Misery

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• June 24, 2024

It’s crazy how fast we heal as children, with almost Wolverine like powers. One day you’ll have a cut, the next it’s gone. Nowadays, even a mosquito bite I scratch off will take much longer to heal, much to my dismay. And since it’s summer, it’s rare I’ll go even a few days without getting bit but some pests— usually mosquitos, but also sometimes on my runs my ankles will get chewed up by chiggers or no-see-ums or sand fleas at the beach. Fucking little bastards. They make me miserable.

Some years ago, one of my best friends in comedy, Dennis Rooney, and I went to see the Broadway production of Stephen King’s ‘Misery.’ Rooney and I, who are the same age, started doing comedy at the same time, frequenting open mics on Long Island. I thought Rooney was funny from the start, but perhaps the thing that truly sealed our friendship was our love of cinema and books. I had been impressed that he read and loved some of my favorite books and conjured up ways to make him be in a book club with me, which is my preferred way to make friends.

Because we are both sick fucks, we both loved Stephen King. Rooney had lent me his copy of ‘Misery’ at some point, which at the time I had only seem the film and not read the book. The book, like the movie, is great. So when it was made into a show on Broadway, starring Laurie Metcalf and Bruce Willis, we decided we had to go.

Dennis’s mom had won some gift card to a restaurant in Times Square at a fundraiser, which she gifted to him, figuring she wouldn’t use it anyway. We were both stupidly broke comedians at the time. Actually, we’re both still pretty stupidly broke comedians. But on this night, we had dinner and a show, which made us pretty happy.

Dennis is six foot something, so we got seats in the rear of the orchestra because he is quite sympathetic and self conscious towards blocking people’s views. Theaters aren’t the most comfortable for any tall person. For fucks sake, I just barely fit in theater seats and I’m pretty tiny.

The story, if you don’t know it, goes like this: famous writer, Paul Sheldon, pens a series called ‘Misery.’ He gets in a car crash during a snow storm and is rescued by Annie Wilkes, his “number one” fan. Annie turns out to be real psycho and essentially kidnaps him to finish ‘Misery’ based on how she wants it to be finished. King says that Wilke’s character is actually a metaphor of his drug problem that never wanted to leave.

Anyway, Dennis and I are at the play. Laurie Metcalf is playing Annie Wilkes and she’s brilliant in it (I’ve seen Metcalf more than once in plays and she’s amazing). Willis on the other hand, who plays Paul Sheldon was… how do I put this nicely? Not good. Not at all. Don’t get me wrong— I love Bruce Willis. I’m an action comedy fanatic and Willis has made great movies. But stage acting is a different animal and it’s not his thing. In his defense, it’s not the easiest of roles to play, since he’s literally in a bed 90% of the time, but still, his performance reeked of a high school production, leaving Metcalf to have to carry the show.

Like a younger King, the two of us imbibed in a couple drinks at dinner and smoked some weed before the show, so we were a little silly ourselves. It was extremely difficult for us both to not laugh inappropriately. I couldn’t look at Dennis at all or I knew I’d burst out laughing.

These days, I ponder a lot what I want with my life, and quite often I think I just want to disappear to a cabin somewhere and finish writing my screenplay ideas and perhaps some novel ideas that I shelved years ago. But I kind of would need someone to lay down the hammer (not literally into into my legs, it takes too long to heal and I can’t write if I’m in pain) and force me to finish pages, like a soft-core version of Annie Wilkes. So my dream is… Misery? To some degree? I want a ball and chain. But not like a marriage, like literally chained to a bed. And not in a sexual way. Okay ,sometimes in a sexual way.

But, it seems, that those who are completely obsessed with me are bloodsucking insects. Swarming me every time I set one of my delicious feet out the door. Late nights, tossing from itching, I get out of bed to treat my bites with witch hazel lavender. Desperate for tricks to heal faster like when I was young. Desperate for a lot of things, but mostly to rid my apartment of this mosquito that carefully watches me in my sleep. Only female mosquito’s bite you, so I call her Annie Wilkes. One of these days, I’ll crush her, only to see my own blood smeared on the wall. Will I put the mosquito out of it’s misery, or will I kill my number one fan.