by Neil LaBute
THE YOUNGER … no …
THE OLDER Yes.
THE YOUNGER … but … no, I just said that … he …
THE OLDER It really is.
THE YOUNGER No … I said that he was trying to …
THE OLDER It is. I wish we had a record of it to play back on the phonograph because it is a new version of what you said when you called me. On that phone over there.
THE YOUNGER No, I told you that. About him coming up the stairs to … up to where I was …
THE OLDER Before you said you felt his hand on you first. That’s what you said … (Beat.) Not about the stairs … not about coming in or about the zipper. No. He was just there.
THE YOUNGER No. I’m … no … that’s …
THE OLDER You honestly did.
THE YOUNGER Did I?
THE OLDER Yes. (Beat.) A policeman would say …
THE YOUNGER But … I called you and … no, that’s …
THE OLDER I promise you did. And you just did the same again. Just now.
THE YOUNGER No, I said … that’s … I just said …
THE OLDER … his “hand.” “On me.” You said it the first time that way and now he’s just … there. Over you. (Beat.) It’s different.
THE YOUNGER That’s … no … (Beat.) Really?
THE OLDER Yes. The facts are different now …
THE YOUNGER But I’m … I mean … it still happened.
THE OLDER Alright. (Beat.) I’m just saying that …
THE YOUNGER It did. It absolutely did.
THE OLDER Did it? (Beat.) That’s all I want you to think about, one more time before I get my purse and go with you, down into town and we talk to whomever you want to talk to about it … I’ll go with you and vouch for you and stand beside you … but please just think about it: about what happened, if it happened—happened like you’ve said it did—and what people are going to say about you now … about the kind of person that you are. (Beat.) Will you do that for me? Sweetheart? Go in the other room and just sit there … sit quietly for a moment by his picture—the one up on the piano—and ask yourself what the truth is, what it really really is … and then come back in here and we’ll talk about it. Again. One more time. Will you do that for me? But you have to do it now … before he gets home from work … can you please do that for me this very instant? Hmm? Can you? (Beat.) I would certainly do it for you, if you asked me to …
THE YOUNGER …
THE OLDER I would … so will you do that for me?
THE YOUNGER … I guess …
THE OLDER You will?
THE YOUNGER If you think that I should …
THE OLDER I do. I honestly do.
THE YOUNGER Then I will.
THE OLDER Thank you.
THE YOUNGER I’ll … sure. I can do that. That’s … it’s just hard for me to go there … to go into my mind to all that … stuff that happened … but …
Suddenly the YOUNGER ONE starts to cry. The OLDER ONE is quick to comfort her—reaching a hand out to touch her.
THE OLDER Please? For me? (Beat.) It’s like looking into the future … your very own future … but backwards. That’s all it is. You’ll just be doing it backwards.
THE YOUNGER Yes. I will … for you. I’ll do it for you if you really really feel like I should.
THE OLDER I do.
THE YOUNGER Then yes. (Beat.) I will.
THE OLDER Please. Just think about all this again. What’s happened to you … and what you did or might’ve done to make it happen. Weigh it all in your mind and then come back in. Right back here. To me. (Beat.) Where you’re safe …
THE YOUNGER Alright, I will. I’ll try.
THE OLDER Thank you, sweetheart. Thank you …
THE YOUNGER … you’re welcome.
The YOUNGER ONE gets to her feet. Goes out of the room.
The OLDER ONE tries to pour some tea into the cup that’s in front of her but her hands are shaking too much.
She puts a hand over her mouth. Her eyes growing wide.
End.
BAD GIRL
Bad Girl had its American premiere at the Lucille Lortel Theatre (MCC) in New York City in June 2010 (as part of a benefit collectively titled Filthy Talk for Troubled Times). It was directed by Neil LaBute.
YOUNG WOMAN Alice Eve
Silence. Darkness.
Moody, low-lit club. A throng of people standing around.
A YOUNG WOMAN near a table. Nursing a drink. She speaks.
YOUNG WOMAN … thing is, I broke up with a guy not all that long ago so I’m, you know … yeah. I’m not really ready for too much of anything but it’s just kinda, I dunno, weird maybe, even at my age, to be without someone. To not at least have that man who calls me up and wants to take me out, even if I can’t make it. Maybe that’s all I need. Is that. Someone to want me, or … (Beat.) What I used to do, and this is so childish, I realize that—but if I had a relationship end … and I mean if, like, he ran out on me or that type of thing, cheated with someone: I would go out a few nights later to the bars and look around—it didn’t matter where—could even be at a restaurant or maybe a car dealer or wherever, and I’d find—there is no way I should be telling you this!—I’d go after the biggest loser in the place and then I’d fuck him. Yeah. Not as a revenge or, or, you know, any thing like that—and I’m not saying the ugliest one or a mean guy, an asshole or anyone of that nature—but just the guy who you’d spot—and you can find this kind of person at nearly any place you go, the laundromat or in, maybe, Walgreen’s, places like that are good—and I’d go right over to him and offer myself up. (Beat.) I don’t mean like it was obvious or anything, not like ’here I am, take me now’ or shit like that but just be really really nice to him and laugh at his jokes maybe, let him ask me out to dinner or even to a film—you can’t imagine some of the shit I’ve seen with these guys, like with the subtitles at the bottom and all that! Ohhhh Jesus, I thought I was gonna die a few times—but that’s what I’d do. I would do that. Go out on the date and then back over to his place, if he had one, and then let him fuck me. Fuck me as many times as he could or, or wanted to … do anything he might ever dream up—trust me, a man like the kind I’m saying here is not all that super-inventive, they just feel so lucky to be even near you that they cum, like, in two seconds most of the time and spend the rest of the evening on the edge of the bed apologizing to you. Seriously. (Beat.) Never twice, though, ok? Don’t be … that mistake is one I’ve made so don’t do it. It’s not even, I dunno, not that it’s so bad or like you’re starting up some sort of relationship or anything, but if you see that kind of guy again—any kind at all, really, but definitely the needier ones—then you’re just getting yourself in deeper. You know? I mean, I saw this one again, type I mentioned, took me to the local aquarium or some deal and then out for ice creams—whatever—we fucked that night. Like I said, how I described. Fine. Something in me, though, and I’ve tried to go back and track it down, see what it was that was so different about him but, see, I left him my number. Yep. And of course, I mean, yes, he calls me again—picked another moment where I was feeling low about something, might have been about work or, shit, I dunno, but I said alright, yeah, that I’d see him for a second time. I think his name was Chip. Yes, it was, because when I heard it I was, like, “fuck, what? Chip?” Anyways, we go to Six Flags (you know, with all those rides and games and things) which is pretty fun, I have to admit, and the whole time he’s a complete gentleman … no sense of a “date” where I have to hold his hand or be all smiley, no, we’re just laughing and … eating pizza and a ton of good stuff, but: back at his apartment that night, he’s totally different. I’m serious. Just more, and this is slightly, that’s all, just slightly, but still—wants me to undress in front of him and a little rougher going inside me, just a few things that a girl would notice, he’s like that this time. And he tricks me! He does, he totally turns a blow job around on me where I’ve been
really specific in that I don’t swallow—I mean, only for a guy who’s, not even just special but like “the one,” you know? “Him.” Marriage-guy. So I’ve told him that, this Chip, he definitely knows the rules and he says “ok, no problem” and so I trust him to follow the guidelines and whatever, to just do his thing and then, you know … right? But Chip gets all, I mean, he is totally shallow breathing me here, as if we’ve just started and he could go on for however long and then he’s, like, blam! He quivers and shoots a quart of his … I don’t even like thinking about it, so imagine when it goes everywhere, mouth, my face, Stones T-shirt I’m wearing … ppplllttt! O-kay, that’s lovely! And as I look up at him, getting ready to head off to the bathroom to clean up, he has this look on his face. Not a smile, it’s not exactly that, but in his eyes, this … sort of a gleam or something. The way a regular guy might look at me if he’d done that. Some good-looking guy who gets away with that kinda shit in bed or even life because of his face or what he does for a living or maybe his family … Chip is sitting there, off in the shadows and watching me, with this faint little grin and his pupils flaring up … excited by what he’s just done to me. We don’t say a word about it to each other and I leave not that much later but he hardly even seems interested in me after that—with all these big yawns and this continuous stream of “I have to work in the morning” just to let me know I wasn’t invited to stay over. My Stones shirt is ruined and I’m sure I definitely downed some of his nasty jizz and that’s what I get from my second date with Chip? I’m not welcome to sleep over for a few hours? Nice. So I’m just saying, and your life is your own so do what you wanna, but hey: beware. Okay?
She nods and takes a sip of her drink. Looks around for a moment.
YOUNG WOMAN However, if you wanna fuck someone so so grateful the first time around … and I’m saying, like, in tears and shit … that type of grateful, then you so have to screw a guy like the ones I was mentioning earlier. You really really do. But yeah, be careful—just the one time. Oh, and they will totally eat your pussy, and as many times as you ask them to, so that’s something—not that they know what they’re doing down there but most times it’s still good enough to be at least ok. I mean, end of the day, it’s just licking, right? Anybody can do it. (Beat.) But yeah. That’s what I’ve done sometimes … when I’m feeling down or I find out the dude I’m with is actually married, I’ll go do that. I mean, I don’t end up dating ’em or anything, I’m not crazy! Right? It’s just a little thing that I’ll do, like a habit, or, or, or—I dunno, what else would you call it? A hobby, maybe. Yeah, like that. This thing you do every so often, makes ya feel good about yourself, nobody’s the wiser. It’s a hobby. (Beat.) I know it’s not the best thing, it’s probably pretty dangerous and crap like that, too, I know that, so I do try and curb that side of me these days, I really really do. But sometimes I can’t help it … I’m a bad girl. And honestly, there is nothing like a super lame guy with his cock inside of you and sobbing as he fucks you to make you feel pretty alright about yourself. It’s true.
She stops for a moment, thinks about it. Shrugs.
YOUNG WOMAN … hey, I’m not pretending it’s the smart choice or, or, like, the most adult thing to do in the world. I’m just saying that it works for me. Ok? (Beat.) Alright then. Jesus …
She turns and walks away. Disappears into the crowd.
Silence. Darkness.
THE PONY OF LOVE
The Pony of Love had its American premiere at the Drama Book Shop in New York City in November 2010 (as part of a series of readings by this author and the actor Thomas Sadoski).
MAN Neil LaBute
MAN … I know, I know, “it’s not you, it’s me.” Right? Isn’t that what you were gonna say? Something like that? (Beat.) Oh, you weren’t? Really? It felt like—yes, you were! Come on, at least gimme that, benefit of the doubt here, lemme have that one victory—you were gonna say some stupid thing like that so I’d feel better or something—do you really think that would do it? Hmmm? That I’d then be able to put all this behind me, our history together, with a pat little phrase like that one? I dunno, maybe I would, if you really meant it and then I felt the burden of … whatever it is that I’ve been carrying around lift off my shoulders, then maybe that’d be okay. Maybe you should try it—but see, you’re not going to now, are you? Now that I’ve suggested it you wanna do the opposite … that’s your trick, your stubborn streak coming through so now you won’t say it and I’ll continue to feel like someone just took a dump on my shoes. That’s how bad I’ve been feeling lately, like I’m walking around town with shitty shoes and I can’t even lean over to clean ’em off, that’s how much grief I’m carrying around in this heart of mine … and then on top of that, as if that wasn’t enough, on top of it you throw in “when I see you I’m gonna give you a massive hug.” What the hell is that? Huh? Oh, that’s great, that’s really—a “hug?” Honestly, that’s what we’re back to now, square one? Even less than that, really, I mean, a hug is like what you’d give your retarded cousin in a situation like this one. “Here, Ben, come get a hug before you go off with the nice man.” How could you even say that to me, someone you’ve been with—“been with” as in done stuff with. You know, I mean, like “stuff” stuff. Sex stuff. And liked it! I mean, that’s what you said—nobody made you say those things, that shit was pillow talk, mostly while I was trying to sleep, actually, so I know it was honest. You whispered all those sweet nothings to me, hours worth, at least collectively … hours and hours of that crap and now it’s come get your hug? I don’t wanna be some ungrateful person here, but that is kinda fucked. It really is. (Beat.) I’m just haunted by this whole—what’d I do? That’s what keeps swirling around in my head, hour after hour—what in hell did I do wrong? My God, it was literally a week ago—no, my mistake … ten days, it was ten days ago but that’s still very recent—that you and I were a thing, I won’t call it “a couple” because it’s one of the reasons that seem to’ve set you off in the first place, having to name what it is we had but if we don’t, if we go around calling it nothing or, or acting like it’s just us sometimes getting together or we happen to be in the same place at the same time—then it becomes “the love that dare not speak its name” and that’s a whole different deal—that is not the image I want getting out about me to the general public. It isn’t. Not that that isn’t okay when you’re into that, doing that with some dude and afraid to tell your co-workers or your parents, then I get that and I wouldn’t wanna face life without benefits and you can’t get married or all the shit that comes with being gay—in my world a guy can date whomever he wants to (not me … I’m not gonna let him date me but there’s lot of other choices out there) and I am cool with that—but here we are and I’m in love with you, seriously, desperately in love with you and all the times we’ve shared—were you even awake during our trip to the desert, I gotta question that because if you were your mind would be, like, officially blown right now, mine still is, as in freaked out by just the sheer momentousness of the moments that we shared. Together. I am still reeling from all that and now I see you on the street today and you’re with friends and I stop you and you’ve got that look in your eye. The “shit on my shoes” look and gimme the “we need to talk” speech that makes any heart, from some CEO on Wall Street down to a, a, a regular guy like me feel horrible. Absolutely horrible and aware that the end is coming, that I’ve come to the end of the line and there’s not even the good part happening, I’m not gonna be scooped up in the loving embrace of God and taken off because it’s the rapture—no, this is just you telling me, between bites of the sandwich you’re eating when you call me later—I could tell that you’re having dinner while you’re on the phone, don’t deny it because it was obvious—you’re telling me that we’ve got to slow down, that you need some time and space and, and … I don’t remember now exactly what the third thing was but you needed that too, I remember that there was also this other deal that you needed—was it maybe
“freedom,” or something like that? “Free to be yourself or whomever you wanna be.” When did I wanna take that away from you? I don’t remember us having a run-in about that—I do about the cable, about doing a dumb thing like ordering Showtime without asking you, I remember that, but not us fighting over whether you should have a free day with your friends or not having to text me if you don’t want to—I send you cute little messages and those smiley faces because I want to, because it’s a sweet and romantic side of me that I try to express—you don’t have to reciprocate if you’re not feeling it … there are no requirements here, other than you don’t absolutely trash my heart and wander off into the wasteland never to be seen again or whatever—that seems wrong to me. You know? Like you haven’t thought it through properly. (Beat.) Hey, I’m just sad. I get that way when I’ve been fucked over, done in by a person whom I’ve trusted and had feelings for—that’s just me showing my soft side and there’s no shame in that. None that I can see, because it makes me human. Human and lovable and a creature of emotions, not just some animal who’s been programmed by society and a lousy dad to hold in their feelings, to suck it up and not care about your soul as it’s crushed under the uncaring heel of some chick you once trusted with your dog and your life and, and, and even the password to your laptop—no. That’s not me. You can do this, throw me away or aside or in any of those directions that you want to, but I remain a vital and loving person beneath this charred, discarded carcass that you’ve left along the roadside to die—I guess I really just want you to know that. That I am bigger than that, bigger than the guy whose life you just crushed—I’m a man who will bounce back, who will not stand afraid to ride the pony of love again (I think that’s an actual thing, that isn’t a phrase I just made up, it’s an Indian thing, like an old-time Native American totem which guides me and gives me strength)—I will again ride on the pony of love and not only that, not only will I jump on and ride it again but I’m gonna zip right past you when I do—yes, I will, you’ll be relaxing there with your pals, maybe at the beach and you’ll see me coming way in the distance, kinda like Clint Eastwood in that one Western, coming out of the heat haze and just as it seems as if I’m gonna go on past you, as if we’ve never met or at least been properly introduced, right at that moment I’m gonna turn my steed—I’ll make him stop and turn and back right up to your beach chair or, or towel or however you’re arranged there in the sand, I’ll do that and then I’ll have this majestic beast lift his tail and shit on you … not you but on your shoes—what do they call those … the beach-y kind? Espadrilles? —he will take a dump right on your Espadrille shoes with the hemp heels and then we’ll ride off, my stallion and I, off and into the sunset— or at least down the beach for a bit, so far and fast that you can’t even spot us anymore. That’s what I’m gonna do when I see you again. That’s how much you have hurt me. It’ll be an eye for an eye—or a shoe for a shoe, or however you wanna look at it—but it will be biblical, what transpires between us. It will be outta the Old Testament, the justice I receive! Now do you get it? Now can you understand how much damage you’ve done?! (Beat.) Then good.