Madison Square Garden

Marilyn sings in May. In a glittery dress. She was a product of a glamorous era, as beautiful as she was.

And Jack sat there with his posse.

It was for his birthday.

…It was for his birthday.

*happy gasp*

It was for his birthday!!!!

*bigger happy gasp*

“Yay!!!” says someone at the party, sarcastically.

And that’s when it happened.

*cue the music*

Someone got…angry.

“Why mad? Why not glad?!” asks Truman Capote. “What was everyone so upset about?”

“She was making a bloody fool of herself fur a fucking twat bitch.” says Lacey like a punk. “That’s what they thought, I think.”

“They thought she was morbidly embarrassing. …And then Jack shrugged it off like it wasn’t for him. And acted…like it meant something to him.” says a woman who was there? She closes her eyes. “It was wretched.”

“So here’s this rich brat who is possibly raping a…psychologically compromised man…on the side…”. starts a living Boomer. She composes herself. “And he’s got Jackie and those kids..” She thinks. “And then he has the audacity to not only use her…but publicly shame her sadistically.” She blinks. “In possibly the same entitled, dismissive, cruel way he did with Lem.” She laughs. “And does he even care?!” She sighs. “The whole generation hid their emotions. But…does he have any real emotions or conscience?” she says. “Because it seems like he just keeps using people. And how is he using us?” She smiles.

“Yeah, he’s screwing Marilyn.” says someone. “Screwing.” He thinks. “Or is taunting us with that…grandiose possibility.”

“Who does this little bitch think he is?!” asks man.

“And after the Cuban Missile Crisis.” a man shrugs.

“Running naked high off his ass.” says another man.

“Buying the election to start with!”

“Almost blowing the world-up!”

“Shaking his high ass in people’s faces one minute like a sadistic whore. Fainting the next!”

“Happy birthday, Mr. President?!” scoffs a man who loved Marilyn?

“I haven’t had a birthday this nice since I turned 18.” says another man. That’s what he was thinking.

“He gets a hot, straight, male sex slave, Marilyn Monroe in the gutter and his dad buys him a presidency he doesn’t even want!” says another man.

“Did we win that fucking war just for this conceited asshole to shit in Marilyn’s face?! Publicly?!”

“Oh, but it’s the President’s birthday!” says someone.

They sigh. Clap. Collect themselves. Smile.

And then in August…she’s dead. Just three months later.

And maybe it was a mercy killing. They let her die. But she chose to? …She might have chosen to.

And knowing of the truth that he and Marilyn were the real thing…Arthur Miller quivers inside. He killed her? In his mind he imagines that he killed her. ?

*he sighs*

“She already knows I’m a louse.” he says to himself. And someday in Heaven, should it exist, he’ll apologize to her. Hopefully that will make her feel better. In Heaven.

“It was me, Marilyn. I did it!” he prepares to walk in on her one day in Heaven as she lays in bed and say. “I’m sorry! I did it!” He pauses from jogging. He thinks. What if it wasn’t him and he just failed at protecting her? …But then no. It’s still just his fault. He nods, continues running. Prepares his apologies.

“That’s sweet.” says Truman Capote to Lacey.

“Yes.” she says.

“But do you think they believed it?” he asks.

“Did Joe DiMaggio think it was his fault too?” asks Lacey.

“Possibly.”

“And then there’s nothing.” says Lacey.

“True.” he muses.

“There’s no one to blame.” says Lacey.

“And the Missile Crisis two months later.” he says. “How did it happen? Was she trying to prevent it went she died? One way or another.”

“Do people willingly look the other way or-“ Lacey wonders.

“Because you think it’s obvious there’s something less than intelligent or sane about believing the official story as the full story?” he asks. “In this case.”

“Yes. People have to be lying to themselves?” She thinks. “Or had. It’s been a while now. The story is getting lost to history at this point, so to speak.”

“Yeah.”

“But if it’s true that they killed him because they were sick of that whole family…it was at his birthday?” she asks. “It was at his birthday when they got pushed off the edge?”

“When the camel’s back broke.” he says. “The camel being the US.”

“Because it was too much?” she asks.

“Possibly. They were just waiting for the other shoe to fall. And it did by October. So to speak.”

Silence.

“People were more serious and intelligent back then.” he says.

“Why shoot him though?” she asks.

“Because I found him deplorable.” says a man wearing ADP Colonia.

“Why not make it seem like an accident?” she asks.

“Because he couldn’t be rightfully President then.” he says. FDR watches.

“So was organized crime to men like your father and FDR…like mid-leveling marketing to a suburban housewife?” asks a perfume hater. “Just…way too tempting.”

“Not entirely. But sometimes.” says Lacey.

A suburban housewife who heavily invested in a scam sees the poverty of the analogy but also sees that the same set of emotions might be at play. Because she hated the way she felt. And she wouldn’t have shot the woman who scammed her…but…on too massive of a level…

*she closes her eyes and sighs*

“Like if I knew many people were almost brutally murdered because of her…yeah. I’d want her dead. And if an innocent person did die…or several innocent people and I was worried she would keep serially harming people? Yeah. I’d want her at least behind bars. And stop to her whole business.” she thinks. “And if I knew she was unstoppable legally?” She shrugs. “I’d not kill her myself but I’d consider it unstandable if she wound up mysteriously dead.”

“That’s why!” says the man wearing ADP Colonia. “So it was personal but not necessarily personal?” asks Lacey.

He weeps and nods a yes.

“Lacey! Lacey! Does Lem know this?” asks a woman who labels herself a spiritual healer.

Lacey thinks. “I doubt he does entirely.” says Lacey.

“Should we go back?” asks Michael.

The two had boarded a smallish craft to try to sail out towards the resurrected Titanic. To get a closer look.

They can’t get any closer. The waves are getting too big.

“Why do they have the body? The dress makes sense.” she says. “You could burn the dress. It’s a joke. But…I wouldn’t though.” says Lacey.

Marilyn walks off stage, staggering. Wearing that…*eye-roll* dress. In the shadows and lights. She’s exhausted. Her feet hurt. Her head hurts. She cries and laughs at the same time.

And that’s the moment…out of time…Arthur Miller chooses to interrupt her in her dressing room. He swings open her door, dramatically.

“Marilyn, I’ve thought about it. And it’s all my fault. I’m sorry.” he says, stupidly. As a brilliant man. “I’m so, so sorry.”

She glares at him, confused.

“What’s your fault?!” she asks clearly.

“This!! All of this.”

“Joe-No, I mean-“ she tries. She calls him by his pet name. “I don’t understand.”

“I’m the evil one.” he says.

“No! No, you’re not.” she says laughing.

He looks around. Breathes. “But you’re my wife.”

She looks at him in some shock, as smart as she is.

“I’ve made a mess of things.”

“Can we fix it?” she asks.

“I fix it. Just, get dressed. Let’s go home. I’m sick of this stupid place.” he looks annoyed.

“I’m supposed to trust you?!” she asks incredulously.

“No, just get dressed.” he says.

She gets dressed. Wearing sunglasses, and escorted by Arthur Miller she leaves to his car. To go home.

“Marilyn just left with her husband! Oh! They’re so sweet together! Mrs. Arthur Miller. …Damn, he’s been too generous. But they made a lot of mistakes.” a woman announces to Jack and Bobby at the party.

“She’s not married!” says Jack.

The woman looks at him. “She’s Arthur’s wife, Jack.”

“No she’s not!” he scoffs.

“Jack! Of course she is.” says an actress.

Jack feels weird. Like he’s being pulled back in time. He tries to breath but struggles.

And then suddenly he starts chair surfing through time and space. Backwards. It’s just Jack and his chair. And it’s unclear where he’s going but he’s going somewhere.

Yes…in the afterlife at his party his chair might have been sucked back in a vacuum. Shoving everything out of its way…as it ripped backwards. Nobody was hurt.

“Is he going to Hell?” Lacey asks, concerned.

“No.” says a man on behalf of God.

Lacey breathes a sigh of relief.

“Where is he going?” she asks.

He lands with a thud that doesn’t hurt him in a house in Ireland. It’s a cottage. It’s cozy. And then he has a talk with God.

Michael looks at Lacey. Louis does as well.

“I don’t know what to do.” she says. Exhausted.

“Tea and violets.” he says. “Or…Jicky.” He kisses her.

“No! I’m sorry.” says Michael.

“I’m sorry.” says Louis.

Lem looks disturbed.

Michael looks at her.

The four sit in a boat. Floating. Thinking silently.

Lacey is tired.

Michael yells at the captain to move faster.

“You should order French tonight.” says Lem.

“I hope I don’t ruin that duck this year.” she admits.

They make it, seasick back to the ship

“Well!” says her father.

Soggy, tired, they collect themselves.

“Where did I make a mistake?” Lacey asks.

“Chanel No. 22. That was your Waterloo.” says Louis.

—-