Courtney Litz - Live From New York, It's Lena Sharpe

“Jesus, Lena, I cannot believe you!”

Parker. Here we go.

“Why? Of all people? Why did you have to single out Brad’s best friend to perform your one-woman sarcasm revue?”

Skip was Brad’s best friend? Of course.

“Look, Parker…” I decided to deal with her calmly.

“Sometimes, I just don’t get you,” she said, exasperated.

Even more positive affirmation, I thought happily. I was definitely feeling better.

“You do realize he will be walking you down the aisle, don’t you?”

“What?” I do believe I screeched.

“Stop it, Lena. You’re the only two that are unattached—you’ll practically be spending the entire evening together. I thought it would be a good thing for you.”

Yes, I thought, good like a colonoscopy is good for you.

“What do you have against nice guys, after all?”

Screw calmness. This was my moment.

“He called you a party planner,” I said, waiting for the inevitable explosion.

There was silence. And then the brittle tap of Parker’s manicured nails on her brushed metal desk. And then…

“That fucker.”

At 9:58 p.m., I poured some Chardonnay into my favorite plastic cup and folded myself snugly on the couch with my laptop resting nicely on a stack of throw pillows. I wondered briefly if this was how Internet porn users approached their task, but pushed the thought out of my mind as quickly as possible.

At 10:06, a particularly inauspicious time I thought, I typed a message.

Colin,

Just happened to be online—are you?

Lena

I took a sip and waited. And waited. And then…

Lena,

Hey there. I’ve been sitting here staring at the same paragraph on my computer for a solid hour. What’s a more, ahem, literary word for “sticky”? Anyway, I could use some pleasant procrastination. What’s up?

—cb

Interesting. He was approaching our online exchange as a welcome, almost expected—and appreciated—diversion. Subtle signs, but good ones. Still, must proceed cautiously. After all, I had made the initial overture.

Colin,

I know that you’re loath to subject yourself to the grimy, swarming mass that is the modern-day media, but—alas—I am a working gal and I’ve got a pesky little deadline (not to mention a pit-bull of a boss)… Can we talk business?

Lena

I took another sip of wine and waited.

Lena,

You bring up an interesting point. Isn’t the better question, this one: Why have you let yourself become a willing player in a liar’s game? Lena, I’m concerned—help me understand.

—cb

Oh, he was good. I paused, considering my response.

Colin,

You are quite sly, but don’t think I’ll be distracted from my objective by the lure of dissecting my own story—it’s not that interesting.

Lena

His response took an unbearably long time. I began my self-loathing monologue—I’m so boring. Why am I assuming such familiarity? I’m just a big, big, big, big dork. And then…

Lena,

So, how does one convince you to tell your story?

—cb

My heart leaped. He wanted to know my story? Mine? And then I panicked—I don’t have a story! There is no story! I’d set him up for a story and I did not have one!

Lena,

I’m waiting…

—cb

The cursor blinked impatiently—or was it flirtatiously? He was not, I could tell, in the mood for business. Shouldn’t I welcome this exchange? Yes, yes I should. I was sure of that. But how? Time was passing, I felt desperate. I started typing—something, anything.

Colin,

Nice try, but I think it’s best if we concentrate on you right now, the next big literary thing that you are.

Lena

I was so lame, lame, lame, lame, lame. What was wrong with me?

Lena,

I don’t think you think it has to be that way. What do you think?

—cb

Colin,

Hmm, let me think about it.

Lena

Lena,

But I’m bored with “me.” Isn’t that why we write, after all, to avoid the unrelenting burden of self?

—cb

Colin,

You are certainly quite the philosopher tonight. But, for the sake of sparing me the rancor of my superior, I must beg you to shoulder the “burden of self” for just a few moments…

Lena

Lena,

Excellent opening—thank you. Let’s talk about this boss of yours. Explain this relationship.

—cb

I didn’t respond. I had lost control of the conversation. I didn’t really want to talk about myself, but, on the other hand, did I really want him to stop? I was flattered by the idea that he wanted to know about me, but I was terrified that the sad truth of my answers would extinguish any further curiosity. I decided to be sarcastic, as usual.

Colin,

I couldn’t begin to explain that relationship. Any attempt, however, might cure your tendency to procrastinate.

Lena

Lena,

Okay, new topic. What’s your favorite time of day?

—cb

My favorite time of day? I paused, unsure how to respond. Now he was posing esoteric, soul-searching questions. Jesus, couldn’t we just talk about movies or something!

Colin,

Is this a trick question?

Lena

Lena,

No, just an innocent one.

—cb

Colin,

You tell me first.

Lena

Lena,

Dawn. Trite but true.

—cb

Colin,

Midnight.

Lena

Lena,

Why midnight?

—cb

Colin,

You first.

Lena

Lena,

Oh, you know—the world’s asleep, the day is new, the streets are empty, Hallmark card shit. And I can finally let my dog run around without a leash.

—cb

Colin,

Eloquent.

Lena

Lena,

Thanks. Your turn.

—cb

He had a way of unnerving me. I felt like I had to answer his questions. And well.

Colin,

Because it’s the dividing line. It’s the point between yesterday and tomorrow, between reasonably late and obscenely late. It separates the men from the boys, so to speak. Does that make sense?

Lena

What was I talking about? I had that feeling I got when I realized that I had said something intensely personal without meaning to.

Lena,

Are you a writer?

—cb

I didn’t know what to say—or write. I was so embarrassed by my poetic declaration. He was a writer, not me.

Lena,

Hello? Are you there?

—cb

I exhaled and sat up straight…

Colin,

Don’t be silly…I’m just a TV producer—that annoying person who’s supposed to sum up your life in 9 minutes and 22 seconds. As such, it’s my professional duty to remain impartial, objective, inscrutable. Now, start sharing.

Lena

He was trying to have a real conversation and I had blown it. He made me wait for his answer. Retribution?

Lena,

How am I to spill my innermost feelings to an “impartial, objective, inscrutable” listener? Hmm?

—cb

Good question.

The next day, Colin finally relented.

Lena,

I will boldly get this ball rolling, if for no other reason than to stop my publicist from leaving me threatening messages— I think I’m getting some insight into that boss of yours. Now, forgive my bluntness, but here is a list of the people who will likely (hopefully!) speak about me in unwavering, hyperbolic platitudes.

MOM (also known as “Libby Bates”): A no-brainer really. Should be very useful for teary, sentimental moments, if you so choose…

DR. ARTHUR LEEDY: Bespectacled, tweed-wearing professor who wisely spotted young Colin’s burgeoning talent and took him under his esteemed albeit aged wing.

CALEB: Best friend since boarding school, like a brother, good for embarrassing but good-natured stories about youthful high jinks.

There. A perfectly embarrassing start. Please kindly refrain from undue mocking.