One on One
Page 16
SCENE
The living room
TIME
The present
ROBERT: “This is not like me at all.” “This is not like me at all?!” Guess what else is “not like me at all?” Running this house is “not like me,” that’s what. Directing traffic at the crosswalk. Driving the kids from school to field hockey, to home, to Scottie’s, is “not like me at all.” I am tired of pancake batter and wiping up their faces and then the floor. And when I finally have a moment to myself, to sand, to work, to do what it is I am put on this earth to do, which I should be doing at the studio . . .
(Corrects himself.)
Workshop.
(Continuing, even more angry.)
The doorbell rings and it’s the “completion of the tender passion.” Now, what does the card say, Julie?
(Beat.)
“Happy birthday, Sweetheart.” Oh. Okay. And you don’t know who they’re from?
(Louder.)
And you don’t know who they’re from?
(Beat. Retrieves cordless phone.)
Ya know what? I’m going to call that publisher-guy-friend of yours and have a little chat. What’s his name?
(Beat.)
What’s his name?
(Beat.)
You know which one—the guy with the oiled hair, and the suspenders with the matching socks. The one who for some strange reason volunteers to take you to the airport every time you need to go anywhere because you’ve got to sign books on the way. That “which one.”
(Beat.)
Darryl! What’s the number?
(ROBERT dials as Julie dictates from memory. HE then looks at his watch.)
He’d never be back to the office this quickly . . . or is that his home number?
(She does not respond. HE hangs up the phone.)
Okay.
(ROBERT exits into bedroom. After a moment he re-enters with an arm full of pressed jeans, shirts on hangers and a canvas overnight bag. HE sets all items on couch and begins to pack, grappling with well-starched and pressed blue jeans on hangers. HE holds them out to her.)
I don’t want my jeans sent to the cleaners. Okay? I want them thrown into the washer and then the dryer and then folded and put into a regular drawer made out of strong, sturdy wood. I don’t care how much money you’re making. I never did anything for the money. There was a time, a very happy time, when we had none. I don’t want pleats or this bullshit. Do you hear me?
(Handing her the Blooming Implications book, left open.)
I’ve put up with all these stupid little things, these things that somehow make you feel as though you’re successful in life because I had the most important thing of all—you. I had you. Now that that’s not mine anymore, don’t . . .
(Cutting off her interruption.)
Now that that’s not mine anymore, DON’T PRESS MY JEANS!!!
(Jams clothes into canvas bag, exits front door.)
SHYNESS IS NICE
BY MARC SPITZ
FITZGERALD is a brand new junkie, trying to lose his “nice guy” image. HE wears a shiny black suit and has spiked hair. HE is frantically searching for something while suppressing a severe asthma attack.
SCENE
A small New York City apartment littered with books and records, mostly Beat literature and jazz
TIME
The present
(The phone rings. It rings and rings again. FITZGERALD stops, tries to calm his breathing. Walks over to the record player and puts on some jazz. Lights a cigarette. Pauses. Finally HE picks it up.)
FITZGERALD: (Super cool voice.) This is Fitzgerald. (Quick beat/long pant/complete crack in cool façade.) Hello? (Beat.) Mommy? (HE extinguishes the smoke, takes the record off the turntable.) Help me, Mommy. (More panting.) I can’t find it. My inhaler! Listen to me! (Wheezes.) I’m having an attack. (HE continues to search while panting into the phone, finds some porno mags under pillows.) Mommy! Can you help me, please? Well, bring me a new one. I know you’re on Long Island, but I’m dying. I am too dying. I can’t breathe. Please? I’m very scared. (Beat/call waiting.) Oh, wait. Hang on. (HE places the needle on the jazz again. Relights the cigarette. Regains cool. Smooth/cool.) This is Fitzgerald. (Beat.) Mom? Shit, hang on. (Clicks the receiver madly/smooth cool voice.) Fitzgerald. Who? Blixa. Yeah, I remember you. Shit, baby, it was just last night. Yeah I’m still interested in the deal. Say what? Oh, yeah. No problem. Leave it to me. As long as you’re cool, I’m cool. Don’t worry ‘bout it. Yeah, ha ha. You know it. All right. All right. Ciao, baby. (Clicks/wheezes.) Mommy? (Extinguishes cigarette. Continues to rummage. Finds pill bottle. Unscrews it. Swallows pills.) No, Mommy, I’m not going over there. No, Mommy, Aunt Susan scares me. No, Mommy, I’m not doing that either. No! Have you ever tried to wait on line for anything at CVS? No, Mommy. Mommy, will you let me talk? Will you please let me talk? Will you . . . will you let me. . . . Thank you. (Swallows more pills.) I’m fine. I’m fine. No . . . it wasn’t an asthma attack. No. It was a panic attack. Okay. Okay. No. All right. I will. I promise. Okay. Mommy? Will you send me some food? Thanks. I love you too. Night night. (Clicks receiver/lights cigarette/changes again.) This is Fitzgerald! Hey, what’s shakin’ baby? Me? Just doing my thing. Yeah. Hey, dig this, right? I got a major surprise for you. Yeah, yeah, the both of you. Shit, man, if I spilled over the phone, it wouldn’t be a major surprise, now, would it. All right. Yeah, I’ll meet you there. Be cool. Me? Always cool, baby, you know that. (Beat/anger.) I am too. I am not talking funny. Fuck off. Maybe I won’t come over, Rodney. (Beat.) All right . . . but watch it. (Hangs up phone.) Yeah, you better watch your ass. (Paces apartment. Puts on shades.) Or I’ll . . . kick it.
SMALL DOMESTIC ACTS
BY JOAN LIPKIN
FRANK, good-natured blue-collar guy, confides in his friend and coworker Frankie, a lesbian, that his wife Sheila has suddenly started getting angry over little things. In fact, Sheila is falling in love with Frankie’s partner, and she will leave FRANK for her. FRANK eventually apologizes to his wife for making TV dinners when it was his turn to cook, or tries to.
SCENE
The stage
TIME
The present
FRANK: (Beat. To Frankie.) She’s always angry these days. I didn’t know it when we were first together. Because she was sweet then. I guess we were both on good behavior. You know, polite. Asking which movie the other one wanted to see. And now, there is all this anger. I feel a little cheated. Like she is not the girl she made herself out to be. (To the audience.) Sometimes, it scares the hell out of me. And the littlest things set her off. Things I don’t even care about. She didn’t used to be like this. Or maybe I just didn’t know. She says she’s been changing. And the older she gets, (Mimicking Straight Sheila.) the less bullshit she wants to put up with. And moody. God, is she moody. Now, me? I’m just regular all the time. The same. What you see is what you get. (Beat.) For a while I thought, this is for the birds. Who needs this? I can find myself someone else. Somebody nice and sweet and uncomplicated. And then I thought, how? And where? And I didn’t want to have to get comfortable with someone else again. (Beat.) Most of the time, it’s pretty good. I love sleeping with her and she does nice things for me sometimes. She’ll pick up a movie I want to see or make something special for dinner. She won’t pick up my shirts from the cleaners, though, and she gets mad if I ask her. I don’t get it. I mean, what’s the difference between picking up my shirts or picking up a movie? But I’ll tell you something. Maureen, my last girlfriend? She never got angry. And she was pretty. I was never as hot for her like I am for Sheila, but it was okay. It was comfortable. We had the house and we had our friends and in the beginning, she used to bake all the time. Just like my mom. I’d come home and the house would smell like chocolate. But one day, she came home and said she wanted out. Just like that. I wanted to work it out. I even said I’d go see someone and I don’t go in for that kind of bullshit. But she said it was too far gone. Too much had happened
that she couldn’t live with. So now, even though I don’t understand it and it sometimes makes me crazy, I’ll take Sheila’s anger any day. Besides, with someone else, if it wasn’t this, it would be something else. (To Straight Sheila.) Okay, so maybe I should have made something else for dinner. Next time, I’ll bake a ham. Or roast a friggin’ turkey with all the trimmings. (To the audience.) She can pretend that it’s Thanksgiving.
SOME GIRL(S)
BY NEIL LABUTE
In his 30s and engaged, GUY reconnects with Bobbi, an old girlfriend, to try and convince her that she is the only one HE really loves. HE was tape-recording the meeting in hopes that she will give HIM material for a short story. She does not fall for his ruse.
SCENE
A hotel room
TIME
The present
GUY: Fine, yes, you got me! You smoked me out, so bully for you. I sometimes use the people around me to further my career . . . well, Bobbi, that makes me an American, frankly, and that is about it. Look, I’m not even one of those authors who’re out there right now pretending like all their shit is real or, or . . . hiding behind the persona of some 12-year-old boy—I don’t do any of that! I am just me and I write amusing stories while changing the names of everybody involved and I don’t see who’s getting hurt by it. I really don’t. (Beat.) I’m not, like, you know . . . doing this all haphazardly or anything. It’s, it’s . . . for Esquire! Just because I’m an author doesn’t mean I’m not able to have human . . . stuff. I can’t help it if I’m complex. (Beat.) Does that make me some big, despicable creature just because I continue to search? To reach out for my happiness on a profoundly human level? I don’t think so. I’m not sick, Bobbi. I am not evil. I may be a bunch of things, but I’m not that. . . . And I’m not trying to take anything away from what I did, I am not—I did such a . . . stupid, stupid thing back so many years ago, and I’m sorry. I could try and place blame on something else, say it’s a horrible age we live in now, a world that doesn’t give two shits about other people’s feelings and where folks sit up until four in the morning searching for sex on the Internet while a loved one is sleeping fifty feet away . . . or some guy will text-message his wife to say, “I’m leaving you.” All of these little atrocities that we visit on each other that are really pretty breathtaking. (Beat.) But I can’t. That’s not the problem. This was my fault, all of it. I was just young and dumb and, I dunno, goofy and, you know—those were my good qualities!. . . I’m a guy, I’m bad at this, Bobbi; I found the single greatest person I could ever imagine being near, I mean standing near, even, and she liked me. Me! And that just didn’t compute, it did not make sense, no matter what she said to me . . . so I made myself believe it wasn’t true and I ran off. Like some 3-year-old. (Beat.) But I’ve grown up since then, I have—all this being with other women and writing about it and telling myself that I should go visit my past before I marry . . . I realize now, it’s all about you! I don’t care if you buy it or hate me or laugh in my face. . . . (Tears up a bit.) I love you and I’m . . . oh, boy. No way I’m gonna top that, so I’ll just leave off right there. I love, you Bobbi. Not your sister, not anybody else I’ve ever known, even this girl I’m supposed to marry . . . no one. Just you.
SOUVENIR
BY STEPHEN TEMPERLEY
The accompanist to singer Florence Foster Jenkins, COSIMO MCMOON is a dapper man in his late 50s sitting at a piano. HE is amazed, but also concerned, that the singer, who is phenomenally bad, has been able to generate enthusiastic audiences.
SCENE
The club
TIME
The 1930s
COSIMO MCMOON: It was like magic. Word just spread.
Every time she sang more people wanted to hear. You couldn’t keep them away. (HE rises to stand in the curve of the piano.) As word got around the audience changed. It wasn’t just her Park Avenue friends anymore. It was more like the crowd you see at the fights. We were at the Ritz-Carlton, so there was a certain level of restraint. Even so I’d see them crying. When she sang. Doubled over in their seats. Hitting each other, convulsed. There were gasps, sudden shrieks. They’d jump to their feet and run up the aisles. You’d hear doors banging. And the sound from the lobby of people laughing. When they got themselves under control they’d make their way back to their seats, flushed, still wiping tears away. You see a lot from a piano bench. Meanwhile, Madame Flo was lost in the music. So far as she was concerned the people running for the doors were just too moved to stay. Too overcome by emotion.
(Returning to the bench.) At the end there were bravos and flowers. And afterwards she’d serve sherry and her friends would talk about what she wore. So one way or another everyone had a pretty good time. (HE pauses, troubled.) Though I worried. In case a day might come when the balance tipped, when her friends were outnumbered by that other, crueler part of the audience. When the ones coming to laugh set the tone.
SPIN
BY RANDY WYATT
In his 30s, CARVER finds the courage and trust to reveal his magical talent to his lover.
SCENE
At a table
TIME
Now, late in the evening
CARVER: You can ask my mother. She’s the only other one I’ve let see me do it.
I was in my playpen, 4 years old. She says she saw me wiggle my fingers—I won’t do it now—and she saw my teddy twirl around, like it was in an invisible dryer. And she screamed and told me to do it again, honey, do it again. But she scared me, I thought I was in trouble, see. So I didn’t. And later on, she’d say she was seeing things, but she’d say it with this penetrating look at me, as if she were asking me a question but couldn’t find the words. That’s how young I was when I knew.
At first it was great. I mean, just a thrill. I’d duck out of school early and run to the park, sit on the bench and make pigeons dizzy. A quick twirl—oops, haha, almost did it again—twirl my fingers and sort of blow. The blow was for dramatic effect, because I know it’s all in the fingers but I can feel—I mean, I can actually feel the tiny currents, like little threads, wrapping around my fingers, and some sort of electric tingle on the tips, the very tips of my fingers—and then a little flick, and I send it off. This little cyclone. And it spins and it spins and then . . . it’s gone. Just a couple of seconds. Like the water whorls you see when the water goes down the drain. Little vortexes. All mine.
Sometimes I thought I was dreaming it, I mean, I was a dreamy kid. I’d even force myself to forget about it for a while, because parents and teachers and everybody—they teach you to be, you know, normal. But I couldn’t forget this, of course, I mean, I could do this amazing thing that nobody else could do. Then I thought that maybe this power would grow, and I was gonna be a superhero. Tornado Man. So I started “training.” Asked my old man for a punching bag. He was so happy. Slung it up in the cellar, and I’d go down there, punch it a few times, barely make the thing move, and then wiggle my fingers and watch this tiny whirlwind fly from my hand, boomerang back into my hair and knock my own glasses off. Oh, but I’d dream, ya know? I’d dream that someday I’d be huge and mighty, and hurl F-fives at the bad guys and whisk them off to jail. But no matter how I twisted or flailed my arms around, they never got bigger. (HE makes a wimpy whooshing sound.) That’s all I could do. Just these little dust devils, five, maybe six inches tall. Pathetic.
When I figured this out, I was a teenager, and I just felt stupid about it. The way you feel stupid about everything.
And I didn’t really do it again until . . . years after college. I tried to just erase it from my mind and go on, because it wasn’t worth anything, because it didn’t mean anything, I mean, little cyclones? What good are they? Who cares? Like my father said about painting. I tried to take a course in it once but my father scoffed. “What good will that do ya? College ain’t recess.” So I dropped it and went on. Because life ain’t recess. And that became my mantra with everything. “What’s it good for?”
But I care. I admit it. I thi
nk it’s beautiful. I can’t explain it and I think that’s the best part. I don’t want to know how I do it. I just know I can.
And now you know. You’re the only person I’ve ever told. You inspire me. You make me want to tell you things, to bare my soul. And now you know my two innermost secrets. First, that loving you—trusting you—feels like jumping off a mountain, I mean, like being tossed in a hurricane, it scares me that much, exhilarates me that much. And this.