sure.

  DEBBIE: Tim—do you want a Coke?

  TIM: Okay.

  She reaches behind the couch, without barely moving, and withdraws two already opened cold Coke bottles from a cooler. She hands him a Coke.

  TIM: Thanks.

  DEBBIE: My pleasure.

  TIM: You always keep a cooler of Cokes right behind the ole couch, huh?

  DEBBIE: For whenever company comes over.

  Awkward long beat.

  DEBBIE: Having fun?

  TIM: Sure! You?

  DEBBIE: Uh huh!

  TIM: Great night!

  DEBBIE: Sure is!

  They both continue sitting, quietly and frozen. She glances at him, peripherally. He smiles, awkwardly.

  TIM (VO): Okay . . . Okay . . . here we go . . . here we go . . .

  Fin
ally, with full determination, Tim reaches over, slowly, cautiously and extends his arm around Debbie. Debbie smiles and puts her head on his shoulder. Tim smiles triumphant. (Beat.) Tim realizes that the arm around Debbie has the Coke in it. He stares at the Coke. The Coke stares at him. Debbie doesn’t even notice. He forgets about it.

  TIM (VO): Now—now, I definitely absolutely have to kiss her. That’s the thing to do!

  He does nothing.

  BLACKOUT. Lights come back up. The large clock reads: 3 am. They are still frozen in the exact same spot. The Coke dangles from Tim’s hand, spilling out.

  TIM (VO): I’m gonna do it. I’m really really really really really really really gonna do it. I am. I mean it. Here we go. Here we go.

  DEBBIE (VO): I think my shoulder’s cramping.

  TIM: It’s—it’s an awfully nice night.

  DEBBIE: It sure is.

  TIM (VO): God—it’s so late! I should’ve been home hours ago! My parents will kill me!

  DEBBIE (VO): Good thing my parents never check up on me. They’re so progressive!

  TIM (VO): I—I—I have to do this!

  DEBBIE (VO): He’d better kiss me soon. I have to teach aqua aerobics in the morning.

  BLACKOUT. Lights come back up. The large clock reads: 4 am. They are still frozen in the exact same spot. They’re beginning to look exhausted.

  DEBBIE (VO): Kiss me! Just kiss me! I have to go to sleep!

  TIM (VO): Just . . . kiss . . . her . . . just . . . kiss . . . her . . . just . . . just . . . get it over with—

  DEBBIE: I can’t remember having such a wonderful evening.

  TIM: Me neither.

  DEBBIE (VO): You don’t have to floss—you don’t have to brush your teeth—just—

  TIM (VO): I . . . I can do this!

  DEBBIE (VO): Kiss me! Jesus Christ! Just do it!

  TIM (VO): Now!

  BLACKOUT. Lights come back up. The large clock reads: 5 am. They are still frozen in the exact same spot. Tim and Debbie now show serious signs of exhaustion.

  TIM (VO): Flintstones, meet the Flintstones—

  DEBBIE (VO): They’re creepy and they’re kooky—

  TIM (VO): They’re the modern stone-age family—

  DEBBIE (VO): Mysterious and spooky—

  TIM (VO): From the town of bedrock—

  DEBBIE (VO): They’re all together ooky—

  DEBBIE: All good?

  TIM: Yup.

  TIM (VO): Oh God. Oh God. I’ve—I’ve been staring at her nose way too long.

  DEBBIE (VO): Why can’t I meet real men?

  TIM (VO): Hello, Mr. Mole. Are you—are you a mole—or a beauty mark?

  DEBBIE (VO): Why can’t I meet real boys?

  TIM (VO): You have two big hairs—and—and—are you cancerous, Mr. Mole?

  DEBBIE (VO): He’s never going to kiss me. If he kisses me—I’ll bet I throw up. If I throw up, I wonder if he’ll stop kissing me? Nah.

  TIM (VO): Okay—okay—getting a second wind. I can do this. I—I—I—I—I—

  BLACKOUT. Lights come back up. The large clock reads: 6 am. They are still frozen in the exact same spot.

  TIM (VO): I hate her.

  DEBBIE (VO): I hate him.

  TIM (VO): Bitch!

  DEBBIE (VO): Asshole!

  DEBBIE: (hyperactively) Nice night!

  TIM: (hyperactively) Sure is!

  TIM (VO): I can’t feel my arm!

  DEBBIE (VO): I wish he’d move his fucking arm!

  TIM (VO): I’m sorry, Tim, but I’m afraid you’re going to lose that arm. I’m afraid we’ve got to amputate—

  Debbie subtly jabs her head against his arm several times, trying to hurt him. Tim doesn’t even notice.

  DEBBIE (VO): What are you—a masochistic? Take a hint!

  TIM: Gettin’ tired?!

  DEBBIE: No, no—you?

  TIM: Not at all!

  DEBBIE (VO): KISS ME OR GO HOME!

  BLACKOUT. Lights come back up. The large clock reads: 7 am. They are still frozen in the exact same spot. They look horrific. Huge dark rings under their eyes. Debbie slowly drifts asleep, while Tim keeps closing his eyes and then waking up, suddenly, with a start.

  TIM (VO): Uh—uh—uh—uh—uh—uh—uh—uh—uh—uh—uh—uh—uh—uh—uh—uh—uh—

  DEBBIE (VO): Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh—

  BLACKOUT. Lights come back up. The large clock reads: 8 am. They are still frozen in the exact same spot. They both look like they’re at death’s door and fall in and out of stupor. Tim blinks his eyes open. He looks at his watch and anxiously sees the time.

  TIM: Uh . . . Debbie? Debbie? I gotta . . . I gotta go—

  Debbie nods, semi-understanding.

  DEBBIE: You do?

  TIM: Uh . . . yeah . . .

  DEBBIE (VO): Oh my gosh! He spent the whole night here!

  TIM (VO): I can’t believe I stayed here the whole night.

  TIM: Uhm . . . that was an awfully fun . . . something.

  DEBBIE: Yeah—yes.

  TIM: What are you doing tomorrow—I mean—tonight?

  DEBBIE: Tonight? Oh, I’m not sure.

  TIM: Can I—call you?

  DEBBIE: Uh . . . sure . . . okay . . .

  With great pain and stiffness, he starts to get up. Debbie looks at him. Their eyes meet. He tenses and moves towards her in slow motion, their faces coming closer and closer together for a goodnight peck, but their faces collide in a full-on kiss. The kiss continues in a stiff lock, with neither having the energy to pull apart.

  TIM (VO): So—tired.

  DEBBIE (VO): So—tired.

  TIM/DEBBIE (VO): Can’t—move!

  They remain frozen together, locked in their kiss.

  A Clean Break

  EARLY SEPTEMBER 1996. MID-DAY.

  I’m driving down the I-40 W, just outside Knoxville, trying to quietly listen to the Allman Brothers. In the backseat Chloe blares The Breeders’ Cannonball from the mini-speaker attached to her Walkman. Elle, near her, absently reads People magazine.

  “Would you guys mind turning that down—”

  “Yes,” says Chloe. “We mind.”

  “Uh,” I say, “it’s kind of distracting and hard to concentrate on the—”

  “Shut the fuck up, Milo! You have one job here—to drive. That’s it. So just shut the fuck up and drive. Do the one thing you seem mildly capable of without fucking it up.”

  “You don’t have to be so hostile,” I yell over the music.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You don’t have to be so—”

  “Don’t fuckin’ tell me how hostile or not hostile I should be. You’re the last person on this planet that should be telling anyone how to fucking act.”

  Losing patience, I slow the car, and head towards the shoulder.

  “Don’t you fucking pull over,” says Chloe.

  Nervously, I veer back to the highway, only slightly returning to the legal speed limit.

  “You pull over again and I will climb up there and—”

  “Chloe!” Elle finally interrupts. “Enough!”

  Chloe turns and scowls out the window.

  “Look,” I say, “if we’re going to do this together—can we at least try to be civil?”

  A moment. Nothing. And then—Chloe explodes. She screams. She kicks repeatedly at the back of my seat.

  “Civil? Civil?!” she yells.

  I pull over to the shoulder. Chloe regards me, hatefully. Elle, unhappy, looks out the window at nothing.

  “Look,” I say. “I know—I know I’ve been a dick, but this is—fucking insane. If you can’t control yourself—I’m happy to take you both to the nearest bus stop and let you figure out your own way home. Elle? Am I right? Is this not insane? I’m sorry, but I don’t deserve this.”

  Chloe glares at me. I ignore her.

  “Elle?”

  Elle steels herself and looks at me—a wave of restrained hurt across her face.

&nbs
p; “Can you give us a minute?” she says.

  I get out of the car, taking the keys with me, and sit on the front hood in the hot, baking sun. I hear them in the back seat, whispering. Chloe is pissed, but now so is Elle. I look back and see Chloe, stewing, turn and stare out the window.

  “Fine,” she says. “Fine. Whatever.”

  Elle, Chloe, and I had been on the road for two days now. The trip wasn’t supposed to be like this. The trip, originally, was supposed to be just Elle and me, blissfully, happily traveling west to our new home, where eventually we’d marry and settle down and raise kids.

  But of course, all of that changed when I broke up with her.

  Elle and I had been dating steadily and were fairly inseparable for the previous two years. We did everything together. We had the same sense of humor, loved the same food, music, drugs. Finished each other’s sentences. We were so goddamn cute together that most of our friends wanted nothing to do with us.

  We had made plans to move to Los Angeles earlier in the year. Ozzie—one of my best friends from college—had a sure-fire job opportunity waiting for me at his production company, and he knew about some decent, affordable housing near him. He could help set Elle and I up, no problem. It was going to be a whole new incredible life.

  With the big move looming, Elle and I spent the summer apart. She gave up her Chelsea apartment and crap retail job to do a summer advertising internship in Chicago, while I remained at Murray Hill working short-term data entry jobs and getting production assistant gigs whenever I could. Over the summer I would secure a car for us, and then, in September, we’d meet back up and road trip out west.

  However, when Elle returned to New York a weird thing happened. I started having panic attacks. Anxiety. I couldn’t sleep at night. The traffic and street noises that were usually just white noise to me were now deafening. I was feeling constant, intense claustrophobia. It wasn’t something I could explain verbally. I just knew, somehow, I couldn’t move out west with her.

  So, I told her, and it was abrupt and devastating. I told her that I was incredibly, incredibly sorry. She was stunned, hurt, shocked, overwhelmed. She had quit her job, given up her apartment, uprooted her entire life to move out to Los Angeles with me and now I’d ruined everything.

  “You quit your job to take the Chicago internship,” I reminded her, hopefully.

  “I took the internship because I thought we were leaving New York.”

  Our break-up didn’t just piss Elle off, it also pissed off all of her friends—“our” friends—none more so than excitable, manic Chloe with her ever-changing patch of dyed hair (this week, pink). To Chloe, this was the greatest betrayal imaginable and she hated me for it. Hated me. Detested me. And so, it was her idea that, at the very least, I owed Elle a full trip from New York to Los Angeles—and any other weird, roadside Americana stops in between.