Again things were quiet. Again I knew he was pissed. I said nothing because I knew, knew, knew Skeeter was going to break the silence. I was crammed into the La-Z-Boy next to him but there was no warmth and comfort in the atmosphere. "You are starting to remind me of a teacher I had."
"Because of the way I impart vast wisdom?" I snarked.
"Because of your wide streak of cruelty—"
"—Cruelty! That's going rather far, isn't it?—"
"You distracted poor Shutup on the stairs again!" he said of the idiot dog up the street who was scared of the stairs to his apartment and sometimes, big as he was, had to be carried up them. Skeeter spluttered as he went on, "You fucking KNEW the stairs were icy!—"
"—ass over motherfucking tea-kettle!" I said yodelling with laughter at the image of that white moron sliding down half the flight before losing it the rest of the way. All because I had barked up at him, "Hey! Reject!"
"IT'S NOT FUCKING FUNNY!" Skeeter roared so hard my ears flapped back.
"May I just say this," I said, staying calm, "you do not understand the world of dogs."
"There you go...just like my teacher. He was an acting coach when I was in theatre school and everything he did that was just downright cruel he justified by saying, 'People, if you think this is mean, you are not ready for the theatre where things are so much harder.' But it's simple. He was a prick and anyone who had a brain smelled his special brand of bullshit a mile off. He was just a bastard who made people cry—"
"—sissies, probably—"
"—I WAS NOT A FUCKING SISSY!"
My ears flapped back again but I was not so thick I did not realize I had touched a nerve and—how odd is this?—was sorry about it. And—again odd—sorry because I had struck a nerve; not sorry because of what the repercussions might be to me. (Something awfully strange was happening in the dynamics of Skeeter's and my relationship and I was not sure I liked it.) There was a long silence as he, quite obviously, slipped off into memory-land and I considered how I would approach this. Finally I said, "What did he do to you?"
He sighed deeply and began: "I was playing a role in a play he was directing for the school and I had this long-ass speech in the middle of the play and I could not, not, not do it. So he started cutting the speech which was a-okay with me. I don't know how I did it, but I survived opening night. After, though, the cunt took me aside while I was at the premiere party and asked me to get my script. He cut the speech some more...to its bare bones. After opening night!" He sighed again.
"That doesn't sound so bad," I said.
"That's not the clincher."
"Oh?"
He sighed again and continued, "After we'd scribbled all over our scripts he said, 'I'd like to cut the whole character but the play wouldn't make sense.'"
"Ouch!" I said, holding in a shriek of laughter.
"Yes, ouch." And it was clear it still hurt a little. "It set back my development as an actor for ages. And I want you to think about that and what you did to that poor mutt in the name of being a dog."
I said nothing. My thoughts were all confused: sudden undoglike feelings of pity for Shutup did battle with the hi-larious image of him trying desperately to grip onto the icy steps as he slid, slid, slid and then tumbled to the bottom. I also had an image of how Ginger used to snot off at me and make me sad. Was this possible? Human feelings? This was not supposed to be! Nor was what I said next! "I'm sorry." There was a moment of silence...stunned silence.
"A Christmas miracle!" he said and hugged me hard.
And peace reigned, once again, in the land.
Lol, poor Shutup!
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