Part I: In which our heroine suffers great trials and tribulations.
Two days after the notification that 30 pages of Lala’s novel (please, stop laughing, Laszlo) were due in days, a new problem arose in the lives of Lala and Laszlo in the shape of Lala’s eyeball.
“It’s not shaped like an eyeball anymore,” says Laszlo. “Not after what you did to it.”
“I was stressed,” says Lala defensively.
“…You tore off several layers of your cornea.”
“Can I tell this story, please?” says Lala.
Laszlo grunts and goes back to painting.
So there Lala was, blinded after removing, with overmuch enthusiasm, a contact lens.
For a few hours she collapsed over couches, tripped over sharp-heeled shoes (that she had left out) and tumbled down stairs with eyes shut and arms out. She also moaned quietly but loudly enough so that Laszlo could hear. Lala slumped into seats and segments of floor that were increasingly close to Laszlo, who was engrossed in something on TV, until she sat on his remote control.
Part II: In Which our Heroine Suffers More Greatly and Meets a Doctor but Not the Kind Your Mother Wants You to Marry
“Why are you wearing sunglasses,” asked Laz. He was digging under her for the remote.
“They’re Missoni,” Lala said. “Do I need a reason?”
“I mean, why are you wearing sunglasses and sitting there, moaning in the dark?”
“I’m lamenting my pain and loneliness,” she sniffed.
“Okay, I’m going to look. First I need light,” Laszlo said, turning on a desk lamp and plunging Lala into a new state of shock. She was like a mole that had been swiped from its lifelong barrow of comforting dirt and womblike darkness and placed onstage at the academy awards, with 9000 paparazz standing by with cameras and J Lo‘s booty clad all in white shiny material. It was horrible.
“Hold still,” he said, attempting to pry open Lala’s swollen eyelid with his hand.
“I can’t!” Lala wailed.
“Well I can’t see if you can’t open it,” said Laz.
Lala considered this for a moment then leaned back and let Laz pry open the eye. She waited for his gasp of shock and horror.
“I don’t see anything,” he said.
“Right? It’s like ruined forever ri– Nothing?!” Someone pounded on the wall from the adjacent apartment.
“It’s not even red,” he said. He let her up and she sat, covering the organ as it poured hot liquid down her shirt. “Eeeeeee—eeewww,” he said. “You’ve got gummy stuff coming out.”
Part III – In Which Our Heroine Formulates the Opinion that those Pain Charts? You Know the 1 through 10 Pain Charts? Inadequate.
Lala was experiencing pain: a red-hot bee (African bee, most likely) — one who ate razor blades for breakfast — had dived into her eyeball and remained there, angry, exploding and reconstituting every 45 seconds.
It was decided that an emergency room would be a good thing. Laz attempted to get La out of her pajamas.
“Why are you trying to fold those,” he said, as Lala tried to place her pajamas on the bureau. “If you weren’t blind you’d just throw them on the floor anyway.”
At Urgent Care, The doctor’s response, was this– “Wow. It’s torn all right. Maureen? Do you want to see this?” Nurse Maureen was suitably impressed. “Wilma?” Wilma, the other nurse, was also impressed. “You really did it,” she said to Lala, who glowed with pride.
“Can I see?” asked Laszlo.
“Wow. It’s like the Hulk!” Laz said.
“What?” said Lala.
“Yeah, it’s like the entire thing is torn,” he said. “I mean, it’s really deep looking down at the bottom here.”
“That’s enough, baby,” she said. “I feel kind of woozy.”
“It looks like an onion got scraped away all over your eye. This is amazing. A de-laminated onion,” he said. “Baby? Baby?”
Part VI: In Which It is Discovered that Percoset May Prevent Connubial Relations
That night, Laszlo put Lala to bed in his T-shirt. He started fidgeting.
“Are you getting amorous?” asked Lala.
Laszlo turned out his bedside lamp and continued fidgeting.
“Laszlo? Can you stay away from my eyeball?”
A few minutes passed, with more fidgeting. At last, Laz sat up.
“Why are you itching so much?”
“It’s the Percocet, I think,” said Lala.
“I’m sure it will stop. Take this off,” breathed Laz.
All was dark and silent except for the rustling of sheets and the sound of fingernails on skin.
**Sound of kissing.**
“I’m giving up,” said Laszlo.
“You don’t love me!” said Lala, scratching her leg.
The Final Chapter: In which our Heroine Recovers Only to Be Struck Down Again
Three days later Lala had the use of her eye again.
The morning of her return to sight, she checked her email for the first time in days. She was feeling good. Her vision wasn’t ruined forever. She had gotten an extension on her novel. Birds might have been tweeting.
There was an email from a literary journal to which she had submitted her best short story.
No. They said no.
No thank you, actually.
Lala went back to bed. She read her book (the sci-fi one, NOT the one on how to be a better writer) and kicked the blankets and 600-thread-count sheets around.
She felt better eventually.
“Oh, you recovered already from the rejection, La?” says Laszlo. He’s watching Family Guy and peering over Lala’s shoulder. “That’s good, babe. You know that they don’t appreciate true talent like yours.”
“Yeah, right, Laz.”
“Just one question, Lala,”
“If you are so recovered, how come I found that issue of the literary-mag–“
“–whose name shall not be spoken –” broke in Lala.
“–whose name shall not be spoken,” nodded Laszlo. “How come I found it shredded and desecrated with cheese sauce — in the trash just now? With drawings of unsmiley faces on it?”
“Maybe the hulk did it,” Lala shrugged.
- Palm Drama in St. Barthelemy – old families, private land, possibly a government conspiracy or two… (lalalabreia.wordpress.com)
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- An Evening with The World/Inferno Friendship Society at Music Hall of Williamsburg (lalalabreia.wordpress.com)
- 30 Pages of a Novel – Due Wednesday. Shall I commit Hari Kari now, or later? (writingblanks.wordpress.com)