An Act

Maybe I could pull my sweatpants up really high over my stomach and stick out my bottom lip and grin ’til I squint and take giant steps around the stage. Maybe I could lift up my t-shirt and pick out my belly-button lint and examine it under the spotlight in front of the audience. Maybe I could play Mozart or Brahms on the piano and then get really frustrated and start banging the keyboard and crying. Maybe I could mess up my hair and then smooth it back and examine the edge of my hairline while I scratch off the dry skin on my forehead and watch in wonder as it falls and dots the floor.

Or maybe I’d be really depressed that day and mad at the world so I’d sit in a rocking chair on the stage but be still and stare at audience members for fifteen minutes in silence. Maybe I’d tell everyone what I was thinking. Maybe I’d make fun of people’s faces. Maybe I’d yell at the group of girls in the back on their phones at the bar to get the fuck off their phones and threaten to throw the phones onto the street. And then maybe I’d go on a rant about phones. It would be genuine. I’d be actually mad.

But then I’d start talking about how I’m mad at myself and joke about hanging myself from the heating vent above the stage. I’d be smiling. But then if anyone else was smiling, I’d tell them to stop. Then I’d tell them to smile again. Then stop. Then smile. Then do whatever they want. I’d do whatever I want. I’d say the most heinous thing I can think of. I’d make the British clown coach in the front row and his comment “I’ll teach you how to be a retard” look like a baby’s first words.

But I’d reassure the audience that I’m not a serial killer. I won’t do anything bad. This is all suspended reality. Reality that I wear a thimble to protect my finger from, and the thimble has custom phrases written on it in glittery letters that you need a microscope to read.

I’d pull out another thimble from my pocket. Then another from my other pocket. Then I’d keep pulling out thimbles until I had my hands full. I’d tiptoe around the audience and tell everyone to remain calm. “Have you ever wanted to be a princess?” I’d ask. Grumbles. “Well, you know, princesses must have very good posture. They must hold their heads high and keep their necks rigid and not move. Can you all do that for me?” Thimble for the top of your head. Thimble for the top of your head. Thimbles on as many heads as I have thimbles for. The bald heads work best.

“There,” I’d say. “How many of you have ever sewed something?”

I'm thinking now. My mother. No fun. Grand Teton. National Pussy. Nathan Pusey. Monster over Rio Grande. The limelight and pigeons. Mustard seed for hell. Whatever comes. In my place stands Groton. Mimes. Never was. Lost in a nation. Titration. Vince Vaughn. Cerebral skies. Lucky. Gone with the Wind. Latticework. Nice work. Marry me. Oh, to be. On her. I'm not thinking anymore.

Close your eyes with me. Side with me. Tell me something I can’t refute. Let me know you’re there. No, tell me you’re here. Every time you get close it’s not close enough but it’s always too close and I don’t know what to do. Leave me alone.

Don’t ever do it.