Posted: 12/03/2013
You wore the life of Richard Thorn for our first real date. Richard, the upstanding encyclopedia salesman who wore his dress slacks to Saturday nights at the malt shoppe and his black, nearly knee-high socks to bed, even in the summer. Richard, who made his first dollar painting the white picket fences of his very Pleasantville-esque neighbourhood at the age of eight, and from that moment on, believed, in his heart, the virtues of a self-made man. Of a capital-C Capitalist. Of the American Dream™ that never truly existed except on paper.
CIt was late April when we next met, on the set of a mid-century tragedy. I was Eleanor – just Eleanor. She was a simple sleeve I’d pulled from the back of my closet to match the vague, surname-less description provided in the daily c
