Turnabout Is Fair Play

Here's a short story that I wrote in a fevered dream back on Saturday, October 26, 1991 while living in Ohtawara-shi, Tochigi-ken, Japan...  I wrote this in the 2nd person a la Bright Lights Big City... if you are not sure what 2nd person is... you will be when you read it: By the way... the reference to the World Trade Center... that was me being eerily prophetic by 10 years. Nuts.

 TURNABOUT IS FAIR PLAY

By Andrew S. Joseph 

There you lie. Sprawled out on your couch, not quite interested in eating that box of Black Magic chocolates, and not quite interested in what is behind the curtain Carol is standing in front of. Depressed again. Alone. Words synonymous with the very fiber of your existence.

Sitting in your darkened room, surrounded by your life - shunning all but yourself and your own shallow needs. Pitiful, isn't it? But... what can you do about it?

He's still here in your apartment.

Although he had physically moved out months ago, there were still vestiges of him about. To remove them would be an admittance of its finality.

Nothing has gone according to plan since he broke up with you. He was an asshole, though. He never understood your wants... your needs. It was always him, him, him!

You wonder if he thinks about you and the time you spent together. You quickly push that thought from your mind. Why dwell on something you can't know?

The telephone rings.

Awaken from their slovenly routine, your fingers grope aimlessly for the receiver hidden under today's Boston Globe. Someone blew up the World Trade Center yesterday.

The phone rings again. Somali warlords have their men stone some US Marines.

It's still ringing. "Where is the damn thing?" you mutter. More people are dying in what was once Yugoslavia.

"Hello," you ask.

It's your friend Marcie on the other end. You know she has just bought a new condo on the upper East-side. You secretly hate her guts for being so successful, while you are stuck in this bucket-less well of self-despair.

Why are you like this? You used to be a happy person. Did he really hurt you that badly? Sure, he hit you, but you still loved him. Why is that? That's stupid. Then he would break up with you, and that was fine. But then he always came crawling back begging forgiveness - that this time it would be better. It always was... for awhile. Then the arguments would begin again.

You never knew what started them. You marveled at the way a simple misunderstanding quickly became a fully blown fist-fight. You never could match his temper. You never wanted to. Did you love him so much that you were willing to suffer his abuse? His uncaring attitude?! Life's a bitch and so is he.

Marcie wants to know how you are doing. Should you tell her the truth? After all, she's doing okay. Maybe she can help you?

"Oh," you answer, "I'm doing fine. How are you doing? I hear you just bought another condo? Tell me about it."

That's right. Change the subject. You always were able to do that. Deflect the questions so that nobody ever knows how you really feel. How was he supposed to know? No... that's not true. You were always honest with him. It was him. He was never able to vocalize his feelings to you.

It suddenly dawns on you. It was his fault. He couldn't communicate to you without arguing or hitting. You realize you no longer have to feel sorry for yourself. This is the most over-powering emotion you have felt since he went away. A soft "yes" escapes your smiling lips.

Marcie interrupts your reverie by asking if you're still there. For the first time since he left, you finally are here.

You offer a quick apology to Marcie for being preoccupied. You ask her if she's free for lunch today. You have something you'd like to talk with her about - if she can spare a sympathetic ear.

Marcie says, "Yes. of course," and suggests lunch at Dino's Bistro just across the street from her office.

You hang up the telephone and walk over to the full-length mirror in your bedroom. You pull away the bathrobe that is draped on top of it and look at yourself. You quickly surmise that you are having a bad hair year and that perhaps putting it up in a bun and hiding it with a sun hat will suffice. You glance into your brown eyes and detect a little sparkle. You smile as you glance at your profile. You place your tiny hands on your waist and shake your bum. You giggle because it feels good.

A small scream escapes your lips as you suddenly realize you only have 45 minutes to get ready and meet Marcie.
You throw open your closet and look for something new. A quick perusal confirms your fears that all of your 'new' things are now old. That, along with your hair, would have to be rectified later this afternoon.