[Said quickly.]
Pity, pity, pity, pity.
[Comes out of it.]
Where was I? Oh, yes. Three years ago it was, when I first saw you. I hadn’t the slightest intention of taking you home with me. I actually started walking away, heading down the street to Vito’s. I did, I did, honest Injun! I don’t know what got into me. Maybe it was the way you kept scratching at the window and making those shrill, yelping noises that sounded more like birds chirping than it did a dog barking. I made an abrupt about-face and I walked into the shop and once the sales boy placed you in my arms . . . I was sold. You were the cutest, cuddliest little creature I had ever seen in my entire life. I admit it. It was love at first sight, right from the start. I took you along with me into Vito’s and showed you off to those Saturday afternoon martini drinkers and hangers-on. Afterwards I picked up my ready-to-go lunch of grilled calamari, pasta pomodoro, and broccoli rabe, and I straightaway took you home.
[He lifts QUEENIE, holds her in front of him.]
Can you imagine the change you made in my life, huh? Can you? Can you? You were the first . . . living thing who shared my apartment with me in years; literally, literally in years. What a change it was. What a wonderful change. To get up in the morning to the sound of your playful barking, your incessant jumping up and down on the bed, licking at my face, pulling at the covers, not giving me a moment’s peace until I’m up and moving to the refrigerator to pour you a bowlful of cold milk.
[Laughing; scratching at QUEENIE’s ear.]
What a rascal you are. What a devil. Even after I’ve fed you, you won’t let me be until I’ve showered and dressed sufficiently to take you out for your first walk of the day. And how utterly rejuvenating it is, getting outdoors when the air is still fresh and uncontaminated, the sun just peeking above the horizon . . . One is glad to be alive . . . that early in the morning.
[Scans the sky.]
One looks up at the luminous, infinite blue sky and prays . . . without quite knowing why or to whom, feeling quite silly about it and still . . . one prays, for another day that brings to us . . . another early morning . . . with a luminous, infinite blue sky.
[To QUEENIE.]
Oh, that is absolutely the best part of the day for me, those early morning walks in the park with, when there’s no one about yet, except for an occasional pet lover like myself.
[LAWRENCE acts out such a meeting. He puts QUEENIE back on the bench beside him. He speaks to an imaginary passerby who is walking his leashed, imaginary dog.]
Good morning! Good morning! Lovely morning, isn’t it? That’s a handsome Labrador you have there. I’ve noticed him running . . .
[Points to himself.]
Mine? Queenie? You like her? You’re taken with her intelligence? Her . . . Her lively disposition? Oh, she’s an extraordinary companion. Absolutely extraordinary. You can’t imagine the fun the two of us have together. We go everywhere. We . . .
[Responds to an interruption.]
Oh, yes, even when I’m out of town on a business trip. No exceptions to the rule. You don’t leave your best friend alone in an apartment for any extended period of time. That’s a no-brainer. My partners are well aware of my . . . Let’s call them my prejudices.
[He takes a brush from his pocket and grooms QUEENIE.]
I know this may sound strange to you, but perhaps you being a pet owner makes it possible for you to understand my feelings. I don’t draw any distinctions whatsoever between a domestic pet and a human being. I am incapable of drawing such a distinction. I find it profoundly abhorrent to . . .
[Responds to an interruption.]
You’ll get no argument from me there. The innumerable stories one hears and reads about: the sacrifices made by these domestic pets during fires, burglaries, physical assaults; the accounts of their unselfish devotion and bravery . . . There’s a veritable library filled with such incidents. How any human being can think of being superior in any way whatso . . .
[Responds to an interruption.]
Vivisection? Did you say vivisection? Please, I implore you, don’t get me started on that! The very word sends chills down my spine. If there’s anything more heinous and unconscionable . . .
[Responds to interruption.]
I agree. Un-for-giv-able. Un-for-giv-able. We best move on to another . . .
[Glances at wristwatch.]
It is getting late. And I must be off. I have to pick up . . . Why, that is amazing. It is my birthday today. How in the world did you . . . ?
[Smiles broadly.]
I guess with the Internet there’s no having a private life nowadays. Thank you. Thank you. I appreciate the offer of a toast this evening, but I do have other plans. I’m sure I’ll see you around again. Have a good day. Bye now. Bye . . .
[He waves as the imaginary passerby moves off with his leashed dog. His hand falls to his lap. He continues grooming QUEENIE; solemnly.]
Sixty-two, Queenie. Sixty-two. Gives one . . . food for thought. Pause for reflection. The paramount concern is: Do I retire this year or wait until the big Six Five. I have to admit, I don’t enjoy going into the office as much as I used to. The practice of law is no longer of any particular interest to me. All the old fellows are gone and all the new ones strike me as a greedy, uncivilized bunch. Not a gentleman among them. Not a one. Besides, think of all the time we’d have together if I retired. Wouldn’t that be fun? Wouldn’t you like that? Wouldn’t . . .
[A sigh.]
I can’t believe it. Sixty-two. Sixty-two. Time. Time. Days. Weeks. Months. Years. Did I ever tell you I was once married? Did you know that, Queenie? I must have spoken to you about it.
[A thoughtful beat.]
In any event, at the obscenely youthful age of twenty-four, soon after passing the bar exams, on my first try, you should know, I met a woman a year younger than myself through a client of mine.
[As if searching for the correct pronunciation.]
Emma. Miss . . . Emma . . .Reynolds.
[A beat.]
She was a social worker with the city, very much involved in child abuse cases. We dated, we . . . fell in love, we married, and we moved into an apartment, a brownstone in Chelsea. We lived as fully and happily as any two young people possibly could.
[As if searching for the correct pronunciation.]
Emma. Miss Emma Reynolds. Mrs. Emma . . . Reynolds . . . Albertson.
[He removes a small plastic bag filled with dog biscuits from pocket; he feeds QUEENIE.]
I tell you, my little friend, our lives could not have proceeded more satisfactorily. I entered the field of entertainment law and immediately found it both lucrative and challenging. Emma moved inexorably up the civil service ladder until she arrived at an administrative position of power and trust. And, I must say, for the five years of our marriage, there wasn’t a day that passed that didn’t have some special pleasure in store for us, whether it be a particularly outstanding dinner at a newly discovered bistro or, for no apparent reason and due to no deliberate design, an all-night entwining of blissful lovemaking.
[A sigh.]
Emma. My wife. My long-lost wife. Memories of what was; what could have been; what is not. She’s remarried. With grown children now. Living . . . I know not where. Is she happy? I would think she is. The thrust of her being . . . always . . . Family. Values. Community.
[A beat.]
Emma. Miss Emma Reynolds. Mrs. Emma . . . Reynolds . . . Donleavy.
[A desperate note.]
You have to understand, Queenie, men and women, particularly, specifically, young men and young women . . . They are not the same. They do not desire the same things. They do not have the same goals and ambitions.
You can argue, with some justification, that as they grow older, there is a coming together between the sexes, a joining of intentions and purposes and, iron
ically, even a physical sameness, as they are as babies, when they first come into this world. But not when they mature. Not when they are in the first full flush of their . . . sexual selves; the first full flush of their visceral, biological selves. Then they are decidedly different. Decidedly opposites. At odds. At loggerheads. There is no question about it. Absolutely no question about it.
[Less emotionally.]
Simply put, I was not in control of my own life. I was, in fact, under the control of . . . under the domination and beck and call of . . . an unrelenting sexuality. I was no more than an idiotic, weak-kneed, spineless puppet that was wagged heedlessly about on the strings of a mad puppeteer. That is the simple truth of it.
[Meditatively.]
Indeed it was. Indeed it was.
[A beat.]
Make no mistake about it, my dear friend, I had no control over my own life from my first year in high school until . . . until I woke up one morning in the recent past and suddenly realized that I had not fantasized an all-night entwining with some phantasmagoric lady love . . . in possibly weeks. It was at that particular point of time that I seemingly turned the corner from idiocy to sexual passivity and, once again, took control over my own life after a fifty-year hiatus.
[A beat; aggressively.]
As I said before, young men and young women are not the same, contrary to feminist propaganda. If a young woman confessed to being dominated by her libido as ruthlessly as I was, she would be deemed aberrant, afflicted with a pathological condition akin to nymphomania. But the reaction to such a confession from a young man would inevitably evoke a smile, a pat on the back and the gratuitous advice that he take a brisk cold shower.
[A beat.]
And so it was with me. So it was, unrelentingly, incessantly. Even . . . Even when I was married to Emma.
Miss Emma Reynolds. Mrs. Emma . . . Reynolds . . . Donleavy.
[A beat.]
Even then, Queenie, even in the throes of my marital bliss, when I wanted for nothing, desired for nothing, loved dearly the woman I was living with . . . Even then my eye roved to catch a glimpse of an exposed thigh, a well-endowed breast, a pair of gracefully insinuating buttocks, as my mind conjured sugar-plum scenarios of an all-night entwining with . . . another . . . another of unfamiliar scent, of unexplored texture, of unsuspected mysteries. Even then. Even then.
[He takes a red ribbon from his pocket and makes a bow from it.]
Still, no matter how helplessly I was lost in my adulterous fantasies, I observed, faithfully, the vows I had taken.
Perhaps, if Emma had not introduced the thought of our moving to the suburbs, of our starting a family, buying a home, perhaps then, I would have observed the vows of our marriage for the remainder of my days. But once she had verbalized her deepest desires, her grand design for our common . . . future, I . . . I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t relinquish my fantasies, nor free myself of this . . .
[Stares down at his lap.]
distended abomination sulking between my legs.
[He finishes knotting the red ribbon and ties it around QUEENIE’s neck.]
Not then. Not at that time. Not at such a . . . youthful age.
[A beat.]
I walked away, Queenie. Of my own volition, I left her. Over thirty years ago. I haven’t seen her since. But I’ve heard from others about her health . . . her interests . . . her grown children, three of them, I’m told, and of an amiable husband . . . who paints on weekends.
[With vigor:]
But don’t you think for a second that I didn’t fulfill every one of those . . . of those fantasies of mine. Don’t you think for a second I didn’t have a . . . a plethora of wildly gratifying and, yes, ecstatic times for myself. Let me tell you, my little friend, I wasn’t in the entertainment business for nothing. The possibilities offered to me were limitless. I had, over the years, more lovers of every conceivable size, shape, age, color, temperament, and predilection than you can possibly imagine in a . . . in a lifetime of Sundays!
[Slaps his thigh.]
Damn! I slept with tons of them! Lived with tons of them! Weeks. Months. Trips to Europe, the Far East, Africa, Alaska . . . You name it and, word of honor, I did it! I had it! I left no bit of pulchritude untouched. No opportunity lost. No invitation ignored. No request denied!
[Reflectively.]
In the past, that is. In days gone, that is. Ages ago, it seems.
When I was wagged heedlessly about on the strings of a mad puppeteer.
[A sigh.]
Yesterday’s meal does not today’s stomach fill. Every morning one is hungry. Always hungry. Again. For something. For anything.
[He picks up QUEENIE; hugs her:]
I’ll tell you something, my little friend. It is my candid opinion that I am presently in a position, emotionally in a frame of mind, to entertain the prospect of a permanent union.
[Impatiently.]
To put it simply, I’m quite ready to give marriage another go-around. In fact, I’ve made a concerted effort recently to meet eligible women of . . . mature years. I must say, I’ve had enough of these young fly-by-nights. Frankly, they’re too insistent on their own pleasures for the likes of me. I just don’t have the patience for them anymore. I did start dating, making inquiries, overtures. In good faith. Without condition or prejudice. And yet . . . Maybe it’s just a spell of bad luck I’ve been having. So far I haven’t been able to connect, to find someone who is compatible, someone with whom I can be . . . comfortable, like I was with Emma . . . Miss Emma Reynolds. Mrs. Emma . . . Reynolds . . . Donleavy.
[Ruefully.]
I guess there’s no second-guessing who we meet, when we meet, how we meet. Statistically, the odds are heavily against us ever finding someone with whom we’re comfortable with.
[He’s lost in reverie for a beat before shaking himself to movement.]
But enough of this! Let’s be off!
[He rises, leash in hand, as QUEENIE jumps off the bench. With his free hand, he brushes off his slacks.]
We’ll pick up our lunch at Vito’s: grilled calamari, pasta pomodoro, and broccoli rabe for me; a nice osso bucco meat bone for you. And, oh, yes, if I forget you must remind me: a chilled bottle of sauvignon blanc.
[He moves off, left.]
After all, today is my birthday. We have to celebrate the occasion. In style.
[Pulling on leash.]
Come along, Queenie. Come along, sweetheart.
[And they exit, with LAWRENCE singing to himself, “Happy birthday to me . . . Happy birthday to me . . . ,” using the name “Larry” in the appropriate line, as he exits stage with QUEENIE.]
Shel Silverstein
The Devil and Billy Markham
from
The Best American Short Plays 1991–1992
[The STORYTELLER enters. He wears a ratty topcoat, baggy pants, unmatching vest, wrinkled shirt, and spotted necktie. He carries a mop and a bucket. He sets down the bucket and begins to mop the floor, humming to himself. He looks up, surprised to see the audience. He realizes his opportunity. He smiles. He begins to recite.]
The Devil walked into Linebaugh’s on a rainy Nashville night.
While the lost souls sat and sipped their soup in the sickly yellow neon light.
And the Devil he looked around the room, and he got down on one knee.
He says, “Is there one among you scum who’ll roll the dice with me?”
Red, he just strums his guitar, pretending not to hear.
And Eddie, he just looks away and takes another sip of beer.
Vince, he says, “Not me, I’ll pass. I’ve had my share of Hell.”
And kept scribbling on a napkin some song he was sure would sell.
Ronnie just kept whisperin’ low to the snuff queen who clutched at his sleeve.
And somebody coughed
—and the Devil scoffed
And turned on his heel to leave.
“Hold on,” says a voice from the back of the room,
“’Fore you walk out that door.
If you’re looking for some action, friend, well, I’ve rolled some dice before.”
And there stood Billy Markham, he’d been on the scene for years,
Singing all those raunchy songs that the town didn’t want to hear.
He’d been cut and bled a thousand times, and his eyes were wise and sad.
And all his songs were songs of the street, and all of his luck was bad.
“I know you,” says Billy Markham, “from many a dark and funky place,
But you always spoke in a different voice and wore a different face.
While me, I’ve gambled here on Music Row with hustlers, hacks, and whores
And my dues are paid. I ain’t afraid to roll them dice of yours.”
“Well then, get down,” says the Devil, “and put that guitar away,
And take these dice in your luckless hands and I’ll tell you how this game is played.
You get one roll—and you bet your soul—and if you roll thirteen you win.
And all the joys of flesh and gold are yours to touch and spend.
But if that thirteen don’t come up, then kiss your ass good-bye,
And will your useless bones to God, ’cause your goddamn soul is mine.”
“Thirteen?” says Billy Markham. “Hell, I’ve played in tougher games.
I’ve loved ambitious women and I’ve rode on wheelless trains.
So gimme room, you stinkin’ fiend, and let it all unwind,
Nobody’s rolled a thirteen yet, but this just might be the time.”
Then Billy Markham, he takes the dice, and the dice feel heavy as stones.
“They should,” the Devil says, “ ’cause they’re carved outa Jesus’ bones!”
And Billy Markham turns the dice and the dice they have no spots.
“I’m sorry,” says the Devil, “but they’re the only ones I got.”
“Well, shit,” says Billy Markham. “Now I really don’t mean to bitch,
Best Monologues from the Best American Short Plays, Volume Three Page 8