Author's Note: I just found out today that there even was a "The Talented Mr. Ripley" section of this… if I had know sooner I would have written one ages ago- *sigh*
So, out of respect for this gorgeous book/movie, I immediately sat down and began to brainstorm. God, it's hard to stay true to the story with crazy ideas like mine. Either way… here's what I came up with. I hope that you enjoy it- I worked more from the book than the movie, but it works either way- and PLEASE leave feedback!
Always and Eternally, Tsuki-Moon
Ripley's Recollections
By Tsuki-Moon
Dear Journal,
Today at market, Marge and Dickie ran into some old friends of theirs- the Luigens or the Liangens, one of the two. After about an hour of petty chitchat in Italian that was too rapid for me to follow, the strangely named couple invited them for dinner. I guess Dickie forgot that he and I were going to go to that jazz special tonight, because he immediately accepted. Marge smiled as she hung on Dickie. I felt like turning and throwing up at least five times during that senseless conversation as I watched Marge clutch Dickie's arm, pressing it to her body and them smile like a young schoolgirl. I don't really know why I hate her so much… ah, who am I kidding? Of course I do. I hate the way that she smiles so that her perfect white teeth actually gleam in the sun. I hate the way that her breasts are always so apparent in their roundness and size. I hate that her hair is blond and her eyes blue and that her lips pucker in fraudulent surprise whenever Dickie says something that was not absolutely proper and starched. It's as if she is trying to mold him into a gentleman and he is doing all he could to avoid that.
Good, I thought silently as they all chattered on. I hope you fight forever, Dickie. Good God, fight. Don't lose that sparkle in your eye or that captivating smile. Never stand any less straight than you do and never remove that haughty stride from your walk. Oh God, please don't change, Dickie. Don't you dare change for her!
I thought all of this as they talked and planned for dinner, ignoring me the entire time. It took what seemed like a few agonizing eternities before Dickie laughed, "Oh, have you met Tom, Precio? He's wonderful!"
"Oh, there goes Dickie again. Tom, Tom, Tom…" Marge laughed, only half joking. I sometimes wondered if she hated me as much as I hated her. I shook hands with the young Italian couple, pretending to listen to Dickie' s tale of how they had met. Oh God, here we go… yes, the cruise- that snotty cruise that you went on and left me here alone- oh yes, and that wonderful lobster- I'm sure you wished I was there- yeah right- um-hmm, yes, of course… of course.
"Say, Tom," The woman of the couple smiled at me half-way through the conversation, "you are coming with Dickie and Marge tonight, aren't you? You sound absolutely delightful!"
"All my friends are." Dickie laughed. "And of course he's coming, aren't you Tom?"
"Yes." I said a little flatly. "Of course."
"Oh, Dickie…" Marge called from a few yards away, "Come look at the wonderful jewelry at this shop!"
"Arrrg." Dickie whispered. "Here comes more financial hell." He winked at me and said a mock-filled prayer as he drudged over to Marge again. I said goodbye to the Italian couple and told them that I'd see them this evening. Good Lord, can I please be sick before dinner?
- Tom
Dear Journal,
I know that I have had some pretty hefty sins in my time- strangling that whore back home was pretty bad, but I still call it self-defense- but God must hold something really personal against me for not coming up with some reason for me missing this dinner. Granted, I could have faked sickness… but I did sort of want to go. I definitely didn't want to give Marge the pleasure of hogging Dickie, anyhow.
One good thing was the food was excellent- the couple had a chef who can do miracles with just about anything edible. But I could barely eat as I watched Marge lean her head daintily on Dickie's shoulder, teasing him softly and smiling sweetly. I'm going to kill her someday- just watch me. That wasn't the worse, though. The worst part was the look I received from Dickie. The man- he had some weird Italian name that I can't remember- was spouting about psychologists and how they were so competent and so on and such. He started talking about all types of therapists and how, in someway, going to one was a sign of class. It reminded me so very much of the conversation one of the drunks that I used to pal around with and a bunch of us had ages ago. To him, having an analyst was the "in" thing to do. "Admit you have a problem, but don't actually try to solve it" could have been his motto. So, we would all sit around with a tall beer bottle in hand and talk about how our conferences with our analyst went. I never had an analyst, but I pretended to. It was fun. I stopped, though. One night, while joking around I said, "You know, I was talking to my analyst and I told him that I can't make up my mind whether I ike men or women, so I'm thinking of giving them both up!" That got me a lot of laughs, but my friend turned to me, half-fury in his eyes.
"Christ sake, Tommy, shut up!" he had snapped. I was thoroughly surprised… I'd never thought of his to be like that. Oh, but this conversation sounded so much the same. The man may as well been telling us word for word what had happened in the psychologist's office- the one with the Persian rug and the beautiful oak desk. Hell, I finally decided, why not? For old time's sake, let's have some fun.
"I went to this psychologist back in the states." I lied simply. The young man beamed and immediately looked intrigued. "He was a truly well educated man, with at least three diplomas, but he never said much, over all."
"The best ones never do." He assured me.
"Right." I kept playing. "He just let me do all the talking. I really wonder, though, how much of it he really cared about. I mean, can someone really care too much about what he said or she said or why your boss fired you or whether your divorced or married or gay…" I kept going, but I noticed Dickie glare at me at that comment. Oh God, oh dear, dear God. If I had skipped over that word- just that one word- Dickie probably would not have batted an eyelash. But Dickie has never like homosexuals, and I should have been careful anyway.
Did I ever tell you what happened? Oh, it was awful! A few weeks ago, Dickie and I got into a fight. Who knows what the hell it was about, but when it was over, I quickly apologized. Dickie was still angry though. He cursed at me, threw a few glass objects at me (oh, was that a hassle to clean up), but mostly he just rambled on.
"Dickie," I said at one point, "Let's just sit down and talk about this and…"
"Oh, will you shut up, Tom! You always want to 'talk about this' and 'talk about that'. You are such a fucking queer!"
I froze and didn't say a word. "W-what?"
Dickie looked over at me and shook his head. "Oh, forget it."
"No! What did you just say?!"
"That you were a queer. Damn, are you deaf too?!"
"What in the world makes you think…?"
"Marge said that she thinks you are."
"Well, good for Marge." I snapped. Marge again! I swear, next time Dickie has to go somewhere and I have access to a nice kitchen knife… "But, damnit, Dickie! What in the world…?"
"It's the way you act, Tom! Fuck! Is that what you wanted me to say?! Yes, you act gay! You act 'fruity'! Yes, you're a goddamn wimp! You may not actually be a queer- fine, whatever. It doesn't matter. Shit, I'm screwed up right now." Dickie collapsed into a chair and sighed.
"I'm sorry for yelling, Dickie. I didn't mean…"
"Tom," Dickie gave an exasperated sigh and looked over at me wearily. "If you actually want to convince me that you're not gay, then get some backbone and stop apologizing so damn much."
I nodded in response and turned to leave. I paused briefly on my way out. "I'm not queer, Dickie, and I certainly don't want you thinking I am."
"Fine." He sighed, closing his eyes.
I've tried to avoid the words "queer" and "gay" since then, yet here I was bringing it up again. I avoided the topic for the rest of the night, but every time I looked over at Dickie, he was glaring at me judgingly. I felt sick the rest of the night.
When we got home, Dickie went up to his room with barely a "G'night" and a snort. Good God, I think he hates me. No… that's not true. Last time I thought that Dickie came up and gave me this big hug and invited me to a concert in Rome. I think its, maybe, just a mood thing.
I don't know why this bothers me so much. But, hell, it would have been worse if I hadn't lied. If I had told Dickie, those few weeks ago, what I really thought, then he'd never speak to me again. If I'd told him how I wanted to stroke his face and make his cheeks flush like the do for Marge, or the way I want to make him sweat and then kiss him from head to toe- sucking away that lovely, salt filled perspiration, or the way I want to ride him until he cries out and Marge can hear his clamor from down the street, or the way… hell, I can't even say half the things that I've thought of, damnit. But… Dickie.
Oh shit… I should probably burn this entry. If Dickie ever found this… I'd better just write another one and hide this one away.
-Tom
Dear Journal,
Dinner tonight was wonderful. I had such a marvelous time visiting with Dickie and Marge's friends. Gee, I don't know why I was so made at Marge yesterday. She is such a wonderful person. I swear, if she and Dickie weren't dating… ah, but to dream is futile. God must be smiling on me for he gave me quite a wonderful night.
-Tom
THE END