Kathryn DeVito
The Obsession

If adolescence is a time when girls are always one boy away from doing something really stupid, then as luck, or my digit-dialing fingers would have it, I, as an adolescent, as a college girl, and as a twenty-something-er always seemed to sweep past that one boy rule and go on to the next ten. The line in dating etiquette that divides the cute and girlish ga-ga infatuation from the obsessive- stalkerish-and-scary-dating "no-no" is not one I clearly see.

The list of men I've obsessed over is longer than my age doubled. In fact these men are probably waiting until the little writer in me makes it really big so that they can tell "their story" to the National Enquirer.

It appears that I am not so good at taking rejection by just exhaling, attending a yoga class, and "moving on." Hey, if you can just pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and start all over again, then kudos to you. But unlike 99% of the females out there, I am not so good at this philosophy.

I wish to God that I were. For the sanctity of one solid and non-obsessive relationship, for the preservation of my own mind, and for the reduction in the amount I spend on therapy, I wish that I knew how not to be obsessive. I wish I could take every guy who took my number and never called as just one more match to burn, every heartbreak as just another reason to go shopping.

But as my shrink will tell you, "letting go" is not my strong suit. And really, if we could all just snap out of every love affair or one-night-stand we have without getting too attached or too emotional, wouldn't Eli Lilly be making a lot less Prozac?

See, as neurotic and obsessive as I am, I don't believe I'm alone in the tragic-and- psychotic-phase of repeated calling, pleading, and questioning to the point where I drive the man-of-my-dreams to seek sanctuary with one of the many therapists I've visited. (Um, could I get a commission on that?)

I mean yes, obsessive and overdetermined and overwrought I am whenever love comes my way. (Or, as I should probably restate, whenever I think love is coming my way, because more than likely what I believe to be love is mere infatuation). It seems nonetheless that the moment that the intimation of love graces my palms and warms my cheeks, the minute the bluebirds begin to sing and the sun shines down on me, I swallow love and the man I'm dating whole, manage to kill both the blue bird and the sun in one single shot, and wind up putting my head between my legs, nauseated by my own overindulgence. I end up wanting too much too fast and taking the men I date way too serious. I end up tripping into a grave I dug myself.

As shrinks will tell you, obsession is not about the person one is obsessing over, but rather about the obsessed. Obsession is quite narcissistic and self-centered if you think about it: Does he like me? What does he think of me? Does he want me? Will he sleep with me? Will he pump me, bump me, and dump me? Keep in mind obsession is also not something the obsessed usually get a kick out of. It's not something we're in for fun. Those who obsess over everything don't exactly have an easy time making friends.

And it is not, after all, the most polite or inconspicuous or adult of behaviors. It is, in fact, tiring and extremely time-consuming. The repeated calling. The tears and hysterics. The tantrums. The pleading, wheedling, and begging: "Why not? Why not me? Please. Please Please Please. Please with sugar on top. Please with sugar on top and a cherry? Please, please take my cherry."

Christ. Give me a freaking break. What we need is not something that blocks guys from using *69; what we need, ladies, is to get a grip. Grab a rope, not to make a noose, but to tie a knot and climb back into reality. After all, what guy is actually worth groveling over? What guy is worth a scene in a public place?

And the answer, a few Zoloft later, is that hello! no guy is worth your fancy if you have to grovel, beg, and plead to retrieve him. I hate to quote a ten year-old, but in the words of Sarah Kane, "no boy is worth crying over and the one who is won't make you cry." No guy is worth you on your knees or you on automatic redial.

Car Trouble

The two main characters JOHNNY (31) and FRANKIE TESTA (33) are brothers and members of the Peligi mafia family. They are two years apart, but could nearly pass for twins.

Act I, Scene I
Int. Pelligrino's Restaurant - Fall
The two boys sit side across from each other at a table. Johnny flips a coin. They wait for their food. An attractive, brunette waitress GIA picks up their orders from the counter. She brings them over.

Gia: Here you go. Two sausage and pepper sandwiches.

(She drops the plates of sausage and pepper sandwiches down in front of the boys).

Never a variation in the routine, eh boys?

Frankie: I like what I like.

Johnny: I like what he likes.

Gia smiles. The cook in the kitchen yells for her. She walks away.

Johnny stares, fawning, as Gia walks away

Frankie: Ask her out all ready. I'm sick of hearing about how much you like her when we come here and you never do anything about it.

Johnny: You're the same way.

Frankie: I am not.

Johnny: Two words. Maria Giacamo. You went on and on about how much you liked that girl, ever since we were seven. You went through all of junior high and high school wanting her, she up and offers herself to you before she married that Sicilian guy, and you go weak at the very last minute.

Cut to:
Act I, Scene II
Int. Francisco's Restaurant.
Two old men sit side by side in another restaurant. SALVATORE TESTA and BILLY LUPPINACCI are old friends.

Luppinacci: Cemetery tomorrow?

Sal (nods): You coming?

Luppinacci: You think Johnny will come this year?

Sal (lighting a cigarette): Nope.

Luppinacci: He will, in his own.

Sal: I wouldn't bet on that.

Luppinacci: When have you known me to make a bet I can't cover.

Sal: When have I not?

Cut to:
Act I, Scene III
Int. Pelligrino's Restaurant
Johnny goes to the register to pay, Gia's standing by.

Gia: So long Johnny.

Johnny: It's freezing and I'm cold.

Johnny's monologue...

Actors only give what the public demands. No one wants themes anymore. People want bawdy humor, rape and pillage. If it bleeds it leads.
It's all about a good show. Actors merely follow directions. And it is the audience who directs us. It's the audience that creates the tragic irony.
Did I ever say this was a competition?
Time stops in this death trap.
It'll come. Give it time.
Will be taken care of, just as soon as we get our first assignment.
At least it's routine.
Routine it is indeed.
Haven't you ever wondered what it would be like to leave this place?
And go where?
Anywhere. We can be so much more than this?
This is everything.
It doesn't have to be.
This is all we know.
I like knowing where I'm going. This is the course we've designated.

Why delay?

No need to stress. I mean you just do it. It may seem like a while in your head, but the actual task is over in a second.
We're not just ending a human existence. We're sacrificing the world of a precious gift.

Christ. It's just one fucking person. How many fucking people die every fucking day...
I have no...

Let me tell you...a whole fucking hell of a lot. What's one more person in the grand scheme of things? Whether you die now or die later, you're going to go to the same fucking place?
As far as I can see, everyone has his time. And some times are sooner than others.

Every beginning comes at the expense of another beginning's end.
Here we go now. We're on the map...I see our destination and destiny.
Doesn't it bother you even slightly that with our destiny comes murder? Depriving one of the sanctity of life of which we think so little?

No we're not. Who are we? We're nothing. Without this we're nothing. Without this we're going to go no where.

Let's stop spinning our wheels. All that currently matters is our task at hand.
We're stuck. I can't help it. We can't be anywhere else at the moment.
We're out here in the dark.
I used to get a rush from planning the execution and executing the plan. After a while that wears off.

Make sure you know what you want. Once you're in, you can never get out. This hit will hit you harder like anything else. It will make you. But you will become a mere spoke on a wheel. That's it. When the hub goes, so do you. You're cut, carved, and snapped into place. Easily replaced.

You can't have depth. I'm the deep one. You're throwing off the balance. I am the one who said we should set our own wheels in motion.
We can't go anywhere. We might as well do what we're destined for.
But who says this is our destiny. This can't be it.
Some one has to do it.
Where's the Goddamn map. I don't know where we are.
What do you mean it isn't here? You were supposed to bring it?
I distinctly remember you saying you'd bring it.
Negative. If I was supposed to bring it, I would have brought it.
Well, I didn't bring it.
I don't know where we are.

We better find out where we're going.

We knew where we were. We knew where we were coming from. We knew where we were going.
Somebody better be able to give us some direction.
How can we not know where we are?
I don't like your sense of panic. I don't like the sense of you panicking. I am the one who is supposed to panic here. Stop switching sides.

This is not a joke, Frankie. Can you not see that? We have orders.
Look if you weren't supposed to bring the map, maybe I was. And I was, then I didn't. Either way we're lost. Either way someone must give us some direction.

What is life anyway? Life is only a dream and all dreams must come to an end.
This is our chance.

It won't end here. The circle will never stop.
Which way do you think the wind is blowing?

We're just here to follow orders.

The cause of this effect is the cause of this defect.

The effect, defective, comes by cause.

[end]

<< Back to Issue 4, 2002