Read A Field Guide to Awkward Silences for Free Online Page B
Authors: Alexandra Petri
was
Springtime for Hitler
but not on purpose.
In fact, the Hitler play, I discovered at Mr. Oliver’s eightieth birthday party, had been a cherished dream for some time. He introduced me to his family. “This is my son,” he told me. “When we did the reading, he was Hitler.”
“Ah,” I said.
“This is my other son,” he added, waving. “He played Goebbels.”
A female friend of his sat down. “And how do you know her?” I asked.
“She was Eva Braun.” He grinned and nodded. “A dead ringer, wouldn’t you say?”
Mr. Oliver insisted on reading his works aloud as we sat at a coffee shop frequented by my work colleagues. “I forget everything after I write it,” he informed me, every time. “And then I look and I think, hey, this guy, he’s pretty good, the guy who wrote this play!” He chuckled, sounding pleased, yet phlegmy.
Another of his plays featured lengthy confrontations between Marilyn Monroe and Arthur Miller and he especially enjoyed performing those (“Now listen to me, Arthur, you just like to have me, Marilyn Monroe, a beautiful shiksa, on your arm, don’t you, Arthur Miller? You like to prove that a skinny nudnik can wind up with a girl like me, Marilyn Monroe!”) as I winced and pretended I had wound up at the table by accident and had no idea who he was. Which was hard to do convincingly, given that we went there every week. It was like
Tuesdays with Morrie
, except that instead of inspirational messages about loving one another and affirming life, I got diatribes about Hitler. There was also the occasional confrontation between Woodrow and Edith Wilson, from his play
Versailles
. (“Edith: Woodrow, don’t lie to me! You had a stroke, didn’t you? When were you planning to tell me? Woodrow: Gaaaaargh.”)
In turn, I told him about what I was working on. “This one’s called
Social Suicide
,” I said. “It’s about a girl who wants to get revenge on all the people in her life by killing herself in the middle of a dinner party.”
“That sounds awful,” Mr. Oliver said. “That’s a downer! Yuck! Yuck!”
“I’m also writing a children’s show in which the Beatles are forest creatures,” I added. (This one actually got produced!)
Mr. Oliver, evidently mistaking this for a joke, gave me a funny look and started laughing.
He kept telling me that he was on the verge of a major production. This seemed improbable. “I got an e-mail from the theater asking for the next stage of the script,” he would tell me. “‘We request the next stage of the script,’ it said.”
“No!” I would gasp. “No, you didn’t!”
Finally, grinning, he would produce a printout of the e-mail. It would say, “We have received your script. Please do not send us anything further unless we request the next stage of the script.”
I kept hoping against hope that this situation would turn into my own personal version of
Tuesdays with Morrie
. Mr. Oliver would become a font of wisdom and start spewing words of inspiration. Instead, he kept creating situations in which I came within inches of mailing people pictures of Hitler. (To wit: He once gave me a picture of Hitler and Eva Braun with “HOW MUCH TIME DO WE HAVE?!?” written on it in large black letters. It got mixed in with some papers I was carrying to mail and had disappeared into an envelope before I realized my mistake. Fortunately I was able to pry it out in time; otherwise this story would be entitled, “How I Got Fired from Everything, Ever.” I had a panicked vision of the recipient opening what she thought was a polite letter from a young journalist, only to discover a totally context-free image of Hitler withthe words HOW MUCH TIME DO WE HAVE?!? scrawled on it in terrifying old-man handwriting. Then I would get an intense, angry call: “What is the meaning of this? Do you think this is some sort of a
joke
? Are you the ZODIAC KILLER?”)
• • •
Then again, his were far from the worst plays I had
Springtime for Hitler
but not on purpose.
In fact, the Hitler play, I discovered at Mr. Oliver’s eightieth birthday party, had been a cherished dream for some time. He introduced me to his family. “This is my son,” he told me. “When we did the reading, he was Hitler.”
“Ah,” I said.
“This is my other son,” he added, waving. “He played Goebbels.”
A female friend of his sat down. “And how do you know her?” I asked.
“She was Eva Braun.” He grinned and nodded. “A dead ringer, wouldn’t you say?”
Mr. Oliver insisted on reading his works aloud as we sat at a coffee shop frequented by my work colleagues. “I forget everything after I write it,” he informed me, every time. “And then I look and I think, hey, this guy, he’s pretty good, the guy who wrote this play!” He chuckled, sounding pleased, yet phlegmy.
Another of his plays featured lengthy confrontations between Marilyn Monroe and Arthur Miller and he especially enjoyed performing those (“Now listen to me, Arthur, you just like to have me, Marilyn Monroe, a beautiful shiksa, on your arm, don’t you, Arthur Miller? You like to prove that a skinny nudnik can wind up with a girl like me, Marilyn Monroe!”) as I winced and pretended I had wound up at the table by accident and had no idea who he was. Which was hard to do convincingly, given that we went there every week. It was like
Tuesdays with Morrie
, except that instead of inspirational messages about loving one another and affirming life, I got diatribes about Hitler. There was also the occasional confrontation between Woodrow and Edith Wilson, from his play
Versailles
. (“Edith: Woodrow, don’t lie to me! You had a stroke, didn’t you? When were you planning to tell me? Woodrow: Gaaaaargh.”)
In turn, I told him about what I was working on. “This one’s called
Social Suicide
,” I said. “It’s about a girl who wants to get revenge on all the people in her life by killing herself in the middle of a dinner party.”
“That sounds awful,” Mr. Oliver said. “That’s a downer! Yuck! Yuck!”
“I’m also writing a children’s show in which the Beatles are forest creatures,” I added. (This one actually got produced!)
Mr. Oliver, evidently mistaking this for a joke, gave me a funny look and started laughing.
He kept telling me that he was on the verge of a major production. This seemed improbable. “I got an e-mail from the theater asking for the next stage of the script,” he would tell me. “‘We request the next stage of the script,’ it said.”
“No!” I would gasp. “No, you didn’t!”
Finally, grinning, he would produce a printout of the e-mail. It would say, “We have received your script. Please do not send us anything further unless we request the next stage of the script.”
I kept hoping against hope that this situation would turn into my own personal version of
Tuesdays with Morrie
. Mr. Oliver would become a font of wisdom and start spewing words of inspiration. Instead, he kept creating situations in which I came within inches of mailing people pictures of Hitler. (To wit: He once gave me a picture of Hitler and Eva Braun with “HOW MUCH TIME DO WE HAVE?!?” written on it in large black letters. It got mixed in with some papers I was carrying to mail and had disappeared into an envelope before I realized my mistake. Fortunately I was able to pry it out in time; otherwise this story would be entitled, “How I Got Fired from Everything, Ever.” I had a panicked vision of the recipient opening what she thought was a polite letter from a young journalist, only to discover a totally context-free image of Hitler withthe words HOW MUCH TIME DO WE HAVE?!? scrawled on it in terrifying old-man handwriting. Then I would get an intense, angry call: “What is the meaning of this? Do you think this is some sort of a
joke
? Are you the ZODIAC KILLER?”)
• • •
Then again, his were far from the worst plays I had