The last time I saw T, he was busy showing me his owies.
“This one,” he says, pulling back the lips of a large, garish wound to the palm of his hand, “I got shucking oysters.”
I stare in a mixture of horror and revulsion. The words “Medium-rare, please” spring to mind.
“Stop it! Stop doing that!”
He laughs. This is not his only owie, and he points them out to me, one by one: blisters, cracked heels, cuts, a chemical burn. He also has a cracked tooth that he promises to reveal “at another time”.
The guy knows how to party.
“You have no regard for the flesh,” I say.
“And you, my friend, have no regard for theatre.”
I stare at him.
He smiles. “Open Wound Theatre,” he says, pulling the edges of the wound on his hand back. “It was the best of times,” he quotes, lips pulled tightly in perhaps the worst imitation of a ventriloquist that I’ve ever seen, “it was the worst of times”.
“That’s it,” I say. “Give me your phone.”
He stares at me.
I hold my hand out, open and close it impatiently. “I’m calling your mother.”
He laughs, dances back and away from me.
“Fine,” I grumble. “Then I’m going to write about you and expose your perversities to the world.”
“What, you’re going to write about Open Wound Theatre?” A hiss of air escapes his lips: pffffffft. “Man, you have totally run out of things to write about, haven’t you?”
4 hours ago