Miserable Love Stories

by Alex Bernstein

  PEG: (non-plussed) That’s great, Don.

  DON: Oh! And later tonight—Speed Sex!

  PEG: You won that last year.

  DON: Unintentionally! But yeah—I’ve still got my medal!

  Peg says nothing. Don continues to race around, grabbing items to pack, enthusiastically.

  DON: Y’know if we hurry—

  PEG: Don—

  DON: We can still probably get into—

  PEG: Don. (beat) I’ve decided not to go.

  DON: (confused) I’m—I’m sorry—what?

  PEG: I’ve decided not to go. To Sexpo.

  DON: What do you mean you’ve decided not to go? Of course, we’re going.

  PEG: I’m being serious. I’ve—I’ve decided I’m not going to go to Sexpo. But that’s just me. You should still go.

  Don’s phone buzzes. He answers.

  DON: (into phone) Hi. We’re—I’m sorry—(to Peggy) See?! Now, we’re running late! (into phone) No, I’m sorry. We’ll catch the next one. Thank you. (hangs up, addresses Peggy) What are you talking about?

  PEG: I know this is important to you and—I know you’re very excited to go have sex with a lot of other people. And I respect that.

  DON: I don’t just want to have sex with other people. I want to have sex with other people—and you.

  PEG: I don’t know how to explain this. It’s too—too—

  DON: It’s too much? Okay. Got it. Gotten. (looks at his tablet) Look. There’s plenty here to trim. Naked hang gliding, speed sex—okay, okay—is that enough? Fine. Fine. I hate to cut all this but—Boom! Wild animal safari! Cut! They’re all gone. I just cut a quarter of our schedule! Okay? See how flexible I am?! And—and that actually frees us up to—

  PEG: Don. It’s not about cutting events. It’s—it’s the whole trip. I can’t do it.

  DON: Peg—you can’t just say at the last minute that you don’t want to go! We can’t not go. We’ve got tickets to a dozen fucking events! Literally! Fucking events!

  PEG: Don—

  DON: We made plans, Peggy. With Roger and Felicia and Julian and Mikhaela and Ross and Adam and Bailey and—and—someone named Carter. And I have my high school reunion—which—

  PEG: You’re really looking forward to.

  DON: Yes, I am. I haven’t seen those folks—

  PEG: Naked—

  DON: In years! Yes! (beat) Look—Peggy, what is it? Is it the sex with strangers?

  PEG: No.

  DON: With friends?

  PEG: No.

  DON: With large groups? Small groups? Different species? Is it the probes? You used to like the probes!

  PEG: I did like the probes. It’s not the probes.

  DON: The anti-grav sex makes you nauseous?

  PEG: It does. But that’s not it. (beat) I just—I can’t.

  DON: Because?

  PEG: Because I have a ticket—to somewhere else.

  Long beat. Don is stunned.

  DON: Somewhere else?

  PEG: Yes.

  DON: Where?

  PEG: Etera—

  DON: The glacier planet?!

  PEG: Yes.

  DON: You want to skip Sexpo to go to the goddamn glacier planet?!

  PEG: Yes.

  DON: To do what?!

  PEG: To go hiking.

  DON: Hiking?! (incredulous) You can’t be serious!?

  PEG: I am.

  DON: You want us to skip Sexpo—during a Sex Olympics year—to go hiking?!

  Beat.

  PEG: I didn’t say “us.”

  He stares at her.

  DON: Okay. So, it’s me. So, you’re sick of me?!

  PEG: No. No. Not at all. I’m just—I’m tired, Don.

  DON: Of me.

  PEG: No. Stop saying that. Stop making this about you. I just—I need to slow things down now. For myself. To collect myself.

  DON: And you already had this ticket? The entire time I was planning this trip. You knew I was killing myself planning this trip—when all the while you had a ticket somewhere else?! (beat) Did you ever intend to go to Sexpo?

  PEG: I don’t know. Yes. At first, I thought I did want to go. And then—I didn’t. But I didn’t want to spoil your plans.

  DON: So—without telling me about it—you bought a ticket for a completely different trip?!

  PEG: Yes. It was—it was actually kind of rash. Exciting. Frivolous.

  DON: Sexpo is rash, exciting and frivolous! That’s basically all it is!

  PEG: Don—please—you do what you need to do. And I’ll do what I need to do.

  DON: This is a break-up. After sixty years. You’re breaking up with me.

  PEG: That’s not what this is.

  DON: And I’m supposed to—what? Drop Sexpo and go hiking with you?

  PEG: You won’t want to.

  DON: (firmly) As always, I want to do whatever you’re doing. (beat) What exactly are you doing?

  She pulls out a tablet, flips through it.

  PEG: Well, first I’m going to go on an incredibly long hike. About eleven miles.

  DON: Yes.

  PEG: And then . . . I may read a book.

  DON: And?

  PEG: That’s it. (beat) I told you this was not your kind of trip. You’d be miserable. And honestly, I don’t want someone miserable on my trip.

  DON: Oh, you hate it when someone ruins your trip?

  PEG: Yes.

  DON: ’Cause that’s how I feel. (beat) So, let me get this straight—if I go to Sexpo without you, I’ll be miserable. And if I go hiking with you, I’ll be miserable. Either way I’m miserable.

  PEG: Don—

  DON: Peggy—I feel that we are somehow experiencing meltdown here. I feel that our relationship is suddenly—after sixty years—somehow crashing down around us, and that you’re utterly utterly rejecting me, that you’re abandoning the very notion of our relationship.

  PEG: Well, maybe the notion was—

  DON: What?

  PEG: Wrong.

  DON: Wrong?

  PEG: People change, Don.

  DON: Really? Really? I haven’t changed! Have you changed? How exactly have you changed, Peg? Have you seen yourself lately—?

  PEG: Don—

  He holds up his phone and shows her her reflection.

  DON: Is this really the face of a—God, I don’t even know how old you are anymore—91? 92? 93? How old are you, Peg?

  PEG: 93.

  DON: 93! Who would know, Peg?! With all the upgrades and micro-cosmetics and continuous replacement parts for what—twenty-five years now?! No one has changed less than you, Peg.

  PEG: Actually—actually—I have made a change.

  DON: Oh yeah? What?

  PEG: The upgrading. The cosmetics. The body parts.(beat) I stopped. (beat) Several months ago.

  Long beat. He stares at her, unsure of what she’s saying.

  DON: I’m sorry. You did what?

  PEG: I stopped—

  DON: I heard you. Don’t make jokes like that.

  PEG: I’m not making a joke.

  DON: (flipping through screens on his tablet) You have been replacing parts. I know you’ve been replacing parts—I’ve got monthly bills. I’ve seen them. We’ve been—

  PEG: They were visits. Checkups. I know you don’t look at the records that closely. I haven’t gotten anything new in more than—

  DON: How long?

  PEG: Eight months.

  Long beat.

  DON: (furious) Are you out of your mind?! (beat) You can’t do that! You can’t just—

  PEG: I know.

  DON: You can’t just stop.

  PEG: I know.

  DON: It doesn’t work that way!

  PEG: I know.

  DON: You can’t just cut yourself off without—

  PEG: I—

  DON: Stop saying ‘I know’! (pulling out his cellphone) We need to get you an appointment right now! Forget Sexpo and hiking—you have to go back and change this—right now!

 
; PEG: Don—

  Don paces, glued to his cellphone. He checks the number, calls again.

  DON: Goddammit!! No one’s answering! He’s probably at Sexpo! Goddammit!

  PEG: Don, I made my choice—

  DON: Peggy—hold on—

  She takes his hand, looks into his eyes.

  PEG: Don. It’s done.

  Don puts away the phone. He pulls away from her.

  DON: Goddammit, Peggy! (beat) You’ll age.

  PEG: I know.

  DON: Rapidly.

  PEG: I know.

  Long beat.

  DON: You’ll die.

  PEG: We all do. (beat) I—

  DON: No! No! This was not your decision to make! This is supposed to be a decision we make together! You did this—without telling me anything! That is not fair to me, Peggy. This is completely utterly unfair! (beat) If I’d done exactly the same thing to you—

  PEG: I would have never let you do it.

  DON: That’s right!

  PEG: Which is why I didn’t tell you. Until now. Until—until—

  DON: It was too late.

  PEG: Yes.

  DON: Until it was irreversible?

  PEG: Yes.

  Long beat.

  DON: That’s not fair to me, Peggy. That’s not how this works.

  PEG: I know, Don. I know. I struggled with telling you—and I didn’t because I knew you would talk me out of it. You absolutely would have. And I didn’t want to be talked out of it. This was the right thing for me, Don. I had to do this. I had to. You have every right to be angry—

  DON: You’ve killed yourself.

  PEG: It’s not like that. I talked to the doctor. It won’t be—drastic. It will be—

  DON: What?

  PEG: Normal.

  DON: Normal?

  PEG: Proper. It may even be—graceful.

  DON: Fuck proper and graceful. (beat) Peggy—please—please try to get this reversed. Call the doctor. Get back on the program.

  PEG: Because I can?

  DON: Because I want you to. Because I love you. Please.

  PEG: I can’t do it.

  Long beat.

  PEG: I can’t do this anymore, Don. I can’t. This isn’t who I am. On the inside. I’ve been dying on the inside for years now. I want to let go. You have to help me let go. I’m just so tired.

  Long beat. Don swipes several screens on his tablet. He lets the tablet fall to the ground.

  DON: It’s done. The whole trip. Gone. Canceled. Expunged. Goodbye Sexpo. (beat) How long do we even have, Peg?

  PEG: We have time. Probably . . . a few years.

  DON: While you age and wither and wrinkle and—

  PEG: And you don’t.

  DON: You’re getting the better end of the deal.

  She smiles.

  PEG: I probably am. (beat) Don—why don’t you come hiking with me? (beat) We can hike and read books. And you can watch me wither and age and wrinkle. (beat) And we can stroll in the woods and fish and swim. And stay up late by the light of a fire. (beat) And you can make love to an old woman under the stars. (beat) And we can talk.

  Long beat.

  DON: When do we leave?

  Toilet Paper & Kleenex

  THE STAGE IS SET TO RESEMBLE A GIGANTIC, FAIRLY CLEAN and tidy bathroom. TOILET PAPER and KLEENEX stand not too far from each other—stuck in their respective areas—and converse with one another and also the audience. Kleenex has the air of a somewhat gentile lady. Toilet Paper is slightly more brutish and may have a Cockney accent.

  KLEENEX: (to audience) I’m Kleenex.

  TOILET PAPER: (to audience) And I’m Toilet Paper.

  KLEENEX: We’re both tissues. I’m the classier tissue. Elite. Special. Reserved for that most precious of areas—the face—and, as necessary—the nostrils!

  TOILET PAPER: I’m used on the bum. Nether regions. Downtown. I’m cheap, too. Thirty rolls for ten.

  KLEENEX: My world is orderly, immaculate. Everything in its place.

  TOILET PAPER: I sit on a roll and spin. Not that I’m complaining.

  KLEENEX: After use, I’m gently crumpled.

  TOILET PAPER: I’m flushed. All day long. Flush, flush, flush.

  KLEENEX: (proudly) People never flush Kleenex!

  TOILET PAPER: (incredulous) Suuuure, they don’t.

  HANDKERCHIEF enters and stands near them. He is aristocratic, perfect, almost an angel. Kleenex and Toilet Paper stare at him, stunned.

  HANDKERCHIEF: (to TP & K) Hello!

  KLEENEX: My goodness! Who are you?!

  HANDKERCHIEF: I’m handkerchief!

  KLEENEX/TOILET PAPER: Ooooh!

  TOILET PAPER: I’ve heard of you.

  HANDKERCHIEF: Must’ve gotten lost on the way to the laundry! Excuse me—dry cleaner! What a lovely place you have!

  KLEENEX: It’s our home.

  HANDKERCHIEF: Love the tile.

  KLEENEX: Are you a tissue?

  HANDKERCHIEF: Ha, ha, ha! Heavens, no! I’m what they call a linen! Live in the master’s bedroom. Top shelf bureau—and folded quite neatly! I’m only used on fancy occasions. Then, afterwards—I’m cleaned, chemically!

  KLEENEX/TOILET PAPER: Ahhh . . .

  KLEENEX: They re-use you?!

  HANDKERCHIEF: ’Course! Then I’m all fresh and new again. I’m only used at the fanciest of affairs!

  TOILET PAPER: (burping loudly) I’m two-ply.

  KLEENEX: I’d love to go to a dry cleaner . . .

  HANDKERCHIEF: Well, I don’t think that’d work so well! You’d burn up!

  Kleenex, gasps, horrified, and starts to cry.

  KLEENEX: Burn up?!

  TOILET PAPER: That’s an awful thing to say!

  HANDKERCHIEF: Well, it’s true!

  TOILET PAPER: (to Kleenex) There now! Stop that! You’ll shrivel . . . !

  A BOY’S VOICE shouts from OFFSTAGE.

  BOY (OS): Mom! The dog’s peed again!

  MOM (OS): Well, clean it up!

  BOY (OS): Toilet paper or Kleenex?

  MOM (OS): No—no! Use a rag!

  BOY (OS): Oh, here’s one!

  A GIGANTIC HAND reaches in and grabs Handkerchief and abruptly pulls him backwards off the stage.

  HANDKERCHIEF: Rag?! I’m not a—NOOOO!!

  Sound of HANDKERCHIEF SCREAMING offstage.

  BOY (OS): Aw! That was way too flimsy! I’ll grab towels!

  Sound of a door opening, offstage and then the VOICES OF TOWELS, SCREAMING.

  TOWELS (OS): NO! NO! EUWWWWWW!!!

  Toilet Paper and Kleenex take deep breaths, shocked.

  BOY (OS): (happily) That worked!

  The SOUNDS die out and Toilet Paper and Kleenex are left in silence again.

  TOILET PAPER: That was horrible.

  Beat.

  KLEENEX: Toilet paper?

  TOILET PAPER: Yeah?

  KLEENEX: Y’know, we’re not so different, really. We’re basically the same thing in different packaging. (beat) Except I have aloe.

  TOILET PAPER: Mmm.

  KLEENEX: I mean—it’s not so bad, is it?

  TOILET PAPER: Not at all. Why, I get to sit and spin all day. Who could ask for more?

  KLEENEX: And I get to sit right by the mirror.

  Beat. They look at each other.

  TOILET PAPER & KLEENEX: With you.

  Album

  I’M WITNESSING A MIRACLE OF MODERN SCIENCE. WELL, okay, it’s not that modern. The only real modern thing is the room we’re in—the entire maternity wing, actually—recently redesigned to look/feel like a posh hotel, like the Ritz. This room itself is actually bigger than our first apartment—and way better furnished. But what I’m witnessing is as old as the Earth itself:

  The birth of my son.

  I’m leaning against my stove. I’m wearing jeans. I’m in my socks. It’s cold outside, mid-January. My prospective roommate looks around the room. She wears a too-hip black leather jacket, black scarf and Doc Martens and sports a bobbed, late-eight
ies haircut. She’s cute, seems friendly, just one more in a parade of potential roommates.

  I’m blasé. What else could I be? The whole thing is annoying. I can’t afford the rent by myself. I could probably skate by, but I’d rather have the money. And I’m used to having a roommate. Besides this tiny, crumbling piece of shit is prime Manhattan real estate, right? I won’t downright screw anybody. But sure, I’ll take the bigger room—let the new roomie pick up the bulk of rent. Why not? It’s my apartment.

  A parade of potential housemates descends on me: artists, students, freshly minted temp workers.

  I call the service. Look, I say, I specifically said no women. No women, no pets, no smokers. The apartment’s small enough as it is. I need someone quiet, easy-going. No tension.

  Oh, oh—our mistake, they say. We’ll change the form. Sorry. Uhm—there are going to be some women coming by—could you please just be nice to them. They’re paying a fee, y’know. Sorry.

  Nice? Hhhn. No, no—I tell the next woman. This was a mistake.

  Mistake?! I paid $125 for this list.

  $125? Really? To look at my place? I’m so sorry. Okay, so I’ll pretend—sure, I might take a female roommate. Mm. Well, look, maybe I could take a female roommate. I’m easy-going, flexible. I’ve had gay roommates. How bad could a woman be? I’m not looking to get laid. I’m an adult. I’m looking for another human being to share an incredibly small amount of space with: gay, straight, black, white, female, male. It doesn’t matter. If it’s right, it’s right. Just gimme a year till the lease is up.

  She’s casual, low-key, friendly. She looks around. It’s small, but how much room does she really need? No one spends time in a Manhattan apartment. The rent’s not too bad. And for work—she’s doing something—some medical thing. Good. No actors, no artists. Medicine can pay the rent. The small talk is about as good as small talk gets. At one point, she turns and—shit, she broke my lamp.

  Sorry!

  No, no, it’s okay—

  Lamp? It’s a pole with a shade held on by a pencil. A broken pencil. She’s looking for a year. Great.

  I’ll probably never see her again.

  My wife is having a baby. My baby.

  I’m telling Bill I don’t know what’s happening to me. I’m trying to be calm—to be normal. Adult. But it feels—it feels like it’s getting more involved. Intense. The apartment is so small. I don’t want it to get weird. I don’t want to do the wrong thing. I don’t even know what the wrong thing is. I don’t know. We’re spending an incredible amount of time together. Not unnaturally—nothing forced. We’re just—that’s what we’re doing. Going to shops in the Village. I helped her buy some bookshelves and we carried them all the way back to the apartment—ten or eleven blocks over and up three flights of stairs. I don’t know. She’s smart, passionate. The apartment’s so small. I don’t want to be a scumbag or anything. I don’t—I don’t know what I’m thinking.