by Eric Lane
STAR: Does he see his dad?
BETTY: From a cab a couple weeks ago we saw him in rotted jogging shoes with glassy eyes, walking his dog.
STAR: He's not got that soap anymore?
BETTY: I don't watch for fear I'll see him.
STAR: So he could help with Jesse.
BETTY: He sends money.
STAR: I'm so relieved. Look, BETTY, I hate to say this, but I've got a stupid meeting at William Morris. So … what is it? I showed up. What do you have to tell me?
BETTY: What do I have to tell you?
STAR: You said on the phone you had to tell me something.
BETTY: Oh. I'm not jealous of you.
STAR: You're not?
BETTY: Before we drift apart, as we will and you decide you don't know me at all anymore, I want it in the record that I'll never envy you no matter what you accumulate, acquire …
STAR: You've got too much on the ball to envy anybody for Crissakes BETTY.
BETTY: True.
STAR: Don't blame me if the world hasn't acknowledged it. It's a crap shoot.
BETTY: Forget “the world.” Let's keep it about you and me shall we? I am proud, not ashamed, to look you in the eye and show you my hurt.
STAR: What in the hell have I done to hurt you?
BETTY: Are you kidding? You walk around this town like you never knew a lot of your old friends.
STAR: Oh, Jesus.
BETTY: Get real for Chrissakes.
STAR: Oh I got real all right. I have to hit the streets in baseball caps and dark glasses every day. I'm asked for money which I don't have yet. I hear from relatives I haven't met yet. I'm a freak even to you. Listen to you. So have a good day.
BETTY: Sit down. You sit down. (STAR sits.) We acted in the same company for ten years. We ate more dinners, spent more rotten hours together. I paid for more coffees. We slept together more nights….
STAR: You're not going around claiming that.
BETTY: You dog. I meant I had to put you to sleep, you drunk, on my couch a half dozen times. I'm not claiming to be your lost cousin or some high-school jerk. You always were using everyone, everything. And it worked. What are you complaining about? So here's to your fucking obese ego, your obscene Oscar and your fame.
(STAR pushes her drink away.)
STAR: You know what fame is? Multiply all the people you don't wanna know by two hundred million. That's fame. Fame is diarrhea. It's the drink that comes to your table from a dark corner of a restaurant and it could be from a deranged stalker or your future lover. Either way if you don't drink the shit they'll hate you till they die. There is nothing spiritual about fame. Fame is prostitution without body contact. It is no fun. It is hard on a person.
BETTY: Well I must say you looked like you had it in you.
STAR: Like I had what in me? Oh God tell me. You watched. You saw me up there?
BETTY: You said the perfect thing for exactly the right amount of time. I was surprised.
STAR: Katie and Bill didn't watch. It's amazing how many didn't bother.
BETTY: I can't believe Katie didn't watch it.
STAR: They had a gallery opening.
BETTY: She saw it on the news, didn't she?
STAR: They saw nothing.
BETTY: She didn't see the freaking paper?
STAR: She said it wasn't delivered that day.
BETTY: Maybe they were afraid to see you lose. I was.
STAR: Well, nobody expected I'd get it, least of all me.
BETTY: I didn't expect you to get it. You were up there with ancient deities, for heaven's sake.
STAR: So like I didn't deserve it?
BETTY: It's not for me to judge this stuff. So what if you didn't deserve it?
STAR: I didn't say I didn't deserve it. You hate me.
BETTY: I just hate your going off into the sunset like some Wag-nerian myth.
STAR: You're a better actress than I. I know that.
BETTY: Just not as lucky as you. Is that the message?
STAR: It wasn't luck. You know you never were my best friend, for cryin'out loud. It was years ago.
BETTY: You want me to buy that you don't know me at all? Ask me. I'll pretend we never met. Oh, you should be punished. God …
STAR: Oh, c'mon. Hey.
BETTY: It's like watching a ship sailing away forever.
STAR: For me it's like being on the ship.
BETTY: I never had so close a friend win one of those horrid things.
STAR: You consider me a close friend?
BETTY: Yes.
STAR: So why don't you act like a close friend and tell me to my face that you in fact are profoundly jealous of me?
BETTY: I would despise myself if I felt one ounce … of… of jealousy of you of all people. I was a damned good actress, better than most of the clowns out there.
STAR: Including me. This you made clear.
BETTY: YOU said it yourself. And I'd hate myself if I stooped to … to … jealousy … or …
STAR: Then you hate yourself.
BETTY: I don't hate myself for having my son, for … for …
STAR: Your son has nothing to do with this.
BETTY: I couldn't drag my ass around La-La Land with that kid.
STAR: I didn't make it in L.A. I made it here on the same stage, in the same company as you.
BETTY: I waited on tables. You've been subsidized since you were born.
STAR: I worked my ass off.
BETTY: You're still not good enough. You don't even know who the hellJerzy Grotowski is.
STAR: It's pronounced Yerzy. So why don't you throw your drink in my face? You've been dying to since you walked in here.
BETTY: That's where you're at.
STAR: Your hand's been shaking. You can hardly hold it back. Go ahead. Someone may take a picture. You'll get in the papers. People will gossip about it. You'll be welded to me for life. Maybe it'll get you a part in something.
BETTY: You weirdo.
STAR: Oh, cut the shit. You're just as fucking hard-hearted an entrepreneur as I am. For a month you've been trying to provoke this argument. I showed up. So go prove to the world you're intimate with a STAR …
BETTY: You know what a STAR is? You crock of shit?
STAR: Lower your …
BETTY: A STAR is one of those gorgeous glittering things in the heavens that mankind has been STAR ing at for millions of years. It's a fucking sun, a giant, burning miracle that makes life possible, something all your Hollywood fatheads couldn't imagine, much less originate. The STAR you are is the paper kind, with glue on the back, the kind you buy by the hundreds in a little box for a buck.
STAR: Cut the monologue and throw the drink in my face.
(BETTY stands in horror.)
BETTY: I wouldn't stoop to that clichÉ.
STAR: You are a clichÉ, the same predatory thing you were from the day I met you. You got me here, for what, your cut of the pie? So humiliate me. Let them take a picture. Get into the action. What else do you have left?
(BETTY lifts her drink and flings it into STAR 'sface. The two continue to look at one another. BETTY STAR ts to leave.)
STAR: Come back. Sit for Crissake.
(BETTY, reluctantly, returns and sits slowly. The two women STAR e blankly at their separate futures.)
BETTY: I've lived so long without money … that was never what it was about for me. I don't want any cut of your pie. I'm not even an actress any more. I… I just hate the way people suddenly go to some glittery Valhalla that you think is so cool but to me … It's like you all died and you're in some vault having a Hollywood virtual reality experience called success, and because of all this shit, I lose you. I knew it the minute you walked in, in those clothes. You'll never be the same to me nor I to you, the light around you will be too bright, too busy. I'll be some woman in a bad coat and a bad haircut who you'll be too guilty not to talk to and you'll hate me for showing up like some anchor on your velocity and it'll be that way till
we both are too old to care…. So, I'm forced to disappear…. into the proletarian hordes of… those who claim they knew you. And that reduces me.
STAR: That's ridiculous.
BETTY: It hurts my existence. Can't you come over to understand that? What you've done to me?
STAR: What have I done?
BETTY: You're dangerous. You're dangerous to my life. You're dangerous to my spirit, to my self-esteem and I can't know you anymore or even remember you.
(By now STAR has been brought to tears.)
STAR: God.
BETTY: It's not easy for me. You gonna be all right?
STAR: No. Are you?
BETTY: No.
STAR: You just scared the hell out of me.
BETTY: I know. I know.
STAR: I don't know what to do.
BETTY: Either do I. Gotta go.
STAR: No.
BETTY: Let me go.
STAR: Not this way.
(STAR grabs BETTY 'S hand, puts it to her cheek and kisses it. BETTY pulls away and exits. Music crawls in.)
21
Sigrid Heath
21, by Sigrid Heath, premiered at Actors& Writers on June 1, 2002. The play was directed by the author. The cast was as follows:
BRYN Nicole Quinn
BOO Sarah Chodoff
THE WAITER David Smilow
CHARACTERS
BRYN: Forties, an alpha creature.
BOO: Thirties, very beautiful, soft.
THE WAITER: Thirties to fifties, dignified.
(BRYN and BOO are sitting at a table at 21 in Manhattan. They're both dressed and accessorized expensively; BOO in black, BRYN in red. BOO'S JUST ARRIVED. SHE IS CRYING COPIOUSLY, AND FOR A COUPLE OF BEATS BRYN simply waits. BOO doesn't stop crying. BRYN can no longer tolerate it.)
BRYN: That's enough. (BOO continues to cry.)
BRYN: What's the matter with you! (BOO looks at her, incredulous; cries harder.)
BRYN: The schmuck is dead long live the schmuck. You're late. Did the funeral run over? (BOO wails. BRYN studies her.)
BRYN: You're off your meds, aren't you. (Reaching into her large designer bag, she spreads the goods on the table in front of BOO.) Prozac, Paxil, Zoloft…What do you need? Valium. Xanax. Heroin. Vitamin C? Vitamin E! I've suspected a vitamin deficiency. Kava. Rescue Remedy. No, none of that new age crap. Big Pharma! That's what you need. Go on! Help yourself! (BOO sorts through the offerings, pops one or two.)
BRYN: The drink! Your display diverted me. You'll feel better after our drink. WAITER! (He enters. Impassive.) Two stingers. Quickly. As you can see, we're in need. (THE WAITER acknowl edges the order and leaves.) Now, go to the loo. Your face is a horror. He is due and he'll be on time. He's a Republican.
BOO: Why are they always Republicans? BRYN: They have all the money.
BOO: I wasn't ready, Bryn.
BRYN: What do you mean you weren't ready? BOO: I wasn't ready to be …without him.
BRYN: “Without him” ? Him, he, they. Get in control of your pronouns. You're beyond him. He's coming through the door any minute. They are all alike and good for one thing only.
BOO: You don't understand….
BRYN: Yes, I do. I knew your sentimentality was a potential liability. But I calculated that your appreciation for Fendi and Manolo, Prada and Harry Winston would eclipse it. And you've always proved me right. I like being right, Boo. (THE WAITER delivers the drinks. Hovers near BOO.)
BRYN: Thank you. (He doesn't move.) THANK YOU! (THE WAITER looks at BOO. She smiles, releasing him. He nods and departs, with dignity.)
BOO: I loved him.
BRYN: Yes. That's what you do. That's your talent.
BOO: No, Bryn. I loved him.
BRYN: Don't poeticize; it gives me gastric reflux.
BOO: I LOVED HIM!
BRYN: Describe his death to me. Improve my mood.
BOO: It was his birthday. I'd given him a six-pack of Viagra and that new translation of the Kama Sutra. It's odd how many people die on their birthdays.
BRYN: What about The Cocktail?
BOO: We were trying a particularly athletic position. I'd suggested something more within his comfort level, but he seemed inspired. He was scaling the sacred mount when his face turned magenta, then he paled to a poignant gray. But, Bryn, he looked as if he'd seen a light!
BRYN: No doubt. What about…
BOO: I can't believe he's gone.
BRYN: What about The Cocktail? I assume you gave him The Cocktail. You mixed it, watched him drink it, and you can't believe he's gone. Are you unwell? (She signals. THE WAITER reappears.) Two more of the same.
BOO: Make mine tea, please. Earl Grey.
BRYN: You are unwell. (As THE WAITER turns to go, he offers BOO a handkerchief with which she dabs at her nose.)
BOO: I didn't give him The Cocktail.
BRYN WHAT?
BOO: I decided last year on his birthday not to give him The Cocktail. Ever.
BRYN: You …developed an alternative strategy without calling a meeting?
BOO: There was no alternative strategy.
BRYN: No Plan?
BOO: No Plan. At first he was just like the others. Besotted with himself; a god at his office and at all our restaurants. At home, he left the seat up, dribbled pee down the toilet, you know, the usual. And, of course, his cock was…
BOO AND BRYN: …his voice, his fist, his brain …
BOO: …until it wasn't any longer. He was terrified. He thought that's who he was! But I knew different. Anyone who'd seen him with his dog … HIS DOG! I'm keeping the dog.
BRYN: We never keep the dogs.
BOO: I'M KEEPING THE DOG! I loved the dog, too. They both had the same sweet, wrinkly muzzle.
BRYN: Insulin. Hold on, I've got this little pen thing, delivers a dose right in the thigh, easy, fast…(She injects herself.) Ah. That's better. And, now, I've heard enough of this nonsense. (THE WAITER returns with tea for BOO.)
BOO: Oh! Cookies with my tea. That's so thoughtful.
BRYN: My Stinger? (THE WAITER gives her a look.) Never mind. Thank you. THANK YOU! (THE WAITER stands guard by BOO.) THANK YOU, ASSHOLE, YOU MAY LEAVE NOW! (BOO nods and he leaves reluctantly.) There's something about this I don't like.
BOO: Why, Bryn?
BRYN: Why what?
BOO: I never asked, and now I'm asking. Why?
BRYN: Eros and Kratos, Boo. Kratos must win. Otherwise …le deluge. Chaos. We take what we've got—our assets, our capabilities—we maximize, leverage, cram, ram, dope, demand, cajole, we turn it to gold. We make it all—them all! —serve us. Why? Because I'm not interested in having it the other way around.
But there's something else at stake, here and now. We had an arrangement. A contract! I will consider this an aberration. But Boo. Never, never go off your mins and meds again. COMPLIANCE: That's your role.
And now, pull yourself together. Deep breath. Sit up tall, let's see that swan's neck. Lick your lips…(BOO complies: slowly lengthening her neck, lifting her elegant head, composing her features. Then, suddenly, she stops, considers, hides her face in her hands, sobs once, and when she reemerges she's a new woman.)
BOO: No.
BRYN: “No ”?!
BOO: I'm done. I loved him. I loved.
BRYN:STOP SAYING THAT! I'm getting a vicious headache. One more, Boo. The Plan was four. This was only number three. One more and the world is yours. Or whatever you think you want. Be a fucking zen nun, I don't care. But your last assignment is on his way, Boo, a marvel in Armani; his aorta patched with PVC. High level investor: Enron and …Never mind, you never care about their portfolios. You never need to care.
BOO: No. Never again. Excuse me? May I have the check? Please?
BRYN: WHAT? (To THE WAITER who has come to BOO'S side.) NOT YET! GO! (He moves closer to BOO.) You do not exist. (She zeros in on BOO.) WHAT'S HAPPENED TOYOU!
BOO: He was faithful.
BRYN: He was half dead!
BOO: Faithful in his mind!
BRYN: Senile dementia!
BOO: He changed me!
BRYN: (controlling herself with great effort) Now, Boo. You got a little tired. Lost your way in the woods. Watching bunnies and birdies, you thought, for a bizarre moment, you were one of them.
BOO: That's what he called me! Bunny!
BRYN: I think I've got some crack in here…
BOO: Why can't I be Bunny?
BRYN: The logarithm of survival: You are either an eater or you're eaten and that's the way it is.
BOO: No. I'm done. (THE WAITER is at her side. They look at one another. They look at BRYN.)
BRYN: (her eyes suddenly drawn to the door) Wonderful. He's here. Do you hear the pronoun? The tense of the verb? HE IS HERE. NOW! Walking in the door. The Plan, the Plan …(THE WAITER offers BOO his hand. She takes it. She stands.)
BOO: (looking toward the door) Good high color. Hypertension? A little blue around the lips. Congestive heart disease? You've done well, as usual, Bryn. Good-bye.
BRYN: WAIT! What am Isupposed to do with him?
BOO: Marry him.
(BOO and THE WAITER waltz off.)
VIRGINIA STREET
Toni Press-Coffman
Virginia Street was originally produced by Upstairs Theatre Company (Anthony Runfola, Artistic Director) in Tucson, Arizona, in April 1997, directed by Adam Burke. The cast was as follows:
ABIGAIL Amy Christensen
MARTIN Jonathan Ingbretson
HENRY R. Gabriel Nagy
JENNIFER Jennie Mahalick
CHARACTERS
ABIGAIL: A woman in her late twenties/early thirties, who lives on Virginia Street.
MARTIN: A boy, seventeen, who visits Virginia Street.
HENRY: A twenty-year-old Latino, who visits Virginia Street in his wheelchair.
JENNIFER: A young woman, eighteen, who lives on Virginia Street.
Virginia Street should be multiculturally cast. It may be presented entirely in English, in Spanish, or in a mix of English and Spanish.
SETTING: A residential city street in late summer. This particular street has a park and neighborhood center on it. At different points in the play, we hear many kinds of noises coming from the park. We constantly hear cars drive by. We see the porch of a house painted bright yellow and the sidewalk in front of it.