From Raul Julia’s Romero
Marie is tied to a chair and blindfolded.
I guess it would be too much to ask for my underwear back.
When this is over I’m going to love life. I mean it. I’m going to absolutely love my whole entire life. Every fucking moment of it.
Armando leaves the room.
Armando? Armando, why to you keep leaving?!
Fuck. You’re doing that on purpose. You know I hate it when you do that. All these fucking vague responses.
“I’ll be back.” Where are you going? “I’ll be back.” Fuck. I know you’ll be back. I wish you wouldn’t come back. That would be easier.
One of these days, you’re going to come back and I won’t be here. I might just pick up and go back West. Alex would love the mountains and the beaches. I could find work. Maybe tree planting. Landscaping. I don’t know, something outdoors. My family would help with Alex. I should have gone back years ago, when Alex was born. I don’t know why I didn’t. OK, that’s a lie. I know perfectly well why I didn’t. I wouldn’t have had one fucking moment’s peace, that’s why.
Some people – for whatever reason – feel the need to voice their opinion on a regular basis about things that do not concern them. I don’t get it, either. I don’t get why people have to interfere. I don’t ask people what they do for a living. I don’t suggest to people what they should do with their lives. I don’t tell people how they should raise their kids. I see people doing stupid things all the time, but I don’t go over to them and say, “Excuse me, but you’re doing something really stupid. May I make a suggestion…” I don’t do that. And why don’t I do that? Because I don’t give a flying fuck, really. No, that’s not true. It really bothers me when it’s a kid crying and the parent seems indifferent. That really bothers me. I swear to God, I’d like to physically harm those parents. Why do you think God gave your baby lungs and a voice box, you goddamn moron. Just bend over, pick up your kid.
No really, ever since I had Alex, people have been telling me to ignore every motherly instinct I’ve ever had. I blame Freud, that is who I blame. Ever since Freud, a person can’t get through one lousy, fucked-up, irritating day without someone psychoanalyzing someone, psychoanalyzing movies, psychoanalyzing children, psychoanalyzing dogs, psychoanalyzing psychoanalysts.
But, it’s more than that. I think some people really just don’t like their kids. I never liked kids, until I had one.
I think of mother bears. No one tells them to ignore their instincts. No one fucks with them. Man I would just love to be a mother bear. The first person who crosses my path when my cub is with me… Ya, I don’t think they’d be offering me advice too quickly about how not to overprotect my son. I don’t think they’d be stopping to mention that I might be slightly over-reacting. No, I don’t think so. Assholes. I’d like to tear their heads off.
Armando, I’m getting really hungry here. You know, when I suggested this, I did not mean for me to be tied up in one room and you to be SOMEWHERE FUCKING ELSE!! Jesus, what the fuck are you doing? This isn’t torture. This is neglect. Fucking passive aggressive people, they are the worst. I should have known I couldn’t trust you.
Who picked this chair? No, I take that back. Who designed this chair? Jesus, I cannot think why someone thought this would be a good place to sit. Maybe it looks good. I sure as hell hope so. I’m wondering why I cannot hear a single thing.
They say we spend, what, eight years of our lives sitting on the toilet. Something like that. Three years waiting at red lights. Twenty years sleeping. Three quarters of a century being tortured by those we love.
It’s great to be alive, really.
I think that I’ve been grinding my teeth again because I have a really sore jaw. Fuck. I want to go home. Where am I? No, really, where the fuck am I? I suddenly need to go home. OK, this is not good. I just want to make a cup of coffee in my own kitchen with my own coffee beans and my own cup and my own little filter thing and I just want to sit in my own chair and when I’m finished my coffee I’m going to scrub the damn floor or something. Shit. Shit. Shit! I can’t breathe. I can’t hear anything. It’s like saran wrap on my head. OK, I know what to do. You squeeze each muscle, one at a time, muscle group, fuck, whatever, and then relax them. I will simply start in my feet and move up through the body and this will definitely work, I know it will.
I will get through this, just like you did. And I will finally understand, and then we can love each other without–
OK, who thought of this stupid idea? Now I have a cramp in my foot. Armando? Armando!! Jesus. Ow. Ow. Ow!!!!!
[From Raul Julia’s Romero.]
© Elizabeth Anne French 2017