The Sheila Variations

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

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my script 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)

Next in my Daily Book Excerpt:

I am still on my script shelf

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)

Next in my Daily Book Excerpt:

I am still on my script shelf

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)

Next in my Daily Book Excerpt:

I am still on my script shelf

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)

Next in my Daily Book Excerpt:

I am still on my script shelf

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

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

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)

Next in my Daily Book Excerpt:

I am still on my script shelf

Next play in my little unalphabetized pile of Samuel French plays is Hello Out There: A one-act play, 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: A one-act play, 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)

Next in my Daily Book Excerpt:

I am still on my script shelf

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)

Next in my Daily Book Excerpt:

I am still on my script shelf

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)

Next in my Daily Book Excerpt:

I am still on my script shelf

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.

EXCERPT 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)

Next in my Daily Book Excerpt:

I am still on my script shelf

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)

Next in my Daily Book Excerpt:

I am still on my script shelf

Next play in my little unalphabetized pile of Samuel French plays is The 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 The 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.

TRACY. It was disgusting. It made you so unattractive.

DEXTER. A weakness -- sure. And strength is her religion, Mr. Connor. She is a goddess, without patience for any kind of human imperfection. And when I gradually discovered that my relation to her was expected to be not that of a loving husband and a good companion, but -- Oh -- never mind --

TRACY. Say it!

DEXTER. -- But that of a kind of high priest to a virgin goddess, then my drinks grew more frequent and deeper in hue, that's all.

TRACY. I never considered you as that, nor myself!

DEXTER. You did without knowing it. And the night that you got drunk on champagne, and climbed out on the roof and stood there naked, with your arms out to the moon, wailing like a banshee --

[Mike slides off the chaise and exits]

TRACY. I told you I never had the slightest recollection of doing any such thing!

DEXTER. I know; you drew a blank. You wanted to -- Mr. Connor, what would you say in the case of -- [Turns and sees Mike gone]

TRACY. He's a reporter, incidentally. He's doing us for Destiny.

DEXTER. Sandy told me. A pity we can't supply photographs of you on the roof.

TRACY. Honestly, the fuss you made over that silly, childish --

DEXTER. It was enormously important, and most revealing. The moon is also a goddess, chaste and virginal.

TRACY. Stop using those foul words! We were married nearly a year, weren't we?

DEXTER. Marriage doesn't change a true case like yours, my dear. It's an affair of the spirit -- not of the flesh.

TRACY. Dexter, what are you trying to make me out as?

DEXTER. Tracy, what do you fancy yourself as?

TRACY. I don't know that I fancy myself as anything.

DEXTER. When I read you were going to marry Kittredge, I couldn't believe it. How in the world can you even think of it?

TRACY. I love him, that's why! As I never even began to love you.

DEXTER. It may be true, but I doubt it. I think it's just a swing from me, and what I represent -- but I think it's too violent a swing. That's why I came on. Kittredge is no great tower of strength, you know, Tray. He's just a tower.

TRACY. You've known him how long? -- Half a day.

DEXTER. I knew him for two days two years ago, the time I went up to the fields with your father, but half a day would've done, I think.

TRACY. It's just personal, then --

DEXTER. Purely and completely.

TRACY. You couldn't possibly understand him or his qualities. I shouldn't expect you to.

DEXTER. I suppose when you come right down to it, Tray, it just offends my vanity to have anyone who was ever remotely my wife, remarry so obviously beneath her.

TRACY. "Beneath" me! How dare you -- any of you -- in this day and age use such a --?

DEXTER. I'm talking about difference in mind and imagination. You could marry Mac, the nightwatchman, and I'd cheer for you.

TRACY. And what's wrong with George?

DEXTER. Nothing -- utterly nothing. He's a wizard at his job, and I'm sure he is honest, sober and industrious. He's just not for you.

TRACY. He is for me -- he's a great man and a good man; already he's of national importance.

DEXTER. Good Lord -- you sound like Destiny talking. Well, whatever he is, you'll have to stick, Tray. He'll give you no out as I did.

TRACY. I won't require one.

DEXTER. I supposed you'd still be attractive to any man of spirit, though. There's something engaging about it, this virgin goddess business, something more challenging to the male than the more obvious charms.

TRACY. Really?

DEXTER. Oh yes! We're very vain, you know -- "This citadel can and shall be taken -- and I'm just the boy to do it."

TRACY. You seem quite contemptuous of me, all of a sudden.

DEXTER. Not of you, Red, never of you. You could be the damndest, finest woman on this earth. If I'm contemptuous of anything, it's of something in you you either can't help, or make no attempt to; your so-called "strength" -- your prejudice against weakness -- your blank intolerance --

TRACY. Is that all?

DEXTER. That's the gist of it; because you'll never be a first class woman or a first class human being, till you have learned to have some regard for human frailty. It's a pity your own foot can't slip a little sometime -- but no, your sense of inner divinity won't allow it. The goddess must and shall remain intact. -- You know, I think there are more of you around than people realize. You're a special class of American female now -- the Married Maidens. -- And of Type Philadelphiaensis, you're the absolute tops, my dear.

TRACY. Damn your soul, Dext, if you say another --!

DEXTER. I'm through, Tracy -- for the moment I've had my say.

The Books: "Laughing Wild" (Christopher Durang)

Next in my Daily Book Excerpt:

I am still on my script shelf

Next play in my little unalphabetized pile of Samuel French plays is Laughing Wild and Baby with the Bathwater: Two Plays, by Christopher Durang

A two-person play about two absolute wack-jobs. The woman is literally a demented person wandering the streets of NYC, laughing hysterically (laughing wild) for no reason. She has a long and absolutely HILARIOUS monologue that opens the show. She obsesses on certain things - until she goes nuts. Like Sally Jessy Raphael. The thought of Sally Jessy Raphael makes this woman ANGRY. She can't understand why she is successful, and she can't stop thinking about it. Etc. The other character is a gay man who is also filled with obsessions - only he's not as crazy. He obsesses about Chernobyl, and nuclear winter, and the end of the world ... He cannot get black thoughts out of his mind. But he just took a "personality workshop" which taught him some positive mantras - which he keeps trying to utilize to block out all of his depressing thoughts. Naturally, it doesn't work. But he keeps trying.

Eventually - these two crazy people cross paths ... Because this is Christopher Durang, things get insane, surreal - The woman and the man both have the same dream - which is re-enacted. The woman has killed Sally Jessy Raphael and takes over her show. She ends up interviewing the Infant of Prague (played by the man) - don't ask me how that happens, but it all makes a sort of bizarre sense in the context of the play.

I loved this play in college - it was one of my favorites. Mitchell and I always wanted to do this play. It's way over-done now, everyone does it ... but still. It would be fun to work on.

I'll excerpt the Sally Jessy/Infant of Prague scene because it is just TOO BIZARRE. Anytime you see the woman say: "Ahahahahahaha" that, of course, means that she starts "laughing wild".

From Laughing Wild and Baby with the Bathwater: Two Plays, by Christopher Durang

WOMAN. And then the next night I dreamt that I killed Sally Jessy Raphael.

MAN. [from offstage] And now the Sally Jessy Raphael show! [The stage transforms itself into a talk show setting. In the New York production, a section of the supermarket aisle turned around revealing a blue carpet and a blue "interview" chair; behind it was just more of the supermarket cans, but all color-coordinated blue -- blue cans of soda, blue boxes of laundry detergent, etc. Thus the setting rather than being a literal talk show became a kind of crackpot "dream" talk show, mixing up the supermarket and the TV show. The Woman discovers a microphone and red-framed glasses, which she puts on]

WOMAN. Hello. Sally Jessy Raphael can't be here today because I killed her. My aggression finally got the better of me, but what can you expect living in New York? These are her red-framed glasses, however. Do you like me in them? Now when my eyes are bloodshot from weeping or from allergies, you won't be able to tell whether it's my eyes that are red or my glasses!

This isn't my first time before the cameras you know. The late Andy Warhol discovered me, and he said I should be as famous as Edie Sedgwick. That isn't very famous, of course, but those of you who follow the East Village scene and take drugs know who I mean. Ahahahahahahahahahahaa.

I hope you don't mind if I do that, but I'm hoping to make that my signature on the air rather than these fuckin' glasses. Ahahahaha.

Let's see. Sally Jessy Raphael used to say "troops" a lot. I'll try that. Hey, troops! How are you? Do you like my glasses? That way when my eyes are red, you can't tell if I've been crying or someone's punched me! Ahahahaha. Did I tell you about my father in the baked potato? I ate him. Now, troops, I don't mean sexually, I mean I ate him cannibalistically. Ahahahaha. Just kidding about that, troops, but know that my pain is sincere.

However, our show today isn't about cannibalism and it isn't about oral sex, although Dr. Ruth is a friend of mine ... That's a lie, I hate Dr. Ruth and I hate Mother Theresa! I want them to fight to the death with chains and nuclear-fueled revolving dildos! I'm sorry ...

[calls out to technicians in the distance or off-stage] ... can I say the word "dildo" on television? What? Read off the cards? Read off what cards? [Sees something, reads from it] A E I O U. [tries to pronounce it] Aeiou? Well, that's an eye chart, not an idiot card. No, these cards are not useful. I am not an optimist. No, that's a slip of the tongue. I am not an optometrist. I am a talk show host or hostess.

Today our show is about nuclear proliferation. And it's also about the destruction of the ozone layer. And it's about sex education in the schools -- should we tell our children about condoms or just wait until they get AIDS? And it's about AIDS, and it's about society's views on homosexuality -- is it disgusting or is it delightful? And it's about the electoral college in our voting system -- should we change it, should we rethink it, should we charge the delegates to the electoral college a tuition fee? And it's about free speech versus pay speech. Should people be allowed to say what they think? Should we demand that people who talk more pay more taxes? And it's about President Reagan and taxes. Does he know what he's talking about, or is he already dead?

Anyway, it's about all these topics -- nuclear proliferation, condoms and children, the ozone layer, AIDS, homosexuality, heterosexuality, free speech, necrophilia and the presidency, and changing the electoral college -- and we have to cover all these topics in under thirty minutes! So I better stop talking and birng out my first guest. Won't you please join me in welcoming the Infant of Prague!

[Enter the Man dressed as the Infant of Prague. Now what do I mean by this? The Infant of Prague is a 17th-century artist's invention of what the Christ Child, triumphant, might look like. Catholics are familiar with the look of this -- usually in Infant of Prague statues -- found in their churches, or sometimes on dashboards. Non-Catholics usually have not heard of the Infant of Prague, but some may recognize the "look". The "look" is this: a golden-haired child (of about ten to twelve maybe), dressed ornately. The most common look has white robes, embroidered with pearls and jewels, covered with a bright red cape, with white ruffles at the neck and wrists. On the top of the child's golden curls is a great big whopping crown, of gold and red, not unlike the crown in Imperial Margarine commercials on TV. [That is, it's big and has the "ball-like" red thing at the top of it. The Infant in his left hand always carries a large orb [usually blue, and with a gold cross on top of it], and always has his right hand raised, with his first two fingers held upright, and his thumb and other two fingers folded in on one another. Since the Infant of Prague is usually a statue or sometimes a large doll whose silhouette often spreads out like an inverted "Y" due to the fullness of his robes, the New York designer chose to make the costume resemble a statue rather than a person. The robes spread out very wide to the side [on a kind of inner tubing] so that as costumed the Infant looked rather like an enormous, walking chess piece. When the audience saw underneath the Infant's robes, they saw a smooth, stretched white covering out of which two slippered feet protruded -- again, looking very much like the bottom of a statue, and not that of a human being. Anyway, that, in words, is what the Infant of Prague looks like. And that is how the Man is dressed on his entrance. The Infant's personality, by the way, as played by the Man, is sunny and beatifically unflappable.]

WOMAN. [to herself] Why am I dreaming about the Infant of Prague? I don't even know what that is.

MAN. [to audience, not in character as the Infant, and perhaps lowering his upraised right hand] I dreamt I was the Infant of Prague appearing on the Sally Jessy Raphael show, though I've never even heard of her. [The Man raises his right hand, with its two upraised fingers, and resumes being the Infant]

WOMAN. Infant of Prague, won't you sit down?

MAN. Thank you, Sally, I only stand.

WOMAN. I'm not Sally. Sally is dead.

MAN. [with sympathy] Oh. And is she in heaven with my father?

WOMAN. I really don't know. Enough chit-chat. Tell me -- "Infant of Prague" -- is that your first name?

MAN. My name is the Infant of Prague, and I am a representation of the Christ Child.

WOMAN. Really. Where do you live?

MAN. I am housed in the Church of Our Lady of Victory in Prague, capital of Czechoslovakia.

WOMAN. [a penetrating question] Where is Prague exactly?

MAN. It's in Czechoslovakia.

WOMAN. And where in Czechoslovakia?

MAN. [confused] It's in Prague.

WOMAN. Ahahahahahahaha! [to Infant] That's my signature. Do you like my glasses? They're red. That way you can't tell if roving street gangs beat me up or not.

MAN. What?

WOMAN. Never mind. Tell us, Infant, a little bit about yourself. [The Infant addresses a lot of his comments directly and happily to the audience because he is a born teacher, and because he is divine]

MAN. A statue of me was given to the Discalced Carmelites in Prague in 1628 by princess Polyzena Lobkowitz.

WOMAN. Polly who Lobka-what?

MAN. The statue was a gift from her mother, Maria Mariquez de Lara, who had brought the statue with her to Bohemia when she married the Czech nobleman, Vratislav of Pernstyn.

WOMAN. Princeton? Princeton, new Jersey?

MAN. No, not Princeton. Pern-styn.

WOMAN. Uh huh> I wonder if I have any other guests that could come on. [calls off stage] Oh, Ed? Is there anybody back there? [to herself] Who's Ed? I don't know any Ed. Oh, never mind. [to Infant] Tell us, Infant, a little about what you're wearing. [to audience] That's pretty wild, isn't it troops?

MAN. I'm glad you asked me that, Sally.

WOMAN. I'm not Sally. Sally's dead.

MAN. Then she's in heaven with my father. My inner garments are similar to the priest's alb, and are made of white linen and of lace. [proudly shows a bit of his undergarments, or beneath a ruffle]

WOMAN. Oooh, this is getting racy.

MAN. Please don't make any sacrilegious remarks or I'll have to leave.

WOMAN. I always get the difficult guests. First Eartha Kitt, and now a tea cozy.

MAN. [turning as in a fashion show] Covering my inner garments is a miniature liturgical cope, made of heavy damask, richly woven with gold and embroidered with pearls. [In the NY production, the Woman actually went out into the audience to ask her questions, rather as Phil Donahue and Sally Jessy Raphael often do]

WOMAN. Wow, you could really feed a lot of starving people with that outfit there, couldn't you, Infant?

MAN. [firmly] Most people do not eat gold and pearls, Sally.

WOMAN. Sally's dead, how many times do I have to tell you that!

MAN. Three times, representing the Blessed Trinity. Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

WOMAN. [referring to the orb] What's that little paperweight in your hand?

MAN. This is not a paperweight. It is a miniature globe, signifying the world-wide kingship of the Christ Child.

WOMAN. Uh huh. Well, fine, let's move on, shall we? [a glint in her eye] Let's talk about condoms for a bit. Your church isn't very big on condoms, is it?

MAN. When people ask me, the Infant of Prague, for advice on sexuality, I sometimes think to myself, what do I know about sex? -- I'm an infant. What's more, I'm the Infant of Prague. I can't sit down, let alone have sex. [laughs goodnaturedly at his quip] But what people don't realize sometimes is that God my father has a holy and blessed purpose to the mystery of sexuality, and that purpose is to create other little infants like myself to glorify God and creation. That is why condoms are wrong because anything that intercepts -- or contra-cepts -- this process is deeply wrong.

WOMAN. Now let's get real for a second here, Infant. People are always going to have sex, and now we have this deadly disease AIDS which is killing people, and one of the ways to protect oneself is to use a condom. Now don't you think we better get practical here, and get people to use condoms? Whaddya say, Infant of Prague???

MAN. We must instruct the people at risk to abstain from sex.

WOMAN. Oh, well, fine. And we can tell the waterfall to stop falling, but is that practical?

MAN. Moses parted the Red Sea. [smiles at the audience, having made an unassailable point]

WOMAN. Uh huh. So let's get this straight -- you would prefer that adolescents die from AIDS rather than tell them about condoms?

MAN. I do not prefer this at all, Sally. Yes, I know, Sally is dead. Sorry, I keep forgetting, Sally, I would tell all the teenagers of the world to be like me, an infant without sexual urges, until they were much, much older and ready to commit to one person for life, and to glory in the sacramental beauty of sex, within marriage, where during the actual act of intercourse all you can think about is "Procreation! Procreation! I am going to have a little baby, a little infant to glorify God!"

WOMAN. Well the teenagers in New Jersey are gonna love that answer. Come on, Infant. Don't you think you're a little impractical?

MAN. The Divine is impractical, that's why it's divine. [The Infant smiles delightedly, another unassailable point. The Woman would like to kill him]

WOMAN. [to audience] We have to take a little break here but we'll be right back with more of the Infant of Prague. [ON THE AIR sign goes off; and theme music starts. Off the air, the Woman unleashes her pent-up fury and begins to pummel the Infant] YOU JERK, YOU STUBBORN SHIT, YOU EFFEMINATE EUNUCH, YOU MAKE ME WANT TO VOMIT WITH YOUR HOLIER THAN THOU ATTITUDE! WHY SHOULD WE LISTEN TO YOU ABOUT SEX??? YOU'RE AFRAID OF SEX, YOUR IDEAS ON SEX ARE RIGID AND INSANE, AND SOMEONE SHOULD HAVE YOU KILLED! I WANT YOU DEAD! DIE, DIE, DIE! [The Infant looks startled and alarmed during this outburst. Towards the end of her outburst, one of her hits makes him fall over backwards, and the Woman dives on top of him, continuing her pummeling. The ON THE AIR sign comes back on, as does the theme music. The Woman looks out, caught in the act of straddling and beating up her guest. She gets off of him, and talks to the camera. The Infant remains on the ground, unable to stand up due to the weight of his clothes and crown. He struggles from time to time, moving his slippered feet about pathetically] Well, we're back on the air now. Ahahahahaha. Let's talk about "air", and the ozone layer, shall we? [Notices the Infant's struggling, explains to the camera] He fell down during the commercial.

MAN. Would you help me stand up please?

WOMAN. Wait a minute. Give me your opinion on the destruction of the ozone layer.

MAN. I am opposed to the destruction of the ozone layer, Sally.

WOMAN. Who did we tell you was dead?

MAN. Sally.

WOMAN. Right answer. Alright, I'll help you up now. [The Woman helps the Infant stand up. He looks disoriented for a moment] Okay. Let's go for the "gold". What about homosexuality -- is it disgusting or is it delightful?

MAN. It is a grievous sin. But I love homosexuals, I just want them to be celibate until I die.

WOMAN. Who booked this jerk on here anyway? [calls off-stage again] Ed, I'm talking to you!

MAN. Where is Sally?

WOMAN. Who is Ed?

MAN. I don't want to be interviewed by you anymore. [starts to wander toward off-stage, and to call out] Sally? Sally!

WOMAN. [takes out a gun and aims it at him] I killed Sally Jessy Raphael, and I can kill you! [shoots him several times]

MAN. It is not possible to kill the Infant of Prague. [He exits happily. She is enraged]

WOMAN. [calling out after him] I hate you, I hate you, you Infant of Prague! [to audience] I hate religious bigots. And I hate people who think they know what's right. And I hate people who are filled with hate. And I hate people who are filled with love. I wish my mother had had me killed when I was a fetus. That's the kind of person I am. Do you get it? Ahahahahahahahaha!

WOMAN'S VOICE. [on tape] My next guest today is Rama Sham Rama.

WOMAN. I don't want no fucking next guest! [shoots her gun off-stage, apparently stopping Rama Sham Rama; then calls off in the other direction] Ed! You're fired! [shoots her gun off in Ed's direction. The theme music plays nightmarishly, and the talk show set disappears or recedes into the distance. The Woman is now back in her waking-dream state again, and addresses the audience as herself once more, out of her Sally dream] Why is there so much violence in my dreams? I'm always killing people or they're killing me. The other night I dreamt I killed Sally Jessy Raphael. And then I tried to kill the Infant of prague, whoever the hell that is. Then Rama Sha Rambus somebody. I have to let go of this rage, I can't live this way anymore.

The Books: "Here" (Michael Frayn)

Next in my Daily Book Excerpt:

I am still on my script shelf

Next play in my little unalphabetized pile of Samuel French plays is Here
, by Michael Frayn

Author of Noises Off, Copenhagen and the list goes on and on - this playwright just dazzles me. With his range, his thematic complexity - his ... just the fact of him.

This play Here is little known and has not been produced in the States. A good friend of mine, who is a wonderful director, had a dream to do this play - we did a couple of readings of it - I LOVE this play - I mean, I am HUNGRY to do this play - but Frayn won't release the rights. Not sure why - if another theatre company has been promised it, or if he doesn't want this play out competing with his later works - don't know - but periodically, year after year, we try to get the rights to this damn thing.

Goldurnit, I want to do this play.

I think about it and I feel this little bruise in my heart ... like I just want to do it. I wish we could do it. I would lie and steal and cheat to get to do it.

I don't know why it turns me on so much, but it does. There's something about the play that is a little bit like a blank slate ... and when you read the dialogue, you'll see what I mean. There's a Pinter-esque feel to it. Most of the important stuff is NOT said. People leave things unspoken. There are worlds of subtext. The lines are, for the most part, simple and prosaic ... but the truth beneath is just ... fantastically rich.

Even just writing about it makes me feel all yearning and wistful. grrrrr. NOBODY can love this play like I do.

Cath and Phil are a young couple. They are going to move in together. The first scene is the two of them looking at an apartment and trying to decide whether or not they like it. But you get the sense - without either of them saying a word - what is really going on is that they're both a little freaked out by commitment.

I'll excerpt from Scene 2. Cath and Phil have now moved into that apartment. They're both quietly flipping out at the closeness and intimacy.

Watch the fireworks. I'm dying to say these lines.

From Here
, by Michael Frayn

Scene 2

A mattress now occupies the center of the room, with a small TV and an alarm clock on the floor beside it. A simple table, with two chairs. By the window stands a small pot plant. On the wall, a picture or two. There are a few objects carefully arranged on the shelves, including a dozen books and the toy dog. The curtain is drawn across the alcove. Phil and Cate are sitting on the mattress, looking at the room. She is wearing a long, shapeless jumper. He has his arms round her.

PHIL. Yes?

CATH. Yes. Yes!

PHIL. Yes ... [Pause] Or ... [He gets up and goes towards the shelves]

CATH. Come back!

PHIL. What?

CATH. Don't go away!

PHIL. Just ...

CATH. What?

PHIL. This. [He moves the toy dog to a new position] Better?

CATH. Better.

PHIL. Or worse?

CATH. Better. Isn't it?

PHIL. Yes. Much better. [He returns to the mattress and puts his arms round her] Yes?

CATH. Yes!

PHIL. [looks around the room] Cath, I think ... I think ...

CATH. ... we've got it.

PHIL. I think.

CATH. I think we have.

PHIL. I think we may just possibly have.

CATH. You have.

PHIL. We have.

CATH. You did it.

PHIL. We did it.

CATH. Anyway, we're there.

PHIL. So ...

CATH. So we can just ... I don't know!

PHIL. Sit back.

CATH. Yes! sit back and ... what?

PHIL. Live. Or whatever.

CATH. Oh, love ...

[She kisses him. He looks at the shelves]

PHIL. Hold on.

CATH. What?

[He jumps up and goes back to the shelves]

CATH. What are you doing?

PHIL. Nothing. [He moves the toy dog to the floor by the bed, and the alarm clock to the shelf where the dog was]

CATH. You're moving him?

PHIL. No. I just wanted to see if the clock ...

CATH. Leave it, leave it! [She holds out her arms to him]

PHIL. Just a moment ... [He moves it again]

CATH. You had it right before!

PHIL. Yes, but I just wanted to try something ... [He moves it again] How about that?

CATH. No.

PHIL. No?

CATH. I liked him where he was before.

PHIL. What -- here?

CATH. Not there ...

PHIL. Here?

CATH. Where he was before!

PHIL. This is where he was before.

CATH. Anyway, it doesn't matter.

PHIL. Doesn't matter?

CATH. It's not going to start a world war if you put the dog there instead of there!

PHIL. It might! We don't know!

CATH. Don't be silly, love.

PHIL. Cath, we can't foresee what the consequences will be! We're standing at a crossroads ...

CATH. What -- putting it there or putting it there?

PHIL. Putting it there or putting it there -- and there's no signpost, and we can't possibly see where the two different paths lead. All we know is that whichever one we take, that's the one we'll have taken.

CATH. We can always move it.

PHIL. That won't alter the fact that it was here to start with. It will always have been here. We'll have that with us forever. Forever and ever. It's like looking up at the sky at night. We're staring into infinity.

CATH. Yes, well, I don't want to think about it.

PHIL. All right, then we won't think about it.

CATH. Do you mind?

PHIL. Then on and on the effects of not thinking about it will go ...

CATH. Yes, but let's not even talk about it.

PHIL. And if we don't even talk about it ...

CATH. I know.

PHIL. If we don't talk about not even talking about it ...

CATH. I know. I know!

PHIL. But, Cath ...

CATH. Don't. Don't. Sorry. But just don't.

[Pause]

PHIL. Cath, all I'm saying is -- we've got to take control.

CATH. Yes.

PHIL. Because here we are.

CATH. Here we are.

PHIL. Now.

CATH. Yes.

PHIL. As it happens.

[Pause]

CATH. As it happens?

PHIL. We might not be.

CATH. What do you mean?

PHIL. We might be in some other room altogether. If we hadn't seen the board that day.

CATH. Phil, don't start all this again! We did see the board that day, and that's that.

PHIL. But we wouldn't have seen the board that day if we hadn't been walking down this particular street.

CATH. But we were walking down this particular street.

PHIL. But why were we walking down this particular street?

CATH. Why were we walking down this particular street?

PHIL. We didn't usually.

CATH. No.

PHIL. So why did we, on that particular day?

CATH. I don't know.

PHIL. No. I don't know!

CATH. We just did.

PHIL. We just did. Yes. We just did.

CATH. But since we did ...

PHIL. Oh, sure. But isn't it a tiny bit ...?

CATH. What?

PHIL. I don't know. A tiny bit ... well ...

CATH. No!

PHIL. No? I mean, look. [He gets up and walks about the room] We wouldn't have been walking down this particular street or any other particular street if ... well ... if we'd never met.

CATH. Never met? What are you talking about? What is all this? We did meet, we did meet!

PHIL. Yes, but we shouldn't have met if I hadn't gone to that place where you were that day.

CATH. No ...

PHIL. And I shouldn't have gone to that place if I hadn't known that man.

CATH. All right.

PHIL. And I shouldn't have known that man if I hadn't walked up that mountain, and I shouldn't have walked up that mountain if there hadn't been a mountain to walk up, and there wouldn't have been a mountain to walk up if the rock strata hadn't been tilted the way they are, and the rock strata wouldn't have been tilted the way they are if the earth had cooled down differently five thousand million years ago, and if it had, Cath, if it had, if the earth had cooled down slightly differently five thousand million years ago, then I wouldn't be here now -- you wouldn't be here now -- you'd be sitting in some completely different room with some completely different man.

CATH. No, I shouldn't.

PHIL. Yes, you would. If you'd met someone else instead of me.

CATH. If I'd met someone else instead of you?

PHIL. Yes.

CATH. I shouldn't have fallen in love with them!

PHIL. Yes, you would. Of course you would. If I hadn't been there. You'd have fallen in love with someone.

CATH. You mean, you would?

PHIL. All right.

CATH. You'd be sitting here with some completely different woman?

PHIL. Yes! No ... [He goes back to the mattress and puts his arms around her]

CATH. You would, wouldn't you.

PHIL. No. As it happens.

CATH. Yes, you would. I know you would.

[Pause]

PHIL. I'll put it back. [He gets up and moves everything back to its original position] This was here. Yes? This was here ... All right?

CATH. No.

PHIL. Cath! I've put it back!

CATH. I don't know what you mean, it all just happened.

PHIL. I mean things happened that we didn't decide ...

CATH. But we did decide!

PHIL. In the end.

CATH. We decided about this place!

PHIL. Exactly. We took over ...

CATH. We walked down the street, we saw the board, we looked at this place, and we decided!

PHIL. Yes, so njow we've got to go on deciding.

CATH. "It all just happened"! It didn't all just happen! We made it happen!

PHIL. That's what I'm saying! We're saying the same thing!

CATH. This is us.

PHIL. Yes! So now we have to go on deciding together till death us do part.

CATH. We have gone on deciding. I don't know what you're talking about. We put this here, we put that there. [She jumps up and moves things round] We could have put this there and that here.

PHIL. We could have done. [He moves them back] But we didn't.

CATH. We still could. [She moves them back again]

PHIL. What are you doing?

CATH. We could put anything anywhere!

PHIL. Cath! We had it almost right!

CATH. We don't have to have things right! We can have them wrong if we want to!

PHIL. Yes, but we don't want them wrong!

CATH. I want them wrong! [She moves the mattress]

PHIL. Cath -- not the bed!

CATH. I want the bed here!

PHIL. You can't want it here if it's wrong!

CATH. I can! I do!

PHIL. Cath, stop. Stop. Stop. Stop.

CATH. You're always telling me what I want.

PHIL. OK, you want the bed here. May I ask one simple question?

CATH. Why do I want the bed here?

PHIL. No. How do you know you want it here?

CATH. How do I know I want it here? Don't be silly.

PHIL. I'm not being silly. How, in actual fact, do you know you want it here?

CATH. I just do.

PHIL. Oh. You just do.

CATH. All right?

PHIL. All right. Fine. Wonderful.

CATH. So then the television goes here ...

PHIL. Hold on. You just know you want it here. I just know you don't want it here.

CATH. You just know I don't want it here?

PHIL. Yes.

CATH. So how do you just know that?

PHIL. I just do. The same as you just do.

CATH. But I'm me and you're you!

PHIL. Also because I know you're simply trying to make a point. Because no one in the entire world could possibly want the bed here.

CATH. Except me.

PHIL. Anyway, I don't want it here.

CATH. That's another matter.

PHIL. Cath, come on! What I mean is, we have to agree!

CATH. No, we don't.

PHIL. So how do we decide?

CATH. We can fight.

PHIL. Fight?

CATH. Why not?

PHIL. How?

CATH. Like this. [She grabs his ankle and tips him backwards onto the mattress] I've won!

PHIL. That's not fair!

CATH. So the bed goes here.

PHIL. But I wasn't ready! [He jumps up] All right. If you want to fight, we'll fight.

[They stand on the mattress, facing each other]

PHIL. All right?

CATH. All right.

PHIL. You say, then.

CATH. What do you want me to say?

PHIL. Say ready steady.

CATH. Ready steady?

PHIL. Yes ...

CATH. Go! [She grabs his ankle, and tips him backwards]

PHIL. Don't be ridiculous!

CATH. What?

PHIL. [He gets up] You can't just say go!

CATH. I said ready steady!

PHIL. You said ready steady query.

CATH. I didn't say ready steady query.

PHIL. You did!

CATH. I said ready steady go! [She grabs his ankle and tips him over backwards]

PHIL. Cath, that's cheating!

[He attemps to get up. She squats on top of him]

PHIL. Get off! Cath, will you get off me ...? I shall get angry in a minute ... You're crushing things ... Agh! Pax! Cath, I said pax ...

CATH. [she pulls the duvet up around them] We've fallen into a snowdrift! We're at the South Pole!

PHIL. Cath, stop messing around ...

CATH. The wind's howling. It's dark. We don't know where we are. [She lies full length on top of him, in the confusion of the duvet]

PHIL. What's all this?

CATH. We'll freeze to death. We'll die. The wind's blowing us away ...

[They begin to roll away off the mattress, wrapped in the duvet. There is a knocking at the door]

CATH. We're out of control!

PHIL. What's that banging?

CATH. Stop us, someone! We're going to roll off the edge of the world ...!

PHIL. Hold on ...

CATH. Help! Help!

[More knocking at the door]

The Books: "Lovers" (Brian Friel)

Next in my Daily Book Excerpt:

I am still on my script shelf

Next play in my little unalphabetized pile of Samuel French plays is Lovers, by Brian Friel - which, actually - has two parts - two separate plays - one being called "Winners" and one being called "Losers". The following excerpt is from the "Winners" part.

A sad sad play. Not only is the plot sad, but the structure of the play adds to the sadness. It is the story of two Irish teenagers - Joe and Mag. They are 17. She is pregnant. They are going to be married in 3 weeks. They sit on top of a hill and study for their final exams. Mag is a chatter-box, not interested in school. Joe is serious, and kind of burdened down by his life - he needs to do well on his exams so that he can get a good job.

Two other characters - Man and Woman - sit off to the sidelines of Joe and Mag's scenes and occasionally, the lights will go down on Joe and Mag and come up on Man and Woman, who both hold open books in their laps - They sometimes refer to the books as they speak - as they tell the ending of the story. Joe and Mag end up disappearing - the town searches for them - and finally, their drowned bodies are found on the shore of a nearby lake.

So as we Joe and Mag fighting and laughing and studying on the hill - we know that something dreadful happened to them. We know it from the beginning of the play - because it opens with Man and Woman describing the events, almost like a police report. The knowledge that this time up on the hill is the last day Joe and Mag will be alive colors the entire play. It's really sad.

You can see that Joe and Mag have "relationship issues" - he feels trapped into marrying her, he's scared of her pregnancy, she feels lost and alone - she wants to talk, he doesn't - she tries to force him to share his feelings - but then occasionally, the problems will melt away and they'll start laughing like little kids about something.

A sad play - it has the feeling of a Greek tragedy - the same sort of inevitability. You know that the ending will be bad - because the Man and Woman keep coming in and reciting facts, like an obituary in a newspaper - but you can't help but hope that everything will work out.

Here's a scene where Mag lies asleep on the hill and Joe starts opening up to her. Of course he can only do so because she is asleep.

From Lovers, by Brian Friel

MAN. On Tuesday, June 21, a local boy was driving his father's cows down to the edge of Lough Gorn for a drink when he saw what he described as "bundles of clothes" floating just off the north shore. He ran home and told his mother.

WOMAN. The police were informed, and Sergeant Finlay accompanied by two constables went to investigate. The "bundles" were the bodies of Margaret Mary Enright and Joseph Michael Brennan. They were floating, fully clothed, face down, in twenty-seven inches of water.

MAN. A post-morten was held in the parochial hall at 7:00 pm that evening.

[Joe has returned. He speaks with a dignified sincerity]

JOE. Mag, there is something I never told you. And since you are going to be my wife, I don't want there to be any secrets between us. I have a post office book. I have had it since I was ten. And there is £23/15/0d. in it now. I intend spending that money on a new suit, new shoes, and an electric razor. And I'm mentioning this to you now in case you suspect I have other hidden resources. I haven't.

[He cannot maintain this tone. He continues naturally]

And I was working out our finances. The rent of the flat's two-ten. That'll leave us with about four-ten. And if I could get some private pupils, that would bring in another -- say -- thirty bob. We can manage on that, can't we? I mean, I can. What about you?

[Looks down at her]

Mag? You asleep, Mag? How the hell can you sleep when you have no work done! Maggie? ... [He kneels beside her and looks into her face. He gently puts her hair away from her eyes. He straightens up as he remembers the word Caesarean] Dictionary. [He gets his own dictionary and searches for the word] Cadet ... cadge ... Caesar ... Caesarean, pertaining to Caesar or the Caesars -- section -- an operation by which the walls of the stomach are cut open and ... [shocked and frightened] ... Cripes! [Reads] -- as with Julius -- oh my God! If I see you on that bike again I'll break your bloody neck! As with Julius -- good God! Maggie, are you all right, Maggie? Oh God, that's wild, wild! Sleep, Mag, that's bound to be good for you. [He lifts her blazer and spreads it over her] There. God almighty! Cut open. [Takes the blazer off] Maybe you'll be too warm. God, I'd sit ten exams every day sooner than this! Don't say a word, Maggie; just sleep and rest! That twenty-three pound fifteen -- it's for you, Maggie. And I want you to -- to -- to squander it just as you wish: fur coats, dresses, perfumes, makeup, all that stuff -- anything in the world you want -- don't even tell me what you spend it on; I don't want to know. It's yours. And curtains for the window -- whatever you like. God, Mag, I never thought for a minute it was that sort of thing!

[He looks closely at her] Mag. [whispers] Mag, I'm not half good enough for you. I'm jealous and mean and spiteful and cruel. But I'll try to be tender to you and good to you; and that won't be hard because even when I'm not with you -- just when I think of you -- I go all sort of silly and I say to myself over and over again: I'm crazy about Maggie Enright; and so I am -- crazy about you. You're a thousand times too good for me. But I'll try to be good to you; honest to God, I'll try.

[He kisses her hand and replaces it carefully across her body. Then with sudden venom] Those Caesars were all gets!

[He takes an apple from one of the lunchbags, gets out his penknife and peels it. As he does he talks to Mag even though he knows she is asleep] I hope it's a girl, like you; with blonde hair like yours. 'Cause if it's a boy it'll be a bloody hash, like me. And every night when I come home from Skeehan's office I'll teach her maths and she'll grow up to be a prodigy. I saw a program on TV once about an American professor who spoke to his year-old daughter in her cot in four different languages for an hour every day; and when the child began to talk she could converse in German, French, Spanish and Italian. Imagine if my aul fella looked down into our wee girl's cot and she shouted up to him "Buenos dias!!" Cripes, he'd think she was giving him a tip for a horse! I hope to God it's a girl. But if it's twins I'd rather have two boys or two girls than ...

[He glances shyly at Maggie and trails off sheepishly when he realizes he has fallen into her speech pattern]

... D'You hear me? That's the way married people go. They even begin to look alike. Wonder, is old Skinny Skeehan married? I bet she looks like a gate-post ... Your father, Mag, my God, he's such a fine man. And your mother -- I mean she's such a fine woman. I remember -- oh, I was only a boy at the time -- I remember seeing them walking together out the DublinRoad; And I thought they were so -- you know -- so dignified looking. I'd like to be like him. God, such a fine man. And so friendly to everyone. You're lucky to have parents like that ... My aul fella -- lifting the dole on a Friday -- that's what he lives for. She laughs and calls him her man Friday; but I don't know how she can laugh at it. And to listen to him talking -- cripes, you'd think he was bloody Solomon. How can he sit on his backside and watch her go out every morning with her apron wrapped in a newspaper under her arm -- Honest to God, I don't know how he does it. I said to her once, you know; called him a loafer or something. And you should have seen her face. I thought she was going to hit me! "Don't you ever -- ever -- say the likes of that again. You'll never be half the man he is." Loyalty, I suppose; 'cause when you're that age, you hardly -- you know -- really love your husband or wife anymore ... Did I ever tell you what he does when there's no racing? He has this tin trunk under his bed; he keeps all my old school reports in it. And he sits up there in the cold and takes out the trunk and pores over all those old papers -- term reports and all, away back to my primary school days! Real nut! I know damn well when he's at it 'cause I can hear the noise of the trunk on the lino. And once when I went into the room he tried to stuff all the papers out of sight. Strange, too, isn't it ... You know, we never speak at all, except maybe "Is the tea ready" or "Bring in some coal." ... Sitting up there in that freezing attic, going over my old marks ... Maybe when I'm older, maybe we'll go to football matches together, like Peadar Donnelly and his aul fella ... I don't like football matches but he does; and we wouldn't have to speak to each other -- except going and coming back ... Three years is no length for a degree. And I think myself I'd be a good teacher.

[Mag speaks but does not move or open her eyes. Her voice is sleepy]

MAG. What time is it?

JOE. Quarter to two.

MAG. Call me at half-past, will you? I have a bit of revision to do.

JOE. A bit! You've done nothing! [Mag has dropped off again] Mag!

MAG. Mm?

JOE. That's all right! You go ahead and sleep! But I'm tellin gyou; if I die of a heart attach and leave you with a dozen kids, you'll be damned sorry you haven't your GCE ordinary levels! [Mag sits up and stares at him. He goes on defiantly] I'm just being practical. Nowadays you're fit for nothing unless you have an education. And you needn't stare at me like that; any qualification is better than nothing. You'll always get some sort of job. Hennigan that teaches us PT -- that's all he has -- is GCE. And I'm telling you, I wouldn't give a shilling for your chances at the moment!

MAG. And the children?

JOE. What children?

MAG. Who's going to look after the dozen children when I'm up at St. Kevin's teaching physical jerks?

JOE. Oh, you're very smart.

MAG. And where, may I ask, did the round dozen come from all of a sudden?

JOE. Cut it out, will you? YOu know what I meant.

MAG. Indeed I do. And if you think I'm going to spend my days like big Bridie Brogan --

JOE. Who's she supposed to be?

MAG. She's married to a second cousin once removed of Joan O'Hara's --

JOE. God, I might have known! If there's anyone I hate --

MAG. -- and after her third baby the doctor told her she'd die if she had any more; but her husband was an Irish brute and she had a fourth baby ---

JOE. And she died.

MAG. She didn't die, smartie. But she lost her sight. And then she had a fifth baby --

JOE. And she died.

MAG. -- and she went deaf. And she couldn't watch after the sixth. And after the seventh she had to get all her teeth out --

JOE. Sounds like the Rose of Tralee.

MAG. And by the time she had ten --

JOE. Her husband died laughing at her.

MAG. She developed pernicious micropia.

JOE. Pernicious what?

MAG. I'm not in the habit of repeating myself. Anyhow she's thirty-three now and --

JOE. You made that word up.

MAG. I did not.

JOE. You did, Maggie.

MAG. I did not.

JOE. Say it again, then.

MAG. I told you -- I'm not in ---

JOE. Pernicious what?

MAG. You're too ignorant to have heard of it. My father came across frequent cases of it. I don't suppose your parents ever heard of it. [As soon as she has said this, she regrets it. But she cannot retract now. Joe's banter is suddenly ended. He is quietly furious.]

JOE. Just what do you mean by that?

MAG. What I say.

JOE. I said, what do you mean by that remark?

MAG. You heard me.

JOE. You insulted my parents -- deliberately.

MAG. I was talking about a disease.

JOE. You think they're nobody, don't you?

MAG. You were mocking me.

JOE. And you think your parents are somebody, don't you?

[Mag picks up a book, opens it at random, turns her back to him, and begins to read]

MAG. I have revision to do.

JOE. Well, let me tell you, madam, that my father may be temporarily unemployed, but he pays his bills; and my mother may be a charwoman but she isn't running out to the mental hospital for treatment every couple of months. And if you think the Brennans aren't swanky enough for you, then, by God, you shouldn't be in such a hurry to marry one of them! [As soon as he has said this, he regrets it. But he cannot retract now.] You dragged that out of me. But it happens to be the truth. And it's better that it should come out now than after we're married. At least we know where we stand ... [His anger is dead] Margaret? ... Maggie? ... [stiff again] Well, it was you that started it. And if you're going into another of your huffs, I swear to you I'm not going to be the first to speak this time. [He picks up a book, opens it at random, turns his back to her, and begins to read]

WOMAN. At the post-mortem on the evening of June 21, evidence of identification was given by Walter Enright. He said that the body recovered form Lough Gorm was the body of his daughter, Margaret Mary Enright.

MAN. Michael Brennan identified the male body as that of his son, Joseph Michael Brennan.

WOMAN. Doctor Watson said that he examined the bodies of both the deceased. There were no marks of violence on either, he said. And in his opinion -- which, he submitted, was given after a hasty examination -- death in both cases was due to asphyxiation.

MAN. Mr. Skeehan, the coroner, asked was there any evidence as to how both deceased fell into the water. Sergeant Finlay replied that there was no evidence.

WOMAN. A verdict in accordance with the medical evidence was returned. Mr. Akeehan and Sergeant Finlay expressed their grief and the grief of the community to the parents. And it was agreed that the inquest should be held as soon as possible because the coroner took his annual vacation in the month of July.

The Books: "Sylvia" (AR Gurney)

Next in my Daily Book Excerpt:

I am still on my script shelf

Next play in my little unalphabetized pile of Samuel French plays is Sylvia, by AR Gurney. We are really coming close to the end now of my first bookshelf. Amazing. This project is going to take forever. I'm enjoying it - I espeically enjoy it because I get to reacquaint myself with all of the books I have. I'm realizing, too, that there are gaps in my library. Stuff I need to rectify. For example: no theatrical library is complete without some Edward Albee in it. I also have no Sam Shepard in my library - and although I think 98% of his plays are crap - the other 2% are not - I love True West and Fool for Love - they are important plays, and I need to have them. I also have no David Mamet. This is not good. I need some Mamet. I had not realized I had these gaps until I went through the whole collection. Gotta get on that.

So. Gurney's Sylvia

FUNNY play. I would loooove to play Sylvia.

The plot is this: Greg and Kate are married and have been married for 25 years or something like that. They have grown children, blah blah. They have lived in the suburbs their whole lives - but now that their kids are grown, they have moved into Manhattan. They're at a transition in their marriage. Greg's career is a bit stalled - while Kate's career (she's a teacher) is starting to heat up. In the middle of this - Greg finds a stray dog in the park - she has the name "Sylvia" on her dog tag. Sylvia is played by an actress. We get the inner monologue of the dog. SO FUNNY. It's not like it's a talking dog. Sylvia is just barking. But we, the audience, hears what she's really saying. Greg actually does have conversations with her - in-depth conversations - but Sylvia could be just barking in response - and Greg FEELS like they are having a deep deep talk. Sarah Jessica Parker originated this role. It would just be so fun to do, I think! Sylvia starts to drive a wedge between Greg and Kate. The tensions in the marriage come to the forefront. Kate starts to see the dog as a rival. Greg clearly prefers hanging out with Sylvia to hanging out with her. But in the scene I'm about to post - Greg also has some jealousy issues, in regards to Sylvia. He wants to be the only "man" in her life. The whole thing is ridiculously funny - but also very touching and real.

I just love the thought process of the dog.

This scene takes place in the park. Sylvia has a "crush" on another dog named Bowser. Greg and Bowser's owner Tom, watch Sylvia - who is "playing" offstage with Bowser.

From Sylvia
, by AR Gurney

GREG. Sylvia's having a ball out there.

TOM. Life of the party, isn't she?

GREG. She's been to the beauty parlor again. [Both watch]

TOM. Or else she's in heat.

GREG. Naw.

TOM. She may be.

GREG. What makes you think so?

TOM. The way she carries her tush. [They watch] Did you ever get her spayed?

GREG. Not yet. I took your advice about waiting. [They watch] Is Bowser fixed?

TOM. Nope. It's different.

GREG. Is it? [They watch]

TOM. Call her. See if she'll come.

GREG. Of course she'll come.

TOM. Not if she's in heat.

GREG. [calling] Sylvia! ... Sylvia, come! [to Tom] See? She's coming immediately. [Sylvia comes on]

SYLVIA. Hi, Greg! [to Tom] Hello, Tom. Did I ever tell you how fond I was of Bowser?

GREG. You're not in heat, are you, sweetheart?

SYLVIA. Me? Naw. No way.

GREG. Didn't think so.

SYLVIA. [to herself] I just feel like fucking, that's all.

TOM. She seems to be asking for it.

GREG. She's just being affectionate.

SYLVIA. [to herself] I want to fuckie-fuck-fuck.

TOM. I think she's definitely in heat.

GREG. It's just natural affection.

SYLVIA. May I go now?

GREG. Sure, Sylvia. Go play.

SYLVIA. [going off] Hey Bowser! Ready or not, here I come! And I want to fuck toot sweet! [She runs off. Pause]

GREG. You may be right. She may be in heat.

TOM. I think she is.

GREG. What do I do if she is?

TOM. Keep her inside.

GREG. With my wife?

TOM. Then send her away.

GREG. My wife?

TOM. Sylvia!

GREG. I'm not going to send her away.

TOM. Just for the duration.

GREG. Out of the question.

TOM. Then keep her on a leash at all times. And don't bring her into the park. If you let her loose, you're just asking for -- [Looks out] Uh oh.

GREG. What?

TOM. Where's Bowser?

GREG. Where's Sylvia? [They look around]

TOM. Look. Over there. Behind that bush.

GREG. Shit.

TOM. I told you!

GREG. [starting off] I'll break it up!

TOM. Too late. They're locked.

GREG. I don't care. I've got to --

TOM. You'd hurt her.

GREG. But ...

TOM. Hey, Greg! Think about her for a change! This is her big moment! What has she done for most of her life? Lie around in an apartment. Take an occasional walk at the end of a leash. Give her this, at least. Let her have something to remember. [They stand watching]

GREG. That bastard.

TOM. Who? Bowser?

GREG. He raped her.

TOM. Come off it.

GREG. Bowser raped Sylvia!

TOM. She asked for it! She shoved it right in his face!

GREG. [grabbing Tom by the shirt] Listen, fella. You're talking about my ... [Lets go] dog.

TOM. See? See what we're doing? We're thinking of them as people.

GREG. Right. [They watch] Oh Sylvia ... Sylvia ... Sylvia ...

TOM. After this, you should have her fixed.

GREG. And you should have Bowser neutered.

TOM. Nope. Sorry. It would ruin his personality. There's a major difference between castration and just having your tubes tied, Greg. Think about it.

GREG. [poking him in the chest] I see. So once again, the women of this world are being asked to suffer the consequences of male aggression. Oh boy, I'm tellin gyou. I'm learning a lot about life these days.

TOM. Cool it, Greg. [They watch]

GREG. Do these things always take?

TOM. Not always.

GREG. I almost wish it would.

TOM. Why?

GREG. Sylvia'd make a wonderful mother.

TOM. It's tough having puppies. Particularly in town.

GREG. But I'd be there for her. I'd pitch right in. I'd build a special box for her, with newspapers and a blanket and get right in there and give a hand. It would give us more in common. Hey, when Kate and I had our kids, I pulled my weight, let me tell you. I helped feed them, and change them, and give them their baths. And on Sunday mornings, we'd bring them into our bed, and we'd all hunker down under the covers. I'd do the same with Sylvia and her pups. Why we'd all ... Together we'd ... Why, we'd ... [He runs out of steam. Pause]

TOM. You're sick, man.

GREG. I know it.

TOM. Get her to the vet. First thing.

GREG. Right.

TOM. And get yourself to a shrink.

GREG. Mmmm.

TOM. [looks out] Well. [Watches vicariously] Looks like they're done. [checks watch] Hey. It's late ... [stretches, flexes, lights a cigarette] Come on, Bowser! Let's go, Big Guy! Shake a leg, O Studly One! [he goes off proudly, smoking]

GREG. [calling after him] You macho bastard! [Greg kicks the ground angrily. After a moment, Sylvia comes on. Pause. They look at each other] Well, well.

SYLVIA. You speaking to me?

GREG. Have a good time out there?

SYLVIA. I believe it's time to go home.

GREG. I said, did you have a good time?

SYLVIA. I'd prefer not to discuss it.

GREG. Do you like Bowser?

SYLVIA. Who?

GREG. You know damn well who. Bowser. That big guy with his tail up, heading home.

SYLVIA. [looking off] Oh him.

GREG. Do you like him?

SYLVIA. It's really none of your business, Greg.

GREG. Oh no? Seems to me out there you made it everybody's business.

SYLVIA. Look, Greg. I happen to be exhausted.

GREG. I'll bet you are.

SYLVIA. I am tired, I am hungry, and I am not going to stand around this park discussing ancient history. What happened between me and Bowser is over and done with. It was just a fling, Greg. Just a dumb, silly fling. We both got temporarily carried away. Now, let's leave it at that.

GREG. Will it happen again?

SYLVIA. What do you mean?

GREG. Are you still in heat, Sylvia?

SYLVIA. [rubbing her back against something] I refuse to recognize that expression. I find it somewhat demeaning.

GREG. You are, aren't you?

SYLVIA. I'm not saying I am, I'm not saying I'm not.

GREG. Seem sto me a little operation is in order.

SYLVIA. Which means?

GREG. Never mind, but I'm calling the vet first thing.

SYLVIA. That sounds like you plan to punish me.

GREG. No, no.

SYLVIA. It certainly sounds that way.

GREG. It's for your own good.

SYLVIA. Oh yeah, sure. Tell me another.

GREG. I just wish you could exercise a little more self-control.

SYLVIA. May we change the subject, please? May we get on with our lives? [taking the leash, handing him his end] May we make some attempt to move towards home. I happen to be quite hungry.

GREG. I'll bet you are. Let's go. [They start off. Suddenly she stops]

SYLVIA. Hold it.

GREG. What?

SYLVIA. [jumping onto the bench] Get a load of that dalmatian over there.

GREG. What about him?

SYLVIA. Look at the balls on that guy!

GREG. Let's go, Sylvia.

SYLVIA. On second thought, maybe I want to stay.

GREG. [pulling at her] Jesus, you're a slut, Sylvia. You're a promiscuous slut. It's under the knife for you, kid. First thing.

SYLVIA. You're jealous, aren't you?

GREG. Not at all.

SYLVIA. Yes you are. You're jealous!

GREG. I am not! I just happen to think you can do better, that's all!

SYLVIA. Yeah, yeah, yeah ... [They exit]

The Books: "Steel Magnolias" (Robert Harling)

Next in my Daily Book Excerpt:

I am still on my script shelf

Next play in my little unalphabetized pile of Samuel French plays is Steel Magnolias(DPS Acting Edition), by Robert Harling

I understudied the role of Annelle (Darryl Hannah's part in the movie) at the Walnut Street Theatre in Philadelphia. I never got to go on, sadly. I had to learn the role by myself, learn the blocking from watching the show, and keep it all in my head for the entirety of the run - just in case the actress playing Annelle broke her ankle or whatever. It was quite nerve-wracking, but also kind of fun. Too bad I didn't get to go on.

I probably don't need to go over the plot. Y'all know it. The movie made of this script pretty much kept the spirit of the original intact - the only thing added in the film is all the male characters. There are no males in the play - they are just referenced, and talked about. The whole play takes place in the salon.

I'll excerpt the opening scene of the play:

From Steel Magnolias(DPS Acting Edition), by Robert Harling

[The Curtain rises on Truvy's beauty shop. There are the sounds of gunshots and a dog barking. Annelle is spraying Truvy's hair with more hairspray than necessary]

ANNELLE. Oops! I see a hole.

TRUVY. I was hoping you'd catch that.

ANNELLE. It's a little poofier than I would normally do, but I'm nervous.

TRUVY. I'm not really concerned about that. When I go to bed I wrap my entire head with toilet tissue so it usually gets a little smushed down anyway in that process.

ANNELLE. In my class at the trade school, I was number one when it came to frosting and streaking. I did my own.

TRUVY. Really? I wouldn't have known. And I can spot a bottle job at twenty paces. Well ... your technique is good, and your form and content will improve with experience. So, you're hired.

ANNELLE. [overcome] Oh!

TRUVY. And not a moment too soon! This morning we're going to be as busy as a one-armed paper hanger.

ANNELLE. Thank you, Miss Truvy! Thank you ...

TRUVY. No time. Now. You know where the coffee stuff is. Everything else is on a tray next to the stove. [Truvy removes her smock]

ANNELLE. Here. Let me help you. [dusts her off] You've got little tiny hairs and fuzzies all over you.

TRUVY. Honey, there's so much static electricity in here I pick up everything except boys and money. [points Annelle toward the kitchen] Be a treasure. [Annelle exits into the kitchen. Truvy immediately starts redoing her hairdo] Annelle? This is the most successful shop in town. Wanna know why?

ANNELLE. Why?

TRUVY. Because I have a strict philosophy that I have stuck to for fifteen years ... "There is no such thing as natural beauty". That's why I've never lost a client to the Kut and Kurl or the Beauty Box. And remember! My ladies get only the best. Do not scrimp on anything. Feel free to use as much hair spray as you want. [Annelle returns with the tray. The sound of a gunshot makes her jump, but she recovers] Just shove that stuff to one side, it goes right there. [pointing out the room] Manicure station here ..

ANNELLE. There's no such thing as natural beauty ...

TRUVY. Remember that, or we're all out of a job. Just look at me, Annelle. It takes some effort to look like this.

ANNELLE. I can see that. How many ladies do we have this morning?

TRUVY. I restrict myself to the ladies of the neighborhood on Saturday mornings. Normally that would be just three, but today we've got Shelby Eatenton. She's not a regular, she's the daughter of a regular. I have to do something special with her hair. She's getting married this afternoon. Now. How long have you been here in town?

ANNELLE. A few weeks ...

TRUVY. New in town! It must be exciting being in a new place. I wouldn't know. I've lived here all my life.

ANNELLE. It's a little scary.

TRUVY. I can imagine. Well ... tell me things about yourself.

ANNELLE. There's nothing to tell. I live here. I've got a job now. That's it. Could I borrow a few of these back issues of Southern Hair?

TRUVY. Uh ... sure. It's essential to keep abreast of the latest styles. I'm glad to see your interest. I get McCall's, Family Circle, Glamour, Mademoiselle, Ladies' Home Journal, every magazine known to man. You must live close by. Within walking distance, I mean. I didn't see a car.

ANNELLE. My car's ... I don't have a car. I've been staying across the river at Robeline's Boarding House.

TRUVY. That's quite a walk. Ruth Robeline ... now there's a story. She's a twisted, troubled soul. Her life has been an experiment in terror. Husband killed in World War II. Her son was killed in Vietnam. I have to tell you, when it comes to suffering, she's right up there with Elizabeth Taylor.

ANNELLE. I had no idea. [There is a loud gunshot and barking] Is that a gunshot?

TRUVY. Yes, dear. I believe it is. Plug in the hotplate, please.

ANNELLE. But why is someone firing a gun in a nice neighborhood like this?

TRUVY. It's a long story. It has to do with Shelby's wedding and her father. [More gunfire and barking] You'll be happier if you just ignore it like the rest of the neighborhood.

CLAIREE. [entering] Knock, knock!

TRUVY. Morning, Clairee!

CLAIREE. Morning, Truvy.

TRUVY. I tried to call you and tell you I was running late.

CLAIREE. I was at the high school. I was out at the crack of dawn.

TRUVY. Annelle, I want you to meet the former first lady of Chinquapin, Mrs. Belcher. Clairee, this is Annelle. She's taking Judy's place.

ANNELLE. Pleased to meet you.

CLAIREE. I'm a little embarrassed. If I had known I was meeting new people, I would have taken a little more pride in my appearance. I have been at the dedication of our new football field. I am not always this windblown.

TRUVY. Annelle. They named the stadium after her late husband ... Lloyd Belcher Memorial Coliseum. The team has voted her all sorts of special titles.

CLAIREE. I have the pom-poms to prove it. What is your name, dear?

ANNELLE. Oh. My married name's Dupuy.

CLAIREE. I don't think I know any Dupuys.

ANNELLE. I just moved here. I'm originally from Zwolle.

CLAIREE. That explains it. Truvy? I thought I brought you those recipes. [She fumbles with her shirt that has no pockets]

TRUVY. Clairee. The reason I called is, do you mind if I do Shelby first?

CLAIREE. That's fine. I'll amuse myself. Shelby's the most important one today. [A gunshot] That man! I'll swanee ... I think the situation is worse than ever.

TRUVY. Annelle? We're going to need more towels. They're stacked up next to the washing machine. [Annelle exits]

CLAIREE. Sweet girl. Where'd you find her?

TRUVY. She heard I had a position open and she just walked in. I think there's a story here.

CLAIREE. What makes you say that?

TRUVY. For starters. She's married ... but she lives at Ruth Robelines. [Clairee reacts] Alone.

CLAIREE. I'd get to the bottom of this, if I were you. You have some nice silverware you'd like to keep.

TRUVY. Oh, I'm not worried about that. She's very nice. I just love the idea of hiring someone with a past.

CLAIREE. She can't be more than eighteen. She hasn't had time to have a past.

TRUVY. Honey. It's the eighties. If you can achieve puberty, you can achive a past.

[Annelle enters carrying towels. Clairee sips her coffee and grimaces.]

CLAIREE. Yuck! [Truvy, concerned, takes a sip]

TRUVY. Annelle? How did you make this coffee?

ANNELLE. Like you said. I poured hot water through the thing.

TRUVY. Where'd you get the water?

ANNELLE. It was boiling on the stove.

TRUVY. Did you notice the hot dogs in the bottom of the pot?

ANNELLE. No.

TRUVY. Make some more, please.

ANNELLE. I'm so sorry.

CLAIREE. Don't worry. I love a good hot dog. Just not with cream and sugar. [Annelle exits]

TRUVY. She's probably not an international spy.

The Books: "Coastal Disturbances" (Tina Howe)

Next in my Daily Book Excerpt:

I am still on my script shelf

Next play in my little unalphabetized pile of Samuel French plays is Coastal Disturbances, by Tina Howe

I wrote more about Tina Howe's plays here. Coastal Disturbances got its first production on Broadway in the mid-80s - 1986, I think. It was Annette Bening's big break. I remember the buzz around her performance - and I remember her performance from the Tony Awards show. They did a scene from the show. Also - Tim Daly was in it. I LOVE Tim Daly - where is he now? What a handsome talented actor.

There are many challenges to Coastal Disturbances - the main one being that it takes place on a beach. So the stage needs to be covered in sand. There are sand castles to be made - people need to buried in the sand, all of this is written into the script. Tina Howe thought that was an interesting thing to put on the stage: She wrote in the notes to the play: "There's something wonderfully audacious about setting a play on a beach. Since the audience is sitting indoors, major trickery is called for. The key is embracing it with high spirits. It's all just a matter of illusion. Only four elements are needed, and none of them cost very much -- sand, scrim, paint and light. The amount of sand you'll need will depend on the size of your stage. Be sure to hollow out several pits, one so Holly can be buried, and otehrs to accommodate beach umbrella poles and the tent at the end. Also, the sand must be watered down before each performance so the actors won't sneeze or choke to death. The real challenge of the design is capturing the movement of the beach because the weather and time of day are always changing. One scene takes place at dawn, another on a dappled afternoon, the next during a violent thunderstorm. The restlessness of the ocean and sky have to read on dry land. Of course the actors are a great help in playing it all, but finally it's paint, light, fabric and imagination that make it real."

The other challenge of the play is that there are two kids in it - and they have pretty big parts - and they have to be kind of CRAZY kids, kids on summer vacation - and finding child actors who are not disgusting is always a challenge. You have to find kids who are real kids.

The play takes place on a private beach on the North Shore of Massachusetts. Leo, a 28 year old HOTTIE, is the lifeguard (Tim Daly played him). His physical beauty is referenced all the time. He is recovering from a bad breakup. He likes to escape on his sailboat. He's a great character. He is a lightning rod for controversy. Everyone on the beach either finds him hot, or creepy - the opinions are split. People also wonder why he is a lifeguard - aren't lifeguards supposed to be 18? Why is he such a loser that he is still a lifeguard?

Holly (played by Annette Bening) is a neurotic girl who is staying with her aunt - she's in the middle of having a nervous breakdown. She can't stop crying. She does her best to keep it together, but she bursts into sobs at the drop of a hat. She is a photographer. She also is recovering from a bad breakup - with a French gallery owner, I believe - who sounds like a pretentious jackass. He does show up on the beach towards the end of the play, wearing his gorgeous clothes, looking so out of place ... he's looking for Holly.

So Leo has the hots for Holly from the second he sees her. He hovers over her. He asks her out. She is usually crying when he does ask her out, so she misses the message. Any time Leo touches her, even casually, she jumps back as if burned. She is completely awed and overcome by his beauty - which is the main reason she pushes him away. Her lust for him makes her feel totally out of control.

There are other people who hang out on the beach - people who live along that stretch. There's an elderly retired couple - she's an amateur watercolorist, he is a retired surgeon who now collects shells. They squabble. There are also two women, once friends of Holly, who now live in the world of marriage, divorce, and kids. They look at Holly, with her artistic career, and her nervous breakdown, as though she is some exotic bird. They are judgmental. But really they're just jealous. The two kids are Miranda and Winston - they are best buddies - and they wreak havoc up and down the beach.

Here is the scene where Leo and Holly finally ... "hook up". This was the scene they did on the Tony Awards show, so many years ago. The "hook up" happens after Leo gets a piece of broken glass out of Miranda's foot. He is the hero of the moment. Holly still doesn't know how to talk to Leo, because she basically just wants to gape at his beauty - but here is the conversation that occurs.

From Coastal Disturbances, by Tina Howe

[Holly sits alone on the beach, deeply affected by Leo's gallantry. He returns and walks over to her. A silence]

LEO. Well, that was quite a ... [He moves to sit next to her] May I ...?

HOLLY. Sure. [They sit side by side. The sun begins to set giving the sky a rosy glow]

LEO. Listen, about what happened the other day, I'm ...

HOLLY. Hey, no problem.

LEO. ... really sorry. I don't know what ...

HOLLY. It's okay. [a silence]

LEO. I usually don't come on like that.

HOLLY. It's okay.

LEO. If you've been with somebody a long time, you forget how to ... You know, three years is a ...

HOLLY. [putting her hand on his arm] You were really wonderful just now.

LEO. Come on.

HOLLY. No, you were. [a silence] The way you lifted her up in your arms ... [Leo moves to kiss her. She edges away] Leo, no.

LEO. [tries again] Holly ...

HOLLY. I can't ... [she starts to cry]

LEO. [putting his arm around her] Holly ....

HOLLY. Oh boy, here we go again ...

LEO. What's wrong?

HOLLY. Once I get started I ...

LEO. Hey, hey ...

HOLLY. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to ... Oh God! ... See, I'm just recovering from something myself. It's so ... DUMB! I mean, you lived with someone for three years ... Talk about setting yourself up ...! He just owns the most important photography gallery in the city, that's all. You know, power and promises ... beautiful women falling all over him ... the whole charismatic thing ... sweeping into rooms and making everyone's heart stop.

LEO. Ah yes, there's nothing like the good old charismatic thing.

HOLLY. The sexy accent and swimming eyes ... kissing you on either cheek ...

LEO. The good old charismatic-kissing-you-on-either-cheek thing.

HOLLY. Lowering his voice and swearing allegiance to only you.

LEO. The good old charismatic-kissing-you-on-either-cheek-swearing-allegiance-to-only-you thing.

HOLLY. Tying yourself in knots, trying to impress him all the time. I mean, who are we trying to kid ...? What if the man were a chef or a jockey instead ...? But of course he isn't. So round and round I go, trying not to be crazy, but then he walks into the room and ... [she starts weeping again] I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

LEO. Yeah, well, what can you do ...? It's like with me and Linda. She keeps saying I'm too much for her, but instead of backing off, I just get crazier.

HOLLY. I know, I know.

LEO. It's a vicious circle.

HOLLY. Tell me about it.

LEO. You try and control yourself ....

HOLLY. Forget it.

LEO. You try not to get upset.

HOLLY. Please!

LEO. You say, just wait 'til next time.

HOLLY. I know. [Leo sighs deeply. Holly sighs deeply. A silence. Holly stretches out on the sand] God, I love this beach.

LEO. Yeah ...

HOLLY. It's so comforting to think it's always been here.

LEO. Mmmm ...

HOLLY. Before the Pilgrims .. before Christopher Columbus ... before the Indians even.

LEO. Yeah.

HOLLY. It's funny, you never picture Indians being at the beach, but they must have been. Can't you just see it ...? Teepee cabanas dotting the sand ... braves surf boarding on totem poles ... squaws sunning themselves on Navajo blankets ... [Leo starts drizzling sand over her legs] And before them, cavemen and saber-toothed tigers ... three-toed horses tiptoing across the sand like little pigs ... [She makes little rooting noises and laughs] Oh, that feels good ... You know what I read in a book ...? That the island of Atlantis was really inhabited by dolphins.

LEO. Come on.

HOLLY. No, it's true. They used to have legs and live on land.

LEO. Sure, sure.

HOLLY. I'm serious. If you dissect a dolphin, you'll find these residual flippers tucked up beneath its stomach. They used to be legs, but when Atlantis sank, the dolphins had to go with it and adapt.

LEO. And if a cat had a square ass, it would shit bricks.

HOLLY. I'm telling you, it's a fact! Dolphins used to walk around just like people! They wore pin-striped suits and carried briefcases!

LEO. Whatever you say.

HOLLY. Come on, everyone knows dophins are more like us than any other species. So, the resemblance has slipped a little, they probably had colonies right here -- on this very spot. I can feel it! ... They were tremendously social, you know. They loved to party. [Leo begins burying her in earnest] ... During the mating season, out came the dancing shoes and there'd be this ... stampede down the Atlantic coast. The men, or bulls, I guess you'd call them, wearing seaweed tuxedoes with mother-of-pearl studs, and the cows draping themselves with garlands of periwinkle and abalone ... Don't you love it how they always call male sea animals ... bulls?! "Hey, I caught me a great bull walrus today!" ... "Woa, look at that bull manatee go!" ... [She starts laughing breathless freom the weight of the sand] Oh God, I can just see it! ... Wall-to-wall dophins boogying from Miami clear up to Canada ... This pulsing silver tide for as far as the eye can see ... The surf creeping higher and higher, packing them in ... lovesick couples sinking down to the ground ... flippers arching, backs yielding, avalances of seaweed and sand starting to roll ... Boy, do I feel weird ... [laughing and giddy] I'm so lighthanded all of a sudden. I mean, headed. Lights in the head. Get it? Head lights! Boy, I really do feel strange ... [Leo finished with his handiwork, stands over her and sings a wavering note of triumph]

HOLLY. [tries to rise] Hey, what's ...

LEO. [dancing around her] I've got you now.

HOLLY. I CAN'T MOVE!

LEO. [circling her, rubbing his hands like a villain] You're mine, all mine!

HOLLY. [struggling to get out] LEO, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME?

LEO. [laughing tenderly] I wish you could see yourself.

HOLLY. It's not funny! Get me out of here!

LEO. [starts to leave] Well, so long. Don't take any wooden nickels.

HOLLY. HEY, WHERE ARE YOU GOING? I'LL BE EATEN ALIVE BY SEA GULLS AND HORSESHOE CRABS! [He exits. Holly's voice gets weaker and weaker] HELP ... Help ... Hellllp ... [A silence, then in a sexy sing-song] LEO ...? Oh Leo ...?

LEO. [popping into view and settling beside her] You called?

HOLLY. You're a real son of a bitch, you know that?

LEO. Actually, I'm a very sweet guy.

HOLLY. Sure, sure.

LEO. No, that's my problem. I just come on a little strong. But underneath ...

HOLLY. You're crazy, you know that?

LEO. I'm a nice guy. [A silence] So how're you doing?

HOLLY. I've got an itch on my nose.

LEO. [scratches it] How's that?

HOLLY. Thank you.

LEO. Any time, any time.

HOLLY. Actually, you are a sweet guy, you just have a peculiar way of ...

LEO. Holly, I'm falling in love with you. I don't know what to do. [Silence] I don't know. I can't get my signals straight. I keep thinking you feel the same way. I have these dreams and you're always beckoning to me, opening your arms and smiling, I'm so confused all the time.

HOLLY. Leo, don't ...

LEO. No, I've got to say it. Last night you began undressing me and whispering all these things ...

HOLLY. [losing more and more ground] Please ...

LEO. Like all that shit just now about dolphins making it on the beach. I had the feeling something else was going on. You know what I mean ...? That you were telling me you wanted me -- all that crap about arching backs and waving flippers. I mean, Jesus Christ ...

HOLLY. Leo, no ...

LEO. So admit it.

HOLLY. Don't ...

LEO. Just admit it, for Christsakes! [Holly sighs long and deeply] Come on, what are you afraid of ...?

HOLLY. I'm just so ...

LEO. I can't take this anymore. I mean, are yo uplaying with me or what?

HOLLY. No, no, I'm ...

LEO. So then I'm right.

HOLLY. Oh God ...

LEO. You do ... you know ...

HOLLY. [in a whisper, shutting her eyes] Oh yes, yes. If you knew how much.

LEO. [kneeling down next to her] Holly, Holly ...

HOLLY. Leo!

LEO. [eases down over her, covering her face with kisses] Oh baby! [Waves crash in the distance.]

AS THE CURTAIN QUICKLY FALLS

The Books: "The Dark at the Top of the Stairs" (William Inge)

Next in my Daily Book Excerpt:

I am still on my script shelf

Next play in my little unalphabetized pile of Samuel French plays is The Dark at the Top of the Stairs, by William Inge

Man, I did this play once. I was so miscast. I was 22 years old and I was cast as Cora - who is the mother of two teenagers. And my husband was a CHEESY actor who was probably 45 years old. He WASN'T miscast - but I WAS - and the fact that we were married ... It just was ridiculous. It made me look like Helen Hunt in the child bride of Short Creek. But you know, I did my best. I tried to create an older woman, yadda yadda, and it didn't work, but whatever. I was only 2 years older than the girl cast as my teenage daughter.

I haven't read the play in years so I picked it up this this morning to flip through it. I remember nothing. So weird! The only scene I have a vague memory of is the one between Cora and her sister Lottie. I think the reason I remember that is because I became friends with the woman who played Lottie - she was a terrific actress, and I liked working with her.

As far as I can tell, the plot is this:

It takes place in the 1920s in a small Oklahoma town that is experiencing a boom economically - you can feel the Jazz Age hovering on the fringes of the culture. The teenage girls in the play want to bob their hair - they love Rudolph Valentino - etc. Cora and Rubin are married. They have two children - Reenie and Sonny. Sonny is about 8 years old, and Reenie is in high school and she is an introspective withdrawn type girl - she would rather sit at home and play the piano than go out on dates, etc. Cora is very frustrated with Reenie. She kind of wants a different daughter - one that's a bit more girlie-girlie. Also, Reenie is kind of a whiner. Cora has had it.

There are problems in the marriage. Something's going on. Rubin is not very involved in his duties as a parent. Cora begs with him, pleads. Eventually things come to such a head (he slaps her one night) that she throws him out of the house. She wants to take her kids and go and live with her sister Lottie and her husband. Somehow this doesn't work out - because Lottie has problems of her own. She basically says to Cora: "You need to grow up, and figure out your own solution."

Reenie is forced (by her mother) to go to a party. Cora has ordered a dress for her, had it altered - even arranged for her to have a date - with a young man who is actually from California, but he is going to the military academy nearby. His name is Sammy Goldenbaum. Reenie is shy (and annoying) but Cora forces her to go through with it. Now Sammy just shows up for one scene - he comes to pick up Reenie for the party - but this is just one instance of Inge's beauty as a playwright - He invests Sammy with a lot of meaning, almost right away. He has become a symbol - at least in Cora's eyes - but also: Nobody in an Inge play is two-dimensional. Even someone with 2 lines has depth. Sammy is a terrific character. Inge describes him on his first entrance: "He is a darkly beautiful young man of 17, with lustrous black hair, black eyes, and a captivating smile. Yet, there seems something a little foreign about him at least in comparison with the Midwestern company in which he now finds himself. He could be a Persian prince, strayed from his native kingdom. But he has become adept over the years in adapting himself, and he shows an eagerness to make friends and be liked." In casual conversation, it is revealed that his mother is "in moving pictures" - and you can get the sense that she is kind of wild, and that she couldn't deal with having a kid - so she just shuffled him off to military school. He is the only Jew in the school. But Sammy seems always determined to put a positive spin on things. (This is all the more interesting and tragic because Sammy commits suicide at the end of the play. He is NOT doing well, he is NOT okay ... he has just been really good at pretending.)

I think Sammy - even though he's only in one scene - is the best character in the play. I'd like to see a whole play about him!

I'll excerpt from the scene where Sammy (and his friend Punky) come to the house to pick up Reenie (and her friend Flirt - a wild flapper) - to go to the party. Cora has thrown Rubin out - so it's just Cora, and Sonny (her son) - and Lottie and her husband Morris. When Sammy and Punky arrive, Cora is upstairs still trying to force Reenie to get into her dress. Lottie takes over trying to entertain the guests until Cora can come downstairs. Lottie is also a great character - loud, nosy, warm-hearted, straight to the point ...

One of Inge's underlying theme (as it is in all of his plays) is the problems inherent in a sexually repressed culture. How things get twisted, morph into something ugly ... the whole split between "good girls" and "bad girls" - Sex is the great unspoken force in everyone's lives and nobody talks about it. Inge was gay. He was a tormented man. He keeps returning to this theme. He doesn't bash you over the head with it, no. It is just the air that people breathe in Inge plays. It is part of the atmosphere. This is one of the reasons why Inge's plays seem "dated" - and why you really cannot lift them out of their time period.

Oh, and in the original production on Broadway in 1957 (directed by Elia Kazan) - Cora was played by the lovely Teresa Wright - who just died. What a wonderful actress.

EXCERPT FROM The Dark at the Top of the Stairs, by William Inge

LOTTIE. My, you're a long way from home, aren't you?

SAMMY. Yes, Ma'am.

LOTTIE. Morris and I went to California once. A Shriner's convention. Oh, we thought it was perfectly wonderful, all those oranges and things. Didn't we, Morris? I should think you'd want to go home on your spring vacation.

SAMMY. Well, I ... I guess I don't really have a home ... Mrs. Lacey. [Sonny wanders back fromt he parlor. Sammy fills him with curiosity and fascination]

LOTTIE. Did you tell me your mother lived out there?

SAMMY. yes, but you see, she's pretty busy in moving pictures, and ... Oh, she feels awfully bad that she doesn't have more time for me. Really she does. But she doesn't have a place where I could stay right now ... and ... But it's not her fault.

LOTTIE. Where's your father?

SAMMY. Oh, I never knew him.

LOTTIE. You never knew your father?

SAMMY. No. You see, he died before I was born. My mother has been married ... a few times since then. But I never met any of her husbands ... although they were all very fine gentlemen.

LOTTIE. Well -- I just never knew anyone who didn't have a home. Do you spend your whole life in military academies?

SAMMY. Just about. I bet I've been in almost every military academy in the whole country. Well, I take that back. There's some I didn't go to. I mean ... there's some that wouldn't take me.

SONNY. [out of the innocent blue] My mother says you're a Jew.

LOTTIE. [aghast] Sonny!

SAMMY. Well ... yes, Sonny. I guess I am.

LOTTIE. That's perfectly all right. Why, we don't think a thing about a person's being Jewish, do we, Morris?

MORRIS. No. Of course not.

SAMMY. My father was Jewish. Mother told me. Mother isn't Jewish at all. Oh, my mother has the most beautiful blond hair. I guess I take after my father ... in looks, anyhow. He was an actor, too, but he got killed in an automobile accident.

LOTTIE. That's too bad. Sonny, I think you should apologize.

SONNY. Did I say something bad?

SAMMY. Oh, that's all right. It doesn't bother me that I'm Jewish. Not any more. I guess it used to a little ... Yes, it did used to a little.

LOTTIE. [who must find a remedy for everything] You know what you ought to do? You ought to join the Christian Science Church. Now I'm not a member myself, but I know this Jewish woman over in Oklahoma City, and she was very, very unhappy, wasn't she, Morris? But she joined the Christian Science Church and has been perfectly happy ever since.

SONNY. I didn't mean to say anything wrong.

SAMMY. You didn't say anything wrong, Sonny. [The piano begins playing with precise, automatic rhythm. Flirt dances in from the parlor]

FLIRT. Come on, Punky, let's dance. [She sings] "The Shiek of Araby -- boom -- boom -- boom -- his heart belongs to me." Come on, Punky.

SAMMY. [to Lottie, always courteous] Would you care to dance, Ma'am?

LOTTIE. Me? Good heavens, no. I haven't danced since I was a girl. But I certainly appreciate your asking. Isn't he respectful, Morris? [exits]

SAMMY. Wanna wild west ride, Sonny? [He kneels on the floor, permitting Sonny to straddle his back. Then Sammy kicks his feet in the air like a wild colt, as Sonny holds onto him tight.]

FLIRT. [Instructing Punky in the intricacies of a new step] No, Punky. That's not it. You take one step to the left and then dip. See? Oh, it's a wonderful step, and all the kids are doing it.

LOTTIE. [enters with a plate of cookies which she offers Sammy and Sonny] Would you like a cookie?

SAMMY. [getting to his feet, the ride over] Gee, that gets to be pretty strenuous.

[Flirt and Punky now retire to the parlor where they indulge in a little private petting]

SONNY. Where did you get those clothes?

SAMMY. They gave them to me at the academy, Sonny.

FLIRT. [in the parlor, protesting Punky's advances] Punky, don't. [Lottie observes this little intimacy, having just started into parlor with the plate of cookies. It rouses some of her righteousness]

SAMMY. No. I take that back. They didn't give them to me. They never give you anything at that place. I paid for them. Plenty!

SONNY. Why do you wear a sword?

SAMMY. [pulls the sword from its sheath like a buccaneer and goes charging about the room in search of imagined villains] I wear a sword to protect myself! See! To kill off all the vilvlains in the world. [He frightens Lottie] Oh, don't worry, Ma'am. It's not sharp. I couldn't hurt anyone with it, even if I wanted to. We just wear them for show.

SONNY. Can I have a sword? I want a sword.

SAMMY. Do you, Sonny? Do you want a sword. Here, Sonny, I'll give you my sword, for all the good it'll do you.

LOTTIE. [to Morris] Cora will probably buy Sonny a sword now. [Now Sammy takes the sword and imitates the actions of Sammy. Lottie is apprehensive] Now you be careful, Sonny.

SAMMY. What do you want a sword for, Sonny?

SONNY. [with a lunge] To show people.

LOTTIE. Sonny! Be careful with that thing.

SAMMY. And what do you want to show people, Sonny?

SONNY. I just want to show 'em. [He places the sword between his arm and his chest, then drops to the floor, the sword rising far above his body, giving the appearance that he is impaled. Lottie is horrified]

LOTTIE. Oh, darling -- put it down. Sonny, please don't play with that nasty thing any more. [Sonny rises now and laughs with Sammy. Lottie puts the sword away in the parlor where she again detects Flirt and Punky, now engaged in more serious necking. Morally outraged, she runs up the stairs to inform Cora]

SAMMY. [kneeling beside Sonny] What'll we do now, Sonny? Are there any games you want to play? Do you want to fight Indians? or set bear traps? or go flying over volcanoes? or climb the Alps?

SONNY. [eagerly] Yes ... yes.

SAMMY. Gee, so do I, Sonny. But we can't. Not tonight anyway. What else can we do?

SONNY. I can show you my movie stars.

SAMMY. I've had enough of movie stars. What else?

SONNY. I can speak a piece.

SAMMY. You can? [jumps to his feet] Hey, everyone! Stop the music. Sonny's going to speak a piece. [Sammy stops the piano, giving Flirt some annoyance]

LOTTIE. [hurrying downstairs] Did you hear that, Morris? Sonny's going to speak a piece.

FLIRT. [to Sammy] Hey, what are you doing?

SAMMY. [to Sonny] Where do you want to stand, sir?

LOTTIE. He's got a little platform in the parlor where he practices.

SAMMY. [having taken over like an impresario] Into the parlor, everyone. Into the parlor to hear Sonny speak his piece.

FLIRT. Come on, Punky. Come on. We have to listen, don't we?

SAMMY. Quiet everyone. Quiet! [All enter the parlor but Morris who crosses right as Sonny begins the famous soliloquy. Morris looks as though he might share some of Hamlet's woes. After Sonny begins, Cora starts down the stairs with Reenie.]

SONNY.
To be or not to be, that is the question
Whether tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them.
To die: to sleep:
No more; and, by a sleep to say we end the heartache and
the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to, 'tis a
consummation devoutly to be wish'd.
To die, to sleep. To sleep; perchance to dream.
Ay, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause.

[There is immediate loud acclaim for Sonny]

CORA. Oh, Sonny's reciting. Why, he's reciting Shakespeare. He must have gotten out that dusty volume of Shakespeare over in the bookcase, and memorized that speech all on his own. [Points to Sammy in the parlor] Reenie, there's your young man. Isn't he handsome? Now you're going to have a good time. I can feel it in my bones.

SAMMY. That was wonderful, Sonny. [All come from parlor now, Sammy carrying Sonny on his shoulders like a triumphant hero]

LOTTIE. He's a second Jackie Coogan.

FLIRT. That was just wonderful, Sonny.

LOTTIE. Cora, you should have been here. Sonny recited Shakespeare. It was just wonderful.

CORA. Yes. I heard him.

SAMMY. Sonny's a genius. I'm going to take you to Hollywood, and put you in the movies. You'll be the greatest actor out there, Sonny.

FLIRT. Oh, I think Shakespeare's just wonderful. I'm going to read him sometime, really I am.

CORA. [going to Sammy] Good evening, young man. I'm Mrs. Flood.

SAMMY. [putting Sonny down] Beg your pardon, Ma'am. I'm Sammy Goldenbaum.

CORA. Welcome. I see my son's been entertaining you.

SAMMY. He sure has, Ma'am.

CORA. He started speaking pieces about a year ago. Just picked it up. Some people think he's talented.

SAMMY. I think so, too, Ma'am. Very.

CORA. [brings Reenie forth] Reenie! Sammy, this is my daughter Reenie.

SAMMY. Good evening, Reenie.

REENIE. [reluctantly] Good evening.

SAMMY. You certainly look nice. That's a very beautiful dress.

FLIRT. Isn't it cute! I helped her pick it out! [Cora quietly takes hold of Flirt's arm and prevents her from taking over] Ouch!

SAMMY. Gee! I didn't expect you to be ... like you are. I mean ... well, Punky told me you were a friend of Flirt's so I just naturally thought you'd be ... well, kind of like Flirt is. Although Flirt is a very nice girl. I didn't mean to imply anything against her. But ... you're very nice, too, in a different way.

REENIE. [still a little distrustful] Thank you ...

SAMMY. Would you call me Sammy?

REENIE. Sammy?

SAMMY. And may I call you Reenie?

REENIE. I guess so.

SAMMY. It's awfully nice of you to let me take you to the party. I know just how a girl feels, going out with some crazy guy she doesn't even know.

REENIE. Oh ... that's all right. After all, you don't know anything about me, either.

SAMMY. You know, I've never been to many parties, have you?

REENIE. Not many.

SAMMY. I always worry that maybe people aren't going to like me when I go to a party. Isn't that crazy? Do you ever get kind of a sick feeling in the pit of your stomach when you dread things? Gee, I wouldn't want to miss a party for anything. But every time I go to one, I have to reason with myself to keep from feeling that the whole world's against me. See, I've spent almost my whole life in military academies. My mother doesn't have a place for me, where she lives. She ... she just doesn't know what else to do with me. But you mustn't misunderstand about my mother. She's really a very lovely person. I guess every boy thinks his mother is very beautiful, but my mother really is. She tells me in every letter she writes how sorry she is that we can't be together more, but she has to think of her work. One time we were together, though. She met me in San Francisco once, and we were together for two whole days. Just like we were sweethearts. It was the most wonderful time I ever had. And then I had to go back to the old military academy. Every time I walk into the barracks, I get kind of a depressed feeling. It's got hard stone walls. Pictures of generals hanging all over ... oh, they're very fine gentlemen, but they all look so kind of hard-boiled and stern ... you know what I mean. [Cora and Lottie stand together, listening to Sammy's speech with motherly expressions. Flirt is bored, Punky is half asleep, and gives now a sudden, audible yawn that startles everyone] Well, gee! I guess I've bored you enough, telling you about myself.

CORA and LOTTIE. Oh, no. You haven't either.

FLIRT. [impatient] Come on, kids. Let's hurry.

SAMMY. [tenderly, to Reenie] Are you ready?

CORA. [as though fearing Reenie might bolt and run] Reenie?

REENIE. Yes.

SAMMY. May I help you into your wrap. [The word "wrap" is a false glorification of her Sunday coat, which he offers her, helping her into it]

REENIE. Thank you.

CORA. [whispering to Lottie] I wish I could have bought her one of those little fur jackets like Flirt is wearing.

FLIRT. Stand up straight, Punky, and say good night to everyone. [Punky tries again, but remains inarticulate]

CORA. [assuming that Punky said good night] Good night, Punky. Tell your mother hello for me.

FLIRT. Very pleased to have met you, Mr. and Mrs. Lacey. Good night, Mrs. Flood.

CORA. Good night, Flirt.

LOTTIE and MORRIS. Good night.

The Books: "Reckless" (Craig Lucas)

Next in my Daily Book Excerpt:

I am still on my script shelf

Next play in my little unalphabetized pile of Samuel French plays is Reckless and Other Plays, by Craig Lucas

I did this play in college. It's one of the funnest craziest things I've ever worked on. It deserves an entire post of our backstage shenanigans - but for now I'll just say - we all were in it. I played Pooty - the paraplegic wife of Lloyd, one of the main characters. Pooty PRETENDS to be deaf and mute. I can't remember why - but she is fluent in sign language - Lloyd believes she is deaf - and she just can't bring herself to tell him the truth, because she knows how much it will hurt him. She loves him. She lives her life as a deaf-mute woman. This is the only time I've gotten to do a death scene on stage. I drink poisoned champagne at a Christmas celebration and die in my wheelchair, shrieking in agony - thereby revealing to Lloyd, right at the moment of my death, that I had been lying for our entire marriage. It was hilarious. The play is obviously a black BLACK comedy. At the time of Pooty's death, she sits in her wheelchair, and she is wearing reindeer antler's on her head, in honor of Christmas - antlers draped with fir garlands. So ... dying with that damn thing on my head was one of the greatest pleasures I have ever had as an actress.

Believe it or not, though, Pooty is not the lead of the show. heh heh The lead of the show is a neurotic woman named Rachel who basically flees her husband in the first scene - for no apparent reason - and surges out into a snowstorm where she proceeds to have all kinds of weird adventures. She meets Lloyd. Lloyd and Pooty take her in. Rachel's husband finds her, shows up at the door, and pretends to be fine with her betrayal - gives her a bottle of champagne (which he has poisoned). The champagne was meant for her. But Pooty drinks it instead.

Then things start to go downhill. Lloyd goes off the rails. When Pooty dies, he was wearing a Santa hat. So he refuses to ever take the Santa hat off again. He becomes a drunk on the level of Charles Bukowski in two days. He holes up in cheap motels, raving about the joys of Christmas, wearing his Santa hat. My friend David played Lloyd to perfection - and his scene in the motel room, where he stands on the bed, wasted, shouting in a drunken slur about Christmas - was so goddamn funny that I would sneak around to the vom where I could watch the whole scene every night, unseen by the audience.

Mitchell played a bunch of characters - but his main scene was some kind of TV game show host. I can't remember why - but Lloyd, Pooty, and Rachel all go onto a game show - kind of like a Family Feud type thing. Each "team" has to dress in costumes. We dress up as the solar system. So please imagine: each one of us has a huge papier mache globe around our head - with a little hole cut out for our faces. I believe I was the earth. So my globe was blue with white cotton-ball clouds floating across it. David's globe was the sun, so his globe made him look like the Heat Miser. Rachel was Venus, I think. I so wish I had photographs of us in those globes. Especially because I was in a wheelchair. And talking in sign language. All with a globe on my head. It was one of the funnest plays I've ever done.

For old times sake, I will excerpt the game show scene.

EXCERPT FROM Reckless and Other Plays, by Craig Lucas

ANNOUNCER. And here's your host, Tim Timko.

TIM. Okay, here we go, how does this game work, where are we? Oh yes, it all comes back to me, like last night. Who was that girl? Okay, enough of that, it's good to be back, let's see who's here. [Houselights reveal families dressed as vegetables, household appliances, etc.] All you need's a mother, a wife, and the crazy idea that you could tell the difference. Looks like an awful lot of bag ladies slipped in, how're we all doing? ["Great, Tim!" "We're fine!" "Over here, Tim!"] Anybody want to play this thing, what's it called, Your Brother's Wife? ["We do!" "Pick us!" "We're a salad!"] Your Sister's Best Friend's Mother-in-law? [Sign lights] Your Mother Or Your Wife. Knew it would come to me -- Wait, wait a minute, nobody move, I know what I like and don't tell me now: you folks are dressed as the solar system, aren't you? [Rachel, Lloyd, and Pooty with globes over their heads]

LLOYD. That's right, Tim.

RACHEL. [at the same time] Yes, Tim!

TIM. Uh-huh. This looks like the planet earth down there. [Pooty]

LLOYD. That's my mother, Tim.

RACHEL. [same time] Mother Earth!

TIM. Mother Earth. I'll bet your world revolves around your sun too, doesn't it?

RACHEL. That's right!

TIM. Okay, what's your name, Sir?

LLOYD. Lloyd.

TIM. You have a last name, Lloyd?

LLOYD. Bophtelophti.

TIM. Say it?

LLOYD. Bophtelophti.

RACHEL. [same time] Bophtelophti!

TIM. Okay. This is the little lady.

LLOYD. That's right, Tim.

RACHEL. Venus!

TIM. One touch of Venus.

RACHEL. That's right!

TIM. Okay, you've met all our requirements, Lloyd.

LLOYD. I should tell you, Tim, my mother is deaf.

TIM. What's that?

LLOYD. But my wife speaks sign language.

TIM. I don't see any problem and she won't have to listen to my jokes, so get yourselves up here and get set to play Your Mother or Your Wife. [Music] Correctly identify which of these two lovely ladies answered each of three scintillating questions supplied by our highly educated audience of Nobel Prize laureates and win yourself up to twenty thousand dollars, Lloyd, and a chance to play for our grand prize.

ANNOUNCER. Tim, the Bophtelophtis will be playing for a grand cash total of one hundred and twenty thousand dollars!

TIM. A hundred and twenty thousand dollars. All right, Lloyd, are you ready for our glass booth?

LLOYD. I guess so, Tim.

TIM. Then take him away! Okay -- [Lloyd is escorted into the wings] What Lloyd doesn't realize is there are no air holes in our glass booth and it will quickly fill up with carbon monoxide, but never mind. Ladies, welcome.

RACHEL. It's great to be here, Tim!

TIM. You're going to translate?

RACHEL. That's right.

TIM. No funny business. Anybody here speaks deaf, keep an eye on these two. Venus, first question: Would you say Lloyd is more like a pingpong ball or a paper clip. Venus? A pingpong ball or a paperclip?

RACHEL. Oh, I'll say a pingpong ball.

TIM. Any particular reason?

RACHEL. Oh, he bounces around a lot. I don't know.

TIM. Okay, Mom? A pingpong ball or a paperclip? Two P's.

RACHEL. She says a paperclip.

TIM. Because --?

RACHEL. Because he holds the family together.

TIM. Aw. Okay, question number two: If blank were a salad dressing, what flavor would he be? Mom first this time. If Lloyd were a salad dressing, what flavor would he be?

RACHEL. She says blue cheese.

TIM. Getting a little moldy.

RACHEL. And I'll say blue cheese.

TIM. Blue cheese it is. Ladies, third question: if you could choose between your husband leaving you for another woman or, in Mom's case, her son leaving her for another Mom ... Guys, this question doesn't make sense. What's he going to do, get another mother? ... Judges say fly with it. All right -- choose between your husband leaving you for another woman or staying together, knowing he didn't love you, Venus -- Which would it be? Okay, fair enough.

RACHEL. I'll have to say another woman.

TIM. Another woman. All right, Mom: between losing your son to another mother or knowing he didn't love you ...

RACHEL. She says another mother.

TIM. M is for the many ways. All right, ladies, for our grand prize: who does Lloyd love most, you or Mom? Good question. Venus?

RACHEL. Oh gosh, his mother.

TIM. Mom? This should be interesting. Who does Lloyd really love, his mother or his wife? And -- she says you! All right, we'll be back with the three happy Boopy-boppies after this word from the good folks at Nu-Soft. Don't go away.

ANNOUNCER. We're going right on. [Lloyd is escorted back onstage] Ten seconds.

TIM. Say your name for me.

RACHEL. Bophtelophti.

TIM. Bophtelophti.

ANNOUNCER. Five, four, three ... Rolling.

TIM. And we're back with the Bophtelophtis --

RACHEL. Right!

TIM. From Springfield, Massachusetts. Bophtelophti, is that Polish?

RACHEL. Yes, Tim --

LLOYD. [same time] No, well, it's --

RACHEL. It's ...

LLOYD. Welsh, actually.

RACHEL. Welsh and Polish.

TIM. Welsh and Polish. How long have you been married?

LLOYD. Ten --

RACHEL. Ten.

LLOYD. Years.

RACHEL. [same time] Years.

TIM. Ten years. Any kids so far?

LLOYD. None so far, Tim --

RACHEL. [same time] Nope.

LLOYD. But we're hoping.

TIM. Well, best of luck to you.

LLOYD. Thank you.

RACHEL. [same time] Thanks!

TIM. Because you're going to need it. Okay, here we go, round two, Lloyd, for five thousand dollars -- when asked if you reminded them of a paper clip or a pingpong ball, who said "Paper clip" and I quote "because he holds the family together" -- Your mother or your wife?

LLOYD. Uh ... my mother.

TIM. Right you are if you think you are. For ten thousand dolalrs, when asked what type of salad dressing you reminded them of, who said "Blue cheese" -- your mother or your wife?

LLOYD. That's my favorite.

TIM. We're not all that interested in your personal life, Lloyd. No, I'm just kidding, take your time.

LLOYD. Oh, I'll say both.

TIM. Both it is for a quick ten grand. All right. For twenty thousand dollars and a chance to lose it all, Lloyd: Which ... Wait, let me get this straight: Which of the women in your life said they would rather lose you to another woman, wife or mother as the case may be, than believe you to be unhappy in your home? Mother Earth or the Venus de Milo, Lloyd? Lose to another woman before they would see you unhappy in their home.

LLOYD. Both?

TIM. Both it is! Congratulations, Lloyd Bophtelophti from Warsaw, Wales, you've just won twenty thousand dollars and a chance to go home before you ruin your marriage.

LLOYD. No, we want to keep going.

TIM. Remember, if you miss this one we keep it all, Lloyd, but you do go home with a free home version of Your Mother or Your Wife.

LLOYD. We'll play.

TIM. He said he'll play. All right, Mr., Mrs. and Mom -- no eye contact now and no help from those salad ingredients, you know who you are -- Lloyd, for one hundred and twenty thousand dollars, we asked your mother and your wife: Who does Lloyd love most, his mother or his wife. Who said -- keep breathing, Lloyd -- you love your wife the most? Your mother, your wife or your mother and your wife, it could be both, don't think too hard, Lloyd.

LLOYD. Boy.

TIM. Your mother, your wife or your mother and your wife ... We're running out of time. We'll have to have an answer, Lloyd, I'm sorry.

LLOYD. My mother.

TIM. Lloyd Bophtelophti from Springfield Massachusetts, you've said the magic word, take the money, be happy, this is Tim Timko, saying goodnight, we'll see you next week with your mother, your wife, your mistress --

ANNOUNCER. For tickets to Your Mother or Your Wife, all you do is write your name and address ona postcard and mail it to Your Mother or Your Wife, Box Twelve Twenty-five, New Hope Station, New Hope California.

RACHEL. [same time as announcer] We didn't lose!

LLOYD. [same time] We didn't lose!

RACHEL. [same time] We didn't lose!

LLOYD. [same time] Pooty!

RACHEL. [same time] We didn't lose!

LLOYD. [same time] We didn't lose!

RACHEL. For once! We didn't lose!

LLOYD. One hundred and twenty thousand dollars!

RACHEL. I'll never complain again as long as I live, I swear!

LLOYD. A hundred and twenty thousand dollars!

RACHEL. A hundred and twenty thousand dollars!

LLOYD. A hundred and twenty thousand dollars!

The Books: "The Owl and the Pussycat" (Bill Manhoff)

Next in my Daily Book Excerpt:

I am still on my script shelf

Next play in my little unalphabetized pile of Samuel French plays is The Owl and the Pussycat: A Comedy in Three Acts (Samuel French Play Series), by Bill Manhoff

I remember seeing the film version of this when I was a kid - 10 or 11 - and laughing so hard at the whole "the sun spits morning" sequence that I was incapacitated for about 5 minutes. Also - Barbra Streisand's ridiculous nightie is ... pure comedy. They're having these serious scenes and she's wearing THAT. Also, you want to see why Barbra Streisand is such a good actress? Watch her during the scene where she is laid low by a case of the hiccups. Hiccups are HARD to re-create. And the hiccups have to come at certain points in the lines - in order to achieve the greatest comedic effect. You can't just hiccup randomly. Barbra Streisand being taken over by hiccups is just a wonderful piece of physical acting and you never - for a SECOND - think that she's acting or "pretending" to have hiccups. I love that.

So. The script. It was originally produced in 1964 with Alan Alda as Felix and Diana Sands as Doris. If you've seen the movie you know the plot. It's another one of those two-person plays - get two people into a room - two wildly different people - and see what happens.

Felix is a "writer". He also considers himself an intellectual. He is snobby, elitist, and finicky. Doris is a whore who lives across the alley. Felix has binoculars and has basically been spying on Doris - and when he sees that she is having sex for money - he tells the landlord of her building. Doris gets thrown out on her ass. And she somehow finds out that Felix is the one who turns her in - so she comes a-knockin' on his door, dragging a suitcase and her television set - demanding that he put her up until she can find a new place. They've never met. This is how the play begins - with Doris banging on his door at 2 in the morning.

Felix resists Doris. Felix condescends to Doris. Doris is VERY sensitive about not having an education and she FLIPS OUT when he uses a word she doesn't know. Somehow she wears down his resistance and he lets her sleep on the couch. There is a VERY funny moment where she can't sleep and she asks him to read to her. He ends up starting to read his unpublished novel to her and the first sentence of it is: "The sun spit morning into Werner's face". Doris kind of can't get past it ... she's never read a book in her life but she knows that "the sun spit morning" is crappy writing. She keeps referencing it throughout the rest of the play. "Okay, so the sun spit morning, I know, I know ..."

They end up having a steamy sexual relationship which rocks the foundations of Felix's beliefs about himself - that he has conquered his body with his mind, that (to quote the Elphant Man) HE IS NOT AN ANIMAL - He has split himself off into different compartments.

The relationship progresses. Felix decides that Doris is train-able - he starts giving her little tasks - she is supposed to look up a word a day in the dictionary and then use it in a sentence, etc. hahahaha She resents this, but she does her best.

Here's a scene from later in the play - when there is trouble in paradise.

EXCERPT FROM The Owl and the Pussycat: A Comedy in Three Acts (Samuel French Play Series), by Bill Manhoff

FELIX. How many times did you say you used the dictionary today?

DORIS. I don't know. What's wrong, honey?

FELIX. Please go over to the dictionary and look at it closely.

DORIS. [Doris goes and looks at the dictionary] What am I supposed to see?

FELIX. Look at the edges -- at the top --

DORIS. What's this? [Peeling off a strip of scotch tape]

FELIX. That is a strip of Scotch tape. It's been there for two days. Undisturbed. Where were you this afternoon?

DORIS. That's such a nasty thing to do.

FELIX. Where were you yesterday afternoon?

DORIS. I do not care for the tone of your voice.

FELIX. Where did you get the dirty but brand new radio?

DORIS. I'm warning you -- stop it -- this warning will not be repeated.

FELIX. We're not going to fight. We're going to have an honest unemotional discussion.

DORIS. Yeah? So you start out by calling me a liar.

FELIX. I did not call you a liar. I'm not going to lose my temper.

DORIS. You might as well. I'm gonna lose mine!

FELIX. Would you care to tell me what's wrong?

DORIS. What's wrong? You're a creep that puts scotch tape on the dictionary -- you know that word -- "creep"? Used in a sentence: "Fred Sherman is a big creep".

FELIX. [starting at "Fred"] What did you call me?

DORIS. It's your name. Fred -- Freddie -- I thought that would jar your apricots! I found your yearbook from school -- Fred Sherman. You didn't tell me you changed your name, did you? You creep. I'm sorry -- pardon my language, but you are a creep.

FELIX. It's all right -- it's a step up from "fink". Congratulations -- now -- I'd like to hear why you feel you have to sneak out afternoons and lie to me.

DORIS. I just got bored. I had to get out. Look -- I tried. I tried working on hats. I tried looking for a job, right? I tried.

FELIX. Have you been plying your old trade?

DORIS. Have I been what? No, I haven't. I told you I was through doing that.

FELIX. Where'd you get the radio?

DORIS. I collected some money. Somebody owed me some money and they paid me.

FELIX. I see. Why didn't you tell me that?

DORIS. Because I knew you wouldn't believe it. I knew what you'd think.

FELIX. I see.

DORIS. Dont' say "I see", like you were looking through your lousy spy glasses. Listen -- why don't you stop trying to make out like you're a human being? I mean the strain must be terrible -- why don't you just relax and admit you're God and you know all about everything?

FELIX. Why did you have to lie? I just want to know why you lied to me about going out and about looking up words.

DORIS. Because I'm a liar, okay?

FELIX. Why didn't you tell me?

DORIS. Why didn't you tell me you changed your name from Fred to Felix?

FELIX. [ignoring her question] I'm very sad. You had a chance to do something important for yourself and you're quitting. You're not giving yourself a chance.

DORIS. I gave myself a chance -- you had me going there for a while, but it's silly. I'm a dope and that's all there is to it.

FELIX. You're not a dope. You're a bright girl.

DORIS. Not when it comes to dictionaries and the history of philosophy, I'm not.

FELIX. You have a potential capacity for --

DORIS. No, I don't have any potential anything.

FELIX. [losing the fight against his temper] Don't interrupt me -- who do you think is better qualified to judge mental capacity -- you or I?

DORIS. You --

FELIX. Then why are you arguing with me?

DORIS. Felix, I --

FELIX. Would I be wasting my time with you if you didn't have a brain?

DORIS. Felix --

FELIX. Do you think an intellectual such as myself would waste his time with a dumbbell?

DORIS. Felix, I know myself -- you can't tell me --

FELIX. I tell you you're a very intelligent girl, and you'd know it yourself if you weren't so damned stupid!

DORIS. I am not stupid! I've got good healthy everyday brains. I haven't got your kind of brains and I'm glad, because I'm gonna tell you something -- I think your brains are rotten!

FELIX. Ah -- the cat turns inevitably and bares her atavistic fangs.

DORIS. To use those ugly, lonely words nobody else uses -- that's all your brains are good for. To keep people away because you're scared to death of people!

FELIX. She spits in inarticulate fury!

DORIS. You know what your brains are good for? To make up your own lousy little language that the rest of the world can't even understand.

FELIX. Well, all right -- stay with the rest of the world -- don't let anybody make you a foreigner there by teaching you to speak the English language!

DORIS. [going to closet] What a dope I was to listen to you. [Mimicking him] I'm gonna save you, Doris! [In her own voice] You are such a phony. I can't believe it. You don't write for money but you keep sending your junk to magazines, don't you? And you keep getting it sent back, don't you? Meanwhile all you got is a phony job, a phony girlfriend, a phony apartment and a phony bunch of words. [she has taken the suitcase from the closet and started to throw garments into it as she talks]

FELIX. What are you doing?

DORIS. What does it look like I'm doing?

FELIX. Now don't get washed away. Think, Doris. Try to understand one basic thing. Try to hold on to what I see in you.

DORIS. [Yelling] You see nothing! You don't see me at all! You don't see anything. Because even your eyes are phony! [Knock on the wall. Doris addresses the wall; yelling] I'll be through in a minute! [To Felix] You know what you see in me? You never had a girl that made you feel like a big man in bed -- that's all.

FELIX. Doris --

DORIS. Well, I want to tell you something about what a hot stud you think you are in the sack --

FELIX. Don't say it, Doris --

DORIS. You leave me cold, Fred. You're nothing at all.

FELIX. You're raising your voice.

DORIS. You do nothing to me, Freddie -- you only think you do. You know why?

FELIX. I know -- you're a great actress and to you that bed is theatre in the round -- I know all about it -- well, now I'm going to tell you something -- I don't leave you cold -- I find you cold -- "frigid" -- is that word in your meager stock?

DORIS. Drop dead.

FELIX. Sure you're an actress in bed -- because you can't be a woman.

DORIS. With a man I can, Fred -- Freddie, it takes a man.

FELIX. Sometimes. Even with fantasies, and dirty words and the guilty stink of the sewer you can only sometimes whip yourself into a parody of passion -- sometimes! Isn't that right?

DORIS. Stop yelling. Nobody's listening to you. [She's closing the suitcase]

FELIX. All right. You're lost. Goodbye. I tried.

DORIS. Now try shutting up. I'll send for the TV. I'll send a man! Takes a good look at him.

FELIX. [following her to the door] No matter where you go or what you do or what you call yourself -- you are now and forever a whore named Doris Wilgus.

DORIS. Okay. And what are you now and forever? A miserable magazine peddler named Freddie Sherman and a lousy writer and you always will be and you wanna know why --? [Hitting him deliberately with every word] Because, God damn it! The -- sun -- does -- not -- spit!

BLACKOUT

The Books: "The Woolgatherer" (William Mastrosimone)

Next in my Daily Book Excerpt:

I am still on my script shelf

Next play in my little unalphabetized pile of Samuel French plays is The Woolgatherer, by William Mastrosimone

A play beloved by actors everywhere. Two great characters who have big long juicy monologues - and great dialogue - two characters with objectives and obstacles - it's just an actor's dream. The play is so overdone by now that I truly would not recommend to any actress that she do "the cranes" monologue for an audition. I know. I know it's a terrific monologue - up there in the pantheon of great monologues - but it is TOO done. You will walk in and say, "Hi my name is so-and-so, and I will be doing a monologue from The Woolgatherer" and the people behind the table will secretly roll their eyes. Oh Jesus, the damn cranes monologue again? There's a reason why it is loved - it's feckin' great - but just don't do it!!!

The plot is simple: it's the typical device used by playwrights around the globe: get two characters in a room, and let them just talk. Cliff is a truck driver. His truck has broken down and he is stranded in south Philly for the night while the repairs are done. He meets Rose. He thinks she's cute. He strikes up a conversation with her and she ends up taking her back to his apartment. Naturally he thinks he is in for a night of romance, laughter, sex - a fun one-night-stand. Little does he know that Rose is kind of a wack job. She is prim, proper - she gets shocked and angry when he curses - she has no food in the refrigerator except for wilted produce - she is so broke that she rummages through garbage cans behind grocery stores - She is very literal - doesn't get any of his jokes (he has some great lines) - and she is also like a little prissy virgin. Turns out, though, that she has a MAJOR secret - which is not revealed until the end of the play. She was once a slut - actually, no, let's not characterize her behavior that way: she was a whore. That's a better term. She took guys back to her place and had sex with them for money. But now she has killed off that other person - she speaks about her in the third person - "a girl used to live here ... but she killed herself ..." And now she is a whole new Rose - rigid, uncompromising, and inflexible. Cliff realizes what he's gotten himself into far too late.

Of course by the end of the play - the two characters come to an understanding - they connect on a pretty profound level - It's a classic little piece of playwrighting.

I'll excerpt a bit from the beginning of the play. Rose has taken Cliff home. She is chattering on and on about stuff he doesn't care about. Cliff just wants to have a fun night. This is the scene with Rose's famous "crane monologue". It truly is amazing - and if the actress really goes there and does it well, it is a devastating moment. I've seen actresses do it and your breath catches in your throat - it's so tragic - and I've seen actresses do it where it's a histrionic stupid melodramatic hoo-hah.

From The Woolgatherer, by William Mastrosimone

ROSE. What's your Zodiac sign?

CLIFF. You believe in that crap?

ROSE. It's not ...

CLIFF. What?

ROSE. What you said.

CLIFF. Crap?

ROSE. They proved it's true.

CLIFF. Who proved it?

ROSE. Scientists. When were you born?

CLIFF. Soon after my mother had contractions, and tell you the truth I don't want to hear no bartalk zodiacs with a rising Scorpion on the cusp of diddlydo. Just a bunch of some crap some lazyass cooked up to sell a book.

ROSE. You want to go to the museum and see a dinosaur?

CLIFF. A sore what?

ROSE. A dinosaur. It's about, o, I don't know, fifty or forty feet high. Tyrannosaurus.

CLIFF. Do they let you feed it?

ROSE. No! It's dead.

CLIFF. Rope!

ROSE. No! It's all bones. Bones this thick all wired together. I made friends with the curator and he took me in the cellar and showed me how they wire the bones.

CLIFF. In the cellar, huh?

ROSE. Of the museum.

CLIFF. And did he show you his bone?

ROSE. No. The bones belong to the museum.

CLIFF. O, I see.

ROSE. He told me the dinosaurs disappeared off the face of the earth very suddenly.

CLIFF. How come?

ROSE. Nobody knows.

CLIFF. Mysterious.

ROSE. They think it was the temperature.

CLIFF. They died of fever?

ROSE. No. The climate changed and the dinosaurs couldn't get used to it. It was called The Great Ice Age.

CLIFF. Why didn't they go to Florida?

ROSE. You want to hear this? This is a serious subject.

CLIFF. I know. Never know when you might come across a dinosaur.

ROSE. And guess what? They just found a wooly mammoth in Siberia, or Algeria, or, I don't know, someplace far. And it was froze in ice in perfect condition like it was in a refrigerator for ten thousand years. C'mon. We still have a chance before the museum closes.

CLIFF. That's romantic as hell. Go look at bones.

ROSE. People who can't appreciate culture are just ignorant.

CLIFF. I must be people.

ROSE. Mankind does not understand its past.

CLIFF. That what the museum guy says? Tell him if he wants to know about mankind, tell him stop playing with his bone down in the cellar there and go in a city where you don't know anybody and have your truck breakdown and try and get somebody give you ahand! Don't tell me about bones.

ROSE. It's interesting.

CLIFF. Yeah, so are rock fights. Look, Rose, I'm not too big on culture, see. Now I can get all hepped up over a t-bone or prime rib, but that's about it for bones.

ROSE. I don't think you understand.

CLIFF. Hey, look, sweetheart, I understand. I got two hours to kill in Philly and I'm not gonna spend it looking at bones. Hey, why don't we hoof it to a joint, lay out some frogskin, do a pizza with the works to go, jump on some vino, bring it here, chow down, talk about the moon, acouple laughs, sing dance, waterski, la la la, whatever.

ROSE. I have food here.

CLIFF. I don't want to use your food.

ROSE. I have a lot of food.

CLIFF. C'mon, what do you want to do -- it's up to you.

ROSE. I'd rather stay here.

CLIFF. Terrific. What do you got?

ROSE. This.

CLIFF. Boneless sardines.

ROSE. Magic mountain herb tea. And this.

CLIFF. Cranberry sauce. Dusseldorff mustard.

ROSE. Bouillon cubes. Cinnamon sticks. And this!

CLIFF. My favorite! Sea-weed soup!

ROSE. I got that in a health store.

CLIFF. I thought maybe a pet shop.

ROSE. Dried fruits and nuts. Corn niblets. Artichokes hearts. Asparagus. Jerkins.

CLIFF. Jerkins? [Opening the refrigerator, coming up with a limp celery stalk. Rose grabs it out of his hand and tosses it in the garbage] Hey! Don't!

ROSE. It's wilted.

CLIFF. [picking it out of the garbage] Never know. It might come alive again. [Rose throws it back into the garbage] You live on this stuff?

ROSE. I get fruits and vegetables on Ninth Street when they close.

CLIFF. What, steal it?

ROSE. No, you should see the good stuff they throw away.

CLIFF. Garbage?

ROSE. I wash it off. They throw away lettuce leaves just because it has a brown edge. Or if a peace has a bruise, I cut it out. And stick bread this long. A day old. But I don't eat it all. I break it up and feed the pigeons on the roof.

CLIFF. Get your poncho. I'll take you out for a steak.

ROSE. I thought you wanted to make something here.

CLIFF. Out of this shit? I'd have to be a goddamn magician.

ROSE. You don't have to curse.

CLIFF. What'd I say?

ROSE. You cursed.

CLIFF. No shit. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. [Pause] Hey, sorry. I meant to say all shucks and golly gee.

ROSE. Don't make fun of me.

CLIFF. I'm not.

ROSE. I hate when they make fun of me.

CLIFF. You make a big deal out of every fuckin thing.

ROSE. If you want to curse, you can do it somewhere else.

CLIFF. You don't curse?

ROSE. No.

CLIFF. Bull shit.

ROSE. I don't. And don't say I do.

CLIFF. You never cursed?

ROSE. Never. Not once.

CLIFF. No shit? Why not?

ROSE. Because.

CLIFF. Why because?

ROSE. Because I don't. That's all.

CLIFF. What do you say when you stub your toe? O gosh darn chocolate kisses?

ROSE. I say ouch. And I don't like people who curse.

CLIFF. So you don't like me.

ROSE. Not when you curse like that.

CLIFF. So what are you, a nun?

ROSE. No.

CLIFF. Eh, Sister Rose?

ROSE. If you don't like it ...

CLIFF. Stick it?

ROSE. No.

CLIFF. Sit on it?

ROSE. No!

CLIFF. Shove it?

ROSE. No!

CLIFF. Fry it up with onions? What? If I don't like it what? Eh, Sister Rose?

ROSE. If you don't like it you can go.

CLIFF. For cursing?

ROSE. Yes.

CLIFF. Why?

ROSE. It's ugly.

CLIFF. I didn't invent it.

ROSE. You use it.

CLIFF. It's part of the language.

ROSE. Not my language.

CLIFF. You have some paper and pen?

ROSE. What for?

CLIFF. I'll write a thousand times, I will not say fuck, I will not say fuck, I will not say ...

ROSE. STOP IT! I hate that!

CLIFF. I'm sorry.

ROSE. No you're not! I hate when they curse. Like them kids at the zoo. I hate it.

CLIFF. Here we go.

ROSE. Their radios up against their ears and that wild ugly music and cursing! I hate that!

CLIFF. What kids?

ROSE. I hate that.

CLIFF. What kids at the zoo?

ROSE. Nothing.

CLIFF. They cursed at you?

ROSE. No. At those birds.

CLIFF. O, they cursed at those birds, huh?

ROSE. Those tall birds with the long thin legs.

CLIFF. Ah, yes. The tall thin-legged bird of North America.

ROSE. Derricks!

CLIFF. Derricks?

ROSE. No. Cranes. Some kind of cranes.

CLIFF. And what did the derricks say, Rose?

ROSE. Stop making fun of me.

CLIFF. Did the derricks ask you if you needed a lift?

ROSE. You may think it's funny but I was the last one to see them alive last summer. There was alone seven of them in the world and the zoo had four of them. I used to walk there every night just to watch them stand so still in the water. And they walked so graceful, in slow motion. And they have legs as skinny as my little finger. Long legs. And there was only seven in the world because they killed them off for feathers for ladies hats or something. And one night a gang of boys came by with radios to their ears and cursing real bad, you know, F, and everything. And I was, you know, ascared. And they started saying things to me, you know, dirty things, and laughing at the birds. And one kid threw a stone to see how close he could splash the birds, and then another kid tried to see how close he could splash the birds, and then they all started throwing stones to splash the birds, and then they started throwing stones at the birds, and I started screaming STOP IT! and a stone hit a bird's leg and it bended like a straw and the birds keeled over in the water, flapping wings in the water, and the kids kept laughing and throwing stones and I kept screaming STOP IT! STOP IT! but they couldn't hear me through that ugly music on the radios and kept laughing and cursing and throwing stones, and I ran and got the zoo guard and he got his club and we ran to the place of the birds but the kids were gone. And there was white feathers on the water. And the water was real still. And there was big swirls of blood. And the birds were real still. Their beaks alittle open. Legs broke. Toes curled. Still. Like the world stopped. And the guard said something to me but I couldn't hear him. I just saw his mouth moving. And I started screaming. And the cops came and took me to the hospital and they gave me a needle to make me stop screaming. And they never caught the gang. But even if they did, what good's that? They can't make the birds come alive again.

CLIFF. [Long pause] Yeah, well. I'm really sorry to hear about it. But the fact of the matter is ... it's a rough-tough world out there, and like everything else, if the birds can't hack the jive, maybe it's better they're not around gettin in the way because if you want to survive you got to be rough and tough right back.

ROSE. But they don't have a way to be rough and tough.

CLIFF. Then maybe it was meant to be for 'em to bite the dust.

ROSE. That's mean.

CLIFF. That's life.

ROSE. That's not life.

CLIFF. That's the way Niagara Falls.

ROSE. You're just as bad as them.

CLIFF. I'm not them. I'm me.

ROSE. You stick up for them, you mise will be them!

CLIFF. Hey, did I kill the birds? Did I?

ROSE. You mise well if you stick up for them!

CLIFF. But did I kill the fuckin' birds?

ROSE. NO! [Pause. Apologetic for screaming] No. [Pause] I think you should go.

CLIFF. Yeah, me too. Afterall, you don't want it to get around you hang out with bird killers. Well, kid, it was nice.

ROSE. You think they fixed your truck?

CLIFF. No. Wasn't meant to be.

ROSE. I hope you get the new job.

CLIFF. As they say when you can't stop your rig -- them's the breaks.

ROSE. What kind of job is it?

CLIFF. Testing parachutes.

ROSE. What kind of job is that?

CLIFF. Fifty bucks an hour plus they let you keep the chutes that don't open.

ROSE. What would you do with a parachute?

CLIFF. Make handkerchiefs. Big ones. [Pause. They face each other. Cliff offers a handshake. She slowly accepts] Cold hands.

ROSE. I'm anemic.

CLIFF. Know what's good for that?

ROSE. What?

CLIFF. Boneless sardines. Hey, Rosie-posey, mind if I smoke?

ROSE. No, but don't call me that.

CLIFF. Why not?

ROSE. You're making fun.

CLIFF. No I'm not. Honest. I just can't believe somebody like you exists.

ROSE. What do you mean somebody like me?

CLIFF. I mean you're beautiful.

ROSE. Don't say that kind of stuff to me. I know I'm not beautiful. You're making fun.

CLIFF. I'm afraid to talk. Everything I say hurts you. Maybe I don't use the right words. Hey, I'm gonna watch myself from now on.

The Books: "Frankie and Johnny in the Clair de Lune" (Terrence McNally)

Next in my Daily Book Excerpt:

I am still on my script shelf:

Next play in my little unalphabetized pile of Samuel French plays is Frankie and Johnny in the Clair de Lune, by Terrence McNally. A beautiful play by one of my favorite playwrights.

First done in New York with Kathy Bates and F. Murray Abraham. A huge sensation. An acting triumph for both of them. Kathy Bates had already become kind of a sensation with her performance in Marsha Norman's 'Night Mother in 1983. She was nominated for a Tony. Frankie and Johnny was a massive success for her. How I would have LOVED to see her in this part. Then, of course, Hollywood made the movie of it - and suddenly Frankie looked like Michelle Pfeiffer. What? Can you imagine how much more moving that film would have been if that character looked like Kathy Bates??? That's one of the POINTS of the play. That's who Frankie is. She looks like Kathy Bates. Hollywood lost its nerve - as it so often does - and I'm sorry - Michelle Pfeiffer is a good actress and all, but just putting dark circles under her eyes does not convince me, or anyone, that she is not beautiful. Sorry. Nice try, Michelle, but no cigar. Johnny falls absolutely head over heels in love with Frankie - and she, because of her issues, because of being abused in the past, because of her distrust of men, cannot accept it. She finds Johnny too "intense". She doesn't like how much he loves her, she can't bear it when he goes on and on raving about her beauty. I just think it's so much more moving, and human, and RIGHT that Frankie not be a conventionally beautiful woman. Because love is not reserved for those who are, empirically, beautiful. All kinds of people fall in love with each other. And when you're madly in love with someone - they seem to be the most beautiful person in the world. This is one of those cases when I understand why the powers-that-be decided to put Michelle Pfeiffer in that part - but I truly believe the movie suffered because of it.

Also, it became kind of a joke - to Kathy Bates: she would create these roles on Broadway - it happened to her, I think, 3 or 4 times - and not only would she create the roles, but she would get critical acclaim like you would not believe (if you go back and read some of the original reviews of these shows - it's breathtaking - she was one of THOSE actresses - a Broadway heavy-hitter) - but anyway, she would create these amazing parts, and then Hollywood would buy the script - they'd "let her" audition for it - just to throw her a bone - and then give the part to someone already established. Sissy Spacek in Night Mother, Michelle in Frankie and Johnny - I understand the reality. I understand that Broadway success doesn't mean CRAP to people in Hollywood. But I love it that Kathy Bates has the last laugh now. Look at her career. Look at what happened with her first major role. Uhm - SHE WON A FECKIN' OSCAR, OKAY??? I think she is one of the great examples, one of the great examples of do not give up, do not let it get to you, do not let the set-backs destroy you. Just keep going. Keep going.

The standards of physical beauty are insanely high in California - and Kathy Bates just could not be put into a romantic film like Frankie and Johnny - even though THAT'S WHAT MCNALLY WROTE. Sigh. Again, I understand why this happened, but I still think it stinks. Especially in this case. Frankie and Johnny the movie was not a huge success and most of the reviews made mention of the fact that Pfeiffer was miscast. The fact that she's not skinny is referenced in the text. The fact that she is not beautiful is referenced in the text. Michelle Pfeiffer is generally regarded as one of the most beautiful women in the world. Come on. It was ridiculous. It HURT the movie, that casting choice. Okay - I'll let it go.

Kathy Bates definintely had an uphill road with all of this - she probably had moments of despair about it - to put so much heart and effort into stuff and then not to be able to do the film?? argh! - but still, she had a highly successful New York career - but then along came Misery and her entire life changed. I guess I just really admire her. Always have. Her career, to me, is one of those triumphs, something that I really respect.

So. Back to Frankie and Johnny.

He's a short-order cook. He's also an ex-con. She's a waitress. They're both in their 40s. They both have problems. They go on a date. They end up in bed. It is implied that they have the best sex either of them ever had. But immediately afterwards (which is the start of the play) - when they actually have to deal with each other, things get complicated. Frankie recoils. She revealed too much in her lovemaking, too much tenderness, whatever. She puts the walls back up. Johnny - who is very emotional - a big tough-guy but actually very emotional - wants more from her, feels like he's in love with her - She basically tries to kick him out of the apartment. He keeps pushing. He wants intimacy. She can't deal with intimacy. He is "too much" for her. He keeps telling her how beautiful she is, no matter what she says he thinks it's great ("I love meatloaf" she says and he says, "You do??? I do too! See, this is perfect!") He drives her crazy. She drives him crazy too - but in a different way. Of course the beauty of this play is that you know, deep down, under her scarred exterior - she has fallen for him as well. It's one of the most romantic plays ever written. The entire play takes place over the course of one night. A life-changing night. A night where the barriers between people eventually disappear. But it's a wrenching change - Intimacy is not easy for some people. Intimacy (another word for love, I guess) actually hurts some people. Frankie is one of those people. She is DESPERATE for him to leave. And he will NOT leave. At one point, Johnny spontaneously calls the radio station they have been listening to all night and tells the DJ their story - that their names are Frankie and Johnny - that they are making love in the moonlight - and would he please play "the most beautiful music in the world" so that this thing between them will not "self-destruct". The DJ eventually does come on the radio - and kind of laughs because of the names "Frankie and Johnny" - and then plays "Clair de Lune" for them. The radio, and the music, are a huge part of the play.

I'll excerpt the end of the play. They have tried to make love a second time but Johnny couldn't perform. He's touchy about it. She tries to reassure him. He is devastated. He goes to make her an omelette - she's very hungry - but he keeps talking, raving about how much they are connected, yadda yadda - it makes her more and more uncomfortable. Eventually, they have a bit of a scuffle, he backs into the stove, and gets burned by the skillet. Mayhem ensues - with Frankie trying to put butter on his back, or ice cubes ... They are getting closer and closer to actually being able to talk to each other, actually being able to connect.

Here's the end of the play.

EXCERPT FROM Frankie and Johnny in the Clair de Lune, by Terrence McNally.

[Frankie has stopped working on Johnny's back. Instead she just stares at it. Johnny looks straight ahead. The music has changed to the Shostakovich Second String Quartet]

JOHNNY. What are you doing back there?

FRANKIE. Nothing. You want more butter or ice or something? [Johnny shakes his head]

JOHNNY. It's funny how you can talk to people better sometimes when you're not looking at them. You're right there. [He points straight ahead] Clear as day.

FRANKIE. I bet no one ever said this was the most beautiful music ever written.

JOHNNY. I don't mind.

FRANKIE. I don't know what the radio was doing on that station in the first place. That's not my kind of music. But I could tell you were enjoying it and I guess I wanted you to think I had higher taste than I really do.

JOHNNY. So did I.

FRANKIE. I liked what he played for us though, but he didn't say its name.

JOHNNY. Maybe it doesn't need one. You just walk into a fancy record shop and ask for the most beautiful music ever written and that's what they hand you.

FRANKIE. Not if I was the salesperson. You'd get "Michelle" or "Eleanor Rigby" or "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds". Something by the Beatles. I sort of lost interest in pop music when they stopped singing.

JOHNNY. The last record I bought was the Simon and Garfunkel Reunion in Central Park. It wasn't the same. You could tell they'd been separated.

FRANKIE. Sometimes I feel like it's still the Sixties. Or that they were ten or fifteen years ago, not twenty or twenty-five. I lost ten years of my life somewhere. I went to Bruce Springsteen last year and I was the oldest one there.

JOHNNY. Put your arms around me. [Frankie puts her arms over Johnny's shoulders] Tighter. [Frankie's hands begin to stroke Johnny's chest and stomach] Do you like doing that?

FRANKIE. I don't mind.

JOHNNY. We touch our own bodies there and nothing happens. Something to do with electrons. We short-circuit ourselves. Stroke my tits. There! [He tilts his head back until he is looking up at her] Give me your moth. [Frankie bends over and kisses him. It is a long one.] That tongue. Those lips. [He pulls her down towards him for another long kiss] I want to die like this. Drown.

FRANKIE. What do you want from me?

JOHNNY. Everything. Your heart. Your soul. Your tits. Your mouth. Your fucking guts. I want it all. I want to be inside you. Don't hold back.

FRANKIE. I'm not holding back.

JOHNNY. Let go. I'll catch you.

FRANKIE. I'm right here.

JOHNNY. I want more. I need more.

FRANKIE. If I'd known what playing with your tit was gonna turn into --

JOHNNY. Quit screwing with me, Frankie.

FRANKIE. You got a pretty weird notion of who's screwing with who. I said I liked you. I told you that. I'm perfectly ready to make love to you. Why do you have to start a big discussion about it. It's not like I'm saying "no".

JOHNNY. I want you to do something.

FRANKIE. What?

JOHNNY. I want you to go down on me.

FRANKIE. No.

JOHNNY. I went down on you.

FRANKIE. That was different.

JOHNNY. How?

FRANKIE. That was then.

JOHNNY. Please.

FRANKIE. I'm not good at it.

JOHNNY. Hey, this isn't a contest. We're talking about making love.

FRANKIE. I don't want to right now.

JOHNNY. You want me to go down on you again?

FRANKIE. If I do it will you shut up about all this other stuff?

JOHNNY. You know I won't.

FRANKIE. Then go down on yourself.

JOHNNY. What happened? You were gonna do it.

FRANKIE. Anything to get you to quit picking at me. Go on, get out of here. Get somebody else to go down on you.

JOHNNY. I don't want somebody else to go down on me.

FRANKIE. Jesus! I just had a vision of what it's going to be like at work Monday after this! I'm quitting my job. I was there first.

JOHNNY. What are you talking about?

FRANKIE. I don't think we're looking for the same thing.

JOHNNY. We are. Only I've found it and you've given up.

FRANKIE. Yes! Long before the sun ever rose on your ugly face.

JOHNNY. What scares you more? Marriage or kids?

FRANKIE. I'm not scared. And I told you: I can't have any.

JOHNNY. I told you: we can adopt.

FRANKIE. I don't love you.

JOHNNY. That wasn't the question.

FRANKIE. You hear what you want to hear.

JOHNNY. Do you know anybody who doesn't?

FRANKIE. Not all the time.

JOHNNY. You're only telling me you don't love me so you don't have to find out if you could. Just because you've given up on the possibility, I'm not going to let you drag me down with you. You're coming up to my level if I have to pull you by the hair.

FRANKIE. I'm not going anywhere with a man who for all his bullshit about marriage and kids and Shakespeare ...

JOHNNY. It's not bullshit!

FRANKIE. ...Just wants me to go down on him.

JOHNNY. Pretend it's a metaphor.

FRANKIE. Fuck you it was a metaphor! It was a blowjob. What's a metaphor?

JOHNNY. Something that stands for something else.

FRANKIE. I was right the first time. A blowjob.

JOHNNY. A sensual metaphor for mutual acceptance.

FRANKIE. Fuck you. Besides, what's mutual about a blowjob?

JOHNNY. I made that up. I'm sorry. It wasn't a metaphor. It was just something I wanted us to do.

FRANKIE. And I didn't.

JOHNNY. Let go, will you! One lousy little peccadillo and it's off with his head!

FRANKIE. Stop using words I don't know. What's a peccadillo?

JOHNNY. A blowjob! Notice I haven't died you didn't do it!

FRANKIE. I noticed.

JOHNNY. And let me notice something for you: you wouldn't have died if you had. Thanks for making me feel about this big. [He gets up and starts gathering and putting on his clothes] I'm sorry, I mistook you for a kindred spirit. Kindred: two of a kind, sharing a great affinity.

FRANKIE. I know what kindred means!

JOHNNY. Shall we go for affinity?

FRANKIE. That's the first really rotten thing you've said all night. Somebody who would make fun of somebody else's intelligence, not worse, their education or lack of -- that is somebody I would be very glad not to know. I thought you were weird, Johnny. I thought you were sad. I didn't think you were cruel.

JOHNNY. I'm sorry.

FRANKIE. It's a cruelty just waiting to happen again and I don't want to be there when it does.

JOHNNY. Please! [There is an urgency in his voice that startles Frankie] I'm not good with people. But I want to be. I can get away with it for long stretches but I always hang myself in the end.

FRANKIE. Hey, c'mon, don't cry. Please, don't cry.

JOHNNY. It's not cruelty. It's a feeling I don't matter. That nobody hears me. I'm drowning. I'm trying to swim back to shore but there's this tremendous undertow and I'm not getting anywhere. My arms and legs are going a mile a minute but they aren't taking me any closer to where I want to be.

FRANKIE. Where's that?

JOHNNY. With you.

FRANKIE. You don't know me.

JOHNNY. Yes, I do. It scares people how much we really know one another, so we pretend we don't. You know me. You've known me all your life. Only now I'm here. Take me. Use me. Try me. There's a reason we're called Frankie and Johnny.

FRANKIE. There's a million other Frankies out there and a billion other Johnnys. The world is filled with Frankies and Johnnys and Jacks and Jills.

JOHNNY. But only one this Johnny, one this Frankie.

FRANKIE. We're too different.

JOHNNY. You say po-tah-toes? All right, I'll say po-tah-toes! I don't care. I love you. I want to marry you.

FRANKIE. I don't say po-tah-toes. Who the hell says po-tah-toes?

JOHNNY. Are you listening to me?

FRANKIE. I'm trying very hard not to!

JOHNNY. That's your trouble. You don't want to hear anything you don't think you already know. Well I'll tell you something, Cinderella: your Prince Charming has come. Wake up before another thousand years go by! Don't throw me away like a gum wrapper because you think there's something about me you may not like. I have what it takes to give you anything and everything you want. Maybe not up here ... [he taps his head] ... or here ... [he slaps his hip where he wears his wallet] ... but here. And that would please me enormously. All I ask back is that you use your capacity to be everyone and everything for me. It's within you. If we could do that for each other we'd give our kids the universe. They'd be Shakespeare and the most beautiful music ever written and a saint maybe or a champion athlete or a president all rolled into one. Terrific kids! How could they not be? We have a chance to make everything turn out all right again. Turn our back on everything that went wrong. We can begin right now and all over again but only if we begin right now, this minute, this room and us. I know this thing, Frankie.

FRANKIE. I want to show you something, Johnny. [She pushes her hair back] He did that. The man I told you about. With a belt buckle. [Johnny kisses the scar]

JOHNNY. It's gone now.

FRANKIE. It'll never go.

JOHNNY. It's gone. I made it go.

FRANKIE. What are you? My guardian angel?

JOHNNY. It seems to me the right people are our guardian angels.

FRANKIE. I wanted things too, you know.

JOHNNY. I know.

FRANKIE. A man, a family, kids ... He's the reason I can't have any.

JOHNNY. He's gone. Choose me. Hurry up. It's getting light out. I turn into a pumpkin.

FRANKIE. [Looking towards the window] It is getting light out! [Frankie goes to the window]

JOHNNY. You are so beautiful standing there.

FRANKIE. The only time I saw the sun come up with a guy was my senior prom. [Johnny has joined her at the window. As they stand there looking out, we will be aware of the rising sun] His name was Johnny Di Corso but everyone called him Skunk. [She takes Johnny's hand and clasps it to her but her eyes stay looking out the window at the dawn] He was a head shorter than me and wasn't much to look at but nobody else had asked me. It was him or else. I was dreading it. But guess what? That boy could dance! You should have seen us. We were the stars of the prom. We did Lindys, the mambo, the Twist. The Monkey, the Frug. All the fast dances. Everybody's mouth was down to here. Afterwards we went out to the lake to watch the sun come up. He told me he was going to be on American Bandstand one day. I wonder if he ever made it. [Johnny puts his arm around her and begins to move her in a slow dance step]

JOHNNY. There must be something about you and sunrises and men called Johnny.

FRANKIE. You got a nickname?

JOHNNY. No. You got to be really popular or really unpopular to have a nickname.

FRANKIE. I'll give you a nickname. [They dance in silence a while. Silence, that is, except for the Shostakovich which they pay no attention to] You're not going to like me saying this but you're a terrible dancer.

JOHNNY. Show me.

FRANKIE. Like that.

JOHNNY. There?

FRANKIE. That's better.

JOHNNY. You're going to make a wonderful teacher. [He starts to hum]

FRANKIE. What's that supposed to be?

JOHNNY. Something from Brigadoon.

FRANKIE. That isn't from Brigadoon. That isn't even remotely from Brigadoon. That isn't even remotely something from anything. [They dance. Frankie begins to hum] That's something from Brigadoon. You can't have kids in a place this size.

JOHNNY. Who says?

FRANKIE. How big is your place?

JOHNNY. Even smaller. We'll be a nice snug family. It'll be wonderful.

FRANKIE. Does it always get light so fast this time of year?

JOHNNY. Unh-unh. The sun's in a hurry to shine on us.

FRANKIE. Pardon my French but that's bullshit.

JOHNNY. You can sleep all day today.

FRANKIE. What are you planning to do?

JOHNNY. Watch you.

FRANKIE. You're just weird enough to do it, too. Well forget it. I can't sleep with people watching me.

JOHNNY. How do you know?

FRANKIE. I was in the hospital for my gall bladder and I had a roommate who just stared at me all the time. I made them move me. I got a private room for the price of a semi. Is this the sort of stuff you look forward to finding out about me?

JOHNNY. Unh-hunh!

FRANKIE. You're nuts.

JOHNNY. I'm happy.

FRANKIE. Where are you taking me?

JOHNNY. The moon.

FRANKIE. That old place again?

JOHNNY. The other side this time. [Johnny has slow-danced Frankie to the bed. The room is being quickly flooded with sunlight]

FRANKIE. If you don't turn into a pumpkin, what do you turn into?

JOHNNY. You tell me. [He kisses her very gently]

FRANKIE. Just a minute. [She gets up and moves quickly to the bathroom. Johnny turns off all the room lights. He starts to close the blinds but instead raises them even higher. Sunlight pours across him. The Shostakovich ends. Johnny moves quickly to the radio and turns up the volume as the announcer's voice is heard]

RADIO ANNOUNCER ... that just about winds up my stint in the control room. This has been Music Till Dawn with Marlon. I'm still thinking about Frankie and Johnny. God, how I wish you two really existed. Maybe I'm crazy but I'd still like to believe in love. Why the hell do you think I work these hours? Anyway, you two moonbeams, whoever, wherever you are, here's an encore. [Debussy's "Clair de Lune" is heard again. Johnny sits, listening. He starts to cry he is so happy. He turns as Frankie comes out of the bathroom. She is brushing her teeth]

JOHNNY. They're playing our song again.

FRANKIE. Did they say what it was this time?

JOHNNY. I told you! You just walk into a record shop and ask for the most beautiful music ...

FRANKIE. Watch us end up with something from The Sound of Music, you'll see! You want to brush? [She motions with her thumb to the bathroom. She steps aside as Johnny passes her to go in] Don't worry. It's never been used. [Still brushing her teeth she goes to the window and looks out] Did you see the robins? [She listens to the music] This I can see why people call pretty. [She sits on the bed, listens and continues to brush her teeth. A little gasp of pleasure escapes her.] Mmmmm! [Johnny comes out of the bathroom. He is brushing his teeth]

JOHNNY. I'm not going to ask whose robe that is.

FRANKIE. Sshh! [She is really listening to the music]

JOHNNY. We should get something with fluoride.

FRANKIE. Sshh!

JOHNNY. Anti-tartar build-up, too.

FRANKIE. Johnny! [Johnny sits next to her on the bed. They are both brushing their teeth and listening to the music. They continue to brush their teeth and listen to the Debussy. The lights are fading.]

END OF THE PLAY

The Books: "Pterodactyls" (Nicky Silver)

Next in my Daily Book Excerpt:

I am still on my script shelf:

Next play in my little unalphabetized pile of Samuel French plays is Pterodactyls.
, by Nicky Silver. - who is certifiable! He reminds me of Christopher Durang. (Example of Durang wackiness here) Nicky Silver is nuts. (In a good way). He's a fearless playwright. I don't know what you would call his style. Surreal, maybe? Definitely comedy of the blackest dye.

Pterodactyls was one of Silver's first big hits. It also pretty much launched Hope Davis' career. I wasn't even living in New York in 1993 and I remember the buzz about her performance as Emma reaching me in Chicago.

I find this type of material extremely difficult. It's black comedy - it's zany - it's dark, man - and you can't ever stop to take a breath. It's challenging stuff. If you miss the guts of it - if you only go for the cross-fire dialogue, if you only go for PACE - (fast and funny) - then I think the play could fail miserably. There's a lot going on beneath the surface here. But you have to realize very early on to not take ANYthing at face value. Sentimentality and regular old human feeling is also something that does not exist in Pterodactyls. This family does atrocious things to each other, they say terrible unforgivable things to each other - but it's a COMEDY.

Okay - enough trying to describe it.

Briefly, here is the wackadoodle plot:

The Duncan family. They are very very wealthy. The father - Arthur - is rather clueless as a father and husband, but president of the bank. The mother - Grace - is a socialite, consumed with trivial details of life, and also a raging alcoholic. They have two children. There is Emma - who is, at the beginning of the play, going to get married to a boy she has known for 3 weeks. She also has a problem in that she can't remember anything. Her own brother walks in the room and she screams bloody murder, thinking he is an intruder. She cannot hold onto her own life. She has NO MEMORIES. She also is a complete hypochondriac, and really quite mad (meaning: insane). The other Duncan child is a son named Todd - who is obsessed with dinosaurs. He is building a dinosaur skeleton in their palatial living room. He has just returned home after a long time away. He has now contracted AIDS from ragingly unsafe gay sex up and down the Eastern seaboard (he has a graphic monologue about his activities) - and the rest of the family is a state of COMPLETE DENIAL that he is dying. He doesn't have any symptoms - so how can he be dying, is their attitude. Also - everyone is also just really distracted with planning Emma's wedding - they just don't pay attention to anything else. Meanwhile: Mr. Duncan (bank president) is so bummed out that he has a gay son that he won't even call his own son by his real name. He calls him "Buzz" because that's the name of the son he would have LIKED to have had. Butch, manly, blah blah. At the end of the play, Todd has protested about this enough that his father finally caves - and calls him "Buzz-Todd".

Emma's fiance is a guy named Tommy. He is a waiter at something like Olive Garden. Also, he's a really hostile and defensive film buff and is always interjecting into conversations at inappropriate moments: "Have you seen Night Porter?" Or whatever.

Mrs. Duncan cannot bear the thought of having a son-in-law who is a WAITER - so she offers Tommy a job as her maid. He accepts. And he gets so into the job that he basically becomes a raging homosexual in 24 hours time. He wears a small French maid's outfit, he becomes obsessed with banana nut loaf, he loses interest in Emma, and falls in love with Emma's brother Buzz-Todd. And Buzz-Todd falls in love with him. Although Buzz-Todd - with his obsession with dinosaurs, and his disease - can't really care too much about the present moment. He knows that everything is transient - even things like dinosaurs, or true love.

But Tommy - on the day of this GINORMOUS wedding being frantically planned - blurts out his true feelings. Chaos ensues. But chaos is already ensuing so no one really notices.

The play has, of course, a dark ending. Todd gives his sister Emma a gun for a wedding present. When the revelation about Tommy (her fiance) comes out - and he tells her he doesn't want to marry her - she walks offstage and shoots herself. Meanwhile: Tommy and Todd have already had sex - and Todd has passed on the virus to Tommy. Meanwhile: Mr. Duncan lost his job as president of the Bank. The family descends into utter poverty.

It's all kind of hard to describe - so I will just stop. Here's an excerpt from the big pre-wedding scene - with everyone onstage at once - all of them shouting about different things - trying to plan the wedding, dealing with last-minute crises, trying to communicate -

It's a whirlwind. Try to keep up!!

Oh yes - and occasionally - characters will turn "out" and comment on stuff to the audience. Very funny. So if you see a stage direction that says [Out] that's what it means.

From Pterodactyls.
, by Nicky Silver

[The lights come up, revealing Emma, on the sofar, writing thank you notes, wearing a cocktail length wedding dress. Gifts are scattered about. Through the French doors we see that it is autumn. Grace fiddles with the place cards]

EMMA. How do you spell 'escargot'?

GRACE. All the place cards are out of order.

EMMA. You don't know how to spell escargot?

GRACE. Thirty-two is man heavy.

EMMA. What does that mean?

GRACE. It's all men. How did that happen?

EMMA. What difference does it make?

GRACE. Good God, Emma. It makes all the difference -- who on earth sent you snails?

EMMA. Not snails, Mother. Forks. Escargot forks. Two dozen.

GRACE. From whom?

EMMA. Cousin Paul.

GRACE. Typical. Never marries. Sends forks.

EMMA. I like Cousin Paul. I think he's funny.

GRACE. Oh, he's funny all right.

EMMA. "... love, Emma." Can I stop now?

GRACE. How many have you done?

EMMA. Forty-two. And I have writer's block.

GRACE. [shuffling cards] You mean writer's cramp -- If I put Louise at thirty-two, I can put David Cumstock at eleven.

EMMA. Can I change please?

GRACE. Let me see the hem. [As Emma rises, Tommy enters from outdoors, wearing his maid's uniform]

TOMMY. Has anyone called for me?

EMMA. Shut your eyes! Shut your eyes!

TOMMY. Have they?

EMMA. You're not supposed to see me before the wedding!

TOMMY. I see you when I shut my eyes.

GRACE. Isn't that sweet?

TOMMY. Has anyone called?!

GRACE. Tommy, would you mind not sitting with Emma, tomorrow?

TOMMY. No.

EMMA. I'd mind.

GRACE. Have you tried on your tux?

TOMMY. Has anyone called!?

EMMA. No.

GRACE. You're going to look dashing in pants.

TOMMY. Thank you.

GRACE. And isn't Emma's dress beautiful? I'm so glad we decided against the full-length. Is the hem straight?

TOMMY. The hem?

EMMA. I can't breathe.

TOMMY. I think so.

GRACE. I hope I ordered enough champagne.

EMMA. You did.

GRACE. Well, do me a favor and don't drink champagne.

EMMA. At my wedding?

GRACE. Drink Scotch.

EMMA. I don't like Scotch.

GRACE. You haven't given it a chance. Trust me, drink enough of it, you'll like it. [Phone rings. Tommy rushes to answer it]

TOMMY. Hello ... It's for you. [He hands the phone to Grace]

GRACE. Hello? Oh, hello, Mr. Lavie.

EMMA. Where were you all morning?

TOMMY. Out.

EMMA. Out. Out? Out? Out where?

TOMMY. I had some errands to run.

EMMA. What does that mean?

GRACE. [into the phone] Oh, that is too bad --

TOMMY. I had things to do.

EMMA. What kind of things?

TOMMY. Personal things. Private things.

GRACE. [into the phone] No. I don't understand --

EMMA. You have secrets. I hate secrets.

TOMMY. I don't have secrets. I have boundaries.

EMMA. I hate them more. Boundaries make me feel insecure. They make me feel unworthy of being loved. Boundaries make me feel fat.

TOMMY. Don't be stupid.

EMMA. Name calling makes me feel needy and unwanted.

TOMMY. I'm sorry. I'm just nervous.

GRACE. [Into the phone] That simply won't do. [Hangs up] This is terrible!

EMMA. What is it, Mother?

GRACE. That was Mr. Lavie. There's a problem with the rabbit pate.

TOMMY. Rabbit pate?

GRACE. For the cocktail hour -- it seems all the rabbits had cervical cancer and the pate is contaminated.

TOMMY. Ick.

EMMA. I don't like the idea of eating bunnies anyway.

GRACE. That leaves us short on hors d'oeuvres! What am I supposed to do? Pass out Ritz crackers?

EMMA. I like Ritz crackers!

GRACE. I hate Mr. Lavie! He wears a pinkie ring with a diamond in it. And did you see? The tent is mustard and navy! I specifically asked for burnt ochre and midnight!

TOMMY. What's burnt ochre?

EMMA. Mustard.

GRACE. The orchids are heliotrope!

TOMMY. What's heliotrope?

EMMA. Purple.

GRACE. They look like giant bruises! I ordered aubergine!

TOMMY. What's aubergine?

EMMA. Purple.

GRACE. It's all part of the harvest -- the vegetable theme I'm doing. The ochre, the aubergine -- it's a visual cornucopia -- [The phone rings. Grace answers it] Hello?

TOMMY. Is it for me?

GRACE. [waving him away] Oh hello dear!

TOMMY. You were right. I'm sorry we didn't elope.

GRACE. [into the phone] That is too bad. Of course I understand. I'll call you soon. Bye, bye. [She hangs up the phone] I hate her!!!!

EMMA. Who's that?

GRACE. Nina Triten!

EMMA. Who?

GRACE. You remember her, from the club.

EMMA. No.

GRACE. Well, she begs me to have her children at the wedding -- you know I hate children, socially, at an affair -- but she begs me. She plays the devoted mother, can't leave them home, can't leave them with strangers. So I acquiesce. And now, when it's too late to fill her table, she cancels! She and her six, screaming, sticky-fingered little brats!

EMMA. Why?

GRACE. Oh, I don't know. I wasn't listening. Something about death, cancer, lymphoma, one of her children. Who cares? It's obviously an excuse!

TOMMY. Cancer?

GRACE. I should just throw the place cards in the air and start from scratch. Twenty-seven is empty! I could put your father O'Hara there, and the Gideon twins -- I know! Tommy, do you think if I called them right now, eight or nine of those Nuns who raised you might be free tomorrow?

TOMMY. I don't know.

GRACE. Of course they are. What else do they have to do all day?

TOMMY. They supplicate.

GRACE. Oh, they can skip that for one day. This is an emergency. God won't mind -- I better go through my address book -- Oh, why does everything happen to me? [Grace exits up the stairs]

EMMA. I have something to tell you.

TOMMY. Then just tell me! Do you have to narrate everything you do? Can't you just do things? It's not normal.

EMMA. I'm pregnant.

TOMMY. What?

EMMA. I'm going to have a baby.

TOMMY. Who's the father?

EMMA. You are of course! I knew something was happening to me. My colon wasn't hurting and my leg stopped cramping.

TOMMY. Those aren't signs.

EMMA. And I missed my last two periods. The doctor called this morning. Do you want to feel it?

TOMMY. No thank you.

EMMA. Your seed is growing inside of me. I hope it's a boy. Or a girl! I love children. Don't you?

TOMMY. No.

EMMA. What do you mean?

TOMMY. What could I mean by "no"?

EMMA. Children are nice.

TOMMY. Noisy, screaming bundles of goo.

EMMA. You'll come around. No one likes children until they have one.

TOMMY. We'll see.

EMMA. Tomorrow we'll leave here and never come back.

TOMMY. Don't you think we should stay until the baby comes.

EMMA. Why?

TOMMY. You don't know anything about babies.

EMMA. There's nothing to know. My breasts'll make milk.

TOMMY. I just think --

EMMA. You promised me!

TOMMY. I know I did.

EMMA. I can't stay here! It's been all right! I've been all right because I knew I was escaping! I knew there was an end!

TOMMY. I don't want to go.

EMMA. [Not listening to him] Todd scares me! He's creepy. He spends all of his time with the bones of dead things! And my father's possessed -- I know it! He speaks in tongues!

TOMMY. Don't be dramatic.

EMMA. I don't let on because I don't want him to eat me! He comes to me at night. He wears a halo of fire. His feet are cloven, his hair is a tangle of snakes and his tongue is a mile long!

TOMMY. Your father?

EMMA. I can't breathe!

TOMMY. Mr. Duncan?

EMMA. You promised me you'd save me!!

TODD. [Offstage] Hello.

EMMA. [To Tommy] CHEESE IT! [Todd enteres, carrying books on dinosaurs and a gift. To Todd, cheery] Hello.

TODD. You look very beautiful in your dress.

EMMA and TOMMY. Thank you.

TODD. I meant Emma.

TOMMY. Oh.

EMMA. Thank you.

TODD. Although you look well too, Tommy.

TOMMY. This old thing?

EMMA. I had another memory today! We were in a beautiful hot air balloon, with tiny twinkling lights on the basket, listening to "Moonlight Serenade".

TODD. That never happened.

EMMA. But I remember it.

TODD. I've never been in a hot air balloon.

TOMMY. That's from the cult-favorite, much maligned, 1980 Woody Allen film, Stardust Memories.

TODD. [Out] Never saw it.

TOMMY. [Out] Self-indulgent.

EMMA. [Out] Guess I liked it.

TOMMY. How are you feeling?

TODD. Fine.

EMMA. It's remarkable that you have no symptoms.

TODD. I brought you a gift.

EMMA. I love presents! What's the occasion?

TODD. Your wedding.

TOMMY. It's very nice of you.

EMMA. [Unwrapping it] It's beautiful! It's ... a gun.

TODD. Your pattern.

EMMA. It's sweet. It's a sweet looking gun.

TODD. I hope you like it.

EMMA. It's lovely, but, do you really think a gun is an appropriate gift?

TODD. I didn't know what to get you.

EMMA. I like earrings.

TOMMY. Don't be ungrateful.

EMMA. It's pretty!

TODD. [taking the gun, loading it] I thought you might need it.

EMMA. And we don't have a gun. Do we honey?

TODD. I thought since you're leaving --

EMMA. You told him?! I can't believe you told him!

TOMMY. I didn't mean to. It slipped out.

EMMA. We promised we wouldn't.

TOMMY. He won't tell anyone.

EMMA. That's not the point! We agreed!

TOMMY. Well I did it and I can't undo it!

TODD. You'll need it out there. Everything is ending. People are corpses. They trample each other and never notice the cry of sorrow. While mothers, doctors, and civilized men practice their genocide.

EMMA. [bewildered, retrieving the gun] Well ... I'll just go toss this in my hope chest. [Emma exits]

TOMMY. I'm going to die.

ARTHUR. [enters and hangs his jacket on the dinosaur] Grace! Where's Mrs. Duncan? Grace!

TODD. I've asked you not to do that!!!

TOMMY. [removing it] I'll take it sir.

ARTHUR. How are you feeling Buzz-Todd?

TODD. Fine!

ARTHUR. No symptoms?

TODD. No! [Phone rings. Tommy rushes to it, dropping Arthur's jacket on the floor. Todd goes to work on the dinosaur]

TOMMY. Hello?

ARTHUR. Where's your Mother?

TODD. Upstairs.

ARTHUR. Grace!

TOMMY. [irritated, into the phone] Oh, just a minute. [Grace enters]

GRACE. Is that you Arthur? What are you doing home? Isn't it the afternoon? I've lost the thread of the day --

TOMMY. [Handing Grace the phone] It's for you.

GRACE. Thank you, Tommy. Hello?

TOMMY. Can I get you something, Sir?

ARTHUR. Privacy.

GRACE. [into phone] You must be kidding me.

TOMMY. [Hostile] I'm just doing my job.

GRACE. [hanging up] This is terrible!

TOMMY. What is it?

GRACE. Arthur, can you play the violin?

ARTHUR. Of course not.

GRACE. Viola?

ARTHUR. Grace!

GRACE. It seems our violinist was killed this morning by a stray bullet during a bank hold-up.

TOMMY. Did he work at a bank?

GRACE. He was holding one up.

ARTHUR. Who cares? No one'll miss one violin from an orchestra.

GRACE. It's a string quartet.

TODD. Not any more.

ARTHUR. I have to talk to you, Grace.

GRACE. [starting to rush off] Can't it wait? I have to locate a violin and practice like mad.

ARTHUR. No! Something terrible has happened.

GRACE. Oh I know it. The tent is wrong, the flowers are off, the rabbits' malignant and I've got a table full of nuns at twenty-seven.

ARTHUR. [sitting] Get me a drink.

TOMMY. [bitterly] Yes'm Massa Duncan. [Tommy exits]

GRACE. I wish, Arthur, you'd say please to the servants. Your curtness is read as ingratitude. You're the reason we can't keep good help.

ARTHUR. Don't criticize me. I've had a terrible day.

GRACE. So have I. See your set-backs as challenges. That's what I do.

TODD. I had a nice day.

GRACE. Did you?

TODD. But I see my set-backs as set-backs.

ARTHUR. Please. I don't know how to say this -- [Tommy enters with a drink]

TOMMY. Here.

ARTHUR. Why are you still wearing that?

TOMMY. It's my uniform.

ARTHUR. I asked you to wear pants.

TOMMY. Mrs. Duncan said --

ARTHUR. It's awful.

GRACE. It's snappy.

ARTHUR. It's faggy.

GRACE. Arthur, please.

ARTHUR. Well, it is. It's the fruitiest thing I've ever seen.

GRACE. [under her breath] You'll offend Todd.

ARTHUR. Oh, he doesn't care. Do you Buzz-Todd?

GRACE. Arthur, he's homosexual.

ARTHUR. That doesn't mean he's effeminate.

GRACE. He'll have another "fit".

ARTHUR. That's all behind ya, isn't it, Buzz-Todd?

TODD. No.

TOMMY. I think I look like Tony Curtis in Some Like it Hot!

ARTHUR. I hated that movie.

TOMMY. [hostile] It's a classic.

GRACE. [to Arthur] You never had a sense of humor.

TODD. I found it politically incorrect in its portrayal of transvestites as buffoons.

GRACE. Didn't you have something to tell me? I left Emma on a stool upstairs with pins in her hem.

ARTHUR. Don't look at me. I don't think I can say this if anyone is looking at me. [The others turn away from Arthur]

GRACE. Oh my. Maybe I should have a drink too.

ARTHUR. Why?

GRACE. It sounds as if I'm going to need one.

ARTHUR. Do you have to?

GRACE. Just one.

ARTHUR. It always starts with "just one", doesn't it?

GRACE. [turning back to Arthur] What does?

ARTHUR. You know very well.

GRACE. I don't know what you're talking about -- Tommy, a scotch. [Tommy rises]

ARTHUR. Sit down, Tommy. [Tommy sits] I'm asking you not to.

GRACE. If I understood your implication, I'd be insulted. A drink, please. [Tommy rises]

ARTHUR. Sit Tommy. [Tommy sits]

GRACE. Stand Tommy. [Tommy rises]

ARTHUR. Grace, it's not even four.

GRACE. So what?

ARTHUR. If you start now, you'll be gone by dinner.

GRACE. Gone? Gone where? Try to avoid the vague euphemism.

TOMMY. Would you like me to leave?

ARTHUR. That would be best. [Tommy starts to exit]

GRACE. Stay put, Tommy. [Tommy sits] If Mr. Duncan wishes to hurl ugly accusations, let him do so in public. What are you trying to say, Arthur?

ARTHUR. You're an alcoholic, Grace.

GRACE. [very still] What did you say to me?

TODD. He called you an alcoholic.

ARTHUR. I wish you wouldn't drink so much!

GRACE. What's "so much"?

ARTHUR. You drink yourself blind every night.

GRACE. You call that "so much"? Please.

The Books: "Same Time Next Year" (Bernard Slade)

Next in my Daily Book Excerpt:

I am still on my script shelf:

Next play in my little unalphabetized pile of Samuel French plays is Same Time, Next Year A Comedy in Two Acts (acting edition), by Bernard Slade. Playwrights dream of writing a play as successful as this one. Bernard Slade was the Philip Barry of the 1970s. This play was a smash hit on Broadway - with Ellen Burstyn and Charles Grodin (man, would have loved to see it) - and then it was turned into a smash hit film (with Ellen Burstyn and Alan Alda - kinda wished they had maintained Grodin - but I understand - realities of show business) - for which Bernard Slade also wrote the screenplay.

This play is a joy to read. Just like Philip Barry's plays are a joy to read. I don't know - they remind me of one another. The dialogue is rollicking - you get the sense of a finely tuned craftsman at work - He just knows what the hell he is doing. It's FUNNY - you read it and you can FEEL the jokes - they are written into the dialogue (this is not always the case with plays) - Slade was a humorist. And yet - same as Philip Barry - the humor never seems gimmicky or outside of the action of the play. The characters themselves are funny - and this is a comedic universe - where people say funny things. I love playwrights who can do that.

Even though Same Time Next Year is funny - I mean, pretty much every other line is funny - it has a relentless ba-dum-ching rhythm - the heart is not sacrificed, the sense of reality is not sacrificed. These are two people - who have a real relationship - the stakes are high - they run the gamut.

The story is well-known: Two people (married - but not to each other) meet year after year after year - for one weekend a year - to have sex in a nice little country inn. It's only one weekend - after that weekend, they go back to their lives, their kids, their spouses - but one weekend a year, they have a liaison. Of course it is about WAY more than "just sex" - but they turn themselves inside out trying to justify it.

This one-weekend-a-year affair goes on for 25 years. Each scene is a different year.

I feckin' love this play and I would KILL to do this play.

I'll excerpt the opening scene - which is their first night together - the night they met. They think it's going to be a one-night stand - but neither of them have ever cheated on their spouses before - they're not really one-night-stand people ... but - what Slade does here is set up a couple of things: these two people are NEUROTIC. And also: these two people, from the get-go, have a huge connection. It cannot be denied. They do not understand it, it frightens them - since they are already married - but they feel it. This is what makes the one night stand turn into a 25 year affair.

All of that is set up in this opening scene - they have just met - they have just spent the night together.

Just watch how relentlessly funny Slade is. If this is played right, there should be a laugh on almost every other line.

EXCERPT FROM Same Time, Next Year A Comedy in Two Acts (acting edition), by Bernard Slade

ACT ONE SCENE 1

THE TIME: A day in February, 1951

THE PLACE. A bed-sitting room in the cottage of a Spanish style inn near Mendecino, North of San Francisco. It is a cozy comfortable room, large enough to contain a double bed, dressing table, chintz-covered sofa, a baby grand piano, wood burning fireplace and an ottoman. There are two leaded pane glass windows, a closet, a door leading to the bathroom and another door which opens onto the patio-entrance to the cottage. The room's aura of permanence is not an illusion. The decor has been the same for the past 25 years and will not change for the next 25.

AT RISE. George and Doris are in bed. George is sitting up against the headboard of the bed rigidly staring into space. Doris is lying in a sleeping position but her eyes are wide open. Very slowly and carefully George gets out of the bed. When she feels George move, Doris shuts her eyes and pretends to be asleep. George picks up his jacket and puts it on, then he finds a sock and puts that on. As he is putting on the second sock Doris turns to watch him

DORIS. That's a very sharp looking outfit.

GEORGE. Hello.

DORIS. Hi.

GEORGE. Did I wake you?

DORIS. I was awake.

GEORGE. How'd you sleep?

DORIS. Fine, thank you. [Doris reaches for her petticoat which is on the dressing table stool beside the bed. She pulls it under the sheet and puts the sheet over her head while she gets into her slip. George meanwhile has found his trousers and quickly puts them on] What time is it?

GEORGE. My watch is on the bedside table.

DORIS. [Picks up watch] Ten to twelve!

GEORGE. No, it's twenty-five after eight. The stem is broken. It's three hours and twenty-five minutes fast.

DORIS. Why don't you get it fixed?

GEORGE. I was going to. I got used to it.

DORIS. Doesn't it mix you up?

GEORGE. No. I'm very quick with figures.

DORIS. Why are you looking at me like that?

GEORGE. We're in a lot of trouble.

DORIS. Yeah?

GEORGE. Why do you have to look so luminous? It would make it a lot easier if you woke up with puffy eyes and blotchy skin like everyone else.

DORIS. I guess God figured chubby thighs were enough.

GEORGE. Look, this is not going to just go away. We've got to talk about it.

DORIS. Okay. [She gets out of bed, the sheet around her, and starts for the bathroom]

GEORGE. Where are you going?

DORIS. I'm going to brush my teeth.

GEORGE. Dorothy, please sit down. [Doris starts to speak] Please sit down and let me say this. [She sits on the end of the bed] Dorothy, first of all, I want you to know last night was the most beautiful, wonderful, crazy thing that's ever happened to me and I'll never forget it -- or you.

DORIS. Doris.

GEORGE. What?

DORIS. My name is Doris.

GEORGE. Your name is Doris. I've been calling you Dorothy all night. Why didn't you tell me earlier?

DORIS. I didn't expect us to end up like we did. Then I did try to tell you but you weren't listening.

GEORGE. When?

DORIS. Right in the middle of everything.

GEROGE. It was incredible wasn't it?

DORIS. It was -- nice. Especially the last time.

GEORGE. I'm an animal. I don't know what got into me. What was the matter with the first two times?

DORIS. What? Oh -- well, the first time was kinda fast and the second -- look, I feel funny talking about this.

GEORGE. It was a very beautiful thing, Doris. There was nothing disgusting or dirty in what we did.

DORIS. Then how come you look so down in the dumps?

GEORGE. My wife is going to kill me.

DORIS. How is she going to find out?

GEORGE. She knows.

DORIS. You said she was in New Jersey.

GEORGE. It doesn't matter. She knows.

DORIS. How?

GEORGE. Was it as incredible for you as it was for me?

DORIS. Do all men like to talk about it a lot afterward?

GEORGE. Why? You think I'm some sort of pervert or something?

DORIS. No. I just wondered. See, I was a virgin when I got married. At least sort of.

GEORGE. Sort of?

DORIS. Well, I was pregnant but I don't count that.

GEORGE. Doris, that counts.

DORIS. I mean it was by the man I married.

GEORGE. Oh, I'm sorry.

DORIS. [putting on her blouse] That's okay. Harry and me would've gotten married anyway. It just speeded things up a bit. Turns out I get pregnant if we drink from the same cup. [He looks at her] What's the matter?

GEORGE. It's okay. Trojans are very reliable.

DORIS. Who are?

GEORGE. Never mind. I'm in a lot of trouble. I think I love you. It's crazy! It's really crazy! I don't even know if you've read "Catcher in the Rye".

DORIS. I didn't graduate high school.

GEORGE. You see? I don't even care! Of course, I should've known this would happen. There's something about me I didn't tell you.

DORIS. What? [She puts on her skirt]

GEORGE. When it comes to life I have a brown thumb.

DORIS. What do you mean?

GEORGE. Nothing I do ever turns out right. Ever. The first time I had sex I was eighteen years old. We were in the back seat of a parked 1938 Dodge sedan. Right in the middle of it we were rear ended.

DORIS. Gee, that's terrible. Did you have insurance?

GEORGE. You know the song they were playing on the juke box last night when we met?

DORIS. No?

GEORGE. "If I Knew You Were Coming I'd've Baked A Cake"!

DORIS. So?

GEORGE. So that's going to be "our song"! Other people would get "Be my Love" or "Hello Young Lovers". Me -- I get "If I Knew You Were Coming I'd've Baked A Cake"!

DORIS. You're very romantic. I like that.

GEORGE. I think I'm in love with you. Now you want to know the luck I have? I'm happily married!

DORIS. Are you Jewish?

GEORGE. No.

DORIS. Well, how come you're so guilty?

GEORGE. Don't you feel guilty?

DORIS. Are you kidding? Half my high school became nuns.

GEORGE. Catholics have rules about this sort of thing.

DORIS. We have rules about everything. That's what's so great about being Catholic. You always know where you stand.

GEORGE. I tell you, Doris, I feel like slitting my wrists.

DORIS. Are you Italian?

GEORGE. What's with you and nationalities?

DORIS. You're so emotional.

GEORGE. I happen to be a CPA. I can be as logical as the next person.

DORIS. You don't strike me as an accountant type.

GEORGE. It's very simple. My whole life has been a mess. Figures always come out right. I like that. What are you?

DORIS. I'm Italian.

GEORGE. Why aren't you more emotional?

DORIS. When you grow up in a large Italian family, it's enough to turn you off emotion for life.

GEORGE. I wondered why you weren't crying or yelling.

DORIS. I did before in the bathroom.

GEORGE. Crying?

DORIS. Yelling.

GEORGE. I didn't hear you.

DORIS. I stuffed a towel in my mouth.

GEORGE. I'm sorry.

DORIS. That's all right. There's no sense crying over spilt milk.

GEORGE. You're right.

DORIS. Then how come we feel so terrible?

GEORGE. Because we're two decent, honest people and this thing is tearing us apart. I mean I know it wasn't our fault but I keep seeing the faces of my children and the look of betrayal in their eyes. I keep thinking of our marriage vows, the trust my wife has placed in me, the experiences we've shared together. And you know the worst part of it all? While I'm thinking of all these things, I have this fantastic hard on.

DORIS. I really wish you hadn't said that.

GEORGE. I'm sorry. I just feel we should be totally honest with each other.

DORIS. No, it's not that. I have to go to confession.

GEORGE. We're both crazy. I mean this sort of thing happens to millions of people every day. We're just normal, healthy human beings who did a perfectly healthy, normal thing. You don't use actual names in confession do you?

DORIS. No.

GEORGE. May I ask you something?

DORIS. Sure.

GEORGE. Would you go to bed with me again?

DORIS. George, we can't!

GEORGE. Why not?

DORIS. We'll feel worse afterwards!

GEORGE. No. I'm over that now; I just remembered something.

DORIS. What?

GEORGE. The Russians have the bomb! We could all be dead tomorrow!

DORIS. George, you're clutching at straws!

GEORGE. Don't you understand? We're both grown up people who have absolutely nothing to be ashamed or afraid of!!! [There is a knock at the door. They both freeze] Just a second! [Then they go into frantic action. He attempts to straighten up the room. She grabs her hat, jacket, purse and starts for the bathroom] Don't go into the bathroom!

DORIS. Why not?

GEORGE. It's the first place they look! Just a second! I'm coming! [She heads for the window and climbs out. He spots her girdle on the hearth, grabs it and stuffs it part way into his pocket. He opens the door about six inches and squeezes outside, closing the door behind him. We hear a muffled exchange offstage before he reenters carrying a breakfast tray which he places on the coffee table. He looks around for Doris, sees open window and crosses to it] Doris? Doris? [While he is looking out the window, she comes through the front door]

DORIS. You have a woman in here?

GEORGE. [startled, he turns to face her] It's okay. I was very calm. It was old Mr. Chalmers with my breakfast. He didn't suspect a thing.

DORIS. He didn't ask about your girdle?

GEORGE. What? [He looks at his pocket and sees her girdle] Oh, great! Now he probably thinks I'm a homo!

DORIS. [She takes the girdle and puts it into her purse] What do you care?

GEORGE. I stay here every year.

DORIS. You do, why?

GEORGE. I have a friend who went into the wine business near here. I fly out the same weekend every year to do his books.

DORIS. From New Jersey?

GEORGE. He was my first client. It's kind of a sentimental thing.

DORIS. Oh.

GEORGE. Doris, there's something I want to tell you.

DORIS. What?

GEORGE. I know I must appear very smooth and glib -- sexually. Well, I want you to know that since I've been married this is the very first time I've done this.

DORIS. Don't worry, I could tell. Do you mind if I have some of your breakfast?

GEORGE. Go ahead. I'm not hungry. It's funny when I was single I was no good at quick, superficial affairs. I had to be able to really like the person before ... What do you mean -- you could tell? In what way could you tell?

DORIS. What? Oh -- I don't know -- the way you tried to get your pants off over your shoes and then tripped and hit your head on the coffee table. Little things like that.

GEORGE. It's great to be totally honest with another person isn't it?

DORIS. It sure is.

GEORGE. I haven't been totally honest wtih you.

DORIS. No?

GEORGE. No. I told you I was a married man with two children.

DORIS. You're not?

GEORGE. No. I'm a married man with three children. I thought it would make me seem less married. Look, I just didn't think it through. Anyway, it's been like a lead weight inside me all morning. I mean denying little Debbie like that. I don't normally behave like this, I was under a certain stress. You understand?

DORIS. Sure, we all do dopey things sometimes. How come your wife doesn't travel with you?

GEORGE. Phyllis won't go on a plane.

DORIS. Is she afraid of flying?

GEORGE. Crashing.

DORIS. [Noticing that George is staring at her] Why are you looking at me like that?

GEORGE. I love the way you eat.

DORIS. You wanta share some coffee with me?

GEORGE. No thank you. Doris, do you believe that two perfect strangers can look at each other across a crowded room and suddenly want to possess each other in every conceivable way possible?

DORIS. No.

GEORGE. Then how did this whole thing start?

DORIS. It started when you sent me over that steak in the restaurant.

GEORGE. They didn't serve drinks. They're known for their steaks.

DORIS. Then when I looked over and you toasted me with your fork with a big piece of steak on it, that really made me laugh. I never saw anybody do that before. What made you do it?

GEORGE. Impulse. Usually I never do that sort of thing. I have a friend who says that life is saying "yes". The most I've ever been able to manage is "maybe".

DORIS. So then why did you do it?

GEORGE. I was lonely and you looked so vulnerable. You had a run in your stocking and your lipstick was smeared.

DORIS. You thought I looked cheap?

GEORGE. I thought you looked beautiful.

DORIS. I really should be going. The nuns will be wondering what happened to me.

GEORGE. Nuns?

DORIS. Yeah. It didn't seem right to bring up when we met yesterday in the restaurant but I was on my way to retreat.

GEORGE. Retreat?

DORIS. It's right near here. I go every year at this time when Harry takes the kids to Bakersfield.

GEORGE. What's in Bakersfield?

DORIS. His mother. It's her birthday.

GEORGE. She doesn't mind that you don't go?

DORIS. No, she hates me.

GEORGE. Why?

DORIS. I got pregnant.

GEORGE. Her son had something to do with that.

DORIS. She blocks that out of her mind. You see, he was in his first year of dental college and he had to quit and take a job selling waterless cooking. And so now every year on her birthday I go on retreat.

GEORGE. To think about God?

DORIS. Well, Him too, sure. See I have three little kids. I got pregnant the first time when I was eighteen and so I never really had any time to think about what I want. Never mind ... sometimes I think I'm crazy.

GEORGE. Why?

DORIS. Well, take my life. I live in a two bedroom duplex in downtown Oakland, we have a 1948 Kaiser, a blond three piece dinette set, Motorola TV, and we go bowling at least once a week. I mean what else could anyone ask for? But sometimes things get me down, you know? It's dumb!

GEORGE. I don't think it's dumb.

DORIS. You don't? Boy, I can really talk to you. It's amazing. I find myself saying things to you that I didn't know I thought. I noticed that yesterday right after we met in the restaurant.

GEORGE. We had instant rapport! Did you notice that too?

DORIS. No, but I know we really hit it off. Harry's not much of a talker. How about your wife. Do you two talk a lot?

GEORGE. Doris, naturally we're both curious about each other's husband and wife. But rather than dwelling on it and letting it spoil everything why don't we do this. I'll tell you two stories one showing the best side of my wife and the other showing the worst. Then you do the same about your husband and then let's forget that. Okay?

DORIS. Okay.

GEORGE. I'll go first. I'll start with the worst side. Phyllis knows about us.

DORIS. Now you said that before. How could she know?

GEORGE. She has this thing in her head.

DORIS. Oh, you mean like a plate?

GEORGE. Plate?

DORIS. My uncle has one of those. He was wounded in the war and they put this steel plate in his head and now he says he can always tell when it's going to rain.

GEORGE. I'm in a lot of trouble.

DORIS. Why?

GEORGE. I find everything you say absolutely fascinating.

DORIS. Tell me about your wife's plate.

GEORGE. No, it's not a plate -- it's more like a bell. I could be a million miles away, but if I even look at another girl she knows it. Last night at 1:22 I just know she sat bolt upright in bed with her head going, ding, ding, ding, ding!

DORIS. How'd you know it was 1:22?

GEORGE. My watch said 4:47.

The Books: "The Great Nebula in Orion" (Lanford Wilson)

Next in my Daily Book Excerpt:

I am still on my script shelf:

Next play in my little unalphabetized pile of Samuel French plays is a one-act by Lanford Wilson - called The Great Nebula in Orion.

Two old college friends - Carrie and Louise - who have not seen each other in 6 years - bump into each other in Bergdorf's. After exclaiming and carrying on, Louise invites Carrie to come back to her apartment for a cup of coffee - so they can catch up. The play is that "catch up' conversation in Louise's incredible apt. overlooking Central Park.

One very funny thing about this play is that the two characters are constantly turning and speaking to the audience - confiding in the audience. It's supposed to be private - like, what Carrie says to the audience will not be heard by Louise, and vice versa - but there are moments when it is acknowledged by the other what is going on. It's like they give each other the space to have their moments with the audience. Like Louise starts to say something to Carrie, notices that she is talking to the audience, and says, "Oh. Excuse me" and goes back to what she was doing. It would have to be played just right in order to work - but I think it's hysterical. It's also poignant - a way to let the audience know the inner feelings. Because this is a meeting between people who haven't seen each other in years - not a lot of TRUTH is being told. But they both turn and tell the truth to the audience - how hard it is to see that the friend is growing old, because it means they are growing old, etc. Carrie and Louise are not just carefree old friends - there's a lot underneath - a lot not being said. But in this particular play, they get to say it to the audience. (In a way it reminds me of one of my favorite JD Salinger short stories Uncle Wiggly in Connecticut. It has the same "plot". The same tragic undertones.)

Things are not what they seem with these two old friends. Carrie was once an activist - she dated poets, etc. - she then married David, a wealthy guy, and now has 2 kids and lives in a suburb of Boston. She's kind of adrift but she does all the right things - bridge clubs, golf, etc. But ... there's something missing in her life ... meaning, maybe? And Louise is single - a fashion designer - highly successful - no kids, no marriage ... their lives are completely different now ... but by the end of the play, they've both had about 3 brandies and they're pretty LOOPED and all of the subtext comes flooding out. It's gorgeous. I'd love to play either one of these characters. They're beautifully written.

I'll excerpt from the middle of the play. They're both already a bit trashed. Notice the to-the-audience comments, and how they are almost casual - as though this whole thing is happening in retrospect, and they are narrating their own lives.

From The Great Nebula in Orion, by Lanford Wilson

LOUISE. We haven't talked about school.

CARRIE. No.

LOUISE. Thank God. Whatever. [Undecided] Happened to Phyllis Trahaunt?

CARRIE. [But interested] I haven't a clue.

LOUISE. [At random] She was going with someone I think ...

CARRIE. Oh, no. No. You knew.

LOUISE. I've wondered. She's one of the few women I've wanted to dress; she carried herself so well.

CARRIE. [in a hush-hush tone, implying scandal] Oh, she was beautiful. For all the good. But she wasn't going with anyone. Never.

LOUISE. I heard she was.

CARRIE. I don't much think so from what I heard,

LOUISE. No?

CARRIE. She didn't much like the boys, I hear.

LOUISE. Oh, really.

CARRIE. I'm surprised you didn't know. She was in your class.

LOUISE. I guess I never really thought. We had a few classes together.

CARRIE. But she never dated. She was always in Philadelphia.

LOUISE. I just assumed she had family there.

CARRIE. I haven't heard a word of her.

LOUISE. Huh. Nor I. [Pouring another]

CARRIE. None for me. [Louise looks to the audience as if to say something serious, decides against it, corks the bottle. Carrie is looking away, deep in troubled thought. The tone of her voice, serious and troubled, comes from the blue] Louise ...?

LOUISE. [startled, seriously in return] What, darling?

CARRIE. Oh.

LOUISE. I'm sorry, that sounded so odd. I'm hearing oddly today.

CARRIE. Well, I've joined practically everything there is to join. I mean I know yhou aren't interested in politics or anything like that --

LOUISE. Well, more than I was, actually --

CARRIE. Oh, darling, I am glad. But I know I have my children and they are -- well, I won't show you again --

LOUISE. [to the audience] Small favor -- no they're lovely.

CARRIE. And I have a wonderful home and David and the kids --

LOUISE. And you've joined everything.

CARRIE. I've even taken some night courses -- not like your friend --

LOUISE. Berilla, no; I'm sure. I don't mean --

CARRIE. I know. I really, in spite of that, envy you. You're like some of the girls and I don't know how they do it. I know it's just an attitude, I mean a state of mind, but know that doesn't help, does it?

LOUISE. It might, if I knew what the hell we were talking about.

CARRIE. Well ...

LOUISE. I mean they say the first thing an alkie has to do is admit he's hooked.

CARRIE. Well, then, what I've got to admit is that I'm not. Hooked. Even with all my activities I really envy you -- you're --

LOUISE. Darling, I'll trade anytime.

CARRIE. Well, see, though, that's -- you wouldn't really, would you?

LOUISE. Well, no, not really. But then really neither would you.

CARRIE. But I would. When I first saw you I thought you looked all six years older and probably so did I, and I didn't really want to think about it -- and of course I know you're a wonderful success and that's probably never easy but you seem -- engaged.

LOUISE. Oh, I'm engaged.

CARRIE. Well, I'm not much.

LOUISE. What is it, David?

CARRIE. No, I don't really think it's David. I'm afraid it's more me. David is the happiest married man I know of. [Count six] Well, that's silly. It's not really anything. It's just seeing you again after all this time. You start thinking back about the times we had and those times. It's silly.

LOUISE. Is there anything --

CARRIE. [Irritated. Almost uppity] Oh, don't be ridiculous. That's ridiculous.

LOUISE. What is?

CARRIE. Well, weren't you going to ask me if I need help or something? What I need is about two less drinks.

LOUISE. Or two more.

CARRIE. I don't think. [To the audience] Well, now I am uncomfortable and I thought ...

LOUISE. Have another drink then.

CARRIE. No! Thank you.

LOUISE. have you been trying to solve the world's problems again?

CARRIE. No, I don't crusade anymore. It would look rather hypocritical. David has so many very rich friends.

LOUISE. And is no pauper himself.

CARRIE. Oh, dear. I really had no idea when we were married. I mean I knew he had money, but I'd no idea. It's just that being around them you realize that actually the country isn't run quite the way you thought it -- I mean, they're really very powerful people.

LOUISE. I'm sure they are.

CARRIE. And, well, the country isn't run quite the way you think it is. The way people are led to believe it is.

LOUISE. I don't really think people believe it is.

CARRIE. I mean, it's worse than that.

LOUISE. How?

CARRIE. Well, it's all a sham. I don't actually think I should say anything. It's just things I sense. The way they talk. I only meant that I decided crusading wouldn't have much effect. I don't mean I drift and mope. I diet and run about from this to that. You should see my schedule, but I'm just not --

LOUISE. Engaged.

CARRIE. Well, my mind isn't. Or I'm losing it or something. I'm not all there is all. This brandy is something else.

LOUISE. A present, isn't it great?

CARRIE. I'm not so sure. [She finishes it off as Louise looks at her]

LOUISE. [Not too obviously] Richard Roth.

CARRIE. Huh?

LOUISE. I don't know. I think you may have written about him.

CARRIE. I thought I must have. [To the audience] We used to write years ago. But you know, we slacked off and finally just dwindled down to exchanging Christmas cards. [To Louise] Dick never wrote a letter in his life.

LOUISE. Dick Roth. What's he up to now?

CARRIE. Oh, now, who knows? Removed to Australia the last I heard. That was years ago. I wouldn't have any idea now.

LOUISE. I don't know about poets.

CARRIE. Oh, he was great but he was a nut. Everyone reviewed his work, if that means anything. I didn't really know him when he wrote; I really met him in California. I've probably told you: he had these enormous gaps and he knew practically nothing about astronomy or any of that, so I guess it came as a shock to him. He read somewhere that the sun -- you know, our sun -- would burn up in about a billion years or two. Or whatever it's supposed to do: burn out or blow up, and he never wrote a word after that. I suppose he reasoned that anything that was written would simply always be around somewhere but if there was going to be an end to it all one day he didn't see any point. As I said he was a nut. So he left school and came out to California.

LOUISE. Why California?

CARRIE. Astronomy. Mount Palomar. I guess he got very interested in cosmology or something. He was really crazy about it for a while. You know he was one of those types that's never interested in any one thing for any length of time. I think for about a month he was even interested in me. His sister was ecstatic, apparently he'd never been interested in a person before.

LOUISE. [to the audience] After Carrie left school she went for a year out --

CARRIE. A little less.

LOUISE. Out to California.

CARRIE. We used to sit on the beach at night. It was incredible. You've never seen skies like they have. And the nights aren't really cold but you need a sweater. We used to build up a bonfire. There's tons of driftwood around on the beach that washes up and we dragged it in from everywhere. You could have seen it for miles out to sea. You aren't supposed to but no one says anything. There was a group of probably twenty of us. Dick and I used to wander out down the beach -- you couldn't get lost -- and you could see the fire wiht little people running off and dragging up more wood all the time. I even learned a few of the constellations. They're really easy. I mean at first they're just stars, but once you start getting them placed in your mind the whole sky starts dividing up into patterns like a quilt. And you can't look up without seeing, recognizing, Andromeda and Orion and the bears and the seven sisters. It's amazing.

LOUISE. I can't even find the Big Dipper.

CARRIE. Oh, you could -- there's a way -- you just have to find Polaris -- well, I mean, I couldn't either, but you learn. Orion is the one though; you've seen him, you just didn't know what he was.

LOUISE. I don't imagine.

CARRIE. No, you had to. He's the one that you say, I'll bet anything that's some damn constellation. This is Orion. See, there are three stars -- [On the table, with her finger, dot dot dot] big ones across. That's the belt. And here ... [To the audience] Do you know this? [Back to Louise] ... perpendicular to the belt there are three more, closer together and fainter. [On the table] And that's his sword. And this -- the center star in the sword is the Great Nebula in Orion.

LOUISE. The Great Nebula in Orion.

CARRIE. Or of Orion, whichever. Which isn't a star at all.

LOUISE. Of course not.

CARRIE. Do you know this?

LOUISE. No. [To the audience] Crocked, right? Plastered.

CARRIE. Well, it's very interseting. The Great Nebula is a lot of hydrogen gas that's lit up by a couple of stars behind it somewhere, and some by its own heat, because it's condensing. It's moving, like a whirlpool; all the time and getting tighter and tighter -- what was that?

LOUISE. [who has uttered a polite "umm" at "tighter"] Nothing.

CARRIE. And hotter and hotter -- and it will keep getting more and more compact and hotter and smaller -- I mean it's vast -- and tighter and smaller until it's so hot and compact -- just a ball of fire, burning by itself -- that it will be a star. And we could actually see that. I mean the center star, we could see that it was fuzzy; a big fuzzy spot. And Dick said that would be a star someday.

LOUISE. A star is born.

CARRIE. Oh, come on. I thought it was interesting.

LOUISE. I think you had to be there.

The Books: "Serenading Louie" (Lanford Wilson)

Next up in my Daily Book Excerpt:

Still on the shelf of scripts:

Next play in my little unalphabetized pile of Samuel French plays is another play by the always wonderful Lanford Wilson - this one is a real heartbreaker called Serenading Louie. It's hard to choose a scene from the play to excerpt - they are all so damn good. It has a Woody Allen-ish feel to it - you know how Allen's films (the good ones) SEEM like they're improvised but they are NOT? You can't imagine that he WROTE it that way?? Serenading Louie is like that. It SOUNDS like real speech - with interruptions - not just people interrupting each other - but people interrupting themselves - the way we do in real life.

One example of this from the excerpt below: "I remember, when I was ... You'll remember ... everyone remembers ... I don't know when it was ... twelve years ago or more ... I was a kid. No, I was only about twelve or so, so it was longer ago than that."

The language isn't cleaned up - the way playwrights so often do. Look how - through that language - you can feel the character THINKING. You can see how he thinks he knows when it was - but then he remembers that he was "only about twelve" - so he has to adjust. Etc. It's deceptively simple. Almost noboby writes dialogue that sounds so effortless and so human.

But then there are some KICK ASS theatrical monologues as well - revealing human moments - which just blow you away. Lanford Wilson is quite remarkable.

Serenading Louie, if I had to compare it to something with wider appeal - is like The Big Chill. Very much so. In that way it is probably dated now. The baby boomers getting out of college, graduate school - and then having crises of conscience. In Serenading Louie - there's a group of friends - all Northwestern graduates (well, except for one) - and they are all dealing with the harsh realities of adulthood, of actually making promises to one another, of actually accepting commitment, yadda yadda. It sounds tiresome - and maybe to some listeners it would be - but the WRITING. The characters! I love this play of Wilson's. It's wonderful.

There are two couples: Mary and Carl and Alex and Gabby. Mary and Carl were college sweethearts - Carl was a football legend at Northwestern. He is a salt of the earth kind of guy. Went into the army after college. Came home and married Mary. Mary was homecoming queen in college. She is much more protected than Carl. Kind of cold. There is no other woman for Carl. But for Mary ... well ... she's in the middle of having an affair. An affair that doesn't even MEAN anything to her. She is hard and selfish (but also - strangely likable - such is the genius of Wilson). There are no villains here. In a way, Carl - the big strong jock - is a slave to Mary. An uneasy balance. Mary has an affair right under his nose and somehow he just can't care about it. Then there is Alex and Gabby. Alex was part of Mary and Carl's Northwestern crowd - he is ambitious. He's a lawyer with political ambitions. Ambitions which are now coming to fruition. Gabby is his wife - the only non-Northwesterner. And she is just LOST. She knows she is losing her husband - and she gets more and more desperate - it all becomes about sex. If she can get her husband to have sex with her on a daily basis, then that means she isn't losing him. Alex knows this isn't love - he feels exhausted by her - he sleeps on the couch - she hovers over him - it is a bad situation.

There are too many scenes to choose from. There's one amazing group scene when all 4 of them have a dinner party - and everyone is overlapping each other and talking at once - classic Wilson- but ... I thought I'd pick a part of one really long and intense scene between Carl and Alex - the two old college buddies. The jock and the brain. The scene is so long I can only excerpt a part of it. I picked the part where Carl opens up.

Carl is one of my favorite characters that Wilson ever wrote. He touches me at a really deep place. I love this man. I feel I know what he needs ... and if he only had a woman like me ... he'd be happy ... This is good playwriting - because it involves me, an adience level, at a visceral level. We identify - we think we could change the outcome IF ONLY WE WERE THERE ... but we can't. We are helpless. We have to just sit back and watch.

Here's the end of the scene. Alex and Carl are hanging out. Alex opened up a bit about Gabby and the whole sex thing. He is really bummed out about it. He doesn't think he loves her anymore. Carl's wife is cheating on him. They are old friends. Here's what happens. I think my friend David would be absolutely SPECTACULAR as Carl. Okay. Here we go.

Watch how the scene develops. Watch how it ends. Watch where the actors need to go. It is an absolutely thrilling scene. Look at the journey Carl needs to take in this one excerpt alone - the emotional place where he starts, and look at where he ends. Amazing.

EXCERPT FROM Serenading Louie, by Lanford Wilson

CARL. What's with Gabby now? Why isn't that working? What's antagonizing things?

ALEX. I don't want to discuss it; it's fine ...

CARL. You look happy enough to me -- when I see you, the two of you ... you're the perfect couple.

ALEX. I'm happy. I'm OK. I feel great! I don't know why! Of course we look happy to you. We got out and she's fine. We have a ball. We get home and she changes completely. Her voice changes, the way she walks changes, she stops laughing, or she starts laughing seductively.

CARL. He's off again.

ALEX. It's like she has a little movie of the evening up in her head and we've come to the X-rated scene. You should see the array of nightgowns she's got. She must think I've got a fetish. Or maybe she has. Why should it only be men who have fetishes? Outside with you and Mary she's fine. She comes home with just me and she changes completely. I love her too ... out. I could fuck her under the table. We get home and she practically turns to oatmeal on the threshold. She loses every bone in her body. I have to hold her up. Her kisses all turn to tongue. Like she was trying to get me hot. Hell, I was hot already. If I don't bang her in the pachysandra, she's going to turn me off by the time I can get my pants unzipped.

CARL. Your problem is you don't like big sloppy kisses. Other guys I could name live for big sloppy kisses. Some people think big and sloppy is the only way to kiss. Every bood you read, "She melted into his arms with her mouth moist and open ..."

ALEX. I don't know what books you've been reading lately.

CARL. You're making a big issue out of what is basically a matter of taste. I'd say offhand that you didn't love her, but I don't want to hear it.

ALEX. No, not that. Well. Less and less. You don't love someone all the time. You love them for moments. A while now and a while after a while. And with Gabby the times are getting fewer and -- all right -- you like to get me going. Prove my lack of convictions. Get me going. I'm sorry to be such a drag-ass, kvetching about my problems when your business is in such good shape, your married life is on such solid rock, so idyllic -- and so ...

CARL. I didn't say that. Don't start in on me now.

ALEX. The one good island in a shit-soup of disillusions.

CARL. Come on.

ALEX. Carl, you're completely transparent. Never play poker, Carl; you're going to lose your shirt.

CARL. We're not at your hearings, Alex; you're not on the House floor. Don't cross-examine me.

ALEX. Then what is it? You're turning all wooly and introspective. Morbidly thumbing over your ...

CARL. I haven't felt well.

ALEX. You're a physical horse, Carl. Mentally, the species is somewhat different lately.

CARL. I've had headaches for the past ...

ALEX. I don't know how you can tell a hangover from a headache in the condition you're usually in.

CARL. Alex, I'm not interested in being the subject of one of our tirades.

ALEX. Hell's bells and goddamn, Carl; you know she's cheating on you, don't you?

CARL. You son of a bitch!

ALEX. Don't you? [A long pause]

CARL. Does everybody know?

ALEX. I don't think so. Gabby told me.

CARL. She isn't a whore ... I think she really loves him ... it isn't like that.

ALEX. Did she tell you?

CARL. No, she doesn't know I know. I don't imagine. I saw them once. Well, I knew before that. I mean, it's something you know. There uh ... "there needs no ghost", you know? "Come from the grave to tell me this ..."

ALEX. Yeah, yeah, I know, got it.

CARL. He has a family too. Three girls.

ALEX. You know who he is?

CARL. Oh, sure ... no, skip it. This isn't any good. It's no big deal. It's a comedy ... it's a farce; it's not to be serious about.

ALEX. But you know who he is?

CARL. Yes. He's my CPA. See? His firm does the accounts for my office. Now, no more. I don't think about it. It's all the same to me.

ALEX. Mary is a powerhouse, Carl, you've got to keep ahead of her ... Hell, you know that. You used to be ahead of things.

CARL. At least you didn't say I got to keep on top of her.

ALEX. What are you doing? Joking? What are you doing?

CARL. Alex, I see it like I see everything else -- like I'm up in the air and it's down on the ground happening to someone else. It doesn't affect me. Nothing, now ... shut up about it. Please.

ALEX. OK.

CARL. I am doing nothing. To my surprise. Nothing. Waiting.

ALEX. Floating.

CARL. Waiting. It'll burn out. My God, we've been married nine years; it's normal. It's no big deal. I envy your energy that you can be concerned. It isn't Mary; Alex, I'm sorry. I can't get involved with anything. What did you call me, "wooly"?

ALEX. No, no.

CARL. "Wooly" is perfectly fair. But I'm sorry, even as you're going on about Gabby and you, I keep thinking -- I mean, I love you very much -- but if it came to the worst, you'd split up and she'd get the house and alimony and you'd get Washington and the car. And besides, I know it won't come to that. I can't imagine you taking old silent Hayes's seat in the House because I can't imagine anything. I come home and I read what you've been saying and watch the roundup of the day's news events and all that's happening in the world and it seems like a lot is, but I don't follow it. I watch and hope along that something will involve me. Touch me. Grab me. Piss me off. Something. Involve. It's the same thing as with Mary. I can't galvanize any concern. Nothing anyone says is real - how am I supposed to relate to it? Involve. I have an office manager who boils over ... gets worked up over ... I remember,w hen I was ... You'll remember ... everyone remembers ... I don't know when it was ... twelve years ago or more ... I was a kid. No, I was only about twelve or so, so it was longer ago than that. Somewhere in Colorado or Ohio or Wyoming or somewhere in the world a little girl was playing in her backyard or near a mine shaft or somewhere, and the ground caved in or she got too close to the well, but she fell down, way down -- forty or seventy feet or so into a hole. I don't know where it was, but this little girl was in this hole in the ground. She was about three years old or five or something like that. And they couldn't reach her, and firemen came and men with various kinds of gear -- and they were afraid of caving in the sides of the hole, and they tried to dig her ... reach her ... dig her out. They could hear her and knew she was alive. And everyone all over the country stayed around their radios and prayed for her. And teleprogrammed the parents' hope and messages of compassion and love and hope for this little girl. It was like a war, it was like a kidnapping or like that. A whole country -- the whole world -- people twenty thousand miles away -- were alarmed and concerned for this one ... one ... one girl. Little girl. This little kid.

[A long pause]

ALEX. And what? [Beat] What happened?

CARL. [Looking at Alex] Huh? You don't remember that? I thought everyone would remem ... No, I didn't mean it like ... It isn't a story or something. It happened. That wasn't what I meant ... I remember she dies before they could reach her, but that wasn't why I ... I didn't tell it to be sad. I just think of that time as a time when people were involved. Those events where the whole world goes into suspension and holds its breath at once, and for a little while comes together in something they realize is in some way, more important -- significant -- than anything else at that mometn. Some crisis. Some danger. [A wondering, a brief pause] We've gotten much too civilized for our own good, Alex. And I wonder ... at times .. what ... the pagans ... the p;rimitive people .. .how they felt after a public sacrifice. There's a need, some need, somewhere, for that important ... contribution. So many people feel compelled to sacrifice themselves in one way or another, excuse or another, cause or another. Themselves or something very dear. Or expose it to danger. I try to understand her. Mary. I try to understand that she needs for some reason to expose our marriage to danger. That she needs the danger more than she needs whoever it is ... more than she wants anything with Donald. Not sacrifice it if possible, but expose it to danger, herself, our marriage, Ellen. But then probably I just want to think that because I don't like believing that she loves someone else more than she does ... It's usually the man's place to have the affair, isn't it? I thought that was our downfall. [Beat]

ALEX. From the last statistics I read I understand it takes two.

CARL. Maybe I'm just naive about that. Ironic thing, of course, being she's safe really, because I can't for the life of me seem to get involved in being betrayed. Even by someone I love so ... well, you know. Because like everything else for the last two years or so it just doesn't seem worthwhile Al. Alex. Alexander. It happens to someone else. Of course you're tied up into things, various concerns, you're ...

ALEX. Oh, hell, yes. I have concerns out the ass. The government, birth control, the aged, the starving, the homeless and the shiftless, the useless ...

CARL. Yeah. Well, I see it and I try to say all the things I feel, express my concerns, but deep down I'm not fooling myself because I know that really ... honestly ... at bottom ... I don't care. I don't care. I envy you that you can, but I just don't care. I don't care. Care. C-A-R-E.

ALEX. I know how to spell it. I see it on "El" posters.

CARL. When's the last time you were on the el train?

ALEX. A lot. Really, I go. All the time. Never mind. Skip it.

CARL. They make love in the afternoon, for God's sake. When they can get away. We never did that, even before we got married. When I was getting my degree. She was a morning repeater. But not afternoons. She never like to. Does Gabby? [Carl gets a drink]

ALEX. Oh, come on, Carl.

CARL. No, no lie, does she? Gabby? if you don't mind ...

ALEX. You can't learn it by the books. Your experience is not my experience, my experience isn't yours. It isn't even Gabby's experience. Sure. Sometimes. Given Gabby. We have. She loves it!

CARL. [suddenly] Cathy Fiscus. Was the little girl's name. Little Cathy Fiscus.

ALEX. [looks to him, smiles. Pause.] In the afternoons, yeah, sure. Afterwards ... should we go out ... among people ... Saturday afternoon, Sunday. I feel ... well, like I've had it. Castrated. Shot. And I don't mean it funny or clever -- spent. Oh God, now you'll go to work or get on the phone, someone'll ask you what you did you'll say, oh ... spent the whole goddamned weekend hearing this story about a castrating female or about this guy who felt castrated ... but try to see what I mean, past all this, what really is ... for me ... or for you ... or Gabby. I mean walking with her, if we've made love in the afternoon, and go out, sometimes I get really mad at her for having robbed me of something. It's like I'm "safe" now. I feel like I'm this temporary eunuch in her ... power. It's nothing strong, and it's only in the back of my mind, fizzing away back there where it's worse ... But I get furious with her. I'd just like to be reassured that I wasn't the world's only man who felt cut, gelded -- after sleeping with his own wife. Ravaged ... I'd like jus tonce, dear God take me back to the good old eras past, just once like to ravage her! I wish to hell it was Gabby who was ... You don't know how easy you have it.

CARL. Sure, right.

ALEX. You'll never have that delicious feeling of being in service.

CARL. You know I don't agree with any of your ... I always feel very proud ...

ALEX. Hell, you don't know how good you've got it. Mary plays around with your accountant and you stay home ...

CARL. Come on.

ALEX. ... Crocheting a goddamned afghan or something.

[Carl slugs Alex quite hard -- and immediately, with a cry, grabs hold of Alex's shoulders -- holding him tightly]

CARL. Alex, Alex. I do! I do! I try to understand and see what's going on, and I see it all go by sometimes like a movie. But I try to understand why she needs this or how it happened and because I rattle on about it I think it doesn't move me any more than anything else ... Alex, why does she have to do it? [Alex, taken completely off stride, is trying to answer, trying to comfort, but neither is possible. Shouting] WHAT'S SHE TRYING TO DO? I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO SAY. I DON'T KNOW HOW TO FEEL, ALEX. I DON'T KNOW HOW TO FEEL. I WANT IT BACK -- LIKE IT WAS. IT WAS GOOD THEN. [Flooding. Alex, over, can mumble, "What, Carl, what?"] IT WAS GOOD THEN, GODDAMNIT, WHEN I WAS OVER THERE -- OVERSEAS -- AND WE WROTE LETTERS TO EACH OTHER; IT WAS GOOD THEN, IT WAS GOOD THEN. IT WAS GOOD! IT WAS!

[Blackout]

The Books: "Split" (Michael Weller)

Next up in my Daily Book Excerpt:

Still on the shelf of scripts:

Next play in my little unalphabetized pile of Samuel French plays is another one-act by Michael Weller - a companion piece to At Home (which was yesterday's excerpt) - this one is called Split. In Split, Paul and Carol from At Home have, indeed, split up - and this play is sort of about the repercussions that one couple's breakup can have on their extended group of friends. Like - how do the friends handle it? How do the friends handle Paul or Carol dating again? It's very 30something-ish. The play is a montage of scenes - between Paul and his friends, Paul and his new girlfriend - as well as Carol and her friends (the same friends, at times, as Paul's friends) - and her new boyfriend.

I'll excerpt from the first scene - basically because I LOVE the monologue that opens this play.

Margie is .. well, her mind just doesn't work like other people's minds. She's sort of like Phoebe from Friends. The opening monologue cracks me up.

EXCERPT FROM Split by Michael Weller

[Table. A cafe. Paul and Margie with coffee. Cafe noises]

MARGIE. O.K. Stevie Wonder's blind. He's black and he's blind. That's a lot of things to have going against you, right, but instead of letting it mess him up he turns into this genius level songwriter-arranger-performer who's very fulfilled spiritually according to his songs anyway plus he's famous and rich and cool and he's able to write all these incredibly happy upbeat numbers ... and here I am this white middle-class girl with two good eyes and a college education. That's what I was trying to explain to my shrink. Stevie Wonder makes me deeply deeply depressed. The fact that he exists is really depressing to me. And of course he said I was being adolescent, which he always says. I mean I don't need him to tell me I'm adolescent. I need him to tell me it's all right that I'm adolescent. [Pause] Do you want to stop talking and we'll just sit for a while?

PAUL. No, that's OK. Talk. It's OK.

MARGIE. Why don't you tell me about what happened?

PAUL. There's nothing to tell.

MARGIE. Well, for instance, was it more of a thing where you left her, or did she leave you or what?

PAUL. I don't want to keep boring my friends talking about it. People split up all the time.

MARGIE. A lot of them haven't been married for six years.

PAUL. A lot of them have.

MARGIE. A lot of them aren't my best friends.

PAUL. It's just over, that's all. It's over. There's nothing to say.

MARGIE. You know what I think, Paul? I think it's temporary. You guys belong together. [Pause] Look, you want me to move in with you?

PAUL. Move in? You?

MARGIE. Just for a few days. While you're getting used to Carol not being there. I'd invite you to stay with me and Bob but Bob's learning how to play GO ... it's this Japanese game and you'd probably have to end up having to let him teach you how to play, which might not be kind of what you want to be doing for the next few days.

PAUL. No it's not what I had in mind. Thanks anyway.

MARGIE. I'm just trying to help. It's really lonely at the beginning. I remember when I left this guy once. He said he was a genuine Oglala Sioux Indian and I believed him for two years. Blond hair and blue eyes the guy had. He looked like Sven the Swede. Boy was he full of shit. And I was really naive. Anyway, I really missed him at the beginning even though I didn't like him. You don't look too good.

PAUL. There have been times in my life when I felt better, I must admit. It's crazy; last night I ... I didn't feel like calling anyone. I didn't feel like doing anything. I was just sitting at home watching TV and getting a little drunk and I found I was thinking an awful lot about suicide.

MARGIE. Well. It's something you should think a lot about before you take it up.

PAUL. I'm glad you called, Margie. And I have to start teaching again tomorrow.

MARGIE. You want me to talk to Carol?

PAUL. What's the point. It's just over.

MARGIE. I'll talk to her. First chance I get I'm going to talk to her. I like you guys. I hate to see this happening to you. Other people, I'm glad. You I'm not glad. [Pause] Oh, that's the other thing I meant to tell you about Stevie Wonder. He has this manager, I forgot what the guy's name is, but he goes around killing people. Really. This guy I'm working with, the video guy I told you about before ... oh, I didn't tell you what he does, he takes movies, well, actually they're videotapes, he takes these tapes of himself dancing to all the hit tunes ... all alone in his studio. That's one of the things he does, and the other thing ... oh, and he doesn't wear any clothes. Well, he told me his sister works at a place where there's this guy who used to work for Stevie Wonder's manager and he saw the guy kill someone. He actually saw it. Isn't that amazing. Oh, and anyway, this video guy shows his tapes at parties. And all his friends dance to them, but they turn the sound off so they're only dancing to the way the guy moves and he's a terrible dancer. Don't tell him I said that if you meet him. I'll tell you next time he has a party. [Pause] Don't worry, Paul. I'll talk to her. It'll be all right.

[Enter Waiter with small tray]

WAITER. Coffee and english?

MARGIE. Me.

WAITER. And ice coffee.

PAUL. And some milk with that, please.

WAITER. Did you hear something about an assassination?

MARGIE. What assassination?

WAITER. That's what I was wondering. I guess you didn't hear anything, huh? A guy just said. I think that's what he said. Maybe it was 'examination'. Gotta get my ears checked. Milk, right?

PAUL. Yes.

[The Waiter exits]

MARGIE. I know just what I'm going to say, too. Don't worry, Paul, really.

END OF SCENE

The Books: "At Home" (Michael Weller)

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

Next play in my little unalphabetized pile of Samuel French plays is a one-act by Michael Weller which I had completely forgotten about until this morning: At Home. I LOVE Michael Weller. I don't know why he always slips my mind! He's a wonderful playwright - very kitchen sink drama - but also very funny. He wrote Moonchildren - one of his major successes. At Home is a two-character play - Carol and Paul are married. The beginning of the play finds them right after they have had a fight. They are having another couple over for dinner - who have not arrived yet. As they make the salad, they fight about the vegetables or whatever - and eventually, of course, it is revealed that they are fighting about WAY more than vegetables. It's a small play - it's a slice of life play -

I just love his dialogue. It's funny, it's human, it's surprising - it sounds like people talk. I need to get more Michael Weller in my library, actually.

I'll excerpt a bit from the beginning of the play.

From At Home, by Michael Weller

CAROL. Well?

PAUL. She's on her way. She's not there.

CAROL. Who were you talking to?

PAUL. Her machine.

CAROL. Oh. How is it.

PAUL. Fine. Her machine is fine.

CAROL. Are you going to give me a hand?

PAUL. What happened to the other wine glass?

CAROL. It broke.

PAUL. It broke? It just sat there and broke?

CAROL. I broke it.

PAUL. When?

CAROL. A few weeks ago. You put it at the edge of the shelf. I opened the door and it fell out.

PAUL. I did not put the wine glasses near the edge of the shelf. I never put the wine glasses near the edge of the shelf. I always put them in back.

CAROL. Some people broke in. Four men. They moved the wine glasses to the edge of the shelf, closed the cabinet door and got away undetected. I didn't call the police because I didn't want to upset you, I know how important those wine glasses are to you ...

PAUL. They're a wedding present, Carol. It's not funny.

CAROL. All right, it was only two men ...

PAUL. Why does everything get broken around here? Why don't we have a single complete set on anything any more.

CAROL. Well get married again and cash in. We'll get divorced and then get married again.

PAUL. You say the most incredibly stupid things sometimes.

CAROL. So do you. This is still the argument, isn't it. We're still arguing.

PAUL. No. I mean, I don't know.

CAROL. Come on, give me a hand with the salad and show me what I'm supposed to do with that potato thing creation stuff you started.

PAUL. I thought I fuck everything up in the kitchen.

CAROL. Sweetie, I was angry. You're not supposed to listen to what I say when I'm angry. You're just supposed to listen to the noise. It's just noise, it's not words. It didn't happen. I didn't say anything. I take it all back.

PAUL. But why did you get angry, that's what I don't understand. What did I say? What did I do.

CAROL. Nothing. There was no reason. I just got angry, that's all.

PAUL. I thought you liked her. I thought you two were friends.

CAROL. Who? Jean? I do. I like her. I think she's super-duper.

PAUL. She's a friend.

CAROL. That's right, she's a friend. That's why I think she's super-duper. That's why I'm dying to meet her new boopsie, that's why I'm dying to know all about him and it's going to be a great evening and then they're going to go home and leave us alone and we can talk about them behind their backs. Now please, sweetie, give me a hand.

PAUL. You're jealous of her, aren't you.

CAROL. Oh, you know us married women, we're always jealous of the single gals.

PAUL. That's right, make a joke out of it.

CAROL. All right, yes, I'm jealous of Jean. No, I'm not jealous of Jean per se. I'm just ... I'm pissed off, that's all ... I'm tired of her ...

PAUL. Of what?

CAROL. Of her goddamn fucking insinuations. I'm tired of her hovering around all the time ... I'm tired of ... I don't like the way she keeps making such an effort to be my friend when she doesn't like me all that much really and I barely like her at all and she knows it and I ... why does she keep wanting me to go shopping with her and take yoga classes and have lunch.

PAUL. But she does like you.

CAROL. She likes you, Paul. She's your friend. She keeps wanting to hang around with me so we can all be friends so she can be your friend and it won't look so obvious what's going on.

PAUL. That's bullshit.

CAROL. You know what she talks about when we're together? You. What a great guy you are. How lucky I am. How she wishes she had someone like you. How much fun she has with us, meaning you, what a perfect couple we are. I mean, I get the point.

PAUL. Well if you feel that way why do you keep hanging around with her.

CAROL. Because I'm not going to give her the satisfaction of not hanging around with her.

PAUL. You're being absurd, you know that? Jean is a friend. She happens to be a woman. What's wrong with that. What's wrong with the fact that I have a best friend that's a woman. I'm a freak, all right, I'm not normal, I don't like baseball, I don't like poker, I don't like talking about women I'd like to sleep with ... I don't like beer. I like women, I like to be with them, I prefer it. It's not sexual. I just enjoy spending time with Jean.

CAROL. Well that's terrific.

PAUL. You have men friends. It's not sexual.

CAROL. Who?

PAUL. Who? Well, Larry, for one.

CAROL. Larry's gay.

PAUL. Gay? He's living with Vickie.

CAROL. He needs time. He's a slow developer.

PAUL. I don't believe this conversation. This isn't us. I don't recognize us in this conversation.

CAROL. Paul. I'm sorry about ... before. I was just in a good mood. I don't know why you took it the way you did. I mean, don't you think it's a little much for you to get so worked up over a carrot. It's not the end of the world, you know. We do have other carrots. Can I have some wine? [Paul pours her a glass. She drinks. After a moment.]

PAUL. It wasn't the carrot.

CAROL. Thenw hat was it?

PAUL. It was your poking the carrot with a pencil.

CAROL. This is a really grown-up conversation. I feel really adult.

PAUL. You asked.

CAROL. Paul, could we please have a talk-talk. This is stupid. This isn't getting us anywhere.

PAUL. We have to do the meal.

CAROL. I don't care about the meal right now. If we don't figure out what this was all about before they get here I swear when she walks through that door with her Elrod or Ogden or Travis or whatever his name is I'm going to shove the roast down her blouse. I can't stand this, Paul, I can't stand it.

PAUL. All right, we'll talk-talk.

CAROL. Good.

PAUL. You frist.

CAROL. Can I have a little more wine? [He pours for both of them. She giggles]

PAUL. What?

CAROL. You're just so cute. [They drink]

PAUL. Well? It's your turn.

CAROL. All right. Talk-talk. I want to tell you what I think happened. This is how I see it. You were makikng the salad. You were cutting the carrots. I was putting the roast in the oven. You were talking about Jean. Do you agree so far?

PAUL. Yes.

CAROL. OK. Now ... you were saying how much fun Jean is. How she really listens to what you're saying, how she really seems to understand you, how she's really interesting. [Pause] Well, isn't that what you were saying.

PAUL. What are you getting at.

CAROL. Well, I am too, goddamnit, I'm all those things.

PAUL. I never said you weren't.

CAROL. It's still my turn, let me finish.

PAUL. May I just say one thing?

CAROL. What?

PAUL. I think you're all those things, too. It's just that I happened to be talking about Jean.

CAROL. OK, you can tell me when it's your turn.

PAUL. I love you, Carol.

CAROL. OK, don't forget anything you're going to say, but let me finish.

PAUL. You're beautiful ...

CAROL. You were making the salad ...

PAUL. You're sexy ...

CAROL. Thank you ... so I looked at the salad ...

PAUL. I want to make love ...

CAROL. Babe, please, let me finish. Let's just clear this up but don't keep trying to change the subject.

PAUL. All right, but I just want you to know while you're talking, I want you to keep in mind the fact that I have an erection.

CAROL. Paul, why do you always do this!

PAUL. Get an erection ...?

CAROL. Forget it ... [Carol rises angrily and starts out]

PAUL. All right, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm an asshole. Come back.

CAROL. Will you listen to me?

PAUL. Yes, I will listen to you. Come on, sit down. [Carol sits back down]

C AROL. You were cutting the carrots and talking about Jean and you didn't see me but I was looking at you. And I was wondering why you always think everyone is so great and interesting and wonderful all the time. And then I wondered what it would be like if I was the same way ... if I felt the same way about everything ... maybe that would be better, maybe I'd be a better person ... I'm just telling you what I was thinking about, and then suddenly I thought you're the most beautiful man I ever saw and that surprised me because we've been married six years and sometimes I look at you and you seem like someone I just met and I want to have a date with you and make you fall in love with me and then I realize you're my husband and it seems amazing to me. So, anyway, I saw you cutting the carrot and I thought wouldn't it be nice if we were bunny rabbits.

PAUL. Bunny rabbits?

CAROL. Yeah. We could be furry brown bunny rabbits and dig a hole in the ground and cuddle up together and ... and never ever see anybody ... and that'd be all I want. It was just a thought. But I also thought this isn't the kind of thing I can say to you because ... well, because that kind of thing makes you uncomfortable so ... so instead I ...

PAUL. You poked my carrot with a pencil.

CAROL. Sweetie, I was just joking around. It's a carrot for christ sake. I thought it was funny. I was having a good time, like wives can have with their husbands, just like their husbands can have with their best non-sexual female friends.

PAUL. I asked you to stop. I didn't get angry at first. I asked nicely. The carrot is for the salad. You don't poke a pencil into a carrot that is going into a salad. It's unsanitary, you could get lead poisoning.

CAROL. Graphite poisoning, they don't use lead in pencils. Look, Jean's weird, she's very weird, but she's not so weird that she's going to go rooting through the salad looking for carrots with puncture holes. We're not suspected of being carrot puncturers.

PAUL. Why did you do it, that's all I want to know.

CAROL. I told you, I was a bunny rabbit.

PAUL. Bunny rabbits eat carrots. They don't poke pencils into them.

CAROL. I was being a bunny rabbit with penis envy. [They laugh briefly]

PAUL. This still feels like an argument. [Suddenly, Carol cries openly, no warning. Paul holds her]

CAROL. What we said before ... we didn't mean it, did we?

PAUL. God, I hope not.

CAROL. You don't want to split up, do you?

PAUL. Of course not ... we were just ... I don't know ...

CAROL. Why did we say it?

PAUL. It doesn't matter. We didn't mean it.

CAROL. We're the best couple I know. You're not tired of being together are you?

PAUL. Carol, we were just angry. That's all. Let's forget about it.

CAROL. Jean told me people think we're the perfect couple.

PAUL. Well then we can't split up, can we. We have too much to live up to. We can't disappoint all our friends.

CAROL. Splitting up was not mentioned tonight. I declare it to have never been mentioned.

PAUL. I second the motion.

CAROL. Let's get drunk before they get here. Let's be really disgusting hosts. See if we can gross-out Jean's new guy. Damn, the beans. Pour me a little more wine. [Carol exits into the kitchen. Paul pours more wine]

PAUL. I never thought you were jealous, that's all. You never have been. That's why I was surprised when ... we have all these friends, we see them all the time, we talk about them behind their backs, they talk about us behind our backs, we all wonder who has the best life, the best relationship, the best sex, the best apartment, the most happiness. I mean, that's what friends are for.
[Carol re-enters]

CAROL. Beans are on. What?

PAUL. I said that's what friends are for, to make you feel your life isn't as good as theirs, or that it's better, or that it even makes any difference. What are you looking at?

CAROL. It scared me, the things we said.

PAUL. It scared me too.

CAROL. Was it moving out of the city? Have you changed your mind?

PAUL. No, I want to get out of here.

CAROL. Was it having a baby?

PAUL. No, I want that, I want everything we've been planning. I want it. I'm happy.

CAROL. Then what was it?

PAUL. Do you really think Jean's trying to get something going with me?

CAROL. If she isn't she's stupid. I would if I were her.

PAUL. Come here. [Carol sits on his lap] I don't know why we talked about splitting up. I don't want to. And I know you don't want to. So, therefore, we never said it. All right.

The Books: "The Rimers of Eldritch" (Lanford Wilson)

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

Next play in my little unalphabetized pile of Samuel French plays is Lanford Wilson's eerie The Rimers of Eldritch. It has the same kaleidoscopic style that his Balm in Gilead had - multiple scenes going on at the same time, conversations chopped up so you get two or three lines from it before you switch to the other scene - then you leap back. If it's not done well, I imagine it could be confusing. Also, in Rimers - it's set up backwards. We start with a trial - various people taking the witness stand - and it isn't until the very last scene that we find out what really happened. It's devastating when you do find out.

Rimers takes place in a small former mining town - on its way to becoming a ghost town. There is only a population of about 70 people. Needless to say, everyone knows everyone. It's a very religious town, a very nosy town, and the script - with its multiple scenes, and dialogue from all different characters at the same time - ends up giving the impression of gossip. It feels like the entire cast is whispering in your ear insinuations about their neighbors.

A young handicapped teenage girl (Eva) has been raped. Who did it? Over the course of the play you find out.

I did this play in college. I played Lena, the not-pretty friend to the prettiest girl in the high school. It's a small part - but this piece is what you would call an "ensemble piece" - there's not a 'star' - and all of us were onstage the whole time. It was an amazing production, actually - a very challenging show, challenging material - and it was a damn fine show.

Out of all of the plays I have excerpted - this one is really difficult to find a "scene". The whole thing is like one big cut and paste job - giving you just snippets here, snippets there ... so you have to put it together.

I'll just give the opening of the play. You have Wilma and Martha, the two nosy self-righteous old gossips, who sit on their porch and condemn everyone to hell around them. But you'll see how the dialogue is not quiiiiite realistic. Wilson wasn't interested in realism. At least not in this play and many of his others. Example: the first line of the play is below - it's the Judge's line. The next line is Wilma's - and it appears to be answering the Judge's question - but it is a completely different scene. The trial scene is happening on the other side of the stage - and Wilma's casual remark on her porch has nothing to do with the trial.

From The Rimers of Eldritch by Lanford Wilson

[Wilma and Martha are seated suggesting an evening, in the spring, rocking on the porch]

JUDGE. Nelly Windrod, do you solemnly swear to tell the truth and nothing but the truth so help you God.

WILMA. Well, what I heard isn't fit for talk, but I heard that Mrs. Cora Grimes, up on the highway?

MARTHA. Yes.

WILMA. Has taken a boy, she's old enough to be his mother on, and is keeping him up there in her cafe.

MARTHA. In her bed.

WILMA. [with true sympathy] That woman went crazy when her husband left her.

MARTHA. Oh, I know she did.

WILMA. That woman, I swear, isn't responsible for her own actions.

MARTHA. I should say she isn't.

WILMA. I hear he does things around the cafe, whistling around like he belonged there.

MARTHA. Have you ever heard anything like it?

WILMA. I haven't, I swear to God.

[Lights go up on Nelly, standing in the "jury box"]

NELLY. I do.

MARTHA. Why, she called Evelyn Jackson a liar to her face, and Eva too. Swore things the devil and his angels wouldn't believe it. She'd stand up there and swear black was white.

WILMA. And Nelly, poor woman, the life that woman leads. Only God in His Heaven knows the trials that woman has to bear.

MARTHA. That she should have to be dragged through this.

WILMA. She stood there and told the way it was; I said to Mrs. Jackson --

MARTHA. -- I know --

WILMA. Cried the whole time --

MARTHA. I saw.

WILMA. -- Only God in Heaven knows the trials that poor woman has had to bear.

JUDGE. Nelly Windrod, do you solemnly swear to tell the whole truth, and nothing but the truth --

NELLY. I do, yes.

JUDGE. -- so help you God.

NELLY. I do.

JUDGE. [exactly as before] Nelly Windrod, do you solemnly swear to tell the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?

NELLY. I do. Yes.

MARTHA. So help me God I don't know how we let him hang around here like he did. Not talking to nobody.

WILMA. Nobody I know of could live like that.

MARTHA. Like that time he scared young Patsy so bad.

WILMA. Bad for the whole town with someone like that.

MARTHA. Like that way he had of just standing around.

WILMA. Around here everybody knows everybody.

MARTHA. Everybody was scared of him. Everybody knew what he was.

WILMA. A fool like that.

MARTHA. Grumbling and mumbling around; standing and watching it all.

WILMA. I think people'd feel easier now. I know I swear I do.

MARTHA. I do.

NELLY. I do.

JUDGE. Now, Miss Windrod, if you would tell the court in your own words ...

[Lights up on Robert and Mary]

MARY. Now, we have to understand that Nelly is my flesh and blood.

ROBERT. I know.

MARY. Yes, love, she's mym flesh and blood and she thinks she knows but she doesn't know but she thinks she does.

ROBERT. I suppose she does if anybody does.

MARY. Well, she thinks she does. But I know and you know. I was at my window, watching the moon.

ROBERT. Was there a moon?

MARY. You know there was. I'll tell it the way it was. I said to those people, all those new people in town -- there isn't much to know about Eldritch, used to be Elvin Eldritch's pasture till it gave out I guess and they found coal. It was built on coal. Built on coal with coal money and deserted when the coal gave out and here it stands, this wicked old town. All the buildings bowing and nodding.

ROBERT. How do you know so much?

MARY. And still so little? I would puzzle that if I could. I told them none of the people here now were coal people; they are store owners and farmers and the mining people moved off. They raped the land and moved away; there used to be explosives that rattled the windows, oh my, and shook the water in a bucket, day and night.

ROBERT. How come you remember so much?

MARY. And still so little? The last time I saw you, why, you was just a little baby; you've grown up so.

ROBERT. You saw me yesterday, Mrs. Windrod.

MARY. You don't know. Isn't that sweet. The last I saw you, why, you weren't no bigger than that high.

ROBERT. You've known me all my ...

MARY. You've grown up so. I have terrible bruises on my arm there. Look at that.

[Lights up on Cora's cafe]

TRUCKER. I'll see you, Cora.

CORA. Can't avoid it, I guess. You watch it now on those narrow roads.

TRUCKER. It's push-pull with the load; I'll come back through empty day after tomorrow, you remember to tell me that again.

CORA. Stay awake now.

TRUCKER. No danger of that.

WILMA. I'll say one thing for her. How long has it been he's been there?

CORA. [to Walter] Boy.

MARTHA. Two or three months now nearly. Walks around the place whistling like he owned it.

WILMA. Well, he earns his keep.

CORA. Boy.

MARTHA. It's not in the kitchen that he earns his keep, Wilma.

CORA. Boy.

WILMA. Well, I'll say one thing --

CORA. -- I'm getting ready to close up now.

WILMA. -- Whatever it is she looks a darn sight better now than she did a year ago. Since I can remember.

CORA. Boy.

WALTER. [as though waking from a daydream] I'm sorry.

CORA. I'm fixin' to close up. You sleeping?

WALTER. Thinking, I guess.

CORA. Have another cup of coffee, I got time.

MARTHA. That woman isn't responsible for her own actions since her husband left her.

WALTER. Swell.

WILMA. It's not for us to judge.

MARTHA. That's all well and good but anyone who deliberately cuts herself off from everybody else in town.

WILMA. I don't judge, but I know who I speak to on the street and who I don't.

WALTER. Is there work here in town do you know?

CORA. Down in Eldritch? Not if you're looking for wages. Not here.

MARTHA. It's easy to see the devil's work.

WALTER. I had that in mind.

CORA. You might try Centerville; Eldritch is all but a ghost town.

WALTER. You here alone?

CORA. I've managed for seven years; it hasn't bothered me.

WALTER. It might not be a bad idea to take someone on yourself.

WILMA. It's a sin to sashay through Centerville the way she does, buying that boy shirts and new clothes. Keeping him up on the highway.

MARTHA. I don't go, but I understand he's made a showplace out of her cafe.

WILMA. I'd be happier if it was me they made her close it down.

MARTHA. It ought to be against the law serving beer to truck drivers and them having to be on the road so much.

WILMA. The wages of sin lead to death.

CORA. Aren't you cold in just that jacket; that's pretty light for April.

WALTER. No, it's not bad. [They regard each other a moment]

MARTHA. The wages of sin lead to death.

WILMA. Bless her heart, poor old thing.

[Mary Windrod passes the porch]

MARTHA. Good evening, Mary.

WILMA. Good evening, Mary Windrod.

MARY. [she stops] You two. I watch you two sometimes. [Mary talks, almost with everything she says, as though she were describing a beautiful dream to a pet canary]

WILMA. Aren't you cold in that shawl, dear?

MARTHA. Nights are cold in this valley for June.

MARY. It's not bad.

WILMA. You'll be catching a chill next.

MARY. I was once a nurse and I believe that the constant proximity to sickness has given me an immunity to night air.

MARTHA. Never think that.

MARY. Us dry old women rattle like paper; we couldn't get sick. I listen to you old women sometimes.

WILMA. How's your daughter?

MARY. Yes, indeed.

MARTHA. I beg your pardon?

MARY. The proximity to all that sickness.

WILMA. Yes, love.

MARY. Immunity to death itself. My number passed Gabrile right on by. It came up and passed right on by and here I am a forgotten child.

WILMA. You better get inside, love.

MARY. Rusting away, flaking away.

MARTHA. You get in, now.

MARY. This wicked town. God hear a dried up woman's prayer and do not forgive this wicked town!

[Lights come up on the congregation. The congregation bursts into "Shall We Gather at the River" - only a few bars, the song fades. The congregation disperses. Lights brighten and focus on "court". All focus on Nelly]

NELLY. [over the last of the song] And mama came running downstairs and said a man had attacked young Eva Jackson.

JUDGE. Would you point out Eva ...

NELLY. There, poor lamb, can't hardly speak two words since this thing happened and I don't wonder --

[Lights fade out on court and focus on Martha and Wilma]

WILMA. Well, I know I swear I don't know what he sees in her.

[Eva crosses by the porch]

MARTHA. It's nice of him though.

WILMA. Well, I know but Driver Junior's old enough to be taking girls out; he shouldn't be wandering around with her. [Robert begins to cross to get to Eva]

MARTHA. It's nice to have somebody to keep her company. Still and all it doesn't seem natural, I know what you mean.

WILMA. I don't know what he sees in her.

MARTHA. Poor thing.

ROBERT. Eva!

EVA. Are you glad to be out of school?

ROBERT. I liked it all right.

EVA. What are you going to be?

ROBERT. Who knows?

EVA. I bet I know what you won't be, don't I?

ROBERT. What's that?

EVA. A race car driver.

ROBERT. Why do you want to say that? You think I couldn't do that if I wanted to?

EVA. You don't want to get yourself killed.

ROBERT. Driver didn't want it; he just had an accident.

EVA. You want to be like him?

ROBERT. People don't want to do the same thing their brother did; I couldn't see any sense in it.

EVA. I knew you didn't. You aren't going to get yourself killed.

ROBERT. Killed doesn't have anything to do with it. Eva, good lord, I don't want people carrying on like that; honking their horns, coming into town every week like a parade. I never even went to see Driver.

EVA. You decided what you want to be?

ROBERT. I don't have to decide this minute, do I?

EVA. I just wondered.

ROBERT. Do you know? You don't know what you want.

EVA. Of course I know; you know, I told you. So do you know, everybody knows what they want it's what they think they really can do that they don't know.

ROBERT. Well, I don't have to decide yet.

EVA. When's it gonna be autumn? I love autumn so much I could hug it. I want it to be autumn. That's what I want right now. Now. Autumn. Now. [This last as though conjuring]

ROBERT. Good luck, I don't see it.

EVA. [in a burst] Don't you be derisive to me, Driver Junior!

ROBERT. Don't call me that.

EVA. Well, don't you go on Robert Conklin or I'll call you anything I like.

ROBERT. You'll be talking to yourself.

EVA. Everybody else calls you that. Don't go away; I won't, I promise. Don't you wish it was autumn? Don't you? Don't you love autumn? And the wind and rime and pumpkins and gourds and corn shocks? I won't again. Don't you love autumn? Don't you Robert? I won't call you that. Everybody else does but I won't.

ROBERT. I haven't thought about it.

EVA. Well, think about it, right now. Think about how it smells.

ROBERT. How does it smell?

EVA. Like dry, windy, cold, frosty rime and chaff and leaf smoke and corn husks.

ROBERT. It does, huh?

EVA. Pretend. Close your eyes. Are your eyes closed? Don't you wish it was here? Like apples and cider. You go.

ROBERT. And rain.

EVA. Sometimes. And potatoes and flower seeds and honey.

ROBERT. And popcorn and butter.

EVA. Yes. Oh, it does not! You're not playing at all. There's hay and clover and alfalfa and all that. [Hitting him really quite hard, slapping]

ROBERT. [laughing] Come on, it's different for everybody.

EVA. Well, that's not right, it doesn't at all. Are you making fun?

ROBERT. Come on, don't be rough.

EVA. I will too; you're not the least bit funny, Driver Junior! [Robert starts to walk away] Come back here, Robert! Robert Conklin. Driver Junior! Little brother. Your brother was a man, anyway. Coward. Robert? Bobby?

The Books: "The Big Knife" (Clifford Odets)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my shelf o' scripts.

Next play in my little unalphabetized pile of Samuel French plays is Clifford Odets' marvelous The Big Knife..

Odets wrote it about (and for) his good friend Cary Grant. But Cary Grant - ever the cautious major star - wouldn't play the part. Perhaps it came too close to home - perhaps he was afraid to go back and do a play after so long. It was produced in 1949 so Grant was the biggest star in the world at that point, and had been for over a decade. Success makes men cautious. But it's a terrific play. John Garfield ended up playing the part - which, if you think about it, is also quite appropriate. He was also a MAJOR star - with roots in the theatre. The play is about a major movie star - the biggest in the world - named Charlie Castle (he changed his name from Charlie Cass). He is now far too successful to ever "go back" and do a play - even though he can't stand the movies he makes now - stupid pictures - and he would LOVE to go back to New York and do quality work. This was always one of Odets' major themes: how does art mix with commerce? How does idealism exist alongside of major monetary success? Odets lived that contradiction himself. Most of his plays deal with this issue (a very American issue, I might add - especially for artists). The "plight" of the artist in a capitalist society. I know many people will roll their eyes at this - but whatever. I can't stop them rolling their eyes, but I stick to my guns. These are questions that people who give a shit about their art really ask themselves. You can see actors struggle with it all the time - and the ones who are able to keep a balance within themselves - are the ones who are not destroyed by their own success. Someone like Johnny Depp deserves all the praise he gets - because he seems to have his own inner compass - what he will and will not do - and he now ends up doing projects because he wants to do them. It so could have gone the other way with him - he could have been used up and spit out by Hollywood - you see it happen with other stars - who maybe have one big success - and then continuously try to recreate it - until they have become a bastardization of themselves. Depp didn't go that route. Actually, come to think of it - Cary Grant is a great example of this as well. Cary Grant, very early on, had control of his own career, at a time when this was unheard of. He had no agent, for God's sake. He was a free agent, moving around from studio to studio. NOBODY did that. And without that freedom, his incredible run from 1938 and 1940 - when he made the movies for which he will be forever known (Bringing Up Baby, Holiday, Gunga Din, His Girl Friday and Philadelphia Story - I don't think any actor since has come close to having such a run - maybe Tom Hanks in the late 1990s, and early 2000s - that's pretty much as successful as any actor can ever get!) would never have been possible.

Anyway - it's an interesting thing to contemplate and Odets spent his whole career contemplating this. It was one of the reasons why he and Cary Grant were such good friends. They both understood this problem intuitively - they had lived it. Their politics could not have been more opposite - but on this cultural level, they were completely in sync.

The story of The Big Knife is one of greed, ambition, and loneliness. Charlie Castle is a major movie star. His marriage has fallen apart. His wife, Marion, knew him when - had married him when he was "just" an actor, in New York, doing plays. She misses THAT man. She doesn't know what happened to her husband. There is much strain between the two of them - they have separated. Meanwhile - the studio has presented Castle with a renewal of his contract - but this time - it will be fourteen years. Castle would be in his 50s when the contract expired. It's a long time. It's too long. It means the studio would own him. There are good and bad sides to being owned by the studio - you are protected, financially. But the bad side is that you have to make their crappy pictures. Castle dreams of going back to New York and trying to do a play again - if he signed this new contract, he would have to give that dream up. Marion has had another marriage proposal from a mutual friend - she tells Charlie that if he signs the new contract, she will leave him for good - and get married again. Try to have a normal life. See how Odets turns up the heat on this? It's all very tense and taut - it all rides on this one decision: will Castle decide to be his own man? But then ... the studio has threatened to sue his ass off if he doesn't sign. The stakes are huge.

To add to these high stakes - Castle has a drinking problem. And a year before, he was driving drunk and he hit and killed a small child. The studio covered up the entire event - and Castle's publicist - Buddy Bliss - a man who has devoted his LIFE to Charlie Castle - went to jail FOR Charlie. Buddy Bliss was willing to say that HE was the one at the wheel - in order to protect Castle's reputation. This event has, obviously, poisoned Castle's soul. As well as Marion's. She cannot respect her husband if he would let a good friend take the fall for him to such a degree. She has grown to LOATHE Hollywood and all it represents. She wants OUT.

Odets is one of my favorite writers. Nobody writes like him although many people try. Tony Kushner (of Angels in America fame) has an Odets-ian quality to his dialogue - he owes a great debt to Odets - they are very similar playwrights with similar concerns - but there's nobody like Odets.

Example: Marion starts to confront Charlie about something and then backs off, saying, "No, if I tell you you'd get too excited."

Charlie's response is: "Play billiards, Angel, or put the cue down."

I just LOVE that. A lesser playwright would have Charlie say, "Come on. Don't back off. Tell me what's on your mind."

But "play billiards, Angel, or put the cue down"?? Now THAT'S dialogue.

Here's the first scene in Act Two. Marion and Charlie - late at night, after a small dinner party with another couple. After the other couple departs - Marion and Charlie talk. They are still warily circling around one another - separated - trying to decide which way to go next.

GREAT scene.

From The Big Knife., by Clifford Odets

[Alone, Marion thoughtfully lights a cigarette and pours herself a small drink. Charlie returns]

MARION. Now that it's over, what was this dinner for?

CHARLIE. I've been ducking him for months. He kinda felt it the other day when Patty Benedict was here! I still can't look him in the eye...

MARION. Yes, I saw. Doesn't Connie know we're separated?

CHARLIE. I don't think she knows. Ain't it dark in here? [He snaps on another lamp and picks up his drink]

MARION. Why do you keep using words like "ain't"?

CHARLIE. [grinning] Ain't ain't a word?

MARION. Not to a man who worked his way through college.

CHARLIE. You know my type, a tight-lipped, reliable, unemotional man of the people -- rock-bottom stuff. Can't let my fans down, can I? You wouldn't castigate my catachresis, would you? How's that for college? [Looking intently at her, he laughs to her smile] You're looking very austere tonight.

MARION. Tired, I'm afraid.

CHARLIE. Me too. I'd give three senators and a dozen congressmen for one real night's sleep.

[Marion holds the Chartreuse up to the light]

MARION. Why can't you sleep ...?

CHARLIE. [soberly] For the same reasons you can't. [Waiting] You've buried me so deep, Angel. Are we really ... at the end?

MARION. [reluctantly] I think so, Charlie. You've been and gone and done it. You've blown up the bridge ... we can't go back.

CHARLIE. Do you think you're being fair ...?

MARION. As fair as I can be. Or at least as human and honest as I can be, after twelve glorious years in Hollywood.

CHARLIE. You think I'm dishonest, don't you?

MARION. [with a moue] No, but I believe the fairy tale is a lie. In real life no one ever comes to wake us up.

CHARLIE. You go on grieving for the past, like a weeping bird. What the hell was Charlie Cass? A hot-head with clenched fists and a big, yammering mouth!

MARION. I liked him mighty fine ...

CHARLIE. There are lots of attractive things about Hollywood. Could Cass guarantee you next week's meals? I never heard you kick about barbecuing four-inch steaks!

MARION. You're right, there's nothing so habit-forming as money! But that's stupid, as justification.

CHARLIE. What do I have to justify? Do I have to be in politics to hold my head up? What, making money? Is that the sin?

MARION. Your sin is living against your own nature. You're denatured -- that's your sin!

CHARLIE. You talk like a fresh, moralistic college kid, who took a course!

MARION. Aren't you the one who says he wants to live a certain way and do a certain kind of work? ... And then pushes a pie in the face of everything he says? Men like Hoff and Coy have their own integrity -- they're what they are! The beetle and the fervid Christian can't be equally corrupted! You can laugh -- you can snort! But the critic who called you the Van Gogh of the American theatre saw, as I did, that you had a Christian fervor! [Beginning to cry] And now you're nothing, common trash -- coarsened down to something I don't even recognize! [Pausing] Don't think I ever condoned what you did to Buddy. Or my part in what you did! [Weeping bitterly] But you're helpless, you're sick and unhappy ... and I go on, trying to help a little, defenseless because you're sick. You feel guilty and it makes you vicious! You've taken the cheap way out -- your passion of the heart has become passion of the appetites! Despite your best intentions, you're a horror ... and every day you make me less a woman and more the rug under your feet! And ... and I won't have it, I won't, I can't, I can't ... [Then, dropping her voice] I can't ... [Charlie waits quietly, giving her his handkerchief which she uses]

CHARLIE. Take it easy, dear.

MARION. Taking it easy is where the trouble begins ...

CHARLIE. Come on now, be yourself ...

MARION. That's another good local remark: "Be yourself," which means "Be just like me, don't be yourself!"

CHARLIE. Can I get you another drink?

MARION. I don't need another drink. [Pausing] Oh God, I wish the world would get serious so I could be my superficial self again! [She stands, rubbing her forehead] Where did I put my car? Oh ... Hank drove me in. He's supposed to pick me up. What time is it now?

CHARLIE. [Looking] Ten of one. Is your car bust?

MARION. I was tired and Hank mentioned he was driving in. [Charlie is really moved by his wife, but as she soon points out, he assumes a light bantering tone now]

CHARLIE. Marion ... don't you miss me out at the beach, in the wilderness of waves and highway traffic roaring past the door?

MARION. Poetry at this late hour?

CHARLIE. Why don't you stay here tonight? You can phone Hank, head him off. [She smiles at his negligent attitude]

MARION. You'd have to want me more than that ...

CHARLIE. Don't I want you ...?

MARION. At the moment you want most to keep your easy pose of detachment. Why expose yourself? After all, I might refuse. Could the great Charlie Castle take rejection?

CHARLIE. [lightly ironic] So ends my love song ...

MARION. It's a burp of the ego, not a love song ...

CHARLIE. Thanks and thanks ... [Shrugging, he drops into a chair]

MARION. [pausing] I'd tell you something ... but you'd get too excited. [Then.] The day I was here, the day you renewed with Hoff ... No, you'd get too excited.

CHARLIE. [smirking] Play billiards, Angel, or put the cue down. [She looks at him with a certain grimness before going on]

MARION. The next day I went and had an abortion.

CHARLIE. [turning slowly] You went and had ... ? [Disbelieving] Why don't you stop it, chum!

MARION. [bitterly, taking his tone] Latch on, while I tell you ... [He slowly stands and stares at her, seeing her seriousness] I waited six long, nervous weeks ... until you signed the contract.

CHARLIE. Why didn't you tell me?

MARION. A husband should know when his wife is three months pregnant. The cook in the kitchen knew.

CHARLIE. All right, I'm a louse. And what about good old Hankus? He knew it too?

MARION. No ... [He stands, looking at her with a menacing quiet, neck stretched, like a snake about to strike. Immobile, after a moment, he crosses and stands behind a heavy chair, gripping it with his hands]

CHARLIE. I'm putting this chair between us. Otherwise ... I might tear your head off ... [Not raising his voice] You come here and fling this handful of naked pigeons in my face and it's all my fault!

MARION. No, I made my own decisions.

CHARLIE. [not changing his tone] How do you feel? Sit down?

MARION. I'm sitting ...

CHARLIE. Would it have killed you to have another child?

MARION. I think I did the sensible thing.

CHARLIE. [blowing up] Will you, for Chris' sake, not be so goddam awful sensible and objective all the time! Are you such a clever lady? Why don't you fall down and let me pick you up, for a change? Why the hell don't you go to pieces? [He begins to prowl like an animal, he turns and shouts] Do you realize what you did?

MARION. Yes.

CHARLIE. [Burning] The zeal with which you ran to do it -- the ZEAL! [Then, twisting and turning] Did it hurt?

MARION. I'll live -- there are coonskin caps on my father's side.

CHARLIE. BUT DO YOU REALIZE WHAT YOU DID?

MARION. [quietly] It's all over, Charlie, a week ago. Let's talk about something else. We have a handsome intelligent boy. What about his future?

CHARLIE. You don't get Billy! You're leaving me! Then the boy belongs to me!

MARION. Don't be so smug -- who told you you're a father? I'd sooner Billy was raised in a bawdy house.

CHARLIE. Is that what you'd tell the judge?

MARION. [temper slipping] It's what I'm telling you!

CHARLIE. [abruptly] But, Marion, what did you do? What did you go and do?

MARION. Is that the bell?

CHARLIE. I'll go.

MARION. It's probably Hank.

CHARLIE. I said I'll go! [He goes quickly. Alone, Marion finishes her little drink. She is lipsticking her mouth when Charlie enters with Hank Teagle in tow. Hank, nearing 50, limps slightly. He is smiling, tender and affectionate by nature and experience, his face hides a quiet gaiety and a sharper insight. He is unpretentious, quiet and mature, with a gift for devotion. A man with his own tremor, he respects a tremor in another. He is a civilized man in the sense that he makes you feel guilty or inadequate on no score whatsoever]

HANK. Hello, Marion dear.

MARION. Hello, Hank.

HANK. There's the wonderful Rouault ... [Sullen, Charlie hovers near the bar, off balance for the moment]

CHARLIE. Drink?

HANK. [with a chortle] I'm a convert to water. Didn't you hear?

CHARLIE. How did you manage that?

HANK. With prayer.

CHARLIE. You believe in prayer?

HANK. I've always believed in prayer. [Smiling, noting Charlie's sullenness, he turns and asks Marion] How was your dinner?

MARION. I've been more stimulated in my time! [Nervously] How was your dinner?

HANK. Well, get seven of Hollywood's intellectual hill-billies at one night club and you're in titanic trouble. Men of a thousand causes and quips, not one unpopular or human. And then to be so dull -- success has made them all so dull. And think of me -- dull without success ... [He looks at Charlie, who now feels he has to say something]

CHARLIE. You're leaving for New York, I hear. To write a book.

HANK. Yes, another little book.

CHARLIE. [pausing] Marion says you asked her to marry you.

HANK. I did ...

CHARLIE. Let me get this straight. Aren't you my friend?

HANK. Yes, but your butler thinks I'm a wine merchant. I called here twice. He thinks I'm selling wine. Or so he says. I thought you were being "out" to me. [Quietly] Marion makes me want to live; most people affect me differently. I'm sorry you're unhappy, but you lost her years ago. In fairness, you can't blame me.

CHARLIE. I'm not fair tonight. But where the hell did you stash your angel wings? Who gave you the right to make decisions here?

HANK. My only right is to make my own decisions.

CHARLIE. Nuts to you, dear Beau Heart! Marion isn't leaving me, Hank!

MARION. I'll make my own decisions, too.

CHARLIE. Marion, listen --

MARION. No, I want to go home.

CHARLIE. But, Marion, let me say ten words -- ! [Then, morosely] Sorry, Marion, sometimes I rave and rant as if I had something against you. But you've been only good to me. [Grimacing, taking off his tie, he steps behind the bar] It's all a bleak and bitter dream, a real dish of doves. The only friends I can keep are the classy pimps, like Coy. [grimacing] There's only two ways to forget everything -- get drunk or stick a pencil in your eye.

MARION. I'll see the lawyer in the morning ...

CHARLIE. Right. [She turns and starts for the archway, but Charlie beats her to it and blocks her way, arms spread out] But I swear I'm innocent, Marion. I swear that while I'm charming the world with my light fantastic ... I'm bleeding under my shirt. Can't you wait, sweetheart, with the lawyer? Am I the worst oaf in the world?

MARION. [Unsteadily] The world's a big place ... but you're the worst one in my life. Good night. [She walks around him and disappears. Charlie slowly drops his arms and looks at Hank]

CHARLIE. When are you leaving, Hank?

HANK. Tuesday or Wednesday.

CHARLIE. I'll see you before you go? Is Monday good?

HANK. Any time you say ...

CHARLIE. Monday. How can I blame you for loving Marion? Don't think badly of me, Hank.

HANK. I don't. [They shake hands. Hank limps out, saying, "Good night".]

CHARLIE. Good night ...

The Books: "Some Kind of Love Story" (Arthur Miller)

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

Next play in my little unalphabetized pile of Samuel French plays is Arthur Miller's one-act Some Kind of Love Story. I love this play - I've worked on it before in scene study class - it's really fun. It's a two-person play and it's written in a very self-conscious film noir style. There's a hard-boiled Irish detective - and there's a floozy woman (who also is schizophrenic) who holds the key to this criminal case he has been working on - and obsessing over - for five years. He keeps coming back - she keeps stringing him along with new clues, new evidence - He is a man obsessed and he has become the laughing stock of the police force because he can't let it go, and he also can't solve it! Along the way he fell in love with her - or - let's say - they slept together many times, and that whole experience awakened something in him. He can't stop coming to her apartment, he is addicted to her - addicted to the case, to sex with her, addicted to the fight to get this innocent man out of jail. And SHE is the key. She has all the answers. Or ... does she? You get the feeling, reading it, that she (a woman who is a hooker, who has been abused and raped her whole life) is madly in love with him - and she knows - that if she divulges all she knows about the case - she will never see him again. It's a dance of evasion and disclosure. Meanwhile - she keeps going in and out of different personalities when the situation gets too stressful. She's like Sybil. She is convinced she's being followed, that she is the main character in a massive conspiracy - So there is much reason to doubt that she has any knowledge at all about the case.

An additional stress is that both characters are married. She (her name is Angela) is married to a violent man who basically acts as her pimp. He hovers on the outskirts of the play - even though he never shows his face. At the beginning of the play, Angela's face is battered because he punched her in the jaw. Great character.

I'll excerpt the beginning of the play.

From Some Kind of Love Story, by Arthur Miller

[A bed in a darkened room. A window. The headboard of the bed is white plastic tufting with gold trim, Grand Rapids Baroque. Skirts, bras, shoes, articles of clothing dropped everywhere. Angela is barely visible sitting up on the bed. The door opens. Tom O'Toole sticks his head in.]

TOM. Are we decent?

ANGELA. Christ's sake, close the door.

TOM. Lemme get in first! [Shuts door behind him. Pushes back his narrow brimmed hat, unbuttons his raincoat, and is forced to peer through the murky air to see her face] Well! -- You're sounding nice and spunky, how's it goin' tonight?

ANGELA. Philly out there?

TOM. In the kitchenette, lip-readin' his racin' form.

ANGELA. Say anything to you?

TOM. Nooo. Just laid one of his outraged-husband looks on me again. What do you say I buy you a spaghetti? -- Come on.

ANGELA. You can turn on the light. And lock the door, will you?

TOM. What's with the rollers? You going out? [She undoes a roller now that her attention has been drawn to it. He locks the door and switches a lamp on. She is sitting up in bed, permed hair, black slip, pink wrapper. Lights a cigarette] Jeeze, you really are swollen. You want ice?

ANGELA. [works her jaw, touching it] It's going down.

TOM. [sitting on a stool beside bed] Hope you don't mind, darlin', but a man who takes his fists to his wife ought to be strung up by his testicles one at a time.

ANGELA. [a preoccupied air] Nobody's perfect. He can't help himself, he's immature.

TOM. Well, maybe I'll understand it sometime -- It's amazing, I always leave here with more questions than I came in with.

ANGELA. He's still the father of my daughter. [gets off bed, tidies up the room a bit] By the way, she called me from LA. She's going to apply to the University of California, being she's so fantastic in basketball.

TOM. [dropping into a chair, hat and coat still on] Well, that'd be nice, wouldn't it. You're lucky to have a kid these days who loves you.

ANGELA. Don't yours?

TOM. Yeah, but they're exceptional. Anyway, I'm unusually loveable. [He guffaws]

ANGELA. What're you laughing at? -- It's true. [Sadly] You're probably the most loveable man I've ever met.

TOM. [to get down to business] You caught me climbin' into bed when you called.

ANGELA. I appreciate you coming, Tom -- this had to be my worst day yet. [She moves to window to look into the backyard]

TOM. No kiddin'. On th ephone you sounded like you seen a ghost.

ANGELA. [a wan smile] You ever going to love me again?

TOM. Always will, honey -- in spirit. [The answer turns her sadder; she restlesslly walks in sighing frustration] I explained it, Ange--

ANGELA. What'd you explain?

TOM. You are part of the case in a certain way; and I can't be concentrating on this case and banging you at the same time. It's all wrong. I'm being as straight as I can with you. -- What happened today?

ANGELA. I don't know -- it just hit me again like a ton of bricks that Felix is still sitting in that cell.

TOM. That's right; it'll be five years October.

ANGELA. You tend to get used to it after so long but today I simply ... I couldn't stand it all over again.

TOM. I can't stand it every day.

ANGELA. [as though reawakened to his value] You're a wonderful man, Tom. You're really one of a kind.

TOM. Personally, I wouldn't mind sharin' the distinction, but I don't see too many volunteers on this case.

ANGELA. [she looks off, shaking her head with wonder at his character] Be proud of yourself -- I mean with all the great people in this state, the colleges, the churches, the newspapers, and nobody lifts a finger except you ... I simply can't believe he's still in there!

TOM. [sensing attenuation] What'd you want to see me about, Ange?

ANGELA. [glances at him, then gets up again, moves] I'm really teetering. My skin is so tight I could scream.

TOM. What happened today?

ANGELA. God how I love to see you sitting here and the sound of your voice ... [at the window] ... Is that drizzle comin' down again?

TOM. But it's kind of warm out; you want to try to walk it off? Come on, I'll take you to the boardwalk, buy you a chowder.

ANGELA. [moves restlessly] God, how I hate this climate.

TOM. I thought it reminded you of Sweden.

ANGELA. I'm a Finn, not a Swede; I said it was like Finland -- Not that I was ever in Finland.

TOM. [a grin] So how's my standing tonight?

ANGELA. You're always in my top three; you know that.

TOM. [wryly] Not always, Ange -- last time I was practically wiped off the scoreboard.

ANGELA. [genuinely surprised] What are you talkinga bout?

TOM. You ordered me never to show my face again, don't you remember?

ANGELA. [vaguely recalling a probability] Well, you were probably pressuring me, that's all; I will not submit to pressure ...

TOM. Well, you called me tonight, kid. So what's it about?

ANGELA. What the hell is this goddam rush, suddenly?

TOM. [Laughs] Rush! You have any idea how long we've been bullshitting around together about this case? It's damn near five years!

ANGELA. And every single thing you know about it came from me and don't you forget it either.

TOM. Well ... not everything ...

ANGELA. [a shot of angry indignation] Everything!

TOM. [a sigh] Well, all right. -- But I'm still nowhere.

ANGELA. This is a whole new side of you, isn't it?

TOM. [sensing her fear -- gently] Baby Doll, the last time on Thursday I spent seven-and-one-half hours in this room with you ...

ANGELA. It was nowhere near seven and ...

TOM. [suppressing explosion] Until two-thirty AM when you give me such a kick in the balls that if it'd landed I'd have gone into orbit. So we can call tonight a strictly professional visit to hear whatever you got to say about the case of Felix Epstein ... and nothing else -- Now what'd you want to tell me?

ANGELA. [dismissing him] Well, I can't talk to you in a mechanical atmosphere.

TOM. [gets up] Then goodnight and happy dreams.

ANGELA. What are you doing?

TOM. [a strained laugh] Gettin' back into my pajamas! -- I have driven here through half an hour of fog and rain!

ANGELA. [open helplessness] I'm desperate to talk to you! Why don't you give me a chance to open my mouth? [turning her back on him, moving ...] I mean, shit, if you want a mechanical conversation go see your friendly Ford dealer.

TOM. I'll tell you something, Angela -- you're just lucky I'm still in love with you.

ANGELA. [She smiles now, tragically] You wouldn't be kidding about that if I wasn't a sick woman -- I'd have walked you off into the sunset five years ago and don't think I couldn't have done it.

TOM. My wife thinks you still could do it.

ANGELA. Go on, she knows why you see me nowadays.

TOM. Maybe that's why she's talkin' separation.

ANGELA. One of the nicest things about you, Tom, is that you're so obvious when you're full of shit.

TOM. She thinks we're still making it, Angela.

ANGELA. [she breaks into a smile, warm and pleasured, gets up and comes to him, takes off his hat and kisses the top of his head] Honestly?

TOM. I mean it. From the way I talk about you she says she can tell.

ANGELA. [sliding her hand toward his crotch] Well as long as she believes it, why don't we, again?

TOM. [grasping her wrists] Y'know ... I had to give up the booze twenty years ago, and then the cigarettes because the doctor told me I have the makeup of an addicts. If I went into you again I'd never come out the rest of my life.

ANGELA. [seizing the respite] Were you ever really in love, Tom?

TOM. [hesitates, then nods] Once.

ANGELA. I don't mean as a kid ...

TOM. No. I was about twenty-five.

ANGELA. What happened to her?

TOM. [hesitates, then grins in embarrassment] My mother didn't approve.

ANGELA. Why not, she wasn't Catholic?

TOM. She was Catholic.

ANGELA. [a wide grin] A tramp?

TOM. No! But she knew I'd stayed over with her a couple of times. And we were a strict family, see.

ANGELA. You've still got a lot of priest in you, Tom -- I love that about you.

TOM. You do? I don't. Leaving that woman was the biggest mistake I ever made. In fact, five or six years later, I was already married but I went back looking for her -- I was ready to leave my wife -- But she was gone, nobody knew where.

ANGELA. [romantically] And you really still think of her?

TOM. More now than ever. In that respect I lived the wrong life.

ANGELA. [she is staring at him, an open expression on her face. On her knees beside his chair she rests her head on his shoulder] Life is so wrong -- a man like you ought to be happy all day and all night long.

The Books: "Picnic" (William Inge)

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

Next play in my little unalphabetized pile of Samuel French plays is William Inge's Picnic. Inge - one of THE biggest playwrights of the 1950s - his success did not go beyond that decade - but what he was able to capture, in his few plays (he didn't write all that much, actually) is quite remarkable. His main theme - the thread running through all of his plays - was an indictment of the sexual repression of that particular decade. He wrote Splendor in the Grass after all - a devastating story - and that is what it's about. He's not a "whoo-hoo anything goes" type guy - he's far too conventional for that - but he couldn't help but see the damage done to people (especially young women) by totally denying that huge part of themselves. By splitting up the female population into Good Girl/Bad Girl - and "good girls don't do that" yadda yadda - I mean, the lead female character in Splendor in the Grass ends up going crazy and spending time in a mental institution because she cannot deal with that split in her OWN mind. The good girl/bad girl split. Her own personality was cracked.

Anyway - I love William Inge - I've done two of his plays (one to great success, and one to ... er ... not so great success) but still - I love him.

He's such an AMERICAN playwright. He's a meat and potatoes type writer - he has all the essentials down - he knows how to do exposition, set up a plot, throw in some obstacles, create three-dimensional characters, write believable dialogue that illuminates the personalities but also pushes the story along - These are all almost lost arts in terms of playwriting. Any playwright who wants to take a look at how to do some of these really technical and yet so important story-telling things - would do well to look at Inge. He does it effortlessly - you never see the strings moving, you never sense the playwright there, manipulating events from behind the curtain.

If you're interested, I wrote a long piece about William Inge a while back. I LOVE his plays - they aren't done all that much now because - well, it's weird - but they are dated. They are totally "period pieces" now. The repressive world of the 1950s that he depicts is gone. You cannot transfer his plays to other eras and have them work. You have to "go back" and do them in the time they were written. He is very much of his time. That's not an insult. I think he, more than any other playwright writing at that moment, captured a slice of American life - or - to be more accurate - a part of the American psyche.

There's a great tension in his plays - between freedom and responsibility, between love and sex, between male and female, between brains and beauty - He was always pitting these opposing forces against one another - and in his view, there really wasn't a right answer. You had to look within yourself. Characters who were not able to do that, who just went along with what they thought they should be doing, are seen as tragic.

I did a production of Picnic - it was a really important show for me. I was 16, 17 - and it was the first time I really worked. I had been in shows before, I had been good, whatever - but Picnic was my first real part - that I worked on, and researched, and did preparation for - It's the birth of me as a real actress.

Here's a little photo album I put together of the transformation of my character in that play - Millie - tomboyish Millie.

Millie's Transformation

Act II

Act II

Act II

Act II

Act II

The plot of Picnic is relatively simple. It takes place in Independence, Kansas, a small town. Flo is a mother of two daughters. Flo had married a handsome sexy wild man who ended up abandoning the family. One of Inge's subtle points - and he never comes out and says it - but it is THERE - is that in order to have sex, you had to get married. Many people made big errors in choosing their mate - because they couldn't get all that stuff out of their system - so they married for sex - and of course, chose unwisely. This is what happens in the course of the play. Flo, obviously, married because her attraction to her husband was white-hot - and he turned out to be a jagoff. She is determined that her daughters will not make the same mistake. Her older daughter, Madge, is pretty, a beauty-queen (literally) - and she is dating a "nice boy" named Alan - who is boring and conventional. But then - a drifter comes to town - and lives in the house next door - and his name is Hal. Hal messes up the conventions. Madge basically falls into wild lust with him - but because she can't accept being a "bad girl" - well, there's all sorts of ramifications. They MUST get married - but marriage to Hal will be, you know it, a disaster. The younger daughter, Millie, the girl I played, is 16. She's a determined tomboy - mainly because she doesn't want ANY part of ANY of that. She will live her OWN life. She will play by her OWN rules, and she can see that the rules for women SUCK so she will dress like a boy, and not follow all the silly conventions. She is William Inge's stand-in. She wants to be a writer and eventually move to New York. And you know that she will do it.

Here's a scene in the beginning of the play between Flo and her two daughters.

From Picnic, by William Inge

FLO. Did you and Alan have a good time on your date last night?

MADGE. Uh-huh.

FLO. What'd you do?

MADGE. We went over to his house and he played some of his classical records.

FLO. [after a pause] Then what'd you do?

MADGE. Drove over to Cherryvale and had some barbecue.

FLO. [a hard question to ask] Madge, does Alan ever -- make love?

MADGE. When we drive over to Cherryvale we always park the car by the river and get real romantic.

FLO. Do you let him kiss you? After all, you've been going together all summer.

MADGE. Of course I let him.

FLO. Does he ever want to go beyond kissing?

MADGE. [embarrassed] Mom!

FLO. I'm your mother, for heaven's sake! These things have to be talked about. Does he?

MADGE. Well -- yes.

FLO. Does Alan get mad if you -- won't?

MADGE. No.

FLO. [to herself, puzzled] He doesn't ...

MADGE. Alan's not like most boys. He doesn't wanta do anything he'd be sorry for.

FLO. Do you like it when he kisses you?

MADGE. Yes.

FLO. You don't sound very enthusiastic.

MADGE. What do you expect me to do -- pass out every time Alan puts his arm around me?

FLO. No, you don't have to pass out. [gives Madge the dress she has been sewing on] Here. Hold this dress up in front of you. It'd be awfully nice to be married to Alan. You'd live in comfort the rest of your life, with charge accounts at all the stores, automobiles and trips. You'd be invited by all his friends to parties in their homes and at the Country Club.

MADGE. [a confession] Mom, I don't feel right with those people.

FLO. Why not? You're as good as they are.

MADGE. I know, Mom, but all of Alan's friends talk about college and trips to Europe. I feel left out.

FLO. You'll get over those feelings in time. Alan will be going back to school in a few weeks. You better get busy.

MADGE. Busy what?

FLO. A pretty girl doesn't have long -- just a few years. Then she's the equal of kings and she can walk out of a shanty like this and live in a palace with a doting husband who'll spend his life making her happy.

MADGE. [to herself] I know.

FLO. Because once, once she was young and pretty. If she loses her chance then, she might as well throw all her prettiness away. [giving Madge the dress]

MADGE. [holding the dress before her as Flo checks length] I'm only eighteen.

FLO. And next summer you'll be nineteen, and then twenty, and then twenty-one, and then the years'll start going by so fast you'll lose count of them. First thing you know, you'll be forty, still selling candy at the dime store.

MADGE. You don't have to get morbid.

MILLIE. [comes out of the house with sketch book, sees Madge holding dress before her] Everybody around here gets to dress up and go places except me.

MADGE. Alan said he'd try to find you a date for the picnic tonight.

MILLIE. I don't want Alan asking any of these crazy boys in town to take me anywhere.

MADGE. Beggars can't be choosers!

MILLIE. You shut up.

FLO. Madge, that was mean. There'll be dancing at the pavilion tonight. Millie should have a date, too.

MADGE. If she wants a date, why doesn't she dress up and act decent?

MILLIE. Cause I'm gonna dress and act the way I want to, and if you don't like it you know what you can do!

MADGE. Always complaining because she doesn't have any friends, but she smells so bad people don't want to be near her!

FLO. Girls, don't fight.

MILLIE. [ignoring Flo] La-de-da! Madge is the pretty one -- but she's so dumb they almost had to burn the schoolhouse down to get her out of it!

MADGE. That's not so!

MILLIE. Oh, isn't it? You never would have graduated if it hadn't been for Jumpin' Jeeter.

FLO. [trying at least to keep up with the scrap] Who's Jumpin' Jeeter?

MILLIE. Teaches history. Kids call him Jumpin' Jeeter cause he's so jumpy with all the pretty girls in his classes. He was flunking Madge till she went in his room and cried and said ... [mimics Madge] "I just don't know what I'll do if I don't pass history!"

MADGE. Mom, she's making that up.

MILLIE. Like fun I am! You couldn't even pass Miss Sydney's course in shorthand and you have to work in the dime store!

MADGE. [the girls know each other's most sensitive spots] You are a goon!

FLO. [giving up] Oh, girls!

MILLIE. [furious] Madge, you slut! You take that back or I'll kill you! [She goes after Madge who screams and runs on the porch]

FLO. Girls! What will the neighbors say!

[Millie gets hold of Madge's hair and yanks. Flo has to intercede]

MILLIE. No one can call me goon and get by with it!

FLO. You called her worse names!

MILLIE. It doesn't hurt what names I call her! She's pretty, so names don't bother her at all! She's pretty, so nothing else matters. [She storms inside]

FLO. Poor Millie!

MADGE. [raging at the injustice] All I ever hear is "poor Millie", and poor Millie won herself a scholarship for four whole years of college!

FLO. A girl like Millie can need confidence in other ways. [This quiets Madge. There is a silence]

MADGE. [subdued] Mom, do you love Millie more than me?

FLO. Of course not!

MADGE. Sometimes you act like you did.

FLO. [with warmth, trying to effect an understanding] You were the first born. Your father thought the sun rose and set in you. He used to carry you on his shoulder for all the neighborhood to see. But things were different when Millie came.

MADGE. How?

FLO. [with misgivings] They were just -- different. Your father wasn't home much. The night Millie was born he was with a bunch of his wild friends at the road house.

MADGE. I loved Dad.

FLO. [a little bitterly] Oh, everyone loved your father.

MADGE. Did you?

FLO. [after a long pause of summing up] Some women are humiliated to love a man.

MADGE. Why?

FLO. [thinking as she speaks] Because -- a woman is weak to begin with, I suppose, and sometimes -- her love for him makes her feel -- almost helpless. And maybe she fights him -- cause her love makes her seem so dependent. [There is another pause. Madge ruminates]

MADGE. Mom, what good is it to be pretty?

FLO. What a question!

MADGE. I mean it.

FLO. Well -- pretty things are rare in this life.

MADGE. But what good are they?

FLO. Well -- pretty things -- like flowers and sunsets and rubies -- and pretty girls, too -- they're like billboards telling us life is good.

MADGE. But where do I come in?

FLO. What do you mean?

MADGE. Maybe I get tired of being looked at.

FLO. Madge!

MADGE. Well, maybe I do!

FLO. Don't talk so selfish!

MADGE. I don't care if I am selfish. It's no good just being pretty. It's no good!

HAL. [comes running on from passageway] Mam, is it all right if I start a fire?

FLO. [jumps to see Hal] What?

HAL. The nice lady, she said it's a hot enough day already and maybe you'd object.

FLO. [matter-of-factly] I guess we can stand it.

HAL. Thank you, ma'am. [Hal runs off]

FLO. [looking after him] He just moves right in whether you want h im to or not!

MADGE. I knew you wouldn't like him when I first saw him.

FLO. Do you?

MADGE. I don't like him or dislike him. I just wonder what he's like.

The Books: "A Coupla White Chicks Sitting Around Talking"

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

First play in my little unalphabetized pile of Samuel French plays is John Ford Noonan's A Coupla White Chicks Sitting Around Talking - which has pretty much entered the theatrical repertoire. At least in scene study classes. I have seen more scenes from Coupla White Chicks than I care to remember. I have worked on scenes from Coupla White Chicks myself. Sometimes I worked on Maude, sometimes I worked on Hannah. I'm not sure what it is about this play that really HITS - but it does. Maybe not now - it is way overdone - too overdone - but it sure has become a staple in scene study classes across America. It's a two-person play - so that's one good reason - lots of long juicy scenes - and also, it's two WOMEN. It's rare to find good scenes for two women. I immediately think of the Sonya and Elena scene in Uncle Vanya - every actress in the world has worked on that scene. Because it's rare to have a scene between two women that is that GOOD. Men don't have that problem. They have other problems, but they don't have that problem. There have been awesome scenes written for two men since the daaaawn of tiiiiiiiime. Women have less to choose from so something like Coupla White Chicks is leapt upon.

The original production of this was in 1980, 1981 - and Susan Sarandon played Maude - the uptight (and yet inside - wild) housewife from Westchester and the great Eileen Brennan played Hannah, the blowsy next-door neighbor who just moved in from Texas. There's a big regional split depicted in the play - something that both characters need to overcome. They have assumptions about one another, based on the region of the country they both are from. Maude is uptight. She likes privacy. Hannah Mae is nosy and loves "just popping over" for a cup of coffee - southern hospitality, all that. Hannah Mae is determined to crack Maude's uptight shell - Maude refuses to play along. But eventually - of course - they become friends.

Hannah (the woman from Texas) is not shy, or embattled or put off by Maude's reserve. Hannah just keeps stopping by for a cup of coffee in the morning, and no matter how much Maude tries to hurry her out - Hannah refuses. You kind of love Hannah. She's funny, she's open - she's kind of crazy - but once you just accept her for who she is - she probably would be a blast.

Hannah and Maude both have husband trouble. Hannah's husband is named Carl Joe (you never meet the men in the play, we just hear about them) - and he is a big dumb LUG - but Hannah still finds him so gorgeous that she basically becomes a little puddle around him. She knows he's not bright - but when she looks at his body - she finds herself not caring.

I forget the story with Maude's husband - he is always calling to talk about picking up dry cleaning, and errandy stuff - but obviously something bad is afoot. Maude is miserable. But Maude is a MUCH more stiff-upper-lip person than Hannah. She doesn't just babble her problems to everyone.

The story of the play is mainly these two becoming fast friends - despite all of their surface differences. It's also the story of the two characters coming to a deeper understanding of their husbands, and their marriages.

Kind of conventional, right? It's a very conventional play. But it has two great opposing characters with opposing objectives and long involved scenes - which you just don't find for two women that much. And so - it has lasted. And lasted. And lasted.

Here's a big revelatory scene that happens pretty early on in Act One - it's Scene 3. The first two scenes establish the conflict between the two women: Hannah Mae wants to be friends, Maude doesn't. Then comes Scene 3 which changes the dynamic. This is "the staple" of the acting classes I spoke about. It's easy to understand why.

From A Coupla White Chicks Sitting Around Talking by John Ford Noonan

[Lights up. Maude sits at kitchen table in a bathrobe and pajamas, head down on table. Hannah Mae walks up to window, looks inside, then enters with a single red rose in a vase. Hannah Mae tiptoes to the table and puts vase down in front of Maude. The sound of glass against kitchen table startles Maude into sitting position]

HANNAH MAE. A red rose of apology. It's the Texas way of making up to someone you really care about. Yesterday I got way too pushy. Everything great I see in you that you refuse to deal with is one thing, but to get you to see it, that's where I got to clean up my act. One step at a time. When it wilts, I'll take the vase back. [She goes to the sink. Screams out] Goddang shit fuck piss!

MAUDE. What's wrong? [Hannah Mae holds up broken cup. It's the cup she brought on her first visit] There was an accident before. I'll replace it.

HANNAH MAE. Can't. I made it in college. Ceramics. Only "A" I ever got.

MAUDE. Somehow I'll make it up to you.

HANNAH MAE. It's my fault. I shouldn't have left it behind. Did it on purpose, leaving it behind. That way I'd always have an excuse to come back another morning, that is, in case we didn't hit it off real great like we did. You look real fragile in that bathrobe and pajamas.

MAUDE. Don't get dressed on Wednesdays.

HANNAH MAE. Never?

MAUDE. Today I did. You were coming and I felt something special in the air. I'm very sensitive to things in the air. Then something came up that made me get out of my grey suit. Last thing I expected, but after it was over I ... I ... couldn't ... I mean I couldn't see getting back into a suit anymore. [Puts face in hands]

HANNAH MAE. Are you crying?

MAUDE. I never cry.

HANNAH MAE. I heard something.

MAUDE. It wasn't tears.

HANNAH MAE. Then you were sobbing or something. I know real feeling when I hear it come out.

MAUDE. You're wrong! It was disgust, utter disgust.

HANNAH MAE. So you're disgusted with me. I deserve no better. It's a disease, I couldn't cure myself.

MAUDE. Hannah Mae, what are you talking about? Cure what?

HANNAH MAE. My spying. I was at it again last night.

MAUDE. But that's not what I'm disgusted with!

HANNAH MAE. Shame on you then, you outghta be. Asking me to do that little chittlin of a favor and I can't even make it through the first night.

MAUDE. Hannah Mae, please listen to me for a second.

HANNAH MAE. But my sin was worth it 'cause it forced Carl Joe out into the open. Turns out while I been spying on you, he's been spying on me.

MAUDE. I know.

HANNAH MAE. Anyway, last night I'd been watching you for about an hour reading, right, and then you put your book down and started doing sit-ups. I'm entranced. I keep count whispering but it must have been louder than I realized cause I'm saying "49 ... 50 ... 51" when suddenly Carl Joe's hand's on my shoulder and he says, "I'm going to put a stop to this!" [Suddenly stopping] Hold it! I just said "Turns out while I been spying on you, Carl Joe's been spying on me," and you said, "I know!" [Pause] How do you know, Maude?

MAUDE. Carl Joe came by this morning.

HANNAH MAE. Were you in that bathrobe and pajamas?

MAUDE. [shaking her head] The grey suit.

HANNAH MAE. Thank God you were all well protected! I mean, a bathrobe, no buttons, half open ... not much of a problem getting through to the inside ... My Carl Joe's not a naturally bad person. It's just those wandering hands. Always putting them places they don't belong. Even when he's asleep, those hands of his are feeling around all the time until they get hold of something. [Pause] So how long was it before he started in with the wandering hands?

MAUDE. Right away.

HANNAH MAE. You poor thing! He played football for Texas and goddang if that ain't about the biggest thing in the whole state. [Pause] So what did you finally say to get him to leave?

MAUDE. Didn't say anything.

HANNAH MAE. Then how the heck did you do it?

MAUDE. I didn't.

HANNAH MAE. Didn't what?

MAUDE. Didn't make him leave. Puts his hand inside my suit, snaps open my bra ... it clips in the front ... and PRESTO, he's home!

HANNAH MAE. Which hand did he use?

MAUDE. The right.

HANNAH MAE. That's Carl Joe all right. Never leads with his left. Always goes at it with his right. Natural enough, being right-handed. Maude, I got to hand it to you! What a great trick!

MAUDE. What great trick?

HANNAH MAE. Giving him a little tittie when all he expected was a rebuff. Startled him by going one way and coming back the other, right? Right? Was he startled bad or easy when you finally cut him off?

MAUDE. Hannah Mae, I slept with Carl Joe!

HANNAH MAE. [bursting into laughter] That's funny! That's very very funny!

MAUDE. Funny?

HANNAH MAE. Slept with my Carl Joe? [She stands up] What did he do? Throw you on the table and do you with your legs dangling?

MAUDE. Hannah Mae, don't do this.

HANNAH MAE. Did he keep twisting your hips a little to the left while massaging real slow at the base of your spine with those crafty long fingers?

MAUDE. How do you know? Were you watching?

HANNAH MAE. How do I know? I taught the lug every slick move he knows! You don't think he learned that kind of technique playing with no stuffed pillow, do ya? [Sits] Okay, did he make his moans? [Maude shakes her head no] Any coyote calls? Did he stop in the middle and start singing MY WAY?

MAUDE. Nothing, no.

HANNAH MAE. You mean, he didn't scream when it was over? He always yells, "Oh God, don't let me die, I'm dying, but don't let me die?"

MAUDE. There wasn't a sound.

HANNAH MAE. That proves it. His heart wasn't in it! It wasn't the sex. It was us. He just did that to break you and me apart. It's true. I like being around you much more. He's got to learn to live with it. [stands, paces] The dumb cluck thinks he can come in here and screw you on your kitchen table and turn me back into his little Texas cheerleader. Well, look at us. Are we screaming at each other? Am I threatening to tear out your eyes? No. We're sitting here ...

MAUDE. I'm sitting, you're standing.

HANNAH MAE. [sits] Okay, now we're both sitting, right? Right!

MAUDE. [jumps up, crosses to door, holds it open] I have got to take a shower, I have to get some water on me.

HANNAH MAE. You go ahead, Honey. [takes a magazine from a pile, and pages through it] I'll just flip through one of your magazines while I'm waiting.

MAUDE. Hannah Mae, I committed ADULTERY with your husband!

HANNAH MAE. You couldn't help it. He's one big fella. Even a strong woman don't stand a cow cud's chance against that kind of stampede.

MAUDE. This is not how you feel! You're in a rage, you feel like killing me. Stop all this crap and start feeling like killing me. Start screaming at me, scream!

HANNAH MAE. The only thing I feel, Honey, is closer to you. [Reaches out to Maude.]

MAUDE. Get those hands off me! I already had his on me, I don't need yours.

HANNAH MAE. Maude, I know just how you feel. When it first started happening, I used to go up the goddang walls too.

MAUDE. How often does this happen?

HANNAH MAE. Oh, the guy's got the wandering hands bad. What am I going to do, chop them off at the wrists?

MAUDE. You mean I'm just another on a long list? Oh, this is the absolute pits!

HANNAH MAE. Maude, you're getting excited. Take deep breaths.

MAUDE. [pacing back and forth, as Hannah Mae follows her, trying to calm her down] Of course I'm getting excited!

HANNAH MAE. [takes deep breath]

MAUDE. I don't know why I did it! The minute I heard the knock at the door, I knew who it was, what he wanted, and that I was going to give it to him! I just did it because I did it. I can't get hold of the reason why! Maybe I did it because I was lonely, maybe I did it because ...

HANNAH MAE. No one else cares why you did it, why should you?

MAUDE. I think maybe we shouldn't see each other again for a very long time.

HANNAH MAE. Carl Joe's just putting us to the test. This is no time to be getting silly.

MAUDE. Silly? You are calling me silly? Well, let me tell you a thing or two that may have passed you by in all those years cheerleading back in Texas. Up here we don't ...

HANNAH MAE. All you're getting, Honey, is sillier by the minute!

MAUDE. My name is Maude.

HANNAH MAE. All you are getting, Maude, is sill ...

MAUDE. I don't want your intensity. I don't need all your feeling. I know all about what that does. Intensity and feeling do nothing but confuse people. For our purposes they are absolutely unnecessary. Is that clear?

HANNAH MAE. [kissing Maude on the forehead] Very!

MAUDE. [wiping her forehead] That's what Judas did to Christ! Just like that on the forehead! This is the final straw! You will never set those feet in this kitchen again. Get the message?

HANNAH MAE. Sleep on it.

MAUDE. Get out!

HANNAH MAE. [at door] Let your dreams lead you.

MAUDE. Get out!

HANNAH MAE. I'm gettin'. [Runs out door]

MAUDE. [at door, after Hannah Mae] This isn't Texas, Honey. This is Westchester County. This is one of the ten richest spots on God's green earth! You can't just gallop in here off some ranch and invade our lives. We worked hard to get this high up. We have earned the right to keep our distance. We pay far too much tax to have our peace disturbed.

[Hannah Mae appears at the window]

HANNAH MAE. If I had to share Carl Joe with anyone, I'm real glad that anyone was you.

MAUDE. [picks up cup from dish drain and throws it at door] Get out! [It smashes. As she sweeps up the broken cup, the phone rings]

MAUDE. I know that's you, Tyler, I know it! Up yours, Tyler, up yours. If you had been here, this never would have happened! [drops dustpan and broom]

BLACKOUT

END OF ACT ONE

The Books: "The Effect of Gamma Rays on Man-in-the-Moon Marigolds" (Paul Zindel)

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

As is obvious, from the alphabet, we are almost at the end of my first bookshelf. I can't believe it! I feel like I've been excerpting my plays forever. I have this last play on the shelf - and then a small pile of Samuel French plays to excerpt - and then I will move on to another bookshelf.

But now is a script I've been very excited to get to - for my own personal reasons: The Effect of Gamma Rays on Man-in-the-Moon Marigolds, by Paul Zindel - who also happens to be the author of one of my favorite books: The Pigman. He has written a couple of plays, but this one is his most well-known. He makes no bones about it that it's about his mother - and here he is how describes the writing of this devastating play:

Marigolds was written when I was 25 years old. One morning I awoke and discovered the manuscript next to my typewriter. I suspect it is autobiographical, because whenever I see a production of it I laugh and cry harder than anyone else in the audience. I laugh because the play always reminds me of still another charmingly frantic scheme of my mother's to get rich quick -- a profusion of schemes all of which couldn't possibly appear in the play ... I remember a series of preposterous undertakings -- hatcheck girl, PT boat riveter, unlicensed real estate broker.

But my tears come from a time several years after the play was written, when I returned to my mother's house knowing she had only a few months to live; she was unaware of the fact that she was dying. We had long before made that peace between parent and son which Nature insists not happens until the teen years have passed. During that privleged time just before she died, we enjoyed each other as friends ... Always we talked of the past -- of her father, of his vegetable wagon in old Stapleton, of a man who rented a room in her father's house in which to store thousands of Christmas toys. There was always the unusual, the hilarity, the sadness. In her own way she told me of her secret dreams and fears -- so many of which somehow I had sensed, and discovered written into that manuscript next to my typewriter, many years before.

Uhm, write much, Paul?

I did this play in college. I played Tillie. Up to that point in my life, it was my dream role. I had read the script when I was 13, 14 - I saw the movie directed by Paul Newman (starring his wife, Joanne Woodward) - and I literally remember praying to God at the time, "Please let me play Tillie some day ..." Many years later I was in college, and I remember when someone said to me casually, as we walked across campus together, "Yeah, I heard we're doing Gamma Rays next season ..." I felt this JOLT of electricity shoot through me. It was almost unpleasant - that kind of need and desire and ... ambition. Like: I HAD to get the role. I HAD to. But of course ... just because you really want something doesn't mean you will get it. So in this particular case, I was right up against the everyday realities of the theatre, acting, what have you. I wanted it so bad that my stomach was in a knot, I felt very GRIM about it ... like: No fucking WAY will ANYONE ELSE play Tillie. NO WAY. And I had to wait till 'next season" to audition - so the whole thing was kind of agonizing. I put it out of my mind, thought of other things, and when the time came - I auditioned for it - and I got the part. Mission accomplished. I read the posting of the cast list, and felt this grim satisfaction within me - No jumping up and down, no "whoo-hoo" - No. It meant too much to me to leap about screaming.

The story of the play is simple. (Oh, and if you ever get a chance - Joanne Woodward is so fantastic in the role of the mother - it's such a great performance - There should be times, when you watch this play, when you need to turn away - it's too embarrassing, too AWFUL to contemplate ... Joanne Woodward gets that. She gets that so well).

There is a mother (Beatrice) and two daughters - Ruth and Matilda (Tillie). The father left, I believe - and the mother, basically, is insane. Insane from her own bitterness - her own disappointment. She's a tragic woman - even though you HATE her during the play because of how she treats those two girls. The house they live in should be condemned. Nobody has ever cleaned the house. It is complete chaos. Beatrice has taken in her aged deaf blind mother - who has dementia and lives in a stuffy room in the back. Beatrice feels like life has given her a raw deal. She looks at her two teenage daughters and sees that THEY are the reason she has no life - her daughters have ruined her life just by existing. Ruth, the older daughter, is wild, and kind of slutty - she also has pretty severe epilepsy and spent some time in a mental institution. She has a cruel streak - but in a way, the cruel streak helps Ruth to survive her brutal home life. Tillie will have a tougher road. She is the younger daughter. She is a scientist in training. It is her "way out". She looks to the stars, and studies stars and chemistry and anything she can get her hands on ... During the course of the play, Tillie is doing a science project for a science competition - growing man-in-the-moon marigolds in a couple of different environments, and - under the guidance of her science teacher - bombarding the marigolds with gamma rays and charting the effects. Obviously - Ruth and Tillie have grown up in a poisonous atmosphere. Their mother is a big fat gamma ray who embarrasses them, and who not only embarrasses them - but tries to wreck whatever is positive and good in their lives. She cannot bear there to be hope in the air. She cannot bear anyone who is positive, or who has a good attitude. She must crush any enthusiasm - because what was done to HER was so awful that she will be DAMN sure that her kids will have the same treatment. Tillie's science teacher (who is a mentor - and obviously a man who realizes the horror Tillie lives under at home) gives Tillie a rabbit - which Tillie takes care of, nurtures, and loves. Beatrice HATES the fucking rabbit. She ends up killing it - just to crush Tillie. Tillie will not be allowed to have anything good or sweet or hopeful in her life. NO.

The genius of this play, though, is that Beatrice, with all her awfulness, is not evil. She is a tragic woman, who has been beaten by life ... she has one line, in a moment of crisis, "What's left for me?"

Argh - it's a devastating play. It really is. You hope that Tillie gets out. She is the marigold, bombarded by gamma rays ... Obviously the poison will have SOME effect on her ... but maybe that monstrous part of her, the poisoned part of her - will be the very thing that will help her survive. Ruth is probably going to fall off the rails - she's a wild child and also very ill - but Tillie, while extremely anti-social, she can barely speak above a whisper - has curiosity about the outside world, and it has somehow been left intact. Her mother hasn't yet destroyed her love of science - no matter how hard she has tried.

I'll post the opening of the play. God - the words just bring back so many memories.

I wanted to play that part so badly that it kept me up at night ... I would think: "Be realistic ... someone else could get the part ..." and the other side of my brain would shut that off: "No. No. You can't think that way. You WILL get the part because you HAVE to."

From The Effect of Gamma Rays on Man-in-the-Moon Marigolds, by Paul Zindel

[The lights go down slowly as music creeps in -- a theme for lost children, the near misbegotten. From the blackness Tillie's voice speaks against the music]

TILLIE'S VOICE. He told me to look at my hand, for a part of it came from a star that exploded too long ago to imagine. This part of me was formed from a tongue of fire that screamed through the heavens until there was our sun. And this part of me -- this tiny part of me -- was on the sun when it itself exploded and whirled in a great storm until the planets came to be.

[Lights start in]

And this small part of me was then a whisper of the earth. When there was life, perhaps this part of me got lost in a fern that was crushed and covered until it was coal. And then it was a diamond millions of years later -- it must have been a diamond as beautiful as the star from which it had first come.

TILLIE. [taking over from the recorded voice] Or perhaps this part of me became lost in a terrible beast, or became part of a huge bird that flew above the primeval swamps.

And he said this thing was so small -- this part of me was so small it couldn't be seen -- but it was there from the beginning of the world.

And he called this bit of me an atom. And when he wrote the word, I fell in love with it.

Atom. Atom. What a beautiful word.

[The phone rings]

BEATRICE. [offstage] Will you get that please? [The phone rings again before Beatrice appears in her bathrobe from the kitchen.] No help! Never any help! [She answers the phone] Hello? Yes it is. Who is this? ... I hope there hasn't been any trouble at school ... Oh, she's always been like that. She hardly says a word around here, either. I always say some people were born to speak and others born to listen ...

You know I've been meaning to call you to thank you for that lovely rabbit you gave Matilda. She and I just adore it and it's gotten so big.

Well, it certainly was thoughful. Mr. Goodman, I don't mean to change the subject but aren't you that delightful young man Tillie said hello to a couple of months back at the A & P? You were by the lobster tank and I was near the frozen foods? That delightful and handsome young man? ... Why, I would very much indeed use the expression handsome. Yes, and ...

Well, I encourage her at every opportunity at home. Did she say I didn't? Both my daughers have their own desks and I put 75-watt bulbs right near them ... Yes ... Yes ... I think those tests are very much overrated, anyway, Mr. Goodman ... Well, believe me she's nothing like that around this house ...

Now I don't want you to think I don't appreciate what you're trying to do, Mr. Goodman, but I'm afraid it's simply useless. I've tried just everything, but she isn't a pretty girl -- I mean, let's be frank about it -- she's going to have her problems. Are you married, Mr. Goodman? Oh, that's too bad. I don't know what's the matter with women today letting a handsome young man like you get away ...

Well, some days she just doesn't feel like going to school. You just said how bright she is, and I'm really afraid to put too much of a strain on her after what happened to her sister. You know, too much strain is the worst thing in this modern world, Mr. Goodman, and I can't afford to have another convulsive on my hands, now can I? But don't you worry about Matilda. There will be some place for her in this world. And, like I said, some were born to speak and others just to listen ... and do call again, Mr. Goodman. It's been a true pleasure speaking with you. Goodbye.

[Beatrice hangs up the phone and advances into the main room. The lights come up]

Matilda, that wasn't very nice of you to tell them I was forcibly detaining you from school. Why, the way that Mr. Goodman spoke, he must think I'm running a concentration camp. Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to be accused of running a concentration camp for your own children?

Well, it isn't embarrassing at all.

That school of yours is forty years behind the times anyway, and believe me you learn more around here than that ugly Mr. Goodman can teach you!

You know, I really feel sorry for him. I never met a man with a more effeminate face in my life. When I saw you talking to him by the lobster tank I said to myself, "Good Lord, for a science teacher my poor girl has got herself a Hebrew hermaphrodite." Of course, he's not as bad as Miss Hanley. The idea of letting her teach girl's gym is staggering.

And you have to place me in the embarrassing position of giving them a reason to call me at eight-thirty in the morning, no less.

TILLIE. I didn't say anything.

BEATRICE. What do you tell them when they want to know why you stay home once in a while?

TILLIE. I tell them I'm sick.

BEATRICE. Oh, you're sick all right, the exact nature of your illness not fully realized, but you're sick all right. Any daughter that would turn her mother in as the administrator of a concentration camp has got to be suffering from something very peculiar.

TILLIE. Can I go in today, Mother?

BEATRICE. You'll go in, all right.

TILLIE. Mr. Goodman said he was going to do an experiment --

BEATRICE. Why, he looks like the kind that would do his experimenting after sundown.

TILLIE. On radioactivity --

BEATRICE. On radiocactivity? That's all that high school needs!

TILLIE. He's going to bring in the cloud chamber --

BEATRICE. Why, what an outstanding event. If you had warned me yesterday I would've gotten all dressed to kill and gone with you today. I love seeing cloud chambers being brought in.

TILLIE. You can actually see --

BEATRICE. You're giving me a headache.

TILLIE. Please?

BEATRICE. No, my dear, the fortress of knowledge is not going to be blessed with your presence today. I have a good number of exciting duties for you to take care of, not the least of which is rabbit droppings.

TILLIE. Oh, Mother, please ... I'll do it after school.

BEATRICE. If we wait a minute longer this house is going to ferment. I found rabbit droppings in my bedroom even.

TILLIE. I could do it after Mr. Goodman's class. I'll say I'm ill and ask for a sick pass.

BEATRICE. Do you want me to chloroform that thing right this minute?

TILLIE. No!

BEATRICE. Then shut up.

[Ruth comes to the top of the stairs. She is dressed for school, and though her clothes are simple she gives the impression of being slightly strange. Her hair isn't quite combed, her sweater doesn't quite fit, etc.]

RUTH. Do you have Devil's Kiss down there?

BEATRICE. It's in the bathroom cabinet.

[Ruth comes downstairs and goes to the bathroom door, located under the stairs. She flings it open and rummages in the cabinet]

RUTH. There's so much junk in here it's driving me crazy.

BEATRICE. Maybe it's in my purse ... If you don't hurry up you'll be late for school.

RUTH. Well, I couldn't very well go in without Devil's Kiss, now could I?

BEATRICE. Doesn't anyone go to school these days without that all over their lips?

RUTH. [finding the lipstick] Nobody I know, except Tillie, that is. And if she had a little lipstick on I'll bet they wouldn't have laughed at her so much yesterday.

BEATRICE. Why were they laughing?

RUTH. The assembly. Didn't she tell you about the assembly?

BEATRICE. Ruth, you didn't tell me she was in an assembly.

RUTH. Well, I just thought of it right now. How could I tell you anything until I think of it -- did you ever stop to consider that? Some crummy science assembly.

BEATRICE. [to Tillie] What is she talking about?

RUTH. I thought she'd tell the whole world. Imagine, right in front of the assembly, with everybody laughing at her.

BEATRICE. Will you be quiet, Ruth? Why were they laughing at you?

TILLIE. I don't know.

RUTH. You don't know? My heavens, she was a sight. She had that old jumper on -- the faded one with the low collar -- and a raggy slip that showed all over and her hair looked like she was struck by lightning ...

BEATRICE. You're exaggerating.

RUTH. She was cranking this model of something --

TILLIE. The atom.

RUTH. This model of the atom ... you know, it had this crank and a long tower so that when you turned it these little colored balls went spinning around like crazy. And there was Tillie, cranking away, looking weird as a coot ... that old jumper with the raggy slip and the lightning hair ... cranking away while some boy with glasses was reading this stupid speech ... and everybody burst into laughter until the teachers yelled at them. And all day long, the kids kept coming up to me saying, "Is that really your sister? How can you bear it?" And you know, Chris Burns says to me -- "She looks like the one that went to the looney doctors." I could have kissed him there and then.

BEATRICE. [taking a backscratcher] Matilda, if you can't get yourself dressed properly before going in to school you're never going to go again. I don't like the idea of everybody laughing at you, because when they laugh at you they're laughing at me. And I don't want you cranking any more ... atoms.

RUTH. [putting the lipstick back in Beatrice's bag] You're almost out of Devil's Kiss.

BEATRICE. If you didn't put so much on it woudl last longer.

RUTH. Who was that calling?

BEATRICE. Matilda turned me in to the Gestapo.

RUTH. Can I earn a cigarette this morning?

BEATRICE. Why not? [Beatrice offers her the backscratcher along with a cigarette]

RUTH. Was it Mr. Goodman?

BEATRICE. Who?

RUTH. [lighting the cigarette] The call this morning. Was it Mr. Goodman?

BEATRICE. Yes.

RUTH. [using the backscratcher on Beatrice, who squirms with ecstasy] I figured it would be.

BEATRICE. A little higher, please.

RUTH. There?

BEATRICE. Yes, there ... Why did you figure it would be Mr. Goodman?

RUTH. Well, he called me out of sewing class yesterday -- I remember because my blouse wasn't all buttoned -- and he wanted to know why Tillie's out of school so much.

BEATRICE. Lower. A little lower ... And what did you tell him?

RUTH. I wish you'd go back to Kools. I liked Kools better.

TILLIE. [gravely concerned] What did you tell him?

RUTH. I told him you were ill, and he wanted to know what kind, so I told him you had leprosy.

TILLIE. You didn't!

RUTH. You should have seen his face. He was so cute. And I told him you had ringworm and gangrene.

BEATRICE. What did he say?

RUTH. And I told him you had what Mother's last patient had ... whatchamacallit?

BEATRICE. Psoriasis?

RUTH. Yeah. Something like that.

TILLIE. Tell me you didn't, Ruth!

RUTH. OK, I didn't ... But I really did.

BEATRICE. He knew you were joking.

RUTH. And then I told him to go look up the history and then he'd find out. Whenever they go look up the history then they don't bother me anymore 'cause they think I'm crazy.

BEATRICE. Ruth --

RUTH. And I told him the disease you had was fatal and that there wasn't much hope for you.

BEATRICE. What kind of history is it?

RUTH. Just a little folder with the story of our lives in it, that's all.

BEATRICE. How did you ever see it?

RUTH. I read the whole thing last term when Miss Hanley dragged me into the record room because I didn't want to climb the ropes in gym and I told her my skull was growing.

BEATRICE. A little lower, please.

RUTH. Lower! Higher! I wish you'd make up your mind. If you'd switch back to Kools it might be worth it, but ugh! These are awful. You know -- I really did think my skull was growing. Either that or a tumor. So she dragged me out of gym class, and she thought I couldn't read upside down while she was sitting opposite me with the history. But I could.

BEATRICE. What does it say?

RUTH. Oh, it says you're divorced and that I went crazy ... and my father took a heart attack at Star Lake ... and now you're a widow --

BEATRICE. [referring to the backscratching] That's it! Hold it right there! Aaah!

RUTH. And it says that I exaggerate and tell stories and that I'm afraid of death and have nightmares ... and all that stuff.

BEATRICE. And what else does it say?

RUTH. I can't remember everything you know. Remember this, remember that ... remember this, that ..

[Go to dark. Music in]

TILLIE'S VOICE. Today I saw it. Behind the glass a white cloud began to form. He placed a small piece of metal in the center of the chamber and we waited until I saw the first one -- a trace of smoke that came from nowhwere and then disappeared. And then another ... and another, until I knew it was coming from the metal. They looked like water-sprays from a park fountain, and they went on and on for as long as I watched.

And he told me the fountain of smoke would come forth for a long time, and if I had wanted to, I could have stayed there all my life and it would never have ended -- that fountain, so close I could have touched it. In front of my eyes, one part of the world was becoming another. Atoms exploding, flinging off tiny bullets that caused the fountain, atom after atom breaking down into something new. And no one could stop the fountain. It would go on for millions of years -- on and on, this fountain from eternity.

The Books: "Balm in Gilead" (Lanford Wilson)

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

The next Lanford Wilson play on my shelf - is his first full-length - a play that, in its original off-off-off-OFF Broadway production caused a sensation in 1965 - is Balm in Gilead. It was one of the landmark productions of that era which shook up the entire theatre community.

Here - unlike most of his early one-acts - he crams the stage with characters - There have to be 30 characters in this play, although I haven't counted. It takes place in an all-night coffee shop on Upper Broadway. The characters are low lifes: hustlers, prostitutes, pimps, heroin addicts ...

The script is fascinating and difficult to read because Wilson doesn't have just one scene going on at one time - there are multiple scenes happening simultaneously - but if it's done correctly, with proper overlapping and pauses - you would hear every word. Scenes across the stage from each other inform one another - they comment on one another - It must have been an amazing experience to see it for the first time.

Basically, the overriding theme of Balm in Gilead is loss of innocence. If there are "leads" in this play - it would be Darlene and Joe. Darlene is a girl who just arrived in NYC from the Midwest, and she has started hooking. It is clear that she is dumb as a box of rocks. Wilson makes that clear from the beginning - while she is new to town, and naive - it should be clear that she is DUMB, and not a sweet-faced ingenue. And Joe - an amateur hustler. He's young, mid-20s, middle class, good-looking ... again - he still has one foot in the civilized world - while the majority of the characters you see in the play have let go of civilization completely.

This is the story of how easy it is to fall off the face of the earth.

I'll post a random excerpt of one of the massive group scenes - there are a couple of reaaaallly good monologues in this play - but I thought I'd post the mish-mash symphonic chaos of the group stuff so you could get a feel for what it looks like on the page.

So in this scene we've got John (the guy who works the grill in the coffee shop), Darlene (the new prostitue), Joe (the new fresh-faced hustler), Kay (the waitress), Ann (a prostitue - an old pro), Terry and Rust (a couple of lesbian prostitutes - tough girls who have boy's nicknames), Al (a bum), Bonnie (a prostitute), Dopey (a male prostitute and heroin addict), Judy (another lesbian hooker), Bob (a general hood), Tig (a male prostitute), and Ernesto (another male prostitute - from Colombia).

Watch how the dialogue overlaps.

From Balm in Gilead, by Lanford Wilson

[Dopey enters cafe, takes a seat]

JOHN. Come on, Dopey, you're going to fall asleep.

TIG. Don't bother to speak. [Goes to the back of cafe]

BOB. Screw it.

DOPEY. What do you mean, I'm awake. Look! I want a cup of coffee.

JOHN. I know, but I'll give it to you and you'll be asleep on the damn table. You do it every time, Dopey.

[John turns to get him coffee]

KAY. [to Bob who has stopped in the doorway] Come on, you're holdin' the door open!

TERRY. [much louder] I don't give a good goddam if she sleeps with Margaret Truman!

[Bob exits]

DOPEY. [to prove he's awake] Kay? Could you hand me the cream, please?

[At the back of the cafe Terry falls against a booth. Much commotion. She has spilled coffee on Bonnie. They sit her down again.]

RUST, BONNIE, TERRY [variously]
Come on.
God, look at that all over me!
Where the hell.
For Christ's sake, where the hell are you going?
Watch it, fellow.
Sit down, take it easy.
All over me. Goddam.
Do you have a rag?
Miss? Now just take it easy.
Why don't you sober up?

[Lights dim for aonly a second, during the above exchange, with a spot on Darlene]

AL. [to John] They every one of them steal. They all steal, you know?

TIG. [to Ernesto] Spices and things, you know.

[Anne re-enters]

JOHN. Yeah. Well.

[Darline and Joe exchange several glances]

AL. Every girl you see; they all steal. You take them up to your room and they'll steal something every time. You fall asleep and they'll sneak out and steal something.

TERRY. [over, from the back] I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I am.

[Dopey is falling asleep on the table]

AL. And then they tell you they left the door open.

JOHN. I know. No, I don't, but I know.

AL. They all steal.

[Momentary lull. The quartette begins a soft blues from the back]

JOHN. When it gets quiet in here you almost think something's gonna happen.

KAY. Quiet all of a sudden, ain't it?

ANN. [to John] You want somebody should scream or something?

JOHN. Oh, go back out on the street!

ANN. It's dirty out there. I think I'm going to write to the Department of Sanitation. I made sixty tonight.

JOHN. Sixty scores or sixty bills?

ANN. Four scores -- ha! -- and thirty-eight cents. I always end up with odd change; never can figure out where the hell it came from.

JOHN. You're so rich, so buy me a drink, teacher.

ANN. Sammy would slug me, I spend my money on you.

TERRY. She can just kiss it.

JOHN. Why do you keep him anyway?

ANN. God, you'd better gp back to school.

RUST. Miss, could we have another coffee? Two more.

[Darlene moves her cup now to the seat by Joe. Takes the seat next to him]

DARLENE. Do you mind?

JOE. How should I mind?

DARLENE. Well, look, if you're thinking or waiting for someone ...

JOE. No, I'm not waiting for someone.

DARLENE. I saw you looking at the clock.

JOE. I'm waiting for ten o'clock. [He drinks. She takes a cigarette out, he lights hers and his own]

DARLENE. Thanks.

TIG. [to Ernesto] You know in Egypt they had salves and things that could cure anything.

DARLENE. That's better than those other two creeps were acting. Did you see them?

JOE. They're just high. They're okay usually.

TIG. Cancer even! It says so.

ERNESTO. Show me where, you can't.

TIG. It does.

DARLENE. Why are you waiting for ten o'clock?

TIG. Hey, John, you ever read the Bible?

JOE. I'm meeting someone.

JOHN. What?

TIG. The Bible, stupid.

JOE. Like a business deal. A transaction.

JOHN. Sure. When I was about twelve.

ERNESTO. Yeah?

JOHN. I didn't understand it.

TIG. Hell, you wouldn't anyway. You know they had embalming fluid back then?

ANN. What'd they do, drink it?

ERNESTO. Show me where.

TIG. Go away.

DARLENE. What were they high on?

JOE. Huh? How should I know?

[Ernesto pays check and exits to corner]

DARLENE. On dope, or just drinking?

JOE. You don't get high on ginger. Bombinos, deedees; you don't scream it out -- you know, you don't yell it out like that.

DARLENE. Do you like that?

JOE. Are you kidding?

DARLENE. Me either -- eye-ther.

JOE. Not on your life. Once is enough.

DARLENE. Oh. What was it like?

JOE. Are you kidding? Like getting sick as a bitch. Depends on what you're talking though. New, are you?

DARLENE. Well, have you seen me before?

JOE. No.

DARLENE. Are you sure?

JOE. Yeah.

DARLENE. How do you know?

JOE. I'd know.

DARLENE. [complimented] Thanks.

JOE. I remember faces. You see me standing around, you'd think I was just as stupid as the next guy, but I look - and I watch people, you know? And I study them when they don't know. You learn a lot. Where you from?

DARLENE. I'm from Chicago.

TIG. [comes from the booth to John at the cash register] Could I have change fior cigarettes?

DARLENE. [pausing] My sister used to come around here, though. She's living off somewhere right now.

JOE. Who's your sister?

DARLENE. Oh, you wouldn't know her. It must have been four years ago. She used to write me.

TIG. [hits the machine] This damn thing!

DARLENE. Sometimes.

JOE. What'd she do?

DARLENE. Oh, I don't know. [Affected] We used to exchange letters. She'd write and I'd think, God -- New York! [Pause] She was ... like her. [Nods to Ann] Of course, she was very pretty, you know.

JOE. Ann? A hooker. She sold it?

DARLENE. Well, you needn't be high and mighty about it.

JOE. Who is?

DARLENE. She used to make -- sometimes a hundred dollars a night ... twice that sometimes.

JOE. So does Ann, but she loves it. [Yelling out] Don't you, Ann?

ANN. Don't I what?

JOE. Just say yes.

ANN. No. Hell, no; it's a lie if he's saying it. [Turns away]

JOE. She goes for free as much as she charges.

DARLENE. She didn't come here for that, of course. She came here to do something else. I forget what; you know. But you look and you don't get anything and you -- resort, you know? To something else.

RUST. [to Terry] I wouldn't worry about it.

JOE. Naw, Ann didn't either. Ann's a schoolteacher. Was going to be; came here to do something like that. When she got here they tell her she can work part-time or something.

TERRY. It doesn't affect me.

JOE. She told 'em to kiss it. She got a raw deal.

DARLENE. Yeah. You know what I'd make as a waitress? Maybe sixty dollars a week. Less maybe. Tips included.

JOE. You been here long?

DARLENE. A month.

JOE. Month? You must have saved up.

DARLENE. Are you kidding? I came here with about seven dollars.

JOE. You got a room around here yet?

DARLENE. I'm across the street, in the Tower. And probably I'll get ...

JOE. And one upstairs? Everybody does.

DARLENE. My sister had a room; this same place. I didn't ask you what your ten-o'clock business deal was.

JOE. Yeah, you did.

DARLENE. Well, I didn't care. [Pause] It's a filthy place upstairs. Have you seen it up there? I looked around this afternoon already. I've never seen cockroaches like that. I mean they should get a bravery medal or something. They play games on the floor right in front of you. They don't even run from you.

[Dopey has awakened. He looks at his coffee and gets up to leave]

KAY. [to Dopey] Hey, you pay?

DOPEY. I don't have anything.

KAY. Coffee.

DOPEY. I didn't even touch it. I gotta get outside. [He leaves cafe]

JOE. You knwo I might be able to help you get a room. Save you some dough, maybe. After the first week or two they'll get on to you and kick you out. They got fellas that hang around to spot girls who take people up. You'll have to get one of the boys around to rent a room in his name and he'll rent it to you. See? They don't really care, just so long as they look legal. Most of the cats, though, would make you pay through the nose.

DARLENE. Why? I mean why should I get a room from someone else?

[Judy enters and goes to cash register]

JOE. It's just the way you have to do it. All these guys in here - a lot of them - they rent a room out for about eight bucks a night. That's not much when you're making a hundred.

KAY. [to Judy] You owe for a burger and a Coke.

JUDY. I'll get it.

DARLENE. It sounds like a lot to me. Eight dollars a day? A room's only twelve a week. No girl's gonna do that.

JOE. They got nothing better to do with their money. Most of the girls keep a fellow anyway. Give most of their money to some guy. Then he treats them like shit. Don't ask me. Over half of them. So they can be seen with someone steady, you know?

JUDY. [regarding Rust and Terry in the back booth] Well, isn't that cozy.

DARLENE. I wouldn't believe it. [Joe shrugs] I mean I believe it, but how can they ever get any money saved up or anything? If they're giving it away? It's pretty sick, isn't it? Everybody living off everybody like that?

JOE. You won't get away from that, I don't care where you go. You'll either make a mint of money or go broke. But like I said, more guys would charge eight bucks. I could probably get you a room for maybe only four or five.

DARLENE. I don't think so.

JUDY. [to Kay] How much do I owe you?

JOE. You'll either go broke or make a pile.

KAY. Ninety-five and that guy's two teas.

DARLENE. I made two hundred dollars one night. That's what I've been living off of. One guy; man, one night.

JUDY. Just me; he can come back and pay.

JOE. Don't expect it every time.

[Rust comes to the counter]

DARLENE. And I didn't have to do anything.

RUST. Give me a glass of water, Kay.

JOE. Much.

KAY. Just hold it a minute!

DARLENE. Nothing. He felt sorry for me or something. He was a customer -- in this cafe? And the boss fired me. I was right out on the floor and got fired on the spot. And th is guy came over to me on the floor, and said let's go have a steak or something to eat, you don't want to work here anyway. Let's go have a steak. He was my first customer at the cafe. I walked right off the floor and we went to his room and he gave me two hundred dollars.

RUST. Could I have a glass of water?

JOE. What, did you roll him?

JUDY. [to Rust] First things first, honey!

DARLENE. No! I told you. He gave it to me. He felt sorry for me or something.

The Books: "Ludlow Fair" (Lanford Wilson)

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

Another Lanford Wilson one-act is the next play on my shelf - one of my favorites of his - called Ludlow Fair. "Another Sheila" and I had a fun discussion about it here - we both played Agnes. So much fun!!

So this excerpt is for Sheila!!

Ludlow Fair is the story of two roommates - Agnes and Rachel. It is the early 1960s - Wilson wrote the play in 1964. So it's pre-hippie 60s - at least for these girls. They are in their mid-20s. They live and work in New York City - but mainly - well, what's going on is that they have men trouble. Rachel is a neurotic girl who is pretty much a dating MANIAC. Man after man after man ... and each time, each loser is "the one". The latest loser was named Joe and he stole a bunch of money from both of them and then disappeared. Rachel is so upset about this because she turned him into the cops ... and she TORMENTS herself with guilt over this ... because ... she looooooved him! Agnes is a wise-cracking woman who doesn't have much luck with men - she's a bit more realistic about dating - and she tries to talk some sense into Rachel - "The guy's a loser. Calm down." Rachel has worked herself up into such a frenzy that the beginning of the play is her on stage, pacing around the apartment, by herself, waiting for Agnes to get out of the tub - and she gets herself so upset that she begins to do a word-association game WITH HERSELF. Clutching a dictionary. It's hysterical. Wilson writes like people talks. I find the language of this play so funny, so ... it's the kind of thing where the lines are EASY to memorize because ... they're just exactly what you would say, if you were in that situation.

The end of the play has a darker mood - Agnes is left alone onstage after Rachel passes out in her bed - and Agnes, who has been doing a pretty involved pre-bedtime beauty ritual throughout the play - sits and looks at herself in the mirror, and talks. It's a lonely lonely moment. You see beneath the wisecracks. You see her sadness - that she has not found a mate, and that that dream, of finding a mate, of having a romance, is already pretty much dead for her. She has a date the next day with her boss's son who sounds like - a fussbudgety yukky humanoid. But this is the best she can get. Rachel, with all her neuroses, gets the good-looking studs. Agnes has to take what she can get.

I love this play.

I'll excerpt a bit from the middle, and go through to the end. Funny - how so many of the lines came back to me - even though I did this play in ... 1990? 1991?

From Ludlow Fair, by Lanford Wilson

AGNES. You gonna stay up all night or what?

RACHEL. I don't know. [She stretches out in bed]

AGNES. Why did you ask for the bathroom if you don't want to shower or something, huh?

RACHEL. Look -- Agnes -- [sitting up. Rather intense] Can we talk? Straight on this? So I can decide what I think for a minute, huh? Really, now -- just straight for a minute or two and I'll be all right. I'll swear I don't know what the hell I'm going to do from here if I don't straighten myself out on this. I don't want to call Mom any more than you want me to, but I just want to --

AGNES. [getting up, she goes for a cigarette] Sure. Of course we can; talk to Doctor Muller. My fees are reasonable.

RACHEL. No, now -- not even like that -- just straight. So I know what I feel or think or something! Sit down, now, stop flying around. See, I did like Joe and an awfully lot, too --

AGNES. [She has lit the cigarette. She sits down on the side of the bed] Fine. Okay.

RACHEL. Well, don't interrupt! God.

AGNES. Okay, okay.

RACHEL. While you wrinkled up in that damn tub I honestly thought I was losing my mind; you come back in here and I say, Agnes, I think I'm losing my mind, could you take a minute out of your life to listen to me and I get twenty minutes of Charlie Chaplin.

AGNES. Okay. [Pause] So go on.

RACHEL. I'm sorry. It's just, Jesus. I don't know anything; I just can't seem to do something that doesn't backfire, boomerang in my face. Blow up right in my face. I do something, heatedly, because I'm mad and it's the right thing to do, I know -- and then the whole thing blows up in my face. They're practically ready to hang Joe and all because I turned him in for filching some money from us. Not that much, really, either; I didn't talk to him, I just turned him in. God knows what kind of fix he was to take money from us. [A rapid exchange follows between Agnes and Rachel]

AGNES. You want a cigarette?

RACHEL. I just ... NO! God! I don't want a cigarette.

AGNES. Okay, so you don't want a cigarette.

RACHEL. I just put one out. I have no urge for a cigarette at all. Thank you.

AGNES. I only asked, don't make a production out of it!

RACHEL.. Well, I do not want a cigarette.

AGNES. Okay.

RACHEL. Is there anything else?

AGNES. All right, I said. Christ!

RACHEL. [intensely] Well, I'm trying to say something and little Miss Helpful Agnes butts in with --

AGNES. Would you hand me the ash tray anyway?

RACHEL. [takes the ash tray, slams it down on the bed beside Agnes. Very loud. Jerky.] Christ! Here! Cram it!

AGNES. I merely asked for the ash tray. [Rachel looks away, disgusted. Pause] Any particular place you'd like me to cram it? [Silence] Well, I'm waiting for you to go on.

RACHEL. [still looking the other way. Quietly] Whenever you're ready.

AGNES. I'm ready.

RACHEL. [still not looking at Agnes] There's no point in me talking to myself. I could talk to myself by myself.

AGNES. I was listening to you.

RACHEL. [beginning to get tired, weary] Sure.

AGNES. I was. I heard every feeble-minded word you said.

RACHEL. Sure.

AGNES. You want me to repeat it?

RACHEL. No.

AGNES. You said, "God knows what kind of fix he was in to have to take money from us."

RACHEL. [Silence. Then she turns to Agnes] Did I?

AGNES. You did. You said you do something and it blows up in your face; boomerangs, orangoutangs, backfires. And you do what's right and an innocent guy -- which is a lie -- is going to get hanged -- which is a lie, and "God knows what kind of fix he was in to have taken money from us." One more word and you'd have said, "It's only money."

RACHEL. Well, that's the stupidest thing I've ever said in my life then.

AGNES. [gets up] I'm going to roll my hair.

RACHEL. I can't even talk about him straight.

AGNES. What it boils down to is he was a damn good-looking stud and you --

RACHEL. Now, I resent that! For Christ's sake --

AGNES. Well, a good-looking guy then. And you're damn mad that you misjudged him and that you won't have him around again. And on top of that you trusted him enough to leave him here for a few hours when he was short -- and you have to admit he was often short -- and he took a month's pay from you. Now it's reasonable that you'd be pissed off. I would be too. I'd call the cops. [She turns to the mirror and continues to roll her hair]

RACHEL. I did.

AGNES. Well, there you have it.

RACHEL. [sitting up in bed. Pause. Quietly, defensively] It isn't just physical.

AGNES. [Not turning] When someone says it isn't just physical, you can be pretty sure it's just physical.

RACHEL. [sliding back down into bed] I guess I am tired. I didn't sleep at all last night. Are you going to bed?

AGNES. Not now. I probably couldn't breathe anyway. I need a respirator.

RACHEL. How come?

AGNES. All night long I've been telling you I was a dying woman. I have a cold.

RACHEL. Oh.

AGNES. In my head.

RACHEL. [sleepy, from beneath the covers] Why don't you rub yourself with Vicks or something?

AGNES. Because I've got a luncheon date with the boss's son and I don't want to smell like Vicks. Even for him. I'll give him my cold first.

RACHEL. That's silly.

AGNES. [Quite to herself] His soup would probably taste like menthol for Christ's sake.

RACHEL. [flopping over on her other side] I think I'm going to sleep.

AGNES. [Paying no attention] "Suddenly it's springtime". [Drops one of the rollers] Fuck ... I've got to quit saying that. [Looks at the roller, gets up and picks it up, goes back to the vanity] Get some sleep.

RACHEL. It won't look so bad tomorrow -- I know. You know, though; you're probably right. I just miss him a lot and in a few days I'll see everything in a better perspective.

AGNES. In a few days you'll be knocked up by some stud named Herkimer probably.

RACHEL. [sitting up] I will not be knocked up by anybody. In a few days or nothing.

AGNES. Okay. I just meant, you've established a pattern by now. An orbit, so to speak and by Thursday you'll be head-over-heels mad for someone totally different. You'll pass the sun again, so to speak.

RACHEL. [under the covers again] I'm not that bad.

AGNES. Very well, you're not that bad.

RACHEL. At least my mother would have told me it would be better tomorrow. That's all I need to get to sleep probabaly.

AGNES. [Gaily] It'll be exactly the same tomorrow. "The world it was the old world yet. And I was I; my things were wet."

RACHEL. [half sitting up again, disgusted] What?

AGNES. Nothing.

RACHEL. What do you mean, "My things were wet?"

AGNES. Nothing. It's a poem.

RACHEL. I know it's a --

AGNES. "Down in lovely muck I've lain; happy till I woke again. The world it was the old world yet and --"

RACHEL. "And I was I, my things were wet." So all right. What's lovely about a muck?

AGNES. He was drunk.

RACHEL. At Ludlow fair or some place, I know he was drunk. What's lovely about a muck?

AGNES. Well, maybe they pronounced it differently in Shropshire.

RACHEL. Very funny. [flopping back down] Are you comingt o bed? I'm dead. I've just knocked myself out.

AGNES. Sure. You keep me awake all morning and ask me if I'm coming to bed.

RACHEL. [covered up by the blankets] I'm sorry.

AGNES. Sure. You going to sleep or what?

RACHEL. [a little muffled] I said I was. If I can.

AGNES. Well sleep it off. I don't know why you should worry any more about Joe than you did about whoever it was before. You've got to admit the pattern is evident there somewhere. Maybe you should go to an analyst, you know? No joke. You probably have some kind of problem there somewhere. [She turns to her. Rachel turns over. Agnes turns back to the mirror] I mean no one's n ormal. He's bound to find something. It might keep you away from dictionaries, you know? Jesus. [Muffled noise from Rachel] Well, I say if it helps, do it. To hell with how funny it looks. God knows I'd like to find -- I'm absolutely getting pneumonia. [Gets up to get the box of Kleenex and carries it back to the vanity, talking all the while] I'm going to be a mess tomorrow. I probably won't make it to work let alone lunch. A casual lunch, my God. I wonder what he'd think -- stupid Charles -- if he knew I was putting up my hair for him; catching pneumonia. No lie, I can't wait till summer to see what kind of sunglasses he's going to pop into the office with. [Turns] Are you going to sleep? [Pause. No reply] Well, crap. [Turns back to mirror] I may be tendering my notice, anyway. You've gone through six men while I sit around and turn to fungus. It's just not a positive atmosphere for me, honey. Not quite. You're out with handsome Val or someone and I'm wondering if the boss's skinny, bony son will come up to the water cooler if I ... [Trails off, becomes interested in the roller. Now to someone as at dinner] No. No Stroganoff. No, I'm on a diet. [Correcting herself] No. I will not admit that. Good or bad if he says Stroganoff and baked potatoes it's Stroganoff and baked potatoes. And sour cream. And beer. He's probably on a diet himself. He could fill out, God knows. [Turning to Rachel] You know what Charles looks like? [Pause] He looks like one of those little model men you make out of pipe cleaners when you're in grade school. [Turning] Remember those? If I ever saw Charles iwthout his clothes, he's so pale and white, I swear to God I'd laugh myself silly. He's Jewish, too. I'll bet his mother is a nervous wreck. I'll bet she thinks every woman on the block is pointing at her. Look, there goes Mrs. Schwartz: starving her children to death. Poor Charles. Shakes like a leaf. Of course Mrs. Schwartz wouldn't admit that either. No woman would admit her son was nervous; what's he got to be nervous about? The nerve of being nervous. My kid brother got an ulcer, my mother went to bed for three weeks, totally destroyed. Of course she spent about two thirds of her life totally destroyed. Upset -- bawling. Weeks on end sometimes. My brother was great. He never paid the slightest attention to her; she'd get one of her spells and run off to bed bawling, it never bothered him for a minute. Off she'd go, the slightest provocation. Eric would say, "Mother's bedridden with the piss-offs again." [As if directly to someone, over lunch. Casually] You know, Charles, you've got nice eyes. You really have. Deep. I like brown eyes for a man. I don't like blue eyes, they always look weak or weepy. Either that or cold. You know? Brown eyes are warm; that's good. They're gentle. [Quickly] Not weak, but gentle. [Half to herself. Lightly] I used to want to have a girl; a little girl with blue eyes. For a girl that's good. So I used to always picture -- God, idealize, really -- very heavy-set blond men. Swedish types, you know. [Back to Charles] But a son I'd want to have brown eyes. That's better for boys. [Looks at the sleeve of her robe] You think? [Almost embarrassed] I don't know any more. Oh, yes. I got it at Sak's. It was on sale, I believe. [Breaking off, disgusted] Now, what the hell does he care where I got it? And it wasn't on sale, knucklehead. And it wasn't Saks. [Concentrating on her hair] It was Bonds. Not that he'd know the damn difference. [She drops a roller, it bounces across the floor. She picks up another without even looking after the first one.] Fuck. [Finishing her hair] I've got to quit saying that. [This last said without listening to herself; second nature. She picks up a jar of cold cream, slowly, distantly, applies a dab to her lower lip. Pause. She sits still, staring off vacantly. A full thirty-second pause.]

CURTAIN

The Books: "Home Free!" (Lanford Wilson)

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

I feel so weird, but ... I'm now done with Tennessee Williams. Argh! I feel like if I move on I'll be cheating on him or something ... How long have we been on Tennessee??? I am afraid to even look. Months, I think. I'm still on the bottom shelf of the first bookshelf in my kitchen - most plays don't take up a lot of space so there's a lot of them there.

Next playwright after Tennessee Williams is Lanford Wilson. He was one of the most influential playwrights of the 1960s and 70s - helping to create the outburst of experimental theatre in New York - His production of Balm in Gilead was a watershed moment. I wish I had been there the first night it opened. People flipped. It's like jazz - there is rarely a straight linear thru-line with him - he has multiple scenes going on at the same time, the audience has to look this way and that - and YET - unlike all the lesser playwrights who imitated him (and imitate him to this day) - he can actually WRITE, and he also creates real breathing characters - He wasn't being experimental just to be experimental. It was how he heard dialogue, and how he saw the world. Balm in Gilead and Burn This are probably his most well-known plays. Oh wait - Fifth of July too - that one is still performed in repertory companies everywhere. I've done a bunch of Lanford Wilson plays - The Rimers of Eldritch, The Gingham Dog, Ludlow Fair - many of his plays are among my favorites. He's a terrific writer. Also - he's famous for "overlapping". He never wants one actor to finish a line completely before the other actor says his next line. That's not how conversation goes in real life. We interrupt each other all the time. Wilson doesn't leave that to chance - he puts the "overlapping" into the script.

First play of his that I own is a one-act called Home Free. I will always always ALWAYS think of the production done at my college of this freaky little one-act - starring my dear friends David and Brooke. It is so vivid in my mind that I can remember their blocking. I look at the lines on the printed page and can hear their voices - I still remember how they said certain things. And I can still remember the bolt of alarm and sadness at the very last moment. The two of them were absolutely PHENOMENAL in their roles.

Home Free! takes place in one room - a cluttered dingy little New York apartment. In the apartment live two people: Lawrence and Joanna. They are adults. They are brother and sister. Lawrence never leaves the apartment. He has a huge stuttering problem out in the world - he is agoraphobic - so Joanna is the one who goes out foraging for food, etc. In the apartment he doesn't stutter - he's fine when he's inside - but he is incapable of survival without her. Joanna is pregnant. Lawrence is the father. They live as man and wife. (All of this is revealed over the whole course of the play - it unfolds slowly). Joanna and Lawrence live in a fantasy world - they have two imaginary friends - Claypone and Edna - who are children, young children, who they reprimand, who they talk to openly, ordering them around. They make Claypone and Edna sit down and listen, they send them out of the room, they tell them to cover their ears at certain moments ... Joanna and Lawrence have game rituals that they play, the same ones every day - Joanna pretends to be a queen. They have a "Surprise Box" that they open ... they have a little Ferris wheel toy that they play with. They are adults but this is how they live. Obviously, these two are all messed up!

Joanna is having a difficult pregnancy. She gets pains in her heart occasionally - after climbing stairs. You get the sense, eventually, that Joanna is actually aware that they are playing games - that this is not real - she doesn't really believe in Claypone and Edna (this becomes clear in one DEVASTATING moment at the very end of the play) - but she keeps up the pretense because Lawrence so needs her. Lawrence actually cannot function out in the real world. She can.

Basically the end of the play is this: Lawrence starts to chase Joanna. They are laughing and screaming. She runs, they leap over couches, they scream - she is hugely pregnant - eventually, she gets a pain in her heart - a bad one - and stops - Lawrence can't stop the game at first, but he realizes that something is wrong with her. She clutches her heart. He tries to joke her out of it. She tells him to go and get a doctor. He can't. The agoraphobia ... for an entire page, they go back and forth - the pain is getting worse for her, she can't breathe - he refuses to go outside, to even admit that something might be wrong with her - Finally, she knocks over a glass to get his attention - and screams: GET A DOCTOR! Lawrence gets a 'brilliant' idea. He says, "I'll send Claypone and Edna - they'll go get the doctor!" Joanna then screams: "No, Lawrence, no Lawrence, YOU GO." (This is the devastating moment. She knows the doctor will never come if the imaginary friends are sent to fetch him. In that moment, you realize that all along, she has been pretending to believe for Lawrence's sake) But of course, Lawrence cannot go outside - his fear is too great - so he sends Claypone and Edna to get the doctor - and Joanna then basically has a heart attack and dies. Leaving Lawrence to ... what? The options are horrible to contemplate. But that's the end of the play.

It's really not a happy play.

All I can say is: I'm so sorry that only 100 people or so saw the small production done at my college with David and Brooke. It was one of those moments of live theatre that you never forget.

I'll excerpt the beginning of the play. Joanna has returned from the market.

From Home Free!, by Lanford Wilson

[Joanna slips in and shuts the door quickly. She stands just inside the door, her back to the wall. She locks the door quietly]

JOANNA. Shhh! She saw me! [Still whispering] She saw me coming in. She was right behind me. She's right outside. Shh! Listen!

LAWRENCE. [as soon as she comes in he begins to whine. Over above] Where have you been? They were just awful, they got so upset I hardly could control them.

JOANNA. Shhh! [Now Lawrence listens at the door too]

LAWRENCE. [quickly to Claypone and Edna] Don't say anything.

JOANNA. She was right behind me. I think she's outside the door. Listen.

LAWRENCE. Did she see you?

JOANNA. I don't think so. [stops a moment, listens. In a normal voice, very casual] No, it's okay, now.

LAWRENCE. [still at the door] Shhh! Listen!

JOANNA. [a little winded] No, it's okay now. Let me tell you!

LAWRENCE. I thought I heard something.

JOANNA. No, she's gone now. Sit down and I'll tell you about the adventure. [still not able to catch her breath, she lays her hand against her pregnant belly] Oh, poor old Tiberius and Coriolanus. They must wonder what I'm doing running upstairs. I'm sorry, Tiberius. I'm sorry, Coriolanus. My heart is just beating away.

LAWRENCE. Shhh! You aren't listening.

JOANNA. No. It's okay now. My heart is just pounding like crazy.

LAWRENCE. [over to Claypone and Edna] You two!

JOANNA. Am I turning blue?

LAWRENCE. [still whispering] That isn't fair!

JOANNA. Feel how it's pounding. I shouldn't have run up those stairs but Pruneface was after me.

LAWRENCE. I'll feel the baby.

JOANNA. [disgusted] No, Claypone, sit down.

LAWRENCE. They were just awful while you were out. They were just terrible. I told Edna I was just gonna spank her good! If she didn't sit down and behave.

JOANNA. [taking off her head scarf] Well, she's young yet.

LAWRENCE. I said when my sister gets back here she's just gonna spank you good and proper.

JOANNA. Oh! [Big announcement] He knows! Mr. Fishface knows. He said, "Where's your brother, Miss Brown?" And I said, "He isn't my brother, he's my husband; we're going to have a baby."

LAWRENCE. He said that?

JOANNA. Naturally I lied. He'll believe anything: I said, "He's my husband and he's in Bermuda just now and when he comes back he'll have a lovely dark tan." So you have to get a tan.

LAWRENCE. No.

JOANNA. Well, I'll think of something. Now. Sit down so I can tell you about the adventure.

LAWRENCE. Okay, Claypone sit there, she's going to tell us about the adventure, Edna, you stand there. And keep quiet!

JOANNA. Edna has to leave the room.

LAWRENCE. Edna, you must leave the room. Yes, you must! Through the kitchen and into the scullery and shut the door. And not a whimper out of you --

JOANNA. [in exactly the same voice] -- young miss! Go on this minute. [She looks at Edna a moment] Well, I --!

LAWRENCE. What?

JOANNA. No, I wouldn't have said that. You can't say things that I wouldn't have said when I was a little girl.[She has started out reprovingly but softens now] You might grow up to be different from me. You must wear tall black stockings and a long gray skirt and a wine-colored apron and your hair will be combed straight back and pulled into a bun and clipped with -- [She makes a sudden, violent attack.] Yes, it will, I did! [Instantly sweet again.] And clipped with a tortoise-shell bow. And you will sit with both your hands on your knees or folded in your lap and you will not think about what's between little boys' legs and you will speak when you're spoken to. [She watches Edna go to the kitchen]

LAWRENCE. She's left.

JOANNA. She's listening. She has her ear against the door, she always does. [Abruptly] Snoop! [Listens] She's gone now. You know where she gets that -- from that busybody landlady, Pruneface. [She surveys Claypone and Lawrence and finds the situation satisfac tory] Now. Actually, I only asked her to leave because I have an announcement to make. I will stand to -- [As she starts to rise she catches her heart -- lightly. Her voice is now surprised, serious] Oh, golly! [She sits]

LAWRENCE. [Over a bit] No, no, no announcements. You have to tell us about the adventure.

JOANNA. No, wait, golly - I shouldn't run. Well, This is.

LAWRENCE. [to Claypone] She's going to tell us about the adventure.

JOANNA. I will deliver my announcement from a seated position. Claypone, i want you to pay particular attention because you're involved.

LAWRENCE. I don't want to hear any old --

JOANNA. On my way outside to the grocery, this afternoon, Miss Pruneface was in the hallway and she made me stop --

LAWRENCE. [Over] What a silly thing to say -- I don't know anybody by that name at all.

JOANNA. [without pause] And she said, "Mrs. Brown, I have told you before, you will have to move. You make too much noise as it is and--"

LAWRENCE. [Over] She didn't say any such thing.

JOANNA. "And I'm afraid it will be impossible for to live here after your baby is born."

LAWRENCE. [Over a little] She did not. [Both speak at once]

JOANNA. "And I'm afraid it will be impossible for you to live here with an infant. You know I told you that when you moved in here." And I told you -- and I told her we would -- I did -- you were not either -- I was there. I told her we would be out next week!

LAWRENCE. She didn't even say one word to you. She didn't say anything. I went out. I was there. I went out after you did and she said we could stay here like we have been and we could stay on, she said as long as we wanted to!

JOANNA. [Wins] So there!

LAWRENCE. No.

JOANNA. She looks at me in the hall and shakes her finger at me.

LAWRENCE. You told her a hundred times that we were moving and she never says anything more. You say that every week.

JOANNA. No. She looks at me and she says I can't have the baby here -- because they don't want the noise, Lawrence.

LAWRENCE. It doesn't matter what they want. [There is a fast exchange between them]

JOANNA. They don't want the mess.

LAWRENCE. We just won't talk to her, then.

JOANNA. No, she'll throw us out in the street -- !

LAWRENCE. We won't answer the door -- Claypone, shut up!

JOANNA. [almost panicked] They're afraid of the baby, don't you know that?

LAWRENCE. Claypone's making noise!

JOANNA. They don't want the pain!

LAWRENCE. We won't go! We're not going. If you're not going to tell me about the adventure, I'm going to call Edna back into the room -- Claypone go get Edna.

JOANNA. You sit right back down.

LAWRENCE. Well, then, we're going to look in the Surprise Box -- it's wonderful.

JOANNA. No. No, you can't until two o'clock today.

LAWRENCE. No, come on -- It's especially lovely, I bet, today.

JOANNA. Not until after I tell you about the adventure. I have not told you.

LAWRENCE. Very well -- first she's going to tell us about the adventure.

JOANNA. To begin -- there was a shadow across the door downstairs.

LAWRENCE. The sun is shining.

JOANNA. [She notices the interruption but goes on] It was all crooked because of the panels in the door, as usual; exactly the same number of squares in the sidewalk from here to the corner.

LAWRENCE. [quickly] Eighteen.

JOANNA. And -- [Quietly] I guess you just don't want to hear about it, do you?

LAWRENCE. [Meaning: "What did I do?"] What?

JOANNA. [continuing to look sharply at him] The same number of parking meters from here to the corner. [Lawrence starts to speak up automatically; her look intensifies; he stops without really knowing why. When she is satisfied he is not going to interrupt she continues] Out of which eight were expired this morning. If you must know, I was thinking about the Ferris wheel most of the time I was out.

LAWRENCE. Do you want to look in the Surprise Box?

JOANNA. I don't think so; not till it's time. Unless you want to. It wasn't much of an adventure except for Mr. Fishface at the market. The Skinner was watching me so I couldn't slip anything. I think he's catching on. Old Fishface, though, he said: "Oh, how's your brother, Miss Brown?" I said, "It's Mrs. Brown, and he's not my brother as you are mistakenly referring to the gentleman whose compnay you've seen me in. That's Mr. Brown, and he's away in the Canary Islands trapping finches but we're expecting him shortly, Mr. Fishface. I'll give him your best."

LAWRENCE. Lie.

JOANNA. I said that, I did.

LAWRENCE. You didn't say, "Mr. Fishface".

JOANNA. I most certainly did.

LAWRENCE. Claypone, she didn't. [They are beginning to laugh]

JOANNA. I did. And I said, "How's Mrs. Fishface?"

LAWRENCE. [Laughing] You did not.

JOANNA. [Laughing] And all the little tadpoles that must be swimming around at home. And all --

LAWRENCE. -- And the pollywogs! And -- [They degenerate into a giggling mess, falling all over each other and slapping at each other. They fall onto the bed, giggling]

JOANNA. And the little baby perch.

LAWRENCE. And the whole Fishface family. [They try to stop laughing. Joanna tries to sit up on the bed]

JOANNA. Come on. Be serious.

LAWRENCE. [pulling her back down] No.

JOANNA. [sitting up again] Yes -- Go away, Claypone -- sit down. [To Lawrence] I don't know why we keep him around, he's so stupid. [As he tries to pull her back down] Oh, don't -- I get dizzy today.. YOu know I can't play much at a time.

LAWRENCE. Oh, you're always dizzy. Now let's look in the Surprise Box.

JOANNA. No, wait! I forgot the most important part! A cat! [This is used to draw his attention away from the Surprise Box as she slips a fountain pen in it a bit later] A yellow and gray and white and brown and --

LAWRENCE. Not brown. Lie!

JOANNA. Brown! With black ears -- all spots -- ran across from the market and under a parked car. I called to her but she wouldn't come. She only looked out from behind a tire and wouldn't come.

LAWRENCE. How did you know it was a she-cat?

JOANNA. Because she was fat and pregnant like me! No tomcat is going to have kittens.

LAWRENCE. Maybe you'll have kittens though! Spotted kittens!

JOANNA. Oh, wouldn't that be rare? Why how rare! But I know I won't. I just couldn't. Nothing ever happens like that. Seldom ever.

LAWRENCE. Or pups! You never know what can happen. [Joanna slips the pen into the box] Now let's look in the Surprise Box. [The lid bumps softly] Did you peek? You peeked!

JOANNA. Lie! I never did! [To Claypone] Tell him! Now see?

LAWRENCE. Okay. Let's look now. [They walk to either side of the bix]

JOANNA. Okay. [They both close their eyes]

LAWRENCE. Open it. [She does]

JOANNA. It's open. [They open their eyes]

LAWRENCE. A pen! Where did you find it?

JOANNA. I have no idea where it came from. Maybe you can use it to write your book. [Looking into the box with wonder] Ohhh! I'll bet someone sure has been busy. Another seat for the Ferris wheel. [She slips it out gently] Oh, it's lovely. It's so lovely. This is the best one so far -- it's so fragile!

LAWRENCE. It's not too fragile, though, I don't think.

JOANNA. Oh, no. It just looks --

LAWRENCE. Where do you suppose it came from?

JOANNA. I'll bet I know. I'll bet Lawrence Brown made it while I was out.

LAWRENCE. Do you suppose ...

JOANNA. I certainly do suppose. Can I put it on? You can come over, Claypone, and watch.

LAWRENCE. [Nods] Carefully.

JOANNA. Well, I won't break it. It's my surprise, after all. [She sets it gently on the Ferris wheel] There. Is that all? Count them, Claypone.

LAWRENCE. One more to go yet.

JOANNA. Then it'll be totally finished.

LAWRENCE. I'll bet no one has anything at all like this Ferris wheel.

The Books: "Something Cloudy, Something Clear" (Tennessee Williams)

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

Next (AND LAST - OH MY GOD) Tennessee Williams play on the shelf is a full-length play called Something Cloudy, Something Clear.

This is a big moment. It's my last Tennessee Williams play that I own. It's also the last play that he wrote. (One of the leads in my show right now originated the main role in the original production. Cool stories here.) Produced by the Jean Cocteau Rep here in New York in 1981, it was not a critical success. Once again: Williams would not be forgiven for not writing Streetcar again. It's ridiculous - if you take these plays AS IS, and try to forget Streetcar, etc., - they are STILL startlingly good, and better than most crapola written by most playwrights. That's one of the curses of early success. The fact that critics were not only indifferent toward his later work, but also - somehow personally insulted - as though he, personally, had let them down - crushed Tennessee. And yet - he couldn't change himself. He couldn't write for them. He wouldn't. But the repercussions of not playing along with people's expectations were harsh.

Something Cloudy, Something Clear is the play of an old playwright. He is nearing the end of his life. He is looking back. He is self-reflective. A 78 year old playwright probably would not write Streetcar - that is the play of a young vibrant man.

Something Cloudy, Something Clear is the most blatantly autobiographical Williams ever got. Actual people he knew wander through the play - he is in it - only his name is August - but old lovers make appearances, Hazel (a real person) - his childhood sweetheart, who guessed he was gay long before he did - Tallulah Bankhead (whom he idolized, and whom he wrote a play for) - his producers - etc.

It takes place on Provincetown - a place Tennessee discovered in 1940 when he spent a crazy and beautiful summer there. The 1940 summer was enough for him, he kept going back to Provincetown til the end of his life. It was a place of refreshment, renewal - but also, judging from this play - a place where the past had a way of creeping up on you and overwhelming the present. That's what the play is about.

Everyone in the play is dead, except for the main character - August. He is haunted by all those from his past. But they go back into the past, and re-enact it - and occasionally stop and speak to one another, from the present moment: "God, we were so young then ..." or "How DID you know my name?" etc. It's very very sad. I'm trying to imagine going back in time to when I was young and vibrant and alive - say, my first summer in Chicago - and re-enacting all of that stuff - and yet now, with retrospect - there would be a lot of sadness in it ...

Past and present intertwined. Now this was a theme that always interested Tennessee, obviously - he was always a man who was RUNNING from his past (but thank God for his gift - he was able to put that into his work - otherwise, he might have just become psychotic like his sister) - but in this one, I don't know ... I mean, I can feel that this is a playwright looking at his own death - and not only that - but looking at his own legacy.

August - the main character - is a playwright. In the 1940 version of events, he is working on his first play - he has big backers for it - and he keeps getting letters from them asking him to "change" the last act. He is tormented by this. (Funny - I was just bitching about Reality Bites below and this play has some of the same themes. Only - it's written by an adult - a man who actually LIVED all of that - art vs. commerce was very very real to Tennessee Williams in particular - because of the nature of his plays - he was always being censored, or being asked to tone things down, etc.) He meets two characters - Clare and Kip. Clare is a wonderful character - the only fictional one in the play - she acts as August's conscience. She tells him to not give up, to not compromise. Kip is a dancer, his idol is Nijinsky (he is a real person - that Tennessee knew) - only he has a brain tumor. He is losing his balance. He is a gorgeous speciment of man. August wants him. Clare is in love with Kip (although they pretend to be brother and sister - Kip is also a draft-dodger from Canada - remember, it's 1940) - but he knows that Kip needs to be taken care of ... so maybe August can take care of him?

August has a cataract in one eye (as did Tennessee Williams) - so one eye is cloudy, one eye is clear. The dual nature of things. One of the main images in the play is double exposure: vision being doubled by things like brain tumors, cataracts - but also the past wandering through the present, being haunted by your younger selves ... double exposure. Things happening simultaneously.

This is Tennessee Williams' last play.

Amazing. An amazing man with an amazing life's work.

I'll post part of the beginning scene with Clare and August. Clare wanders into August's beach shack. Notice how they go in and out of the past. It's like that killer last scene in Eternal Sunshine when they "re-enact" their first meeting.

From Something Cloudy, Something Clear, by Tennessee Williams

CLARE. Oh, I'm sorry. I'm interrupting your work.

AUGUST. You did me a favor by that. I was about to make a concession to the taste of someone else, a powerful man with practically no taste.

CLARE. Then why were you about to make the concession?

AUGUST. Because there are certain vital necessities such as money on which to survive.

CLARE. I think any kind of artist -- but never mind - my presumption -- I'm -- breathless --

AUGUST. You do seem breathless.

CLARE. No, no, just -- an argument with my brother.

AUGUST. Breathtaking, is he? -- Sit down.

CLARE. On what?

AUGUST. Chair or the --?

CLARE. That cot's a mess.

AUGUST. I'm a restless sleeper.

CLARE. I was about to offer a moral judgment of some kind.

AUGUST. [smoothing covers] On disorderly cots?

CLARE. No, not cots. Concessions in art, no less. [She clears her throat] You resume your seat while I --

AUGUST. Pontificate?

CLARE. I think.

AUGUST. Do you? Are you sure that you're thinking?

CLARE. [ with sudden urgency] Not yet!

AUGUST. [smiling slowly] The double exposure. You're right. I concede that point.

KIP. [at the window, interrupting] Excuse me.

CLARE. What is it, Kip? Oh, Kip, this is --

KIP. [extending his hand through the window] Oh. Yes, we met last night. Do you have any drinking water in here?

AUGUST. A bottle of tepid soda.

KIP. Fine. Anything wet but not salty.

CLARE. [to Kip] I'm about to deliver a lecture to him on making concessions in art.

KIP. For or against?

CLARE. I think any kind of artist -- a painter like Van Gogh, a dancer like Nijinsky --

AUGUST. Both of them went mad.

CLARE. But others didn't, refused to make concessions to bad taste and yet managed survival without losing their minds. That's purity. You've got to respect it or not.

AUGUST. I do, I will. But it will be years before I've mastered the craft of my work. I'll try to survive the time till then.

CLARE. You're young and strong and healthy. I don't know your talent, but if you do and it's good -- forget concessions.

AUGUST. You have a rather precocious -- knowledge of such things.

CLARE. Had to have that, exigency of --

AUGUST. -- Survival?

CLARE. Had to have that early.

AUGUST. Why so early?

CLARE. My family in Newport, Rhode Island, were shocked by my lack of the conventions they valued too much.

KIP. Wow! I'll continue my exercises. [He returns to the platform. Over the following he begins a series of slow, lyrical warmup exercises which will blend gracefully, later, into the pavane]

CLARE. So -- I learned to outwit them precociously, had no other option.

AUGUST. I'll make many mistakes but they'll be my own mistakes, I'll never concede to manipulation by --

CLARE. Don't -- don't ever. In the end you'll take pride in having never.

AUGUST. We can delude ourselves, you know, now and then. Let's -- drop this subject of why --

CLARE. Yes. A heavy subject. I just came in to ask you if it's all right to use your platform out there as a --

AUGUST. I don't own anything here but the typewriter and paper, and this little assortment of records for my silver Victrola. I'm -- just a squatter. [He is pouring rum drinks into two glasses. Outside, the light lowers as Kip continues his slow, lyrical movements]

CLARE. [as August offers her the rum] None of that for me, August.

AUGUST. You know my name?

CLARE. You don't remember meeting me last night on the wharf?

AUGUST. You knew I did. But people seldom remember last night's names.

CLARE. What's my name?

AUGUST. Yours is Clare and your brother is Kip. Sure you won't have a drink?

CLARE. I can't. I have diabetes.

AUGUST. I thought only middle-aged people had diabetes.

CLARE. I'm sorry to say there's such a thing as congenital diabetes and I've got it.

AUGUST. I never heard of it, you look very healthy to me.

CLARE. Hmmmm. -- Doesn't it rain in, without any window panes or door to close?

AUGUST. Oh, sure. But I have this tarpaulin that I put over the cot, and I put my portable typewriter and silver Victrola under the platform out there.

CLARE. You're a playwright. You told me that last night.

AUGUST. I write plays. Stories. Poems. Right now it's a play, yes. I was about to make a change in it that I didn't believe in when you called through the window, like my -- like a -- conscience?

CLARE. Don't you ever look at people directly when you talk to them?

AUGUST. Not unless I'm drink.

CLARE. Why?

AUGUST. Why?

CLARE. Uh-hmmm.

AUGUST. Because I'm getting a little walleyed and -- a little dishonest, I guess.

CLARE. If you were dishonest, you wouldn't make such an honest confession of it.

AUGUST. [looking out] Beautiful dancer, your brother.

CLARE. YOu met him on the wharf last night, too.

AUGUST. I know, but -- I was blind last night.

CLARE. [with an edge] Not too blind to stare at him like a bird dog at a -- quail.

AUGUST. [turning to smile at her] No. No, not too blind for that. Well. He seemed oblivious to my attention, so I turned it on a much less attractive object, a drunk merchant sailor at the bar. He was a dog, in comparison, a mongrel dog. However. Beggars can't be very particular in their -- choices, you know, and -- beautiful as it is out here, it's also very lonely out here at night. [He goes to the victrola, places a record on it, and winds it up]

CLARE. You have a strange voice.

AUGUST. Are you sure you hear it? [We hear the record, Ravel's "Pavane pour une infante defunte."]

CLARE. It isn't as clear as it was, that summer.

AUGUST. Forty years ago, Clare.

CLARE. [closing her eyes for a moment] I feel -- lightheaded. Is it deja vu?

AUGUST. You said not yet.

KIP. [from the platform] Not yet! [He clasps his head]

AUGUST. Artists always continue a theme with variations. If lucky, several themes with numerous variations.

CLARE. But they mustn't get tiresome.

AUGUST. Must take a chance on that as making concessions.

CLARE. [turning her head in sudden anguish] That, oh, I know that!

AUGUST. You should, you heard it often on my silver Victrola that summer of --

CLARE. Please. Don't name the summer.

AUGUST. Life turned upon that summer.

CLARE. [fiercely derisive] Moth around a --

AUGUST. [indicating Kip through the window] Flame!

CLARE. Stop! Are you cruel? August?

AUGUST. I'd rather be cruel than sentimental, Clare.

CLARE. Nothing in between for you?

AUGUST. Yes, yes, naturally much. You know if you remember. [He tenderly clasps her head between his hands a moment]

CLARE. Dead princesses don't remember their pavanes on your silver Victrola. Is it as bad to die when you're young as Kip and I were and even you were that summer? Tell me. You've lived to discover an answer.

AUGUST. To live as long as forty years after that ecstasy ... It's enough to reconcile you to exile, at last, to the dark side of the moon or to the unfathomably dark hole in space.

CLARE. Perhaps you, perhaps he --

AUGUST. Perhaps I've transfigured him in my memory? [He stares out the window at Kip] No. I've memorized him, exactly as he was.

CLARE. This is the summer of 1940, August. Let's drop the metaphysics, play it straight, play it not like summer long past, but as it was then.

AUGUST. Then! Yes! But I'm no prompter, you have to remember your lines.

[A pause]

CLARE. [as if awaking] -- Why do you keep everything under the platform?

AUGUST. Under the floor of a next-door shack blown away.

CLARE. Why do you hide your valuables beneath it?

AUGUST. I don't always do that.

CLARE. Why do you ever do it?

AUGUST. Well, now and then, I have visitors out here.

CLARE. Thieves?

AUGUST. Potentially, yes. And what would I do if I lost my portable typewriter and my silver Victrola?

CLARE. I see. Mmmmm. Did you hear our conversation out there? [The sea booms. He grins without looking at her. She smiles slowly] My brother discovered that platform out there to dance on. I wouldn't have known he was here if I hadn't found his footprints in the dunes, pointing this way. He's very peculiar, my brother.

AUGUST. And very beautiful, too.

CLARE. Oh, that he is, too, he's that. If he wasn't my brother he'd drive me out of my mind.

AUGUST. He looks like the young Nijinsky.

CLARE. I'll tell him you said that. You see, Nijinsky's his god, his idol.

AUGUST. So he's reproduced the young Nijinsky for us. He has terrific control of his body. Is he a professional dancer?

CLARE. He's never danced professionally, but he's studied dancing.

AUGUST. You don't look like each other, there's no family resemblance.

CLARE. No.

AUGUST. You're both beautiful but in totally different ways.

CLARE. Oh, not totally, thank you.

AUGUST. Excuse me. I'm going back to work now. Without concessions, maybe.

CLARE. How long will you go on working?

AUGUST. Till I die of exhaustion. -- But not now. [Pause] No, a long time from now. Today I'd rather watch Kip dance.

CLARE. I dance, too.

AUGUST. I noticed that last night.

CLARE. I thought you just noticed Kip. When you stare at Kip like you stared at him last night, you're not seeing into his --

AUGUST. Mind? Spirit? Look, I work myself to the point of self-immolation before I go into P-town and honestly Clare, I don't go looking for rarefied minds or spirits.

CLARE. Have you got a toilet, I need to puke, I'm --

AUGUST. Ocean or dunes.

CLARE. Never mind. [She sinks to her knees, head bowed. August kneels behind her, raising her head tenderly. Her eyes moisten with tears]

AUGUST. I knew you cared for him, Clare, very deeply, and didn't want him used.

CLARE. I didn't want his body violated, to satisfy yours.

AUGUST. Clare, you have to know a person intimately, sometimes for al ong time, to know about his mind, sometimes even slightly.

CLARE. I trust intuition about it. And in Kip's case, I had the advantage of knowing him in New York under special circumstances that -- [They are both looking out the window at Kip. He had been performing slow dance exercises then he abruptly lost his balance and lowered himself awkwardly to the platform with a dazed look. Clare draws a startled breath. The music stops suddenly as Kip falls]

AUGUST. What happened?

CLARE. You offered me a drink.

AUGUST. You said you --

CLARE. I'd like a bit of it, now. Something happened to Kip on the platform, he -- he stumbled.

AUGUST. Some of the boards onj that platform sag a little. [He hands her the drink]

The Books: "The Red Devil Battery Sign"(Tennessee Williams)

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

Next Tennessee Williams play on the shelf is a full-length play (yes, another full-length!!) called The Red Devil Battery Sign.

This play was written in 1980, and I honestly have no idea what it's about, how to talk about it, or ... It's such a weird weird play. I wonder about his state of mind when he wrote it - and I almost NEVER wonder that with Williams. His technique is so solid, everything just flows - but this play? Uhm ....

There's a woman. We never know her name. She has esaped from a mental asylum. She lives in a hotel in Dallas. She also apparently has photocopied documents from some ... I don't know. The government wants to get the documents from her. It's a dangerous situation. But because she's loony tunes, you don't know if it's true or not. There's a guy named King who used to be in a mariachi band with his daughter - and somehow that all fell apart ... and he can't get over his lost glory. There's a place called The Hollow - just outside the city - where wild ravening Lord of the Flies type youths terrorize the population. There are explosions on the horizon - unexplained. The nameless woman and King have a romance. Or - a love affair. Whatever. She claws at his back. Somehow that is symbolic of her wild nature. She sees people walking around the hotel wearing red-devil hats - or ... she sees them out the window ... not sure ... and she is very paranoid about what it all means. Are the red devils coming to get her?

I could go on and on but that's about as coherent as I can get about this play.

The play ends with the nameless woman joining the Lord of the Flies group - as their goddess-mother-muse. She gives up on her humanity, on language - and stands amidst the ravening youths - howling like a wolf - as they all worship her.

Of course the writing itself is wonderful - his writing is always wonderful - I have had so much fun with these Williams excerpts - I know they've gone on forever, but I'm almost done!! But anyway, I have just loved re-visiting his wriitng, on a play by play basis. I don't think I've ever sat down and just read his stuff, in its entirety, like I have done over the past couple of months. I have just loved doing this. And of course - there is some amazing writing in Red Devil Battery Sign - but the entire thing is just strange, and i would love to read Williams' own thoughts on what he was attempting.

So here's part of a scene between King and the nameless woman, who refers to herself as Woman Downtown.

From The Red Devil Battery Sign, by Tennessee Williams

[He looks up as if listening to something, a reverberation, an ominous thing, still not too close -- beyond the room and the Woman Downtown -- a thing that gives his words a meaning deeper than their surface: a distant warning trumpet

KING. Life is only a while. Love -- longer. [The Woman Downtown smiles and caresses him] Now, now, honey, leggo, I'm supposed to go home early tonight.

WOMAN DOWNTOWN. Whose supposition is that?

KING. You heard of Perla, my wife.

WOMAN DOWNTOWN. Not as much as your daughter, La Niña.

KING. This involves La Niña.

WOMAN DOWNTOWN. [sitting up] How?

KING. I didn't tell you? She's comin' home tomorrow for a visit. I won't be downtown tomorrow ...

WOMAN DOWNTOWN. Neither will I, King. Not down this town, anyhow ...

KING. She's only comin' home for a short visit before she goes back to work.

WOMAN DOWNTOWN. [pouring herself a drink] I didn't mean I was leaving because of her. Actually her visit is very well-timed, coincides with a trip I'm obliged to make. Your friend Juan in the kitchen, can he still be trusted?

KING. ¡Si! Amigo. Amigo fiel. ¿Por qué?

WOMAN DOWNTOWN. The Judge and I have been using him as a go-between, a messenger service. Tonight under a metal cover from room service he sent me this letter. It's from the Judge. Read it.

KING. [reading with some difficulty] "Congress which otherwise would -- would ..."

WOMAN DOWNTOWN. [assisting him] "-- adjourn -- adjourn the weekend, will hold special session ..."

KING. How do you know this is from the Judge? Not fake?

WOMAN DOWNTOWN. Juan has called him for me frequently. From a pay phone in town. Last night a manservant of the Judge got on Juan's bus and passed him this. -- It's not fake. [She reads] "You will accompany me. Reservation made on Braniff Airlines. Flight 68, departing for Washington D.C., 5:00 p.m. My car will pass service entrance at 4:15 exactly ..."

[King looks up. There is a pause]

KING. When?

WOMAN DOWNTOWN. Tomorrow. [He looks at her darkly] -- Originals of those photostate papers I mentioned once -- remember? -- have been decoded. Judge Collister and I are taking them to the capital and I -- if I shouldn't be able, after I testify, to return to here, or anywhere near here -- would it mean I'd never see you again?

[She sits down very gravely and searches his face with her eyes]

KING. This trip you're taking is -- peligroso -- muy peligroso.

WOMAN DOWNTOWN. Dangerous, yes, very yes, very -- [She continues to stare at him gravely. He takes the drink from her hand and drains it. He pours another and returns the tumbler to her. She drinks, he drinks again. Sounds are heard: fireworks crackling and horns blowing below] -- Once you said, "Time has no limit for us."

KING. Madre de Cristo, forget it. The Judge is old, let him go! You? No.

WOMAN DOWNTOWN. No I'm going, it's an obligation, a, a, -- my God, it sounds like all hell's broken out down there! [She crosses abruptly to the window, raises the shade, then cries out repeatedly and wildly.] His sign, his sign, the Red Devil Battery sign, grinning at me through the window!

[A red glare pulses in]

KING. [holding her] It's just an electric sign, honey. The building is being opened tonight by the Mayor. That's all, that's --

WOMAN DOWNTOWN. All? All? Battery Empire's devil-face grinning in at me?!

KING. Lie down, I'll --

[He rushes to lower the shade]

WOMAN DOWNTOWN. I can still see it; it pulses like blood through the shade!

[The red glare is extinguished. She crouches sobbing on the bed. He crosses to her. She plunges to him and starts tearing his clothes off.]

KING. Now, now, love, you're -- acting like a --

WOMAN DOWNTOWN. She-wolf? -- Make love! Make love!

[Pause]

KING. -- After -- all that? [She is undressing him. After a while she lets go of him and lies back on the pillows. He finally speaks huskily, shamed] I'm sorry about that, but you k now sometimes in a man it just don't work ... [He sits on the edge of the bed] -- I want a cigarette.

WOMAN DOWNTOWN. I want a drink.

KING. Forget it. You don't need a drink.

[They are both frustrated and angry]

WOMAN DOWNTOWN. I've got to have something tonight.

[She reaches for the bottle]

KING. Put down the bottle. [She doesn't] I don't like what you're doing; there's no future in it.

WOMAN DOWNTOWN. Just to wash down a pill, can't swallow it dry.

KING. You're going to wind up not young anymore, not beautiful, not elegant, but --

WOMAN DOWNTOWN. Yes, yes, puta!

KING. The kind that's picked up by any stranger and banged in alleys and back of trucks -- I am -- going to go home. How do I know what a wolf-howling woman might do or not do 'cause a -- invalid man couldn't satisfy her one night out of a month.

[Abruptly tender, she sits up, breasts exposed in the dim, aqueous light]

WOMAN DOWNTOWN. That was awful, forgive me! It made me vicious because I needed you so terribly this time that could be the last time.

KING. I guess a little of him was bound to rub off on you, love.

WOMAN DOWNTOWN. Moments, only moments. I turn to an animal. [Pause. He seems away] -- Am I with you or alone in space?

KING. -- I think this Washington trip is --

WOMAN DOWNTOWN. I know what you think. You're right. Maybe just a gesture, and maybe -- fatal. But doesn't it make a sort of dignified monument to mark where I was, a woman without a name, inclined to wolf-howls at night? Are you still on the bed? [He nods] Just seated beside me, not touching? [He slowly turns to look at her, then throws himself into her arms. The room is dimmed out. Music. When the room is lighted again, he is beside the bed, nearly dressed. She is watching him from the bed] You know, there's somewhere beyond, and that time I think we went there.

KING. -- Sleep, now?

WOMAN DOWNTOWN. Yes, now, quickly. This kind of exhaustion's a comfort, all the truth and then love. [He crosses to the window and opens the drapes] Don't!

KING. I think it's daybreak. [He raises the shade to the pulsing red glare. She stares at it unblinking. He raises his right forearm and strikes it with his left palm] Battery Man, here is to you, my salute!

WOMAN DOWNTOWN. Again, for me!

KING. Yeah, again, for us both!

THE SCENE DIMS OUT AND FAST CURTAIN

The Books: "Clothes for a Summer Hotel"(Tennessee Williams)

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

Next Tennessee Williams play on the shelf is a full-length play (yes, another full-length!!) called Clothes for a Summer Hotel.

Produced in 1980 - this is a gorgeous play. Williams is working at the top of his game here. As is common knowledge, Williams' sister Rose was institutionalized in the 1930s, 1940s - and ended up being brutally lobotomized. It was referred to in his family as "the operation" - and she never recovered from it. She lived in an institution for the rest of her life. Williams never forgave himself for "getting out", and used his writing, over and over and over again, to re-visit that event. Not that his plays should be seen as biographical or autobiographical - no, they are works of art - but over and over again, we see Williams delving into the realm of madness, of what he termed "sensitivity" (sensitivity cannot exist in this world - it will be destroyed) - the realm of sensitive women.

Clothes for a Summer Hotel is the story of F. Scott Fitzgerald and his wife Zelda. It is a "ghost story", Williams tells us in the beginning. Everyone in the play is already dead - Hemingway makes an appearance, Scott and Zelda are the leads ... and they move in and out of the past, the present ... but they also know their own ends. They know what ended up happening, in terms of their own deaths. And yet here they are - re-enacting moments from their lives, still trying to come to terms with the past. Zelda was, of course, institutionalized. And - horrifically - she died in a fire that broke out in the asylum - and she and the other patients were in a locked ward - a door that locked from the outside - and they could not get out - and they all were incinerated. It must have been unspeakable. I can't even think about it without shivering in horror. Williams obviously was haunted by the death of Zelda Fitzgerald - she who had always had this strange unreasoning horror of dying by fire. It was her greatest fear. Good Lord. Such horror.

Scott and Zelda had this intense symbiotic relationship - parasitic almost - I blithered about it here and here.

Clothes for a Summer Hotel begins with Scott coming to the asylum to see Zelda - who has gone mad - and who believes she will be a great ballerina. Even though she is way too old and has no talent. (Geraldine Page played Zelda in the premiere production of this play - that must have been amazing!) Scott, meanwhile, is now whoring out his talent in Hollywood (that's how he saw it anyway) - and his body is already deteriorating from his liquor intake. He has quit drinking, but the damage is done. Zelda and Scott haven't seen each other in a year? Something like that. Zelda is completely mad. Scott is horrified at her condition. She dances around in a bedraggled tutu. But because this is a ghost play, and people move in and out of different time zones, etc., there are premonitions of what is to come for both of these people ... They are not JUST in the present moment, they have a vague awareness of what is coming ...

I love this play.

It's elegiac. It's tragic. Hemingway's cameo is awesome. The scene between he and Scott is most illuminating of their relationship - they were competitors - and very different sorts of men - they had a wary respect for the talent of the other - but also a hostility.

I'll excerpt a bit from the first scene - when Scott arrives to see Zelda. Interns and doctors hover on the edges of these scenes - giving you the impression that Zelda is, indeed, imprisoned. She is mad - but there is a kind of unforgiving honesty in the insane - they see things clearly - they just can't live with it. Zelda has that.

From Clothes for a summer hotel, by Tennessee Williams

[The intern exits into the asylum closing the doors behind him. Zelda begins a slow descent and moves downstage. Despite her increase of weight and the shapeless coat, her approach has the majesty of those purified by madness and by fire. Her eyes open very wide. Scott is barely able to hold his ground before their blaze. Zelda has to shout above the wind]

ZELDA. Is that really you, Scott? Are you my lawful husband, the celebrated F. Scott Fitzgerald, author of my life? Sorry to say you're hard to recognize now. Why didn't you warn me of this -- startling reunion, Scott?

SCOTT. I had to come at once when the doctors advised me of your remarkable improvement.

ZELDA. -- Not exactly an accurate report. -- Aren't you somewhat unseasonably dressed for a chilly autumn afternoon?

SCOTT. When I got the doctors' report, well, I forgot the difference in weather between the West Coast and here, just hopped right onto the first plane -- bought a spare shirt at a shop at the airport.

ZELDA. I see, I see, that's why you're dressed as if about to check in at a summer hotel.

SCOTT. It's all right, Zelda.

ZELDA. Is it all right, Scott?

SCOTT. Since I have to fly back tomorrow. -- Don't be so standoffish, let me kiss you.

[He goes to Zelda and tentatively embraces and kisses her in a detached manner]

ZELDA. -- Well.

SCOTT. I would describe that as a somewhat perfunctory response.

ZELDA. And I'd describe it as a meaninglessly conventional -- gesture to have embraced at all -- after all ... [He draws back, wounded: she smiles, a touch of ferocity in her look] -- Sorry, Goofo. It's been so long since we've exchanged more than letters ... And you fly back tomorrow? We have only this late afternoon in which to renew our -- acquaintance.

SCOTT. [uncomfortably] Work on the Coast, film-work, is very exacting, Zelda. Inhumanly exacting. People pretend to feel but don't feel at all.

ZELDA. Don't they call it the world of make-believe? Isn't it a sort of madhouse, too? You occupy one there, and I occupy one here.

SCOTT. I'm working on such a tight schedule. Never mind. Here's the big news I bring you. I'm completing a novel, a new one at last, and it will be one that will rank with my very best, controlled as Gatsby but emotionally charged as Tender Is the --

[Pause]

ZELDA. -- Good ... will I be in it?

SCOTT. Not -- recognizably ...

ZELDA. Good. -- So what is the program for us now? Shall we make a run for it and fall into a ditch to satisfy our carnal longings, Scott?

SCOTT. That was never the really important thing between us, beautiful, yes, but less important than --

ZELDA. [striking out] What was important to you was to absorb and devour!

SCOTT. I didn't expect to find you in this -- agitated mood. Zelda, I brought you a little gift. A new wedding band to replace the one you lost.

ZELDA. I didn't lose it, Scott, I threw it away.

SCOTT. Why would you, how could you have --?

ZELDA. Scott, we're no longer really married and I despise pretenses.

SCOTT. I don't look at it that way.

ZELDA. Because you still pay for my confinement? Exorbitant, for torture.

SCOTT. You always want to return here, you're not forced to, Zelda.

ZELDA. I only come back here when I know I'm too much for Mother and the conventions of Montgomery, Alabama. I am pointed out on the street as a lunatic now.

SCOTT. Whatever the reason, Zelda, you do return by choice, so don't call it confinement. And even if you don't want a new marriage ring, call it a ring of, of -- a covenant with the past that's always still present, dearest.

ZELDA. I don't want it; I will not take it!

SCOTT. [with a baffled sigh] Of course we do have nonmaterial bonds, memories such as -- "Do you remember before keys turned in locks -- when life was a close-up, not an occasional letter -- how I hated swimming naked off the rocks -- but you liked nothing better?"

ZELDA. No, no, Scott, don't try to break my heart with early romantic effusions. No, Goofo, it's much too late!

SCOTT. I wasn't warned to expect this cold, violent attitude in you!

ZELDA. Never in all those years of coexistence in time did you make the discovery that I have the eyes of a hawk which is a bird of nature as predatory as a husband who appropriates your life as material for his writing. Poor Scott. Before you offered marriage to the Montgomery belle, you should have studied a bit of ornithology at Princeton.

SCOTT. I don't believe a course in ornithology was on the curriculum at Princeton in my day!

ZELDA. [distracted, looking vaguely about] What a pity! You could have been saved completely for your art -- and I for mine ...

SCOTT. Didn't hear that, the wind blows your voice away unless you shout. Is it always so windy here?

[The wind blows]

ZELDA. Sunset Hill on which this cage is erected is the highest to catch the most wind to whip the flame-like skirts as red as the sisters' skirts are black. Isn't that why you selected this place for my confinement? [Scott moves toward her, extending his arms and gesturing toward the bench] Are you studying ballet, too?

SCOTT. [attempting to laugh] Me, studying ballet?

ZELDA. You made a gesture out of classic ballet, extending your arms toward me, then extending the right arm toward that bench which I will not go near -- again.

SCOTT. Now, now, Zelda, stop play acting, come here!

ZELDA. I won't approach that bench because of the bush next to it. Besides I'm only taking a little recess from O.T.

BECKY. [offstage voice] The head of the Harlow, the platinum of it, the bleach! -- My personal salon was only a block from Goldwyn's ...

[Zelda starts drifting back to the doorway of the asylum. Scott grabs her]

SCOTT. Zelda, don't withdraw! -- What are you -- Tell me, Zelda, what are you working on mostly in Occupational Therapy now, dear?

ZELDA. The career that I undertook because you forbade me to write!

SCOTT. Writing calls for discipline! Continual!

ZELDA. And drink, continual, too? No, I respect your priority in the career of writing although it preceded and eclipsed my own. I made that sacrifice to you and so elected ballet. Isadora Duncan said, "I want to teach the whole world to dance!" -- I'm more selfish, just want to teach myself.

SCOTT. The strenuous exercises will keep your figure trimmer.

ZELDA. Than writing and drinking?

SCOTT. Oh, I've quit that.

ZELDA. Quit writing?

SCOTT. Quit drinking.

ZELDA. QUIT? DRINKING?

SCOTT. Completely.

ZELDA. Cross your heart and hope to die?

SCOTT. I cross my heart but I don't hope to die until my new book is finished. [Scott has maneuvered Zelda toward the bench. He sits and gets her to sit] Zelda, I've had -- several little heart disturbances lately ...

ZELDA. You mean the romance? Or romances?

SCOTT. I mean -- cardiac -- incidents. At a movie premiere last week, as the film ended, it all started -- fading out ....

ZELDA. Films always end with the fade-out.

SCOTT. I staggered so. I thought the audience would think I was drunk.

ZELDA. [sarcastically] Were they so foolish as that?

SCOTT. Luckily I had a friend with me who helped me out.

ZELDA. Oh, yes, I know about her.

SCOTT. You -- she -- you'd like her.

ZELDA. Certainly, if you do. Well -- Scott? Let me say this quickly before I become disturbed and am hauled back in for restraint. You were not to blame. You needed a better influence, someone much more stable as a companion on the -- roller-coaster ride which collapsed at the peak. You needed -- her? Out there, utterly vulgar but -- functioning well on that level.

SCOTT. Who are you, what are you -- referring to, Zelda?

ZELDA. Who or what, which is it? Some are whats, some are whos. Which is she? -- Never mind. You are in luck whichever ... But can we turn this bench at an angle that doesn't force me to look at the flaming bush here?

SCOTT. It's such a lovely bush.

ZELDA. If you're attracted by fire. Are you attracted by fire?

SCOTT. The leaves are -- radiant, yes, they're radiant as little torches. I feel as if they'd warm my hands if I --

ZELDA. I feel as if they'd burn me to unrecognizable ash. You see, the demented often have the gift of Cassandra, the gift of --

SCOTT. The gift of --?

ZELDA. Premonition! I WILL DIE IN FLAMES!

SCOTT. Please, Zelda, don't shout, don't draw attention. The doctors will think my visits disturb you -- I won't be allowed to come back.

ZELDA. Visits? Did you say visits? That is plural. I wouldn't say that your presence here today qualifies as a very plural event.

[She starts toward the gates. Scott rises to follow]

SCOTT. You're going inside?

ZELDA. I have my own little Victrola. Mama sent it to me for Christmas. I'm preparing for Diaghilev; he's offered me an audition. I'm going to do a Bach fugure with almost impossible tempi I was told. Hah!

SCOTT. Zelda, I didn't come all the way out here to listen to a Bach fugure, and watching you dance is a pleasure I've -- exhausted ...

ZELDA. Sorry. But I'm working against time!

The Books: "A Lovely Sunday for Creve Coeur" (Tennessee Williams)

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

Next Tennessee Williams play on the shelf is a full-length play (yes, another full-length!!) called A Lovely Sunday for Creve Coeur.

Another one of Williams' late full-length plays. These plays were not commercial successes - and there are flaws in them - unlike Cat on a Hot Tin Roof or Streetcar which - I think - are pretty much without flaws. But Williams' late plays are no less wonderful. People could not forgive him for not writing Streetcar II over and over and over. I admire him MORE that he didn't go that route. He kept creating, kept writing ... and like he said once: "I keep writing ... Sometimes I like what I write. That's enough."

Creve Coeur had its premiere in 1979.

It's quite wonderful. I would love to play Dorothea. She's a great part. She's in the Miss Alma vein of Williams females. The play takes place in the 1930s in St. Louis. The mores are different than, obviously, what was going on in 1979. The spectre of spinsterhood hung over women like a sharp sword. A fate worse than death. Also: no possibility of experiencing sexual pleasure without being completely shamed by society. You HAD to get married ... or you were beyond the pale. What were passionate and ... kind of "off" women ... supposed to do? This is Williams' main milieu. Today, Miss Alma would not have had to make such a horrendous choice. A mild dose of Prozac, and a couple of love affairs ... and she might have been all right. Being unmarried at age 30 isn't seen as an utter tragedy. That sort of pressure doesn't exist anymore, thank God - at least not with as much intensity.

The two main characters are Bodey and Dorothea. They are roommates. Obviously spinster women. Upstairs lives Sophie Gluck, a baffled German woman who speaks no English and just hangs out in Bodey and Dorothea's apartment. Bodey has an incredibly intense and weird relationship with her twin brother Buddy. Every Sunday they make a picnic and go have it at a park called Creve Coeur. Buddy (who is not in the play) sounds like a big doofus. All he does is drink beer, smoke cigars, and eat sausages. Buddy and Bodey are Germans - that is a big deal in the play, because it takes place in the 30s. They are proud Germans, and they deal with a lot of generalized prejudice. People saying, "Isn't that just like the Huns...." etc. Dorothea is a teacher of civics at the local high school. She is a nervous wreck. Every day she exercises like a fiend in her room, even though she has some kind of nervous condition. The play opens and she is feverishly doing knee bends in the corner, nearly passing out from exertion. Dorothea is having an affair with the principal, Ralph Ellis. Now - again with Williams - you get the sense that the REALITY of the situation is that Dorothea is MADLY IN LOVE with him, in a kind of schoolgirl way, and one night (which she describes in the most romantic way possible) - Ralph screwed her in the back seat of his car. It was a one-time deal. But to Dorothea it was EVERYTHING. Dorothea has constructed an elaborate fantasy around Ralph. She doesn't just HOPE that he will marry her. It is GOING to happen. It is REAL to her. She is making plans based on this fantasy. He is her way out. Williams is brilliant in this regard. What was, in reality, something that sounds very cheap and gross - an asshole cheating on his wife with someone he KNOWS is in love with him- is interpreted by one of the characters into something magical, powerful, and redemptive. Of course this sets up the inevitable life-crushing disillusionment in the end. It's not just a relationship that ends. It's an entire dream that dies. The future closes shut like a door. It's final.

You can tell that this play takes place in the past. Pre sexual revolution. Dorothea has slept with a man out of wedlock. He was her only lover. He HAS to marry her.

Anyway - Helena, another teacher at the school, shows up one morning - when Bodey is busy packing her picnic for Creve Coeur. Helena is there to check up on Dorothea who has planned to move into an apartment with Helena - a nicer one - where she hopes she will be able to 'entertain' Ralph Ellis. This new apartment is a stepping-stone to respectability, to marriage. Dorothea has not informed Bodey that she is moving out.

Oh, and to add to all of this: Bodey is relentless in trying to get Dorothea set up with her fat doofus brother. Dorothea continues to insist that she is seriously involved with someone. Bodey is kind of an idiot, and never shuts up, but she's not stupid. She knows that Ralph Ellis is a jerk, and that Dorothea was just used. She holds out hope that Dorothea will fall in love with her brother, even though Dorothea finds him repulsive.

Dorothea has a fantasy for herself, where she belongs in life. She can't be the wife of a big gross farting German. This would not suit her. She has her standards - but sadly, her time has passed. She is no longer young. She will now no longer have her pick of men. She will have to accept that Buddy is the best that she will be able to get. In Tennessee Williams' world, this is a tragedy.

I'll excerpt the end of the play - when all of the illusions shatter for Dorothea. Bodey has seen in the Sunday paper that Ralph Ellis has gotten engaged. She tears the notice out and throws it out, hiding it from Dorothea. In this last scene, all is discovered.

Good times, good times.

From A Lovely Sunday for Creve Coeur, by Tennessee Williams

BODEY. Dotty, remember, Buddy is waiting for us at the Creve Coeur station, we mustn't let him think we've stood him up.

DOROTHEA. [sighing] Excuse me, Helena, there really has been a terrible problem with communication today. [She crosses to Bodey and adjusts her hearing aid for her] Can you hear me clearly, now at last?

BODEY. You got something to tell me?

DOROTHEA. Something I've told you already, frequently, loudly, and clearly, but which you simply will not admit because of your hostility toward Ralph Ellis. I'm waiting here to receive an important call from him, and I am not going anywhere till it's come through.

BODEY. Dotty. It's past noon and he still hasn't called.

DOROTHEA. On Saturday evenings he's out late at social affairs and consequently sleeps late on Sundays.

BODEY. This late?

HELENA. Miss Bodenhafer doesn't know how the privileged classes live.

BODEY. No, I guess not, we're ignorant of the history of art, but Buddy and me, we've got a life going on, you understand, we got a life ...

DOROTHEA. Bodey, you know I'm sorry to disappoint your plans for the Creve Coeur picninc, but you must realize by now -- after our conversation before Miss Brookmire dropped in -- that I can't allow this well-meant design of yours to get me involved with your brother to go any further. So that even if I were not expecting this important phone call, I would not go to Creve Coeur with you and your brother this afternoon -- or ever! It wouldn't be fair to your brother to, to -- lead him on that way ...

BODEY. Well, I did fry up three chickens and I boiled a dozen eggs, but, well, that's --

HELENA. Life for you, Miss Bodenhafer. We've got to face it.

BODEY. But I really was hoping -- expecting --

[Tears appear in Bodey's large, childlike eyes]

HELENA. Dorothea, I believe she's beginning to weep over this. Say something comforting to her.

DOROTHEA. Bodey? Bodey? This afternoon you must break the news to your brother that -- much as I appreciate his attentions -- I am seriously involved with someone else, and I think you can do this without hurting his feelings. Let him have some beer first and a -- cigar ... And about this superabundance of chicken and deviled eggs. Bodey, why don't you call some girl who works in your office and get her to go to Creve Coeur and enjoy the picnic with you this afternoon?

BODEY. Buddy and I, we -- don't have fun with -- strangers ...

DOROTHEA. Now, how can you call them strangers when you've been working in the same office with these girls at International Shoe for -- how many years? Almost twenty? Strangers? Still?

BODEY. -- Not all of 'em have been there long as me ... [She blows her nose]

DOROTHEA. Oh, some of them must have, surely, unless the death rate in the office is higher than -- a cat's back.

[Dorothea smiles half-apologetically at Helena. Helena stifles a malicious chuckle]

BODEY. -- You see, Dotty, Buddy and me feel so at home with you now.

DOROTHEA. Bodey, we knew that I was here just for a while because it's so close to Blewett. Please don't make me feel guilty. I have no reasons to, do I?

BODEY. -- No, no, Dotty -- but don't worry about it. Buddy and me, we are both -- big eaters, and if there's somethin' left over, there's always cute little children around Creve Coeur that we could share with, Dotty, so --

DOROTHEA. Yes, there must be. Do that. Let's not prolong this discussion. I see it's painful to you.

BODEY. -- Do you? No. It's -- you I'm thinking of, Dotty. -- Now if for some reason you should change your mind, here is the schedule of the open-air streetcars to Creve Coeur.

HELENA. Yellowing with antiquity. Is it legible still?

BODEY. We'll still be hoping that you might decide to join us, you know that, Dotty.

DOROTHEA. Yes, of course -- I know that. Now why don't you finish packing and start out to the station?

BODEY. -- Yes. -- But remember how welcome you would be if -- shoes. [She starts into the bedroom to put on her shoes] I still have my slippers on.

DOROTHEA. [to Helena after Bodey has gone into the bedroom] So! You've got the postdated check. I will move to Westmoreland Place with you July first, although I'll have to stretch quite a bit to make ends meet in such an expensive apartment.

HELENA. Think of the advantages. A fashionable address, two bedrooms, a baby grand in the front room and --

DOROTHEA. Yes, I know. It would be a very good place to entertain Ralph.

HELENA. I trust that entertaining Ralph is not your only motive in making this move to Westmoreland Place.

DOROTHEA. Not the only, but the principal one.

HELENA. [leaning forward slowly, eyes widening] Oh, my dear Dorothea! I have the very odd feeling that I saw the name Ralph Ellis in the newspaper. In the society section.

DOROTHEA. In the society section?

HELENA. I think so, yes. I'm sure so.

[Rising tensely, Dorothea locates the Sunday paper which Bodey had left on the sofa, in some disarray, after removing the "certain item" -- the society page. She hurriedly looks through the various sections trying to find the society news]

DOROTHEA. Bodey? -- BOOO-DEYY!

BODEY. What, Dotty?

DOROTHEA. Where is the society page of the Post-Dispatch?

BODEY. -- Oh ...

DOROTHEA. What does "oh" mean? It's disappeared from the paper and I'd like to know where.

BODEY. Dotty, I --

DOROTHEA. What's wrong with you? Why are you upset? I just want to know if you've seen the society page of the Sunday paper?

BODEY. -- Why, I -- used to to wrap fried chicken up with, honey.

DOROTHEA. [to Helena] The only part of the paper in which I have any interest. She takes it and wraps fried chicken in it before I get up in the morning! You see what I mean? Do you understand now? [She turns back to Bodey] Please remove the fried chicken from the society page and let me have it!

BODEY. -- Honey, the chicken makes the paper so greasy that --

DOROTHEA. I will unwrap it myself! [She charges into the kitchenette, unwraps the chicken, and folds out the section of pages] -- A section has been torn out of it? Why? What for?

BODEY. Is it? I --

DOROTHEA. Nobody possibly could have done it but you. What did you do with the torn out piece of the paper?

BODEY. -- I -- [She shakes her head helplessly]

DOROTHEA. Here it is! -- Crumpled and tossed in the wastebasket! -- What for, I wonder? [She snatches up the crumpled paper from the wastebasket and straightens it, using both palms to press it hard against the kitchen table so as to flatten it. She holds up the torn-out section of the paper so the audience can see a large photograph of a young woman, good looking in a plain fashion, wearing a hard smile of triumph, then she reads aloud in a hoarse, stricken voice] Mr. and Mrs. James Finley announce the engagement of their daughter, Miss Constance Finley, to Mr. -- T. Ralph Ellis, principal of --

[Pause. There is much stage business. Dorothea is stunned for some moments but then comes to violent life and action. She picks up the picnic shoebox, thrusts it fiercely into Bodey's hands, opens the door for her but rushes back to pick up Bodey's small black straw hat trimmed with paper daisies, then opens the door for Bodey again with a violent gesture meaning "Go quick!" Bodey goes. In the hall we hear various articles falling from Bodey's hold and a small panting gasp. Then there is silence. Helena gets up with a mechanical air of sympathy]

HELENA. That woman is sly all right but not as sly as she's stupid. She might have guessed you'd want the society page and notice Mr. Ellis' engagement had been torn out. Anyway, the news would have reached you at the school tomorrow. Of course I can't understand how you could be taken in by whatever little attentions you may have received from Ralph Ellise.

DOROTHEA. -- "Little -- attentions?" I assure you they were not -- "little attentions", they were --

HELENA. Little attentions which you magnified in your imagination. Well, now, let us dismiss the matter, which has dismissed itself! Dorothea, about the postdated check, I'm not sure the real estate agents would be satisfied with that. Now surely, Dorothea, surely you have relatives who could help you with a down payment in cash?

DOROTHEA. -- Helena, I'm not interested in Westmoreland Place. -- Now.

HELENA. What?

DOROTHEA. I've -- abandoned that idea. I've decided not to move.

HELENA. [aghast] -- Do you realize what a shockingly irresponsible thing you are doing? Don't you realize that you are placing me in a very unfair position? You led me to believe I could count on your sharing the expense of the place, and now, at the last moment, when I have no time to get hold of someone else, you suddenly -- pull out. It's really irresponsible for you. It's a really very irresponsible thing to do.

DOROTHEA. -- I'm afraid we wouldn't have really gotten along together. I'm not uncomfortable here. It's only two blocks from the school and -- I won't be needing a place I can't afford to entertain -- anyone now. -- I think I would like to be alone.

HELENA. All I can say is, the only thing I can say is --

DOROTHEA. Don't say it, just, just -- leave me alone, now, Helena.

HELENA. Well, that I shall do. You may be right, we wouldn't have gotten along. Perhaps Miss Bodenhafer and her twin brother are much more on your social and cultural level than I'd hoped. And of course there's always the charm of Miss Gluck from upstairs.

DOROTHEA. The prospect of that is not as dismaying to me, Helena, as the little card parties and teas you'd had in mind for us on Westmoreland Place ...

HELENA. Chacun a son gout.

DOROTHEA. Yes, yes.

HELENA. [at the door] There is rarely a graceful way to say goodbye. [She exits]

[Pause. Dorothea shuts her eyes very tight and raises a clenched hand in the air, nodding her head several times as if affirming an unhappy suspicion regarding the way of the world. This gesture suffices to discharge her sense of defeat. Now she springs up determinedly and gets to the phone. While waiting for a connection, she notices Miss Gluck seated disconsolately in a corner of the kitchenette]

DOROTHEA. Now Miss Gluck, now Sophie, we must pull ourselves together and go on. Go on, we must just go on, that's all that life seems to offer and --demand. [She turns her attention to the phone] Hello, operator, can you get me information, please? -- Hello? Information? Can you get me the number of the little station at the end of the Delmar car-line where you catch the, the -- open streetcar that goes out to Creve Coeur Lake? -- Thank you.

MISS GLUCK. [speaking English with difficulty and a heavy German accent] Please don't leave me alone. I can't go up!

DOROTHEA. [her attention still occupied with the phone] Creve Coeur car-line station? Look. On the platform in a few minutes will be a plumpish little woman with a big artificial flower over one ear and a stoutish man with her, probably with a cigar. I have to get an important message to them. Tell them that Dotty called and has decided to go to Creve Coeur with them after all so will they please wait. You'll have to shout to the woman because she's -- deaf ... [For some reason the word "deaf" chokes her and she begins to sob as she hangs up the phone. Miss Gluck rises, sobbing louder] No, no, Sophie, come here. [Impulsively she draws Miss Gluck into her arms] I know, Sophie, I know, crying is a release, but it -- inflames the eyes. [She takes Miss Gluck to the armchair and seaets her there. Then she goes to the kitchenette, gets a cup of coffee and a cruller, and brings them to Sophie.] Make yourself comfortable, Sophie. [She goes to the bedroom, gets a pair of gloves, then returns and crosses to the kitchen table to collect her hat and pocketbook. She goes to the door, opens it, and says ...] We'll be back before dark.

THE LIGHTS DIM OUT.

Red's Bookshelf: Excerpt from "Vieux Carré"

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

Next Tennessee Williams play on the shelf is a full-length play (yes, another full-length!!) called Vieux Carré. This one was produced in 1978 - and it's very much like the film Moulin Rouge - same basic plot and theme.

A young idealistic writer comes to New Orleans to write. He gets a room in a rooming house - a famous one that's on the tourist track - Vieux Carré - on Toulouse Street. And during his stay there - he encounters all kinds of degenerates, and people on the fringe of society - and he writes it all down - but at the same time, being side by side with such sadness, loneliness, degeneracy - changes him forever. He loses his idealism forever.

Some great characters. There's Nightingale - the gay painter - who is dying of tuberculosis and refuses to admit that it is anything more than a cold. He is a lecherous old queen, always sneaking into other people's rooms (men's rooms) and trying to feel people up. He believes that he is a great painter, that his major work is left undone - but in the meantime, he sits in various gay coffee houses and bars in the cities and does watercolors of the clientele. This is his way of picking people up. He's a sad and kind of disgusting character.

There's a couple: Jane and Tye. Tye is a barker at a stripshow - a gorgeous young hunk of man, but completely corrupt in his soul. He uses heroin. Jane was a fashion designer, and she comes from "the North" (meaning "the Northeast") - she used to be respectable - but she met Tye - and basically no one has ever touched her the way Tye touches her - and so, with his help, she sinks down into the gutter. Tye is not faithful. Of course not. But there is something in the sex they have together that completely entraps Jane, time and time again, no matter how many times she tries to get away.

There's the loony landlady Mrs. Wire (played by Sylvia Miles in the original production). She knows that her rooming house is famous, a historical landmark, and she relentlessly harasses all of the loser tenants - she monitors their comings and goings, she eavesdrops ... she thinks they're a bunch of losers. She's a lunatic - great character.

There are two little spinster ladies who live together in the rooming house - they have no money - they are behind in their rent - and they scrounge through garbage cans during the daytime for food. They huddle together in spinsterish fright, they are like one person.

There's Sky - a beautiful young drifter - who takes on symbolic meaning to all the people in the house. He's a clarinet player. He's planning a trip "West". He has no money, just a car ... he kind of befriends The Writer and invites him to come along on the trip with him.

The Writer, within 4 months of staying at Vieux Carré, starts to find it impossible to even contemplate leaving. The sadness and desperation all around him has seeped into him. He is as trapped as they are.

Occasionally, the Writer will turn out to the audience and narrate. He is our guide through Vieux Carré.

I'll excerpt from one of the scenes between The Writer and Nightingale, the lecherous dying gay painter.

From Vieux Carré, by Tennessee Williams

[There is a spotlight on the writer, stage front, as narrator]

WRITER. That Sunday I served my last meal for a quarter in the Qyarter, then I returned to the attic. From Nightingale's cage there was silence so complete I thought, "He's dead." Then he cried out softly --

NIGHTINGALE. Christ, how long do I have to go on like this?

WRITER. Then, for the first time, I returned his visits. [He makes the gesture of knocking at Nightingale's door] -- Mr. Rossignol ... [There is a sound of staggering and wheezing. Nightingale opens the door; the writer catches him as he nearly falls and assists him back to his cot] -- You shouldn't try to dress.

NIGHTINGALE. Got to -- escape! She wants to commit me to a charnal house on false charges ...

WRITER. It's raining out.

NIGHTINGALE. A Rossignol will not be hauled away to a charity hospital.

WRITER. Let me call a private doctor. He wouldn't allow them to move you in your -- condition ...

NIGHTINGALE. My faith's in Christ -- not doctors.

WRITER. Lie down.

NIGHTINGALE. Can't breathe lying -- down ....

WRITER. I've brought you this pillow. I'll put it back of your head. [He places the pillow gently in back of Nightingale] Two pillows help you breathe.

NIGHTINGALE. [leaning weakly back] Ah -- thanks -- better ... Sit down.

[A dim light comes up on the studio area as Tye, sitting on the table, lights a joint]

WRITER. There's nowhere to sit.

NIGHTINGALE. You mean nowhere not contaminated? [The writer sits.] -- God's got to give me time for serious work! Even God has moral obligations, don't He? -- Well, don't He?

WRITER. I think that morals are a human invention that He ignores as successfully as we do.

NIGHTINGALE. Christ, that's evil, that is infidel talk. [He crosses himself] I'm a Cath'lic believer. A priest wouldl say that you have fallen from Grace, boy.

WRITER. What's that you're holding?

NIGHTINGALE. Articles left me by my sainted mother. Her tortoise-shell comb with a mother-of-pearl handle and her silver framed mirror. [He sits up with difficulty and starts combing his hair before the mirror as if preparing for a social appearance] Precious heirlooms, been in the Rossignol family three generations. I look pale from confinement with asthma. Bottom of box is -- toiletries, cosmetics -- please!

WRITER. You're planning to make a public appearance, intending to go on the streets with this -- advanced case of asthma?

NIGHTINGALE. Would you kindly hand me my Max Factor, my makeup kit?

WRITER. I have a friend who wears cosmetics at night -- they dissolve in the rain.

NIGHTINGALE. If necessary, I'll go into Sanctuary! [The writer utters a startled, helpless laugh; he shakes with it and leans against the stippled wall] Joke, is it, is it a joke? Foxes have holes, but the Son of Man hath nowhere to hide His head!

WRITER. Don't you know you're delirious with fever?

NIGHTINGALE. You used to be kind -- gentle. In less than four months you've turned your back on that side of your nature, turned rock-hard as the world.

WRITER. I had to survive in the world. Now where's your pills for sleep, you need to rest.

NIGHTINGALE. On the chair by the bed.

[Pause]

WRITER. Maybe this time you ought to take more than one.

NIGHTINGALE. Why, you're suggesting suicide to me which is a cardinal sin, would put me in unhallowed ground in -- potter's field. I believe in God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost ... you've turned into a killer?

WRITER. [compulsively, with difficulty] Stop calling it asthma -- the flu, a bad cold. Face the facts, deal wtih them. [He opens the pillbox] Press tab to open, push down, unscrew the top. Here it is where you can reach it.

NIGHTINGALE. -- Boy with soft skin and stone heart ...

[Pause. The writer blows the candle out and takes Nightingale's hand]

WRITER. Hear the rain, let the rain talk to you, I can't.

NIGHTINGALE. Light the candle.

WRITER. The candle's not necessary. You've got an alcove, too, with a window and bench. Keep your eyes on it, she might come in here before you fall asleep. [A strain of music is heard. The angel enters from her dark passage and seats herself, just visible faintly, on Nightingale's alcove bench] Do you see her in the alcove?

NIGHTINGALE. Who?

WRITER. Do you feel a comforting presence?

NIGHTINGALE. None.

WRITER. Remember my mother's mother? Grand?

NIGHTINGALE. I don't receive apparitions. They're only seen by the mad.

[The writer returns to his cubicle and continues as narrator]

WRITER. In my own cubicle, I wasn't sure if Grand had entered with me or not. I couldn't distinguish her from a -- diffusion of light through the low running clouds. I thought I saw her, but her image was much fainter than it had ever been before, and I suspected that it would fade more and more as the storm of my father's blood obliterated the tenderness of Grand's. I began to pack my belongings. I was about to make a panicky departure to nowhere I could imagine ... The West Coast? With Sky?

[He is throwing things into a cardboard suitcase]

The Books: "Something Unspoken" (Tennessee Williams)

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

Next Tennessee Williams play on the shelf is a one-act called Something Unspoken.

Another example of Williams' genius. Any of you out there who are Williams fans: I highly recommend you checking out this one-act if you haven't already. It's in the collection 27 Wagons Full of Cotton. Again: the amount of informaiton that he is able to pack into a one-act - without any of it seeming forced or artificial - is truly extraordinary. These plays are slices of life. Entire worlds are suggested in their meagre pages.

Here's the plot: Miss Cornelia Scott is a wealthy Southern spinster in her 60s. She is a grande dame. She dresses elaborately, does her hair up in pompadours, and lives her life with a lot of pomp and circumstance. The amazing thing that Williams does with her character, though, is ... by the end of the play, he has completely shown us what is going on beneath her facade - we completely see the REAL Miss Cornelia Scott - even though she would never be in charge of letting us see her so intimately. Her defenses are too strong for that - but no matter: Williams lets us see inside anyway. She is so lonely it aches. She is so eager for approval that she loses sleep at night. She is so afraid of rejection that she can barely even think about it. But nobody would ever guess that Miss Cornelia Scott was so vulnerable.

She has a secretary - a woman in her 40s - who has been with her for 15 years. Her name is Grace. They have a complex codependent relationship. There is tension between them - something unacknowledged (ahem - notice the title of the play) - we are not sure WHAT are the guts of this relationship but we know something is there.

Miss Cornelia Scott is waiting on tenterhooks (uhm - have I ever used that phrase before? What does it mean??) to hear about the elections of the local chapter of the Daughters of the Confederacy. She has been a member for years. She wants to be Regent. She has held every other office - but she wants to be Regent. The only problem is: her fear of rejection is so huge that she cannot submit to the indignities of campaigning - and unless it is a unanimous vote - unless everyone says, as one, "WE MUST HAVE CORNELIA SCOTT AS OUR LEADER" then she feels she must resign from the organization. Williams, in his genius way, lets us see that what is really going on here is that Cornelia Scott has no one in her life who loves her. Everyone fears her, and tiptoes around her - but no one loves her. And even though Cornelia Scott pretends that this doesn't matter, it eats away at her.

All of this ends up coming to a head in a confrontation between her and her secretary.

An incredible relationship portrayed.

Grace ends up having a monologue that, in the context of the play, knocks my socks off (I'll include it in my excerpt). Nobody pulls back the veil to reveal the truth like Tennessee Williams. And watch how when Grace finally starts to spit out that "something unspoken" - Miss Cornelia is not angry or offended. She eagerly listens, she wants more. Because it is THE TRUTH. And nobody in her life ever tells her the truth, good or bad.

Here's an excerpt from the play. Miss Cornelia Scott has given Grace a gift - 15 roses to commemorate her 15 years as her secretary. The bouquet is the catalyst for all that follows.

From Something Unspoken, by Tennessee Williams

GRACE. Thank you for the roses.

CORNELIA. I don't want thanks from you either. All that I want is a little return of affection, not much, but sometimes a little!

GRACE. You have that always, Cornelia.

CORNELIA. And one thing more: a little outspokenness, too.

GRACE. Outspokenness?

CORNELIA. Yes, outspokenness, if that's not too much to ask from such a proud young lady!

GRACE. [rising from table] I am not proud and I am not young, Cornelia.

CORNELIA. Sit down. Don't leave the table.

GRACE. Is that an order?

CORNELIA. I don't give orders to you, I make requests.

GRACE. Sometimes the requests of an employer are hard to distinguish from orders. [She sits down]

CORNELIA. Please turn off the victrola. [Grace rises and stops the machine] Grace! -- Don't you feel there's -- something unspoken between us?

GRACE. No. No, I don't.

CORNELIA. I do. I've felt for a long time something unspoken between us.

GRACE. Don't you think there is always something unspoken between two people?

CORNELIA. I see no reason for it.

GRACE. But don't a great many things exist without reason?

CORNELIA. Let's not turn this into a metaphysical discussion.

GRACE. All right. But you mystify me.

CORNELIA. It's very simple. It's just that I feel that there's something unspoken between us that ought to be spoken ... Why are you looking at me like that?

GRACE. How am I looking at you?

CORNELIA. With positive terror!

GRACE. Cornelia!

CORNELIA. You are, you are, but I'm not going to be shut up!

GRACE. Go on, continue, please, do!

CORNELIA. I'm going to, I will, I will, I -- [The phone rings and Grace reaches for it] No, no, no, let it ring! [It goes on ringing] Take it off the hook!

GRACE. Do just let me --

CORNELIA. Off the hook, I told you! [Grace takes the phone off the hook. A voice says: "Hello? Hello? Hello? Hello?"]

GRACE. [suddenly she is sobbing] I can't stand it!

CORNELIA. Be STILL! Someone can hear you!]

VOICE. Hello? Hello? Cornelia Scott? [Cornelia seizes phone and slams it back into its cradle]

CORNELIA. Now stop that! Stop that silly little female trick!

GRACE. You say there's something unspoken. Maybe there is. I don't know. But I do know some things are better left unspoken. Also I know that when a silence between two people has gone on for a long time it's like a wall that's impenetrable between them! Maybe between us there is such a wall. One that's impenetrable. Or maybe you can break it. I know I can't. I can't even attempt to. You're the strong one of us two and surely you know it. -- Both of us have turned grey! -- But not the same kind of grey. In that velvet dressing-gown you look like the Emperor Tiberius! -- In his imperial toga! -- Your hair and your eyes are both the color of iron! Iron grey. Invincible looking! People nearby are all somewhat -- frightened of you. They feel your force and they admire you for it. They come to you here for opinions on this or that. What plays are good on Broadway this season, what books are worth reading and what books are trash and what -- what records are valuable and -- what is the proper attitude toward -- bills in Congress! -- Oh, you're a fountain of wisdom! -- And in addition to that, you have your -- wealth! Yes, you have your -- fortune! -- All of your real-estate holdings, your blue-chip stocks, your -- bonds, your -- mansion on Edgewater Drive, your -- shy little -- secretary, your -- fabulous gardens that Pilgrims cannot go into ...

CORNELIA. Oh, yes, now you are speaking, now you are speaking at last! Go on, please go on speaking.

GRACE. I am -- very -- different! -- Also turning grey but my grey is different. Not iron, like yours, not imperial, Cornelia, but grey, yes, grey, the -- color of a ... cobweb ... [She starts the record again, very softly] -- Something white getting soiled, the grey of something forgotten. [The phone rings again. Neither of them seems to notice it] -- And that being the case, that being the difference between our two kinds of grey, yours and mine -- You mustn't expect me to give bold answers to questions that make the house shake with silence! To speak out things that are fifteen years unspoken! That long a time can make a silence a wall that nothing less than dynamite could break through and -- [She picks up the phone] I'm not strong enough, bold enough, I'm not --

CORNELIA. [fiercely] You're speaking into the phone!

GRACE. [into phone] Hello? Oh, yes, she's here. It's Esmerelda Hawkins. [Cornelia snatches the phone]

CORNELIA. What is it, Esmerelda? What are you saying, is the room full of women? What a babble of voices! What are you trying to tell me? Have they held the election already? What, what, what? Oh, this is maddening! I can't hear a word that you're saying, it sounds like the Fourth of July, a great celebration! Ha, ha, now try once more with your mouth closer to the phone! What, what? Would I be willing to what? You can't be serious! Are you out of your mind? [She speaks to Grace in a panicky voice] She wants to know if I would be willing to serve as vice-Regent! [into phone] Esmerelda! Will you listen to me? What's going on? Are there some fresh defections? How does it look? Why did you call me again before the vote? Louder, please speak louder, and cup your mouth to the phone in case they're eavesdropping! Who asked if I would accept the vice-regency, dear? Oh, Mrs. Colby, of course! -- that treacherous witch! -- Esmerelda!! Listen! I -- WILL ACCEPT -- NO OFFICE -- EXCEPT -- THE HIGHEST! Did you understand that? I -- WILL ACCEPT NO OFFICE EXCEPT -- ESMERELDA! [She drops phone into its cradle]

GRACE. Have they held the election?

CORNELIA. [dazed] What? -- No, there's a five-minute recess before the election begins ...

GRACE. Things are not going well?

CORNELIA. "Would you accept the vice-Regency," she asked me, "if for some reason they don't elect you Regent?" -- Then she hung up as if somebody had snatched the phone away from her, or the house had -- caught fire!

GRACE. You shouted so I think she must have been frightened.

CORNELIA. Whom can you trust in this world, whom can you ever rely on?

GRACE. I think perhaps you should have gone to the meeting.

CORNELIA. I think my not being there is much more pointed.

GRACE. [rising again] May I be excused, now?

CORNELIA. No! Stay here!

GRACE. If that is just a request, I --

CORNELIA. That's an order! [Grace sits down and closes her eyes] When you first came to this house -- do you know I didn't expect you?

GRACE. Oh, but Cornelia, you'd invited me here.

CORNELIA. We hardly knew each other.

GRACE. We'd met the summer before when Ralph was --

CORNELIA. Living! Yes, we met at Sewanee where he was a summer instructor.

GRACE. He was already ill.

CORNELIA. I thought what a pity that lovely, delicate girl hasn't found someone she could lean on, who could protect her! And two months later I heard through Clarabelle Drake that he was dead ...

GRACE. You wrote me such a sweet letter, saying how lonely you were since the loss of your mother and urging me to rest here till the shock was over. You seemed to understand how badly I needed to withdraw for a while from -- old associations. I hesitated to come. I didn't until you wrote me a second letter ...

CORNELIA. After I received yours. You wanted urging.

GRACE. I wanted to be quite sure I was really wanted! I only came intending to stay a few weeks. I was so afraid that I would outstay my welcome!

CORNELIA. How blind of you not to see how desperately I wanted to keep you here forever!

The Books: "Talk To Me Like the Rain ... And Let Me Listen" (Tennessee Williams)

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

Next Tennessee Williams play on the shelf is a one-act called Talk To Me Like the Rain ... And Let Me Listen.

A favorite with actors - it's a two person play. There are two unnamed characters: Man and Woman. They live in a cold-water flat on the Lower East Side. He is a drunk. She is wasting away to nothing. There is intimacy between them - the intimacy of desperation. He woke up that morning in some random hotel in a bathtub full of ice cubes. No idea how he got there. He found his way home. Meanwhile, she has drunk nothing but water for 3 days. She stares out the window. She is wasting away. On purpose. Actors love this play because both characters have nice long juicy monologues - and also it's one of those plays where all you need to do is just show up, be honest, be in the moment, and connect to the other actor. It's a very rich piece of writing. He keeps begging her to talk: "talk to me like the rain ... and let me listen ..."

I've seen this play done where it's been TERRIBLE. The writing is poetic, heightened, Williams-esque ... and when the actors don't get inside of it, don't own the language, and also don't connect to each other - they look like jagoffs. But I have also seen this play done (my friend Jen did it - this is the production I'm talking of) where it is absolutely RIVETING. You are drawn into the world of these two people who ... even though they are on their last legs ... love each other more than anything.

The play doesn't "go" anywhere - there is no plot ... so I'll just excerpt a bit from their conversation.

From Talk To Me Like the Rain ... And Let Me Listen, by Tennessee Williams

MAN. Can you talk to me, honey? Can you talk to me, now?

WOMAN. Yes!

MAN. Well, talk to me like the rain and -- let me listen, let me lie here and -- listen ... [He falls back across the bed, rolls on his belly, one arm hanging over the side of the bed and occasionally drumming the floor with his knuckles. The mandolin continues] It's been too long a time since -- we levelled with each other. Now tell me things: What have you been thinking in the silence? -- While I've been passed around like a dirty postcard in the city ... Tell me, talk to me! Talk to me like the rain and I will lie here and listen.

WOMAN. I --

MAN. You've got to, it's necessary! I've got to know, so talk to me like the rain and I will lie here and listen, I will lie here and --

WOMAN. I want to go away.

MAN. You do?

WOMAN. I want to go away!

MAN. How?

WOMAN. Alone! [She returns to window] I'll register under a made-up name at a little hotel on the coast ...

MAN. What name?

WOMAN. Anna -- Jones ... The chambermaid will be a little old lady who has a grandson that she talks about ... I'll sit in the chair while the old lady makes the bed, my arms will hang over the -- sides, and -- her voice will be -- peaceful ... She'll tell me what her grandson had for supper! -- tapioca and -- cream ... [The Woman sits by the window and sips the water] -- The room will be shadowy, cool, and filled with the murmur of --

MAN. Rain?

WOMAN. Yes. Rain.

MAN. And?

WOMAN. Anxiety will -- pass -- over!

MAN. Yes ...

WOMAN. After a while the little old woman will say, Your bed is made up, Miss, and I'll say -- Thank you ... Take a dollar out of my pocketbook. The door will close. And I'll be alone again. The windows will be tall with long blue shutters and it will be a season of rain -- rain -- rain ... My life will be like the room, cool -- shadowy cool and -- filled with the murmur of --

MAN. Rain....

WOMAN. I will receive a check in the mail every week that I can count on. The little old lady will cash the checks for me and get me books from a library and pick up -- laundry ... I'll always have clean things! -- I'll dress in white. I'll never be very strong or have much energy left, but have enough after a while to walk on the -- esplanade -- to walk on the beach without effort ... In the evening I'll walk on the esplanade along the beach. I'll have a certain beach where I go to sit, a little way from the pavillion where the band plays Victor Herberg selections while it gets dark ... I'll have a big room with shutters on the windows. There will be a season of rain, rain, rain. And I will be so exhausted after my life in the city that I won't mind just listening to the rain. I'll be so quiet. The lines will disappear from my face. My eyes won't be inflamed at all any more. I'll have no friends. I'll have no acquaintances even. When I get sleepy, I'll walk slowly back to the little hotel. The clerk will say, Good evening, Miss Jones, and I'll just barely smile and take my key. I won't ever look at a newspaper or hear a radio; I won't have any idea what's going on in the world. I will not be conscious of time passing at all ... One day I will look in the mirror and I will see that my hair is beginning to turn grey and for the first time I will realize that I have been living in this little hotel under a made-up name without any friends or acquaintances or any kind of connections for twenty-five years. It will surprise me a little bit but it won't bother me any. I will be glad that time has passed as easily as that. Once in a while I may go out to the movies. I will sit in the back row with all that darkness around me and figures sitting motionless on each side not conscious of me. Watching the screen. Imaginary people. People in stories. I will read long books and the journals of dead writers. I will feel closer to them than I ever felt to people I used to know before I withdrew from the world. It will be sweet and cool this friendship of mine with dead poets, for I won't have to touch them or answer their questions. They will talk to me and not expect me to answer. And I'll get sleepy listening to their voices explaining the mysteries to me. I'll fall asleep with the book still in my fingers, and it will rain. I'll wake up and hear the rain and go back to sleep. A season of rain, rain, rain ... Then one day, when I have closed a book or come home alone from the movies at eleven o'clock at night -- I will look in the mirror and see that my hair has turned white. White, absolutely white. As white as the foam on the waves. [She gets up and moves about the room as she continues] I'll run my hands down my body and feel how amazingly light and thin I have grown. Oh, my, how thin I will be. Almost transparent. Not hardly real any more. Then I will realize, I will know, sort of dimly, that I have been staying on here in this little hotel, without any -- social connections, responsibilities, anxieties or disturbances of any kind -- for just about fifty years. Half a century. Practically a lifetime. I won't even remember the names of the people I knew before I came here nor how it feels to be someone waiting for someone that -- may not come ... Then I will know -- looking in the mirror -- the first time has come for me to walk out alone once more on the esplanade with the strong wind beating on me, the white clean wind that blows from the edge of the world, from even further than that, from the cool outer edges of space, from even beyond whatever there is beyond the edges of space ... [She sits down again unsteadily by the window] -- Then I'll go out and walk on the esplanade. I'll walk alone and be blown thinner and thinner.

MAN. Baby. Come back to bed.

WOMAN. And thinner and thinner and thinner and thinner and thinner! [He crosses to her and raises her forcibly from the chair] -- Till finally I won't have any body at all, and the wind picks me up in its cool white arms forever, and takes me away!

MAN. [presses his mouth to her throat] Come on back to bed with me!

WOMAN. I want to go away, I want to go away! [He releases her and she crosses to center of room sobbing uncontrollably. She sits down on the bed. He sighs and leans out the window, the light flickering beyond him, the rain coming down harder. The Woman shivers and crosses her arms against her breasts. Her sobbing dies out but she breathes with effort. Light flickers and wind whines coldly. The Man remains leaning out. At last she says to him softly --] Come back to bed. Come on back to bed, baby ... [He turns his lost face to her as --]

THE CURTAIN FALLS

The Books: "This Property is Condemned" (Tennessee Williams)

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

Next Tennessee Williams play on the shelf is, along with 27 Wagons Full of Cotton (excerpt here), probably his most famous one-act - and it is called This Property is Condemned. This Property is Condemned is also probably one of his most difficult pieces to stage, for various reasons, the first being: the lead girl is 13 years old. Finding a child actor who can act is difficult enough - but to find one who can play this lead part?? It would require a Jodie Foster level of child actor talent. A child actress who can also convey a world-weary sense of knowingness. This is a damaged young girl. A Blanche DuBois in training. She is sexually knowing. She is a child. A tough mix. Other child actresses who could do it ... Anna Paquin would have been great ... maybe a young Claire Danes ... And the other character, Tom, has to be a 16 year old boy. So again - there are casting struggles here. If the characters are not in their teens, the play doesn't really work.

Also - it's only 9 or 10 pages long, but it is an entire WORLD created. This is why it's so famous, I think. The two characters - Willie and Tom - are complete individuals, three-dimensional ... Williams is amazing how he just tosses you right into their world.

It takes place in Mississippi - in the middle of nowhere. A nowhere town with train tracks running through it.

Willie is a 13 year old girl. Listen to how Williams describes her to us. Makes me think he also could have written novels:

She is a remarkable apparition -- thin as a beanpole and dressed in outrageous cast-off finery. She wears a long blue velvet party dress with a filthy cream lace collar and sparkling rhinestone beads. On her feet are battered silver kid slippers with large ornamental buckles. Her wrists and her fingers are resplendent with dimestone jewelry. She has applied rouge to her childish face in artless crimson daubs and her lips are made up in a preposterous Cupid's bow. She is about thirteen and there is something ineluctably childlike and innocent in her appearance despite the makeup. She laughs frequently and wildly and with a sort of precocious, tragic abandon.

God. Williams just helps actors out enormously with character descriptions like that one.

The curtain goes up and we see her balancing herself precariously on a railroad track, walking along, trying to keep steady - it is a game, she tries to go further and further every day, starting at the water tank - in one hand she holds a doll, in the other she holds a rotten banana. Tom strolls along, he is holding a kite ... he strikes up a conversation with Willie. He has heard about her, in the town, through gossip, but hasn't met her before. She dropped out of school years ago.

Her story is this: She and her parents and her older sister Alva ran a boarding house right next to the train tracks. The main clientele were railroad men - and most of them continued to stop over there because of the attraction of Alva. All of this comes out in Willie's conversation with Tom. We can read between the lines of Willie's tale - Alva was sleeping with these men for money, and for things. They gave her chocolates, "jewels", they took her out ... But make no mistake - "they" took her out, not just one of the guys. Alva was sleeping with the entire staff of the railroad. The boarding house was a sort of one-girl whorehouse. Willie, a child, witnessed all of this and knew that the only thing she wanted to be when she 'grew up' was to be just like Alva. Meanwhile, Alva was probably 16 years old while all this was going on ... so the entire story is sordid, depressing, and awful.

Then, Willie informs Tom, her mother died ... her father disappeared ... and for a while it was just Willie and Alva. Then Alva got sick in the lungs, and after a brief illness, she died. Willie is now on her own, orphaned, and still living in the old boarding house - which now has a big sign outside saying: THIS PROPERTY IS CONDEMNED. Willie hides upstairs when the inspectors come. She rummages through garbage pails for food. And she dresses up in her dead sister's whorish clothes. She puts makeup on her face. She is a garish little whore-in-training.

The whole thing is just awful. AWFUL. Williams is remarkable how he gets all of this information out. The entire play is exposition - basically Tom asking questions, and Willie answering - but none of it feels like exposition. It feels like this awful story being revealed, slowly ... and the MOST awful thing about it is that Willie doesn't really see it as awful. She wants to be a whore - she wishes the railroad men would come around again - she wants them to give her chocolates, and jewelry, and take her out dancing ... but she is only 13 years old.

Argh. Great one-act. One of the best ever written I'd say. Beginning playwrights would do well to study the CRAP out of this play!!

I'll start my excerpt almost 3/4 of the way through the play and take it to the end.

From This Property is Condemned, by Tennessee Williams

TOM. Frank Waters said that ...

WILLIE. What?

TOM. You know.

WILLIE. Know what?

TOM. You took him inside and danced for him with your clothes off.

WILLIE. Oh. Crazy Doll's hair needs washing. I'm scared to wash it though 'cause her head might come unglued where she had that compound fracture of the skull. I think that most of her brains spilled out. She's been acting silly ever since. Saying an' doing the most outrageous things.

TOM. Why don't you do that for me?

WILLIE. What? Put glue on your compound fracture?

TOM. Naw. What you did for Frank Waters.

WILLIE. Because I was lonesome then an' I'm not lonesome now. You can tell Frank Waters that. Tell him that I've inherited all of my sister's beaus. I go out steady with men in responsible jobs. The sky sure is white. Ain't it? White as a clean piece of paper. In Five A we used to draw pictures. Miss Preston would give us a piece of white foolscap an' tell us to draw what we pleased.

TOM. What did you draw?

WILLIE. I remember I drawn her a picture one time of my old man getting conked with a bottle. She thought it was good, Miss Preson, she said, "Look here. Here's a picture of Charlie Chaplin with his hat on the side of his head!" I said, "Aw, naw, that's not Charlie Chaplin, that's my father, an' that's not his hat, it's a bottle!"

TOM. What did she say?

WILLIE. Oh, well. You can't make a school-teacher laugh.
You're the only star
In my blue hea-VEN ...
The principal used to say there must've been something wrong with my home atmosphere because of the fact that we took in railroad men an' some of 'em slept with my sister.

TOM. Did they?

WILLIE. She was The Main Attraction. The house is sure empty now.

TOM. You ain't still living there, are you?

WILLIE. Sure.

TOM. By yourself?

WILLIE. Uh-huh. I'm not supposed to be but I am. The property is condemned but there's nothing wrong with it. Some county investigator come snooping around yesterday. I recognized her by the shape of her hat. It wasn't exactly what I would call stylish-looking.

TOM. Naw?

WILLIE. It looked like something she took off the lid of the stove. Alva knew lots about style. She had ambitions to be a designer for big wholesale firms in Chicago. She used to submit her pictures. It never worked out.
You're the only star
In my blue hea-ven ...

TOM. What did you do? About the investigator?

WILLIE. Laid low upstairs. Pretended like no one was home.

TOM. Well, how do you manage to keep on eating?

WILLIE. Oh, I don't know. You keep a sharp lookout you see things lying around. This banana, perfectly good, for instance. Thrown in a garbage pail in back of the Blue Bird Cafe. [She finishes the banana and tosses away the peel]

TOM. [grinning] Yeh. Miss Preston for instance.

WILLIE. Naw, not her. She gives you a white piece of paper, says, "Draw what you please!" One time I drawn her a picture of -- Oh, but I told you that, huh? Will you give Frank Waters a message?

TOM. What?

WILLIE. Tell him the freight sup'rintendent has bought me a pair of kid slippers. Patent. The same as the old ones of Alva's. I'm going to dances with them at Moon Lake Casino. All night I'll be dancing an' come home drunk in the morning! We'll have serenades with all kinds of musical instruments. Trumpets an' trombones. An' Hawaiian steel guitars. Yeh! Yeh! [She rises excitedly] The sky will be white like this.

TOM. [impressed] Will it?

WILLIE. Uh-huh. [She smiles vaguely and turns slowly toward him] White -- as a clean -- piece of paper ... [then excitedly] I'll draw -- pictures on it!

TOM. Will you?

WILLIE. Sure!

TOM. Pictures of what?

WILLIE. Me dancing! With the freight sup'rintendent! In a pair of patent kid shoes! Yeh! Yeh! With French heels on them as high as telegraph poles! An' they'll play my favorite music!

TOM. Your favorite?

WILLIE. Yeh. The same as Alva's. [breathlessly, passionately]
You're the only STAR --
In my blue HEA-VEN ...
I'll ---

TOM. What?

WILLIE. I'll -- wear a corsage!

TOM. What's that?

WILLIE. Flowers to pin on your dress at a formal affair! Rosebuds! Violets! And lilies-of-the-valley! When you come home it's withered but you stick 'em in a bowl of water to freshen 'em up.

TOM. Uh-huh.

WILLIE. That's what Alva done. [She pauses, and in the silence the train whistles] The Cannonball Express ...

TOM. You think a lot about Alva. Don't you?

WILLIE. Oh, not so much. Now an' then. It wasn't like death in the movies. Her beaux disappeared. An' they didn't have violins playing. I'm going back now.

TOM. Where to, Willie?

WILLIE. The water-tank.

TOM. Yeah?

WILLIE. An' start all over again. Maybe I'll break some kind of continuous record. Alva did once. At a dance marathon in Mobile. Across the state line. Alabama. You can tell Frank Waters everything that I told you. I don't have time for inexperienced people. I'm going out now with popular railroad men, men with good salaries, too. Don't you believe me?

TOM. No. I think you're drawing an awful lot on your imagination.

WILLIE. Well, if I wanted to I could prove it. But you wouldn't be worth convincing. [She smooths out Crazy Doll's hair] I'm going to live for a long, long time like my sister. An' when my lungs get affected I'm going to die like she did -- maybe not like in the movies, with violins playing -- but with my pearl earrings on an' my solid gold beads from Memphis ...

TOM. Yes?

WILLIE. [examining Crazy Doll very critically] An' then I guess --

TOM. What?

WILLIE. [gaily but with a slight catch] Somebody else will inherit all of my beaux! The sky sure is white.

TOM. It sure is.

WILLIE. White as a clean piece of paper. I'm going back now.

TOM. So long.

WILLIE. Yeh. So long. [She starts back along the railroad track, weaving grotesquely to keep her balance. She disappears. Tom wets his finger and holds it up to test the wind. Willie is heard singing from a distance]
You're the only star
In my blue heaven --
[There is a brief pause. The stage begins to darken]
An' you're shining just --
For me!

CURTAIN

The Books: "Hello from Bertha" (Tennessee Williams)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library. Still in Tennessee Williams land.

Next Tennessee Williams play on the shelf is a one-act called Hello from Bertha.

This play takes place in "the valley" - a red-light district in East St. Louis. Bertha, a whore who works in a whore-house, is ... well, she's dying. But she won't admit it. Something is seriously wrong with her. She has been lying on her bed for two weeks, unable to do anything, she feels awful, she knows deep down inside that this is the end. Goldie, the woman who runs the whore-house, comes into Bertha's room at the top of the play and demands: "what are you going to do?" Basically, she can't continue to put Bertha up if Bertha will no longer work and bring in money. Goldie is not a bad woman, just a practical business-minded woman - so she pushes Bertha to decide: what are you going to do? Bertha resists, becoming hysterical. Goldie threatens to call the hospital and have her taken away. Goldie then suggests that Bertha write to "Charlie" - Charlie owns a hardware store in Memphis and Bertha used to work in the store before she moved away. And from the sound of it, they had a torrid affair, involving "the back room" of the store, etc. This was years ago. But apparently, Charlie once said to her: "If you ever need anything, you just let Charlie know." Bertha has never forgotten. Charlie is now married, with a kid ... but Bertha still remembers Charlie, and kind of keeps the Charlie option open in her heart ... as something that she can always call upon when things get too bad. (As an audience member, I am not so sure of Charlie's goodness - he sounds like a sleaze-bag to me - but I think that's the whole point. It doesn't matter what I think - to this Bertha person, she would not have been able to get through her rough years as a whore without knowing that out there, somewhere, was a man who had been kind to her, and cared about her welfare. Loneliness does horrible things to a person's soul.) Bertha has Charlie's address memorized. Goldie keeps telling her to write to him, have him wire some money, help her out so she can get looked at by a doctor ... Bertha gets more and more hysterical. Bertha probably has some kind of mental illness - she's paranoid, suspicious, delusional, etc. Goldie keeps pushing her to decide - she asks her if she wants a priest, she thinks it might be time to confess her sins ... it is obviously the end of the road for Bertha. Finally, Goldie leaves the room - and she does, indeed, go and call an ambulance to come take Bertha away. But we don't know that. Bertha is left alone in her room for a bit. She is hysterical.

I'll excerpt from that point to the end of the play.

From Hello from Bertha, by Tennessee Williams

BERTHA. Oh, Charlie, Charlie, you were such a sweet, sweet! [Her head rocks and she smiles in agony] You done me dirt more times than i could count, Charlie -- stood me up, married a little choir-singer -- Oh, God! I love you so much it makes my guts ache to look at your blessed face in the picture! [Her ecstasy fades and the look of schizophrenic suspicion returns] Where's that hell-cat gone to? Where's my ten dollars? Hey, YOU!! Come back in here with that money! I'll brain you if ever I catch you monkeying around with any money belonging to me! ... Oh, Charlie ... I got a sick headache, Charlie. No, honey. Don't go out tonight. [She gets up from the rocker] Hey, you! Bring me a cold ice-pack -- my head's aching. I got one hell of a hang-over, baby! [She laughs] Vagrancy, huh? Vagrancy your Aunt Fanny! Get me my lawyer. I got influence in this town. Yeah. My folks own half the oil wells in the state of -- of -- Nevada. [She laughs] Yeah, that's a laugh, ain't it? [Lena, a dark Jewish girl in pink satin trunks and blouse, comes in the door. Bertha looks at her with half-opened eyes] Who're you?

LENA. It's me, Lena.

BERTHA. Oh, Lena, huh? Set down an' take a load off yer feet. Have a cigarette, honey. I ain't feeling good. There ain't any cigarettes here. Goldie took 'em. She takes everything I got. Set down an' -- take a --

LENA. [in doorway] Goldie told me you weren't feelin' so good this evening so I thought I'd just look in on you, honey.

BERTHA. Yeah, that's a laugh, ain't it? I'm all right. I'll be on the job again tonight. You bet. I always come through, don't I, kid? Ever known me to quit? I may be a little down on my luck right now but -- that's all! [She pauses, as if for agreement] That's all, ain't it, Lena? I ain't old. I still got my looks. Ain't I?

LENA. Sure you have, Bertha. [There is a pause]

BERTHA. Well, what're you grinning about?

LENA. I ain't grinning, Bertha.

BERTHA. [herself slightly smiling] I thought maybe you thought there was something funny about me saying I still had my looks.

LENA. [after a pause] No, Bertha, you got me wrong.

BERTHA. [hoarsely] Listen, sweetheart, I know the Mayor of this God damn little burg. Him and me are like that. See? I can beat any rap you try to hang on me and I don't give a damn what. Vagrance, huh? That's a sweet laugh to me! Get me my traveling bag, will you, Lena? Where is it? I been thrown out of better places than this. [She rises and drags herself vaguely about the room and then collapses on bed. Lena moves toward the bed] God, I'm too tired. I'll just lay down till my head stops swimming ... [Goldie appears in the doorway. She and Lena exchange significant glances]

GOLDIE. Well, Bertha, have you decided yet?

BERTHA. Decided what?

GOLDIE. What you're gonna do?

BERTHA. Leave me be. I'm too tired.

GOLDIE. [casually] Well, I've called up the hospital, Bertha. They're sending an ambulance around to get you. They're going to put you in a nice clean ward.

BERTHA. Tell 'em to throw me in the river and save the state some money. Or maybe they're scared I'd pollute the water. I guess they'll have to cremate me to keep from spreadin' infection. Only safe way of disposin' of Bertha's remains. That's a sweet laugh, ain't it? Look at her, Lena, that slut that calls herself Goldie. She thinks she's big-hearted. Ain't that a laugh? The only thing big about her is the thing that she sits on. Yeah, the old horse! She comes in here talking soft about callin' a priest an' havin' me stuck in the charity ward. Not me. None a that stuff for me, I'll tell you!

GOLDIE. [with controlled fury] You better watch how you talk. They'll have you in the strait-jacket, that's what!

BERTHA. [suddenly rising] Get the hell out! [She throws a glass at Goldie, who screams and runs out. Bertha then turns to Lena] Set down and take a letter for me. There's paper under that kewpie.

LENA. [looking on the dresser] No, there ain't, Bertha.

BERTHA. Ain't? I been robbed a that, too? [Lena walks to the table by the bed and picks up a tablet]

LENA. Here's a piece, Bertha.

BERTHA. All right. Take a letter. To Mr. Charlie Aldrich, owner of the biggest hardware store in the City of Memphis. Got that?

LENA. What's the address, Bertha?

BERTHA. It's 563 Central Avenue. Got it? Yeah, that's right. Mr. Charlie Aldrich. Dear Charlie. They're fixing to lock me up in the city bug-house. On a charge of criminal responsibility without due process of law. Got that? [Lena stops writing] And I'm as sane as you are right this minute, Charlie. There's nothing wrong with my upper-story and there never will be. Got that? [Lena looks down and pretends to write] So come on down here, Charlie, and bail me out of here, honey, for old times' sake. Love and kisses, your old sweetheart, Bertha ... Wait a minute. Put a P.S, and say how's the wife and your -- No! Scratch it out! That don't belong in there. Scrach it all out, the whole damn thing! [There is a painful silence. Bertha sighs and turns slowly on the bed, pushing her damp hair back] Get you a clean sheet of paper. [Lena rises and tears another sheet from the tablet. A young Girl sticks her head in the door]

GIRL. Lena!

LENA. Coming!

BERTHA. Got it?

LENA. Yes.

BERTHA. That's right. Now just say this. Hello from Bertha -- to Charlie -- with all her love. Got that? Hello from Bertha -- to Charlie ...

LENA. [rising and straightening her blouse] Yes.

BERTHA. With all ... her love ... [The music in the lower room recommences]

CURTAIN

The Books: "The Long Goodbye" (Tennessee Williams)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library. Still in Tennessee Williams land.

Next Tennessee Williams play on the shelf is a one-act called The Long Goodbye.

A sad sad sad little play. Ouch. It makes my heart hurt.

Joe is a frustrated writer. He is haunted (literally) by the ghost of his dead mother. He still lives in the apartment where he grew up - and as the play opens - movers have come and are taking the furniture away. He will be moving on. But this is not easy for him. In leaving this apartment, he will be leaving his past. He has a kid sister - Myra - who was a hot little number. He hasn't seen her in years - she has moved away. The dead mother AND Myra (in a couple of different incarnations through the years) walk in and out of the present action, as the movers take the stuff away ... Joe is literally a haunted man. He's a writer. He can't write. He has lost touch with Myra - who was, when he knew her, a hot young thing - but a good kid with a good heart. She just happened to be a swimming champion who looked great in her bathing suit - and so had a lot of attention from boys. But then when she would go out with them, wanting a little bit of fun (really - just fun - like dancing, and flirting, etc.) - the guys would always turn nasty and try stuff with her. She fended them off the best she could. But now Myra - as is so often the case with girls who develop early - has slid off the rails. By the end of the play, when she "appears" to Joe - she is now a blowsy whorish woman - obviously wearing rich clothes given to her by some sugar daddy. Innocence lost. Sexuality cheapened.

Oh, and the father ... the father is a total mystery. He is only spoken of in passing ... a silent, grumpy man ... who one day just basically got up, walked out of the house, and was never heard from again. He has left everyone baffled in his wake. Did he just ... not love them at all? WTF??

The play is the movement of Joe ... trying to accept his past, his losses ... and trying to move on.

It's tragic.

I'll post the bit where he talks to his dead mother. Some gorgeous writing here. Williams at his best.

From The Long Goodbye, by Tennessee Williams.

[Mother appears in the door -- a worn, little woman in a dingy wrapper with an expression that is personally troubled and confused]

MOTHER. Joe, aren't you going to bed?

JOE. Yes. In a minute.

MOTHER. I think you've written enough tonight, Joe.

JOE. I'm nearly finished. I just wanta finish this sentence.

MOTHER. Myra's still out.

JOE. She went to the Chase Roof.

MOTHER. Couldn't you go along with her sometimes? Meet the boys that she goes out with?

JOE. No, I can't horn in on her dates. Hell, if I had a job I couldn't pay tips for that crowd!

MOTHER. I'm worried about her.

JOE. What for? She says she's older than I am, Mother, an' I guess she's right.

MOTHER. No, she's only a baby. You talk to her, Joe.

JOE. Okay.

MOTHER. I regret that she took that job now, Joe. She should've stayed on at high school.

JOE. She wanted things -- money, clothes -- you can't blame her. 'S Dad out?

MOTHER. Yes ... She's given up her swimming.

JOE. She got kicked off the Lorelei team.

MOTHER. What for, Joe?

JOE. She broke training rules all the time. Hell, I can't stop her.

MOTHER. She listens to you.

JOE. Not much.

MOTHER. Joe --

JOE. Yes?

MOTHER. Joe, it's come back on me, Joe.

JOE. [facing her slowly] What?

MOTHER. The operation wasn't no use. And all it cost us, Joe, the bills not paid for it yet.

JOE. Mother -- what makes you think so?

MOTHER. The same pain's started again.

JOE. How long?

MOTHER. Oh, some time now.

JOE. Why didn't you ---?

MOTHER. Joe ... what's the use?

JOE. Maybe it's -- not what you think! You've got to go back. For examination, Mom!

MOTHER. No. This is the way I look at it, Joe. Like this. I've never liked being cramped. I've always wanted to have space around me, plenty of space, to live in the country on the top of a hill. I was born in the country, raised there, and I've hankered after it lots in the last few years.

JOE. Yes. I know. [Now he speaks to himself] Those Sunday afternoon rides in the country, the late yellow sun through an orchard, the twisted shadows, the crazy old wind-beaten house, vacant, lop-sided, and you pointing at it, leaning out of the cary, trying to make Dad stop --

MOTHER. Look! That house, it's for sale! It oughta go cheap! Twenty acres of apple, a hen-house, and look, a nice barn! It's run-down now but it wouldn't cost much to repair! Stop, Floyd, go slow along here!

JOE. But he went by fast, wouldn't look, wouldn't listen! The snake-fence darted away from the road and a wall of stone rose and the sun disappeared for a moment. Your face was dark, your face looked desperate, Mother, as though you were starving for something you'd seen and almost caught in your hands -- but not quite. And then the car stopped in front of a road-side stand. "We need eggs." A quarter, a dime -- you borrowed a nickel from Dad. And the sun was low then, slanding across winter fields and the air was cold ...

MOTHER. Some people think about death as being laid down in a box under earth. But I don't. To me it's the opposite, Joe, it's being let out of a box. And going upwards, not down. I don't take stock in heaven, I never did. But I do feel like there's lots of room out there and you don't have to pay rent on the first of each month to any old tight-fisted Dutchman who kicks about how much water you're using. There's freedom, Joe, and freedom's the big thing in life. It's funny that some of us don't ever get it until we're dead. But that's how it is and so we've got to accept it. The hard thing to me is leaving things not straightened out. I'd like to have some assurance, some definite knowledge of what you were going to do, of how things'll work out for you ... Joe!

JOE. Yes?

MOTHER. What would you do with three hundred dollars?

JOE. I'm not going to think about that.

MOTHER. I want you to, Joe. The policy's in your name. It's in the right hand drawer of the chiffonier, folded up under the handkerchief box and it's got ... [Her voice fades out and two of the Movers come in carrying a floor-lamp]

The Books: "The Strangest Kind of Romance" (Tennessee Williams)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library. Still in Tennessee Williams land. Funny - my sister Jean said to me last night: "Uhm ... will we moving on soon? I had NO IDEA the guy wrote so much. Sheesh ... take a break, buddy!!" haha

Next Tennessee Williams play on the shelf is a one-act called The Strangest Kind of Romance. It takes place (of course) in a rooming-house. A falling-down rooming house in an industrial town. The factory chugs away outside the window. It starts with the landlady showing a room to a potential tenant (the character name is Little Man). The tenant is a nervous sickly man, who shakes uncontrollably. He hopes to get a job at the factory. She shows him the room - all the men who have stayed there before have written their names on the wall. And one of them left a cat behind. The cat stays in the room and is a character in the play. The nervous man ends up taking the room basically because he feels a bond with the cat. The landlady is a talkative blowsy woman who pretty much accepts whatever male tenant comes as her lover, because her husband is ill. The nervous man kind of falls into a thing with the landlady - but the "strangest kind of romance" in the title is the romance between the man and the cat. The man has never loved anything. He loves this cat.

I'll excerpt from the second scene. It opens with the Little Man telling the sleeping cat about his day. He talks and talks and talks ... and the Landlady ends up walking in on this. Oh, and the Landlady also carried around a balalaika with her, and plays it occasionally. She sits down and starts to talk to the Little Man.

From The Strangest Kind of Romance, by Tennessee Williams.

LANDLADY. Some nights I hear you -- talking through the door. Who is he talking to, I used to wonder. [She chuckles] At first I imagined you had a woman in here. Well, I'm a tolerant woman. I know what people need is more than food and more than work at the plant. [She plays dreamily for a moment] So when I heard that talking I was pleased. I said to myself -- "That lonely little man has found a woman!" I only hoped it wasn't one picked up -- you know -- on the street. Women like that aren't likely to be very clean. Female hygiene's a lot more -- complicated. Well ... [The Little Man looks down in an agony of embarrassment[

LITTLE MAN. It wasn't -- a woman.

LANDLADY. I know. I found that out. Just you. Carrying on a one-sided conversation with a cat! Funny, yes -- but kind of pitiful, too. You a man not even middle-aged yet -- devoting all that care and time and affection -- on what? A stray alleycat you inherited just by chance from the man who stayed here before you, that fool of a Russian! The strangest kind of a romance ... a man -- and a cat! What we mustn't do is disregard nature. Nature says -- "Man takes woman or -- man is lonesome!" [She smiles at him coyly and moves a little closer] Nature has certainly never said, "Man take cat!"

LITTLE MAN. [suddenly, awkwardly rising] Nature has never said anything to me.

LANDLADY. [impatiently] Because you wouldn't listen!

LITTLE MAN. Oh, I listened. But all I ever heard was my own voice -- asking me troublesome questions!

LANDLADY. You hear me, don't you?

LITTLE MAN. I hear you singing when I come home sometimes. That's very good, I like it.

LANDLADY. Then why don't you stop in the parlor and have a chat? Why do you act so bashful? [She rises and stands back of him] We could talk -- have fun! When you took this room you gave me a false impression.

LITTLE MAN. What do you mean?

LANDLADY. Have you forgotten the conversation we had?

LITTLE MAN. I don't remember any conversation.

LANDLADY. You said you wanted to do just like the Russian.

LITTLE MAN. I meant about the cat, to have her with me!

LANDLADY. I told you he also helped about the house!

LITTLE MAN. I'm on the night-shift now!

LANDLADY. Quit dodging the issue! [There is a pause and then she touches his shoulder] I thought I explained things to you. My husband's a chronic invalid, codein, now, twice a day! Naturally I have -- lots of steam to blow off! [The Little Man moves nervously away. She follows ponderously, reaching above her to switch off the electric globe] Now -- that's better, ain't it?

LITTLE MAN. I don't think I know -- exactly.

LANDLADY. You ain't satisfied with the room?

LITTLE MAN. I like the room.

LANDLADY. I had the idea you wasn't satisfied with it.

LITTLE MAN. The room is home. I like it.

LANDLADY. The way you avoided having a conversation -- almost ran past the front room every night. Why don't we talk together? The cat's got your tongue?

LITTLE MAN. You wouldn't be talking -- to me.

LANDLADY. I'm talking to you -- direckly!

LITTLE MAN. Not to me.

LANDLADY. You! me! Where is any third party?

LITTLE MAN. There isn't a second party.

LANDLADY. What?

LITTLE MAN. You're only talking to something you think is me.

LANDLADY. Now we are getting in deep.

LITTLE MAN. You made me say it. [turning to face her] I'm not like you, a solid, touchable being.

LANDLADY. Words -- wonderful! The cat's let go of your tongue?

LITTLE MAN. You're wrong if you think I'm -- a person! I'm not -- no person! At all ...

LANDLADY. What are you, then, little man?

LITTLE MAN. [sighing and struggling] A kind of a -- ghost of a -- man ...

LANDLADY. [laughing] So you're not Napoleon, you're Napoleon's ghost!

LITTLE MAN. When a body is born in the world -- it can't back out ....

LANDLADY. Huh?

LITTLE MAN. But sometimes --

LANDLADY. What?

LITTLE MAN. [with a bewildered gesture] The body is only -- a shell. It may be alive -- when what's inside -- is too afraid to come out! It stays locked up and alone! Single! Private! That's how it is -- with me. You're not talkingn to me -- but just what you think is me!

LANDLADY. [laughing, gently] Such a lot of words. You've thrown me the dictionary. All you needed to say was that you're lonesome. [She touches his shoulder] Plain old lonesomeness, that's what's the matter with you! [He turns to her and she gently touches his face] Nature says, "Don't be lonesome!" [The curtain begins to fall] Nature says -- "Don't -- be lonesome!"

CURTAIN

The Books: "Lord Byron's Love Letter" (Tennessee Williams)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library. Still in Tennessee Williams land. Williams was prolific!

Next Tennessee Williams play on the shelf is a one-act called Lord Byron's Love Letter. A funny sad little play. There are four characters: The Spinster, The Old Woman, The Matron, and The Husband. It takes place in New Orleans during Mardi Gras in the late nineteenth century.

The Old Woman and the Spinster (they are either mother and daughter or grandmother and granddaughter) live in a dilapidated residence and claim to have, in their possession, a love letter from Lord Byron, written to The Spinster's grandmother. They charge money to anyone who wants to see it, and hear them tell the tale of how this meeting took place. At the very end of the play, it becomes clear that the entire thing is a scam. But, because it's a Tennessee Williams play, your heart kind of aches for the two con artists - because, yes, they are con artists - but also: for whatever reason, they have constructed this elaborate fantasy - the closeness of their family to the legendary Lord Byron - and they have created this fantasy not just to make money, but to give some meaning to their lives, to touch immortality. It is a fantasy they adore, it makes them feel important, as though their lives were somehow blessed by his presence. The Spinster and The Old Woman are fantasists of the highest order.

A woman (The Matron) shows up to see the letter. She is in town with her husband for Mardi Gras. Her husband tags along, uninterested in the letter - mainly because he is wasted. The Matron politely asks to hear the story of the romance between Lord Byron and their ancestor ... so The Spinster and The Old Woman read out loud from their ancestor's journal (again - you realize at the end of the play that none of this was real) - and then ... the big moment ... they let the guests SEE the letter. No one is allowed to READ the letter, though. They are only allowed to look at the envelope. Kind of a gyp, if you ask me!

Strange: whenever anyone arrives to see the letter and hear the story, The Old Woman, in some kind of ritual that I don't understand, goes and stands behind one of the window curtains so she is out of sight. And yet - as The Spinster starts to tell the story, The Old Woman continuously chimes in with corrections, additions, from behind the curtain.

There is a possibility - from reading the play - that the whole thing actually did happen (or something like it) to the Old Woman herself. Not at all the way these two say it, but perhaps she SAW Lord Byron once ... and elaborated that sighting of him into an entire love affair -- her excuse to retire from the world, and never go out again ... her excuse to bury her heart ... This would explain why she feels the need to hide behind the curtain ... and also would explain why, even though she is hidden, she has to keep chiming in with corrections.

I'll excerpt a bit from when the two are telling the story, and reading out loud from the journal.

From Lord Byron's Love Letter, by Tennessee Williams

SPINSTER. Near the end of her tour, my Grandmother and her Aunt went to Greece, to study the classic remains of the oldest civilization.

OLD WOMAN. [correcting] The oldest European civilization.

SPINSTER. It was an early morning in April of the year eighteen hundred and --

OLD WOMAN. Twenty-seven!

SPINSTER. Yes. In my Grandmother's journal she mentions --

OLD WOMAN. Read it, read it, read it.

MATRON. Yes, please read it to us.

SPINSTER. I'm trying to find the place, if you'll just be patient.

MATRON. Certainly, excuse me. [She punches her Husband who is nodding] Winston!

SPINSTER. Ah, here it is.

OLD WOMAN. Be careful! remember where to stop at, Ariadne!

SPINSTER. Shhh! [She adjusts her glasses and seats herself by the lamp] "We set out early that morning to inspect the ruins of the Acropolis. I know I shall never forget how extraordinarily pure the atmosphere was that morning. It seemed as though the world were not very old but very, very young, almost as though the world had been newly created. There was a taste of earliness in the air, a feeling of freshness, exhilarating my senses, exalting my spirit. How shall I tell you, dear Diary, the way the sky looked? It was almost as though I had moistened the tip of my pen in a shallow bowl full of milk, so delicate was the blue in the dome of the heavens. The sun was barely up yet, a tentative breeze disturbed the ends of my scarf, the plumes of the marvelous hat which I had bought in Paris and thrilled me with pride whenever I saw them reflected! The papers that morning, we read them over our coffee before we left the hotel, had spoken of possible war, but it seemed unlikely, unreal: nothing was real, indeed, but the spell of golden antiquity and rose-colored romance that breathed from this fabulous city."

OLD WOMAN. Skip that part! Get on to where she meets him!

SPINSTER. Yes .... [She turns several pages and continues] "Out of the tongues of ancients, the lyrical voices of many long-ago poets who dreamed of the world of ideals, who had in their hearts the pure and absolute image--"

OLD WOMAN. Skip that part! Slip down to where --

SPINSTER. Yes! Here! Do let us manage without any more interruptions! "The carriage came to a halt at the foot of the hill and my Aunt, not being too well--"

OLD WOMAN. She had a sore throat that morning.

SPINSTER. "-- preferred to remain with the driver while I undertook the rather steep climb on foot. As I ascended the long and crumbling flight of old stone steps --"

OLD WOMAN. Yes, yes, that's the place! [The Spinster looks up in annoyance. The Old Woman's cane taps impatiently behind the curtains] Go on, Ariadne!

SPINSTER. "I could not help observing continually above me a man who walked with a barely perceptible limp--"

OLD WOMAN. [in hushed wonder] Yes -- Lord Byron!

SPINSTER. "-- and as he turned now and then to observe beneath him the lovely panorama --"

OLD WOMAN. Actually he was watching the girl behind him!

SPINSTER. [sharply] Will you please let me finish? [There is no answer from behind the curtains, and she continues to read] "I was irresistibly impressed by the unusual nobility and refinement of his features!" [She turns a page]

OLD WOMAN. The handsomest man that ever walked the earth! [She emphasizes the speech with three slow but loud taps of her cane]

SPINSTER. [flurriedly] "The strength and grace of his throat, like that of a statue, the classic outlines of his profile, the sensitive lips and the slightly dilated nostrils, the dark lock of hair that fell down over his forehead in such a way that --"

OLD WOMAN. [tapping her cane rapidly] Skip that, it goes on for pages!

SPINSTER. "... When he had reached the very summit of the Acropolis he spread out his arms in a great, magnificent gesture like a young god. Now, thought I to myself, Apollo has come to earth in modern dress."

OLD WOMAN. Go on, skip that, get to where she meets him!

SPINSTER. "Fearing to interrupt his poetic trance, I slackened my pace and pretended to watch the view. I kept my look thus carefully averted until the narrowness of the steps compelled me to move close by him."

OLD WOMAN. Of course he pretended not to see she was coming!

SPINSTER. "Then finally I faced him."

OLD WOMAN. Yes!

SPINSTER. "Our eyes came to gether!"

OLD WOMAN. Yes! Yes! That's the part!

SPINSTER. "A thing which I don't understand had occurred between us, a flush as of recognition swept through my whole being! Suffused my --"

OLD WOMAN. Yes ... Yes, that's the part!

SPINSTER. "'Pardon me,' he exclaimed, 'you have dropped your glove!' And indeed to my surprise I found that I had, and as he returned it to me, his fingers ever so slightly pressed the cups of my palm."

OLD WOMAN. [hoarsely] Yes! [Her boxy fingers clutch higher up on the curtain, the other hand also appears, slightly widening the aperture]

SPINSTER. "Believe me, dear Diary, I became quite faint and breathless, I almost wondererd if I could continue my lonely walk through the ruins. Perhaps I stumbled, perhaps I swayed a little. I leaned for a moment against the side of a column. The sun seemed terribly brilliant, it hurt my eyes. Close behind me I heard that voice again, almost it seemed I could feel his breath on my --"

OLD WOMAN. Stop there! That will be quite enough! [The Spinster closes the journal]

MATRON. Oh, is that all?

OLD WOMAN. There's a great deal more that's not to be read to people.

MATRON. Oh.

SPINSTER. I'm sorry, I'll show you the letter.

MATRON. How nice! I'm dying to see it! Winston? Do sit up! [He has nearly fallen asleep. The Spinster produces from the cabinet another small packet which she unfolds. It contains the letter. She hands it to the Matron, who starts to open it]

OLD WOMAN. Watch out, watch out, that woman can't open the letter!

SPINSTER. No, no, please, you mustn't. The contents of the letter are strictly private. I'll hold it over here at a little distance so you can see the writing.

OLD WOMAN. Not too close, she's holding up her glasses! [The Matron quickly lowers her lorgnette]

SPINSTER. Only a short while later Byron was killed.

MATRON. How did he die?

OLD WOMAN. He was killed in action, defending the cause of freedom! [This is uttered so strongly the husband starts]

SPINSTER. When my Grandmother received the news of Lord Byron's death in battle, she retired from the world and remained in complete seclusion for the rest of her life.

MATRON. Tch-tch-tch! How dreadful! I think that was foolish of her. [The cane taps furiously behind the curtain]

SPINSTER. You don't understand. When a life is completed, it ought to be put away. It's like a sonnet. When you've written out the final couplet, why go on any further? You only destroy the part that's already written!