Interpreting Kirk

“First of all, do I stand a chance?” asks Louis if Lacey.

“He’s the hero of this story, don’t need to be saved?” sings Jack. He pauses. “Don’t bother asking her!”

“Should we ask you about Jack’s taste in music?” someone asks Lem.

“Anyway, as supernatural beings outside of time you can correct each any every syllable with absolute interpretative clarity. Perfect understanding. With God’s help.” says Lacey. “That’s part of the reason why witches do witchcraft. They’re seeking a shortcut to absolute truth.” She thinks. “Except I’m not a witch.”

“So you have no idea?” asks Louis, worried.

Michael restrains himself.

“No. Sadly. Because I don’t enjoy it. I hate it.” says Lacey.

“You hate having to pick?” asks Harold.

“Yes! I’d rather just be alone than hurt someone.” she says.

“And you have no idea who you love?!” asks an aghast female Boomer.

“No. She loves all of them.” says Jack. “Genuinely.”

“But I don’t want to. I hate it!” says Lacey.

“And you wish someone would just tell you who you’re supposed to love?” asks a perfume hater.

“So there’s an absolute meaning?” asks a man.

“Yes! And that’s where romantic love takes on infinite importance. And as impossible as it might be to find the absolute meaning or your soulmate…it’s not that they don’t exist.” says Lacey.

“And you keep waiting for God to save you?” he asks.

Jack cries. “We don’t expect much happiness do we?” he asks of Lacey.

“No! Are we idiots?” she asks him.

He considers it frankly.

“You should write a blog.” he says sarcastically.

She doesn’t answer. And for once she doesn’t need to.

“We’ve ruined their sexuality by making it identical to ours.” says a Millennial trying to clean-up after the Boomers.

“Of course the irony is that Lacey actually is a Millennial.” says Red.

Jackie laughs.

“Just barely though.” says Elliott.

“When would you like your birthday to be?” asks Jack of Lacey.

“Late September.” says Lacey.

“September 5th.” says a woman. “At 5:30 PM.”

“That’s perfect!” says Lacey. “June is a nice month too. But I like September.”

“Why?” asks Tom.

“It’s quiet.” says Lacey. “If my birthday was in June I’d get too much attention and feel the need to put on a show every year.”

A perfume hater rolls her eyes. “In the absence of Floris Coconut…why not wear more roses?”

“Roses make me cry.” says Lacey. “They make me think of death and suffering.”

“Like your own funeral?” asks an Indian.

“No. But maybe. More just sad funerals in general.” she says.

“They don’t make you think of love or gardens?” someone asks.

“Gardens maybe!” Lacey says, trying to perk-up.

“Like a good tea rose!” says an Englishman.

“Yes! More like Penhaligon’s Elisabethan Rose than Jo Malone Red Roses.” she says.

Truman Capote looks frustrated.

“You love rose perfume on other people though?” he asks Lacey.

“Yes! I just hate it on myself.” she says. “Mostly.”

“You don’t like men at all because of their place in the world. Do you?” asks a man of Lacey.

“Not unless it reflects on their glory as a man. As in, their character or prowess.” says a billionaire.

A shadow manifests in the corner of her room momentarily.

“So how does a man get your attention?” he asks.

The billionaire laughs.

“By being yourself.” she says.

Louis understands. He always would have?

“That’s dumb!” the man says. The perfume haters wildly agree.

Lacey sighs in exasperation. “Why?”

“Because it just ends up being the same thing!” the man says.

“Oh, I see. So it’s that who people are is determined by their social class, their accomplishments or what? Their what?” she asks.

“You mean someone’s soul?” the man asks.

“Yes. We are not materialistic items to be bought and sold. Correct?” asks Lacey.

“You think I’m a shallow twat!” he says to her.

“Well, answer the question if you’re so deep then.” she says.

He licks his lips. “You love Michael Rockefeller because he’s a Rockefeller. Whether you realize it or not!” He shrugs. “There I said it!”

“Even though he’s dead?” asks Lacey.

“So you can’t get his money?” he says nodding his head.


“But you still can. Right?” he asks, feeling stupid as he says it. He thinks.

“How?” asks Lacey.

He sighs. “He’s still…himself.”

“Yes! But I doubt I’ll get much money out of it. And if I do, isn’t that kind of him? …But yes, he is still himself.” she says.

“How do you envision getting money?” he asks, suspiciously.

“I suppose like the other day when Louis broke the cash register so I could get a free salad.” says Lacey. “Things like that. But who knows.”

“Fine. You’re right that it isn’t the actual money you’re after most likely.” he says.

“No. It’s a matter of his…being.” she says.

“You really wanted to marry someone like me.” says an artist. A Millennial artist.

“Or Louis. Someone like you, or someone like Louis.” says Lacey, feeling a tiny bit understood.

“Or a combination of both!” says Michael.

“But there just wasn’t anyone?” the artist asks.

“No. There just wasn’t anyone.” says Lacey.

Lem weeps.

“And that’s why you go more for Michael. Because he died for the sake of art. And Lem, if straight, died for the sake of stupidity?” asks the man.

“Yes! Unfortunately.” says Lacey.

“Do artists go for you?” asks the artist.

“Honestly, accomplished artists have. Actual artists. But…otherwise no.” says Lacey.

“You mean that literally.” says the artist. “So no one who you crushed on though?”

“Yes.” says Lacey.

He laughs. “Just rich men.”

“Well…and rarely someone at least slightly like Louis. Or men in my family.” she says.

“Like your ex-husband?” he asks.

“Yes! Not who love me-“

“Like us!” says Harold.

“But yes. Men who have money.” she says.

“And you imagine they want you for sex or company or image or etc.?” he asks. “But not so much for love?” he asks.

“Yes, unfortunately.” says Lacey.

“Artists look for those things too.” he says.

“You don’t fit the type of woman we’ve been assigned to crush on by society.” He licks his lips. “Not until we’ve made our million.”

“But I’m so badly dressed. And I never get my hair done.” Lacey says.

He laughs. “Wait! So you’ve purposely done that to attract our attention?”

“Yes. I think so.” she says.

“And it hasn’t worked.” he says, realizing how beautiful she is and was. “I bet we’ve just incorrectly judged you.” he says.

“Yes! Very much so. But when I look my best…I just get hit on by well-off or wealthy men.” she says. “Or men in general but not men like you.”

“Yeah!! But that’s because you look classically elegant and beautiful.” says a hater. “You don’t look right to date those guys.”

Margaret Thatcher laughs. “I think you have great taste in men! But you can’t make yourself look like them.”

“I thought you had farming in your family background?” says a perfume hater who grew-up on a farm.

“You don’t understand, darling.” responds Margaret Thatcher.

“How many thousands of acres does your family own?” asks a hater.

“Tens of thousands at this point, collectively.” says Lacey.

“Who are you trying to look like?!” asks a perfume hater.

The man wonders too.

“I’m not bourgeois and loved enough to look like Ally Sheedy’s character, Leslie, in St. Elmo’s Fire. But that’s one character I relate to aesthetically. …Or Ally Sheedy’s character in The Breakfast Club either. None of those guys would have noticed me at all.”

A ghost thinks.

“Who do you resemble?” asks the ghost. “When you try?”

“You know in Eye’s Wide Shut when Nicole Kidman’s character is sleeping with the Naval Lieutenant? It looks like she’s trying to impersonate me. Take out the idiotic attempt at being sexy.” Lacey rolls her eyes. “Just focus on her hair and make-up.”

“Is that like…weirdly one of the only images you’ve ever seen of yourself in the media?” asks a Millennial.

“Yes! Very much so.” says Lacey.

“Who does that man look like to you?” asks the man.

“Like Lem. In person. Or Michael slightly, in person. Or maybe a bit like Joe. But mostly, Lem.” says Lacey.

“But Lem was never a Naval Officer.” says a Millennial.

“But Joe Kennedy Jr. was definitely a Naval officer on Cape Cod.” says a ghost. “And he was a Captain before he died.”

“Okay! I can see why you don’t fit in.” says the man.

“Why?” asks Lacey.

“You’re too pretty. But in this…round like you say, elegant 1930’s or 40’s way. And to us it looks…foreign. We don’t get it.” He looks sad. “You’re Ginger Rogers not Betty Draper in terms of looks.”

“It’s overly sexual to today’s viewer. They don’t get the context. They want to mage me trashier or more so-called masculine energy than I am. But always one or the other.”

“Lacey, is that you and Lem?” asks a Millennial. “Like did Stanley Kubrick accidentally capture you and Lem on screen?”

“Against our wills?” she asks.

“Yes!!!” yells Lem. “In some way it looks a creepy amount like us. Except, I was never Joe and she wasn’t alive yet and she’s not that sleazy and neither am I. Nor that cheesy!”

“You think that looks cheesy?” asks Stanley Kubrick?

“It’s dumb as dirt!” spits Lacey.

“I don’t hate you for saying that.” he says. “For all you know, I wanted it to look like that.”

“Well! Say! You got your sex scene with Lacey and Lem after all!” says a Hollywood extra from the 1950’s.

A witch is aghast. “Did you do that?!” she asks.

“For all you know I planned the entire film!” he says.

“To get back at someone or?” asks a man.

“Maybe I always had a dream to be a Hollywood writer.” he says.

“See, that’s why we all need God.” says Lacey seriously.

“Would you have permed your hair or would it have been that curly?” asks a hater.

“I don’t know. It’s likely either way.” she says.

“You know it barely looks like Nicole Kidman in that scene.” says a perfume hater.

“Do you think she was channeling Lacey?” asks a witch. “Because here’s what you need to keep in mind if you Illuminati exist: you are haunting her. Not the other way around.“ She collects herself. “You are fascinated by us.”

“Or Stanley Kubrick was fascinated by Lacey and Lem, but he couldn’t figure out how to channel them?” asks a man.

“Because he didn’t even know who they were.” says an Asmat.

“Has it just been too depressing to look remotely like that? Considering that Lem and Joe and Michael and basically all of them are dead?” asks the artist of Lacey.

“Oh goodness yes!!!” she says. “I’ve felt that but couldn’t put words to it since adolescence.”

“Like literally?!” asks a Millennial.

“I’d look around at my peers and even men older and they never were as attractive. I’m sorry.”

“And apparently old men have always paid you really random compliments?” asks a perfume hater.

“Yes! They’re mostly all dead now. But yes.” says Lacey.

The perfume hater laughs. “There’s no way your family owns tens of thousands?”

“No. They do. One farm is 5,000. Another is 5,000. Another is 3,000. Another 2,000 or 3,000. Etc. Etc. And they all add up.” she says.

“But one farm is 5,000 acres!” she says accusingly.

Elliott laughs.

“They’re all chopped up!” she protests. “And scattered.”

“They’re all within 30 miles or so of each other. But yes.” says Lacey.

“And oil is underneath all of it.” says a man.

An Egyptian laughs.

“You don’t look like Ally Sheedy.” says the Millennial artist.

“I always thought we’d hurt her pride.” says another perfume hater. “And not what she said happened.”

“You know what’s funny? She’ll probably only inherit a few million.” says a Gen Z artist.

“Yeah, that’s not that much!” says a rich Millennial.

“It’s an enormous amount.” says a perfume hater. “There’s no way she has that much!”

“You don’t look that much like Ally Sheedy. But I think she’s a cross between you and Jackie style-wise.” says the artist. “I mean…your coloring is similar slightly but…”

“Are you really that rich?!” asks a perfume hater of Lacey.

“She’ll never answer that now.” says an Asmat.

“I wanted to avoid poverty. But I misunderstood myself at every turn.” says Lem.