PIECES OF THINGS
__________________
(A Series of Monologues and Other Things)
Conceived and Written
by
Martin Zurla
Copyright by the Author
JEROME
I'm tired of being a man. No, really. I am. So, okay, I'm only twenty-three, but that doesn't mean anything, not in the
long run. I know, you don't have to say it -- you always say the same thing when I feel like this. To answer that bilious
expression -- are you having another gaseous attack? I am in total control of my feelings. So there! (noticing something)
By the way, isn't it about time you changed? (not waiting for a response) I guess I am just now, this minute, feeling that
certain things, and don't start pressuring me about explaining which certain "things" I mean. These things are starting to
get to me, eat at me a little. No, a lot. And before you say anything, misinterpret me, I am not turning gay. Good Lord,
that is the very last thing I would want to turn into. I have enough problems already. And it's not that I have any personal
feelings one way or another about gay people. Hell, I'm a Yale graduate. I mean, I have one good education. All those
old world family prejudices were educated right out of me. Now, I am an individual in every way. Okay, don't open that
mouth. I know I'm getting side tracked. You constantly remind me of that, even when -- like now -- I do it intentionally.
(pause) So, like I was saying, I'm tired of being the man around here. That does not necessarily mean I want to be a
woman. God, I would want that less than I would want to turn gay. At least a gay guy is still, in the end, a guy. (noticing
something else) Is that "what" you're wearing to the party? (no response) Okay, be that way. Just stand there with that
belligerent smirk on your face. (almost to himself) And she wonders why we're having problems. (to her) What I am
trying to get at, Felice, is that now -- what, three months into cohabiting -- I'm seeing the sudden reality of the whole thing
here. It is not at all what I had expected, had anticipated. Not at all, Felice. It is not like college. Boy, did I read this
whole living together business all wrong. I admit that. So okay, I had this idea it might be like, you know, college;
dormitory life and all. Okay, I now know boys and girls together is not the same thing as boys and boys together, or girls
and girls together. I realize the reality of that now. (pause) I was naive. I admit it. At least one of us should admit that.
So I admit it. (long pause) And you? (nothing from Felice) You mean you don't have anything to say? Is that it?
Nothing? Great! Well, I'll tell you this, I know that I've had to wear the pants in this relationship, something that I had
hoped to avoid, but I can see now, just like one can see the freshly driven snow, one cannot get around certain roles,
certain responsibilities. Therefore -- Felice, are you listening? Good. Therefore, it seems, just by your silence, that I
have to be the one to take on a sense of honesty, of straightforwardness in this cohabitation, this ... ah ... situation. I have
to fall into that mold, as it were, of being the man day in and day out. I'm sure that's the way you want it. That's how your
mother is. At least that's how she acts around that father of yours when they play their fain, wooden smiles like glass
trumpets each and every time they step through that door. I know how they really feel coming over here. I know how
your mother must feel when she sits down to eat my cooking. She doesn't have to say a word. I can read people, Felice,
read them like an open book. And your father! Wow, now there's a man under the proverbial gun. I hate to say this, but
that poor guy has more tension in his frail and very tiny Jewish body than a Stradivarius. Every time he smiles I think of a
Arthur Winfield book. And don't go defending that mother of yours like you do every time I bring her up in conversation.
There is no defense for a woman like that! (pause) Well, I am not, repeat, not going to end up like your spineless father.
(pause) Okay, stop the tears, they're meaningless in a situation like this. Do you hear me, meaningless. (pause) So,
okay, I'm sorry I said that about your parents. I didn't mean it. You know I never mean it. It's just a way of letting off a
little steam. And they just happen to be great release valves. (pause) That's better. Now ... ah ... where was I? (thinking?
Oh yeah, this cohabitation. (pause) Are you really wearing that get up to the party? Haven't you worn that a lot lately? I
mean, isn't that the one you wore to Harold's last week? Felice, ya know, you ... I mean, these friends of ours are the only
friends we have left. You keep wearing the same thing, people will begin to ... you know ... say things. (he watches her
walk into the bedroom) Okay, I'm sorry. I know, I know. I shouldn't have said that. It's really a great looking ... great
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looking ... ah ... whatever it's suppose to be. It's a great looking "thing". Really. (pause) So okay. I'm sorry. I am,
really. It's ... it's just that things are starting to get to me. And I know it's not you, not really. It's just ... just everything.
People, damn, people expect so much from me lately. Yeah, that's right. And I don't know if I can pull it off, if I can, you
know, meet all these expectations and things. Some college education. I'm educated to do nothing by complain. Yeah,
complain about the most important thing in my life: You! I don't know, I mean, I don't think I can hack it, Felice. I don't
think I can keep up with the race out there. Hell, I don't even know who the hell I am anymore. Am I me, am I what my
old man wants me to be, am I what the lousy boss wants me to be? Who the hell am I, Felice? Who? Do ya know what I
mean? I'm twenty-three and I wish to God I was ten again. Hell, I wish ... (pause) Felice ... (pause) Thanks for ... ya
know ... for being patient with me. I guess I just don't want to grow up just yet.
*
*
*
CRYSTAL
I'm a woman of the eighties, a together individual, a lady who knows where she's going and knows how to get there.
What the hell else was I going to say. Listen Ida, I couldn't believe what was coming out of my mouth. I mean me, me of
all people saying something like that. But what else could I do or say. And I had no idea what he was thinking as these
words fumbled out of my big trap. But there I was saying those words. He could have been thinkin' anything, anything at
all. He was probably thinking, "What kind of a bimbo am I sitting with now?" Yeah, that's what he was probably
thinking. I don't know. (pause) But ... but Ida, I had to say something, didn't I? Something and it was the only thing that
came to me. Stop right there with that expression. I know you when you get that expression on your face. Maybe I read
those words someplace, heard them on TV. I don't know. (pause) But hell, Ida, I hadn't been with a guy in months.
Months! That ain't no party. I mean, I'm at the stage in my development where I need something like a guy. So this guy,
the one I told about me being a woman of the eighties -- probably thought I was from Mars -- is wearing a pink shirt. And
yeah, I know pink shirts aren't all that popular now. Okay, pink shirts went out with the Beatles, with Chuck Berry and
the Teenagers or whoever they were. So this guy isn't all that cool sitting their with his pink shirt with ketchup stains.
Had a big plop a red stain on the front of his shirt. And so his hair was a little short and he had, I don't know, funny skin
things on his forehead, ya know, pimples and white cream junk. Can you imagine, Ida, the guy has on this pink shirt and
was wearing white socks with black loafers. Yeah. Short hair like maybe he was in the army or something. (pause)
Months, Ida. Nobody, no one. So he asks if he can maybe buy me a drink. It was a "guy" Ida! A man and all. So what's
a drink. Big deal. I could smell 'em Ida. I don't mean he smelled bad and all. The opposite. He smelled nice, smelled
like he just got out of the shower. Ya know my Dad, he use to smell a certain way when he'd come back from the barber.
Guess it was some special lotion or somethin' they put on men when they get their hair cut. Clean smell. That's exactly
how this guy in the pink shirt smelled. (pause) I was missing it. (pause) Yeah. I was missing being touched, Ida. Hell,
don't ever tell my Ma this, but do I like being touched by a guy. (pause) And he reached over and put his hand on my
hand. Yeah, right here. (she holds up her hand) That's when I told him I was a woman of the eighties. Then he touched
my hand. All of a sudden I was real confused, Ida. If somebody asked me my name, I don't think I would've been able to
think of it. Yeah, my own name. I wanted a man to be with. Yet, men mean trouble for me, Ida. You know that, know
what I go through with them, each and every one of them. My Ma says I got a ... a kind of sickness when it comes to
men. Like I break out in huge hives. I mean they are humongous things climbing and hanging all over my face. She says
I get that from her Ma. See Ida, I was confused because I wanted this guy to touch me, maybe even to spend the night
with me, to be there in the morning to have coffee and stuff with. I mean, we didn't have to make love or anything. Just
to be there, maybe be held in his arms, fall asleep in his arms and maybe dream, dream all good stuff. (pause) But I didn't
want to break out in hives, Ida. I didn't know what else to say so I said what I said, said something that I heard someplace,
read in some dumb magazine maybe. (pause) He touched me and I got confused. What if we went home and slept
together and the next morning he sees me walking around with hives all over my body? What then? (pause) After I said
what I said, he looked me right in the eye for a long time, real long time. He smiled. It was a nice smile, Ida. Then he
said ... he said ... he just looked at me and said, "I'm real sorry to hear that. You look like a real nice person. Yeah, that's
what he said. Then he looked down at his hand on mine, slowly moved it away and said, no, whispered, "I really hope
you have a good life. And he got off the stool and left. Ya know Ida, I really don't think I'm a woman of the eighties or
any other time. I lied to this guy, made something up from I don't know where and I'll never know what it would've been
like to be held by him. You know somethin' else, Ida, maybe he wouldn't given a shit about hives.
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* * *
HERE TO STAY
(Act I)
MUSIC SLOWLY and gently wafts through the space. It is music from the 1950', this selection is "Cherry Pie,"
by the Marvin and Johnny. The scratchy music plays on a small, pink and white portable 45rpm record player.
The space is a small bedroom in a one family, two story house located in Spoken, Washington. The room is
obviously a child's room; a place that still has the smell and feel of an almost claustrophobic atmosphere of a
much younger time, a time of innocents and security. There are various small, childlike artifacts and
paraphernalia of the younger, much different time strewn haphazardly about.
LES BAXTER, a forty-six year old man, sits in front of a mirror listening to the music. He is dressed as
described by Marsha, in "Marsha". He takes out a comb and begins to comb his hair, which, because of the heavy
grease, is rather difficult. Les Baxter still thinks, breathes, dresses and, basically, lives in the nineteen fifties.
After a moment, the song changes to "Dedicated To The One I Love," by The Shirelles.
LES
You good looking son-of-a-bitch. (as he smiles to himself) They love your ass, love it to pieces. Yeah, oh boy, if they
only knew what they were getting when they get me. Ah, they'll never know. And why should they, or anybody else for
that matter. It'll be just our little secret, Les, my boy. Yeah, but if good old Spokane knew, if the whole entire state of
Washington knew. But they don't. (a large grin) And they never, ever will know, my sweet looking boy. God, am I
handsome. You ever see anybody look this good? Of course not.
(pause)
How about L.A.? 'Member L.A.? Those ladies had no idea what they had when they had yours' truly. 'Member that first
time I
"breezed" into L.A.? Like yesterday, you animal.
(pause)
Yeah, but it's a crime I had to hold back, not show my real true self to all those beauties with their blond hair tricklin' to
their butts, their finger nails red as sin, lips like the color of a desert sunset. And those young ones, they thought they
were better than yours' truly. Huh, we sure as hell pulled one over on them, my boy. Them and their high fluttin' airs,
their plastic noses pointin' high and mighty like they were somethin' special, important. Them and their stupid, idiotic
ways, their "I'm better than you" bullshit!
(pause)
If they only knew me, really knew me. If they only gave me a chance. But, oh no, who's got the time. (he calms himself)
Now, take Vegas. Yeah, but those others in Las Vegas. Older women are better. (the MUSIC changes to "Baby It's
You," by The Spaniels) They seem to have a positive attitude toward life; they seem to look at things differently. Vegas
taught me a lesson, okay. (pause, as he listens to the Music. The song now changes to "Rockin' In The Jungle," by The
Eternals) Gosh, here it is -- what, thirty some odd years -- and this music is still the best. Hell, people today, what the
hell do they know 'bout music. Diddly squat is what they know.
(pause)
Nobody plays sax like those "good ole boys" in the fifties. They were musicians. Sam "the man" Taylor, King Curtis, ma
man, Jerry Mulligan with his jazz. Those Vegas girls knew good music, knew what was what. Not those L.A. bimbos
with their tight shirts and short pants, their legs a mile long. And always smiling this vacuous, almost dead smile like they
had nothin' between their ears. 'Cept maybe some mascara spread across their glass-coated eyes. But those Vegas girls,
on the other hand. (he thinks he hears something. He lowers his VOICE. He moves to a door, opens it a crack and yells
out) Mom! That you, Mom!? (nothing) She's probably rummaging through her closet. Maybe she's up in the attic again.
What the hell does she think she'll find in all those old trunks? Nothin' is what she'll find. (he stabs the comb through his
hair again) Good lookin' bastard. (pause as another record drops in place and, "Lavender Blue," by Sammy Turner
begins) And that broad thought I was stupid. Huh, Les Baxter stupid! Only if she knew. (he thinks he hears something
again) Ma! Ma! Will you stop it! (as if to himself) Want don't you go to bed. (at the mirror again) It's the last damn
time I am going to one of those church dances. They're all the same. Not like they use to be in the fifties. Right, Baxter,
-3-
old boy. That's when girls were girls and guys were guys! Huh, not like today. You go to these dances each Friday night
and they are all the same. You should know better by now, Les, my boy. The same mousy broads, same dumb music.
But the fifties. Wow, we had a time then.
(pause)
Like that girl tonight, what a drip. Had the ugliest eyes God ever handed out. She should go blind herself; stick long hot
molten steel pipes into those eyes of hers. And that nose. Did you check out that nose of hers! My God, it was great if
you're a bug and love skiing. That nose was one of the best ski slopes one could ever see. A little dinky bug sliding down
that broad's nose. (he demonstrates) Yuckie, if ya ask me. Not like those Vegas broads. Now they were somethin' you
could sink your teeth in. (another song comes on, "Yakety Yak," by The Coasters. Baxter hums along for a bit) Listen to
that sax. Yeahhhhhhh! (his mood shifts slightly) But ... hell, she wasn't all that bad. I've seen worse. Just not my type.
(pause)
Hell, I remember when the Catholic Church put on some fine rock and roll dances; some of the best back then. Now
they're dumb, dumb as hell. (pause as he slowly reaches in his pocket and takes out a small slip of paper and reads it)
Marsha.
(pause)
Felt like a dumb little kid, what with exchangin' phone numbers and all. As if I'll ever call the broad! What a laugh that
is. (he very neatly refolds the paper and puts it back in his pocket) Throw it away in the trash is maybe what I'd do with
it. (pause as he thinks of her name) Marsha.
(pause)
She did have big tits.
*
*
*
SANDY BEACHES
I'm always trying to deal with this ... this ... (a smile) How do you think I felt when I woke up one day and realized my
name was Sandy, Sandy Beaches? Huh? Tell me. No, you don't have to tell me, I know what I felt. I felt absolutely
ridiculous. Wouldn't you? Sure you would. My parents had what you might call poetic sensibilities. It wasn't all that bad
when I was maybe nine, ten, even into my teens. But, my goodness, I'm a fifty year old woman and I still have that name.
Why don't you sit down.
(pause)
That chair isn't the most comfortable. You'd probably be better on the sofa.
(pause)
Suit yourself. Anyway, my parents had some sense of humor, right? I always wanted to ask them why they named me
that. Never did. Hell, I sure hinted around enough times. I would do things like ask them, "What's in a name," or "a thing
by any other name is just any other name," I started bringing home these stray animals just to see what my parents would
name them. They came up with things like: our cat was called, Steven; our dog, Phyllis; our bird, who died two days after
I brought him home, was called Napoleon. I even brought home a gold fish one day and asked them to name it. They
didn't even ask whether it was male or female. They named it, Warren. Warren! Warren was a fish and it had a normal
name! I was a human being and was named after a geographic terrain. Thank God our last name wasn't "range," they
might have called me "Home On The," -- my father liked westerns -- or thanks be to God it wasn't "Forest," or "Mudd.
We did know some people from Framingham, Mass, called Mudd. Ethel and Fenton Mudd. Maybe Sandy Beaches isn't
all that bad when compared to Fenton Mudd. But I never had the guts to come right out and ask why they named me what
they named me. (pause)
You're sure you're comfortable? Something to drink?
(pause)
Am I hogging the conversation? (the unseen Harry, smiles) I know that I can change it. My name, I mean. Make it
legally something else. But the thought of doing that always bothered me for some reason. It's like hiding out or
something akin to that. A name is a person, right? It kind of defines us in a strange sort of way.
(pause)
-4-
Take your name, for example. Harry. HAA-RRRRRRR-YYYY. Harry! Harry. Harry is a nice name. It doesn't scream
out at you. It's just what it is -- Harry. And Harry's a good name for a guy just breaking forty years old. Funny, but some
people have to grow into a name. Like seeing a young kid who's called Seymour. It doesn't look right. "Hey Seymour,"
somebody yells and a small, two foot tall, blond headed kid turns around and says, "Yes, mother. He would never say,
Mom, or Mommy. Seymours all say, mother, mother or father. But like Jane, Jane's always say -- in a very ladylike way,
"Yes, Ma'am, no Ma'am, why yes Sir, why no Sir. And Billy's, oh yeah, you can always tell a Billy or a Hank. A Hank
would never say, "Mother, would you please pass the butter," or "Why Father, what a nice pipe you're smoking. Hell,
Hank would probably say -- no matter how old, "Pass the Goddamn spinach, will ya! or "Move the hell over, buddy.
(pause)
Sure you're comfortable? You have a nice smile.
(pause)
You see what I mean, Harry? A name sort of defines who you are. The name Harry kind of defines you. You're not too
tall. And you're not too short. In between. And you want to know something else, thinning hair becomes you, is very
becoming to a man named Harry. And your hands, they're kind of small, delicate. That'd be the only aspect of you that I
would say doesn't really fit.
(pause)
Harry and Sandy. Sandy and Harry. Kind of has a ring to it, don't you think. Sure you wouldn't like a drink? I think
there's vodka. A Diet Coke?
(pause)
Listen, ah, Harry, I'm really glad I invited you over tonight. Really. You go to that place often? I mean, you hang out at
that particular bar? Me, it was my first time. This friend of mine, Crystal -- a girl I work with -- she goes there. Told me
I should stop by and check it out. (laughs a little) Never thought I'd ever ask a fellah back to my place. Especially a fellah
who ... never mind. So, how do you like my "digs" as they say? It's a real bargain in this day and age. It's truly difficult
to find a large studio apartment like this for under a thousand dollars in this day and age. Great location, right? Upper
East side is so much nicer than say, the West Side with all those joggers and dog walkers. The only damn thing that's
killing this neighborhood are the lousy condos and co-ops. These Godawful real estate people, these developers. All they
do is make it ugly. I mean, just how greedy can you get.
(pause)
Oh, that picture there, that's my parents, their fiftieth wedding anniversary. I know, a lot a photographs, right? I guess
there's over a hundred in this room along.
(pause)
I don't know, I guess I just like good memories from when I was small. They help remind me. And my parents, as you
can see, were very photogenic. That one is when they were on a trip to Las Vegas. Here they where in Florida -- Disney
World. Oh, I guess you guessed that from the large Mickey Mouse guy standing next to them. (another nervous laugh)
Can I get you something, a gingerale, something? You're the first fellah I ever had back to my apartment. Most of the
time we end up ... ah. Geez, never expected to have somebody stop by. Hope you don't mind the mess. Now come on, sit
on the sofa. I can see that you're uncomfortable. That's it. Better, right?
(pause)
So, ah, you sell insurance? Must be ... that's right, you don't sell insurance. I get confused. You sell real estate! How
could I ever get those two professions mixed up. Oh, by the way, what I said before about developers and all, there are
probably a lot of real estate people who truly care. How's business? Must be pretty good in this day and age. Especially
in a city like New York. A lot of people. And they all need a place to live. I guess you must feel that you're doing
something very important with your life; you know, providing people with shelter and all. Must make you feel good
inside. Me, heck, all I do is sell jewelry at Macy's. "Yes Ma'am. "No, Ma'am. " "How about this, Ma'am? Oh darling, it
was made for you! Well, one has to do something in life, right? Do something to fill the time.
(pause)
Mind if I sit next to you? It's the only real comfortable sit in the entire house.
(long pause)
Listen Harry, why beat around the bush. You mind If I just reach over here and put my hand ... I know it might be acting
a little forward and all ... but ... I never minded a man's penis and ... (she watches the unseen Harry stand) Did I say
something wrong? You don't have to leave. I'm sorry. I really didn't think it would bother you. Hey wait, I was only
-5-
joking. The whole thing was a joke. I'm a real comedian. You have to know that about me. Harry? (it's obvious she is
now alone) So, ah, it was real nice talking to you. Never even got his last name. Can you imagine that. Any other guy
half his age would've jumped at the chance. Maybe I should have eased into it.
(pause)
Damnit, isn't that the way it's suppose to be done these days! You play hard to get and they never call again. You say,
okay, let's do it and they're out of here like a shot from a canon. What's the damn answer!
(pause)
Maybe I should've worn the other dress; the low cut one. And these flats, should've worn heels. Hell, I thought modern
men were suppose to like aggressive women these days.
(pause)
Maybe he didn't like the way I said his name.
(pause)
Guess I can't go back to that bar. Harry will certainly fill them in on good old Sandy Beaches, the over-the-hill broad who
likes penises.
(pause)
Oh my God, did I make a fool of myself.
(pause)
What'd he come back here for: tennis, a little pin the tail on the donkey, scrabble, what! If he wanted something else, why
didn't he just say it! He should've been up front, told me right off I was too old, said right away that he wanted a
"younger" woman. (she starts to softly cry) This is it. Here it is. Nothing. I have maybe ten, twenty years left before I
die and I'm going to spend them alone. That's it. Not a damn thing to do about it. My whole life by myself. Damn. Sandy
Beaches, you are a looser, an old lady who'll die and no one will know the difference. Funny in a way. Men. Who do
they think they are. And all these photos. Look at them. (she smiles and wipes away the tears. As if she were talking to
someone in the room) Remember this picture, that trip we all took to Niagara Falls in fifty-three? What a time. And that
Godawful motel with the bugs and leaking shower. Remember? Harry and I could've driven up there next year. We'd stay
at the same place, remember the time in fifty-three. Oh, and Harry and I would make love twice, maybe three times a day
like it was our second honeymoon. And the kids, our kids, would laugh when we told them of our adventure. And that
summer we'd go to Disney World, maybe Coral Gardens. And buy that house we always wanted in Vermont. Harry's
good that way. Always was a big spender with a huge heart, a giving nature. Harry and Sandy, Sandy and Harry.
(pause)
I like the way you hold me, Harry. Your arms always feel so good around me, holding me so I don't fall into a million
pieces and be blown away by the wind, blown higher and higher 'till Sandy is no more, 'till Sandy is part of the sky, part
of the sun, part of everything, part of nothing. Hold me Harry so I don't blow away and disappear.
*
*
*
HERE TO STAY
(Act II)
AS THE LIGHTS come up, gentle music can be heard in the background, Mozart's "Violin Concerto, No. 5.
Marsha, like Les Baxter, is in her bedroom sitting in front of the mirror speaking to her reflection.
MARSHA
I'm dumb. No, they're dumb, really and truly dumb.
(long pause)
Are all men so dumb! They must be. What in God's name did he think I wanted? It was only a small-town dance at a
Catholic Church. I should know better about Church dances. Zero. Zip. Yuck! I'm thirty years old and I'm still going to
those kind of dances. What is wrong with you Marsha Kilkenny! You should know better then that. (starts brushing her
hair) All they do is play that stupid rock and roll junk. How can one waltz to that music? You can't waltz to that music,
it's that simple. And you certainly cannot polka, or tango, or do the mumbo. All you can do is shake, rattle and roll.
-6-
Ugly! (she looks down at her body) Good Lord above, I bump and grind this and the building shakes, the windows rattle,
and the heavens roll!
(pause)
And him going on and on about Las Vegas, "Vegas, Man, now there's a place. Huh! Could you believe that guy! Telling
me about all the "women" he met in "Vegas. Good God, he said the word "Vegas" like it was some incantation that would
bring the world to its knees. And me, egging him on to talk about it. Huh. I just wanted to be friendly, that's all. No big
deal. Really. (brushes her hair) And did you see that outfit he had on! I mean, come on, they haven't worn those kinds of
clothes since Elvis Presley made obscene gestures on the Ed Sullivan Show! A pink shirt? Nobody wears a pink shirt in
nineteen eighty-eight; absolutely no one. I should've been honest right up front when he asked me to dance. "Listen -whatever your name is -- I do not, repeat, do not dance with guys dressed in pink shirts, engineer boots and string ties!
End of conversation. (she becomes uncomfortable) But ... I mean, can a lady be so choosy these days?
(pause)
What, he must of been about forty, maybe a few years older. Shouldn't that have told me something? What is a full-grown
man doing at a Church dance -- a Catholic Church dance for that matter -- on a Friday night? That's a big clue, Marsha,
my girl, a big neon sign of a clue. I mean, all he needed to wear was a huge sign saying; "I'm going over the hill, any
takers for an old man? (she changes the music to songs from the fifties, "My Girl Josephine," by Fats Domino) I have to
do something about this apartment. Look at it. I'd be mortified to ask somebody back here. "Some hell of a housewife
you'd make," they'd think. How's that for being old fashioned. Maybe my Mom was right, should think about a
roommate. Can go bonkers living alone like this.
(pause)
Well, I do like my 'own space. Now what does that mean -- 'own space. Nothing. There is no such thing these days.
(thinking as the music changes to, "Sweet Little Sixteen," by Chuck Berry) What would a guy think if he came in here?
He'd probably ... I don't know ... I'd tell him ... whoops ... ask him to sit down, I guess. He'd sit. (looks for the right place)
Here! No, there! No, over on the sofa. Isn't that getting a little pushy? Nah, not in nineteen eighty-eight. I'd ask 'em if he
wanted a Diet Coke. Huh, if it was that guy at the dance, he'd probably want a beer. Those kind always drink beer. He'd
roll up his sleeves to show me his tattoos and gulp down the whole thing in one take. Jesus!
(pause)
He did have gentle eyes.
(pause)
And a mouth the size of the Grand Canyon!
(pause)
Why in God's name did I let him talk me into exchanging phone numbers! Am I nuts, a whacko! ? (reveals a small slip
of paper) What am I going to do with this? (trying to distract herself) I could hang up some more pictures. That'd give
the place some semblance of being lived in. Huh, I've been here a year and it still looks like I just moved in. (she glances
at the slip of paper) Les. Yeah, less than normal. Less than perfect. Less than human. Less than real. Less than safe!
Les. (mimics Les Baxter) "Hi, my name's Les. Les from Spokane. I'm big and tough." (herself being oh so "friendly" -mockingly so) But Mister Les, why is hair so shinny? Do you use axle grease? How nice. It's wonderful how flat it
stays, how close it lays to your scalp. It's wonderful how immobile it is. Is that right, "never gets messed." And those
boots with the dwarfish belts, aren't they a little difficult to do the Lindy in? Oh yes, that shade of pink goes so well with
your powder blue sports jacket. By the way, what material is your jacket made out of. Hum. I see, polyester. I see.
Sure, it's great to be able to make "fake" cotton these days. Is that your five ton motorcycle parked outside? Harley
Davidson, huh. Nice. The fur seat is very pretty. Must be great in the winter; keeps your flabby buns nice and cozy,
right! (herself as, "Life Is But A Dream," by Shirley & Lee comes on) Can you imagine that joker. It was like stepping
in some time machine. And Spokane is suppose to be so modern. Huh! Why did I ever move back here? My roots.
What roots? (trying to distract herself) I could maybe buy a new sofa. Throw this junk out. Get something in leather -polyester ... (she laughs at this) Can you imagine Les' apartment? No, I cannot imagine it. I don't want to imagine it. It
would take gargantuan leap to imagine the type of place he lives in. James Dean posters plastering the four walls, or, I
should say steel bars around his cage.
(long pause)
I shouldn't say those things.
(pause)
-7-
Coming home. Huh. Big deal. What did you expect, Marsha Kilkenny? Something new, something special? Coming
back to a one bedroom apartment. (she smiles a sad smile) Funny, but when Les was talking about Las Vegas, I could
picture all those lights, the beautiful people in their beautiful clothes, gowns and stuff. High heels and black evening
gowns going to floor shows and ten course dinners. The music changes to, "You Were Mine," by The Fireflies) And the
excitement of winning and loosing at the tables. The sounds of the tall Champaign glasses clinking, the music loud and
throbbing, the fancy people, the important people -- Frank Sinatra, Wayne Newton, Tony Bennett --they're all there, and
they smile at me, yeah me, Marsha Kilkenny from Spokane, Washington. They'd invite me to join them for dinner, for
drinks, for a laugh or two. And Frank, he'd ask me to dance and as we danced, spun around the dance floor he'd sing
"New York, New York," and we'd dip and sway to the music. And I'd get giddy from all the wine, the lights and the
sounds of the beautiful people. Las Vegas. My town, my place, my ...
(pause)
Sure, Marsha. When they sell snowballs in hell, Marsha; when the cows come home, Marsha; when hell freezes over,
Marsha; when Walt Disney goes broke, Marsha.
*
*
*
FRED
AT RISE, it's late at night in some small bar located on the upper West Side of Manhattan. The lights are dim, and
the sound of a Charlie Parker record plays from the bar tape machine. FRED is behind the bar cleaning up. There
is one last unseen patron having her nightcap.
FRED
God damnit! Nothin' works in this joint. It's that damn kid of a day bartender that screws everything up.
(pause)
I go and bring in my own stuff: the stereo, this stupid TV, my good tapes; all this stuff and he goes and screws it all up.
Well, no more. He can shove it 'cause I'm takin' it all back.
(pause)
You come in here during the day, right?
(does not wait for a response)
You see any action in here? No action. Ya think the kid was so busy all day that he couldn't breathe. All he's gotta do is
watch soap operas and play my tapes. So his old man owns the joint, so big deal. I mean, good Christ, ya think because his
old fart of a father owned this dump he'd care a little more, be concerned and all. Don't ya think so? Nah, he don't give a
rat's ass.
(pause)
But I mean, what's right is right. That kid of a day bartender has never come into a messy bar. And I do mean NEVER! A
human person can take only so much, have patience for just so long livin' and workin' in squalor, don't ya think. Seven
years a five, maybe six nights a week I gotta come into squalor. I come into his mess, clean that, do my shift and gotta
start cleaning all over again. That just ain't fair.
(pause)
Heck, I could work one of those plush, pushy upper East Side dives anytime if I want. But who wants that kinda action? I
mean, a person's gotta be nuts to work those joints. What with young kids fallin' all over each other, fallin' all over the bar.
Young -- yoyos, or whatever they're called these days -- sittin' for hours in their three piece suits, yellow ties, whatever,
clutchin' on to a Diet Coke or a flat gingerale. These young kids -- most of which is probably pullin' in a mill a year,
dressed to the balls -- excuse the expression -- dressed ta knock your socks off, flirtin' and tryin' ta pick up some broad
from Mineola or Flushing, who probably makes as much if nor more than that poor store manikin from Barney's. It pisses
me off to see how these persons act. The older ones, hell, that's their business, but the kids, Christ, you'd never catch no
kid a mine in those dumps. And probably, deep down inside their hearts, they don't have any idea why they're in this
dump on the East Side in the first place. I know from where I speak on these matters, I been. I seen their action. Enough to
know better. A friend a mine works this place on First Avenue in the high seventies, all brass and mirrors this place. You
should hear the horror stories he tells.
(pause)
-8-
Yeah, well, I guess not ALL those East Side places is bad. I guess some persons get lonesome and all, need ta meet up
with persons a their own ilk. But I mean, who's gonna marry somebody who they find in an East Side singles bar? Ya
gotta know why they're there and all. I mean, they must be there to meet somebody, and if they're there to meet somebody
it means that they ain't met somebody somewhere's else, which means they ain't had all that much luck in that department;
findin' other persons which means that there are probably reasons WHY they ain't met somebody already which
necessarily means ta me there's probably somethin' wrong. Ya follow? So, if there's somethin' wrong with them, like
maybe they're ugly or somethin', fat or too tall or too short, how can they hope to pawn off their affliction or disability on
somebody who's probably got their own problem, especially in a bar. So they couldn't find nobody, say in school, at a
dance, wherever, when they was at the age for findin' somebody. Or if they did find somebody and it was the wrong
somebody, at least for that time in their lives, so now they're gettin' up there, maybe in their thirties, maybe more, and they
still got their affliction, they end up goin' to a bar. They think they can go to an East Side place, a place that peddles more
flesh than you can shake a broom handle at, more flesh than booze, with the hopes that maybe, 'cause the lighting is so
poor and everybody is gettin' half in the bag and there are nothin' but mirrors all over the joint...99 percent a these places
is mirror...they go there with these expectations and all, never stoppin' to think a who they are gonna find. They are gonna
find other persons who are just as ugly or just as deformed as themselves, with just as many problems, if not more. And
these other persons are also lookin' to pawn themselves off on anybody who wants the takin'. Ya know what I mean? So
ya got nothin' but a bunch a defects lookin' to hook up with more defects. That's what so odd about those places, one
cripple bumpin' into another cripple, both a whom is pretendin' they ain't cripple, makin' believe they're Fred Astaire or
Gingie Rogers, or whoever, anybody but themselves, who they really are. That's the sad part, pretendin' ya somebody ya
ain't. And they're only gonna get somebody else who thinks they gotta pretend too. Hell, when the play actin's over, when
ya wake up in the mornin', whatta do then? There ain't nothin' wrong with bein' a cripple, or bein' ugly. Hell, I got a bum
leg but I ain't goin' around pretendin' it ain't there. Sometimes, maybe it's better to wear your affliction like a medal, ya
know, be proud that maybe ya different form all the rest, stand out, ya know.
(pause)
Sorry 'bout goin' on like this. Had a rough night last night. Seems like lately it's gettin' rougher. Ah, but who needs that
kinda talk these days.
(pause)
Ya must look a little bit like somebody I know. So, what's your opinion a West Side? Ya don't have no opinion? Me,
people say I got an opinion on everythin'. Take this jerk of a kid that works days, the one who's old man owns the place,
he don't have an opinion on nothin'. Except maybe that he should leave a messy bar. But ask that thickhead about
somethin', about anythin', and all he says is, "I don't know". Or, "Who cares". Now that ain't no way to go through life, is
it? A person's gotta be able to feel somethin', stick-up for somethin', have ideals and maybe some values thrown in. Ya
know, ta have values a what's right and maybe wrong. Don't ya think so? Take my wife...I mean my ex-wife...she had
opinions comin' outa her ears. I mean, there wasn't a day that went by when she didn't develop a new opinion 'bout me, a
what I did or didn't do. She was full a feelings. I'd pick my nose, she had an opinion. Maybe I didn't agree with all her
opinions, but at least she made life interestin'. Sometimes my wife made life so interestin' that all I wanted to do was crawl
under a rock and be bored. Life can be just so interestin' 'til it gets to be a pain in the ass. Ya know of what I speak? So I
usta tell her, I got my own opinions too. That I got feelin's and all 'bout certain things. Ah, I shouldn't go talkin' 'bout her,
especially when she ain't here to defend herself. It ain't good for me to go runnin' people down when they're somewhere's
else and not here to speak for themselves. But it's okay to go speakin' 'bout the kid, he wouldn't know how to defend
himself even if he were here. I guess he's a good kid at rock bottom. So, 'bout my wife, she was an okay lady after all is
said and done. She had her values I guess and I had mine, most of which had to do with how to raise our kid. Yup, now do
I look like I had a boy who'd a been thirty-seven years old this year? A course I don't. Well, that's right, I was a childbride. I reached puberty at about the age a six, maybe seven. No kiddin', I was old for my age. Had to grow up fast in the
Bronx. So we had a kid. It was the first time in my life when I didn't have a real opinion on somethin'. It just happened.
(pause)
Most a the problem with me and the wife was about the kid. If it was a girl, it would been different. She woulda been in
charge. But with a son, that's a father's responsibility, right? A son's growin' up is up to the father, a girl's growin' up is up
to the mother. It's that simple.
(pause)
My son, he ain't around no more. He got hurt back in sixty-nine and died.
-9-
(pause)
He comes home one day and says right outa the blue that he wants ta join up. I says, join what? The Army, he says. I
laughed and told 'em he was too damn young. Said he could join if I signed the papers. When his old lady heard that she
went through the roof. She started screamin' that he was bein' a fool, and that I was a bigger fool for even listenin' ta such
talk. It took me a hellava long time to calm her down.
(pause)
Hell, this could be a real nice joint. Ya know how many times I told the old man ta do somethin' ta fix it up? A hundred,
maybe more. But no sir, not that cheap son-of-a-bitch. He don't wanna improve nothin', not even his own kid for
Christsakes. Hell, if he were my kid, he'd be spendin' his time makin' some kinda contribution.
(pause)
But he ain't my kid, it's that simple.
(pause)
I don't know why I'm sayin' all this about his kid, Christ, I went and signed those damn papers so my boy could join up.
(Pause, then softly)
I sent him over there. I mean, hell, he wanted to go and make somethin' of himself. But I did wait 'til he was seventeen.
His mom hated me for that, signin' those papers and lettin' 'em go off like that. But ya gotta do what ya believe in, what ya
believe is the right thing and all, make decisions in life. I mean, we was at war. I woulda gone ta Korea if I coulda. I
wanted. I use ta think that's what a man's suppose ta do, isn't it? If your country calls for help, ya gotta respond to that call,
right? I told 'em that he was a real man goin' off like that. Just like so many other guys had done before 'em. So he goes
and gets killed like that. So, a lot a other fellahs got killed. They sent us a really nice letter and all. Said he died fightin' the
enemy, defendin' freedom, a real hero. I was proud. And I believed that for a long time. Right up until Tony Conti came
home and I ran into 'em one day in the street. Tony was in the same unit as the kid when they went over there. So I took
Tony for a couple a pops, ya know, ta celebrate and all. Well, Tony and me was talkin' and drinkin' and I knew, had this
funny feelin' all along about that letter and the way the kid bought it and all. So I up and asked Tony just how it happened.
He told me that the kid... that the kid...ah...the kid went and stumbled on somethin' and fell outa a truck and another truck
that was followin' ran 'em over, crushed his head with the front wheel. Tony said that they hadn't seen no combat or
nothin' like that, just bein' transported from one place to another. A lousy accident. Now ain't that funny. It could a
happened right here on Broadway and 72nd street.
(pause)
I guess the reason that I'm bringin' all this up ta you is that I've been thinkin' a lot about it lately, especially 'bout the kid
bartender and all. Ya gotta talk things out once in awhile, clear up your thinkin', make decisions 'bout doin' certain things,
bounce it off other people. And you're one hellava listener.
(pause)
Maybe I should say somethin' to the kid's old man, make 'em wake the hell up. Tell 'em he should teach his kid somethin'.
Before, ya know, before it's maybe too late. When he ain't around no more ta talk with, be with. Ta maybe grow up with.
Yeah, I should talk to the old man. Yeah, I think I will.
*
*
*
HERE TO STAY
(Act III)
IT IS A SHORT while later during the same evening. The stage is bare. Music from the fifties is still playing on
the small record player. It's "Whole Lot A Loving," by Fats Domino. A voice is heard from off stage...
MALE VOICE
(from off)
Okay, okay, but just stay out of the attic. You're gonna fall down the stairs one of these days. I ain't gonna pick you up,
you go and break your neck. You understand me, mother. God, I sound like Norman Bates talking to his mother in
Psycho. See what you're drivin' me to.
-10-
The door to the bedroom opens and Les enters. This time he is dressed in an old, tattered cotton bathrobe,
underwear and floppy slippers. He wears a black net stocking on his head to hold his hair in place while he sleeps.
He carries a glass of warm milk. As he did earlier, he approaches the mirror and glares at his reflection. He
notices a pimple.
LES
When the hell does the human face grow out of this stuff? Skin graft is the only answer, Les, ma-boy. Yup, I should have
a skin graft. A tuck here, a tuck there. Wonder if it hurts. Don't worry, old boy, wouldn't let some psychopath of a plastic
surgeon near your beauteous bod!
("Only You," by The Platters comes on. Les takes a slip of paper from his robe pocket and looks at it)
LES
Now what the hell did I give that broad my phone number for. She'll probably make a nuisance of herself callin' all kinds
of hours, day and night. Good thing you didn't give her your work number. That's all they'd need to see at the store. I can
just see them now, especially that jerk, Wilton saying something like, "Yeah, Baxter, some weird broad keeps callin' for
ya. What should I tell her, you're pitteling and diddling with your twittle while you twatteling on the john?" (he smiles to
his reflection. There is some noise from outside the door. Les turns toward it for a brief moment, then ignores it and goes
back to talking to his reflection in the mirror). There I'd be in the store trying to pressure some fat, dumpy family into
buying thirty yards of godawful scotch plaid runners for their hallway stairs, arguing with them about how it won't clash
with their pea green, very faded wall paper that has a repeating pattern of some eighteenth century couple on a swing in
the backyard of a Tarra-like plantation and their gold and peach Victorian drapes -- the husband's bloodshot eyes scanning
the store for anything in a dress, the wife smacking her ugly seven year old boy in the head while their five year old
daughter sits on the floor ripping the stuffing out of her Yogi Bear doll -- and them not giving a damn about what I'm
bustin' my hump to say, and Wilton tapping me on the shoulder with that shit stain for a face saying that it's against store
policy to "make or receive" personal calls, how it interferes with the smooth flow of the store operation, and ... (pause)
Smooth flow of the store operation. Can you imagine! I've been selling carpets, been a salesman for more years than that
little twerp has been around, and he's gonna tell me about the "smooth flow of the operation!" (long silence as "Just A
Dream," by Jimmy Clanton starts playing) Maybe calling that girl Marsha wouldn't be all that bad. She was kinda nice, in
an odd way, I suppose. (quick change of attitude) And that Wilton telling me that I have to start dressing like a salesman.
What in God's name does he know about how to dress. And the nerve of him telling me how to dress in my personal life.
That's none of his business! (pause) I think that that Marsha girl liked the way I dressed tonight. I could see the way she
looked at me. I mean, she really gave me the once over. (pause) But she's probably just like all those others I dream about.
So I've never been to Vegas. Big stinkin' deal. I wanted, really wanted to go. That's what's important, right, Les ma-boy?
Sure. They would've loved me there, loved my ass to pieces. (very sure of himself) I know that, man, know that real well.
So I've never set foot in L.A. I can read, can look at those movie magazines, can see what those broads are like. (he tries
to admire his body. "Cherry Pie," by Marvin and Johnny comes on.)
THE LIGHTS begin to change. Another area of the stage begins to come up ever so slightly. Marsha enters her
space through the "same" bedroom door and goes to her area of the stage. She is wearing a terrycloth bathrobe
and large furry slippers. She quietly sits at her vanity and gently, slowly begins to brush out her hair.
LES
I know they would've loved me, been thinking that I was some hunk of man. Sure they would have.
(after a long pause, Les starts to gently weep to himself. At first, this reaction seems to come from nowhere. However, he
is not crazy or demented. He just hurts.)
MARSHA
(speaking to her reflection has she slowly, sensuously, continues to brush her hair. There is another quality we begin to
see in her, a very sexual, very appealing quality. It is not overly done, but extremely subtle, almost unnoticeable at first.)
-11-
Done. That simple. Done. I came back here. My idea, no one else's. Knew it wouldn't be easy. People told me that it
wouldn't be easy. (smiles) What ever possessed me to go to that church dance? Me and my fantasies. When are you going
to stop those, Marsha? When? Frank Sinatra! Me and Frankie twirling across the dance floor. (throws her head back as if
she knew better. "To Know Him Is To Love Him," by The Teddy Bears comes on) Be realistic, Marsha. The only thing
you'll end up with is something like that -- what was his name ... (taking the small piece of paper from her robe pocket and
reading it) Les. Les Baxter. How come he looks exactly like his name. (laughing)
The lights begin to even out. Now both areas are equally lit.
Les looks at his reflections, sees that he is crying and, as if his reflection caught him in and embarrassing act, he
quickly wipes his eyes and puts on this "I am the king" attitude.
LES
Woo, Les ma-boy. Can't go and do things like that. Not in front of strangers ... (meaning his reflection) ... what will people
think, what will they say?
MARSHA
I don't know why I'm ranking on this guy. He's probably an all right person and all, probably decent. Maybe it's not his
fault he doesn't know how to dress. He seemed pleasant enough.
LES
Now take that -- what's her name? Marsha, yeah, Marsha. Listen Les, ma-friend, ya just can't go around making up stories
about yourself.
MARSHA
But what's a grown man doing at a dumb church dance?
LES
(with an incredibly broad smile) But I like making up stories ...
(Quickly, there's a LOUD CRASH from another part of the house. Les is jolted -And just as quickly, the song changes LOUDLY to "Western Movies," by the Olympics. Marsha slowly brushes
her hair. Les stands and quickly moves to the door, opens it and looks out.)
LES
MOTHER! STOP IT! (he SLAMS the door just as Marsha stands and moves to it. They "just" pass each other. Marsha
exits and Les spins to face the door.) Why can't she just go to bed. (he faces the mirror) Go ahead, tell her. Tell her she
should go to bed! One of these days I'm gonna get married and leave her to fend for herself.
(Marsha enters carrying a tall glass of milk. She sits back down by the mirror. Les moves to the small record
player and takes up a 45 rpm and places it on the machine. It's "Yakety Yak," by the Coasters. He then moves to
the door and stands there looking at the door. He looks very much like a ten year old standing outside the school
principal's office.)
MARSHA
I guess there's really nothing wrong with going to a church function. He could be religious.
LES
I swear to God, Mother, one of these days I'll get a real job. That, or I'll kill you.
MARSHA
Maybe he comes from a religious-type family.
-12-
LES
(opening the door) OR I'LL SEND YOU OUT TO WORK!
(BAM, he slams the door. He moves to the record player and puts on another stack. "Baby Talk," by Jan and Dean
comes on. He just stands there looking down at the record player.)
MARSHA
It's hard to tell these days where somebody comes from, what kind of life they have. Like how they live when they're all
alone in their rooms at night -- by themselves. (stands and moves to a window and looks up at the unseen moon.) Well
Marsha, looks like you kept your word again. You told yourself that you'd never come back to Spokane. Sure did keep
your word. Here you are. (pause) Well, he was your father. I guess I had to be there when they put him in the ground.
Maybe -- if I ever come back in a next life -- maybe than I'll shed a tear for the bastard. Maybe then I'll have a real father,
not some drunk who didn't see a sober day in his whole messed up life. (she quickly turns away from the window and
looks at her reflection. The music changes to "Life Is But A Dream," by the Harptones.) I should feel something for him.
Hell, he was my father. (pause) But ... (pause) I can still see his face, those eyes, feel those fat, sticky hands on me. And
the saliva drooling down his stubbled face. His hands, his body all over me. My own father. And all I could think about
was, "Are fathers suppose to be like this, to touch their little girls?" Good Mother of God, I was twelve years old! (she
begins to slowly sway with the music. It should be obvious that she hears the same music as Les.) He was tender. He was
always tender, especially on Sunday afternoons. He was so damn good looking. (pause as the music changes to "Lavender
Blue," by Sammy Turner) And now he's rotting in the cold, dead ground. I wonder if the angels, all white and beautiful
angles with their wings spread open, their faces glowing, their skin like satin, their hearts big as the sea took him up and
into heaven. He loved angles. (she continues to gently move with the music) I was his little girl, the only girl in his life,
the only thing that meant anything to him. He told me, didn't he Marsha, didn't he tell you before he laid you down in the
backyard, laid you down behind the wood pile, laid you down on the thick, wet grass. (the music changes to "Dedicated
To The One I Love," by The Shirelles) I hated him, hated him more than I had ever hated another being. (Les begins to
sway gently with the music. Marsha whispers ...) My own ...
(then, as if both Les and Marsha were one, they begin dancing in unison. It's not that they are dancing together,
yet they are dancing together. The music is "Stay," by Maurice Williams and the Zodiacs. The dance continues
until the end of the song. They stop dancing)
LES
(returning to his mirror) I mean, what can it hurt? What's a small, lousy phone call anyway. She can only say drop dead, or
get lost, or ... God knows what else.
MARSHA
(standing in the middle of her space) So what's the big deal about how a person dresses? You can't judge a book by it's
cover, right Marsha?
LES
Then again, she could turn out to be a nice person, somebody to talk with, maybe even dance with. Hell, I can learn these
stupid new dance routines. If those dumb kids can do it, I sure as hell can do it.
MARSHA
I cannot go along hating men for the rest of my life! (to her reflection) We put him in the ground. That should be it, done
with, finished. We cannot go on hating, being afraid.
(pause) Can we Marsha Kilkenny! He's dead! He did what he did and that should be that, damnit!
LES
(flexing his muscles) I got some good years left, right Les, ma-boy. A few good years. (pause) I can't go living in this
room for the rest of my life!
-13-
MARSHA
There has to be something out there.
LES
See things, meet people. Hell, Les, the only people you bump into are the dumb customers that never buy your rugs.
MARSHA
See different places.
LES
(he takes the net from his hair) Look at yourself. Just take a good look!
MARSHA
Pretty good figure for a girl my age.
LES
(he begins to towel his hair and as he does so, black polish smears on the towel) Funny, you can just rub the whole mess
away, rub ten years back into your life.
MARSHA
You cannot hate forever, Marsha. You'll die from it, become all rotted and black inside. Just shrivel up and die like an
over-ripe prune. (pause) Let's face it Marsha, you're thirty years old and you've never been with ... a man. Except ...
(pause) You have to be with a man, it's that simple.
LES
She was pretty, in a certain kind of way.
MARSHA
Have to know what it feels like, what it is to maybe fall in love. And to be loved ... in a normal way.
LES
I think I could make a decent partner, a good father to my kids.
MARSHA
Maybe there was a reason I went to that church dance. Just out of the blue like that.
LES
Mom can ... she should be with people her own age, be taken care of properly. Be in a home where she won't fall down all
the damn time, bump into things all the time. (pause) I can't do it anymore. I can't!
MARSHA
Okay Marsha, stop jerking around and call the guy!
(Marsha moves to the phone, takes out Les' telephone number and
dials)
LES
I can't! I won't! (jolted by the ringing phone, Les
looks at the instrument with a dumb, bewildered look. It rings ... and rings ... and rings ... and rings ... He slowly answers
it)
-14-
(long pause as neither says anything)
MARSHA
(into phone) Hello? Hello? Is anybody there?
LES
(whispering so as not to shatter the receiver) Yes?
MARSHA
Les ... ah ... Les Baxter?
LES
Yes.
MARSHA
Hi.
LES
Hi.
MARSHA
This is Marsha, Marsha Kilkenny. The girl tonight from the church dance.
LES
Right.
MARSHA
Remember me?
LES
Sure.
MARSHA
So, ah, hi.
LES
Hi.
(The Song, "Rock and Roll Will Never Die" comes on)
*
*
*
FISHING
LIGHTS COME UP and a man in his late thirties, early forties steps into the glare. He is a very average looking
man dressed in a somewhat outdated conservative business suit. He could be an insurance salesman or a grammar
school teacher, and anything in between.
-15-
MAN: There was this murder that day and my Dad got himself involved. I was maybe fifteen, sixteen. Dad was taking me
fishing at the pier. As I see it now, the parking lot was sparse for four in the afternoon on a weekend in early September.
Dad tried to get as close to the entrance as possible.
(Another light comes up on a different area of the stage. A boy in his teens enters. He is wearing jeans, a sweat shirt and a
beat up pair of sneakers -- not Nikes, but maybe Keds -- black high tops that guys from Harlem use to wear on the asphalt
courts years ago, maybe in the fifties. He is the man as a young boy. And oh, how time and its passage makes us see
things a little differently.)
MAN: : He hated walking far, say more than ten feet. He cursed as an old man beat him to the nearest spot. We parked
our '53 Chevy coup twenty feet from the entrance and Dad cursed some more. (he smiles to himself) He was big, my Dad,
big compared to a teenager like me. I was ...
BOY: Tall ...
MAN: ... short for my age. But I kept my hair long like the older kids did. Not that it mattered all that much.
BOY: But I was cool. Hair done up nice, DA tucked clean behind my ears. (pause) Dad parks the Chevy and we get out.
I'm standing in the asphalt parking lot watching the heat flare up from the bubbling tar and feeling ...
MAN: ... silly. My Keds were melting from the heat. I could smell the burning rubber. Dad opened the trunk and we
started to unload our gear. He was always so neat, tidy in a strange way. Funny guy. When I ...
BOY: ... turn and ask him why he keeps so much junk in the car trunk: two empty grape jelly jars, a broken bedroom
clock, some pieces of non-matching floor linoleum, three empty cans of cat food (we never owned an animal), a toy
pistol, four dead azalea plants, assorted Christmas decorations, a tube of roll on deodorant, unopened, and ...
MAN: ... "Ya never know when ya might need somethin', Bobby boy," he answered in a low tone, his scratchy, smoke
stained voice bouncing back at me from inside the car trunk.
BOY: He hands me a fishing rod and reel. Dad's never fished once in his life. We just moved to the Gulf coast of Florida
several months ago; his wife, my Mom, dead these past two years. We now live in a small silver trailer with huge rust
spots. Bought it last month from an old lady who's husband just walked out for a pack of Camels and never came back. I
sleep in the kitchen/dinning room/living room area on a pull down sofa. He's in the bedroom five feet away.
MAN: (very softly, gently) The northeast finally got to Dad. "Who needs the ice, I ask ya? I sure as hell don't," he ...
BOY: ... said over corn flakes last February in our one bedroom on East 17th Street. The place just reminded him of ...
MAN: ... his wife ...
BOY: ... my Mom, I think. I heard him crying the night he told me we were ...
MAN: "Headin' south, Bobby boy. Headin' to the sun and sand, to the beach parties and palm trees. Goin' ta where a man
can spread out, stretch his achin' bones. Listen kid, it's a place where ya can hear 'good' country music and ya don't have ta
dress up all the damn time!" I liked the idea of not gettin' dressed up. And when we got to sunny Florida ...
BOY: ... after four hundred years on a train that stopped in every one horse town, village and hamlet this side of the
Mississippi, it rained for two days straight and Dad got a job at the Seven/Eleven on 49th Street. I started school and
selling papers ...
-16-
MAN: ... in the afternoon to help out. "See boy, this present situation of ours is only a temporary affair. Things'll break
open for us when these here Floridians realize what they got in me and you." Dad was what one calls an unskilled laborer.
Me, I was an ...
BOY: ... unskilled kid with bad feet.
MAN: When I look back on that time and my Dad, him and me, just the two of us pushing out to seek our fame and
fortune in the land of the Conquistadors, the only thing I missed about the northeast was the mountains. The mountains,
me, Dad and Ma. We'd take day trips by bus to Bear Mountain, eat Mom's chicken and drink Koolaide. "Watch that ya
don't drop that rod into the Gulf, or you'll go in after it," Dad said sternly, and me knowing full well what an actor he
could be. I told him that I'd be careful.
BOY: Something's wrong. I look at Dad and don't know why I hadn't noticed earlier when we left the trailer. He's standing
in the middle of this ...
MAN: ... smoldering parking lot, the smell of my rubber soles burning in the heat, the sun unrelenting at four in the
afternoon, standing there wearing a pair of bright orange polyester Bermuda shorts, a shinny, yellow silk shirt with a
thousand Hula dancers in grass skirts prancing across his chest, white socks and a pair of black steel toed, thick rubber
soled Knapp shoes. Dad always had this thing, this compulsion to fit in, to be one of the fellahs, to be a part of something,
never an outsider. He, my Dad, wanted to be accepted that day, to be a full-time, big-time, real-time fishermen.
BOY: He sees my expression and says its what all the fishermen are wearing this year, and that it isn't polite to stare. I ask
him about the sun tan lotion and he says he forgot it in the medicine cabinet. "We'll see if they sell any inside. And
besides, real men don't wear sun tan lotion."
MAN: And this said to me by a full grown adult wearing bright orange Bermuda shorts. I told him ...
BOY: ... I don't need any knowing full well that, before that huge red ball in the sky falls behind that postcard horizon, I'll
look like a one pound lobster ready for the table and Dad will have to smear Noxema all over my body.
MAN: Me, with the new rod and reel, Dad with his yellow tackle box with his name stenciled on the top, headed up the
board walk toward the bait house and the murder. I wondered to myself if I could see Texas or maybe Mexico. A few
large steamers sleek and romantic, glided across the horizon. Where are they going and can I go too? Maybe someplace ...
BOY: ... far away with dark skinned women with exposed breasts and tight muscles, endless jet black hair down to their
small feet and white toe nails, their bodies moving like some mysterious smoke cloud, like some machine made by
someone greater than man, like motion itself timed with the rhythm of the surging, undulating sea, salt and clean, blue and
crystal.
MAN: My dad headed for the bait house with me pulling up my pants and following, the rod and reel slipping and hitting
the tattered, weather beaten boards.
BOY: I want to curse but I' not old enough. Maybe next month. Dad buys some bait -- baby shrimp or something and we
head to the pier. We find a spot and set down our gear on a bench. While Dad fumbles with opening his tackle box and
putting hooks on our line, I half watch him and half the other people on the pier. The first thing that grabs my attention are
the teenage girls, all about sixteen or so. They're giggling and hovering around a group of hardened boys about the same
age.
MAN: The boys were being heroic popping their sand colored hair back, their eyes eager, shirtless skin soaking up the
blazing sun.
-17-
BOY: They pass out dripping cans of Old Milwaukee from a large crate, baloney sandwiches squeezed to death,
mayonnaise oozing from the wax paper.
MAN: "See, Bobby boy," as Dad held up the fish line and hook, his hands cut open like raw meat from the razor-like line.
He opened his tackle box, lifted up the top tray, took out a liverwurst sandwich on Wonder bread and handed me half.
I noticed a young mother and her six year old daughter walking up the pier. The mother was beautiful, the little girl a
mirror image of her Mom. The child wore two Mini Mouse berates in her golden brown hair, hair as fine as silk, bright as
the sun itself. The teenagers were getting louder ...
BOY: But Dad can't hear them either. The sun is burning a hole in my head. I feel my skin hardening, cracking from the
dryness. My mind wanders as the teenage girls giggle and bend over.
MAN: And the girls of summer, hot and sticky, short-shorts tightly pressing their round thighs, playing neatly on the rims
of flesh bursting my imagination, throwing me into a beyond place, nowhere I've ever been -- the sun's heat pounding,
rounding my brain to feel something deep inside, deep inside.
BOY: The boys pass around a pack of Lucky Strikes, their belt buckles reflecting in the sun, engineer boots spanking new
heels dug in, tattoos of eagles and bleeding hearts, skulls and Mom plaster their arms like billboards. Maybe someday I
can get a tattoo, a big ship, the Jolly Roger across my chest.
MAN: And the girls of summer in fifty-nine, smoldering in their tight short-shorts ...
BOY: ... hips hugging the railing ...
MAN: ... tough faces ...
BOY: ... eyes hard drawing deep drags on their Kent cigarettes. My eyes strain, squinting from the sun, the afternoon heat
and ...
MAN: ... the smell of my loins, fondling my rod and reel like some precious thing from another world. And from the
beach, a portable radio blares Bill Haley and the Comets.
BOY: The girls dressed in strapless shoulders and short-shorts looking like gasoline pumps with their hoses hot and
squirting fire, their hands flicking fast back and forth, their rubber skin ...
MAN: ... encased in red and yellow cotton, eyes made up like the Long Ranger, dark green holes, thick black lashes
fluttering, flab wrapped round in billowing profusion; crab apple breasts cupped not too neatly in mini-mini halters
pumping hard on a young boy's endless imagination.
BOY: I start to ache.
MAN: One girl with lips red as the fires of damnation; demon-like she puckers pleasure beyond my wildest, a white
Cadillac Eldorado on her mind, sleek skirted Chevies, canvas top down cursing Main Street, mercilessly squeezes ...
BOY: ... her boyfriend's arm. Another thinner, tougher looking with ...
MAN: ... almond eyes ...
BOY: ... hair black as coal ...
MAN: ... all her furnaces aglow with lush smells, sits ...
-18-
BOY: ... with her legs open. Good God, I can't take anymore.
MAN: I turn to face the Gulf but, like a magnet, I'm drawn back to the still frame of the legs beckoning.
BOY: And all the while I think -- these are girls I would never date once I grew up ...
MAN: ... yet girls that would haunt me constantly, forever filling me with such tingling, the thought of their peach fur skin
thrilling me. And me seeing myself now ...
BOY: ... now as I watch these girls, myself dark tanned, leather tough by the white sand and melting sun, cutoff shorts and
Foster Grants ...
MAN: ... I always saw myself in sun glasses ...
BOY: ... sharp as a tack, talking dirty ...
MAN: ... muscles snapping ...
BOY: ... hands moving like ice, crisp and true. I smile at the girls as they eye my six feet up and down. I smile back ...
MAN: ... with a rough expression letting them know ...
BOY: ... who's boss. They ...
MAN: ... squirm in their imaginations of me lying taut on top of them, our bodies moving with ...
BOY: ... the in and out surf.
MAN: I notice the man who looks like an airline pilot sitting on one of the benches. He talks to the young mother and her
little girl; all smiling as the mother bursts out laughing, her voice chilling the sky and my skin. The captain touches the
little girl's hair, golden brown, and all three laugh at some intimate joke. They, all three, could be the picture of the happy
American family vacationing in the land of oranges and sea shells. But something stirs inside me.
BOY: I'm frightened and am not sure why. I take my rod and reel and drop the line, shrimp dangling, squirming, into the
warm Gulf. Dad shows me how to hold the rod, release the catch, take up the slack, then click the catch back again. We
lean against the railing and look out beyond our own thoughts at the pencil-like horizon and Texas, maybe Mexico. The
airplane pilot is still talking to the young mother and her small daughter. There's something about the three of them that
strikes me as odd. The handsome man seems to be paying more attention to the daughter than the pretty mother. The
mother walks over to the group of giggling teenagers and asks them for a smoke. The boys are eager and fumble for their
packs stuck in the T-shirt sleeves. The mother is lit and takes a deep drag on the Lucky. She looks like a professional
smoker. She reaches over and takes a can of Old Milwaukee from one of the boys and chug-a-lugs the entire can. She
looks like a professional beer drinker. Her eyes snap onto one if the older looking boys. Some of the teenage girls whisper
to each other and frown. The boy is not dumb. He likes to be looked at. He seems to get taller. I notice that he has arched
his body slightly and is on his toes. She smiles a smile that says more than hello. He smiles back.
MAN: I take a quick look at the airplane captain. He is now stroking the little girl's hair.
BOY: The little girl seems confused and somewhat embarrassed, certainly uncomfortable.
-19-
MAN: Loud laughter from the group of teenagers and the young mother gets my attention. She's chugging another beer
and the boys applaud and the teenage girls sneer. Off to the side, the little girl wants to call out to her mother but says
nothing. The airplane captain whispers something in the child's ear and the child frowns. The young mother is drinking
more and more. One of the boys has his arm around her. The teenage girls are now sitting on a bench, coats wrapped
around them, shivering from the mounting easterly, their eyes hallow looking down at the planking floor, all looking into
the fiery green sea, all the time wishing the young mother with the golden child was down there prancing and primping
with the fishes, not their boy friends of summer. The other boys are talking about cars and who's got the fastest roadster ...
BOY: ...shinning bright, glittering flat heads, tight torque. All of a sudden ...
MAN: ... I notice that the sun has gone down ...
BOY: ... disappeared like some ghost.
MAN: I looked over at my Dad ...
BOY: ... who was looking into the briny, still tightly clutching his rod and reel.
MAN: I turned back to look at the teenagers and the young mother.
BOY: She was gone ...
MAN: ... disappeared like the sun.
BOY: It was starting to get cold, my bones ...
MAN: ... rattled from the chilling breeze. (pause) A quite descended upon the pier.
BOY: It was an eerie stillness. The only sound was ...
MAN: ... the water gently slapping against the pylons. Then, suddenly ...
BOY: ... out of the dark ...
MAN: ... out of the dank, black darkness ...
BOY: A voice screamed ...
MAN: ... screamed a sound so hideous, from such an inner depth ...
BOY: ... I quickly spun toward it.
MAN: And there, standing at the edge of the water, standing deep in the wet sand ...
BOY: ... was the young mother -- a snap shot black and white frozen for ever and ever -MAN: And in her arms was the lifeless form of her daughter ...
BOY: ... her young hair, once golden and bright ...
MAN: ... now cruelly matted to her bleeding skull ...
-20-
BOY: LOOK, someone shouted.
MAN: We all turned. There he was, the tall, neatly trimmed pilot ...
BOY: ... running like hell down the beach, running away. "He's Getting away," ...
MAN: I shouted at the top of my lungs. And than, like in a dream, in slow motion, my Dad threw down his rod and reel ...
BOY: ... screaming NOOOOOOOO!!!!
MAN: And, with one lunge, leaps from the pier into the water.
BOY: He swam so fast ...
MAN: Faster than I had ever seen anyone swim. Like a shark ...
BOY: ... a bullet streaking through the wet towards the fleeing pilot ...
MAN: The young mother's wailing bounced from the black stars above and came crashing down, back to earth, to my
ears, my soul ...
BOY: And in another flash ...
MAN: Dad was now on the shoreline running like hell. The murderer was slowing, his breath spent.
BOY: Dad was on him, a full-body tackle.
MAN: They were both down in the sand, arms and fists flailing. My father was screaming into the killer's face, spiting
each word as if they were knives slicing, cutting into the man. (pause)
Later, after they had pulled my Dad from the killer, thanked him and took the battered and beaten criminal away, we
walked alone along the beach, our heads deeply bent. I could see the glimmer of blood dripping from his nose, his left eye
was nearly shut from the swelling.
BOY: So ... ah ... yeah ...
(pause)
MAN: I just couldn't find the words to say, the way to express myself.
BOY: I kicked the sand a couple of times.
MAN: We never said a word about what happened. Never, not then, not once. We must have walked for hours. (pause)
And to this day, I have never, ever felt such deep love, was my small heart so full with such a true and honest caring as I
did for my father on that day, on that day he took me fishing.
*
*
DANA
-21-
*
WHEN THE LIGHTS come up Dana is facing away from the audience. Every once in a while she turns her face
to look out and down. It should be obvious that she is looking at something waist level -- it is her unseen two year
old baby girl. After a moment, she turns and walks over to the unseen crib and her daughter.
DANA
(softly)
How can you sleep on your stomach like that. My entire body would ache in the morning. And why do you constantly
throw the blanket off. (she does not move to touch the unseen child. Long pause as Dana's eyes do most of the talking at
this point.)
What are you dreaming about, huh? What does a two year old dream about? Huh? Nice things? What do you see in that
little gold head of yours -- sunshine, candy canes, marshmallows, what, Kelly? What does my little Kelly dream about in
the night? Do you ever dream about your Mommy? Do you dream about me, Sweety?
(pause)
You're so very beautiful.
(she smiles)
Your hands. I can't get over how small they are. What will they do in ten years? Will they hold dolls, hold the entire
world; will they still hold my hand?
(pause)
You know, you look just like your father. That's not bad at all, Kelly. You're father's a fine looking person. You have my
green eyes though. It's the eyes, right. That's the most important thing. And what will your eyes see twenty years from
now? Will they see beautiful things? Will they see sunsets, the ocean beating against the sand, the clouds billowing, the
sky filled with vultures ...
(she shakes her head at the
image of 'vultures')
No, no vultures. They'll see only wonderful things.
(pause as she turns away)
When you were inside me, I could feel you kick, punch me and I screamed at the thought of you, at your being inside me,
being part of me, taking part of me away from myself. I didn't like you much when you were inside me. But your father
was kind, understanding. He's such an understanding man.
(she turns to face the unseen child)
You were to be one of the lucky babies, Kelly, Dear. You were born with a silver spoon stuck ...
(pause as tinge of bitterness
creeps into her soft voice)
Just like your lovely Mom, a big silver spoon, security all the days of our lives.
(pause)
I do love your father. You should always know that, even
when ...
(pause)
He'll be able to explain to you when you're older. He's so good at explaining things, things that stay hidden from the
neighbors peering eyes.
(pause)
I have to go away for a little while. You can understand that, can't you? You will someday. Your father will help you
understand that. He ...
(she quickly stops and takes
an extreme emotional right turn
in her head)
But if you want to start school early, you can if you'd like. It's really going to be up to your father. He makes those
decisions. It's only right. Yes, a nice school, with nice people, proper people. And you'll meet the right man, not some
bum who pumps gas or runs a hardware store. Not my Kelly.
(pause, with a deep breath)
So, like I was saying I'm going ... I'm going away for a while.
-22-
(pause)
See, they don't want me to hit you anymore. But I never really wanted to hit you. Not the first time. It was just that you
kept crying, and I had two or three ... you know. And I just wanted quiet.
(pause)
They say that I can't be around you now. It's plain as that. They say I hurt you sometimes when I drink. I don't mean to
hurt you.
(pause)
So you won't be mad at me when I go away in a little while, will you?
(pause as she moves closer and
whispers)
You see, they're right outside the door right now. They said I could say goodbye. But they still don't trust me with my own
flesh and blood. They can be so silly. What do they think I'll do to you, my own daughter? I just want to say goodbye, just
you and me.
(pause)
I can't touch you, my Kelly. I promised them I wouldn't touch you. You understand, right? Sure you do.
(pause as she walks away)
I'm sorry I'm a drunk, Kelly. But it's going to be okay. Once I get there, it'll be okay. They'll take care of me so I can come
back and take care of you like I'm suppose to. It's just that ... that the drink ... it makes things good for a little while.
(pause as she approaches the
unseen child)
They're stupid, all of them, so stupid. What do they think I'll do. There they are right on the other side of the door
listening, leering at me, laughing at me right now.
(another direction)
That first time, you were just crying too loud. You have this huge voice for such a little thing. But aren't parents suppose
to reprimand their children. But maybe I went ... you know ... a little overboard. But I promised I'd never do it again. God,
I could see the blue marks on your face, could see the red bruises on your small arms. I knew what I had done!
(screaming at the door)
I AM NOT STUPID!
(to child)
My sweet, oh so sweet child. I gave you life. You grew inside me like a small flower, you grew and grew. I was
frightened, so very alone with you inside me. I wanted to ripe you out. But I know I love you. Do you think I'm bad, have
been a bad little girl, Kelly? Please don't think that of me, please never think that about me, Kelly. See, I thought maybe
your father would start to love you more than he loved me, start to forget me. I thought maybe you would make me
disappear, be gone forever. That frightened me so.
(pause)
But that's silly. I know that. But sometimes I forget just how silly that is. I have my little drink and things are different, my
eyes look at things through a ... through a piece of glass, a piece of cloth.
(pause as she quickly turns away)
Good Mother of God, I ache so! I want you, want to hold you so you can take away the pain.
(to child)
We can be such wonderful friends, you and I. Someday, my sweetness.
(pause)
I have to go away now, Kelly. You won't forget me, will you? Your mother knows that you're smart for a two year old. I
know that.
(she moves toward the door)
Don't forget me, please. And I'm sorry for hurting you, for being jealous of you.
(pause)
I love you. Forgive me.
*
*
-23-
*
CHARLIE SLEDGE
AT RISE Charlie is pacing back and forth in a small, very confining space. He's a little upset. He turns to face his
unseen friend.
CHARLIE
So okay, you're pissed at me for doin' what I did. So okay, Billy Buck, be that way.
(pacing some more)
Okay, so you're pissed at me for joinin'.
(he stops moving)
Listen Billy Buck, it's the nineteen fifties, we're in the modern age. And I'm goin' with it. But I can't go with it when I'm
stuck here in Spencer, Texas. We gotta spread out, move around and see things. Jesus, the only thin' ta see here is the one
dumb movie house down on Washington Avenue; that, and Sandy's Used Car Dealership. Hell, what are we gonna do
'bout growin' up and makin' our own lives? Sandy's Expert Used Car Dealership and the Better Mail Incorporated are the
only damn things in Spencer. What kind a future is that? You and me, we was meant for more than Spencer's "one and
only" Used Car Dealership. Look at yourself. All ya got is your comic books and your radio. Your hat's nice, but that's all.
(moving around a bit)
Shit, Billy! You and me was meant for bigger and better things, important things, Is a new hat all ya want? Well, is ya do,
that's up ta you. I want more, Billy. You could a joined up
with me.
(pause)
Damn, Billy Buck, it's the future I'm talkin' 'bout here! All you do is sit around makin' up stories, and ya really surprise
me, what with goin' and makin' up stories 'bout your Ma. She ain't dead and she ain't been cremated and her ashes thrown
out to the seven damn winds. She's back home where she's suppose ta be.
(he shakes his head)
That's terrible Billy. So okay, I can understand you gettin' lonesome what with havin' ta take care of her like ya been doin',
and readin' your comic books all the time. But pretty damn soon you're gonna go and start belivin' what it is you been
readin'. Yeah, yeah, I know, you don't read the words, jest the pictures. Yeah, I know, the pictures are nice ta look at. But
hell, tellin' me that God goes and speaks to ya from them books. It jest ain't right. It's bull, Billy Buck, that's what it is,
plain and simple.
(pause)
Damn! Here we are, you and me, we're standin' at the beginnin' a new things in this here country. Things happenin' right
across this land. Hell, this is America! Think a that, Billy Buck! It's all out there for us, jest waitin' for the tough guys like
you and me ta take it by the balls and run with it, make it work for us. Shit, we deserve it! Don't we? In a couple a years,
this here country will be a paradise, a land a milk and honey. There's money out there jest fallin' off the trees. Soon it'll be
the sixties, the seventies, eighties, nineties, all sorts a things happenin' for us; growin' into a land a hope and all sorts a
stuff. And it's all for the takin'. We paid our dues for it, it belongs ta us, Billy Buck. So what do we do about it? We sit
here in this small dumb town and do nothin'. We work our butts off at the Better Mail Incorporated for some drunk who
could give a shit 'bout us. That ain't fair. Shit and piss, the old man's worse than my Dad. Hell, all my Dad wants ta do is
hunt rabbit. There's gotta be more than huntin' rabbits out there. I seen them colored pictures in the Saturday Evenin' Post,
seen how things are out there in the world. And I want it, want it all! And the United States Army is gonna send me ta
those places. And no, I ain't gonna go and get killed. I don't care what God said to ya in them comic books. Listen Billy
Buck, I don't wanna smell the heat, the dust, and the cow shit no more! Hell, you're Billy Buck Richards and I'm Charles
Raymond Sledge, two a the meanest guys in Spencer, Texas. We were meant for bigger things. And we couldn't be in a
better country than America. We should have all that stuff they show us in Life Magazine!
(pause)
And I don't wanna hear no more from you 'bout that Korea place. I ain't goin' there. The recruiter said Germany, maybe
France. But no Korea. He promised me that!
(pause)
Ya can still join up with me, Billy Buck.
(pause)
-24-
Will ya come with me?
*
*
*
PORCELAIN MORNING
WOMAN
I can see the gray sun sliding softly through the kitchen window, through the curtains; a gray, delicate sun hiding from the
close morning hours. The table is covered with that same orange-brown cloth dotted with yellow daisies. It's damp inside
and the cloth is wet from the split coffee and cream.
(pause)
It wasn't so long, so very long ago that we'd talk, make plans for vacations; for rides to the mountains and crystal beaches.
It was gay, important with strong wishes and fancy schemes. And all the while we'd fool the whole world by sleeping late
and drinking coffee mixed with cinnamon.
(pause)
But there were phantoms then too. They'd creep out of the rotted woodwork and cracked, peeling enamel. I could see
them. It was always in the early mornings as I sat at this kitchen table watching shadows dissolve and merge, rearranging
themselves against the draped dish rag and hanging pot holders. I see them now.
(pause)
Do you remember those mornings?
(pause)
Wasn't it as if those early mornings were pressed tightly against out chests, sealed somewhere behind our most fragile
flesh? But the sun is hazy, almost crazy now. Notice the difference? Even death and damnation are phantoms, furtive
branches knocking hard against our bedroom window blowing the lace curtains to the side, painting fairies and mysteries
on the blank wall.
(pause)
But like I said, I haven't had those dreams in such a long, very long time; not since the crows started raging like tigers.
Can you imagine crows; those black alabaster crows in such a city as this? Can you imagine other things too?
(pause)
See the curtains, the ones I hung over the kitchen windows. You laughed when they fell down.
(pause)
You laughed all the time. Did I tell who's here? It's as if there is a small, delicate, very fragile child sitting on the outside
window sill gently pushing both his tiny white hands against the yellow-cream curtains; the curtains with the doily trim
and rose-pedaled borders. He almost speaks, or rather whispers about his aging. He's saying to me and the loud smashing
traffic that he's not a child at all, but a very old, no ancient man, a circus oddity, a freak of Nature's whims and selfimposing despairs. He tells me he's an Egyptian hieroglyphic image carved into eternity with webbed feet and snorting
nostrils; almost timeless, bottomless. Hear his heart beating inside his hollow chest, rattling beside his sea shell bones,
shaking, pounding desperately inside his small, frail self? Listen as he whimpers against the irreligious morning.
(pause)
Do you remember those oh so white mornings? And you use to be so white, so clean from our early morning showers with
the soap dish overflowing from the dripping faucet with the leaking metal tubes that came to us in our imaginations; those
chrome-covered snakes that wound themselves out of the green porcelain tub. How they would snidely slide and sneak up
the pink tiled wall spouting steam and heated holy water, water turning to venom, turning to haze that dissolved itself into
the glass drain flowing down to the ocean and coming back again through the copper skins spewing forth crystal seaweed
and monsters.
(pause)
And you use to be so white. Our lives battered together beside the morning rains each Saturday as we sat perched beneath
the coffee-colored, plastic overhanging tea shade. That's when our memories were cast in pale-blue consistency and
marshmallow sailing ships. Oh, we were most irreverent then; back then when pushcarts sang along Delancey Street as
your steel-wool knickers knocked against the dried nicks and cuts from yesterday's very unholy stickball game. Oh, how
we'd shout, "We should a won but didn't 'cause Michael Maloney is a lousy first baseman and Augie Augustus can't hit the
broad side a Sullivan Street."
(pause)
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When the Bowery played itself like a tuba and bass drum and Mulberry Street filled the wet afternoon with Italian ices
piled thick like my Mama's breasts; with vendors of all sorts selling this and that; and there was always Mister Silverman's
tiny tailor shop where, if you got there early enough on Monday mornings to be his first customer, you and your father
could bargain a suit or knickers down to a livable, most believable price. But what was a buck-and-a-quarter back then
anyway.
(pause)
Fifty years ago when there were lions and tigers in the streets; he-wolves and she-wolves marching through the sewers
and hiding behind trash cans and garden walls; when everyone smelled of onions and roses; when grandmothers would
breath heavy into our faces filling the air with freshly cut peppers and staining our souls with forever crushed garlic; we'd
laugh and sing.
(pause)
And you were so white. But now the coffee is cold, cold from sitting unattended. It's black this morning as the sun's haze
pushes, tugs aside the billowing curtains painting itself against the kitchen walls and smog-stained window panes.
(pause)
And I am old now. Desperate we were then; knocking ourselves against each other; entrapped in constant contact; chest
beating beside each other until our brains fell out and our souls collided. Desperate, oh so damn desperate we were about
each other; so connected in our frail lovemaking, in our childhood imaginations, our endless procrastinations about
ourselves.
(pause)
Yes, you use to be so white in the mornings. But I am old now; missing you more than my youth, more than my pale,
frigid self pressed against my aching bones.
(pause)
Oh, why did you go, your cancer taking you too, much too early in our timelessness. It crept through your body tearing
your soul to shreds, my heart to pieces.
(pause)
I am old now in time, in years, an old woman that can no longer live this life without you.
(pause)
And I watched as you lay years and years decaying before my eyes, drifting away in front of my heart; your lungs rasping,
grasping for breath. And then they covered you yesterday and took you away. And I am an old woman now, have seen too
much. For fifty years, we spun together, fastened together as no other king and queen. And your going wasn't your fault,
not really. Yet I hate you, damn you for it as I now damn this cold, hard, porcelain morning; and your cancer, your cheeks
melting with age and death; your frail, sweet flesh flying from your loins. I hate you for going, for dying like you did.
(pause)
And I am an old woman now anyway, and that in itself is a sin, a desperate mistake. My head lies here on our kitchen
table banging itself against the soiled tablecloth, against the angels that sang at your funeral, at your grave still warm, at
your moisture wet against my sighs, my promises, all those promises never really kept, only wished for deep in the bottom
of the evening.
(pause)
Will we pass in our deaths, you going your way, and me mine? Fifty years a twosome, a gruesome together memory never
forgiving our separate ways.
(pause)
And now I take myself up into the winter lightening, out into the blazing fires of my constant damnation. Down, diving
deep inside the rotted graves and marble headstones I see your eyes forever fled past my heartbeat, my life that will be no
more.
*
*
*
HANRATY
AS THE LIGHTS come up the sound of a cocktail party is heard in the distance: glasses clinking, muffled voices,
laughter, etc. The stereo is playing selections from Credence Clearwater: "Bad Moon Rising," "Proud Mary,"
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Susie Q," Have You Ever Seen The Rain," "Run Through The Jungle," "It Came Out of The Sky," This music
will continue to play softly throughout the following action.
HANRATY is standing off to the side out of the spot light. He holds a drink and seems to be looking at the wall,
that or looking inside himself.
Quickly, fleetingly, the sound of helicopter blades slice through the room. They're gone in an instant. Was the
sound real, or was it inside Hanraty's head.
It appears that some unseen individual has approached Hanraty and speaks to him. Hanraty turns to face the
unseen person.
HANRATY
Nothin', thanks.
(referring to his drink)
Fine thanks. Listen, I'm sorry I was a little rude before. I didn't mean anything by it. It's just ... well ... I've only been back
for a couple a months. I guess I don't really fit into party's, not really a party-type person, ya know. But thanks for having
me here.
(pause)
Listen, ah, I've been standing here thinking about that question you asked me. You know, at first, I was pissed that you
asked it. Not so sure why, just seemed like a dumb question. Don't get me wrong, it wasn't, but ... like I said, I just got
back from there and, well, sometimes I just ... I'd rather put it someplace far away.
(pause)
Odd though. I mean, here it is nineteen sixty-nine and I'm somewhere back in the dark ages.
(he sips his drink)
Some party, huh? Just wish they'd turn that music down a bit.
(pause)
So, about that question of yours ... ah ... I guess I never really thought much about it before. War, huh? I don't know,
maybe all wars are different, than again, maybe they're all the same. I don't know. Me? Ah ... tough one there.
(pause)
This one day, take any day, there's nothin' happen'. Most of the time it was real boring, didn't do anything for weeks.
Nothing but walk and walk, walk through mud, through the dirt and thick jungle, walk here and there and see nothin',
nothin' at all. I was there maybe five months doing the same thing every day the whole time I was there. Began to think
that the only thing that would kill me was the damn boredom.
(pause)
Then one day it all changes, everything changes. The world just comes apart, splits in a million pieces. You see guy fall,
guys you've come to know pretty damn good, been real close to. Boom, and it's all different, you're different.
(pause)
Then a flash, in a second, a tiny little second ... it's ... it's like ... like there's something in front of you this one day.
(the helicopter slams through
the room and is gone)
Bright, sunny day, rainy day, no matter which. Night, day, don't matter much. Something big, powerful, real strong. Or
maybe tiny, the smallest human being on earth. Like a linebacker. He's just standing there waiting. The ball's snapped and
you take the handoff. You go and he's there, just standing there, he's waiting for you to come right at 'em, head on. You
know it and he knows it. And you have nothing against this guy, don't even know 'em. Doesn't matter. What matters is
he's there and you're there. He knows that you have to come at 'em, there's no other way to go, no place to hide, ya know.
Oh sure, you can probably cut this way or that, follow a few blockers up the middle, over the tackle or guard. But you
don't. You know in your heart of hearts that you won't cut in or out, follow the blockers. And he knows it. He knows -just like you know --that you're gonna go right at 'em. See, it's like a test. Yeah, kind of a test.
(pause)
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And all this happens in maybe one or two seconds -- no longer. You and him are gonna become almost like one. You're
thinking almost the same damn thought, have the same exact feeling about what has to happen. See what I mean?
(pause)
It's just time. Yeah, this one particular second in time. All that's happened before this one time, this one second, doesn't
matter anymore. What matters is now, is your running like hell straight for this linebacker. And the same is for him. And
you both know that.
(pause)
See, it's not for any glory, any medals, it's not even because of the dumbass game your in. It's not even because this here
game may depend on whether you get past him or not. None of that matters anymore. What matters, truly matters, is
meeting this guy one-on-one. That's it. And maybe it's even more. Maybe it's all very simple, the simplest thing in this
fucked up life. Maybe it's just the simple fact of the two of you coming together. Yeah, maybe like making love.
(pause)
Making love like you've never made love before or since.
(pause)
Here's me, Michael J. Hanraty, running straight ahead for this linebacker knowing all along what's happening. And him,
hell he's just standing there, not moving, not coming in on you, not even crouching to protect himself from the eventual -(pause)
-- outcome.
(pause)
This linebacker is just standing there almost smiling. See, it's kind of an understanding you both have. An understanding
you have because you're both in the same game, fighting the same damn thing all along. But now it isn't the game, no sir.
Now it's just you and him -- one-on-one. There's no crowd, no teammates, not even a mom and a dad. All there is you and
him. And what you're doing is making some kind of love with this guy, or whatever you wanna call it. See, right at that
instant, he knows you better than your wife, better than your mom and dad, better than your old football coach. He knows
you like he knows himself. You know each other like you've never known anything else in your life.
(pause)
And you both don't give a good shit about the outcome, not anymore. It doesn't matter. It doesn't even matter who breaks
whose ass. See, as soon as you turn that corner, make that decision and your eyes connect, you both know that the stupid
game, the contest, the home team don't matter. Nobody else matters. Just you and him matter. And you love it. You're
fucking alive for once in your life, alive like you've never been before. And maybe, just maybe you love each other like no
other kind of love.
(pause)
And you know something else? You'll kill 'em. That, or he'll kill you. You both know that, both understand that very
simple fact. And it's really okay. You're both ready for that. And somewhere deep inside you, someplace tucked deep
inside, you kind of hope that you can feel this way forever. You and him together for the rest of time, always. You have
finally been there, that special place and you understand it all, each and every thing. You die or he dies, it doesn't really
matter which one, not in
the end, not really.
(pause)
You have finally loved once in your life. And you've been loved back the same way. There's no more just you and just
him, separate. You and him are everything and nothing all at the exact same moment in time, in space. You've lost it and
found it all in one split second in time. Dying is the easiest part of it. But killing the one thing that has given you so much
love is the most difficult thing you'll ever have to do. When you kill it, you kill something, some part of yourself, forever
and ever. You'll never be the same, you'll never be that child you once were. You've loved and died, killed and been killed
all in one moment, in one fraction of time in history. You're forever dead and alive at the same time. But you don't hate
anymore. Not when you know you've loved and been loved like no other. No, maybe things are all balanced now, now
because of that stupid game, that linebacker who didn't move, who played the game like a true human being, a true-to-life
hero, like the best lover you've ever have.
(the helicopter rushes through the space, the music blares, and then NOTHING -- BLACK SILENCE)
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