Bubblegum, page 65
February 28, 1988, CBS Network, USA
[2 minutes, 57 seconds]
*but with censor boxes covering the juveniles’ eyes and noses
Fixed overhead shot, black-and-white, silent. The checkout counter of a corner bodega. The cashier, a slight, middle-aged woman, waves at someone offscreen. A moment later, a morbidly obese, pubescent boy in a light-colored parka and dark-colored watchcap appears before her, clutching a can of New Coke.
The boy sets the can beside a cardboard carton of King Size Chick-o-Sticks next to the register. He extracts from the carton three fistfuls of Chick-o-Sticks and piles them by the can of New Coke. Once the cashier has rung the New Coke up, she counts out the Chick-o-Sticks—seventeen in all—and rings those up, and says something to the boy (presumably the price).
The boy hands her a bill.
Her hand remains open.
She says something to him.
He digs in his pockets, comes up with three coins, puts them on the bill in the cashier’s hand.
She says something to him.
He digs in his pockets, comes up with nothing.
The cashier sets the money on the counter, counts out ten Chick-o-Sticks, returns them to the carton.
The boy’s shoulders drop violently, jerk, and his hands go up.
The cashier takes five Chick-o-Sticks back out of the carton, sets them on the pile, and pushes the can of New Coke away from the pile.
Again the boy’s shoulders drop violently and jerk. His hands clasped together, his head on a tilt, he appears to beg.
The cashier shakes her head.
Three older, fitter boys in dark parkas and watchcaps line up together behind the boy. The boy, seemingly unaware of the others, stomps one foot, brings his clasped hands forward and back to his chest a number of times.
The cashier, still shaking her head, shrugs, and over the head of the obese boy and toward the three fitter boys, widens her eyes in exasperation.
The obese boy says something.
She says something back.
The boy shows her the index finger of one hand while reaching into his parka with his other hand. When the hand that went in the parka comes out, it’s holding a cure. The boy lowers the finger of the first hand, lowers the hand itself, holds it open-palmed over the counter, and sets the cure down on it. The cure lies supine in the boy’s open hand.
The cashier makes a frowny face of appraisal.
The boy says something.
The cashier shrugs. She scratches the cure on the head and smiles. She removes two Chick-o-Sticks from the carton, sets them on the pile.
The boy says something.
The cashier shakes her head.
The boy seems to insist.
The cashier shrugs, sniffs the finger she just scratched the cure’s head with, smiles, adds another two Chick-o-Sticks to the pile. She puts the money the boy gave her into the register, removes five more Chick-o-Sticks from the carton, and picks up the New Coke can. She holds the New Coke can and five Chick-o-Sticks out to the boy, saying something.
The boy nods in emphatic agreement.
As the cashier bags the New Coke and the seventeen Chick-o-Sticks, the fitter boys, who have til now been trading high-eyebrowed glances, puffing their cheeks, and blowing what looks like it must be dismissive-sounding air through their lips, all step forward, two to one side of the obese boy, and one to the other, all three leaning over the counter.
The cashier hands the bagged goods to the obese boy, who tells her something. She holds an open hand beside the obese boy’s. The cure crawls from the obese boy’s hand to the cashier’s. The cure lies on her palm, wraps its arm around her wrist, presses the side of its face to her pulse. She raises it up in front of her eyes and demonstratively sighs, smiling.
The two fitter boys who stand to his right start saying things to the obese boy, to which the obese boy responds with enthusiasm. One takes a Slim Jim from the jar on the counter and wags it in the air. The obese boy nods. Another takes another Slim Jim from the jar on the counter and wags it in the air. The obese boy nods, claps his hands once.
The third boy, in the meantime, reaches over the counter toward the cashier.
The cashier backsteps.
The boy who just reached over the counter backsteps.
The obese boy says a few words to the cashier.
She steps forward again, returns the cure to his hand, and the boy who’d reached over the counter swipes it.
The other fitter boys protest.
The fitter boy who has the cure shows his friends an index finger.
They protest more, whip the Slim Jims offscreen.
The obese boy protests.
One slaps him across the face and he ceases to protest. The other slaps him across the face and he drops to the ground, hides his head in his arms.
The obese boy’s assailants move in the direction of the boy who holds the cure.
One of them trips. The other doesn’t.
The cashier pulls a handgun out from under the counter. She gestures with the gun—down, up, down, up—and is saying things.
The standing, fitter boy who doesn’t have the cure raises his hands, placatingly, then helps the fallen, fitter boy to his feet, and then they both help the obese boy to his feet, and one of them hands him his dropped bag of goods.
The cashier points the handgun at the boy who has the cure and says something.
His eyes remain on the cure, but he nods, begins to extend the loose fist in which the cure is held toward the obese boy.
As the obese boy reaches out for the cure, the boy holding it backsteps suddenly, as if he’s been startled, and smashes the cure, headfirst, into his mouth. He chomps twice and swallows.
The other fitter boys exclaim and point and laugh and stomp their feet and slap themselves on the legs and the chest and twirl their fingers next to their ears.
The obese boy crumples back down to the floor.
The cashier, still pointing the gun, starts yelling.
The boy who just overloaded looks at his friends, breaks into a smile, leaps over the obese boy, and runs offscreen. His friends follow.
The cashier puts the gun away, comes around the side of the counter, helps the obese boy back to his feet. His face is running with tears, his lips and eyes wrinklingly squeezed. The cashier hugs him, patting his head. He stands there stiff-armed, clutching his shopping bag, neither accepting nor fighting the hug.
A Cure for Unrequited Love
University of Chicago Graham&Swords Friends Study
January 23, 1988; January 30, 1988
[5 minutes, 14 seconds]
Fixed overhead shot of a mullet-haired boy sitting in a window seat, writing on a legal pad, while, six or seven feet in front of him, another boy, bright blond with a spike, kneels on the floor, hunching over his own legal pad.
As a large-eyed, freckled girl wearing evening gloves approaches the mulleted boy, the blond boy on the floor looks up, stops writing, straightens his posture, and waves to her, but receives no response.
The girl, to the mulleted boy, says, “Excuse me.”
The mulleted boy, who’s taking up the whole seat, makes himself small.
The girl sits beside him.
She and the mulleted boy play footsie. They say “Excuse me” to one another repeatedly. The intensity of the footsie increases quickly, as does the volume at which the Excuse mes are pronounced. Legs start to tangle.
The blond boy moves as if to stand up, but does not stand up.
The girl punches the mulleted boy in the thigh.
“Jesus,” he says, rubbing his thigh.
“Did I hurt you?” says the girl. “I didn’t mean to really hurt you. I’m sorry.” She leans toward the mulleted boy and tumbles off the window seat, onto her shoulder.
Both boys go to her. The mulleted one gets to her first, holds out his hand. She takes it. The blond boy rushes offscreen.
CUT.
One week later.
Fixed overhead shot of the freckled girl in evening gloves sitting on a couch beside the mulleted boy, who wears a strange-looking CureSleeve.
The boy is mumbling something.
“Blah blah blah!” the girl says, and leaps off the couch. “If you believe me, then prove it. Let me see yours. Take it out of that sleeve thing and let me hold it.”
“No,” says the boy.
“Go to hell, then,” says the girl, and, just as the bright-blond boy from the previous scene steps inside the frame from the right, the girl roundhouses leftward until she’s offscreen.
CUT.
Eighteen minutes later.
Fixed overhead shot of the big-eyed, freckled girl in evening gloves sitting in a window seat, eating a sandwich. The mulleted boy approaches her. “Hello,” he says. The girl stares down at her sandwich and chews.
A second boy appears behind the mulleted boy, waiting, it seems, to be acknowledged.
Seconds pass.
The second boy huffs some air from his nose, loudly, looks at the ceiling—his gaze is fixed, he is extremely walleyed.
“Lisette,” says the mulleted boy to the girl.
The walleyed boy huffs more air from his nose.
The girl, Lisette, remains unresponsive, chews.
“Dude, you gotta meet me after session seven,” the walleyed boy says to the back of the mulleted boy. “Screwball’s doing the best new thing. You pull on his whiskers a little and he yawns, and if you do it three or four times in a row, then when you stop he makes a sound like ah-cha-cha cha-cha and blinks his eyes really hard!”
“Lisette,” the mulleted boy repeats. “Please don’t be mad at me. Everything is terrible. My mother’s got cancer.”
Lisette swallows a bite of sandwich and says, “You’re so full of it. That’s the oldest, dumbest lie.”
“I wouldn’t lie about this,” says the mulleted boy. “The doctors say she only has three to five weeks.”
Lisette, in a mocking, whiny-toddler voice, says, “I wouldn’t lie about this.”
Sniffling sounds come from the walleyed boy. His shoulders are trembling.
“You just want me to feel bad,” Lisette continues. “You just want attention.”
“No,” says the mulleted boy. “I do want your attention, but—”
Lisette leans to the side, to see around the mulleted boy. To the walleyed boy, she says, “Why are you crying? Stop crying.”
“She’s dying,” the walleyed boy says to Lisette. “His mom’s gonna die.”
“She’s not,” says Lisette.
The mulleted boy pivots, punches the walleyed boy in the face, turns back to Lisette.
Lisette’s mouth is open. Lisette looks surprised.
The bright-blond boy from the previous clip appears at the bottom of the frame, tentatively approaches.
“It’s okay,” the walleyed boy says to the back of the mulleted boy. “I knew you were a hitter. I shouldn’t have said that.”
Again, the mulleted boy pivots, and again he strikes the walleyed boy in the face.
The walleyed boy falls, clutching his face.
The mulleted boy turns back to Lisette.
“Good one,” she says, “but I still don’t believe you.”
Two men—one in a black labcoat, one in a white labcoat—rush into the frame. The man in the white labcoat kneels beside the walleyed boy. The man in the black labcoat embraces the mulleted boy, lifts him off his feet. As the boy kicks at air and shouts, “Lisette!” and “Please!” and “Wait!” the man adjusts his grasp and carries him offscreen.
Lisette runs offscreen in the same direction.
The bright-blond boy follows her.
CUT.
Forty-seven minutes later.
Fixed overhead shot of Lisette sitting cross-legged on the leftmost cushion of a five-cushion couch, looking down at her lap. The bright-blond boy appears at the bottom of the frame. A cure is lying prone on his shoulder. He sits on the couch’s rightmost cushion, says, “Hi.”
“Stay away from me,” the girl says. “Stop staring. Go away.”
“I wanted to tell you that you can hold Zappy,” says the boy.
“I don’t want to,” she says.
“It’s really friendly,” says the boy.
“I don’t care,” she says.
“I love you,” says the boy.
“That’s stupid,” she says.
“Why’s it stupid?” says the boy.
“Wipe the oozey jizz from your pinkeyes, Dicksuck!” a yawny-voiced boy, offscreen, remarks. “She’s in love with Suspendersed. Everyone knows it.”
“Shut up,” the girl says, and covers her face.
The bright-blond boy removes the cure from his shoulder, lays it down supine in his palm, moves across the sofa to the cushion beside the one on which Lisette is sitting. He strokes the cure, one-fingered, on the belly. “Look,” he says, “at how cute it is. It’s really cute.” Lisette doesn’t respond. The boy strokes the cure for a few more seconds, then returns to the cushion he’d previously sat on. “You’re so cute, little Zappy. You really are,” he says, and keeps stroking the cure. “It’s almost as cute as you, Lisette. Really. It’s true. It really is.” He looks up at Lisette. Her face is still hidden. He looks back at the cure, continually stroking it. It starts to painsing. “You’re almost as cute as Lisette, aren’t you? Man, wow. And you sing so pretty.”
The painsong rises.
Lisette drops her hand, uncovering her face. She says, “What are you doing? Why is it doing that?”
“It likes to sing.”
The painsong gets louder.
“Stop doing that,” she says.
“It’s cute,” he says.
“I don’t think you should do that. I don’t think it likes it.”
“It’s so cute, though,” he says.
“Just stop!” Lisette says. “Why are you doing that. Why would you do that.”
“Don’t you want to hold it?”
“No!” Lisette says. “Don’t do that! Please stop! Please stop! Please stop!”
The boy, breathing heavily, cups his stroking hand over the cure, looks left, looks right, looks at Lisette, lets out a quiet moan, and grinds his palms til the painsinging stops.
IV
COMPOUND
NEW MODES OF FASCINATION
||BIG DAY?|| MY BETTER pillow said, just as I was waking on the morning after Triple-J and Burroughs came over. I hadn’t heard from that pillow in at least half a decade, but my eyes were still closed, my limbs yet unstretched. I wanted more sleep.
I rolled to my side, breaking off contact, and was startled bolt upright by a reticent crumpling paired with a cold, scrapy feeling on my cheek. Triple-J’s paper. “Living Isn’t Functioning.” By the time I’d finished reading it, late the night before, I’d been too lazy to reach across the bed to set it on the table, and had dropped it, instead, on the other, lesser pillow.
I lay back down.
||Oh, he’s back,|| my better pillow said. ||And don’t I feel special. Hey, you know what? You know what I remember? What I remember every day? I remember how it used to be all I’d do was say, |Hello,| and your smile, man…Even if the only place we were touching was on the back of your head, I’d feel that smile. The tension in your scalp, it would change just a little, in this really special way, and I knew…I knew that— No, though. I didn’t. I didn’t know a thing. All these years you wouldn’t talk to me? Years I’ve spent wondering, |How did I offend him? What wrong have I done him?| And trying to hash it out with the mattress, with the quilt, with every last book you’ve deigned to use me to cradle? Trying to hash it out til they themselves—sick of me, sick of my whining—til they closed their gates to me? And then? Then what? Then suddenly, this morning, you’re suddenly available. Suddenly, this morning, your gate’s wide open, and I think I’ve been forgiven for whatever trespass it is you’ve found me guilty of, and with joy, with relief, out of nothing but the friendliest sense of curiosity, I ask a simple question, I say two words, and you—you do what? You sure as hell don’t smile! You don’t even acknowledge me. You break off contact! It’s cruel, you know that? You’ve gone cruel is what it is. And what’s sick, what’s really sick here—do you want to know what’s sick? What’s sick is, now you’re back, most of me’s grateful. I still feel relieved. I’m still completely curious. What a sap, right? What a sentimental sap. What a jerk.||
“Do books really talk?” I said.
||Excuse me?|| said the pillow.
“You said you’ve talked to books that I laid on top of you. Is that true, or were you just kind of saying it for effect?”
||This is the matter you want to discuss with me? Seven years go by without a single peep from you, I confess my insecurities, I tell you how you’ve hurt me, I tell you how you’re hurting me, I make myself vulnerable, and that’s what you ask?||
“You know I can’t control my gate,” I said. “If I could, I’d have—”
||What? You’d’ve what, huh? What? You’d’ve what? You’d’ve huh, what, you’d huh what huh you’d?||
“Okay,” I said. “So you’re having some fun with me.”
||Bet your gullible, wimpy bottom dollar it’s fun! Oh, what a sweetheart. This is so classic you. What a sucker you are. How do you even survive in the world, you big cornball? You hambone. You armorless wuss.||
“Yeah, yeah,” I said.
||That’s better,|| said the pillow. ||Dismissive is better. A wooden voice implies a stone-faced outlook, a thicker skin. So go with that. Go forth with implications. Meantime, what’s the news? What’ve you got on your plate today? And don’t tell me it’s nothing, cause your face was jumping like fleas last night. Last time you got that acrobatic of the visage was the night before your book got reviewed in that paper.||
