Alan Zweibel - From the Bottom Drawer of Alan Zweibel: The Prize, The Ride Home, Sexting with Alan Dershowitz

The Prize

The Ride Home

Sexting with Alan Dershowitz

Price World Publishing, LLC
www.PriceWorldPublishing.com

Copyright by Alan Zweibel
All rights reserved. Neither this book, nor any parts within it may be sold or reproduced in any form without permission.

eISBN: 9781936910274

A woman won me in an auction. Allow me to explain.

This past summer I work shopped a new play Ive written at the New York Stage and Film festival at Vassar College. A wonderful experience for which I showed my appreciation by agreeing to be a prize in a silent auction they were having at their annual fundraiser. Id heard of this kind of thing from some of my very famous friends for whom star-struck donors generously bid tens of thousands of dollars to share a meal, play a round of golf or spend an afternoon on the set of a movie theyre shooting. But me? A writer of modest renown who regards lunch as nothing more than a great time to figure out what I want to have for dinner? I found the thought of anyone voluntarily writing a check so they can spend time with me (as opposed to having lost a bet) intriguing. So after a mutually convenient time was determined, I left my Jersey home, got into my car, and drove to Manhattan to have a delicious lunch, compliments of the charity that sponsored this whole thing.

I arrived at the midtown restaurant where I met Enid Borden - a twenty-three year old woman who wants to be a writer. Pale. Slight. Short, parted hair that frames her face in an Alfafa from the Little Rascals kind of way. She was sweet and shy and had paid good money to be here so I was flattered.

How much did this cost you? I asked.

Twenty-two, she answered.

Twenty-two hundred dollars! Hey, not too shabby. No, not even close to what my celebrity pals bring in but respectable nonetheless.

Well, thank you. And by the end of this lunch I sure hope you still feel I was worth that twenty-two hundred dollars, I joked.

No, it wasnt twenty-two hundred dollars. It was twenty-two dollars.

Twenty-two dollars?

Twenty-two dollars.

Oh. Just so I know, not that it matters, but what did the bidding start at?

Twenty dollars.

Twenty dollars.

Yes. And then it went up in fifty-cent increments.

I see. So it started at twenty dollars and then four people each raised it fifty cents?

No. Just one other person. A real jerk who had no intention of winning hes still pissed that I dont want to sleep with him anymore and wanted me to spend more money.

I see...

But when he stopped at $21.50, I upped him and here we are.

...Indeed.

And while I couldnt hold this humbling pittance against her - after all, it wasnt her fault the amount wasnt higher - I also couldnt help but do some quick calculations of my own. It cost me $5.00 for gas, it would be $18.00 for round trip tolls, at least another $30 for parking...so Id already spent $32 more than this young woman did to eat with me something I couldve done for free by myself. And with no table manners whatsoever. But shed cared enough to pay to be with me so we ordered a couple of seafood salads and got to talking.

So what kind of writing do you want to do? I asked.

Drama.

Really?

Yes. David Mamet is my idol.

Right...

I also like John Guare.

Hes really good.

John Patrick Shanely.

Uh huh. How about comedy?

No. Im really not a big fan of comedy.

Youre not?

No. Ive always considered it a lower form of art when it comes to reflecting the human condition.

...Right. You know, thats what I write. Comedy.

You do?

Have you ever read my books? Seen my plays? Television shows?

Yes. Im familiar with just about everything youve done...

Thank you...

But I never found any of it that funny.

Oh.

If memory serves, this was the moment when I started to dislike Enid Borden more than anyone Id ever met. Even people I had never met. Like Hitler. She was no longer cute. In fact, as I looked at what Id originally regarded as a semi-adorable face now seemed overblown with contorted features. Eye lids hanging downward like awnings. And a nose barely visible behind lips now swelled to the size of pizza platters. Without warning I was suddenly having lunch with Diane Arbus.

Are you okay? I asked.

Im allergic to shellfish and I think Im having a reaction, she slurred in a language that sort of resembled English.

Why she ordered a seafood salad when she already knew she was allergic to the shrimp, clams, and their fellow crustaceans was my next question.

Jheytc whfgrll egcssc hospital tygrfd, she answered.

And since the only word in her garbled sentence that didnt sound like it was ripped from an eye chart was hospital, I couldnt help but think thats where she wanted to go. Not a bad idea. Either there or an auto body shop so someone could pound out her now totally recessed features which made her resemble a, well, a hubcap that needed a good pounding. But was it my responsibility to do so? For the life of me I had no idea when this lunch was considered over.

Counting a tip, the taxi to Mount Sinai Medical Center cost me $11. Add to that the $15 the dry cleaner would charge to take out the mussel laced drool that involuntarily issued from the moaning Enids lips after she placed her head, also involuntarily, on my shoulder and my personal contribution to this lunch was now up to $79. Enid had spent $22.50.

Are you the patients husband? asked the emergency room doctor.

No.

Father?

No.

Then may I ask exactly what your relation is to Miss Borden?

She won me in a silent auction.

He either didnt hear me or was far too frightened to respond. He just handed me a clipboard with a few pages of personal questions that needed to be completed by someone who wasnt me. Just as I was certain that the prescription for Epi-Pen should have been filled by someone else.

That will be $104, said the otherwise beautiful pharmacist - save for the mole that looked strikingly like Maryland above her lip.

Why cant she just have Benadryl? Isnt that sold over the counter and is a lot cheaper? I asked.

You a pharmacist? asked the otherwise pleasant pharmacist - save for a tone strikingly reminiscent of George C. Scotts Academy Award winning portrayal of General Patton.

No, Im not a pharmacist.

Then dont tell me my business. Obviously her doctor wanted her to have these injections because theyre stronger and enter the bloodstream faster.

Injections?

Enid Borden has a tattoo of a butterfly on her ass. A multi-colored monarch that looked as unhappy to be there as I was when I injected her with Epi-Pen. This was after a $12 ride to her apartment and another $23.74 for groceries because the drug should not be taken on an empty stomach.

My lunch with Enid Borden ended at 6:30 that evening after her swelling had markedly diminished. I bade her goodbye and told her to call me if I can be of any help to her in the future.

As I look back at this experience, there are two Hebrew words that immediately come to mind in describing my lunch with Enid Borden. One is mitzvah which means good deed. The other is schmuck which oftentimes refers to a person who unwittingly performs a mitzvah because he is too weak to extricate himself from a situation that drains him of time and money. In this particular case, if you count the two dollars it cost to take a subway from Enid Bordens apartment to the garage where Id parked my car what seemed like years before, my out of pocket total for being a prize was $220.74. a bill that I plan on passing on to David Mamet, John Guare, or John Patrick Shanley depending on whose address I get my hands on first.