Nihilism

Dorrie had nothing to do after the play. Nihil. Nada. She remembered her college Latin and high-school Spanish. She was not a nihilist. She had always had a purpose in life.

She wrote a poem after the play which wasn't good, but reflected her feelings. She would revise it later.

Purpose, purpose,
of theater
ripped by fascists
ripped by communists
ripped by Republicans
ripped by Democrats
ripped by ex-husband marionettes:
they don’t understand you
so they tag you
like luggage on an airplane.
Out-of-work actress rides
in the luggage bin
of the bus or in the trunk
of the car. Expelled-out-of-jet-plane
schizophrenic has no work
except writing bad poetry, which is now forbidden
in the land of Bush’s dictatorship.

Dorrie was restless. She went for walks with a can of mace in the top of her bag in case she saw anybody threatening, though the most threatening person she saw was the guy who tried to shortchange her at the drugstore. She had to call the manager because he refused to admit she had given him a $20 bill. The manager knew her and took her side, thank God.

It was an odd feeling. She was on her guard all the time. She had not been aware of how rough the neighborhood was before she was attacked in front of the church. Now she felt fear, especially in her spine. Her back tingled when she walked across the empty bridge or past men working on cars on cinder blocks. She tried to ignore the gangs but sometimes it was impossible. They yelled greetings at her, so she had to nod or look frosty. It was a different choice every time, made delicately on the spur of the moment.

She wished she still had play practice. Being among middle-class people had made her miss the middle classes. She wished she could move out of the neighborhood.

She cried all Christmas day because the play was over and nobody had invited her for dinner. Her siblings ignored her. They wanted nothing to do with her because of her schizophrenia. Not that she believed for a moment that she had it. It was just another label, a tag the establishment had given her. Nobody had called her schizophrenic while she lived with Ben. Now she had to take pills or she would not get her government check.

Zoloft, Rispardil, Clozapine. What hadn’t she taken?

Here was the funny thing. She had begun to feel more optimistic. After months in Ben’s play she almost felt like Ben’s wife again.

He had been nice to her. It made her glow.

If only, she thought. If only he hadn’t driven her crazy. If only she hadn’t left.

But he had driven her crazy. She couldn’t stand his being with the politicians and the poor and founding philanthropic societies and being in the limelight every minute. One day she ripped up the articles about him she had cut out for a scrapbook. She wanted privacy. No, she didn’t want to be in the news. She was surprised he didn’t run for mayor or congress or something.

She wished she were the wife of Ben, the smart director of theater. Not that she wished to displace Rose. She wouldn’t have been in the play without Rose. And Rose had been supremely wifely and assured at the community center in a way that Dorrie could never have been.

Dorrie knocked on her neighbor's door on Christmas and asked if she wanted to play cards or Monopoly. Her neighbor had an old Monopoly game they had played once or twice.

Sure. I have nothing to do. Come in.

The addict, whose name was Gabrielle, disappeared into the bathroom. When she came out she was calm, but Dorrie could see the sores on her legs where she’d been shooting up.

You should see a doctor about that. That looks infected.

I suppose you think I should see your ex, the man who always gallantly rides to the rescue of the poor.

I hated Ben for a long time. He’d help you, though. He wouldn’t report you.

Nobody cares what I do. I don’t flatter myself. I’m just a graduate student. But I do want to play Monopoly. I want to buy 5th Avenue and make a lot of money.

Later Dorrie phoned Rose from Gabrielle’s apartment and explained about Gabrielle’s infection. Could Ben see her?

Well, not tonight. We have company. Rose sounded chilly.

I didn’t mean to impose. But you should see her legs.

Not tonight. Why don’t you have her call tomorrow?

Are you angry?

No. But I’m entertaining. We’ll talk another time.

Dorrie cried. Nothing went right. Gabrielle said, Oh, come on, Dorrie. Don’t worry. I can go to a different doctor. Let’s play more Monopoly. That Rose is just a bitch. Anybody could tell by watching her at the play.

Really? You think she’s a bitch.

Definitely. She’s narcissistic as hell. They both are.

Well, I thought I had an in with them.

Nobody has an in with them unless they’re getting publicity.

Oh, said Dorrie. She thought hard about what Gabrielle said while they played another Monopoly game and decided she was partially, but not wholly, right.