Sam Pink - The Self-Esteem Holocaust Comes Home

MALE GHOST: I heard you’re not supposed to use antiperspirant. I heard it’s supposed to be bad for you.

Blood trails the female ghost’s arm. She looks at the male ghost.

FEMALE GHOST: How is it bad.

MALE GHOST: Like that’s what I read.

FEMALE GHOST: [struggling harder] Where did you read that.

MALE GHOST: Actually, I don’t know.

FEMALE GHOST: Call the parents [pause, struggling] He is theirs. They are the ones who love him and they are the ones who need to know. The number’s on the fridge. They will want to know of the change he has undergone.

MALE GHOST: [still wobbling the antiperspirant] I don’t really feel like talking to anyone right now though. Can I just leave them a note? That would be easier for me. If you don’t mind. Can I do that? Do you mind me doing that?

Before the female ghost can answer, she secures a different hold on the boy’s mouth, using a section of the sheet for traction. Pathetic screaming in between. There is a large amount of blood on her sheet and she is very strong.

MALE GHOST: It’s just that I don’t feel like talking right now though.

FEMALE GHOST: That’s fine [looks at the boy] I accept that. Do whatever you want.

The male ghost nods for a period of time after everyone is done speaking. He stares at the screaming face, as it lisps from the split. Bloodstains have triumphed the boy’s shirt too. The helicopter on his shirt is covered in blood.

MALE GHOST: [staring at shirt] And the helicopter continues to smile.

FEMALE GHOST: [trying to hold the squirming boy] The helicopter is a lesson in adversity. If only we could all learn to be more like the helicopter.

MALE GHOST: Yes.

She struggles to keep the boy’s lips pinched, but blood has wetted things entirely. The male ghost stands in it. He seems confused.

FEMALE GHOST: Look at me. I’m a ventriloquist [snaps with her free hand] I always knew it. Don’t you just want to paralyze me? Aren’t I just the sexiest?

The male ghost stares at her, moving his toes over the pooled floor.

MALE GHOST: Boo to you both [points at the boy] You missed a spot.

FEMALE GHOST: [points at the male ghost] I missed a spot.

MALE GHOST: And the helicopter continues to smile.

They both laugh. The male ghost goes to the kitchen and finds paper and a pencil. He writes the note.

THE NOTE: Just to get right to it here — your younger, less self-sufficient human is bleeding. He split his mouth on the tub. I don’t know what’s going on. But he totally ruined the shirt he’s wearing. It’s the one with the smiling helicopter on it. The helicopter seems fine. Bye. Sincerely, all the people you plan on never seeing again.

The male ghost returns to the bathroom. The female ghost is holding the boy down, his head against the tile. He hacks uncontrollably as hands hold his face. Everything is red. The bathroom is warm grossness.

FEMALE GHOST: You know what [looking at the wound] I think we can fix it real quick. We can fix it and then leave so we don’t have to talk to the people who own him. They will be impressed with our responsibility [shrugging] Everyone wins. Right?

MALE GHOST: Ok [steps more into bathroom] You got it boss.

The female ghost takes a pin from the drawer and pulls out a few of her hairs through the eyehole of the sheet. Then she tries to thread the hair and sew back together the boy’s lips, while the male ghost holds the boy down. The hairs break when she tries to pull them through. Everything is sticky and spread.

MALE GHOST: [struggling to hold bloody-lips closed] His face is all uneven now. No one will find him attractive [sullenly] We set out to teach him one thing, and we failed. We fucking failed. Should we go get some scissors and make his face into one of those snowflake things where you fold a piece of paper in half them unfold it into a beautiful symmetrical snowflake? How about that? Do you know what I am talking about? Everyone likes those things [defiantly] Who doesn’t like those things? But maybe that would help him yeah? [toneless, looking at floor] I don’t know what’s going on.

FEMALE GHOST: Alright [trying to peel hairs off her fingers] fuck it. I’m done. I won’t be able to hold him down while you cut him with scissors. That will be too painful for him. Let’s just leave. I’m annoyed and bored and I lack confidence in this whole effort. Let’s just leave.

They leave the boy on the floor of the bathroom, still screaming and mutilated. They sit on the couch in the livingroom again. And they remain quiet, not facing each other. And the quiet seems part of the room. They can scoop it out with their hands if they want to save themselves, but neither of them want to. So they don’t.

At midday a person pulls his car up to a fastfood drive-thru, braking by the speaker. He looks at the car radio, no expression as he turns it down. In the distance there are refineries lining the horizon. He stares at the rows of refineries, seems lost. Turns back to speaker when it scratches.

THE SPEAKER: Hi can I take your order?

PERSON: Yeah — You sure can. But first, I need you to hold on, please. Just hold on.

THE SPEAKER: [static] Ok, take your time [static] We’ll get through this together.

PERSON: We will. And I promise, I’ll take my time.

THE SPEAKER: [static] Good to hear.

The person surveys the menu. He feels hurried and wonders about the appropriate length of time to make a choice. Then he considers how much time he is adding to the process by considering it. The words on the menu lose meaning in the panic, and he opts for the pictures.

PERSON: [to himself] They should have three-dimensional pictures so people can imagine the actual size [pause] What am I doing?

On the display there is a picture of another person his age enjoying a chicken sandwich.

PERSON: Alright, hello?

THE SPEAKER: [static] Yes sir, what can I get for you?

PERSON: I read that your Spicy Chicken Sandwich will take me “South of the border.” Is that true?

THE SPEAKER: One Spicy Chicken for the man in the fucking sweet Camry. Anything else?

PERSON: No, I’m not trying to order one yet, I was just curious if I will be mysteriously transported to Mexico or South America somewhere, because I’d need to know in advance to let someone know to get my mail for me and prevent the newspapers from accumulating in front of my door.

THE SPEAKER: [static] You won’t be transported. Would you like a Spicy Chicken or no?

PERSON: Well [shifts to park] hold on. That changes things. [pauses] I’m confused about where we’re at in the process now. Can I just pull around again so it’s like a do-over? So it’s like we never met?

A long silence follows. The person takes a deep breath and rubs his head slowly, in becoming lost to the humming of his car’s engine. He doesn’t know what he has just said. Looks out the windshield into the distance, where the refineries at the end of the town emit smoke, and blend to clouding.

THE SPEAKER: [static] Sir? What can I get for you?

No answer. The person is still removed. He becomes aware again in a slow volley.

THE SPEAKER: What can I get for you.

PERSON: [to back of car as if people are there] Uh, I didn’t order the Rude Sandwich [then aloud] Alright, how about this, the #6? It says it’s, “Exploding with taste.” Is that accurate? [watches his mouth in the rearview mirror] Exploding. Exploding.

THE SPEAKER: It is pretty good. Super good, Sir. Good in a big way, explodingly big taste. I’m fucking half-dead just thinking about it. Do you understand? [screams] Huh? [then tonelessly] I am imagining my exploded trunk bleeding into the dirt after having tasted the sandwich. The sandwich touches my mouth, and then I burst. Look around you, the parking lot should be hot with explosion remnants. The sandwich is amazing. [static]