The Last Part

Now, Luther was not sleeping in the same bed as Penelope this night. True, they had kept each other company until her shift at work began, and Luther even went to Mellow Grounds later on to talk to her about acting. Here is a short paraphrasing of their conversation:
Penelope’s shift has just ended, and she has just clocked out, and it is 10:00 at night. Luther sits alone at a table, reading a collection of essays by Antonin Artaud. Penelope approaches.
Penelope: Wow, well you came, but my shift is over, so you can’t tip me.
Luther: Nuts.
Penelope: (sits down) We can still get a discount. How about we get a couple real drinks?
Luther: I’m not in opposition.
Penelope: (calls over fellow waitress Julia, whispers to her) We’re going to have the dirtiest martini you’ve ever tasted.
Luther: I can’t wait.
Penelope: So did you come over to talk about acting? You’re reading Artaud!
Luther: Artaud is not applicable to film.
Penelope: Wasn’t he an actor in film though?
Luther: The point is, if you really want to be an actress, you are not going to be picked for a part because of your knowledge of Artaud.
Penelope: Well, I know that…How did you ever get your first parts? Luther: To be honest, try to look cute.
Penelope: That sounds pretty simple.
Luther: Well, at a certain point, your looks alone will not get you parts, you have to earn respect through your talent.
Penelope: So the director has to know you by your reputation.
Luther: For real parts.
Penelope: Parts that pay?
Luther: Exactly.
Penelope: Don’t you think I already have half of the actress thing nailed?
Luther: Well, I’d say closer to 75%.
Penelope: How flattering (Julia drops off the martinis, smiles, walks away)
Luther: You’re cute, and you’re a waitress. Now all you need to do is to learn how to talk like an actress.
Penelope: And how do actresses talk?
Luther: Modestly, but like they own the world.
Penelope: Do I talk like I own the world?
Luther: That’s the missing 25%. Let’s do a toast.
Penelope: Okay (raises her glass)
Luther: To acting, and all of its slippery slopes and rocky peaks.
Penelope: To acting! (they both take big, long sips)
Luther: Now, Artaud is not applicable, because, what he wanted to do in the theater is the complete opposite of what all film directors of today want to do in the theater.
Penelope: I thought he wanted to make it so there was no distinction between performance and reality.
Luther: Sort of. But money was never an issue. If you want to be a Hollywood actress, you’ll probably be rich. If you want to be a New York actress, you’ll probably go broke or quit acting at some point.
Penelope: It’s just a hobby of mine, I never went to school for it or anything.
Luther: Then how do you know about Artaud?
Penelope: Because I’m not retarded.
Luther: Whoa, don’t you think that’s a little rough on all the retarded people of this world? Don’t you have any sympathy for people that have to hear that word day in and day out and realize that’s what they are?
Penelope: I don’t have sympathy for anyone.
Luther: Whoa!
Penelope: Do you know why?
Luther: No.
Penelope: Because I’m a widow, that’s why.
Luther: Whoa!
Penelope: You didn’t think I could be, did you?
Luther: I can’t believe you didn’t tell me before!
Penelope: I don’t like to talk about it. It happened a year ago.
Luther: Your husband?
Penelope: Car accident.
Luther: I’m really, really sorry. That’s got to be impossible, I mean at your age and everything.
Penelope: It’d be impossible at any age. The good thing about it happening this young is that it changed me, and it probably sounds really fucked up, but I think it was for the best.
Luther: What was your husband’s name?
Penelope: Paul.
Luther: Did you get to say any last words to him?
Penelope: I think the last thing I said to him was, “Don’t be such a crybaby.”
Luther: No way.
Penelope: He was complaining about his commute, and his job.
Luther: What did he do?
Penelope: He worked for the city government. He filed corporate reinstatement forms. It was pretty repetitive work, he used to tell me.
Luther: And now?
Penelope: Now his family still keeps in close touch with me, and I work here. That’s it.
Luther: I think you’re leaving a lot out.
Penelope: Trust me, it’d be boring to talk about now. (she finishes her martini)
Luther: Well, (he finishes his) do you want to come back again and hang out at my place?
Penelope: I would, but I have to wake up early for work tomorrow.
Luther: Oh that sucks, a late and early shift back-to-back.
Penelope: It’s not that bad, but I can’t really hang out tonight. How about I give you a call when I finish tomorrow afternoon?
Luther: Okay.
Luther stands up and Penelope gets up and they exit the coffee shop together, come to a street corner, explain that they are going this way and this way, kiss briefly, then separate.
Now, Luther was alone in his apartment and it was very, very late. Coming up on 5 AM and the sun was coming up, and he had no obligations other than to wait for Penelope’s call the next afternoon and so he didn’t consider sleep a necessary step in his evening until it was time and he stayed up so late and snorted so much Ritalin that it wouldn’t be time until after 6.
On Ritalin, Luther liked to practice guitar. So he stayed up practically all night listening to albums and attempting to play along with them, moving faster and faster as it got later and later, until he finally started coming down, at which point he drank several huge glasses of water, put on more mellow music, shut all the curtains in his apartment, smoked a bowl to put himself out of his misery, and crashed on his bed.