Title: Close-fitting Pants and the James Mason Complex
Author: Rebecca Perlow
Rating: R for some profanity.
Summary: A post "Ghost World" romp. Seymour's regrets
after telling Enid they can't see each other anymore.
Disclaimer: Enid, Seymour, Joe, Dana, none of them are
mine. All of them belong to Daniel Clowes and Terry
Zwigoff.
*******************************************************
I've never liked being alone. I mean, who am I kidding?
A person doesn't place pathetic ads in the weekly
personal pages because they enjoy solitude. Or allow an
unemployed avid collector of vintage taxidermy to room
with them. Or date a, for all intents and purposes,
perfectly wonderful woman who completely bores them.
Not that that's anything against Joe and Dana. My
neuroses isn't their doing. If anything, their
presence manages to alleviate some of its worst effects,
at least partially. I almost always feel isolated, but
being isolated in a group of people is different somehow.
More tolerable. I don't know, it's complicated.
When I'm with Dana, I'm still alone-- in spirit,
in absentia, inanimate --but it's easier to pretend I'm
not. It's a game I've played in numerous relationships
over the years: you got yourself into this situation,
swallow your distaste and live with it. But, it's also
a game that's gotten more and more difficult to play
recently.
However inappropriate it is-- and it is inappropriate, I
know that --I never feel alone when I'm with Enid. And
that in itself adds a whole new set of complications.
'Don't worry, I won't bother you anymore.'
You never bothered me. That's part of the problem. That's
the *whole* of the problem.
Before I can tell her that, she's already gone. There's
a tone of finality in the door slamming that I can't
quite believe. I've seen her almost everyday for
the better part of three months. I can't quite grasp
the idea that that would climb to a stand-still.
But that's exactly what I just asked from her. Worse
still, it really wasn't *me* asking, and she knew it,
too.
'Someone so young.' Unspoken, the words seemed kind, I
guess, honest. That should have been my first clue.
Anything so honest can never be kind. And anything so
simple can only be patronizing. I fucked up. Bad. Her
expression afterward is burned into my memory, doomed
to startle me out of Belasco and Giordano-induced
meditations for the rest of my hopefully short
existence.
My sense of loyalty wants to run after her. My sense
of preservation wants me to let her go. And my well-
heeled cynicism wants to bludgeon me into an unconscious
state for indulging in such a cliched analogy of my
own inner turmoil. At this point, I'm not keen to
argue. I..*hurt* her. I don't deserve oxygen.
"Honeymoon over?" Joe queries around a mouthful of
mastigated ham and wheat bread, peering out from his
rank and cluddered inner sanctum. My roommate, the
Prince of Tact.
"Go kiss a mongoose."
"More fun than the blond."
I'm tempted to ask him whether he means Enid or the
mongoose, but I think better of it as he makes his
retreat, abruptly shutting the door. A somehow less
effective version of Enid's message, but the sentiment
is very much the same.
Well fuck you, too. Fuck everybody, I give up.
I hate these stupid pants.
It's not until I'm within the safe, familiar confines
of my room that I recognize this one inarguable fact
that I had denied so ferverently just moments before.
'Where'd you get those pants?'
Any effort to lie to her was pointless from the
moment she uttered the question, a hint of a smirk
in her voice. The path of her downcast gaze alerting
me to just how close-fitting these stupid pants were.
Are. Jesus, I hate these pants.
Lying conspiratorily on the end table is my birthday
present from Joe: the soundtrack LP for "Lolita."
Very funny.
I think even the cashier at Masterpiece Video would
notice the less-than- subtle differences between Enid
and Sue Lyon. And only a drunk rat on a rainy night
would mistake me for James Mason. I will admit the
image of Enid sporting a pair of red, heart-shaped
spectacles is enough to provoke some pretty extreme
reactions in me. 99% of it is laughter, the other 1%
isn't worth commenting on.
Red's a nice color on her. Very nice. On me and most
everyone else, red would look comical. On her it looks..
I don't think I've ever seen Dana wear red. She seems
to favor yellows and blues. Light unobtrusive colors.
The denim lands in a crumpled heap across the table
knocking the record to the floor. Under other
circumstances, my heart would spasm at the sound
of well-aged vinyl colliding with polished plywood.
Tonight, it barely even registers.
I wonder if Dana's seen "Lolita." I'm afraid if I ask,
instead of talking about the subtleties of Mason and
Lyon, she'll begin ruminating on the genius of Irons
and Swain. Already I can feel the first inklings of
an Enid-patented stare coming on.
The frustration is nothing new. In my four decades on
this planet, I've walked in and out of countless
situations having convinced myself and others that my
tenure has actually been three times that. I felt like
a senior citizen at fifteen. I managed to alienate the
one friend I had in high school by daring to be
offended when Michael Winner announced his plans to
remake "The Big Sleep."
'What's your problem, Seymour?' was always one of her
favorite questions to which I never could seem to
summon a reply.
Boy, I haven't seen "The Big Sleep" in years. PBS ran
"Key Largo" a couple weeks ago. Edward G. Robinson's
best performance after "Scarlet Street." Joe's
favorite nature program was on, I had to forfeit
rights to the television for the rest of the week,
but it was almost worth it.
Bogart was on his third Camel when Enid sauntered in
and settled into the chair next to me, unannounced and
not quite Yvonne Craig in the mask I want to forget I
ever bought.
"Hey Stranger. Long time no see."
"Did you walk up here?"
"Uh-huh."
"Wearing that?"
"Uh-huh."
"Did anyone see you?"
"Just Joe, and some old lady that was sweeping the
steps outside."
"Mrs. Thompkins?"
Our landlady is still giving me the fish-eye everytime
I go out to check the mail.
I was always a bigger fan of Robinson than Bogart, a
fact you don't want to share with too many Bogart fans.
Their level of fanaticism rivals even the most ardent
admirers of the Virgin Mary, Elvis, and "Star Trek."
A good 3/4 of the collectors showing up at our gatherings
are furious Bogart fanatics. If you ask any one of
them if they believe in God, they'll say yes, and his
name is Bogie.
The sight of Robinson as Johnny Rocco, an exiled
criminal holding court and hostages in a remote hotel
during a hurricane is a unique one. Raving to Bogart,
Bacall, and everybody with no choice but to listen about
his deportment from the country after spending the better
part of his life there. An 'undesirable alien.' Unwanted.
Isolated. A distinction that had always appealed to me,
and apparently appealed to Enid.
"Go Rocco! You tell those fuckers!" I was tempted to
blurt the obligatory 'Jesus' but the vision of Gerrold,
Dave and the rest of the collector losers quivering in
pools of urine was enough to bring a small smile to my
face, filled with undeserved pride.
I wonder where I could find the primordial lake of
indignation that was fortunate enough to sire Enid. I'd
like to build an altar there. Maybe a temple. Someplace
to pay homage to this truly unique and intriguing young
girl and seek atonement for my incredible fuck-up.
I'm sorry, Enid. I wish things could be different.
On the flip side was the cold, indifferent throne of
the recently cloned multiplex, sometimes watching, more
often cringing at Dustoff Varnyoff's ode to flora and
mediocrity. Dana on one side of me, three dozen creatures
on the other, all reaching for the sundry used kleenex,
hankerchiefs, cocktail napkins squirelled away in their
purses, in their pants pockets, in their underwear. All
the while I kept reciting a familiar incantation to myself
'You got yourself into this situation, swallow your
distaste and live with it. This is what you wanted. To
not be alone.'
This is what I wanted. Hopefully, in time, I'll come to
believe that.
What's your problem, Seymour?
Me? I don't have a problem.
Let's review: you're forty years old, you're stuck in a
mind-sucking job that allows you to buy old records and
not starve to death. You've got a gorgeous, smart,
delightful, albeit slightly shallow woman cooking you
dinner, buying you clothes..
..and you'd rather hang out with a teenaged girl, who
may or may not still be talking to you. You've made a
lifelong habit of not being able to connect with people
and torpedoing the few connections you have made. And
here you are, alone. As usual.
No, I don't have a problem. I don't have a problem in
the world.
Author: Rebecca Perlow
Rating: R for some profanity.
Summary: A post "Ghost World" romp. Seymour's regrets
after telling Enid they can't see each other anymore.
Disclaimer: Enid, Seymour, Joe, Dana, none of them are
mine. All of them belong to Daniel Clowes and Terry
Zwigoff.
*******************************************************
I've never liked being alone. I mean, who am I kidding?
A person doesn't place pathetic ads in the weekly
personal pages because they enjoy solitude. Or allow an
unemployed avid collector of vintage taxidermy to room
with them. Or date a, for all intents and purposes,
perfectly wonderful woman who completely bores them.
Not that that's anything against Joe and Dana. My
neuroses isn't their doing. If anything, their
presence manages to alleviate some of its worst effects,
at least partially. I almost always feel isolated, but
being isolated in a group of people is different somehow.
More tolerable. I don't know, it's complicated.
When I'm with Dana, I'm still alone-- in spirit,
in absentia, inanimate --but it's easier to pretend I'm
not. It's a game I've played in numerous relationships
over the years: you got yourself into this situation,
swallow your distaste and live with it. But, it's also
a game that's gotten more and more difficult to play
recently.
However inappropriate it is-- and it is inappropriate, I
know that --I never feel alone when I'm with Enid. And
that in itself adds a whole new set of complications.
'Don't worry, I won't bother you anymore.'
You never bothered me. That's part of the problem. That's
the *whole* of the problem.
Before I can tell her that, she's already gone. There's
a tone of finality in the door slamming that I can't
quite believe. I've seen her almost everyday for
the better part of three months. I can't quite grasp
the idea that that would climb to a stand-still.
But that's exactly what I just asked from her. Worse
still, it really wasn't *me* asking, and she knew it,
too.
'Someone so young.' Unspoken, the words seemed kind, I
guess, honest. That should have been my first clue.
Anything so honest can never be kind. And anything so
simple can only be patronizing. I fucked up. Bad. Her
expression afterward is burned into my memory, doomed
to startle me out of Belasco and Giordano-induced
meditations for the rest of my hopefully short
existence.
My sense of loyalty wants to run after her. My sense
of preservation wants me to let her go. And my well-
heeled cynicism wants to bludgeon me into an unconscious
state for indulging in such a cliched analogy of my
own inner turmoil. At this point, I'm not keen to
argue. I..*hurt* her. I don't deserve oxygen.
"Honeymoon over?" Joe queries around a mouthful of
mastigated ham and wheat bread, peering out from his
rank and cluddered inner sanctum. My roommate, the
Prince of Tact.
"Go kiss a mongoose."
"More fun than the blond."
I'm tempted to ask him whether he means Enid or the
mongoose, but I think better of it as he makes his
retreat, abruptly shutting the door. A somehow less
effective version of Enid's message, but the sentiment
is very much the same.
Well fuck you, too. Fuck everybody, I give up.
I hate these stupid pants.
It's not until I'm within the safe, familiar confines
of my room that I recognize this one inarguable fact
that I had denied so ferverently just moments before.
'Where'd you get those pants?'
Any effort to lie to her was pointless from the
moment she uttered the question, a hint of a smirk
in her voice. The path of her downcast gaze alerting
me to just how close-fitting these stupid pants were.
Are. Jesus, I hate these pants.
Lying conspiratorily on the end table is my birthday
present from Joe: the soundtrack LP for "Lolita."
Very funny.
I think even the cashier at Masterpiece Video would
notice the less-than- subtle differences between Enid
and Sue Lyon. And only a drunk rat on a rainy night
would mistake me for James Mason. I will admit the
image of Enid sporting a pair of red, heart-shaped
spectacles is enough to provoke some pretty extreme
reactions in me. 99% of it is laughter, the other 1%
isn't worth commenting on.
Red's a nice color on her. Very nice. On me and most
everyone else, red would look comical. On her it looks..
I don't think I've ever seen Dana wear red. She seems
to favor yellows and blues. Light unobtrusive colors.
The denim lands in a crumpled heap across the table
knocking the record to the floor. Under other
circumstances, my heart would spasm at the sound
of well-aged vinyl colliding with polished plywood.
Tonight, it barely even registers.
I wonder if Dana's seen "Lolita." I'm afraid if I ask,
instead of talking about the subtleties of Mason and
Lyon, she'll begin ruminating on the genius of Irons
and Swain. Already I can feel the first inklings of
an Enid-patented stare coming on.
The frustration is nothing new. In my four decades on
this planet, I've walked in and out of countless
situations having convinced myself and others that my
tenure has actually been three times that. I felt like
a senior citizen at fifteen. I managed to alienate the
one friend I had in high school by daring to be
offended when Michael Winner announced his plans to
remake "The Big Sleep."
'What's your problem, Seymour?' was always one of her
favorite questions to which I never could seem to
summon a reply.
Boy, I haven't seen "The Big Sleep" in years. PBS ran
"Key Largo" a couple weeks ago. Edward G. Robinson's
best performance after "Scarlet Street." Joe's
favorite nature program was on, I had to forfeit
rights to the television for the rest of the week,
but it was almost worth it.
Bogart was on his third Camel when Enid sauntered in
and settled into the chair next to me, unannounced and
not quite Yvonne Craig in the mask I want to forget I
ever bought.
"Hey Stranger. Long time no see."
"Did you walk up here?"
"Uh-huh."
"Wearing that?"
"Uh-huh."
"Did anyone see you?"
"Just Joe, and some old lady that was sweeping the
steps outside."
"Mrs. Thompkins?"
Our landlady is still giving me the fish-eye everytime
I go out to check the mail.
I was always a bigger fan of Robinson than Bogart, a
fact you don't want to share with too many Bogart fans.
Their level of fanaticism rivals even the most ardent
admirers of the Virgin Mary, Elvis, and "Star Trek."
A good 3/4 of the collectors showing up at our gatherings
are furious Bogart fanatics. If you ask any one of
them if they believe in God, they'll say yes, and his
name is Bogie.
The sight of Robinson as Johnny Rocco, an exiled
criminal holding court and hostages in a remote hotel
during a hurricane is a unique one. Raving to Bogart,
Bacall, and everybody with no choice but to listen about
his deportment from the country after spending the better
part of his life there. An 'undesirable alien.' Unwanted.
Isolated. A distinction that had always appealed to me,
and apparently appealed to Enid.
"Go Rocco! You tell those fuckers!" I was tempted to
blurt the obligatory 'Jesus' but the vision of Gerrold,
Dave and the rest of the collector losers quivering in
pools of urine was enough to bring a small smile to my
face, filled with undeserved pride.
I wonder where I could find the primordial lake of
indignation that was fortunate enough to sire Enid. I'd
like to build an altar there. Maybe a temple. Someplace
to pay homage to this truly unique and intriguing young
girl and seek atonement for my incredible fuck-up.
I'm sorry, Enid. I wish things could be different.
On the flip side was the cold, indifferent throne of
the recently cloned multiplex, sometimes watching, more
often cringing at Dustoff Varnyoff's ode to flora and
mediocrity. Dana on one side of me, three dozen creatures
on the other, all reaching for the sundry used kleenex,
hankerchiefs, cocktail napkins squirelled away in their
purses, in their pants pockets, in their underwear. All
the while I kept reciting a familiar incantation to myself
'You got yourself into this situation, swallow your
distaste and live with it. This is what you wanted. To
not be alone.'
This is what I wanted. Hopefully, in time, I'll come to
believe that.
What's your problem, Seymour?
Me? I don't have a problem.
Let's review: you're forty years old, you're stuck in a
mind-sucking job that allows you to buy old records and
not starve to death. You've got a gorgeous, smart,
delightful, albeit slightly shallow woman cooking you
dinner, buying you clothes..
..and you'd rather hang out with a teenaged girl, who
may or may not still be talking to you. You've made a
lifelong habit of not being able to connect with people
and torpedoing the few connections you have made. And
here you are, alone. As usual.
No, I don't have a problem. I don't have a problem in
the world.