Tuesday #1

NG: Thanks for meeting with me on such a short notice.

TR: Oh it's no problem. I'm only gonna die in like…thirty-five days. Thanks for writing me down on paper. Immortalizing me. No biggie.

NG: If it makes you feel any better, thirty-five days is a fucking perfect timeline for me.

TR: Perfect? What? Why?

NG: It gives my column a Five-Act Play quality. This Tuesday, next Tuesday, two other Tuesdays and then the day you're scheduled to die. Very Hamlet-esque.

TR: You know, I always thought I'd've been a great Ophelia. (laughs)

NG: It's a pretty reasonable way to structure a long series of your weird bullshit mixed with my weird, sort of moralistic…bullshit fantasy.

TR: Oh Christ. Fantasy? You're writing fantasy now? (scoffs) I don't know if I want to be a character in a Nick Gaudio fantasy book. I have a feeling I'd be treated unfairly.

NG: Shut up. It's not a fantasy book. Just a little narrative about you and I…just something that's indicative of how you and I are together.

TR: Okay. That sounds nice, actually.

NG: It is.

TR: Yeah, just don't give me a pair of demon wings and a pitchfork in your stupid fantasy book.

NG: Alright, sure. I'll portray you accurately. I'll make you a succubus.

TR: That's not fantasy at all, baby.

NG: Already?…This isn't much of an interview.

TR: You're not much of an interviewer.

NG: C'mon.

TR: Get with it Nick. I know everything.

NG: I remember.

(exchange looks)

NG: Uh. So I want to get something straight today, before we actually begin and I let you talk about your so very interesting life. I'm using you in this first interview for something, just like you're using me for something. But I'm not going to say why. I want to have this on tape, instead of just taking notes like we said. Is that cool?

TR: Yeah, very official-sounding. Very mysterious and very official.

(exchange looks here, for what feels like a minute)

NG: Okay. You self-identify as a "hipster chick." Is that right?

TR: Why do you still have to do that stupid quote thing (points at my hands)?

NG: So I can remember to put quote marks around it in the transcription.

TR: …

NG: Fuck. Are you a hipster or aren't you? It's your SN somewhere isn't it? Hipsterchick.

TR: Yes, that's right, okay, sure. Hipsterchick. That's me.

NG: Alright good, we're going places.

TR: (looks around the room) Are we?

NG: (taps the recording device in my lap) Focus on here. 

TR: That's… what she said.

NG: Better.

TR: That's also what she said.

NG: I'm thwarted.

TR: That's-

NG: Yeah I said that one intentionally.

TR: (laughs) That's what they say. Nick Gaudio: Ahead of his time.

NG: I'm glad I got you to say that aloud. We'll put that on your tombstone. With some "quote marks."

TR: That's fine. It'll suit me. It'll be very "ironic."

NG: Sarcasm and irony aren't the same thing.

TR: Oh, trust me. It'll be very ironic.

NG: Too bad you won't be around to see my failures. (smiles)

TR: That's true. Nothing is more satisfying than seeing you fail. We had sex, remember?

NG: We had sex? Pretty forgettable, I guess.

TR: Uh huh. A few times. You even wrote me a poem about it. "Ode to Sex." That's what it was called.

NG: Well, Keats wrote an ode to a fucking nightingale.

TR: And he, you know, loved that bird.

NG: Yeah yeah yeah. You think he remembered the fourth nightingale he ever saw? That fourth nightingale, you know…with that huge, gross birthmark on her inner thigh? Or do you think he wrote that poem about all the nightingales he'd seen before?

TR: Again? Nick. What did I tell you four years ago? Women aren't birds. Quit "screwing" birds.

NG: I thought it worked better as a metaphor for vagina…better than something… literal.

TR: If you're going to use a mammal metaphor, try a clam.

NG: …Both birds and clams aren't mammals.

TR: Hence, the joke.

NG: You always say that shit.

TR: What?

NG: You try to get around something stupid you said with "hence the joke."

TR: Yeah, and you blush and fidget like a crackhead. We all have our coping mechanisms.

NG: I remember now why I loved you.

TR: I thought you forgot about me.

NG: Alright. Uh. So let's get into this, alright?

TR: Yeah. Sure. I just want a copy of this sent to [mutual friend].

NG: You're a "hipster." We have that recorded too.

TR: (scoffs) Sure. Yes.

NG: Now. What type of hipster are you?

TR: General hipster.

NG: That's kind of generic, isn't it? Right? I mean, I'm a "writer" but I'm a specific type of writer. Fiction writer. There are…you know… sub-categories to "hipster."

TR: I don't know about that…. What do ya mean, then?

NG: There's pot-head hipsters, rave hipsters, there's grungy, dive bar hipsters, metal hipsters, music hipsters, lit-hipsters, New York City hipsters, San Francisco hipsters…. You get the point.

TR: I don't put myself in a box.

NG: You sort of just did. I mean, you call yourself the word, "hipster." That's the box.

TR: Yeah, but like you said. It's just a word.

NG: Can I tell you something?

TR: Sure.

NG: Words have meaning.

TR: No they don't. I'm dying and even I know better than that.

NG: Yes they do. Yes they do. Words assign significance to this reality. I know it's a shitty reality right now for you, but words are boxes…and we need something to store our shit in. You get me? We need something to get our shit around with.

TR: I don't agree with the analogy of the box now.

NG: Fuck.

TR: Listen. Words fall short of reality. They really do.

NG: I know that you think that, but it's not how meager or…uncertain, or…bendable the meaning of some word is, we need words to get around.

TR: No, we don't. We need a healthy immune system and usable legs. It doesn't matter what it's called. "Immune" "system." Or, "Minnie" "Mouse."…….A "rose" by any other word is still HIV.

NG: I think I get what you mean. That's a valid point.

TR: I know it is. (smiles) I think it was Prince who said it.

NG: Still, don't doctors rely on language?

TR: Drop it.

NG: No. Not yet. They can really aid in that healthy immune system, right? Society exists because of words, because of boxes. We exist because of boxes.

TR: The Internet's got you thinking you're not responsible for words. That's what this is.

NG: I'm not following you.

TR: What I'm saying is… that… I'll hold you accountable for what you say to me. I'll haunt you or something.

NG: Still not following.

TR: Society holds people accountable for what they say, for the words. Not reality. When I'm dead, I'm dead. That's it for me. Reality ceases to be and my words will…flutter away…out into space…where aliens will hear me…and say, "Damn she was dope."

NG: But reality and society are pretty much co-existent. Just because somebody is dead doesn't mean–

TR: I disagree.

NG: Okay. For me…you do the things that other "hipsters" do, that which makes them unique and definable. That makes you a "hipster."

TR: I guess you're right, then. Okay. One shouldn't bandy about words.

NG: Nice use of bandy.

TR: Thank you. I learned it from a stripper in Morgantown.

NG: Jesus. Well, for me… what "sub-category" are you?

TR: I guess I'm a "dope" hipster.

NG: Dope? You did heroin?

TR: No. Dope hipster.

NG: Meaning?

TR: I'm dope.

NG: Good one.

TR: I am on fire today…

NG: Speaking of fire….do you still get all your clothes at Hot Topic or what?

(TR's head explodes)

NG: We'll call this machine quits for today.  You're sounding haggard.

TR: Don't say my head exploded then.

NG: I won't.

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