First Wife
I wish it was the ‘80s. I wish it was New York City. I wish it played like a movie.
You’d be some kind of middling businessman; bright ideas, but nobody who will listen to them. If only someone could just take a chance on you! Every day you’d get on the subway, and some panhandler would crack a joke at your expense. Because you’re a huge nerd, even by ‘80s standards. Your glasses are dorky and your suit is straight up whack - at least that’s what the cool bum on the street says. When you emerge from the subway exit, peaking your head out into the city above, you realize it’s raining, because it’s always raining. And even though it’s always raining, you never seem to have an umbrella. You are forced to run through the rain and somewhere along the way, in a most comical fashion, an iconic yellow taxi splashes water and mud and pain all over your straight up whack suit. Aw man, can’t you ever just catch a break?
This is your life, at least for a little bit. But somehow and some way, you have an inciting incident which propels the plot forward. You’ll gain some momentum, albeit a bit slowly. This is around the time when you first see me. I'm unassuming, in a bar or at a club. Having fun with friends, totally ignoring you, but you just can’t seem to look away. There's something about me. You try to introduce yourself, but I immediately shut you down. You’re not my type, I have a boyfriend, I really don’t have the time for this sort of thing - whatever, whatever, whatever.
Any one of those lame excuses makes you want me even more, right?
Cut away. Skip ahead. More action is bound to occur. You now find yourself with a bit of money, due to whatever inciting incident and whatever plot that propels forward. I find myself with two dozen roses delivered to my door. “Who sent these?” I ask my lovable doorman. “No note, but some kid called earlier. Told me to tell ya to be ready at 8!” he barks back, in some kind of poor Bostonian accent.
I’ll get dressed up, even though I'm, like, so totally not into this or into you. Soon enough you materialize in front of me, still a bit boyish and a bit raggedy. We engage in some predictable repartee throughout our romantic dinner. You’re ambitious, but so am I - have you ever met any other girl like that? Of course not, that’s why you’re here. Duh.
You knew. You knew from the moment you first saw me. It was bound to happen; like everything else in your character arc. I am the target and I need to be neutralized. A few more romantic gestures and I will acquiesce; I will stand down. Actually, I'll fall in love. And it just so happens, that whatever your big plans are, well, I’m here to help! You climb the ladder, I'll make sure it’s sturdy. It’s all so fun right now; the hopeful montage of us will culminate as you whisk me into your arms, asking bravely if we can please be married. I’m shocked, because I wasn’t expecting any of this - I have dreams, remember? But you promise. You promise me it’s going to be good. If I stick with you, all my dreams are going to come true - just you wait!
There is a pause between us. Maybe a bit foreboding. To the viewer, maybe foreshadowing. I am looking into your eyes, I am searching them. I detect no danger, so I say “….. okay,” and before I can even smile or laugh, you lift me off my feet. You spin me around. Happiness does exist!
We can cut to the wedding. We can cut to the birth of your empire, then the birth of our children. Then we have to slow down, because we’ve all been through a lot.
You’re a bit wiser now, some may even say jaded. You’ve managed to keep your head on straight through all this newfound success, but temptation. Power. This money is changing hands. One wrong move, one slight fork in this road. Suddenly, you’re someone else. You’re someone else and you’re losing it. Not outwardly losing it, but I see the subtle change. I know the signs. And I try now. I try to keep you close; I dare to throw out life lines. The independent girl you flirted with now a codependent woman you love, and she’s so desperate to keep your family together.
At this junction, who’s to say? It could be a young intern at your fancy new office. She’s spunkier, she’s hotter. It could be a stripper you meet on one of your long nights out. Whoever it is, it is them now. You begin to fade. I get written out, and it’s to be assumed I'm done away with. I've been switched out for a newer model, one that reflects your current state of being.
Where do I go, though? That part is never explained very well. Obviously I am entitled to some of your fortune, especially because I'm raising nameless children you no longer care about. But, like, spiritually. What's left of me?
I hope I go where all the cool girl wives who die too soon in action movies retire to. We could all commune together, reminiscing on how good it felt when we weren’t divorced or dead.
Back to you, though. Your story is easier to predict, spiritually.
You’d get to the peak, only to fall off. Hard. Your delusions of grandeur come undone; people betray you then people get bored of you. You might break every bone on the way down, sure, but before that - you’d finally be the king, and the killer. It’s your greatest fantasy fulfilled and it’s a knife twisting into your spine.
They make these movies as cautionary tales, you know? Sort of like a big red don’t try this at home! sign for all to see. So predictable that I can imagine all this in my sleep, and that’s exactly what I do. At night, I dream of everything I’ve ever seen in this tiny life. I make up this one very quickly and then I think to myself, wait a minute! I don’t wish it played like a movie at all.
