“Shoeicide”

Originally published March 26, 1999, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1323

I dunno why, but I felt like sharing this short one-act that I wrote some time back. I’ve dabbled now and again with producing something for the stage. That’d be fun, I think. Movies worship directors, television is enamored of the actors, but only in legit theater does the writer truly rule. In any event, the following is a little piece I call:

Shoeicide

We open with an empty stage. Then, slowly, Felice enters. She looks as if she’s lost her last friend in the world. She’s wearing a nice sweater, jeans, and very nice shoes. She’s scribbling something on a note. She finishes writing the note, then puts it down on the middle of the stage. She exits.

Moments later she comes back in carrying a chair and a thick rope tied into a hangman’s noose. She places the chair in the middle of the stage by the note. She places one foot on the chair, testing its strength.

As she’s testing it, Linda enters. Linda stands there, simply watching, hands draped behind her back, as Felice puts one foot on the chair, lowers it, puts the other foot on the chair. Then Felice tentatively climbs up on the chair—and then stops, noticing Linda for the first time. They stare at each other. Linda waggles her fingers at Felice. Felice rolls her eyes.

Felice: Do you mind?

Linda shrugs, exits. Felice steps down from the chair, picks up the rope. She pulls on it to test its strength, nods approvingly, then steps back up onto the chair.

Linda enters again, as Felice is looking down, measuring the distance from herself to the ground. Linda is carrying a bag of popcorn. She sits down, as Felice experimentally puts her face through the noose (but without draping it around her neck), and starts eating the popcorn as if she were at a movie. Slowly, Felice becomes aware of Linda’s presence and stares at her incredulously. Linda looks at Felice, looks down at her popcorn, and then extends the bag up, offering her some. Felice makes no move other than to stare at Linda as if she’s just landed from Mars.

Linda: (thinking to assuage her concerns) Don’t worry. It’s low-fat.

Felice: (incredulous) Low fat.

Linda: Yeah, low-fat. I saw this thing on the news where regular movie popcorn is, like, three million calories or something. So I get this stuff, instead. It’s low-fat popcorn. (looks down at it) Either that or it’s Styrofoam packing chips. Haven’t made up my mind yet.

Felice: (dazed) Low… fat.

Linda: Y’know, when you say it like that, it sounds like a bad guy from one of those cheesy Kung Fu movies. (she speaks in a deep, “Asian” voice) You have killed my karate teacher, Low Fat, and for that you must pay. (and her lips continue to move silently for a couple of seconds, as if she were badly dubbed)

Felice: Are you completely nuts?

Linda: That’s a weird question, considering the source.

Felice steps down and stands there, face to face with her.

Felice: Who are you?

Linda: I’m Linda. Who are you?

Felice: Felice. Now, would you get out of here please, so I could have a little freakin’ privacy?

Linda: Okay, sure. Fine.

She gets up, starts to leave, as Felice gives a sigh of relief. Felice steps back up onto the chair. Linda turns.

Linda: You really shouldn’t do that, you know.

Felice: Uh huh. Right. I’ve heard it all before. Live for tomorrow. The world’s going to get better. We love you, we care about you. Don’t do anything stupid. Well, y’know what, it’s all crud. All of it! The world sucks, and, if I want out of it, then that’s my choice, understand?

Linda: Oh, yeah. Completely. I just meant that you really shouldn’t step on that chair with your shoes. It’s leaving footprints all over.

They stare at each other. Then Felice steps down from the chair and removes her shoes.

Felice: Okay?

Linda: Fine. Just trying to be considerate.

Felice starts to climb back on the chair.

Linda: Can I ask you something?

Felice: What?

Linda: I mean, it’s kind of personal, and I figure I should only ask if, y’know, you’re really certain you’re going to do this—

Felice: I am.

Linda: And there’s no chance of you changing your mind—because this is really tough to ask?

Felice: What is it?

Linda: (beat) Can I have your shoes?

Felice: You want my shoes?

Linda: Yeah.

Felice: No!

Linda: Why not? It’s not like you’re gonna need ’em.

Felice: These shoes cost a fortune! Do you have any idea how long I had to save up for these? I had to work my butt off babysitting for, like, ever! These are my best shoes!

Linda: You can’t take it with you.

Felice: The hëll I can’t. I wanna be buried in this outfit. It’s my best stuff.

Linda: I can believe it. Where’d you get the sweater?

Felice: Eddie Bauer.

Linda: Get out! Really?

Felice: Yup.

Linda: It’s really nice. (beat) It’d go great with the shoes.

Felice: I’m not giving you my shoes, my sweater, my pants, my socks, or my underwear! Jesus! Why don’t you just ask for the gold fillings out of my teeth?

Linda: (beat) Which teeth?

Felice steps down from the chair again.

Felice: What are you—some sort of ghoul? Some sort of—of depraved lunatic who finds teenage girls in trouble and picks over the bones of their rotting carcass to see what kind of goodies she might be able to find for herself?

Linda: I just don’t like to waste things.

Felice: Well, neither do I.

Linda: You’re wasting yourself.

Felice stares at her.

Felice: Ha. Bloody. Ha. (beat) I can’t believe this. All I wanted was a little privacy. Was that too much to ask?

Linda: I dunno. Why are you—y’know—

She mimes a noose choking around her neck.

Felice: Because nobody gives a dámņ about me.

Linda: So you’re doing it to be noticed.

Felice: Well, kinda, yeah.

Linda: Then why did you want privacy? Seems kind of stupid, if you ask me.

Felice: I didn’t ask you! I don’t know you! I don’t even like you!

Linda: I don’t blame you. I don’t like me, either. That’s why I tried to kill myself.

Felice: You?

Linda: Yeah. Buncha times. Here, look.

She holds up her wrists. Felice steps down to look at them.

Linda: See? One day I was kinda freaking out, because my boyfriend had left me for another guy? So I grabbed the closest sharp object and did this.

Felice: You got, like, a hundred little scars there. What did you use?

Linda: Toenail clippers.

Felice: You tried to clip yourself to death?

Linda shows a scar just under her ear.

Linda: When that didn’t work, I tried shoving my head into my mom’s blender and setting it to “puree.” That’s where I got this.

Felice: You are pathetic. I mean, you are really pathetic. I have met some unbelievably pathetic people in my time, but you—you look up “pathetic” in the dictionary, your picture is there. You didn’t really try to kill yourself. This is just—just stupid.

Felice plops down on the chair, shaking her head. Linda looks down at the note, indicates it with interest. Felice gestures that, yet, she can pick it up. Linda does so, starts to read it. Slowly, she nods.

Linda: I see. Yes—definitely—I see.

Felice: Well, hallelujah. I figured you’d read that over and give me more grief or ask if you could take something else off my not-yet-dead body or tell me I’m stupid. That it’s ridiculous for me to write things like that everyone dies, so I might as well just get it over with.

She goes to the chair and, as she speaks, steps up onto it, puts her head through the noose, adjusts it.

Felice: I thought you’d tell me that, if I just stick around, I’ll look back on all this in 10 years and be thankful that I didn’t go through with it. That this deep black pit all around me is just normal teenage angst and that I’m not alone. That everyone’s gone through this at some time or another, and if I just give the world a chance, I can find a place in it for me. That I’m just wallowing in self-pity, not considering the feelings of others, and—in short—being selfish and fatalistic in a world that needs more hope than ever before. (beat, then softer, reflecting on it) But, instead, you read that over, and you understand me. Thanks. I mean that. Thanks for reading it over and simply saying, “Definitely—I see.”

She closes her eyes, prepared to step off.

Linda: Oh yes, definitely I-C-I-D-E. Not I-S.

Felice opens her eyes.

Felice: What?

Linda: You spelled “suicide” S-U-I-S-I-D-E, and it’s definitely I-C, not I-S.

Felice: (she pauses a moment, then explodes) It’s a hand-written suicide note that I scribbled from the depths of my despair, for Chrissakes! Whaddaya want me to do, run it through Spellcheck?

Linda: Grammarcheck might not be a bad idea, either.

Felice: (fighting to remain calm) Okay, Professor—What do you think of the note, other than grammar and spelling?

Linda: Oh. It’s bull.

She picks up the popcorn, sits down and starts eating it again.

Felice: I rip my heart out and spill it all over the paper, and you say it’s bull.

Linda: (isn’t it self-evident?) Well—yeah.

Felice: I hate you.

Linda: More than you hate yourself?

Felice: Much more than I hate myself.

Linda: You gonna kill me?

Felice: No.

Linda: That, of course, raises the question—

They stare at each other. Then Felice draws the end of the rope high over her head.

Linda: You’re not gonna kill yourself.

Felice: Yes, I am.

Linda: No, you’re not. Not that way.

Felice: Here I go!

Linda: You’ll never do it.

Felice: Why do you keep saying that? Because you think I’m scared? Because you’re trying to goad me?

Linda: No, because you’re just holding the end of the rope in your right hand. It’s not attached to anything.

Felice stands there, staring out at the audience. Holding the rope taut, she jumps off the chair. She lands on the stage. Nothing, of course, happens. Linda patiently eats popcorn. Felice knows that Linda is watching and half-heartedly tries to mime choking while standing on her toes. Her head slumps over. Linda continues to eat the popcorn. Felice sways slightly from side to side, making little “creaking” noises desperately trying to maintain the illusion. Linda says nothing. Finally, giving up, Felice releases the rope, stands there, and sighs.

Felice: It was supposed to be symbolic. You were supposed to imagine it was attached to something.

Linda: I’m only good at imagining ways to live, not ways to die.

Felice: You’re lucky.

Linda: Felice—when you think about genetics, and people getting together at just the right time and everything—the odds against any of us being here are astronomical. We’re all lucky. You. Me. All of us. You just have to see it, that’s all.

Felice pulls the noose from around her neck, tosses the rope to the ground. She slips into her shoes.

Felice: So who’re you, really? My guardian angel?

Linda: Me? No. Just a life-loving, wandering teenaged smart aleck.

Felice: You’re good.

Linda: You’re not so bad yourself.

And Felice actually grins, shakes her head. She takes a handful of popcorn, chews it—and looks like she’s going to gag. She exits quickly, leaving Linda behind.

Linda picks up the rope, pulls on it experimentally. It’s pretty strong. As she exits after Felice, she calls—

Linda: Can I have your rope?

~

(Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., P.O. Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705.)