He stomps: Light shift. He goes back to the manuscript. Two years ago he sent me a message on his birthday. It was long and rambling and I imagined written drunk or high. At first it was all about how he followed me on social media long before I followed him back-- That's true. --and then it was about leftist concerns of the day, something called "police at pride" and something about Israel, and then it was about the end of the world, and then it was about an essay he once wrote about the kitchen table from Virginia Woolf , which he said was attached to the email, though it wasn't. And then it went nonsensically sideways and landed firmly in what looked like its point: He was getting rid of the four books I'd sent, the four books that he'd held on to for all these years. And I thought.
Was it only four books? I checked my notes. Yes just four. I considered those difficult books. "Anatomy of Criticism" ? I hadn't even read the Northrop Frye myself, I'd only included him because I'd met him a party that Fran Lebowitz held for James Brown at Florent's place in the meat packing district. What the fuck does that even mean. And written here is. He shows us. "Check with Fran.
" I noted that the Woolf I sent him was an early edition. So I wired Candace some money to make sure Peter got a good price for it. That's the only time my name is written. Though we never met again, I continue to monitor him and secretly support him from a trust, paying for his motel room, generally keeping him out of trouble. In any event it is my hope that he will live out his days more comfortably than he began them. Though that is entirely up to him. And if all is lost, Sid Vicious' bass guitar must be worth a fortune by now. That's all there is of me.
Everything's not in the manuscript though. Two visits. That she wrote me a seven word letter. That she made me six cassette tapes. Maybe because she thought those things were private. Were just for us. She left me Sid Vicious' bass guitar. And this.
(the manuscript) And one day this will get published, and then everyone will see that I'm not just some crazy old faggot with dirty fingernails, and all those fuckers can kiss my ass then. No. I don't care. (off fingernails) Oh they really are dirty. I was allowed to take three personal items. I took this ring--it belonged to her grandfather, her denim jacket, and her amber necklace. He puts on the necklace. It's real.
And I took her cane. I stole that. But only because I thought I'm probably going to need it. Because my knee is fucked. He goes to the window, walking with the cane. (to booth) Okay go. Light shift.