RICK EDELSTEIN - CONVERSATION

​Rick Edelstein was born and ill-bred on the streets of the Bronx. His initial writing was stage plays off-Broadway in NYC. When he moved to the golden marshmallow (Hollywood) he cut his teeth writing and directing multi-TV episodes of “Starsky & Hutch,” “Charlie’s Angels,” “Chicago,” “Alfred Hitchcock,” et al. He also wrote screenplays, including one with Richard Pryor, “The M’Butu Affair” and a book for a London musical, “Fernando’s Folly.” His latest evolution has been prose with many published short stories and novellas, including, “Bodega,” “Manchester Arms,” “America Speaks,” “Women Go on,” “This is Only Dangerous,” “Aggressive Ignorance,” “Buy the Noise,” and “The Morning After the Night.” He writes every day as he is imbued with the Judeo-Christian ethic, “A man has to earn his day.” Writing atones.

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CONVERSATION
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          I just returned from dropping off my daughter. I hate this. No, I love my daughter more than my next breath but it’s so fucking unnatural. When I was married to her mother whom I respect but do not like, being with my daughter was a natural flow. Sometimes we’d play, talk, laugh, argue, even ignore each other but always we were in that zone of comfort called family. Since the divorce I get her every other weekend and it’s not a flow, it’s an event. I feel like the entertainment director. I’m always a little anxious in planning the two days. A movie, a day in the park, the zoo, choices choices choices...it’s unfuckingnatural. There’s no flow, just doing, not being. With my own daughter for God’s sakes. And of course I’m always on my best behavior, laughing, joking, whatevering, during those two days. And finally when I drop her off at home...at home...shit, at home was always my, our home...but no more. She’s at home with her mother and going to school and studying and playing with friends at home...her, their home. Not my spacious apartment which serves for moments with Daddy but not home. And finally, after a successful weekend with Beckah...successful? I’m rating my time with my daughter! Gawd! Okay, we had fun, we connected in a way, and now...I am sad and relieved. And I feel guilty for being relieved now that I’m alone. With a touch of devastating discovery. When I was married and we were family, I assumed my importance as the stereotypical man of the house. As Beckah’s father. She needed me. I was needed, yes. And now, ugh now the revelation that I am really not needed. Not in that visceral paternal life-and-death-father-protector need. I am now a weekend father. An unwelcome sentience.
          A knock on my door. I was not in a mood for company and uninvited whomever’s out there felt like a rude intrusion on my conflicted solitude. The knocking gently persisted as I stormed to the door assuming some unsolicited person intends to sell me something. I slammed open the door ready to do battle but before I could aggressively do my what-do-you-want demanding voice...
          She had skin like the sun was yearning to break through. Her cheekboned structure would have made Rodin proud. Her thin body would give thanks to Giacometti, although with gradually curved breasts peeking out of the top two unbuttoned man’s shirt. Her mouth was a generous invite all topped off by her eyes. Dark brown almost black eyes that seemed to shine.
          My voice originally intended to insult the uninvited knocker came out as raspy breath.
Yes?
          Yes, she responded in a tone approximating weightless sand-papered velvet.
I would like to have a conversation with you.
          I thought I was going crazy as I lost any frame of reference just wanting to swim in her subtle invitation of loveliness.
A conversation?
          Yes.
          With me?
I felt deservedly stupid because there was no one else but me...and god, her. I extended my vision to check if there was anyone else, a camera perhaps to get a moment with an unsuspecting response to this apparition from the gods. No one. Just her.
          Yes, with you. May I come in?
          I laughed although nothing was funny...just a reaction to this bizarre...what? A beautiful stranger, a young woman wanting to come in and have a conversation. What the hell, I rationalized as a distraction from my feeling loss with Beckah.
Sure, come in.
          She walked in with straight backed posture yet in a rhythmic pulsation that made her small shaped butt sway.
            Pull up a couch.
           Her move could have been choreographed by Bob Fosse as she nodded and slid onto the couch with sensuous ease. She spoke in a honeyed voice that made me want to hug her.
             Do you mind if I scrunch up my feet, without my sneaks of course?
             Be my guest.
          She scrunched and then dug into her bag, a huge canvas thing that didn’t seem to fit her short skirt and man’s shirt, pulling out a pad and ball point pen.
I have a list.
              A list.
              Items I want to cover.
             During our conversation.
             Exactly.
             Can I get you something? Water, juice, ice cold vodka, how old are you?
             Twenty six tomorrow.
           She moved her body in a sort of rippling undulation accommodating the pad on her lap, the hem of her skirt higher. Of course the male animal I am wondered if she was wearing panties. She must have sensed my libidinous thoughts as she adjusted her skirt denying me visual access.
             I’d love a glass of juice. What kind?
             Orange, freshly squeezed.
            Yes, with a little ice cold vodka. That’s called a screw-driver.
             I know. I’ll join you.
      I may scramble in a non-linear way but it’s important that we have this conversation.
            Why?
          I asked as if we were involved in a normal situation which this was mos def not.
I need to find a reason.
           Bringing over the drinks, setting them down on the table in front of the couch, I sat in a nearby stuffed arm-chair that had seen better days although I don’t know when.
             Reason for what?
             For being.
           Being. Like being alive? Being a woman? Being a what? Actually we don’t need a reason to be. Breathing in and out is all that is required.
         Beingness demands a reason. A person cannot go through life in ignorance. A person smarter than me said wisdom is the reward for surviving our own stupidity. Are you happy?
           Am I happy? That’s out of left field. But you warned me about being non-linear. God, this is, you, me, conversation...far-fetched bordering on suspicious.
           Are you happy?
           Okay. Happy. Happy? Maybe if I lowered my standards I’d be...listen, I’m talking to you as if...why did you knock on my door? Yes, I know to have a conversation. But there are other doors.
           You were the fourth. One did not answer. One slammed the door in my face saying I don’t want to buy any prescriptions. He said prescriptions but he meant subscriptions. Another answered but she was drunk and despite her invitation I passed.
         You know this is totally strange bordering on bizarre? You don’t have your phone recording this, do you?
         I don’t have a phone. Anymore.
          Why?
         Phones and Facebook are a distraction.
          Distraction from what?
      Internet, instagram, Facebook, linked in, linked out, millions, trillions are now hostages in avoidance.
         What are we avoiding?
         The reason for being.
         I’m beginning to feel like Escher drew us into a lunatic graphic ink blot. Jesus, what is your name already? I’m William.
          Will I am. I like him.
          Me, too. You?
           Rebekah. R-E-B-E-K-A-H. Don’t forget the H.
          Oh God. My daughter’s name.
            There are no accidents.
           What does that mean?
           Perhaps after our conversation we’ll both understand more.
            I wouldn’t bet on it.
            Did your parents love you?
           Talk about a one-eighty.
            Did they?
            Only during TV commercials.
             You are divorced?
             Yes.
            How many years were you married?
            Ten.
            Did you have a ceremony?
            No, we married on the fly, city office and...
        I mean when you broke up. People should have closure. As a matter of fact, married people should have to take a test every year to determine if they have the right to remain married because too many stay together not out of love but out of habit.
         Why are we...Rebekah...tell me again, but make sense...why are we, two strangers, having this conversation that doesn’t seem to have a theme or a purpose?
            A person may try but cannot fake authenticity. You are an authentic man. How do you deal with challenges in such an absurd world?
          I let the world go mad as I pay my bills including the mortgage on a home I used to live in, do my work, and occasionally indulge in goodies to escape the mendacious mundacity of this incarnation.
             Mundacity. What a wonderful word. What does it mean?
            Just stretching mundane.
           I like words. Oxymoron. Isn’t that a great word. Oxymoron. It sounds like bovine drippings.
            Lost discoveries. Oxymoron.
           Civil war.
            Recent past.
           What kind of work do you do?
           I’m an architect.
           That’s impressive.
         Not if you came to the edifice of Sampson Simpson and Freiberg. I’m one of many, many architects, lately designing a bathroom for some Mid-Eastern potentate.
              Bathrooms are important.
         Yes but a gold plated toiled seat is stretching the importance beyond the purpose of a toilet, wouldn’t you say?
             If you had enough money not worry about having enough money what kind of work would you do?
             Artist. Pencil, charcoal, water color although that’s bitch, oils are easier.
           How wonderful. Can I see some of your drawings.
            No.
           Secret?
            I don’t draw. Anymore.
           But you have the gift.
            How do you know?
            I have an ability to know some things. You no longer have the need?
            Need is relative and as I don’t have enough money not to worry about enough money...blues. What about you?
           I’m a waitress at a Steakhouse. Three nights a week dealing with an officious manager, a state of the art sleaze who is like a substitute teacher wearing a pinky ring.
            But how do you really feel about him?
            That’s a joke, right?
             I hope so. Customers must hit on you often. How do you handle that?
           I invisibilize them.
         What would you do if you have enough money not worry about Mr. pinky ring and meat lovers?
          A rapper.
           Did you say rapper?
           Yes.
          I thought I grew too cynical to be surprised anymore but you do surprise me. In fact this whole scene is edging into the chasm of surprise. Rapper. Whoda’ thunk.
Give me a theme, a word, a thought, a pleasure, a complaint.
           You’re going to rap, here and now?
            Or not.
             No, please, yes, what do you friends call you?
           Rebekah. With an H.
           Okay...roll it, Rebekah, rap away.
          Subject.
           I don’t know...anything.
      Rebekah’s head started to move in a subtle pulsating recurrent nod...and grunted a few sounds as if she was a muffled drum machine...her hands started to move in syncopation and then she started her rhythmic rap reminding me of my word, anything.
Anything...anything goes, everything went
Life full ‘o noes not heaven sent
Berate the weight of human fate
Insane pain’s sooner than late
Rip a gash in the flash of the show of life  
No blow to escape the rape of strife
Don’t look down your nose in a tedious pose
Stop reeling and dealing sensations unkind
Make room for elations the feel good kind
Erase your head of low level dread
Slow down yo’ frown ease up your pace
Mo matter the tatter you can’t buy grace.
 
         I was stunned. Her spontaneous rap based on a meaningless word, anything, flowing freestyle with grunts and weaves and bobs of her body and hands, hypnotic.
Fantastic, Rebekah. Fanfuckingtastic. Whew. Blew me away. You are a rapper. Do you go to, where, coffee houses, clubs, I don’t know the scene but there must be...I mean you kick butt, people got to know, this could be a career.
            No, It can’t. Won’t.
            What are you saying. You obviously have the gift.
          When I get in front of more than person I freeze. I tried. Three times. Now it’s just a fantasy that I can do alone, sitting on my fire escape or facing my grimace in a mirror, or with one authentic individual, thank you, William.
Well you could record it. Even set up a video camera and...
         No, I can’t. I tried. Just a fantasy which I let out every now and then...mostly then.
Hard to let such a gift...okay, I see your frown...I’ll let it go.
          Good.
        Okay...now, to reality. A beautiful young woman knocks on my door saying she wants a conversation - with a stranger...who knows, I might be dangerous but you just ease on in and rap up a storm and now that we’ve had the conversation Rebekah with an H, now what?
          You need to dot the I’s and cross the t’s do you?
       It’s the architect in me and perhaps just a sentient man needing to fill in the spaces. What impels you to...
           Having conversations stops me from...would you rather I go now?
          No, not at all. I want you to stay and yes, conversate, talk to me, linearize...
          Linearize?
          Linear, an architect’s need and bane, one and one makes two, this line leads to the horizontal leading to the vertical. It makes sense.
           Life does not make sense. Not my life.
          Me neither if I take a good hard look at it but I’m not knocking on doors lusting for conversation with strangers. Talk to me, Rebekah, too much unsaid. Talk to me!
She started to move her body in rhythmic tremor accompanied by grunting sounds as she fell into her charismatic rap as if it was an entity demanding voice.
 
Mindness kindness does not give birth
Lacking mirth on planet earth
Garbage is still garbage in a human form
Stretching and retching far from norm
I don’t have a care or even a bother
That I shot my salacious ungracious step father
Who was diddling my body’s sweet sixteen
Sexuating me if you know what I mean
I didn’t tell Mom I don’t know why
Maybe ‘cause I liked it on the sly
But I also hated the smell of his breath
Fantasized the cause of his very own death
Even while I came on his evil grinning face
His foul drooling mouth whispering base
Words I heard when he made me come again
I had to do him harm I just didn’t know when
Until the book club night Mom was out
Watching TV he boldly coldly reached out
Splitting my thighs I demised a pushing back
Ran to the dresser for the Glock attack
Opening the drawer I pulled out the gun
He dared me to shoot as if it was fun
I surprised both when I pulled the trigger
He grabbed his leg screaming bitch of a nigger
Plopped own on the rug with his bleeding thigh
Just a flesh wound doctor he just wouldn’t die
I calmly packed some things in this bag
Including the gun stuffed wrap in a rag
Step father and me had just enough
No more promises of disposable fluff
I try to forget but it just won’t go
Somethings you just cannot unknow
That was many years ago and revenge ain’t glory
There you have it William, the end of my story
 
        The silence was profound and palpable. I slightly shook my head in empathy simultaneously trying to ground myself in this...this what...it was...it was what? Nothing fit. I didn’t know if this experience, bordering on outrageous maybe, a strange beautiful young woman who...
          Talk to me William
         Yes, okay...Rebekah...with an H, I am stunned. True? You shot him in the thigh?
         She reached into her huge canvas bag and pulled out a gun, holding it up.
With this little sucker, yes.
           I jumped in response to the gun.
           Put the gun away please, I do not feel, just put that sucker away!
       She shrugged her beautiful slim shoulders as if apologizing for a inadvertent burp...put the gun back into her bag and then looked at me with those beautiful dark ebony eyes.
            Would you like to have sex with me, William?
          I gasped, or maybe a stifled laugh in the face of nothing funny.
         Maybe another time, Rebeccah, but no, not now. As a matter of fact I think your request for what...oh yes, conversation has been fulfilled and now, now I need to be alone.
            I’m sorry. I so enjoyed being with you. Are you sure?
          I stood and walked to the door, opening it as an invitation for her departure.
         She nodded in a gesture of sweet, gratified acceptance.
          I enjoyed my time with you, William.
          She tip-toed so her face was close to mine. Leaned in and kissed me for three seconds of lunatic sweetness and eased her body out.
          I closed the door, leaning against it I slid to the floor muttering.
           What the fuck was that!
 
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