here’s juice in your eye

and voices in my head.

Last night Eric and I were eating at Denny’s. I was watching him squeeze his lemon into his iced tea when I remembered something from a while ago.

[scripty]
PAMIE
Was that you who squeezed the lemon into my eye?

ERIC
Yeah, that was me.

Flashback almost two years. Eric and pamie are sitting at a diner eating breakfast. Pamie is babbling about this and that, probably something about how meaningful theatre is to her soul, and how she finds that actors have the hardest job in the world because they have to convey emotions to people who refuse to feel or some dribble like that.

Eric is listening to her (I assume half-way listening to her), and he picks up the lemon from his iced tea glass, aims it right at her face and squeezes.

Lemon juice shoots across the table and right into pamie’s eye.

PAMIE
So, theatre is like– Ow!

( She begins tearing and wets a napkin to clean her eye.)

ERIC
I don’t know why I just did that.

PAMIE
Really? Oh. I could shut up or something.

ERIC
No, I’m sorry. That was mean. Why did I do that?

Flash forward to pamie and Eric laughing last night.

PAMIE
I remember that.

ERIC
That was like our second date, or something, right?

PAMIE
I think so, it was early.

ERIC
I can’t believe you didn’t leave me right there.

PAMIE
Well, the thing was– yeah, how funny would that have been? “Uh, how about you get the bill and I’ll get a cab?”

ERIC
I’m sorry about that.

PAMIE
Well, what was so funny was we had just started seeing each other, so I didn’t know if you were being malicious or not.

ERIC
I wasn’t.

PAMIE
No, I was pretty sure you weren’t, because I could see how your brain was working. It was like, “Gosh, she’s pretty sitting there talking. How can I get her focus back on me? Gee, here’s this slice of lemon. Wouldn’t it be funny if I squeezed it at her? And she’d be like–”

(pamie makes this movement in slow-motion “I’m picturing how funny this will be” style: She lifts back her head, wipes the lemon from her eye, laughs hysterically, swats Eric on the arm with a playful, “You!” and then takes the glass of water by her side and gives herself an eye bath while continuing to giggle like she has met the man of her dreams.)

ERIC
Yeah, something like that.

PAMIE
It just never works out like you plan it.

ERIC
I sort of forgot that lemon juice would hurt.

PAMIE
Yeah, it hurts.

ERIC
Show me how you thought my brain saw it again? I like that memory better.

Flashback to what actually happened:

PAMIE
Oh, man. My eye.

ERIC
I’m really sorry.

PAMIE
No, it’s okay, I’m just… I’m gonna… I’m gonna go to the restroom and just splash some water on my face.

ERIC
I’ll order you another cup of coffee.

PAMIE
Would you? Gosh, that’d be great.

ERIC
No problem.

PAMIE
Thanks. I’ll be back.

ERIC
Yeah. Sorry about that–

PAMIE
No problem. It’s fine. Really.

(When pamie returns the first five minutes of the meal are in silence.)

ERIC
So, you’re okay?

PAMIE
What, my eye? Oh, I’m fine.

ERIC
I really don’t know why I did that.

PAMIE
It’s like a grown-up pulling-on-pigtails thing. You’re just trying to get my attention.

ERIC
I love you. I think you’re wonderful and I think maybe I’d like to move in and start calling your cats “our cats.”
(writer’s interpretation)

[db]

It’s strange, that little voice in our heads that tells us to do things.

I joke about it a lot because the voice in my head is quite often just plain mean.

“Hit Chuy with that big book. That’d be funny.”

No, it would not be funny.

“Hysterical.”

No, I’m not going to hit Chuy with the book.

“Okay, well, tell that lady over there that she looks like Divine.”

I most certainly will not.

“Wuss.”

It has backfired on me, but now I can use the little voice for an excuse. I hit Chuy with a telephone on the leg the other day.

[scripty]
CHUY
Ow! What the fuck did you do that for?

PAMIE
You know that little voice?

CHUY
Fuck that little voice! My little voice is telling me to beat the shit out of you.

PAMIE
Sorry. Shouldn’t have listened to the little voice.

CHUY
Freak.
[/scripty]

But people are catching on. The other day when we were all playing football, Chuy and I had just gotten up from a tackle, and I kind of gave him that guy-sock on his arm like, “Good play.” Chuy responded by pushing me, and I fell.

It looked funny, I’m sure.

“Man, the little voice told me to push too hard,” he said.

Touch.

What is it about our deepest thoughts that are so evil? Are we all really just serial killers with better decision making skills? Every second do we decide not to be terrible human beings although there’s this huge id inside us that’s just waiting to come out and pull the hair of every woman who cuts in front of you at the coffee line? How many times have you wished your car was a bumper car so that idiot in front of you would JUST GO! Why don’t we slam him? Is it because you will have ramifications or because you will feel guilt?

I’m thinking it’s because we don’t want to pay the auto repair.

We all want to slam that guy’s car. It’s other people making us stop. What would they think? How much would it cost me? I guess now isn’t the best time to stab that slow cashier with some scissors.

You know how children are always answering “I don’t know?” It’s because they just listened to the little voice in their heads, and they don’t know why the little voice wanted them to do it.

“Cut off your sister’s hair.”

Really?

“Yeah! It’d be great.”

Are you sure?

“Trust me. Your parents will see the talent you have. They’ll be so proud of you.”

Of me?

“Oh, yeah. Think of all the money you’ll save them in haircuts!”

That’s true. Okay, I’ll cut off her hair.

“Great!”

(later)

Why did I get a spanking?

“I guess you didn’t cut it right.”

Why did you want me to cut her hair?

“I don’t know. Go steal us a cookie.”

My little voice tells me to find out what Silly Putty tastes like, to read the e-mail sitting on other people’s desks, to screw with the people who call my house with the wrong number:

[scripty]
Ring!

PAMIE
Hello?

WOMAN’S VOICE
Is Henry there?

PAMIE
Who?

WOMAN
Henry.

PAMIE
No, there’s no Henry here.

WOMAN
Where is he?

PAMIE
No, I think you have the wrong number.

click!

PAMIE
Bitch.

Ring!

PAMIE
(slowly bringing the phone to my mouth)
Henry, I’m not your phone bitch, I’m your dick bitch– Hello?

click!

PAMIE
Mmmm… the sweet smell of female revenge.

I’m terrible. I’m horrible. I’m an evil, evil woman.

And I’m blaming voices in my head, so really I’m probably just a crazy woman.

 

(last night over dinner)

PAMIE
(after taking three bites)
Is it bad that I’m full?

ERIC
No. Don’t eat if you’re full.

PAMIE
Yeah, but you don’t take eggs home as leftovers.

ERIC
If you’re not hungry, you’re not hungry.

PAMIE
Do you find it sexy that I’m full?

INSIDE ERIC’S HEAD
Is this a test?

ERIC
Sexy?

PAMIE
Yeah, like, I can’t finish eating, so, that’s kind of sexy that I’m a picky eater.

ERIC
I find it unfortunate that we spent six dollars to look at some eggs. I don’t find you any more or less attractive for the size of your appetite in relation to these particular eggs.

PAMIE
So you like a hungry girl or a picky eater girl?

ERIC
I kind of like a quiet girl. I’ll squeeze another lemon in your eye, I don’t care. I mean it.
[/scripty]

Ah, love. So bittersweet.

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