Humor Script posted March 13, 2020 |
Blast from the past with a twist
Ghost Writer
by Elizabeth Emerald
Act One: CHUCK Jimmy shot me an unsettling surprise. Actually, it was Marilyn who pulled the trigger, at Jimmy's urging. It started with our recent bout of reminiscence. Jimmy and me. We hadn't got together in a good three years until we finally met for lunch last month. Afterwards, we went back to my place and pawed through my memory box, stuff from our school days. We got to talking about our girlfriends, who were best friends of each other. Jimmy had looked up Valerie two years ago, only to learn that she'd died of a brain tumor in '98. Jimmy implored me to reach out to Marilyn before it was too late. As I'd told Jimmy, I've always felt bad about how things ended with Marilyn and me. What happened was, I blew off our date just because I was having a good a time at a party and didn't want to have to hurry back. Worse, I didn't even bother calling to cancel. I found out later that Marilyn waited at our meeting spot, the town bridge, for three hours, finally leaving in tears. The next morning she left, as planned, to spend summer vacation with her father. I never saw her again. The day after Jimmy's visit he called to give me Marilyn's address, which he'd scoped out online. I already had the address; my current girlfriend, Liz, had looked it up for me a few years back, when I mentioned how I wished I could make amends. Not only for having stood her up that final night. Even more so for what happened on her not-so-sweet 16th birthday, when after a spat, I tossed her purported present--actually an empty ring box--into the river, and watched Marilyn, wading desperately against the current, weeping as the box was swept away. As for that 50-years-past-due apology, I didn't follow through then, and I probably wouldn't have now. Which Jimmy doubtless figured, so he took it upon himself to do it for me. Meaning, to email Marilyn. Hopefully, that was all; I cringe to think that Jimmy reminded her of my shameful acts. Anyway, the upshot was: two weeks ago Marilyn emailed me. I hadn't noticed the email. Jimmy clued me in to check for it two weeks after the fact. Even then, it took me a good ten minutes to find it. I rarely sign into email; by the time I do, with clogs of junk to sift through, I overlook the good stuff. I was all flustered, anticipating what I was about to read. Turned out to be an anticlimactic "Just the facts, ma'am." A brief bio of her last 50 years regarding the sundry places she lived and worked. Nothing personal. I know Marilyn has a son--I learned this somehow, just by chance, several years ago. The name must have jumped out at me; Zander, same as hers. Her maiden name. Which implies she wasn't married at the time of his birth. Anyway, Marilyn signed off saying she'd understand if I chose not to respond. By now, of course, she must think that I've chosen just that. I hate to hunt and peck, so I had my daughter fire off a quickie asking Marilyn if I could snail her a note instead. She would assume that I needed her address, so this way it's up to her to respond--yes, no--or not. I told Liz that my plan was to keep it casual, to suggest meeting for lunch. I kind of feel obligated, given that Marilyn reached out first. Obviously, I have mixed--mixed-up!--emotions. After all, it's been--what?--53 years since the infamous no-show and that nasty "surprise party" six months prior. Liz flatly stated that she found the prospect of our reunion profoundly disturbing. Not by way of jealousy, but via projection of herself into such a scenario--she shudders at the thought of encountering the ghosts of husbands past (especially the one who's still alive). Liz told me that if I wanted to get back with Marilyn, that I should feel free to go for it--she would bow out in homage to "true love." I told her that was ridiculous. First of all, for all I know, Marilyn is happily married. As for me, I've seen Liz daily for a decade, why rock that boat? A ten-year routine makes for smooth sailing. Besides, Marilyn lives in Chelmsford for Chrissake! That's nearly half-an-hour's drive. It takes me just seven minutes to get to Liz--a non-marriage of convenience, indeed. I guess I'll just have to wait for the word from Marilyn. I'm OK either way, really. If she nixes a meeting, it will spare me anxiety and thirty bucks to boot. Which I can put toward next month's lunch with Liz. In Stoneham, always, at the Ninety-Nine. Creatures of habit, are we. Act Two: MARILYN Two weeks had passed, and I'd pretty much put it out of my mind, when--lo and behold!--I get a reply from Chuck, my high school boyfriend. That was 53 years ago. We'd gone together during my junior year. Chuck was a senior (two years older than me on account of having been kept back for slacking off in third grade). I was a solid A-plus, Chuck was a shaky C-Minus. After he graduated--an unlikely event he termed a "Capital-G Gift from God"--Chuck went on a "hallelujah" binge, praising the Lord pub-by-pub. By the time party week was winding up, Chuck may have been winding down and wending his way my way. Or maybe not. I'll never know; I was off to spend the summer with my dad. I never saw Chuck again. Why did I reach out, now, after 53 years? Jimmy--then-boyfriend of my best friend, Valerie--looked me up somehow and encouraged me to contact Chuck. Jimmy said that--per their recent reminiscence--though Chuck wouldn't muster the gumption to make a move, he'd be happy to hear from me. So I powered up, dashed off something tersely innocuous, and hit SEND before I could lose my nerve. So, this morning, two weeks later, I get a reply from Chuck. He wrote that he was "pleasantly blind-sided" (good one!) to hear from me. He apologized for the delay, explaining that when it comes to navigating the Cloud, he is an infrequent flier and thus had failed to scan the runway when my message landed. (Nice metaphor!) On account of his being a "klutz at the keyboard," Chuck said that he'd preferred to pen a short note, if I was OK with that. Chuck closed by saying--as had I to him--that he'd "understand" if I declined to reply. So, here goes--and here it comes, Chuck--my home address. I expect I'll be getting a letter in a couple of days. Or, rather, in a few weeks. If at all. Excuse me, Chuck, not "letter." You said "note." Which, in fairness, is all I should expect given the insipid pair of sentences I shot to you. So, Chuck, I wonder: Will you up the ante, suggest that we meet? Certainly, it would be awkward at first, but who knows, after a glass of wine or three, maybe we'll pick up where we left off 53 years ago. Don't worry; I don't mean romantically. Though Jimmy told me your wife died many years back, for all I know you have a lady in your life. As for me, I'm loosely--precariously?--attached at the moment. Which status suits me; so I assure you, Chuck, that I'm not in search of a White Knight in Shining Armor. Which is a good thing for me, because though at 72 you may have the "White" part down--that is, assuming you have any hair left at all--I sincerely doubt you've polished up that tarnished silver suit of yours any, Sir. You never did come to my rescue that night, did you? Three hours--three hours!--I waited for you on that damned bridge. All the while crying so much that I must have raised the water level half an inch. But, hey, let's let bygones be bygones. After all, that was 53 years and three-and-a-third months ago. Rest assured, Chuck, that I haven't been letting things fester all this time. Indeed, I'd all but forgotten about that night. Until just now, really, right after sending you my address; suddenly it all came back. But that's all water under the bridge, ha, ha. We can laugh about it now. Also about that time you hurled my engagement ring off that same very bridge, the water under which washed it away forever. So sure, let's have lunch. With 53 years to catch up on; we're going to need a lot of lunches. What say we make it a monthly--weekly!--event? Which should be a cinch; after all, we live barely half-an-hour apart. Why, can you believe, Chuck--it's like back in the old days--we're practically neighbors!
Thanks to avmurray for the artwork: Water Under the Bridge.
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. Act One is based so much on truth that I didn't even bother to change our names (me, Liz; and my "best man" Chuck). Act Two is a complete fabrication: The real Marilyn totally blew Chuck off without the bother of a reply! I did not include scenery details or stage directions for this bare-bones script of "his-n-hers" monologues. Artwork by avmurray at FanArtReview.com |
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