He speaks, he says: “No offense, Martha, but you’re kind of a talking head, you kind of have no soul,” he tells her. Martha Stewart turns around and marches right back. “Yo, get me that saw,” Meyer says. “Forget the saw, get out of here. Go. Out of my house. Now,” Martha Stewart tells him. Meyer nods. He nods as if to tell her he will do so gladly. Martha Stewart speaks, she says, “This is just ridiculous,” she tells him. “Agreed,” Meyer says. He looks to the door, he speaks, he says:
“There is no real meaning behind anything you do” he says, “It’s popsicle sticks today, it’s Thanksgiving dinners tomorrow, yesterday you carved pumpkins, next week is gingerbread mansions.” Martha Stewart throws up her hands, “What in the hell wrong with you,” she says, and demands that he answer. Meyer does, and he does choosingly fast: “Find your own thing, Martha,” he says, “Stop stealing everyone’s shit and doing it half-ass and just because you can, Martha Stewart,” he tells her. He says this pounding-ly.
Martha Stewart is in a state of revulsion. She has nothing but contempt left for Meyer. Meyer sees this, in her expression it is obvious. He matches it: he slams his fist down on the workbench, cutting his hand on a shim of birchwood. When he sees the blood, he shouts: “Make up your fucking mind, Martha!”
Martha Stewart is boiling inside. She has been boiling for quite some time already. And now she explodes: “Popsicle sticks is like, the only the only craft you do, and, all that you’re good at is color schemes,” she shouts.
Meyer winced. He winced at color schemes. He had a feeling it may had been coming, and he was right. Martha Stewart saw his wince, and in the heat of her anger it provided relief.
Meyer looks to his hand. Martha Stewart observes the wound. “Do you have any band-aids?” Meyer asks her. Martha Stewart nods, “Yeah,” she tells him, “Bottom drawer,” she says. “Other drawer,” she corrects him. And she stays on the attack:
“I am Martha Stewart,” she tells him. She says this, her name, and nothing else. Meyer sticks on the band-aid, and he speaks, he says: “Are you now,” he tells her. Martha Stewart smirks. It was a meager comment by Meyer and she was glad to hear it. She can’t help it, she continues. She feels it to be her indignation. “Your edges are terrible,” she tells him.
Meyer rolls his eyes. Martha Stewart realizes, and so she speaks, quickly she says: “If we were baking a cake, your specialty would be sticking on candles. That’s color schemes,” she tells him. And she smiles, but she seems unsure why. Meyer felt that one. He did not enjoy the comment. But he inflates some bravado and speaks: “That’s an exaggeration. I would do icing if it were a cake,” he tells her.
Martha Stewart grumbles, she says: “Yeah but you can’t even bake cakes, you can’t do icing, and icing is very difficult. It was an analogy,” she tells him.
Meyer opens his mouth to speak. Martha Stewart speaks over him: “Not another word, I know you have something to say, at least something to say,” she tells him. Meyer looks at her, “Well yeah, I do,” he says. Martha Stewart laughs. She builds with this. She feels in control. The topic is after all the very matter of her expertise. She shakes her head, she speaks, she says: “And now we can’t even craft anymore. It would just be too awkward,” she tells him.
Meyer shrugs. He speaks, he says, “No come on, we’ll craft again sometime,” he tells her. He was being only sincere. Martha Stewart agrees with him, at least to the extent she knows it’s true, but she doesn’t say it. “Maybe,” she says. Meyer nods. He speaks, he says: “I mean, we craft all the time,” he says shrugging. Martha Stewart looks to the door, “I think you need to leave,” she tells him.
Meyer will but with only some resistance. He speaks, he says: “Martha, I see you are all out of Hydes and have nothing but Jekylls,” he tells her. He has mixed these names up, he had meant them reversed. It is the novel Martha Stewart is reading in her book club. They had a conversation of it earlier. Meyer never read the book. Martha Stewart rolls her eyes. And she wants to correct him, but she feels satisfied enough. “Yeah just like them,” she says. And she looks to the door. Meyer catches the fish in that statement. He doesn’t necessarily know, but he catches there is a fish amidst. He offers another statement. He speaks, he says:
“That coffee cake earlier, it was pretty crumby,” he tells her, with a wide smile, hoping to mask the meanness with a pun, but indeed still hoping the meanness would deliver. And it did.
Martha Stewart speaks, she says: “Yeah and I hate your teeth, now go,” she tells him. She had had enough.
Meyer stands. He thinks, but thinks nothing. He is confused, and so he speaks.