wooing the wannabe doctor (cont'd from 'ellroy/gretzky dedication')

so, did the wannabe doctor i met at the airport and i date? no. and i have a few theories where things went awry. we rapid-emailed for a day or so after meeting, and i daresay it was lovely banter. then, to woo in high gear my objet d'obsession (du jour), i wrote for him a short play--about people stranded on a desert island who find doctors so boring they conclude they'd rather die from whatever ills than suffer such company. i thought it harmless--i felt certain he would love it--after all, he was a lowly student, not a real doctor.

but i'm beginning to wonder if maybe it was a misstep--this elaborate piece i worked on, night after sleepless night, in the name of like/lust for a boy i barely know. in fact, since sending it, i have not heard from him. so...methinks, perhaps yes, misstep. perhaps both feminists AND med students have no sense of humor. BUT, i did it, dammit--i picked up a stranger at a baggage claim carousel. and i'd do it all again (only entirely differently). regardless, WHALES, when pride, or timidity, or reason, tries to stick its shitty, little foot in the door, do not forget the words of the great one ('i missed 100% of the shots i didn't take'). it can't be so difficult to improve upon missing 100% of the time (can it?). 99, i aim for you.

i share with you now my offending toil:

REGGIE: People can survive without many things, Charlotte, but not without entertainment. I know. I was once stranded on an island off the coast of Thailand. It was harrowing, but I survived—

CHARLOTTE: I see that—

REGGIE: Barely.

CHARLOTTE: You almost died, Reggie?

REGGIE: Yes. The crew and I, we were parched, hungry, and without foot scrub. Feet take a beating in the tropics, you know.

CHARLOTTE: That’s hardly life-threatening—

REGGIE: And there were horrible natives—cannibals.

CHARLOTTE: Do tell.

REGGIE: Oh, would my reliving the most traumatic event of my life entertain you? That is, excuse my French, cruel [cru ell´]. You’re a sick bitch, you know that?

CHARLOTTE: But cannibals? Incredible.

REGGIE: You ought to see a shrink. Incidentally, mine is excellent. We do role play, wherein I’m a rabbit and she’s a fox, and I must hop for my life—

CHARLOTTE: I don’t need a shrink; I really don’t give a crap about the island. I was just being—

REGGIE: The island—it was a glorious day. About a dozen other men and I had taken a longtail out to snorkel, sunbathe and abuse each other with makeshift seaweed whips. I remember it like it was yesterday: Big Jack got me good—

CHARLOTTE: (To Bartender.) Beer, please.

REGGIE: (To Bartender.) Yes, another martini, too. (To Charlotte.) Where was I?

CHARLOTTE: After the whipping—way after.

REGGIE: Yes, well we all thought for certain we would die in the hands of the Amazon women. There’s no word for ‘no’ in female Amazonian.

CHARLOTTE: I thought you said Thailand.

REGGIE: Oh, now an inquisition? You know no limits…just like the Amazons.

CHARLOTTE: It’s just that the Amazon is in—

REGGIE: Oh, are you going to barrage me with facts? Facts shmacts—

CHARLOTTE: Well, maybe they were vacationing Amazons.

REGGIE: You want facts? Facts is: they were huge. Huge everything: huge heads and breasts and feet. And their hands...ack!

CHARLOTTE: What was the matter with their hands?

REGGIE: Huge hands. You know, because they’re giant women. And everything they touch looks so…tiny. Oh, it was horrible.

CHARLOTTE: What did they touch?

REGGIE: Everything, Charlotte—everything.

CHARLOTTE: Oh.

REGGIE: Yes. It was like an elephant holding a Twinkie.

CHARLOTTE: Say no more—

REGGIE: Or a tic-tac.

CHARLOTTE: Well, it would have been awful for a lesser man.

REGGIE: Yes, well....

CHARLOTTE: Anyway, on this island, you could’ve used a diversion?

REGGIE: Yes, though those womanly beasts were spellbound even by my relatively mini—

CHARLOTTE: So if you could choose a dozen people to be stranded on an island with you, you’d choose what, a dancer?

REGGIE: Naturally...preferably a tap dancer. Also, singers, storytellers, sandcastle-makers. Don’t tell me—you wouldn’t.

CHARLOTTE: Well, what about a doctor?

REGGIE: Doctor?? Whatever for?

CHARLOTTE: When people get sick, Reggie. Or hurt. Might be useful.

REGGIE: Doctors are boring, Charlotte. I’d be bored to death. So not unless it’s Dr. Kevorkian; if I’m not entertained, then, please, put me out of my fucking misery.

CHARLOTTE: But if you break a leg, get appendicitis—

REGGIE: Right up there with lawyers, accountants and mimes.

CHARLOTTE: All right, all right!

REGGIE: I want lights, camera, action, dueling pianos—

CHARLOTTE: Pianos?

REGGIE: Since when does deserted have to mean uncivilized? Never—that’s when. It’s my hypothetical, Charlotte. If you want your island to be empty, dark and devoid of theater, be my guest, morbid freak.

CHARLOTTE: You said deserted, Reggie—and deserted is empty!

REGGIE: Civilized I say, you hippie.