It could be. Except that it's not. It begins with a dinner scene, except that it's cats; black and white, like Sylvester in Sylvester and Tweety cartoons. Except it’s me and my dad. And except there’s no Tweety.
We have forks and knives. We have napkins tied around our necks. We have plates and he’s got a garbage can lid full of fish heads. He’s Sylvester, and I’m Junior, his kid.
That's one for you. He plunks a fish head down on my plate. Takes two for himself. That’s two for me. One for you. Three for me. And so on and so on…
and I’m tired of eating from garbage can lids. I’ve looked in windows; I've seen fireplaces. Bowls of milk. Kitty beds. Oh Father, I say, why can’t we be like other pussycats…
…a black circle closes then opens again, like the iris shot in old silent films. Iris out. Iris in. There’s me and my dad, same as before. Except there’s no fish heads. Except we're not cats.
But there’s presents and cake, and I say, I hope you liked dinner, Happy Bir—
He yells, CUT!
Excuse me? I say.
Cut, he says. Stop. Desist. I’m not feelin’ it, sweetie. I hear the words but I don’t hear the music. Let’s try it again. More feeling this time.
I say, hey. Otto Preminger. This isn’t a “scene”…it’s about to be a scene, but…what the hell’s the matter with you? I made a nice dinner…lamb chops, potatoes…chocolate torte for dessert…and here you are…
Okay, he says, the outrage is good. I like the outrage so hold on to that—right now what I need from you, sweetie, is misty-eyed fondness. A little catch in your voice. Let’s try it again.
Is there some pill you forgot to take, I say.
Sweetheart, he says, do you know what “fungible” means? If you don’t want this part I can always give it to someone else…I’m trying to give you a break here, doll.
Oh that’s good, I tell him. That’s really good. You’re giving me a break. Do you have any idea how many breaks I’ve given you, or how many lies I’ve told myself were true, for your sake.
True? he says. I’ll tell you what’s true. You play the “daughter”. That’s what’s true. That’s your part, that’s your role. Play the daughter, say your lines and look pretty. I have to direct, and play the father…you have it easy, sweetpea, believe me.
I say, listen old man. You listen to me. This isn’t a movie. This is not a set. It’s our home…our house, at least, but it’s real. I’m real. And you are. You're in there somewhere. You don't get to hide, and if I have to drag you by what’s left of your hair, then I will. But you're in there somewhere. And you're coming out.
No, he says. That’s where you’re wrong. You listen to me. You want to know that I bleed, or I cry, because you bleed and cry. But I’ve spent a lifetime not doing either. I’m not in here somewhere. I’m not here to bleed. Not for you or for anyone. Not even for me.
The black circle closes, and that’s all, folks. It could be a dream. Except that it’s not; the dream is we’re real, not cartoons and fish heads.
The dream is we could be like other pussycats.