Sam Pink - The Self-Esteem Holocaust Comes Home

20-YEAR-OLD MAN: Now what.

THE MOTHER: [to his back] You feel free because the thing that encircles you is so big you can’t see it.

The 20-year-old man says nothing, just looks out his window.

[Later.]

Front of the bus again. There is fog on the windshield. The bus driver wipes off the windshield with his sleeve and surveys the road. Behind him, an old woman sits next to a fat bald man.

OLD WOMAN: [looking from fogged windshield to the fat bald man] It’s supposed to be cold out all this week.

FAT BALD MAN: [turning to her, nodding] Yeah — yes it is. Every year, the earth rotates and sometimes it’s farther from the sun. That makes it cold. It will happen again next year too. Just so you know. Also, the white accumulations are something called snow, but that’s too much for our current lecture. We’ll cover snow tomorrow.

OLD WOMAN: [straightening a wrinkle on her pants] My grandson is coming over this afternoon and I wanted to take him outside, but I think it’s too cold. He loves it outside though. He definitely loves it [shrugs, smiling] I don’t love anything. But he loves the outside.

She reaches into her purple corduroy purse and holds out a Polaroid.

OLD WOMAN: That’s him holding a balloon [points] I like how the sun makes his hair look like ice. He’s in preschool now. Preschool is where you begin to learn that no one will ever like you.

FAT BALD MAN: [nodding, still looking at the picture] Balloons die.

They turn away from each other. The water from their boots drips into the grooves of the aisle. And silence fits the bus in a swell.

OLD WOMAN: [looking out the window at the static fire] I am becoming a terrible scab [coughs, covers her mouth with the hand holding the picture] This is unbearable. I miss him. I miss him so much.

She stares at the picture with her watery eyes. Tries to wipe off the streaks from her cough.

FAT BALD MAN: [pointing to a boy sitting next to her the whole time] Is that your grandson? I think he’s right next to you.

OLD WOMAN: [still looking at picture] Yes. I’m going to miss him. I brought the picture so nothing would be left behind. Wherever you go you have to remember everything you take with.

The grandson climbs up the old woman and puts his mittens against her ear, says something. She looks down by her feet intently, then smiles at him.

OLD WOMAN: I do remember. I do.

He smiles and she lifts him onto her lap.

OLD WOMAN: And do you remember what he says?

FAT BALD MAN: [intervening] What who says?

The grandson looks at the fat bald man then shrinks in embarrassment. He ducks beneath the old woman and searches the fat bald man through the coat’s armpit.

OLD WOMAN: [nodding] Actually, a parrot.

The grandson puts his whole head out through the armpit, and the fat bald man watches two small lips.

THE GRANDSON: A sad parrot.

OLD WOMAN: Yes, a sad parrot [smiles] Whenever we walk by this one pet shop, there’s always this parrot in a cage in the window — and my grandson thinks he looks sad.

THE GRANDSON: [head out through her armpit] Yeah, he’s the saddest parrot ever.

OLD WOMAN: And what does he say?

THE GRANDSON: [straightens up and smiles] He says, ‘Quaaa-aaaawwwww.’ He’s super sad.

FAT BALD MAN: [smiles] Quaaaa-aaaaawwww. Is it like that?

BUS DRIVER: [turns] How do we actually know the parrot’s sad? What if that’s his happy quaaw? Or his “maybe I’m uncertain about the future” quaaw.

The old woman says nothing. The grandson says nothing.

FAT BALD MAN: Quaaaawwwwwwww — quawww.

Someone in the back quaws too. The whole bus begins to quaw. Then there is abrupt quiet.

FAT BALD MAN: [looking at the grandson but addressing the old woman] Do you still want him. Do you want him to be yours? I mean he looks fine and everything. Nothing seems to be wrong withhim.

OLD WOMAN: Yes I want him. I brought the picture with so no one else could have it. He is my lamb. He is a talking collection of my blood surrounded by skin that I recognize and love. And I am taking him with.

FAT BALD MAN: [breathing heavily] If he is your lamb then [stops, tries to control labored breathing] I can’t take him away from you [looking at floor] Fuck, I feel shitty [looks at fire, rubbing forehead, then he vomits into the aisle] Oh shit.

The bus reeks rotten vegetable scent.

OLD WOMAN: [moving her feet from the vomit] Thank you for not taking my lamb.

FAT BALD MAN: [wipes mouth, shivers] Take good care of your lamb.

OLD WOMAN: I will.

Trees shake outside and garbage skips over the ground. The fire is closer, stands higher. Across the aisle a man stands holding the metal pole with one hand and reading a newspaper with the other hand. Sitting next to him there’s a girl with 47 chromosomes. She has a very small head. Her eyes are crossed and magnified by her glasses. She drools over her chin. She swings her legs over the seat, licking her mouth. She wears purple boots. They look fake, like boots from a doll. She hits them together and looks around, swinging her lunchbox. Next to her, a sleeping man wakes when his head hits his knee after a bump. He looks out the window at the giant fire in the distance.

SLEEPING MAN: [weary, smiling at the girl with 47 chromosomes] We will be there soon. We are on track. I am sleeping so the wait seems shorter.

The girl with 47 chromosomes smiles and addresses him.

GIRL WITH 47 CHROMOSOMES: [showing the sleeping man her lunchbox] I yike ponies. I yikedum ayot.

SLEEPING MAN: I see. That’s wonderful. It’s good that you have them on your lunchbox then. Right?

He rests his head again and the girl with 47 chromosomes continues her conversation with the man standing in the aisle holding a support pole.

GIRL WITH 47 CHROMOSOMES: I yike ponies ayot [laughs and puts her fingers in her mouth] Ponies aw good.

The girl with 47 chromosomes hits her pony lunchbox against the metal pole in the aisle. She laughs and drool pulses out around her fingers, lands on her lap. There is sweat on her face and neck.

MAN STANDING IN AISLE: Me too. Ponies are great. Ponies are those things that make webs and have eight legs right? Is that what I’m thinking of?

The girl with 47 chromosomes smiles and kicks her boots together, flinging melted snow across the aisle.

GIRL WITH 47 CHROMOSOMES: I yikedum ayot.

MAN STANDING IN AISLE: Well good. I’ll have to buy a lunchbox with them on it. Because of how good they are.

The bus stops and more people get on. A bird flies in with them and lands on a seat. It looks around in quick twitches. Then the bird intones a high-pitched humming that nauseates everyone. They all touch at their temples with their fingertips. Many of them cringe and vomit. Others scream.

GIRL WITH 47 CHROMOSOMES; [tensing with excitement] Burrdy [laughs] Burrdy.

The bird flies to the front of the bus. The humming stops. Then starts. Alternates at random.

BUS DRIVER: [stares at bird, then back and forth from bird to windshield] When I was like six — I found a baby bird on the sidewalk. My mom had taken me to the zoo. It looked like you — [laughs, addresses bird] just like you. It’d fallen from the nest and died I guess, it was all bald and gnarled up [looks out windshield] And when I kicked the bird with my tennis shoe, the bird scraped along the sidewalk — it was all stiff — it was just a shell. Some ants walked out of its mouth. The ants ate it from the inside I guess [pauses, turns to bird again] There must be ants in me too. I don’t have faith in anything. I am the saddest bastard ever [smiles] It makes me sad that a woman gave birth to me so I could drive a bus and then go home and sit on my couch watching tv in order to have something to talk about with other people. The ants are always so hungry. It is impossible to get rid of them. I can’t get rid of them. I don’t know when they came, but the ants are with me. The ants are still with me you know? I was sad and confused that the bird was all-alone. But I will keep you company this time [reaches for the bird, bird flies, high-pitched humming resumes as the bird flies around the bus, panicking]