Giannina Braschi - Yo-Yo Boing!

— Now it’s really over. Now I really got your number. Don’t think I didn’t get it this time.

I was trying to pull myself together. I didn’t want to get lost, but I didn’t want to ever see your face again.

— You can keep everything. All I want is my dignity.

I can always start over, another day, another book. I didn’t want to come back. I had no keys, no money, no place to go. I could have stayed in the Plaza. I could have, should have, but would have lost my mind if I didn’t force myself to ring the bell, with my chin up, march inside, and shut myself in my room. I didn’t want to talk to you ever again. But here I am. Ding-dong.

— Sorry.

— No more pardons. I’m sick and tired of you, and I don’t want to hear another peep out of you.

— Okay. I won’t talk.

— But you continue.

— And you.

— Did you send out the manuscript?

— No, but I wrote the query letters to the editors.

— You see how irresponsible you are.

— I have my pace.

— You promised by Tuesday. It’s Thursday. What happened?

— What time have I had? Work absorbs my days, then your friends, my nights.

— Had you an iota of responsibility, you’d set priorities, which include, according to your promises, sending out the manuscript. You had the whole weekend, but no, you were exhausted. I understood. I let you sleep. If my friends invite me to dinner, you don’t have to tag along if you have a deadline. But deadlines strike no fear of death. You skip over them with a nonchalant shrug that staggers me. I need to party. Why should I deprive myself? But when I ask you:

— Did you correct my new fragment?

— What time have I had?

— I told you I would, but first I had to consult Jonathan Brent.

— What did he say?

— Get Susan Sontag to blurb it and send it to a small press, then send the next work to an agent who can promote you with big publishers.

— Sounds suspicious. Why can’t it go big now? I think he is setting you up.

— For what?

— To set us back.

— He said you’re ahead of your time, so there’s no rush.

— Nice excuse, dilettante.

— I just won a major award people win when they’re Amaral’s age. 80 years old. I’m 25. I’m decades ahead.

— I’d never say that. You’ll never create my character without beholding my humility.

— 10 years wasted on an apprentice. You still don’t have your priorities settled.

— Priorities? If you didn’t ask Miguel Osuna to make you another coat, we’d have resources to network.

— I have to dress up my characters.

— Now the script writing course is out of the question.

— One of us can still take it.

— I’ll take it and teach you how to make a script.

— Just like you prepared my manuscript. Where are the nachos? You just forget. Another day turned night. Limboland. Limboland. Where is your gold card? Did you ever find it? I bet you left it in a cash machine. It’s stolen. Cancel the card. What are you waiting for? No wonder the manuscripts are not prepared. Waiting for the deadline. Waiting for me to die. You should already be translating this work. My book needs your English.

— The dialogues are fine the way they are. I think we should dedicate ourselves to the structure.

— When do we start?

— This weekend.

— I have a dinner.

— Again? It’s the only time I have to work.

— You see, when Mishy had a party did I go? No. Did I want to go? Yes. Who didn’t want to go? Who?

— You could have gone without me.

— To come home and find you drunk as a skunk with the CD blasting Queen, dancing naked, shrunken and depressed.

— You should have gone.

— Well, I didn’t.

— That’s your choice. I’d love to be with my friends too, but I have responsibilities.

— Where are the hands?

— What hands?

— The glass ones you stole from Brascho’s flat. They were inside the marble egg with my ballpoints. What did you do with them? Go get them.

— They’re not there?

— Go get them.

— You’re sure they’re not there?

— You gave them away.

— I swear on your beloved brother’s grave.

— Don’t use my brother. Why don’t you swear? C’mon, swear by your sick father. Did you give them away? To whom? They were with my pen refills that have also been stolen.

— We could be working. That’s why this book doesn’t progress. I have to be looking for unlucky charms. I’m glad they’re lost.

— Somebody broke into the apartment.

— Who’d steal the hands and leave the jewels?

— That’s what I want to know. You look suspicious.

— I swear on my father’s lungs.

— Get that cross out of my face. You stole that from my brother too, didn’t you?

— That’s why we’re stuck. Petty, petty, petty. I swear, I can see myself in the same spot I’m in right now five years from now.

— Mona’s curse: You’ll be doing nothing in five years.

— That’s my greatest fear.

— And mine. What is mine? I’ll tell you myself. To be here. In this very room watching you looking for those hands five years from now. I know they’re here somewhere — that’s what you’ll be saying, rifling through my drawers with your hot hands saying — you see, I’m a researcher, still searching.

— You interrupted my train of thought. Instead of letting me finish Don Quixote . Sancho could be inspiring me to inspire you, but no, I have to look for worthless trinkets. What do you want them for anyway? Don’t you have anything else to do?

— You’re pushing your luck.

— You’re probably sitting on them.

— The hands?

— The ballpoints. Get off the bed. I have to check the mattress. Ouch!

— I’m stuck. After five years in the same scene I wrote five years ago. Didn’t I bite your ass to calm you down? It worked like a shot.

— Mona’s curse. My greatest nightmare after five years.

— Please don’t count the years. There is something in this that I am still looking for. What right do you have to come in here when I’m concentrating — just when I’m on the verge of an image — here you are opening my desk drawer — right where I’m working — and you don’t just shuffle through it — but you ask me — where are the scissors?

— Yeah, where are the scissors? I have to cut the ad out of the paper. And I need the glue for the envelope. Look, I saved the film schedule for you. What time are you planning to go?

— Why are you asking?

— I need to know when you’re going so I can use the phone. I’ve got agencies to call.

— Why?

— Why else?

— To work? You’re the dog in the manger. You neither eat nor let others eat.

— So when can I use the phone?

— Not when I’m trying to hear myself think.

— Why don’t you go see Cries and Whispers, Autumn Sonata —a double feature for $6.

— Don’t you think I’ve lost enough time already?

— Time is never lost. You need an outlet: cries, whispers. You need explosions, bombs, fireworks, popcorn, music, dialogue. You need the gangster edge. A fatal attraction. A crime of passion. And it should all happen the moment I enter the bathroom. The element of suspense created by slow eerie music — Hitchcock, Welles — and suddenly the rupture. A double-edged knife rips through your stomach. A bloodcurdling scream. A wave of blood rises from the bathtub and washes over you, zigzagging like a serpent over the white tile floor. My expression remains deadpan. One thing is what is happening to you and another is the indifference on my face — who cares if I kill you — I do it like a duty. No mercy, no compassion. Blood Simple .