Read Online Marisa de los Santos - Belong to Me by Marisa de los Santos - Free Book Online
Authors: Marisa de los Santos
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abruptly and tragically derailed by the entrance of the very last person in the world I wanted to see, I probably would have been lifted bodily into heaven, fork in hand, lips gleaming with olive oil.
We hadn’t started out talking about The Women . We’d started out talking about the sorrows I was drowning or, to be more accurate, smothering under some three pounds of carbohydrates, and while the shift from my suburban life to the cattiest catfight film ever made might seem a natural one, it wasn’t really, because while that film isn’t exactly a flattering depiction of female friendship, it’s about female friendship and funny. And my life in suburbia was friendless and dull. At that point, having Joan Crawford snatch my husband or Rosalind Russell stab me in the back was looking pretty good; at least, they snatched and stabbed with aplomb.
On a recent rainy Monday, I’d tried imagining the last month and a half of my life as a feature film, a game I play, secretly, fairly often, and that I’m convinced other people play, secretly, too. (I’m so convinced of this that I consider imagining your life as a feature film to simply be part of human nature. If I’m wrong, don’t tell me; I do not want to know, and I wouldn’t believe you anyway.)
The imaginary film’s title was either Cornelia in the Wilderness or Babes in Lawnland, neither of which are fabulous titles, but both of which were several thousand times more intriguing than the film itself turned out to be. Because in imagining the imaginary film, I came to realize that—apart from the time I spent with Teo, which wasn’t much, given his new job—the plotline of my recent life was completely flat. The rising action refused to rise; except for an occasional hiccup, it just lay there, bored into prostration.
The closest thing to a climax I could come up with was the time Piper had stopped by to say she was on her way to the local farmers’ market and wondered if I wanted her to pick up some mums for us. Despite the fact that the offer had been accompanied by her gesturing wincingly toward two empty concrete planters (the previous owners had left them and we’d allowed them to remain empty for over a month) as though they were two steaming piles of elephant dung, I’d been touched by the offer. Touched enough to put aside my dignity and, apparently, every shred of good sense I’d ever possessed and say, “Would you like some company?”
Needless to say, I’d regretted those words as soon as they were out of my mouth, maybe regretted having said them almost as much as Piper regretted having heard them. But this line, followed by the regret-filled silence, is not the scene’s dramatic high point. The dramatic high point came a minute later, after Piper had eked out a reluctant “Why not?” (to which there were too many answers to count), after I’d gone inside and pounded my head against the wall three times on the way to get my handbag, and as I was preparing to open the passenger door of her mammoth SUV.
Climactic Scene’s Dramatic High Point:
PIPER (sounding utterly unembarrassed): Oh, this is so embarrassing. CORNELIA: What’s wrong?
PIPER: Would you mind sitting in the backseat?
CORNELIA: Oh. Sure. I mean, no. I wouldn’t mind. I guess. Why?
PIPER: It’s just that I can never remember how to disable the air bag. How embarrassing is that? My own car.
CORNELIA: Disable the air bag?
PIPER: Air bags are a hazard to children twelve and under, and, well, plenty of twelve-year-olds are bigger than you are, wouldn’t you say?
CORNELIA: I don’t know if I would say that. I never have said it. I don’t think anyone’s ever said it.
PIPER: No?
CORNELIA: No.
PIPER (perkily): Well, safety first!
See? As far as dramatic high points go, not so high, and, as far as climactic scenes go, not so climactic. As you know, when you’re imagining the film version of your life, you have to stick to bare, unembellished fact. That’s the rule. And
We hadn’t started out talking about The Women . We’d started out talking about the sorrows I was drowning or, to be more accurate, smothering under some three pounds of carbohydrates, and while the shift from my suburban life to the cattiest catfight film ever made might seem a natural one, it wasn’t really, because while that film isn’t exactly a flattering depiction of female friendship, it’s about female friendship and funny. And my life in suburbia was friendless and dull. At that point, having Joan Crawford snatch my husband or Rosalind Russell stab me in the back was looking pretty good; at least, they snatched and stabbed with aplomb.
On a recent rainy Monday, I’d tried imagining the last month and a half of my life as a feature film, a game I play, secretly, fairly often, and that I’m convinced other people play, secretly, too. (I’m so convinced of this that I consider imagining your life as a feature film to simply be part of human nature. If I’m wrong, don’t tell me; I do not want to know, and I wouldn’t believe you anyway.)
The imaginary film’s title was either Cornelia in the Wilderness or Babes in Lawnland, neither of which are fabulous titles, but both of which were several thousand times more intriguing than the film itself turned out to be. Because in imagining the imaginary film, I came to realize that—apart from the time I spent with Teo, which wasn’t much, given his new job—the plotline of my recent life was completely flat. The rising action refused to rise; except for an occasional hiccup, it just lay there, bored into prostration.
The closest thing to a climax I could come up with was the time Piper had stopped by to say she was on her way to the local farmers’ market and wondered if I wanted her to pick up some mums for us. Despite the fact that the offer had been accompanied by her gesturing wincingly toward two empty concrete planters (the previous owners had left them and we’d allowed them to remain empty for over a month) as though they were two steaming piles of elephant dung, I’d been touched by the offer. Touched enough to put aside my dignity and, apparently, every shred of good sense I’d ever possessed and say, “Would you like some company?”
Needless to say, I’d regretted those words as soon as they were out of my mouth, maybe regretted having said them almost as much as Piper regretted having heard them. But this line, followed by the regret-filled silence, is not the scene’s dramatic high point. The dramatic high point came a minute later, after Piper had eked out a reluctant “Why not?” (to which there were too many answers to count), after I’d gone inside and pounded my head against the wall three times on the way to get my handbag, and as I was preparing to open the passenger door of her mammoth SUV.
Climactic Scene’s Dramatic High Point:
PIPER (sounding utterly unembarrassed): Oh, this is so embarrassing. CORNELIA: What’s wrong?
PIPER: Would you mind sitting in the backseat?
CORNELIA: Oh. Sure. I mean, no. I wouldn’t mind. I guess. Why?
PIPER: It’s just that I can never remember how to disable the air bag. How embarrassing is that? My own car.
CORNELIA: Disable the air bag?
PIPER: Air bags are a hazard to children twelve and under, and, well, plenty of twelve-year-olds are bigger than you are, wouldn’t you say?
CORNELIA: I don’t know if I would say that. I never have said it. I don’t think anyone’s ever said it.
PIPER: No?
CORNELIA: No.
PIPER (perkily): Well, safety first!
See? As far as dramatic high points go, not so high, and, as far as climactic scenes go, not so climactic. As you know, when you’re imagining the film version of your life, you have to stick to bare, unembellished fact. That’s the rule. And
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