Not long after we were married, my wife and I stood toe to toe in the kitchen, exchanging verbal punches that were as devastating and as painful as any thrown in a championship heavyweight match. Each accusation, each emotional blow found its mark, and we both reeled from the awesome destructive power of the truths we hurled. Then suddenly, because there were no adequate words left to express her hurt, frustration and anger, my wife did what now seems to be the only sensible and rational thing she could have done. She picked up a frozen veal chop recently left out on the table to defrost, and hurled it at me, striking me just above the right eye. I was so stunned I could barely react; stunned not by the blow nor the intent, but by the absurdity that 1, a grown man, had just been hit in the head with a frozen veal chop. I could not contain myself, and a faint flicker of a smile crossed my face. Suddenly the anger and hostility drained from me and I found myself outside the situation looking in, no longer involved as a man in conflict, but as an observer, an audience so to speak, watching two people on a stage, both of whom cared for each other, but were unable or unwilling to yield or to submit without having first gained some small vicious victory. Add to the scene the fact that, like the two policemen in a Roald Dahl short story who ate the frozen mutton leg murder instrument for dinner, thus depriving themselves of their single piece of evidence, I would soon be eating the object that nearly destroyed my marriage. And I hate veal chops.

The marriage survived and is still prospering, despite occasional rematches of our earlier, more successful fights. On these occasions, I again find myself subtly extricating myself from the scene of battle, and taking a seat at a higher and safer vantage point, viewing the struggle much like Lord Cardigan and Lord Raglan in the Crimean War, concerned about the outcome, but at the same time making notes for future use. A strange phenomenon, this twoheaded monster who finds himself totally involved in situations, and then suddenly and without warning steps back to watch the proceedings. There is evidence that this phenomenon is prevalent among that strange breed called writers, but it is even more prevalent among that stranger breed called comic writers. It is one thing for a writer to understand this; it is another to live with it. Like the werewolf that half-man, half-beast, I have had to come to grips with the frightening but indisputable truth: I am a creature controlled by some cruel fate that had twisted and warped my personality so that at the first sign of personal involvement, I became transformed from human being into the most feared and dangerous beast on earth, the observer-writer. Like Lon Chaney's portrayal of Lawrence Talbot, the monster-turned-back-into-man, the writer-once-more-human suffers great pangs of guilt the mornings after his transformations, but is powerless to do anything about it. He is cursed. He tries to go about his normal life—until he feels the transformation beginning again, and he knows what lies ahead.

I wasn't always like that. In the beginning, I was a boy. A plain boy. A nice, plain boy. I went to school, I ate breakfast, I listened to The Shadow, I dreamt of being Joe DiMaggio, I went to the movies a lot and once was thrown out of a theater for laughing too loud at Chaplin in Modern Times. No sinister signs, no black omens. A nice, plain boy . . . Well, perhaps a few telltale hints to a discerning eye. I would go with my parents to visit a "distant" relative, distant in those days meaning a forty-minute trolley ride across the river to the Bronx, and once there, I imagined myself invisible. No earthly creature could see me because no earthly creature talked to me for hours at a time, save for grown-ups, when they offered me a cookie or a nice apple. I refused, hoping this would discourage them from further contact, enabling me to mask myself again in a cloak of obscurity. Hours would go by. They would talk, I would listen. I got to know them better by listening than if I had engaged them in conversation myself. On the trolley going home I realized again that I could not be seen by the human eye. People talked to each other, not to me. They looked at each other, not at me. Unobserved, unnoticed, unheeded, I could go about my curious business, storing up vast amounts of valuable information like accents, hair styles; t hose who shined their shoes and those who did not, nose blowers, nose wipers, nose leakers and those with various other nose habits too indelicate to mention. Occasionally I would be noticed, invariably by another young boy my own age and alone with his parents. I would have to be careful. If the other boy noticed what I was doing, I would be exposed. I stared at the Wrigley Chewing Gum sign above the heads of the occupants on the other side, hoping and praying the interloper would get off before I did. Success at last. There he goes. Stubby arms and a fat behind. Bad athlete, good student, and probably gets an allowance. Oh, terrific, his underwear constantly sticks in his crotch and he pulls at it in a really ridiculous way. I have him now. Let him dare to threaten to expose me, to reveal to the world my existence, and I shall shame him with vivid descriptions of how he gets off a trolley. Home to bed and dreams of victory and triumph. The Shadow knows.

I grow. An inch here, an inch there, a crack in the voice, a stubble on the chin, a passing shot at puberty, a glancing blow at sex and Shazam, I'm a man. If not a man, at least a tall boy. Would you accept an enormous child? My dreams, my goals, my ambitions are to be like Them, the Others. Accepted, Respected and Noticed. Not an impossible dream to furfill if one works zealously, passionately and tirelessly. But at what? Business? No interest. Sports? No talent. Doctor? Lawyer? Engineer? No college degree, no talent, no interest.

My dreams and ambitions suddenly seem to be unreachable. How can you be Accepted, Respected and Noticed, when you are Unseen, Unobserved and Unheeded? Dichotomy. A Division in two. Split right down the old middle. May I make a suggestion? How about a blending of the two? If you remain Unseen, Unobserved and Unheeded, and write down for others to read what you see, observe and heed, you might become Accepted, Respected and Noticed.

Marriage, a home, a child here, a child there, Manhood at last. But the breach widens, the rift expands. The Unseen Eye observes, the Unseen hand writes—but it doesn't live comfortably alongside normal human functions. How can one be a husband, a father, a friend, a person, by withdrawing? How does one become an Observer, a Listener, if one is engaged, involved? The two continue to grow, to mature, but separately, apart . . . Until finally the split is complete. They can and do exist by themselves, housed in the same shell, but functioning as single and independent entities. A Monster is born.

The Human Being is a rather dull fellow. He doesn't smoke, is a moderate social drinker, dresses neatly but conservatively, watches his weight, his receding hairline and long-legged girls in short skirts, like the millions of faceless and fairly undistinguished members of his class and generation. He is often mistaken for looking like a grocery clerk —often by grocery clerks. He enjoys sports and indulges in childhood fantasies. He throws a pass, catches a long fly or hits a smashing backhand and envisages some shrewd sports promoter standing on the sidelines, cigar in mouth, asking, "Who's the new kid? Tell him I want to see him in my office." He drives rented Avis cars, always within the speed limits, his reading habits fluctuate somewhere between the Classics and Variety, and he would skip a seven-course meal in a three-star French restaurant for a corned beef on a seeded roll anytime. He watches his children perform in school plays, leaving in the middle on some pretext of an important business appointment and later regretting it, and sometimes stays to the bitter end, and regrets that too. He is kind to his mother, respectful to his mother-in-law, and is politically liberal, dove-ish, active and incredibly naive. He is an ecologist who believes in trees and grass and fresh air and the freedom of all animals, and has been seen on more than one occasion kicking his dog in the kidneys to get the mutt off the bed. He is a childish optimist. He thinks that justice will always prevail, that the meek shall inherit the earth, that bigotry and prejudice will not go unpunished and that the New York Football Giants, the Mets and the Knicks all will finish first next season. He is a dreamer and a realist, not acknowledging pain and defeat in his life but accepting it when it comes. He is a sensitive man and a sentimentalist; he reveres Jules and Jim for its classic beauty and cries at Love Story. Some would say, an ordinary man.

A look, the sound of a voice, a stranger passing on the street—and in an instant the transformation takes place. The mild-mannered Human Being suddenly dashes for cover behind his protective cloak called skin and peers out, unseen, through two tiny keyholes called eyes. He stands there undetected, unnoticed, a gleeful, malicious smirk on his face watching, penetrating, probing the movements, manners and absurd gestures of those ridiculous creatures performing their inane daily functions. "How laughably that woman dresses . . . How pathetically that man eats . . . How forlornly that couple walks . . . " The writer is loose!

The lenses are constantly adjusted, more distance for wider observations of physical behavior and characteristics; close range for deep probing and psychological motivations. But wait. Look there. A familiar face approaches. Quick. Look the other way. Don't risk discovery. There's important work to be done, this is no time for social amenities. Too late. He's spotted you. A fast Hello, How's your wife, Why don't we have dinner next week? He's gone. Relax. Nice fellow, but who's he kidding with that mustache? Compensating for a height deficiency. Did you notice how his eyes kept avoiding yours, constantly looking at the traffic as he talked? What's he afraid of? What's he done? Who is he looking for? When is he—Stop it! Stop it! Behave yourself. Leave that poor fellow with his short legs alone. He's your friend. You like him. He's a decent man. So his eyes avoid yours, does that make him guilty of a criminal act? Perhaps he just likes to watch traffic when he talks. You really must call him next week and say you'd like to have dinner.

The Human Being, having asserted his position and being satisfied with his own decency and humane behavior, relaxes into his reveries. If the Knicks can just get by Baltimore, and Willis Reed's knee can hold out just a little longer—what's that? There's a crazy lady who's talking to her dog. She's not crazy because she's talking to him but because she expects an answer. "Why did you do that, Teddy? Don't pull away from me, you naughty dog. You tell Mommy, why you did that." She will not be satisfied until Teddy answers, which Teddy will not, which means she will never be satisfied, which she is not, which is why she is a little old lady living by herself, which is why—Oh, God, shut up! Shut up, will you? Leave the poor woman alone. She's lucky she's got a Teddy. I am bored with your probing and prying. Stop looking at everyone. It's a beauti ful spring day. Can't we just walk and enjoy the sun, for God's sakes?

The warmth of the sun passes through his body, pleasing him and comforting him. Is life not wonderful? Is nature not divine? Are God's creatures not truly wonderful? Is a hot dog with sauerkraut and a cold Pepsi in the park not one of mankind's greatest joys? His pleasure is not long lasting. A man and an attractive woman are walking slowly in front of him, talking in muted but heated words. He loves her but this can't go on. What can't go on? Their marriage? Their affair? Their business partnership? Their dance team? Damn that loud bus, I missed what she said. They're stopping. She's tired, she wants to sit on the bench. What do I do? Sit on the other end of the bench and pretend to read my newspaper? Fool, I have no newspaper. I could read the contents on my Pepsi bottle but how long would that take? Surely they'll suspect and move on . . . How about letting them alone and permitting them to live their lives in privacy? Monster, Monster, leave the world alone, it's none of your business.

Not content to pray on his fellow creatures, the Monster eventually turns on his alter ego, the Human Being, and dissects him unmercifully. In one play he has a newlywed accuse her husband of a week of being a stuffed shirt. "You're very proper and dignified. Even when you're drunk. You sit in a restaurant looking unhappy and watching your coat." It's true. He does. He tries to protect and defend himself. "The only reason I was watching my coat was because I saw someone else watching my coat." But the Monster will not be put off. He knows a stuffed shirt when he sees one, and he cuts even deeper. He uses the newlywed as the instrument to voice the feelings he has about the young husband. "You can't even walk into a candy store and ask for a Tootsie Roll. You've got to point to it and say to the lady, 'I'll have that thing in the brown and white wrapper.'" The Human-Being-Young-Husband fights back feebly. The Monster turns on the newlywed. He accuses her of being immature, adolescent, childishly romantic. Words echoing a real-life encounter that ended with a flying frozen veal chop. Is nothing sacred? Are there no secrets to be kept? But the Monster has observed, and what he has observed, he will reveal. Even the truth about himself. The young bride points another accusing finger: "Do you know what you are? You're a Watcher. There are Watchers in this world and there are Do-ers. And the Watchers sit around watching the Do-ers do. Well, tonight you watched and I did." Damn you, Monster, they're just a couple of nice kids starting out in life. Give them a break, will you?

The transformation begins to take place more often, more easily, sometimes almost going unnoticed, not realizing it s even happening. The distinguishing characteristics that separated them slowly become faded and muted until finally it is difficult to tell one from the other. Who is that now, looking back at me in the glass? If it's the Monster, why does the face look so benign, so innocent, so content with the world? If it's the Human Being, why does he look into the eyes so deeply, with such disgust and self-contempt? It is night. The battle for sleep rages. The human is tired, but the writer is restless with ideas, characters, conflicts, situations. "Shut up, damn you," screams the gentle self, "and let a person get some sleep." After a fitful night, morning comes and it's the Human who pays the price, who bears the baggy-eyed scars of a sleepless night. The Monster is bright, alert, ready to go to work. The man drags his weary body into the kitchen and force-feeds himself so that the Beast can live for another day, to pry and probe and eventually to leave the remains of his victims spread out on a typewritten page with their names disguised, but their identities known to the world, exposed for all to see, to examine, to jeer at, to sympathize and identify with, and hopefully to laugh with, at and for—all under the soonto-be disparaged, cheered, ignored and overpraised title of ----------- "A New Comedy by . . . "

NEIL SIMON
New York City March 10, 1971