The Sheila Variations

The Books: "The Flowering Peach" (Clifford Odets)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

Next play in my little unalphabetized pile of Samuel French plays is The Flowering Peach, by Clifford Odets

And ... it is hard to believe - but this is my last book in this bookshelf!!! I started going through this bookshelf on April 19 - the first excerpt was from Hollywood Babylon. Of course ... I have since acquired books that are now in this bookshelf ... but I haven't read them yet ... so I will leave them for the next round. I am tireless. April 19! Good God! And now it's January whatever it is ... that's some bookshelf, huh???

The Flowering Peach is Odets' last play. I know a couple of people who call this their favorite Odets ... and it's not really well known. It's the story of Noah building his ark. It opens with Noah waking up from a dream, sitting in stillness in his dark house for a while, and then remembering the dream - he stands up abruptly and starts screaming: "No! No!" It's one of the most stunning beginnings of a play I've ever read. How does one play that?? Beginning a play with a vision of the end of the world. Odets. Gotta love him.

I love this play because he doesn't change his language to make it Biblical ... he still writes like Odets. It's a comedy. Suddenly, you get Noah and his wife bantering with each other like two old members of the Yiddish theatre, you get the classic Odets dialogue, crackling off the page ... It's a sweet play, I wish it was done more.

I'll excerpt a bit from the first scene. Noah has confided in Esther his dream. She thinks he's crazy. They have been married for so long that their back-and-forth almost has the quality of a vaudeville team. Noah is horrified ... he needs to get started building his ark ... he has never seen a boat ... he needs to alert his sons ... etc. Esther goes off to make breakfast (oh, and the set is a regular house ... not a tent or anything realistic) - so she goes off to make breakfast leaving Noah alone, and tormented.

He starts to call out to God. This is his monologue.

From The Flowering Peach, by Clifford Odets

[Alone, Noah rocks himself a little, as an old Jew does, in sorrowful musing, to comfort himself. When he speaks it is sole, humbly, sadly, and with devotion]

NOAH. Lonely times again ...? [sighing] Now I must go out in the world an' make meself for a big nuisance again ...? [Then] Why should she think I'm crazy? [abruptly standing] Now, just a minute! How do I know I'm not? I had a dream or not? [stamping his foot] Floor, listen to me! [slapping the table] Tell me, tell me, table -- I had a dream or not? [He listens, bewildered and fevered, but only silence answers him back, then he abruptly throws his arms upward and speaks angrily] If you spoke to me, Lord, I don't want it! I'm too old everybody should laugh in my face! I ain't got the gizzard for it -- No, sir! [Toning down to a softer devotional tone resting his mouth on clasped hands] Oh GOd, excuse me -- You are All and Everything an' I'm unworthy. You see me -- what am I good for? All I do is cough an' spit. Pass me by -- pass me by. Please ... [Now the Presence of God is heard: it is expressed by a certain musical rustle or widening shimmer, as if a gigantic tuning fork had been struck, its vibrations stern and imperious. With this comes one long thunder roll [which in the theatre is made by one good union stage hand rolling a lead ball across the back of the stage.] Noah falls to his knees as if struck, his head is bowed low. After a moment he tilts his head a little and his nose twitches like a rabbit's. "Lord?" he asks. The musical shimmer deepens, spills everywhere and then softens] You came out, God ...? [Then, listening reverently] Don't be mad. Because if I must, I must ... I must? [Sighing and shaking his head sadly. Gradually growing sly] What do I know about boats? Ast my Esther an' she'll tell you; when was I near water. Bread is bread, I know it -- a pickle is a pickle, a knife is a knife -- but boats? ... [Noah's slyness is reproved by a brief but angry thunder roll. Noah nods meekly but he is heartsick nonetheless] Awright, whatever you tell me to do, I'll do it ... [Then nodding] Yes, I remember everything to a "T". The length of the ark should be three hundred cubits, fifty cubits the breadth an' thirty cubits the height ... [Nodding again] I'll try to convince my sons to do what You say, but with my two oldest boys I'm altogether no good! You'll have to help me, 'cause they'll lock me up for a noisy old man. [Abruptly] You're here yet ... ? But wait a minute -- the main point we didn't get to! You're talking a total destruction of the whole world an' this is something terrible--! [He breaks off suddenly and gazes about, asking in a timid whisper] Lord ...? You're here ...? [He waits a moment and then painfully gets to his feet. The Presence of God has faded away into silence. Noah groans] Am I awake or am I asleep? I'm awake, but I wish I was dead. [But, cocking an eye, he looks around him, wondering if he actually is awake or asleep. He leans his cheek on an open hand, and, whimpering a little, draws delicately into himself. Antiphonal roosters crow proudly in the distance. The stage lights dim out quietly.]

CURTAIN

The Books: "Standing On My Knees" (John Olive)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

Next play in my little unalphabetized pile of Samuel French plays is Standing on my Knees, by John Olive

Another favorite with actors because of the long great two-person scenes throughout the play - this play opened in 1982 - and it starred Pamela Reed. I'm not sure about this, but I think this was her first major part - I always wonder: What happened to her? I mean ... I am sure she is still working, and someone can go do an IMDB lookup, and I'm sure she's doing stage ... but sometimes I wonder why a larger level success didn't come to her. I think she's kind of wonderful, I really do. And this role in Standing on my knees is one of those plum parts for an actress - Not only is it a good part, with good scenes, but the character is schizophrenic and has just been released from a mental institution! Awesome! Actors love to play crazy people.

So we have Catherine - a poet, and a schizophrenic. She hears voices. She has just been let out of the institution and she is trying to integrate back into society. She's kind of successful as a poet - she has an agent who keeps talking to her about "when's the new book coming out?" - or "Have you been writing again?" Catherine can barely make it through the day at this point. She comes up against people's fears and prejudices about mental illness ... Her friend Joanne wants her to bounce back ... her friend Joanne also feels like Catherine has always been a little too intense, too much ... Catherine plods along, taking her drugs, she starts dating someone (poor guy, he doesn't stand a chance) - and eventually, she can't live with the fact that the anti-psychotic drugs dull down her imagination, kill her nighttime dream-life, and seems to kill the creative process. So she goes off the drugs, starts writing again, and falls off the deep end. The voices take over. She has her creative process again, she's able to write ... but at what cost?

All the parts in this play are great.

I'll excerpt a scene between Catherine and Alice, her agent. Alice is the one who "discovered" Catherine's poetry and she has ushered her into literary success. Catherine is now out of the hospital for only a couple of weeks, and Alice has lunch with her, basically to ask her: "Are you ready to get back to work again?"

Alice can't deal with mental illness ... although that will become clear once you read the scene. She tries to just talk about it as though it was a normal hospital stay, and Catherine kind of can't take it. It's a very sad uncomfortable scene. Alice tries to make small talk, Catherine can't put up a good front - it's too soon, she's still recovering ... Alice makes blunder after blunder ...

Oh, and just so you know ... the play isn't written in a linear way. The writing itself tries to reflect Catherine's madness - how voices blend together, how time skips around, how transitions don't make sense ...

I used this scene as my SECOND audition to get into the goddamn Actors Studio. Bastards.

From Standing on my Knees, by John Olive

[A spot fades up on Alice sitting at a table in the bare stage area with the remains of lunch and a bottle of German wine. Catherine starts to get dressed. A pause, and then Catherine and Alice both start speaking at once]

ALICE. You want some --?

CATHERINE. [overlapping] How's business?

ALICE. What?

CATHERINE. Hm?

ALICE. [laughing] You want some more wine?

CATHERINE. No.

ALICE. Coffee?

CATHERINE. Caffeine makes you crazy.

ALICE. Oh. Dessert?

CATHERINE. No.

ALICE. This is a good place, don't you think? German food.

CATHERINE. How's business?

ALICE. Oh, good. The Woman's Guide to Baseball's a big hit. Still understaffed, still have to type my own letters, pain in the ass. God, you look good.

CATHERINE. I feel good. All that healthy hospital food. [Catherine, dressed, goes to the table and sits]

ALICE. [after a beat] So.

CATHERINE. Hm?

ALICE. What was it like?

CATHERINE. [pauses, shrugs] You saw me.

ALICE. Yeah, Jesus, I'll never forget it.

CATHERINE. I don't remember a lot of it. Time flew.

ALICE. Because of the drugs? Thorazine, right?

CATHERINE. Plus a lot of vitamins. Megavitamins. "Orthomolecular Therapy." But mostly Thorazine.

ALICE. The Thorazine make you feel like your brain's gained fifteen pounds?

CATHERINE. It does slow everything down.

ALICE. Yeah? Can I have some? [A beat, looks away] Okay, okay. [Another beat] The hospital's all right, isn't it? I mean, it's not ... Cuckoo's Nest, padded isolation chambers, sadistic nurses, a huge institutional toilet?

CATHERINE. No, it's nice. There's a real sense of ... community.

ALICE. Yeah? The other patients interesting?

CATHERINE. Yeah.

ALICE. You miss 'em?

CATHERINE. Yeah.

ALICE. You glad to be out?

CATHERINE. No.

ALICE. [after an uncomfortable pause] Ed's fine. Some tiny town in Iowa commissioned him to make a huge bronze football for the civic center. He quit bein' a vegetarian, we don't talk much. Wants to go to Mexico. Beer is better there. You're makin' me nervous, babe.

CATHERINE. I make everybody nervous, I know. I feel like I should be wearing a big scarlet S.

ALICE. [nervously, too loud] SchizoWoman!!

CATHERINE. Alice.

ALICE. [looks around sheepishly] Shit. [A beat] Well, I'm jealous, you know that. You get to go lock horns with evil psychiatrists, commune with the supernatural. I have to live with Ed.

CATHERINE. [laughs] God.

ALICE. I know my curiosity is morbid and you hate me for being the gringo I am. [A pause. Alice continues, not looking at Catherine] So how you coming on the book? Working on it? Thinking about it, at least?

CATHERINE. Thinking about it a lot.

ALICE. Well ...

CATHERINE. But I haven't been working on it, Alice.

ALICE. Well, why not?

CATHERINE. Alice, I've been very ill.

ALICE. [laughs nervously] Doesn't that help?

CATHERINE. I can't work on the book right now.

ALICE. You wanna write it off? I'd really rather not. That's a lot of expensive staff time down the --

CATHERINE. Take it easy.

ALICE. [after a pause] You'll start working on it now.

CATHERINE. No.

ALICE. Why?

CATHERINE. Alice.

ALICE. Why?

CATHERINE. I was working on the book when I ... flipped.

ALICE. So? The book made you crazy? [laughs]

CATHERINE. [voice thick, looking away] I don't ...

ALICE. You gonna stop writing? That's what you're saying?

CATHERINE. I have to.

ALICE. [laughs again] You kidding? You'll never --- [stops, looks at her] It's your best book. I don't believe you're gonna --

CATHERINE. Alice. Stop it. Just -- [suddenly stands up]

ALICE. Hey. You okay?

CATHERINE. Gotta go.

ALICE. Oh shit, babe, don't pay any attention to me, I'm fucked up. You're fucked up, Ed's fucked up, everybody I care about's--

CATHERINE. I'm not fucked up. I'm sick. [short pause. Then Alice bursts into laughter. Catherine takes money from hger pocket, puts it on the table] Here. [starts to go]

ALICE. Catherine. [Catherine stops] It was gonna be your best book. The best one we ever did. It was gonna be beautiful. [Stands] Take care. [Exits

The Books: "The Country Girl" (Clifford Odets)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

Next play in my little unalphabetized pile of Samuel French plays is The Country Girl, by Clifford Odets

Odets. My man Odets. To my ear, nobody else sounds like him. He's one of those guys where you could show me a page of dialogue - and have me guess who wrote it ... Odets is unmistakable. He's like Mamet. Or Williams. Love Odets.

This play was produced in 1950. Steven Hill, of Law & Order fame was in the original cast - he played the hotshot young theatre director Bernie Dodd - a kind of Elia Kazan character. Uta Hagen originated the lead role of Georgie Elgin, the long-suffering wife who had once been Miss America. She won a Tony award for her work. And then of course, it was made into a film in 1954 - with Bing Crosby as the lead guy Frank Elgin, Grace Kelly as Georgie (she won an Oscar), and William Holden as Bernie Dodd. This play is a love letter from Clifford Odets, hero-playwright of the 1930s, to the theatre. He was an exile in Hollywood. Screenwriting and script-doctoring just couldn't hold a candle to his work in the 30s with the Group Theatre. But those days were done ... he needed to make a living ... You can feel his loneliness, his yearning in almost every word of Country Girl. Even his own stage directions - where he describes the darkened theatre, and the two men - Bernie and Frank - sitting alone - talking. You can feel Odets' loneliness for the New York theatre. I love this play and I would love to play Georgie, although I would never get cast as someone who once was Miss America. Just ain't gonna happen. But she is a terrific character - a great great part for an actress.

Frank Elgin is a washed-up actor. He once was considered great. Now he's a drunk. Bernie Dodd - the hot director - guns for him to take the lead in his next production. He really goes to bat for Elgin - he keeps saying, "I saw Frank give at least 2 great performances in 2 different shows ..." He wants to give this actor another chance. Frank, always on the edge, of either physical or mental collapse, says he will take the part - and he does. During rehearsals, he battles with his own demons - his own fear that he won't learn his lines, that he is not a good actor, that he will fail ... The booze just calls to him ... Meanwhile, Georgie is his sharp-as-a-whip wife - who has had a helluva time herself. The marriage is now basically about keeping Frank off the booze. Georgie is on the lookout for any tell-tale signs. She is no dummy. She is a long-suffering wife, but you could never call her a martyr or a victim. She chooses to stay with him. But it's not easy.

Here is the scene, early on in the play, when Bernie Dodd comes to the Elgin's apartment to offer Frank the part. This is the first time he meets Georgie - who can be quite formidable. Georgie's there by herself - at first - Frank eventually joins them - and Bernie cannot snow Georgie, or charm her. Bernie is a sexist ladies man, a perennial bachelor. He's not used to women taking his measure, and seeing right through him. It's unnerving for him.

A bit of background: when the scene opens, we see Georgie alone in her apartment, packing a suitcase. When Bernie knocks on the door, she hastily stuffs the suitcase under the bed.

So she is not just thinking of leaving Frank - she had made plans - she was packing her suitcase to go.

Also - in this scene - watch the subtlety of this unspoken dynamic: Bernie has come to convince Frank to take the part. But by the end of the scene, without saying a word about it, Bernie realizes that it is Georgie who must be convinced. He adjusts his behavior accordingly.

From The Country Girl, by Clifford Odets

BERNIE. I'm a busy man, Frank.

FRANK. What do you want me to do?

BERNIE. Make up your mind -- I want you to play that part.

GEORGIE. I'm an innocent bystander. Don't shoot me -- just tell me what this is all about.

FRANK. Mr. Dodd says he wants me to play the lead in his play ...

BERNIE. [briskly annoyed] It's a starring part that needs an actor who can stay sober and learn lines. Are you that actor, or not?

FRANK. [with flare] Well, I'm not one of those goddam microphone actors, like Billy Hertz! I'm an actor!

BERNIE. [waiting] That's what I used to think ...

FRANK. [evasively] What about the producer? If looks would kill, I was dead.

BERNIE. He's afraid you're a drinker.

FRANK. [sullenly] I don't drink on a show.

BERNIE. [sharply] Not according to Gilbert. I checked with him -- you worked with him in '44? What happened?

[Frank looks at Georgie before answering]

FRANK. We lost our little daughter ... that year.

[Silence. Frank sits on bed. Georgie pours coffee]

BERNIE. Can you stay on the wagon now?

FRANK. Look, son, I think we oughta forget it ...

BERNIE. Don't call me son! You've played bigger parts -- you used to be a star!

FRANK. [gloomily] Yeah, I used to drink a glass of money for breakfast, too.

BERNIE. What's the matter with you?

GEORGIE. [as if waking up] You don't listen, Mr. Dodd. Can't you see he's afraid of the responsibility?

BERNIE. But I'm willing to take a chance -- the gamble's all on my side.

FRANK. Why kid around? They open in Boston the 28th. I couldn't even learn the lines in that time! That part needs a Bennett or a Blinn --

BERNIE. [sardonically] Bad enough to go to Hollywood to cast -- now you suggest I go to heaven! [Bernie stares at them coldly; about to walk out, turns, says earnesly] Listen, Frank, you don't know me. But I was a kid when I saw you give two great performances in mediocre plays -- Proud People and Werba's Millions. I can get the same show out of you right now ... if you lay off the liquor! I have more confidence in you than you have in yourself!

GEORGIE. [sitting back, watching] Why ...?

BERNIE. Because I saw him as a kid -- I was a hat-check boy in the Shubert Theater. [to Frank] You and Lunt and Walter Huston -- you were my heroes. I know everything you did.

FRANK. Hear that, Georgie ..

[Georgie speaks with quiet thoughtfulness]

GEORGIE. Naturally, Mr. Dodd, you exaggerate the sentiment to make your point.

[Bernie turns, looks at her very carefully]

BERNIE. We killed the cat with sentiment? Okay, we'll bring him back to life with some antiseptic truth. I come from realistic people - I'm Italain. [pausing] I'm not blind to Frank's condition - he's a bum! But I'm tough, not one of those nice "humane" people: they hand you a drink and a buck and that's exactly where they stop. [to Frank] I won't hand you a buck ... but I'll think about you, if you take this job. I'll commit myself to you -- we'll work and worry together -- it's a marriage. And I'll make you work, if you take this job: I'll be your will! [Pausing] But if you do me dirt -- only once! -- no pity, Frank! Not a drop of pity! Joke ending, kid.

[Georgie looks carefully at Bernie. We can almost see her come to life as she stands and comes in closer]

GEORGIE. You'll be his "will" ... I like that. That's what he needs, a will. And "no pity". I like that, too. I like the "antiseptic truth". But what kind of contract do you offer?

BERNIE. Standard two-week contract.

GEORGIE. Not run-of-the-play?

BERNIE. No.

GEORGIE. Doesn't that mean you could let Frank out any time with two weeks' notice?

BERNIE. That's what it means.

GEORGIE. But suppose he takes the part and opens the show? He get syou over the top of the hill. How does he know you won't replace him?

BERNIE. No run-of-the-play contract. Suppose we have to drop him? For drinking or for not retaining his lines? What do you want? Drop him, replace him and still pay his salary for run of the show?

GEORGIE. [pausing] I don't think he should take it. He needs confidence. He won't have it with that two weeks' clause over his head. Would you? [She has spiked Bernie's guns by presenting him the same case he previously presented to Cook. Finally, looking from one to another, Bernie says]

BERNIE. I have nothing in my mind except for Frank to play this part!

GEORGIE. That's sentiment again!

BERNIE. I can't believe my ears! I came up here with the best intentions in the world -- now I find I'm victimizing you!

FRANK. May I get a word in edgewise?

BERNIE. What the hell did I do? Bring you a basket of snakes?

GEORGIE. Noblesse oblige, Mr. Dodd. Stop whirling like a dervish.

FRANK. Nobody wants to get your goat, Mr. Dodd. I ... what I mean, Mr. Dodd, it's only a matter of not wanting to bite off more than I can chew ...

BERNIE. You have the offer. We're booked into Boston for two weeks, but the season's young -- we can stay out till you're letter-perfect.

FRANK. And ... would you do that?

BERNIE. Do it? I insist upon it! Do I look green? [Then, looking at Georgie] I take that back -- I am green! [Then, to Frank] Call me at the office by three o'clock. That means not later. [Bernie starts out, stops] You need a twenty-dollar bill? You need it ... [Puts bill on radio and goes. Silence. Frank does not move]

GEORGIE. Is that boy as talented as he throws himself around?

FRANK. Best average in both the leagues ...

GEORGIE. He's wilful, but he meant what he said.

FRANK. I can't do it, can I?

GEORGIE. Doesn't it seem strange for you to ask me that?

FRANK. You're my wife ...

GEORGIE. Frank, we've been through all this before, many time before ... I'm tired, Frank.

FRANK. [brooding, not looking at her] What happened? Where did I get so bolloxed up? I was the best young leading man in this business, not a slouch!

GEORGIE. Scripts didn't come ...

FRANK. I knew it then -- on the coast -- I lost my nerve! And then, when we lost the money, in '39, after those lousy Federal Theatre jobs --! This is the face that once turned down radio work. [Pacing] What ever the hell I did, I don't know what! [abruptly defiant] But I'm good! I'm still good, baby, because I see what they think is good! [He waits, but she is silent] Don't you think I'm good? I think I'm good!

GEORGIE. Then take the part. Make it your own responsibility, not mine ... take the part. [He looks at her, it is plain that the idea frightens him] Don't wiggle and caper, Frank. [suddenly] Can't you admit to yourself you're a failure? You'd die to save your face, not to fail in public -- but I'm your wife; you have no face. Try to be clear about this offer -- think.

FRANK. I didn't hear him say he'd star me.

GEORGIE. [with dry weariness] I have a message for you, Frank: take the part!

FRANK. Yes, but what will you do if I --?

GEORGIE. Leave me out. Take the part and do your level best.

FRANK. But what about that two weeks' clause? You yourself tried --

GEORGIE. All I tried was to get a better deal. But you won't get perfect terms.

FRANK. You certainly gave him a scrap ... Georgie, I'll tell you! That two weeks' clause, they can give me notice any time, but I can give them notice too!

GEORGIE. ???

FRANK. Don't you see? They can let me out, but I can walk out any time I want! If I feel I'm breaking my neck --

GEORGIE. You can quit?

FRANK. Yeah, that's sort of what I mean, yeah. [Bright, shrewd] You see? Get it?

GEORGIE. [dubious, waiting] Yes ...

FRANK. [cunningly grand] Why, with this two weeks' clause, I don't even have to come into New York, do I? [Georgie murmurs a "no" as Frank chortingly seats himself] That's the thing, that's it -- two can play the same game! [Delighted at this discovery, Georgie much less so, Frank abruptly snaps his fingers, lights up even more] Wait a minute! Quarter to seven this morning I had a dream! I laughed so hard it woke me up! That's a sign, Georgie, a hunch!

GEORGIE. A dream ...?

FRANK. A big sign -- now get this -- a big banner was stretched across the street: "Frank Elgin in --" ... I couldn't make out in what. Mayor La Guardia was in the dream -- lots of people laughing and feeling good. I'm going to take that part, Georgie! You don't have to tell me not to drink - haven't I been a good boy all summer? This morning I got up early -- that funny laughing dream. And I was thinking about our lives ...everything ... and now this chance! Don't you see that all those people in the dream, they wish me luck. I won't fail this time! Because that's what counts -- if the world is with you -- and your wife! [Looks at her, earnest, boyish and questioning, appealing for her support. Finally, she says with reluctance]

GEORGIE. I don't have any appointments ... all winter ...

FRANK. That's what counts! I can't fail this time -- I feel like Jack-A-Million! I'll let Dodd know -- I'll go up to the office in person. [taking twenty dollar bill] But my first stop is the barber shop -- I want the tonsorial works. Anything you want me to bring you back?

GEORGIE. No ....

FRANK. Catch that, dear! [He throws her an extravagant kiss, really excited, and she catches the gift with an open hand. Alone, thinking, we see how unhappy Georgie is. Then she remembers her suitcase; she takes it from under bed, opens it and unhappily looks down at its contents. Then, murmuring, "My God, my God, my God ...", she takes out dress and goes back to wardrobe to replace it on a hanger.]

CURTAIN

The Books: "My Cup Ranneth Over" (Robert Patrick)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

Next play in my little unalphabetized pile of Samuel French plays is My Cup Ranneth Over, by Robert Patrick

We used to have these one-act festivals in college - student-directed student-acted one-acts - and I swear, some of the best acting I have ever seen in my life came out of those one-acts - and it's weird - only 75 people saw these things, ever. But some of them were just unbelievable. My friends David and Brooke in Home Free. But that's just one example. We all just poured our hearts into our projects.

My Cup Ranneth Over was one of them - my friend Jackie (brown wool leg-wraps) and I were the stars - and Christian Gamella was the director. We rehearsed this thing as intensely as if it were a main-stage production. Christian was a wonderful director - He had a lot of ideas, he had a ton of enthusiasm, and we had so much fun working on this thing. Jackie played Paula - a wanna be writer whose goal in life is to get an article in Cosmo - Cosmopolitan is EVERYTHING to Paula. Paula is unhappy, on the VERGE of getting bitter (but not there yet) - and also (very important) kind of vulnerable. If Paula is played without the vulnerability - then she would just be a bitch on wheels, and that wouldn't be right. Jackie TOTALLY got that balance in her character. And I played her roommate Yucca - a musician (a chick with a guitar - along the lines of Joni Mitchell, or Tracy Chapman, or what have you). Yucca is the polar opposite of Paula - Yucca is laidback (but not lazy) - she sleeps until noon because she always had gigs the night before - and she and Paula are best friends. They support each other in their goals, they are there for each other. Until, randomly - Yucca gets a call that someone HUGE caught her show the night before - and suddenly people want to tour with her, the phone starts ringing off the hook - this magazine wants to interview her, that one ... she becomes an overnight success. Literally. This is the story of the play. And Paula, trying to field all of these phone calls - suddenly has to face up to the fact that Yucca's success bums her OUT because it makes her feel bad. She cannot deal with Yucca pushing ahead in the success factor.

Of course, it's a one-act - and it's a comedy - so everything works out in the end. But the main action of the play is what happens on the first morning of someone becoming an overnight success? What is that like?

Playing Yucca was one of the most satisfying things I've ever done - and on some level I have to say that I think that's the best acting I've ever done. I was completely free. I had no fear. I created somebody ELSE. Yucca was not me. But I felt totally unselfconscious being her. Etc. Etc.

Like I said: those student one-act festivals were pretty juicy. Great acting ... seen by almost nobody!

Here's an excerpt from the play - the scene that takes us to the final moment. Yucca finds herself famous - Paula tries to be a good sport about it - and they drink champagne in celebration. But Paula also has an article she's working on, and she's waiting for Cosmo to call her to let her know if they will take her piece or not - so there's THAT tension with the phone lines being hung up by incoming calls. Yucca keeps trying to bond with Paula, and let her know that their friendship won't change, etc. etc. - but she can never finish a sentence because the phone keeps ringing off the hook.

From My Cup Ranneth Over, by Robert Patrick

[The phone rings. Yucca answers gracefully, sipping champagne]

YUCCA. Hello?

PAULA. [wheeling and returning to her chair] Thank God!

YUCCA. Yes, this is she. You're very kind. You're very kind. Were you there? Your friends are very kind. You can get other opinions in the papers. All the papers. Daily Variety you read? Isn't that charming of them, and me a mere unknown. No, it's a sweat-stained T-shirt not a tea-stained sweatshirt! No, I don't have an agent. He just called me, though. Oh, you are, too? Are there two agents? That doens't really help me, I don't know any agent's names. I'm sure you are. I'm sure I do. I'm sure we could. You're very kind. You're very kind. You're very fast. Well, who is someone you represent then? [Awed] John Denver? You're very kidding. How do I know that? Look, could we possibly handle this this way? If you put me in touch with John Denver and he says you are you, and you are good, then I'll think about it, provided I think. I hope that's reasonable and I hope I can remember it. His number? John Denver's home phone number? Shoot. 303-236-8790? [Paula types each digit separately with one finger and hands it to Yucca] You're very kind. Thank you.

PAULA. You're very welcome.

YUCCA. Thank you, Paula. Goodbye. [Hangs up]

PAULA. I'm not going anywhere.

YUCCA. [dreamily dialing] Daily Variety said I had American eyes: red, white, and blue. [Door buzzer buzzes] Hello. I haven't finished dialing.

PAULA. It's the door, Yucca. [Presses talk switch] Hello?

MAILMAN. [over speaker] It's the mailman with some more of them heavy envelopes from Cosmopolitan.

PAULA. I'll be right down.

MAILMAN. Hurry it up lady. These streets aren't safe.

PAULA. Right down! [Goes to desk, turns on tape recorder] Yucca?

YUCCA. Hello. Please hold. What, Paula darling?

PAULA. My white knight is below with my daily fix of rejection slips. Whoever you talk to, remember you gave an exclusive on your clothes philosophy to Earl Wilson. [Pause] You've got John Denver on hold. [She exits]

YUCCA. Right. Hello? Oh, God, I'm sorry. Listen, you don't know me, but for various reasons I call myself Yucca Concklin, and -- you do? You did? That's very kind, especially from you, especially if you are -- you are? Well, why I called is this man said -- he represented himself as representing you and -- funny, that's the name he gave, isn't that a coincidence? And anyway he said he wanted you to be my agent. His. Mine. Him to be mine. Yes. You think I should? Well, I never doubted it, only my senses. Probably I will. House seats? I don't know. No, I know what house seats are, I just don't know if I get any. The subject never came up before. If you say so. You're very kind. You're very kind. [Awed] You would? Why sure. Uh -- look. I don't want to seem paranoid, but I've always had the intense conviction that worldwide conspiracies were working against my happiness, so could you please just say "Country Road"? [Pause] You're very John Denver. [Paula enters in great disarray with two or three big envelopes. Yucca hangs up] John Denver wants me to go on the road.

PAULA. I couldn't have put it better myself.

YUCCA. And I'm free after the show tonight.

PAULA. As far as I'm concerned. [Paula hands her the cassette out of the recorder]

YUCCA. Paula. How sweet. You recorded my whole first conversation with John Denver.

PAULA. I thought you might like to frame it in your new house.

YUCCA. New house?

PAULA. Or perhaps you'll move to a hotel. Where you can call room service. When you want more room.

YUCCA. [sees envelopes] Are those your rejections?

PAULA. All I've thought up so far.

YUCCA. Papers! I've got to go out and get the papers.

PAULA. You can't.

YUCCA. Sure. I'll put on shoes. And an official Yucca Concklin white T-shirt. [Phone rings]

PAULA. Yucca, you can't go out on the street.

YUCCA. Sure, I can. I've bled on those streets.

PAULA. Not yet you haven't. Listen. [She drags Yucca to door and presses listen button]

YUCCA. That isn't the door ringing, it's the phone.

PAULA. Yucca, listen.

VOICES. Yucca. Yucca. This is her house. This ain't her house. Yes it is. Whose house? Yucca Concklin. The big new singer. The one that wears the T shirts. Yeah, this is her house.

YUCCA. They're talking about me.

PAULA. They're talking about you.

YUCCA. They're bandying my name about on the streets.

VOICES. She lives here? Yucca Concklin? Yeah, this is her house. This is where she lives. The one that they were talking about on TV!

YUCCA. [into squawk-box] TV! What channel?

PAULA. [dragging her away] Yucca!

VOICES. This is it. Three thirty three. Just like in the song. See there's her name. Hey, Yucca!

YUCCA. Hey, yourselves!

VOICES. That's her mailbox. There's her name. Hey, let's take her mailbox! [Hideous wrenching sound, then silence. Phone is still ringing]

PAULA. Yucca, what song are they talking about?

YUCCA. It must be the new one I put into the act last night.

PAULA. What's it called?

YUCCA. "I'm just a street punk, just like you, from three thirty-three First Avenue." I'll take it out of the act.

PAULA. No, just take the act out!

YUCCA. What are you trying to say?

PAULA. I'm trying to say I want you to move!

YUCCA. Because you think I'm going commercial.

PAULA. Because I know I'm going crackers. This is impossible.

YUCCA. But it can't last. [answers phone] Hello? People Magazine? Can you call back in five minutes? [Aghast] You can? [Hangs up] Okay, it can last. [Phone rings immediately]

PAULA. But I can't. I want you to find another place.

YUCCA. It may not be real. [answers] Hello? Playboy? [Pause] Really? Can you call back in ten minutes? Thank you. [Hangs up] They want to photograph me without my T-shirt. It's real. [Phone rings at once]

PAULA. It's real, Yucca. You have made the jump. Turned the corner. Gone over the rainbow. Through the looking-glass. Round the bend. Taken the veil. Hit the parade. Made the grade. Started school. Crossed the street by yourself. You're late weather and news.

YUCCA. [runs to hall door] No, I haven't. Look, it's over already. [Presses listen button] See, they've stopped talking about me.

PAULA. No, they stole the squawk-box for a souvenir.

YUCCA. But I don't want to move. Where would I move?

PAULA. Maybe John Denver needs a roommate.

YUCCA. We've always stuck together.

PAULA. Stick it yourself, Yucca.

YUCCA. But I'm a success now. I'm surrounded by false friends.

PAULA. You won't know they're false after a while, yucca, they'll be the only friends you've got.

YUCCA. Maybe I'm not a success. You can never be sure.

PAULA. [with a harsh laugh] Answer the phone.

YUCCA. [does] Hello? [curt] Time Magazine? Call back in fifteen minutes. [Hangs up. Phone rings] I can be sure.

PAULA. You can be sure.

YUCCA. All right, I can be sure. But I owe it all to you.

PAULA. And three months back rent.

YUCCA. Oh, I know, Paula, but I can pay it all back now. I can help you now. Look what all I've got out of our relationship. What do you want out of our relationship?

PAULA. Out of our relationship.

YUCCA. You can't mean that. I owe so much to you. Every time I'd start to give up, I'd think of you over there, clawing away at that machine, writing articles no one wants, collecting rejection slips, people returning your stuff without buying it, without reading it, editors begging you not to waste your time, and no matter how many of thtem told you to go into social work or home economics, you kept on! Without hope or promise, all your friends laughing behind your back, editors taking sexual advantage of you, love and life and youth passing you by, and I'd say, Golly. If she can take all of that and still believe in herself, who am I to flag. That's what I owe you!

PAULA. Well, and here it comes back with interest. That's beautiful. That's some of your best work! Now would you like to hear the flip side? You've changed, Yucca, you've changed, success has changed you!

YUCCA. Me? [Answers phone] Newsweek? Later! [Hangs up] Me? [Phone rings]

PAULA. Anybody else in this house had success? You've changed overnight. You all of a sudden expect me to get the phone for you, pour your champagne, give your interviews, sacrifice my writing time!

YUCCA. I haven't changed.

PAULA. You have. You used to do everything for me and now you won't even move.

YUCCA. I haven't changed, I haven't had time.

PAULA. And on top of everything else, you insult my work!

YUCCA. I didn't insult it, I just said nobody wants it!

PAULA. Is that your concept of a rave?

YUCCA. I was just being honest.

PAULA. Well, that's a change.

YUCCA. I'm always honest. You just never listen.

PAULA. I listen to you practicing on your twelve-string torture instrument night and day for five years grinding out dime-a-dozen despair. [Imitates Yucca singing] "Oh, you may be goin' to Buffalo, but you ain't goin' to Buffalo me!"

YUCCA. Well, I listened to you on your [quick glance at typewriter] forty-two key racket-package and I listened to all those fumble-fingered rewrites of Sexual Politics and I never said anything.

PAULA. You never say anything! What's too silly to be said can be sung! [Phone is still ringing]

YUCCA. I thought you liked my music.

PAULA. I do. I love your stupid music, and now you've got me insulting it. You've changed, Yucca, you've changed!

YUCCA. I've changed? Honestly, Paula. You do a few simple things for me at a time of extreme crisis, things you never do for me, by the way, and which most friends would do for each other without even asking, you scream at me because I've had success, which you all of a sudden act like you never thought I'd have, and after we've struggled and starved together ever since matriculation, you try to throw me out on the streets!

PAULA. [running to hall door] You've bled on 'em, now live on 'em. [Into squawk-box] Look out, world, here comes Yucca Concklin! [Phone is still ringing]

YUCCA. I haven't changed. You've changed.

PAULA. You just hung up on Playboy, People, Time and Newsweek. You never did that before.

YUCCA. I only did it so I could beg you not to throw me out.

PAULA. Don't do me any favors.

YUCCA. Watch out or I won't!

PAULA. Just answer the phone!

YUCCA. It's afternoon now, it's your turn. If you don't want things to have changed, you answer it!

PAULA. All right. I'll keep up the empty shallow, hollow ... [Answers phone] Hello? [She listens, pales] --- Yucca, it's for you.

YUCCA. Paula, I'm obviously in hysterics. Can you take it?

PAULA. I can take a lot, but not this.

YUCCA. Oh God, who is it, National Geographic?

PAULA. It's Cosmo-Fucking-politan.

YUCCA. It can't be! I guess it can. What does Cosmopolitan want with me?

PAULA. Margaux Hemingway broke an eyebrow.

YUCCA. [takes phone] Look, can you hold? Oh, my God. [Grabs Paula by the arm]

PAULA. What is it? What did they say?

YUCCA. They said for me they'd hold anything. I'm sorry, Paula.

PAULA. I'm thrilled for you, Yucca. I'm tickled, I'm delighted, but will you please let go of my arm, give Cosmopolitan your fiftieth exclusive interview of the day, then bundle up your banjo picks and move!

YUCCA. I don't wanna move. I'll never be here anyway. I'll be on the road with John Denver.

PAULA. Oh, rub it in!

YUCCA. Paula, you're jealous!

PAULA. Gee, that would explain so many things.

YUCCA. You're jealous of me!

PAULA. I'm ecstatic for you, Yucca, but my cup ranneth over about two minutes ago!

YUCCA. I don't want you to be jealous.

PAULA. Then let go of my wrist so I can cut it. That's the alternative.

YUCCA. We've always had this very special feeling of trust between us, respect for one another's talents and abilities. We've always believed in each other, haven't we? Haven't we? We haven't? All right, I never believed in myself but I always knew you did and that's what pulled me through. Has that feeling just gone?

PAULA. Yucca, this is embarrassing.

YUCCA. But has it?

PAULA. It's just too humiliating to live together, Yucca. I'm jealous -- and for Christ's sake, of you!

YUCCA. What do you mean, of you? What's wrong with you? Me, I mean? What's not to be jealous of?

PAULA. I don't want to fight, Yucca.

YUCCA. Okay, but has the feeling gone?

PAULA. Only from my left hand! [Yucca releases her] Thank you, Yucca. I'm very glad for you.

YUCCA. You're being unreasonable.

PAULA. It isn't unreasonable to be glad for a friend.

YUCCA. All right.

PAULA. I just cannot spend the rest of my life thinking up clever quotes for your interviews, Cora Sue Concklin.

YUCCA. You what?

PAULA. I said ...

YUCCA. I heard you. [Into phone with great and growing style] Hey, Cosmo? Shoot. I want to be a star because I'm lazy, and stars only come out at night. I thought Yucca was my full name because my folks always looked at me and said, "Yuck". I wear T-shirts because I've always liked getting into men's underwear. Overnight success? I just hope it's not over tonight. My ambition? I want to go gold before I go grey. You want to print a cover story on me? Won't that hurt? But, seriously, I'd love it ... on one condition. It must be written by my roommate, Paula Tissot. She writes. I believe you are familiar with her work. That's the one. Now, come on, be fair -- give the kid a chance. She knows me better than anyone. In fact, she used to be my best friend. Here -- I'll give her to you ... [She extends the phone to Paula, who sits looking at it.]

CURTAIN

The Books: "Andromache" (Jean Racine)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

Next play in my little unalphabetized pile of Samuel French plays is Andromache, by Jean Racine, translated by Richard Wilbur

Francois Mauriac wrote, in regards to translating Racine into English: "Of all our authors, Racine is one of the least accessible to people of other countries." Translating French (especially poetry) into English is really difficult - I've read bad translations of Moliere and you think: What the hell is the big deal about this playwright? The rhymes clunk, the rhythm is predictable ... I don't get it. When you read it in French, it's a whole other ballgame. Moliere is stupendous in his own language.

The translation I have of Racine's Andromache is done by poet Richard Wilbur and for some reason I really loved it in college - but now, reading it again, I think the same thing I think when I read a bad translation of Moliere ... what on earth is the big deal here? The rhymes come off sounding like nursery-school rhymes.

I should probably get another translation - I know Robert Lowell did one. There are many translations. Tackling Racine and trying to make him LIVE in English is one of those rites of passage that many poets go through. Or maybe I should just give it a shot and try reading it in French even though I am so rusty that that might be a terrible idea.

But oh well. I have Richard Wilbur's and I absolutely loved it in college. I worked on a scene from it - and that's the scene I'll excerpt. It's a scene between Andromache - Hector's widow, prisoner of Pyrrhus - and her confidante Cephisa. I can't remember the plot-line exactly, and what just happened before - but it will all become clear within moments of this scene. And Andromache has a terrific monologue in this scene - it's a stand-alone kind of monologue and would make a fantastic audition piece for an actress. (It's the monologue that starts with "He may forget those deeds, but I cannot.")

From Andromache, by Jean Racine, translated by Richard Wilbur

CEPHISA.
I told you that, despite the Greeks, you'd be
Once more the mistress of your destiny.

ANDROMACHE.
Alas! You see where your advice has led!
Now, through my fault, my child's blood shall be shed.

CEPHISA.
Madam, your faithlessness persists too long:
Excess of any virtue can beb wrong.
Hector himself would urge you to comply.

ANDROMACHE.
And marry Pyrrhus in his place? Not I!

CEPHISA.
Not for your son, whose life's in jeopardy?
D'you think that Hector's shade would blush to see
You wed a conquering king who will restore
The sceptered rank which once your family bore,
Who'll tread your Grecian foes into the mire.
Forget that fierce Achilles was his sire,
Disown his deeds, and bid them be forgot?

ANDROMACHE.
He may forget those deeds, but I cannot.
Hector's dishonored corpse -- how not recall
Who dragged it round and round our city wall?
How not remember Priam fallen dead
Across his altar, staining it with red?
Think, think, Cephisa, of that night which for
A slaughtered nation ended nevermore;
Imagine Pyrrhus, his eyes alight with flame
As though our burning palaces he came,
Over my brothers' bodies picked his way
And, drenched with blood, still urged his men to slay;
Hear too the victors' shouts, their victims' cries
Cut short by flame or sword; and let your eyes
Find in that hell, half-crazed Andromache:
That was how Pyrrhus first appeared to me;
Such were the deeds for which Fame wreathed his brow;
Such is the man you'd have me marry now.
No, I'll not share his blood-guilt. Let him kill
Us, as his final victims, if that's his will.
I can't blot out such horrors and be his wife.

CEPHISA.
Come then, and see your dear son lose his life.
They bide your answer ... Madam, what makes you start?

ANDROMACHE.
You've waked a memory that stops my heart.
Cephisa! Can I watch them kill my boy,
Dear Hector's image and my only joy?
His son, the pledge of our fidelity?
Ah, I recall how on the day when he
Strode forth to meet Achilles and to die,
He held his son, and kissed the babe goodbye:
"Dear wife," he said, wiping my tears away,
"I know not what my fate shall be today;
This son, this pledge of love, I leave behind me:
If I am lost to him, through you he'll find me.
Tell him how in our days of happiness
You loved his father; and love my son no less."
How can I see this precious life undone,
And all Troy's lineage perish with my son?
O barbarous king, why must he bear my guilt?
Because I hate you, must his blood be spilt?
Has he bewailed the kin you would not spare?
Taxed you with crimes of which he's unaware?
But oh, my son, you die unless the blade
He holds above your head is somehow stayed.
I could avert it; and can I see you slain?
No, you'll not die; I could not bear that pain.
Let's go find Pyrrhus. But no: Cephisa, pray
Go find him for me.

CEPHISA.
What would you have me say?

ANDROMACHE.
Tell him I love my son so much that I ...
D'you think he means it, that my son must die?
Could passion make a man so barbarous?

CEPHISA.
Madam, he'll soon come raging back to us.

ANDROMACHE.
Go then, and say --

CEPHISA.
Say what? That you'll wed the king?

ANDROMACHE.
Alas! Am I free to promise such a thing?
O ashes of my husband! O Father! O Troy!
Ah, but your life would cost me dear, my boy.
Come.

CEPHISA.
Where, my lady? What have you decided?

ANDROMACHE.
I'll kneel at Hector's tomb, and there be guided.

The Books: "Hello Out There" (William Saroyan)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

Next play in my little unalphabetized pile of Samuel French plays is Hello Out There, by William Saroyan

A simple and powerful one-act play by one of our most treasured American playwrights. I did this play in grad school and it was a total gift to work on it.

Here's the plot (this is the synopsis written by Saroyan at the start of the play): Hello Out There tells about the bad luck of an itinerant gambler who is arrested and jailed in a small Texas town, charged with rape. The charge is a lie, but the only one who hears his call for justice and understanding is a young girl who cooks for the jail. The gambler gives all his money to the girl before a mob breaks into the jail and the lying woman's husband shoots him.

It's a tragic play. But the beauty of it is the connection formed between these two lonely characters. There's a fire of urgency beneath them as well. The young man knows that a crowd of vigilantes will come and kill him in his cell - which has pretty much been left undefended. He needs to get out of that cell. This young girl is his only chance. You think the play is going to be one thing - about this wrongly accused man's fight for justice ... but it ends up being a love story. Or maybe more just a kindred spirit story. These two people, in the tiny prison, in the middle of the night, understand each other. They 'get' each other ... in a way that neither of them have ever been 'gotten' in their lives. It's gorgeous and very sad.

Here's the start of this play.

From Hello Out There, by William Saroyan

[There is a fellow in a small-town prison cell, tapping slowly on the floor with a spoon. After tapping half a minute as if he were trying to telegraph words, he gets up and begins walking around the cell. At last he stops, stands at the center of the cell, and doesn't move for a long time. He feels his head, as if it were wounded. Then he looks around. Then he calls out]

YOUNG MAN. Hello -- out there! [Pause] Hello -- out there! [Long pause] Hello -- out there!

[A girl's voice is heard]

THE VOICE. Hello.

YOUNG MAN. Is that you, Katey?

THE VOICE. No -- this here is Emily.

YOUNG MAN. Who?

THE VOICE. Emily.

YOUNG MAN. Emily who? I don't know anybody named Emily. Are you the girl I met at Sam's in Salinas about three years ago?

THE VOICE. No -- I'm the girl who cooks here. I'm the cook. I've never been to Salinas. I don't even know where it is.

YOUNG MAN. You say you cook here?

THE VOICE. Yes, I do.

YOUNG MAN. Well, why don't you cook something good?

THE VOICE. I just cook what they tell me to. [Pause] You lonesome?

YOUNG MAN. Lonesome as a coyote. Hear me hollering? Hello out there!

THE VOICE. Who you hollering to?

YOUNG MAN. Well -- nobody, I guess. I been trying to think of somebody to write a letter to, but I can't think of anybody.

THE VOICE. What about Katey?

YOUNG MAN. I don't know anybody named Katey.

THE VOICE. Then why did you say, Is that you, Katey?

YOUNG MAN. Katey's a good name. I always did like a name like Katey. I never knew anybody named Katey, though.

THE VOICE. I did.

YOUNG MAN. Yeah? What was she like? Big girl, or little one?

THE VOICE. Little.

YOUNG MAN. What sort of girl are you?

THE VOICE. Oh, I don't know.

YOUNG MAN. Didn't anybody ever tell you? Didn't anybody ever talk to you that way?

THE VOICE. What way?

YOUNG MAN. You know. Didn't they?

THE VOICE. No, they didn't.

YOUNG MAN. They should have. I can tell from your voice you're OK.

THE VOICE. Maybe I am and maybe I ain't.

YOUNG MAN. I never missed yet.

THE VOICE. Yeah, I know. That's why you're in jail.

YOUNG MAN. The whole thing was a mistake.

THE VOICE. They claim it was rape.

YOUNG MAN. No -- it wasn't.

THE VOICE. That's what they claim it was.

YOUNG MAN. They're a lot of fools.

THE VOICE. Well, you sure are in trouble. Are you scared?

YOUNG MAN. Scared to death. [Suddenly] Hello out there!

THE VOICE. What do you keep saying that for all the time?

YOUNG MAN. I'm lonesome. I'm as lonesome as a coyote. [A long one] Hello -- out there!

[The girl appears, over to one side. She is a plain girl in plain clothes]

THE GIRL. I'm kind of lonesome, too.

YOUNG MAN. [turning and looking at her] Hey -- No fooling? Are you lonesome, too?

THE GIRL. Yeah -- I'm almost as lonesome as a coyote myself.

YOUNG MAN. Who you lonesome for?

THE GIRL. I don't know.

YOUNG MAN. It's the same with me. The minute they put you in a place like thsi you remember all the girls you ever knew, and all the girls you didn't get to know, and it sure gets lonesome.

THE GIRL. I bet it does.

YOUNG MAN. Ah, it's awful. [Pause] You're a pretty girl, you know that?

THE GIRL. You're just talking.

YOUNG MAN. No, I'm not just talking -- you are pretty.

THE GIRL. I'm not -- and you know it.

YOUNG MAN. No -- you are. I knew Texas would bring me luck.

THE GIRL. Luck? You're in jail, aren't you? You've got a whole gang of people all worked up, haven't you?

YOUNG MAN. Ah, that's nothing. I'll get out of this.

THE GIRL. Maybe.

YOUNG MAN. No, I'll be all right -- now.

THE GIRL. What do you mean -- now?

YOUNG MAN. I mean after seeing you. I got something now. You know for a while there I didn't care one way or another. Tired. [Pause] But I'm not tired any more. Hello out there.

THE GIRL. Who you calling now?

YOUNG MAN. You.

THE GIRL. Why, I'm right here.

YOUNG MAN. I know. [softly] Hello out there!

THE GIRL. Hello.

YOUNG MAN. Ah, you're sweet. [Pause] I'm going to marry you. I'm going away with you. I'm going to take you to San Francisco. I'm going to win myself some real money, too. I'm going to study 'em real careful and pick myself some winners, and we're going to have a lot of money.

THE GIRL. Yeah?

YOUNG MAN. Yeah. Tell me your name.

THE GIRL. Emily Smith.

YOUNG MAN. Honest to God?

THE GIRL. Honest. That's my name -- Emily Smith.

YOUNG MAN. Ah, you're the sweetest girl in the whole world.

THE GIRL. Why?

YOUNG MAN. I don't know why, but you are, that's all. Where were you born?

THE GIRL. Matador, Texas.

YOUNG MAN. Where's that?

THE GIRL. Right here.

YOUNG MAN. Is this Matador, Texas?

THE GIRL. Yeah, it's Matador. They brought you here from Wheeling.

YOUNG MAN. Is that where I was -- Wheeling?

THE GIRL. Didn't you even know what town you were in?

YOUNG MAN. All towns are alike. It doesn't make any difference. How far away is Wheeling?

THE GIRL. Sixteen or seventeen miles. Didn't you know they moved you?

YOUNG MAN. How could I know when I was out -- cold? Somebody hit me over the head with a lead pipe or something. What'd he hit me for?

THE GIRL. Rape -- that's what they said.

YOUNG MAN. Ah, that's a lie. [amazed, almost to himself] She wanted me to give her money.

THE GIRL. Money?

YOUNG MAN. Yeah. If I'd have known she was a woman like that, I'd have gone on down the street and stretched out in a park somewhere and gone to sleep.

THE GIRL. Is that what she wanted -- money?

YOUNG MAN. Yeah. A fellow like me traveling all over the country, trying to break his bad luck, going from one poor little town to another, trying to find somebody good somewhere, and she asks for money. I thought she was lonesome. She said she was.

THE GIRL. Maybe she was.

YOUNG MAN. She was something.

THE GIRL. I guess I'd never see you, if it didn't happen, though.

YOUNG MAN. Oh, I don't know -- maybe I'd just mosey along this way and see you in this town somewhere. I'd recognize you, too.

THE GIRL. Recognize me?

YOUNG MAN. Sure, I'd recognize you the minute I laid eyes on you.

THE GIRL. Well, who would I be?

YOUNG MAN. Mine, that's who.

THE GIRL. Honest?

YOUNG MAN. Honest to God.

THE GIRL. You just say that because you're in jail.

YOUNG MAN. No, I mean it. You just pack up and wait for me. We'll high-tail the hell out of here to San Francisco.

THE GIRL. You're just lonesome.

YOUNG MAN. I been lonesome all my life -- there's no cure for that -- but you and me -- we can have a lot of fun hanging around together. You'll bring me luck. I know you will.

THE GIRL. What are you looking for luck for all the time?

YOUNG MAN. I'm a gambler. I don't work. I've got to have luck or I'm no good. I haven't had any luck in years. Two whole years now -- one place to another. Bad luck all the time. That's why I got in trouble back there in Wheeling, too. That was no accident. That was my bad luck following me around. So here I am, with my head half busted. I guess it was her old man that did it.

THE GIRL. You mean her father?

YOUNG MAN. No, her husband. If I had an old lady like that, I'd throw her out.

THE GIRL. Do you think you'll have better luck if I go with you?

YOUNG MAN. Yes, of course. It's no good searching the streets for anything that might be there at the time. You got to have somebody who's right. Somebody who knows you, from way back. You got to have somebody who even knows you're wrong but likes you just the same. I know I'm wrong, but I can't help it. If you go along with me, I'll be the best man anybody ever saw. I won't be wrong any more. You know when you get enough money, you can't be wrong anymore -- you're right because the money says so. I'll have a lot of money and you'll be just about the prettiest girl in the whole world. I'll be proud walking around San Francisco with you on my arm and people turning to look at us.

THE GIRL. Do you think they will?

YOUNG MAN. Sure they will. When I get back in some decent clothes, and you're on my arm -- well, Katey, they'll turn and look, and they'll see something, too.

THE GIRL. Katey?

YOUNG MAN. Yeah -- that's your name from now on. You're the girst girl I ever called Katey. I've been saving it for you. OK?

THE GIRL. OK.

YOUNG MAN. How long have I been here?

THE GIRL. Since last night. You didn't wake up until late this morning, though.

YOUNG MAN. What time is it now? About nine?

THE GIRL. About ten.

YOUNG MAN. Have you got the key to this lousy cell?

THE GIRL. No. They don't let me fool with any keys.

YOUNG MAN. Well, can you get it?

THE GIRL. No.

YOUNG MAN. Can you try?

THE GIRL. They wouldn't let me get near any keys. I cook for this jail when they've got somebody in it. I clean up, and things like that.

YOUNG MAN. Well, I want to get out of here. Don't you know the guy who runs this joint?

THE GIRL. I know him, but he wouldn't let you out. They were talking of taking you to another jail in another town.

YOUNG MAN. Yeah? Why?

THE GIRL. Because they're afraid.

YOUNG MAN. What are they afraid of?

THE GIRL. They're afraid those people from Wheeling will come over in the middle of the night and break in.

YOUNG MAN. Yeah? What do they want to do that for?

THE GIRL. Don't you know what they want to do it for?

YOUNG MAN. Yeah, I know all right.

THE GIRL. Are you scared?

YOUNG MAN. Sure I'm scared. Nothing scares a man more than ignorance. You can argue with people who ain't fools, but you can't argue with fools -- they just go to work and do what they're set on doing. Get me out of here.

THE GIRL. How?

YOUNG MAN. Well, go get the guy with the key, and let me talk to him.

THE GIRL. He's gone home. Everybody's gone home.

YOUNG MAN. You mean I'm in this little jail all alone?

THE GIRL. Well -- yeah -- except me.

YOUNG MAN. Well, what's the big idea -- doesn't anybody stay here all the time?

THE GIRL. No, they go home every night. I clean up and then I go, too. I hung around tonight.

YOUNG MAN. What made you do that?

THE GIRL. I wanted to talk to you.

YOUNG MAN. What did you want to talk about?

THE GIRL. Oh, I don't know. I took care of you last night. You were talking in your sleep. You liked me, too. I didn't think you'd like me when you woke up, though.

YOUNG MAN. Yeah? Why not?

THE GIRL. I don't know.

YOUNG MAN. Yeah? Well, you're wonderful, see?

THE GIRL. Nobody ever talked to me that way. All the fellows in town -- they -- [Pause]

YOUNG MAN. What about 'em? [Pause] Well, what about 'em? Come on -- tell me.

THE GIRL. They laugh at me.

YOUNG MAN. Laugh at you? What do they know about anything? You go get your things and come back here. I'll take you to San Francisco. How old are you?

THE GIRL. Oh, I'm of age.

YOUNG MAN. How old are you? -- Don't lie to me! Sixteen?

THE GIRL. I'm seventeen.

YOUNG MAN. Well, bring your father and mother. We'll get married before we go.

THE GIRL. They wouldn't let me go.

YOUNG MAN. Why not?

THE GIRL. I don't know, but they wouldn't. I know they wouldn't.

YOUNG MAN. You go tell your father not to be a fool, see? What is he, a farmer?

THE GIRL. No -- nothing. He gets a little relief from the government because he's supposed to be hurt or something -- his side hurts, he says. I don't know what it is.

YOUNG MAN. Ah, he's a liar. Well, I'm taking you with me, see?

THE GIRL. He takes the money I earn, too.

YOUNG MAN. He's got no right to do that.

THE GIRL. I know, but he does it.

YOUNG MAN. [almost to himself] You shouldn't have been born in this town anyway, and you shouldn't have had a man like that for a father, either.

THE GIRL. Sometimes I feel sorry for him.

YOUNG MAN. Never mind feeling sorry for him. [Pointing a finger] I'm going to talk to your father some day. I've got a few things to tell him.

THE GIRL. I know you have.

YOUNG MAN. [suddenly] See if you can get that fellow with the keys to come down and let me out.

THE GIRL. Oh, I couldn't.

YOUNG MAN. Why not?

THE GIRL. I'm nobody here -- why, all they give me is fifty cents every day I work here -- sometimes twelve hours. I'm nobody here.

YOUNG MAN. Get me out of here, Katey. I'm scared.

THE GIRL. I don't know what to do. Maybe I could break the door down.

YOUNG MAN. No, you couldn't do that. Is there a hammer there or anything?

THE GIRL. Only a broom. Maybe they've locked the broom up, too.

YOUNG MAN. Go and see if you can find anything.

THE GIRL. All right. [She goes. She returns] There isn't a thing out there. They've locked everything up for the night.

YOUNG MAN. Any cigarettes?

THE GIRL. Everything's locked up -- all the drawers of the desk -- all the closet doors -- everything.

YOUNG MAN. I ought to have a cigarette.

THE GIRL. I could get you a package, maybe, somewhere. I guess the drug store's open. It's about a mile.

YOUNG MAN. A mile? I don't want to be alone that long.

THE GIRL. I could run all the way, and all the way back.

YOUNG MAN. You're the sweetest girl that ever lived.

THE GIRL. What kind do you want?

YOUNG MAN. Oh, any kind -- Chesterfields or Camels or Lucky Strikes -- any kind at all.

THE GIRL. I'll go get a package. [She turns to go]

YOUNG MAN. What about the money?

THE GIRL. I've got some money. I've got a quarter I been saving. I'll run all the way. [She is about to go]

YOUNG MAN. Come here.

THE GIRL. [going to him] What?

YOUNG MAN. Give me your hand. [He takes her hand and looks at it, smiling. He lifts it and kisses it] I'm scared to death.

THE GIRL. I am, too.

YOUNG MAN. I'm scared nobody will ever come out here to this God-forsaken broken-down town and find you. I'm scared you'll get used to it and not mind. I'm scared you'll never get to San Francisco and have 'em all turning to look at you. Listen -- go get me a gun.

THE GIRL. I could get my father's gun. I know where he hides it.

YOUNG MAN. Go get it. Never mind the cigarettes. Run all the way.

[The girl turns and runs. The Young Man stands at the center of the cell for a long time. The girl comes running back in. Almost crying]

THE GIRL. I'm afraid. I'm afraid I won't see you again. If I come back and you're not here, I -- It's so lonely in this town. I'll stay here. I won't let them take you away.

YOUNG MAN. Listen, Katey. Do what I tell you. Go get that gun and come back. Maybe they won't come tonight. Maybe they won't come at all. I'll hide the gun and when they let me out you can take it back and put it where you found it. And then we'll go away. Now, hurry --

THE GIRL. All right. [Pause] I want to tell you something.

YOUNG MAN. OK.

THE GIRL. [very softly] If you're not here when I come back, well, I'll have the gun and I'll know what to do with it.

YOUNG MAN. You know how to handle a gun?

THE GIRL. I know how.

YOUNG MAN. Don't be a fool. [Takes off his shoe and brings out some currency] Don't be a fool, see? Here's some money. Eighty dollars. Take it and go to San Francisco. Look around and find somebody. Find somebody alive and halfway human, see? Promise me -- if I'm not here when you come back, just throw the gun away and go to San Francisco. Look around and find somebody.

THE GIRL. I don't want to find anybody.

YOUNG MAN. [swiftly, desperately] Now, do what I tell you. I'll meet you in San Francisco. I've got a couple of dollars in my other shoe. I'll see you in San Francisco.

THE GIRL. [with wonder] San Francisco?

YOUNG MAN. That's right -- San Francisco. That's where you and me belong.

THE GIRL. I've always wanted to go to some place like San Francisco -- but how could I go alone?

YOUNG MAN. Well, ytou're not alone any more, see?

THE GIRL. Tell me a little what it's like.

YOUNG MAN. [very swiftly, almost impatiently at first, but gradually slower and with remembrance, smiling and the girl moving closer to him as he speaks] Well, it's on the Pacific to begin with -- ocean all around. Cool fog and sea gulls. Ships from all over the world. It's got seven hills. The little streets go up and down, around and all over. Every night the fog-horns bawl. But they won't be bawling for you and me.

THE GIRL. Are people different in San Francisco?

YOUNG MAN. People are the same everywhere. They're different only when they love somebody. That's the only thing that makes 'em different. More people in San Francisco love somebody, that's all.

THE GIRL. Nobody anywhere loves anybody as much as I love you.

YOUNG MAN. [whispering] Hearing you say that, a man could die and still be ahead of the game. Now, hurry. And don't forget, if I'm not here when you come back, I'll meet you in San Francisco. [The girl stands a moment looking at him, then backs away, turns and runs. The Young Man stares after her, troubled and smiling. He sits down suddenly and buries his head in his hands. From the distance the sound of several automobiles approaching is heard.]

The Books: "Sexaholics" (Murray Schisgal)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

Next play in my little unalphabetized pile of Samuel French plays is Sexaholics, by Murray Schisgal

A very funny and also frightening play - about two people who are sex addicts. When we first meet them, they are having a mad sexual encounter, and are the kinds of people who are instantly emotionally intimate. We think it's great ... but slowly, as we watch the first scene unfold, we realize how messed up it all is. They are both married to other people ... and they are risking everything to have these one-night stands. It's a compulsion - they can't stop themselves. She (Julie) starts to really feel bad about it during the first scene ... and she starts to talk about wanting to go to "a meeting" where other people who can't stop themselves from giving in to the sex drive meet and talk and 12-step to Health. He (Tony) is totally offended by the suggestion that he might need help. I'm making this sound rather dreary and actually, it's a very funny play.

They both get into recovery - and the next time we meet them is a couple years later - when they have gotten the sex drive under control, they are "happily" married to their respective spouses, and all is well. But of course all is NOT well. The play is a kind of lampoon on the self-help culture in general.

Here's a very funny excerpt from the first scene. The two of them have just met. They just had mind-blowing sex. They come out of the bedroom and say, "So what's your name again?" They start to talk. It's obvious that these people are emotional vacuums. They have completely glommed onto one another because that's what addicts do. In this section of the first scene, they start to confess some of their past sins to each other. As you'll see, it is a mix of amusing and disturbing. Schisgal's a master at that.

From Sexaholics, by Murray Schisgal

TONY. I once had sex with two nurses. In the operating room of a city hospital.

JULIET. I once had sex with two bus drivers. On a bus traveling over eighty miles an hour.

TONY. I once had sex with a stewardess on a DC-10 going to Frankfurt, Germany.

JULIET. I once had sex with a scuba-diver, under water in Montego Bay, Jamaica.

TONY. How old was the oldest man you ever slept with?

JULIET. Arnie Schneider. Sixty-eight. You?

TONY. Emily Rhinebeck. Sixty-one. The youngest was sixteen.

JULIET. Fourteen for me.

TONY. Did you ever sleep with a black man?

JULIET. Of course. Did you ever sleep with a yellow woman?

TONY. In San Francisco. Did you ever sleep with a midget?

JULIET. I almost married a midget.

TONY. YOu're kidding.

JULIET. No. I was only eighteen when he proposed. I didn't wanna tie myself down.

TONY. I don't blame you.

JULIET. How much did the heaviest person you ever slept with weigh?

TONY. Two hundred and thirty-seven pounds.

JULIET. [skeptically] Tony ...

TONY. I'm telling you the truth! I met her in Miami, when I was nineteen.

JULIET. How did you know she weighed exactly two hundred and thirty-seven pounds?

TONY. Because I saw her weigh herself. In a drugstore. She said she wouldn't go to bed with me if she weighed over two hundred and forty pounds.

JULIET. Why not?

TONY. Because she was on a diet, that's why not! She said the only way she could keep her weight down was by not having sex every time she weighed over two hundred and forty pounds. Lucky for me she was three pounds under the limit.

JULIET. [hands him second martini] Listen to this. I once had an affair with a married man who decided he was getting too fat. He thought if he lost weight his sex life would improve. So he started a diet under a doctor's supervision. He ate nothing but steaks, skirt steaks, sirloin steaks, any kind of steak. And he went from two hundred and sixteen pounds to one hundred and fifty pounds in less than six months.

TONY. Did his sex life improve?

JULIET. Now that's the strangest thing. The more weight he lost and the more steaks he ate, the less interested he was in sex. He went from having sex three times a week, to one time a week, to one time a month until eventually he became completely impotent.

TONY. Did he go off his diet?

JULIET. No, he moved to California.

The Books: "Anne of Green Gables" (adapted by Donald Harron)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

Next play in my little unalphabetized pile of Samuel French plays is Anne of Green Gables: A Musical, lyrics and music by Donald Harron and Norman Campbell - adapted by Donald Harron

Well. I played Anne Shirley in a college production of this musical. I don't quite know what to say about it and I haven't written much about it - at least not directly. I've written about it indirectly - because of the boyfriend I had at the time - who played Gilbert Blythe. (Here's one of those posts.) We were co-stars. We started going out during the rehearsal process. And we proceeded to break up and get back together again and break up and get back together again throughout the entire run of the show. We were SO tiresome. But the fact of playing Anne of feckin' Green Gables - it was an absolute dream come true. I can't even describe it. It's rare that a dream that runs THAT deep can ever come true, but this one did. My experience of being that girl made such a deep impact on me - it changed me forever. It also was one of the most challenging things I had ever done. I'm a singer - but this role was way more difficult than anything I had ever done - being in the chorus is worlds away from being the lead - and having to carry the show - It was a daunting prospect. I lost 25 pounds. I have never been so skinny in my life. I weighed 100 pounds. I had amazing costumes. I had to go from the age of 11 to the age of 17 during the course of the show. I did this with costume changes, etc., but I had to ACT that change as well. I had to go from little girl to young woman. I had one quick change which had to occur in 20 seconds. I stood backstage, stock still, arms stuck straight out - and a crew of costume people basically undressed me and dressed me again - just in time for me to race back onstage in time for my next line. I wasn't allowed to "help" - no. It was quicker to have the team do it. It was amazing. Teamwork. Collaboration. I had three wigs (one that had to be green, for the infamous moment when Anne accidentally dyes her red hair green) ... it was a huge event. I felt famous. For a good month, I felt as famous as I had ever felt. I was famous. In Rhode Island, I was famous. The show became a finalist in the ACTF - a big deal in college theatre - THE big deal in college theatre - and we traveled the show to New Hampshire to the finalists. On a stage bigger than any stage I have been on since. Amazing experience. One for the books. To quote Anne Shirley herself, it was an "epoch in my life". A high-water mark. A true triumph. And well-deserved. I worked my ASS off.

The production was spectacular.

Here's the scene when Matthew first brings Anne home from the train station. Marilla and Matthew Cuthbert, farmers, brother and sister, had sent away for an orphan boy to help on the farm. But there was a mix-up and the orphanage sent a girl. Matthew, who is shy, was unable to tell the ecstatic Anne that she needed to be sent back ... they have a long drive home to the farm, and Anne, a chatty little girl who has had a terrible loveless life, raves about her happiness, and how excited she is. Matthew walks into the house with Anne - and Marilla - a stern spinster - immediately says: "Where is the BOY?" All hell breaks loose. Anne is devastated. Anne is a melodramatic fantasist - she speaks in flowery language - she "acts" out her life ... and yet, and yet ... she is always completely real. She is precocious - but she is not obnoxious. She must be, at all times, completely and utterly sincere. Mark Twain sent a note through his secretary to LM Montgomery after the publication of Anne of Green Gables - and here is what it said:

Mr. Clemens directs me to thank you for your charming book and says I may quote to you from his letter to Francis Wilson about it: "In Anne of Green Gables, you will find the dearest and most moving and delightful child since the immortal Alice."

It's wild - I'm looking at my script right now - filled with my stage directions and emotional notes ("Always retreat from pain. Retreat from any painful situation") scribbled in the margins. I was 19 years old. I feel very odd right now. Kind of melancholy. There are ghosts in this script.

From Anne of Green Gables: A Musical, lyrics and music by Donald Harron and Norman Campbell - adapted by Donald Harron

[Enter Matthew and Anne. Matthew hesitates, takes a deep breath]

MATTHEW. You come right on in.

MARILLA. [upstairs] Matthew?

MATTHEW. Yes, Marilla.

[Marilla comes downstairs]

MARILLA. Why, Matthew Cuthbert!

MATTHEW. Yes.

MARILLA. Who's that?

MATTHEW. Eh?

MARILLA. Where's the boy?

MATTHEW. Oh well ... well now, there wasn't any boy. There was only ... her.

MARILLA. There must have been a boy. We sent word to Mrs. Spencer to bring us a boy.

MATTHEW. Well, she didn't. She brought her.

MARILLA. This is a pretty piece of business!

ANNE. [slamming down the suitcase] You don't want me! You don't want me because I'm not a boy! Oh, I might have known it! [Sits in a slump at the table]

MATTHEW. I got to water the mare. [Exits]

MARILLA. There, there, child, there's no need to cry so!

ANNE. There is need! This is the most tragic thing that has ever happened to me!

MARILLA. Well, we're not going to throw you out of doors, tonight at any rate. Now what's your name?

ANNE. Would you please call me Cordelia?

MARILLA. Call you Cordelia? Is that your name?

ANNE. Well, no, it's not exactly my name ... actually it's Anne. Anne Shirley, but whenver I'm in dire anguish, I've always imagined that my name is Cordelia. At least I always have of late years.

MARILLA. Fiddlesticks! If your name is Anne, that's what you should be called. It's a good plain sensible name, you've no need to be ashamed of it.

ANNE. Well, if you call me Anne, would you please call me Anne spelled with an "e"?

MARILLA. What difference does it make how it's spelled?

ANNE. Oh, it looks so much nicer.

MARILLA. Very well, then, Anne with an "e", can you tell me how this mistake came to be made? We sent word to Mrs. Spencer to bring us a boy. Were there no boys at the orphanage?

ANNE. Oh yes, an abundance. But I distinctly heard Mrs. Spencer say that you wanted a girl, and the matron said she thought I'd do.

MARILLA. A girl would be of no use to us! We want a boy to help Matthew on the farm. Take your hat off over there. And help me with the table; we'll have supper.

ANNE. Oh, I couldn't eat. I'm in the depths of despair. Can you eat when you're in the depths of despair?

MARILLA. I don't know. I've never been there so I can't say.

MATTHEW. [entering] She's tired, Marilla. Best put her to bed.

MARILLA. Very well, child, bring your bag and come with me.

MATTHEW. Good night.

ANNE. How can you say it's a good night when you know it must be the very worst night I've ever had! My life is a perfect graveyard of broken hopes. [Follows Marilla upstairs]

MARILLA. What was that!

ANNE. That's a sentence I read in a book once and I say it to myself whenever I'm disappointed in anything.

MARILLA. You can sleep in here.

ANNE. [flops on the bed and stares out the window] .... OOOOOOH!

MARILLA. Mercy, child, what's the matter?

ANNE. A tree of your very own! Imagine!

MARILLA. It's a big tree and it blooms great, but the cherries don't amount to much. Small and wormy.

ANNE. Snow Queen.

MARILLA. What?

ANNE. I'll call the tree Snow Queen, because it reminds me of the blinding vision of the White Way of Delight.

MARILLA. You've got a tongue in your head, that's for certain. Now I want you to get undressed.

ANNE. I have my best underwear on. The matron said you never know when you might get cut up in a train wreck.

MARILLA. [looking in the suitcase] I suppose you have a nightgown?

ANNE. I have two.

MARILLA. They look kinda flimsy. You'd best wear both of them. After you're undressed I want you to say your prayers.

ANNE. Oh, I never say any prayers.

MARILLA. Don't you know who God is?

ANNE. The matron at the orphanage told me that God is the one who made my hair red and I've never cared about Him since.

MARILLA. I'm afraid you're a very wicked little girl to talk this way. This is a Christian house and while you're in it you'll say your prayers. And when you've finished, I want you to blow out the candle. No, on second thought I'd best wait here 'til you're done. You're liable to set the house on fire.

ANNE. You may take the candle. After I'm in bed I'll imagine out a nice prayer to say.

MARILLA. No, no, child. You must kneel by your bed to pray to your Maker.

ANNE. [kneels] I'm ready. What do I say?

MARILLA. Uh ... ah ... now I lay me down to sleep ... You'd best talk to the Lord in your own words, child.

ANNE. [Her voice getting deeper in tone] I'll do my best. "Gracious heavenly Father, infinite, eternal, and unchangeable ..."

MARILLA. Mercy on us, what was that?

ANNE. That's the way the minister who came to the orphanage used to do it.

MARILLA. Stop your chattering and get on with your prayers. And use your own words.

ANNE. My dear God ... Oh, Miss Cuthbert, even though I'm not going to stay here at Green Gables, I think I could make a much nicer prayer if I imagined that I am.

MARILLA. Never mind your imaginings. Just thank Him humbly for the blessings He has given.

ANNE. That's where I need my imagination!
Dear God,
Thank you for the White Way of Delight
and the Snow Queen.
I'm really extremely grateful for them.
And that's all the blessings I can think of just now
to thank You for.
As for the things I want
it would take a great deal of time to mention them all,
so I'll only name the two most important:
Please let me stay at Green Gables,
And please let me good-looking when I grow up.

I remain,
Yours respectfully,
Anne Shirley.

There, did I do it alright? I could have made it much more flowery if I'd had time to think it over!

MARILLA. Go to sleep now.

ANNE. Oh, I just thought. I should have said "Amen" in place of "yours respectfully", the way the ministers do. Do you suppose it will make any difference?

MARILLA. I don't suppose so. Now go to sleep. [Goes downstairs. Matthew is waiting in the rocking chair] This is what comes of sending someone instead of going ourselves. One of us will have to drive over to Mrs. Spencer's tomorrow, that's for certain. The child will have to go back to the orphanage.

MATTHEW. Yes, I suppose so.

MARILLA. You suppose so? Don't you know it?

MATTHEW. Well, now, she's a nice little thing, Marilla. It seems kind of a pity to send her back when she's so set on staying.

MARILLA. Matthew Cuthbert! You don't mean to say you think we ought to keep her! What good would she be to us?

MATTHEW. We might be some good to her.

MARILLA. I never heard of such a thing. She'll have to be dispatched straightaway back to where she came from.

MATTHEW. Well now, I could maybe hire a boy to help me ... and she'd be company for you. She's a real interesting little thing.

MARILLA. I'm not suffering for company ... I believe that child has you bewitched! I can see plain as plain that you want to keep her.

MATTHEW. You should have heard her talk coming from the station.

MARILLA. Oh, she can talk. I saw that straightaway. It's nothing in her favor either. I don't like children who have so much to say. I don't want an orphan girl, and if I did she isn't the style I'd pick out. We're not going to keep her, so you might as well spare your breath to cool your porridge.

MATTHEW. Well now, it's just as you say, of course, Marilla.

MARILLA. Where are you gadding off to? You haven't touched a bite of your supper.

MATTHEW. I don't suppose I'm hungry either. [Picks up lantern and exits]

MARILLA. How could Mrs. Spencer have made such a mistake?

The Books: "Mary of Scotland" (Maxwell Anderson)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

Next play in my little unalphabetized pile of Samuel French plays is Mary of Scotland, by Maxwell Anderson

Awesome play. First produced by the Theatrical Guild in 1930 with Helen Hayes playing Mary of Scotland. It's in verse. It's kick-ass. I've worked on the last scene before in acting class - it's between Elizabeth and Mary - Mary's imprisoned, Elizabeth comes to visit her. Historically inaccurate but HUGELY theatrical, and devastating to both characters - it's a vicious scene, absolutely fantastic - two women circling one another, trying to win. You think Elizabeth has the upper hand, and then Mary seizes it ... you think Mary is winning, and then Elizabeth seizes the reins back ... it's great great stuff for actors. Of course, because of the title of the play - Mary ends up being the emotional victor in the play - even though Elizabeth wins in the eyes of the real world. I'll excerpt from that scene - it's the very end of the play.

From Mary of Scotland, by Maxwell Anderson

MARY. I have seen but a poor likeness, and yet I believe
This is Elizabeth.

ELIZABETH.
I am Elizabeth.
May we be alone together?

[At a sign from Mary the maids go out. Elizabeth enters and the doors swing to behind her]

MARY.
I had hoped to see you.
When last you wrote you were not sure.

ELIZABETH.
If I've come
So doubtfully and tardigrade, my dear,
And break thus in upon you, it's not for lack
Of thinking of you. Rather because I've thought
Too long, perhaps, and carefully. Then at last
It seemed if I saw you near, and we talked as sisters
Over these poor realms of ours, some light might break
That we'd never see apart.

MARY.
Have I been so much
A problem?

ELIZABETH.
Have you not? When the winds blow down
The houses, and there's a running and arming of men,
And a great cry of praise and blame, and the center
Of all this storm's a queen, she beautiful --
As I see you are --

MARY. Nay --

ELIZABETH.
Aye, with the Stuart mouth.
And the high forehead and French ways and thoughts --
Well, we must look to it. -- Not since that Helen
We read of in dead Troy, has a woman's face
Stirred such a confluence of air and waters
To beat against the bastions. I'd thought you taller,
But truly, since that Helen, I think there's been
No queen so fair to look on.

MARY. You flatter me.

ELIZABETH.
It's more like envy. You see this line
Drawn down between my brows? No wash or ointments
Nor wearing of straight plasters in the night
Will take that line away. Yet I'm not much older
Than you, and had looks, too, once.

MARY.
I had wished myself
For a more regal beauty such as yours,
More fitting for a queen.

ELIZABETH.
Were there not two verses
In a play I remember!
"Brightness falls from the air;
Queens have died young and fair" --?
They must die young if they'd die fair, my cousin.
Brightness falls from them but not from you yet,
believe me,
It's envy, not flattery.

MARY.
Can it be -- as I've hoped --
Can it be that you come to me as a friend --
Wishing me well?

ELIZABETH. Would you have me an enemy?

MARY. Oh! if that were so, if that were so.

ELIZABETH. Aye?

MARY.
I have great power to love! Let them buzz forever
Between us, these men with messages and lies,
You'll find me still there, and smiling, and open-hearted,
Unchanging while the cusped hills wear down!

ELIZABETH.
Nay, pledge
Not too much, my dear, for in these uncertain times
It's slippery going for all of us. I, who seem now
So firm in my footing, well I know one mis-step
Could make me a most unchancy friend. If you'd keep
Your place on this rolling ball, let the mountains slide
And slip to the valleys. Put no hand to them
Or they'll pull you after.

MARY.
But does this mean you can lend
No hand to me, or I'll pull you down?

ELIZABETH.
I say it
Recalling how I came to my throne as you did,
Some five or six years before, beset as you were
With angry factions -- and came there young, loving truth,
As you did. This was many centuries since,
Or seems so to me, I'm so old by now
In shuffling tricks and the huckstering of souls
For lands and pensions. I learned to play it young,
Must learn it or die. -- It's thgus if you would rule;
Give up good faith, the word that goes with the heart,
The heart that clings where it loves. Give these up, and love
Where your interest lies, and should your interest change
Let your love follow it quickly. This is queen's porridge
And however little stomach she has for it
A queen must eat it.

MARY.
I, too, Elizabeth,
Have read my Machiavelli. His is a text-book
Much studied in the French court. Are you serious
To read me this lesson?

ELIZABETH.
You have too loving a heart,
I fear, and too bright a face to be a queen.

MARY.
That's not what's charged againt me.
I've been traduced as a murderess and adultress
And nothing I could have said, and nothing done
Would have warded the blow. What I seek now is only
My freedom, so that I may return and prove
In open court, and before my witnesses,
That I am guiltless. You are the Queen of England,
And I am held prisoner in England. Why am I held,
And who is it holds me?

ELIZABETH.
It was to my interest, child,
To protect you, lest violence be offered to a princess
And set a precedent. Is there anyone in England
Who could hold you against my will?

MARY.
Then I ask you as a sovereign,
Speaking to you as an equal, that I be allowed
To go and fight my own battles.

ELIZABETH. It would be madness.

MARY. May I not be judge of that?

ELIZABETH. See, here is our love!

MARY.
If you wish my love and good-will you shall have it freely
When I am free.

ELIZABETH.
You will never govern, Mary. If I let you go
There will be long broils again in Scotland, dangers,
And ripe ones, to mym peace at home. To be fair
To my own people, this must not be.

MARY.
Now speak once
What your will is, and what behind it! You wish me here,
You wish me in prison -- have we come to that?

ELIZABETH. It's safer.

MARY. Who do you wish to rule in Scotland,
If not my Stuart line?

ELIZABETH.
Have I said, my dear,
That I'd bar the Stuarts from Scotland, or bar your reign
If you were there, and reigned there? I say only
You went the left way about it, that since it's so
And has fallen out so, it were better for both our kingdoms
If you remained my guest.

MARY. For how long?

ELIZABETH.
Until
The world is quieter.

MARY. And who will rule in my place?

ELIZABETH. Why, who rules now? Your brother.

MARY. He rules by stealth!

ELIZABETH.
But all this could be arranged,
Or so I'm told, if your son were to be crowned king,
And Moray made regent.

MARY.
My son in Moray's hands --
Moray in power --

ELIZABETH. Is there any other way?

[A pause]

MARY.
Elizabeth -- I have been here a long time
Already -- it seems so. If it's your policy
To keep me -- shut me up -- I can argue no more --
No -- I beg now. There's one I love in the north,
You know that -- and my life's there, my throne's
there, my name
To be defended -- and I must lie here darkened
From news and from the sun -- lie here impaled
On a brain's agony -- wondering even sometimes
If I were what they said me -- a carrion thing
In my desires -- can you understand this? -- I speak it
Too brokenly to be understood, but I beg of you
As you are a woman and I am -- and our brightness falls
Soon enough at best -- let me go, let me have my life
Once more -- and my dear health of mind again --
For I rot away here in my mind -- in what
I think of myself -- some death-tinge falls over one
In prisons --

ELIZABETH.
It will grow worse, not better. I've known
Strong men shut up alone for years -- it's not
Their hair turns white only; they sicken within
And scourge themselves. If you would think like a queen
This is no place for you. The brain taints here
Till all desires are alike. Be advised and sign
The abdication.

MARY.
Stay now a moment. I begin to glimpse
Behind this basilisk mask of yours. It was this
You've wanted from the first.

ELIZABETH. This what I wanted?

MARY.
It was you sent Lord Throgmorton long ago
When first I'd have married Bothwell. All this while
Some evil's touched my life at every turn.
To cripple what I'd do. And now -- why, now --
Looking on you -- I see it incarnate before me --
It was your hand that touched me. Reaching out
In little ways -- here, a word, there an action -- this
Was what you wanted. I thought perhaps a star --
Wildly I thought it -- perhaps a star might ride
Astray -- or a crone that burned an image down
In wax -- filling the air with curses on me
And slander; the murder of Rizzio, Moray in that
And you behind Moray -- the murder of Darnley,
Throgmorton
Behind that too, you with them -- and that winged scandal
You threw at us when we were married. Proof I have none
But I've felt it -- would know it anywhere -- in your eyes --
There -- before me.

ELIZABETH.
What may become a queen
Is to rule her kingdom. Had you ruled yours I'd say
She has her ways, I mine. Live and let live
And a merry world for those who have it. But now
I must think this over -- sadness has touched your brain.
I'm no witch to charm you, make no incantations:
You came here by your own road.

MARY.
I see how I came.
Back, back, each step the wrong way, and each sign followed
As you'd have me go, till the skein picks up and we stand
Face to face here. It was you forced Bothwell from me --
You there, and always. Oh, I'm to blame in this, too!
I should have seen your hand.

ELIZABETH.
It has not been my use
To speak mcuh or spend my time --

MARY.
How could I have been
Mistaken in you for an instant?

ELIZABETH.
You were not mistaken.
I am all women I must be. One's a young girl,
Young and harrowed as you are -- one who could weep
To see you here -- and one's a bitterness
At what I have lost and can never have, and one's
The basilisk you saw. This last stands guard
And I obey it. Lady, you came to Scotland
A fixed and subtle enemy, more dangerous
To me than you've ever known. This could not be borne,
And I set myself to cull you out and down,
And down you are.

MARY. When was I your enemy?

ELIZABETH.
Your life was a threat to mine, your throne to my throne,
Your policy a threat.

MARY. How? Why?

ELIZABETH.
It was you or I.
Do you know that?
The one of us must win
And I must always win.
The Lords have brought a parchment
For you to sign. Sign it and live.

MARY.
If I sign it
Do I live where I please? Go free?

ELIZABETH.
Nay, I would you might,
But you'd go to Bothwell, and between you two
You might be too much for Moray. You'll live with me
In London. There are other loves, my dear.
You'll find amusement there in the court. I assure you
It's better than a cell.

MARY.
And if I will not sign
This abdication?

ELIZABETH.
You've tasted prison. Try
A diet of it.

MARY.
And so I will. I wait for Bothwell --
And wait for him here.

ELIZABETH.
Where you will wait, bear in mind,
Is for me to say. Give up Bothwell,
Give up your throne if you'd have
A life worth living.

MARY.
I will not.
This trespass
Against God's right will be known. The nations will know it,
Mine and yours. They will see you as I see you
And pull you down.

ELIZABETH.
Child, child, I've studied this gambit
Before I play it. I will send each year
This paper to you. Not signing, you will step
From one cell to another, step lower always,
Till you reach the last, forgotten, forgotten of men,
Forgotten among causes, a wraith that cries
To fallen gods in another generation
That's lost your name. Wait then for Bothwell's rescue.
It will never come.

MARY. I may never see him?

ELIZABETH.
Never.
It would not be wise.

MARY.
Oh! Oh! --
And suppose indeed you won
Within our lifetime, still looking down from the heavens
And up from men around us, God's spies that watch
The fall of the great and little, they will find you out --
I will wait for that, wait longer than a life,
Till men and the times unscroll you, study the tricks
You play, and laugh, as I shall laugh, being known
Your better, haunted by your demon, driven
To death or exile by you, unjustly. Why,
When all's done, it's my name I care for, my name and heart,
To keep them clean.
Win now, take your triumph now,
For I'll win men's hearts in the end -- though the sifting takes
This hundred years -- or a thousand.

ELIZABETH.
And you are gulled
By what men write in histories, this or that,
And never true? I am careful of my name
As you are, for this day and longer. It's not what happens
That matters, no, not even what happens that's true,
But what men believe to have happened.
What will be said about us in after years
By men to come, I control that, being who I am.
It will be said of me that I governed well,
And wisely, but of you, cousin, that your life,
Shot through with ill-loves, battened on lechery, made you
An ensign of evil, that men tore down and trampled.
Shall I call for the Lords' parchment?

MARY.
And still I win.
This crooked track
You've drawn me on, cover it, let it not be believed
That a woman was a fiend. Yes, cover it deep,
And heap my infamy over it, lest men peer
And catch sight of you as you were and are. In myself
I know you to be an eater of dust. Leave me here
And set me lower this year by year, as you promise,
Till the last an oubliette, and my name inscribed
On the four winds. Still, still I win! I have been
A woman, and I have loved as a woman loves,
Lost as a woman loses. I have borne a son,
And he will rule Scotland -- and England. You have
no heir!
A devil has no children.

ELIZABETH.
You shall suffer
For this.

MARY.
And that I can do. A woman
Can do that. Come turn the key. I have a hell
For you in my mind, where you will burn and feel it,
Live where you like, and softly.

ELIZABETH.
Once more I ask you,
And patiently. Give up your throne.

MARY.
No, devil.
My pride is stronger than yours, and my heart beats blood
Such as yours has never known. And in this dungeon, I win here, alone.

ELIZABETH. [turning]
Good night, then.

MARY. Aye, good night.
[Elizabeth goes to the door]
Beaton!

ELIZABETH.
You will not see your maids again,
I think. It's said they bring you news from the north.

MARY.
I thank you for all kindness.

[Elizabeth goes out. Mary stands for a moment in thought, then, going to the window, she sits again in her old place and looks out into the darkness]

CURTAIN

The Books: "North of Providence" (Edward Allan Baker)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

Next play in my little unalphabetized pile of Samuel French plays is North of Providence, by Edward Allan Baker

A Rhode Island playwright ... this was one of his early successes. I think it's a bit shrill and obvious - although I love his later stuff. Here, you can see him as a young playwright - turning up the heat on the characters, making sure the obstacles were in place - it has a bit of an artificial feel to it. Also - he fills his plays with Rhode Island references, which - naturally - I love. Here he goes a bit overboard - every other line has some reference to a RI landmark. It's funny, I still love it - but it's self-conscious. That's what this play is, even though the writing is quite good: it's self-conscious. It's like Tennessee Williams' first play - you read it, and you can see the later playwright there in embryo, you can see his themes, his concerns ... but he's a bit heavy-handed with the plot, you can see the puppet strings, etc.

The story of this play: Bobbie and Carol, brother and sister, in their 20s. They live in Providence, Rhode Island. Their father is dying of cirrhosis of the liver. They have a couple other brothers and sisters as well, but none of them are in the play. Their dying fahter was a son of a bitch. Bobbie lives at home with his parents still and is kind of a loser. He plays the Lotto, smokes cigarettes, and bums around. Carol has "gotten out". She's married, has a kid. The story of this play (it's very short) - is this: Carol comes to the house to MAKE Bobbie go to the hospital to say goodbye to his father. She has HAD it. Bobbie is refusing to believe that this is it - "He's been this close so many times before - what makes this one different?" Carol knows that this is it, and it is urgent - in her mind - that Bobbie come with her to the hospital. Of course the two of them end up fighting - and of course all kinds of old old stuff comes out. There's a ton of baggage there. The main thing is: Carol was raped while she was babysitting when she was 16 and ... Bobbie , who was supposed to have been babysitting with her, wasn't there. The two of them have never discussed it. The rape destroyed the family. Bobbie and Carol's dad had always thought Carol was perfect, called her Miss America - and after she got raped, he basically dropped her like a hot potato. His little girl was "ruined". Bobbie has never forgiven himself for not being there. He has given up on life.

Finally - all of this comes out during the play.

I'll post one of the lighter passages of the script - because his dialogue really is quite good. You also totally get the sense of siblings in this excerpt. It sounds very real to me.

From North of Providence, by Edward Allan Baker

CAROL. Anything out in the kitchen I can get for you? [He watches her put down pocketbook then looks back up at her]

BOBBIE. What?

CAROL. Anything out in the kitchen to eat?

BOBBIE. Probly something. Why don't you go look. [Bobbie gives a slight nod of his head. Carol exits. Bobbie immediately picks up her pocketbook and takes out billfold. He removes the cash and stuffs it into his pocket. Upon putting back billfold, he finds gun. He looks to the dresser and quickly puts gun in his suit-coat pocket. Pause. Carol re-enters]

CAROL. [sandwich on plate] Need I tell you what baloney is made of?

BOBBIE. Baloney is baloney.

CAROL. Tony went to see Dad the other night. He said Dad told him that if he found out Tony voted for Reagan, he'd haunt him forever. [Pause. Carol is eating raisins] You ever see that girl ... uh ... the one who had tits that stuck out like canons, uh ... she worked at Bess Eaton doughnuts.

BOBBIE. [eating] Cheryl.

CAROL. Who?

BOBBIE. Cheryl. [He puts down sandwich and looks around for large butt in ashtray]

CAROL. You smoke too much.

BOBBIE. Takes a man to face cancer. [Lights up]

CAROL. That's sick. [A beat] Cheryl, right. You brought her to Karen's wedding.

BOBBIE. Ann's wedding.

CAROL. Who was that you brought to Karen's wedding?

BOBBIE. I didn't go to Karen's wedding.

CAROL. You were too at Karen's wedding.

BOBBIE. Nope.

CAROL. It was my wedding you didn't come to.

BOBBIE. Where was Karen's wedding?

CAROL. I couldn't believe you didn't come to my wedding. I was pissed.

BOBBIE. [puts shoes on] Where was Karen's wedding?

CAROL. You went to all the other weddings but not to mine.

BOBBIE. I didn't go to Jean's first wedding.

CAROL. Nobody did.

BOBBIE. I went to Karen's wedding?

CAROL. You were with some other fat girl. I can't remember who but she was a blimpola, I remember that.

BOBBIE. Marsha?

CAROL. Fatter.

BOBBIE. Where was Karen's wedding?

CAROL. Harp and Shamrock.

BOBBIE. That the one when Uncle Ritchie was doin the strip tease and his false teeth fell outta his mouth?

CAROL. That was Kathy's wedding.

BOBBIE. At the Harp and Shamrock?

CAROL. Brunswick. [Beat] I was hurt you didn't come to mine. My only brother an you couldn't drag ya lazy ass to Seekonk.

BOBBIE. [putting sweater on] I was doin somethin. I forget.

CAROL. We were close Bobbie, me an you. Was always Carol and Bobbie. Like Donny and Marie cept we can't sing.

BOBBIE. Donna Cotter.

CAROL. What?

BOBBIE. Donna Cotter is the one I brought to ...

CAROL. Right, right. She had the legs that looked like they were upside down.

BOBBIE. [combing hair, putting on more aftershave] All you sistas married wops an I never said nothin about it.

CAROL. [on her own train of thought] We sort of ... uh drifted apart ... it was right after the ...

BOBBIE. Stop! Don't even talk about it.

CAROL. It's all right now. I can talk about it.

BOBBIE. I don't want you to!

CAROL. Too bad what you want!

BOBBIE. I don't want to hear it!

CAROL. It was strange ... well not too strange ... [Bobbie is nervously going through ashtray again] I thought it was weird that -- that you were at the trial the whole time an havin to listen to uh ... the details.

BOBBIE. Do you have to bring this shit up? Huh? Do you have to bring ...

CAROL. Yes! Talkin about it is what made it all better! It became thin an went away. It was back in another life!

BOBBIE. Let's drop the subject.

The Books: "Philadelphia Story" (Philip Barry)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

Next play in my little unalphabetized pile of Samuel French plays is Philadelphia Story, by Philip Barry

The story of Katharine Hepburn's self-generated comeback with Philadelphia Story is well known. It's one of the greatest theatrical triumphs an actress has ever had. She was DEAD in Hollywood. But she was determined and she went back to Broadway, playing Tracy Lord - a part tailored just for her. Hepburn was weird and very specific. She needed a part that would humanize her. Audiences tired of her haughty righteousness. Bringing Up Baby, which shows a softer more whimsical side, was a box office flop. Barry created Tracy Lord for her ... a "goddess" - a woman of implacable convictions, a woman who held other people to such high ideals that they could never live up to it ... a woman who needed to be "brought down" in order to join the human race. Genius. And if you think about it - most of the Spencer Tracy-Katharine Hepburn films (made after Philadelphia Story) had this dynamic as a theme. She was hoity-toity, independent, unflappable ... and it was up to Spencer Tracy to cut her down to size. Audiences loved seeing that. It was funny, it made her human.

Philadelphia Story was the first. It was the perfect marriage between actress and role.

Here's the scene between Tracy and Dexter out by the swimming pool. Oh, and Mike is looking on. This scene is deceptively simple. It's mostly exposition, though - which makes it extremely difficult to play. Dexter has all the exposition - and to watch Cary Grant make this scene real, and seem natural, is quite miraculous. He makes it seem effortless. All the information we need about their stormy marriage - about her virgin goddess pose - about her susceptability to alcohol - is in this scene. All of it will be very important later. This scene is necessary and it must be played perfectly - otherwise the rest of the play will not work.

From Philadelphia Story, by Philip Barry

DEXTER. [sees Mike] We met at lunch, didn't we?

MIKE. Yes, I seem to remember. Connor's my name.

DEXTER. -- The writer -- of course! Do you drink, Mr. Connor?

MIKE. A little. Why?

DEXTER. Not to excess?

MIKE. Not often.

DEXTER. -- And a writer! It's extraordinary. I thought all writers drank to excess, and beat their wives. I expect that at one time I secretly wanted to be a writer. [He looks up at him and grins.]

TRACY. Dexter, would you mind doing something for me?

DEXTER. Anything, what?

TRACY. Get the hell out of here.

DEXTER. Oh, no, I couldn't do that. That wouldn't be fair to you. You need me too much.

TRACY. Would you mind telling me just what it is you're hanging around for? [Mike moves toward left] No -- please don't go! I'd honestly much prefer it if you wouldn't.

DEXTER. So should I. Do stay, Mr. Connor. As a writer, this ought to be right up your street.

TRACY. Don't miss a word!

DEXTER. Honestly, you never looked better in your life; you're getting a fine tawny look --

TRACY. Oh, we're going to talk about me, are we? Goody.

DEXTER. It's astonishing what money can do for people, don't you agree, Mr. Connor? Not too much, you know -- just more than enough. Particularly for girls. Look at Tracy. There's never been a blow that hasn't been softened for her. There'll never be one that won't be softened -- why, it even changed her shape -- she was a dumpy little thing originally.

TRACY. -- Only as it happens, I'm not interested in myself, for the moment. What interests me now is what, if any, your real point is, in --

DEXTER. Not interested in yourself! My dear, you're fascinated! You're far and away your favorite person in the world.

TRACY. Dexter, in case you don't know it -- I -- !

DEXTER. Shall I go on --?

TRACY. Oh, yes, please do, by all means.

DEXTER. Of course she is kindness itself, Mr. Connor --

TRACY. -- Itself, Mr. Connor.

DEXTER. She is generous to a fault -- that is, except to other people's faults. For instance, she never had the slightest sympathy toward nor understanding of what used to be known as my deep and gorgeous thirst.

TRACY. That was your problem!

DEXTER. It was a problem of a young man in exceptionally high spirits, who drank to slow down that damned engine he'd found nothing yet to do with -- I refer to my mind. You took on that problem with me, when you took me -- You were no helpmate there, Tracy -- you were a scold.

TRAC