Saturday Night

Wrote this in a really bad mood over Christmas break, so it's rather odd.

"Fog Bound" (unfinished)

[Two teenagers are sitting in an otherwise empty parlor in a swank New York City penthouse. Victor, a dark, bearded, philosophical-looking youth, is smoking a cigarette while sitting at the empty bar. Petra, a brooding blonde, is sitting in an overstuffed chair, rapidly paging through magazines, reading nothing, then tossing them on the hardwood floor.]

VICTOR: [after a pensive drag on his cigarette] You're bored.

PETRA: No, I'm not.

VICTOR: Yes, you are. You've been sitting there on that chair for over an hour while flipping through at least 10 different magazines. You haven't read a single article.

PETRA: Well, you know how it is with "Equine Quarterly"... [fades off as she looks at the magazines scattered on the floor around here. Laughs--a dull, empty sound.] I've never ridden a horse in my life.

VICTOR: Have you ever wanted to?

PETRA: No. But that's not the point.

VICTOR: What is the point?

PETRA: I don't know. Why should I know? You're the one who's going to Harvard; shouldn't you know everything?

VICTOR: Ah, so that's what this is about. Listen, Petra, I'm sorry you didn't get into Harvard--

PETRA: [breaks in]--or Yale, or Princeton, or Brown... [breaks off with another tepid laugh] I'm going to Vassar, for Pete's sake!

VICTOR: [tries to be comforting but comes off as awkward] I've heard great things about Vassar...

PETRA: From who? The Vassar PR people? Gosh, don't you know that every college says good things about itself?

VICTOR: Yeah, Petra, I know. [seeing that the college conversation is going nowhere, he decides to try something else] So...do you want to go for a walk?

PETRA: Where? It's foggy as all heck out there.

VICTOR: [stamps out his cigarette in an ashtray and walks over to her chair] Forget the fog. Forget having a destination. Let's just walk.

PETRA: [shrugs] Sure, why not? Anything to get away from this warmed-over after-dinner mess our parents are pretending to enjoy in there. [she nods toward a set of thick wooden doors, under which too-bright light can be seen]

VICTOR: Agreed.

[The two of them walk from the room, grab their coats from a coatroom, and head out into damp New York City streets that are dripping with the cold, dank staleness of March. They walk through the streets, saying little, surrounded by swirling fog and swirling, unspoken thoughts. After some time, they reach a wharf.]

PETRA: Gosh, I can't believe we're here. How long have we been walking?

VICTOR: [walks over to a watery-looking circle of light emitted from a streetlamp and peers at his watch] About two hours.

PETRA: Gosh! I never walk, you know? I just...don't.

VICTOR: [walking back to join her at the wharf's edge] And why not? It's a perfectly respectable mode of exercise and transportation.

PETRA: [rolls her eyes] Yeah, whatever. [looks out into the blackness] Geez, listen to the water. It sounds so...so...

VICTOR: Lonely?

PETRA: [looks at him, surprised] Yeah. [turns back to the ocean] I mean, it's water, right? It doesn't have feelings. But even though there are all those little water molecules out there, rolling around with all those little salt molecules, the water still sounds lonely. It sounds like it's trying to escape. Escape from its stupid shores and come up here. Like it would flood the world if it could. Just to cover more space, just to find something, somewhere, where it could find companionship. Because somehow--somehow all the other little water molecules and salt molecules aren't enough. The ocean still wants to come to shore. So it splashes at the wharfs and pulls at the beaches with its tides and tries so hard to get out of its stupid little house, but it can't. And yet, for all the space of the ocean, the water molecules are lonely. [she shivers and pulls her coat more tightly around her, buttoning it up. Without turning to look at Victor, she questions him] Does that make sense?

VICTOR: [looking at her] Yes, it does. People have a tendence to personify inanimate objects and make them metaphors for their own feelings. Your metaphor is the ocean. And it makes perfect sense.

PETRA: [laughs] Where are you getting all this metaphor stuff?

VICTOR: Life. Experience. General observations.

PETRA: Oh, so you came up with it all by your big self?

VICTOR: Yeah, I did. Do you have a problem with that?

PETRA: Should I?

VICTOR: Yes.

PETRA: Why?

VICTOR: Because you should question everything. How do you know I'm telling you the truth? How do you know I'm not just throwing you a load of bull or that I'm not quoting some old Russian philosopher to you?

PETRA: [sarcastically] Gee, Victor, I don't know--because I've been brought up to actually trust people every once in a while?

VICTOR: Now, why would you want to go and do something nice and old-fashioned like that?

PETRA: Gosh, Victor, shut up!

VICTOR: I won't shut up. I really want to know. Why on earth would you want to trust people? They aren't worth it, you know.

PETRA: [turning to face him, hissing] Look, just because your father left your mother for some French hussy doesn't mean that you have the right to take it out on all of humanity! I have every right to trust people if I want to trust them. [she turns on her heel and starts walking down the dock]

VICTOR: [shouting after her] You're only setting yourself up for disappointment! [she doesn't reply and doesn't stop, so he follows her. They walk in silence back to the house they'd started at. The lights are still bright and the string of identical luxury cars is still parked outside. Victor sighs and makes a prediction.] We haven't been missed.

PETRA: Of course we haven't. We could have gone out, gotten drunk, and currently be lying, beaten, in front of a Brooklyn pub for all they would have noticed.

VICTOR: [grinning slyly] So, are you suggesting that as our next activity?

PETRA: [pushes him up the steps] No, you moron! Come on, let's get inside.

~rosyboheme