In The Writer’s Room

“Hello my children. Truman Capote here, long time friend and colleague of C.W.’s. Won’t you sit and have an orange juice and vodka with me? I call it my orange drink, but you can be my little orange drink right now as you sit down and I sip you down, and tell you about all this talk around town. Did you hear two men got in a fight at The Billboard this morning? Yes, it’s true. Apparently one man asked the other man for directions to the directory and they ended up getting in a little tussle. Crazy times we’re living in. Anyhoo…This is the Writer’s Room honey, there’s no flashy videos or anything to detract you or distract you from the mundane existence of life. The only thing that matters, lies ‘on the page’ my dear, so if you’d like to jump around in The T.V. Studio - something a little more your speed, go right on ahead… I don’t see my day getting any better or any worse because of your decisions. If you want to stay, and you’ve arrived for the writing, then sit down you little orange drink and let me tell you about all that C.W. has going on. An okay writer, but devilishly handsome and have you seen his studio? Its just divine isn’t it? I like to spend my time in here or in The Thought Spot, wandering around, smoking cigarettes… Am I C.W.’s ghost writer you ask? Oh god no. The one about the lightning, or the one with the disaster wedding and cheating parents? How crude and lewd. Please have some self-respect, I would never. My writing is much more modest. As for the others, I wouldn’t dare go into The Cutting Room, lord knows what happens in there… and The Backlot is just too far for me to walk in my slip-ons and weak knees. Did I say slip-ons? I meant to say slipp-ers. I don’t like water that much anyway, and people tell me there’s a fish… I need a nap, all this talking is going straight to my head. No, I do not write for C.W. although I think he is a champion for what he’s doing here. Now be quiet and let me talk for it seems that you’re getting bored and I’m almost out of my drink. So ignore the books on the wall or the half eaten lox bagel on the floor. Would you like a cigarette? It’s all I can usually have these days. Have you heard of this virus going around? What in the world is going on? Oops my glasses are falling down my nose… Who only knows. 65 days inside, people are complaining the world’s going to end, well I’m used to it to be completely honest. My world is always ending, so what’s new... Sometimes I go months without seeing the light of day, haven’t you seen my complexion? Every time I go out in the day I get these sun spots on my face, and my hair turns white, and I don’t like it, but hey, that’s the life of a writer. Dark solace, loneliness, and solitude in one room. It’s enough to drive a man insane… maybe even build a Studio... But as I was saying, back to the page, see, I go on these tangents and they’re not good for me, but what is good for you these days anyway? I don’t see the point in having a conversation a lot of the time, won’t you let me speak! Good lord. Oh what time is it? I’m supposed to meet Andy at 1:00 in The Parlor… although I don’t know if he has money, and I think he’s very well aware that I don’t. He said he was going for a workout first. What is this they’re saying… working out is supposed to be working out for people? Honey, the only thing I’m working out is trying to understand why C.W. wastes his time with letting people into this place. It’s all just a waste of time. The departments are silly, the design is tacky, it’s all outdated, who’s he trying to be, Truman Capote? This room is the only one with taste in the whole place. No one’s going to like it here, no one’s going to care… work-out, how about ship-out, you know? Who’s Andy? Andy Warhol “babe” the artist, warehouse jumper, Campbell Chicken Noodle Soup Connoisseur? Oh what am I even saying, are you even intellectual, or like what’s your deal? What I was saying is, that C.W. likes to sometimes be inside, and sometimes be outside. He writes when he can, and watches movies much more than he should. If you ask me, the time and money he spent building this Studio, he could be a New York Times best selling author, or have an Oscar, or a Pulitzer. Hell he could have gone to the moon already! Do we capitalize moon? I don’t know. Why did we stop going to the Moon anyway? What do I know, I’m just a pig with glasses on, who has no idea of the time, or what he did with his watch. Don’t worry about all the paper on the floor it’s C.W.’s… he’ll pick it up later. He says I’m the messy one, but look at this room! Just step over it while I get to the scripts he’s been working on, or just started, or the old ones, or just the ideas of them. Here’s a little of the stuff he has in his arsenal. Just toss it on the floor if it doesn’t look interesting to you, what do I care anymore, he’s not even paying me. I’m going to release everything from The Vault if he doesn’t wise up. Go ahead, go ahead have a little look see. I’ll be over here writing on the window, or staring off into space, or looking for coins in the couch cushions of my lonely eternity… Shhh, be quiet I’m trying to nap. Browse around quietly and then let yourself out, what do I care, I’m just a beached whale who doesn’t know up from down, or sideways from book-end, or my bum from the west end. There are also some music albums strewn about, some pieces he told me he was going to write about. Whatever. They’re all just dreams to him. So, listen if you’d like to, but keep it down because I have a migraine, and I need to lay down. Oops I’m on the floor already, I’m already lying down…

Am I drunk or are the bookshelves upside down?”