Born in a Trunk

Simon: (standing over his record player in his New York apartment)

I was two years when old when I fell in love with the stage. The Meglin Kiddies took a shot on me and my sisters. The year was 1928. They tell me that I stopped the show. At least, that’s how I would like to introduce myself. But, I’m sure you know, that’s little Miss Frances Ethel Gumm. Also known as Judy. Judy Garland! (He makes the “A Star is Born” pose.) I was five when I first heard her voice. Five. Imagine that. My grandmother was playing something on her tape deck. A compilation of sorts. But when Judy started to sing The Trolley Song? Ohhh, my heart stopped. I sat in front of the speaker in rapt attention and, when the song was over, I demanded more. Nan changed the tape and put on “something special”. It was a live concert, Nan said. A live concert at Carnegie Hall. She seemed thrilled to share this with me.

In just a moment the tape was going and the orchestra was playing something grand. I could hear bongos very faint! And the horns! Oh, I loved the way they wailed! And all the while there was this buzz... I didn’t know what it was then, but I know it now... this perpetual anticipation, this Waiting for Something Bigger and Better AND eeeeevvvvennnnntually... THERE SHE WAS! Judy! You could hear the crowd going fuckin’ bonkers! And me? I just continued to sit right there even through when Nan had to flip the tape over so we could hear the second half. I didn’t even mind it when Judy forgot the lyrics. But... eventually the tape ran out.

“I was there, y’know.” That’s what Nan said. Where? “At Carnegie Hall. That very night. I was... oh... around 30, I guess.” 30? I was flummoxed. Nan was there when she was 30? How old did that make Judy? And then, when Nan told me that Judy “wasn’t around anymore” I knew something was up. For the first time in hours, I moved from that spot on the rug.

There’s a famous photo – well, famous in my family, you know? – of me against a wall, hands at my sides in tight little fists and it looks like I’ve just tasted something awful. Truth was, I hadn’t tasted anything. I just tended to make this very pose whenever I needed a moment. My mother called it my “cool-down period”. Maybe you’ve seen it before? I assumed The Pose and proceeded to speak very slowly.

“Do you mean to tell me that Judy Garland is dead?”

My grandmother tried to hide her laughter as she confirmed my suspicions. Before she could even get the words out, though, I knew. I raced upstairs and locked the door behind me and I cried for days. Or hours. Or maybe... probably... it was minutes, now that I really think about it. But I cried big old crocodile tears, that’s for sure.

After a while, Nan came knocking and said it was time for dinner. We’d be eating it in the living room tonight. “Don’t get used to it.” And when I got down there, well, Judy was right there on the t.v. waiting for me. Her hands were at the sides of her face, fingers spread wide, and she had this giant grin from ear to ear on her face. That was the first time I ever saw her. And that’s how I’ll always think of her.

Judy died in 1969. Until I was old enough to go to the library and find out the truth, I never knew how she died. Nan wouldn’t tell me and neither would my parents. But, eventually, I learned she died of an accidental overdose of barbiturates. Wellllll, I had to look that up, too. Pills, dolls, drugs, y’now. Over the years, I learned more. I studied the films, I read all the books, I saw all the impersonations, I heard all the albums, discovered all the husbands. Whenever I needed a pick-me-up, Hello Bluebird was there. When I was old enough to know that a man could and would break your heart – I was 16, the first time... I remember... – The Man That Got Away was there. And when I needed to escape, I could go Over the Rainbow aaaand SURE! Sure, it was cheesey. Sure, it was predictable. But it was mine. You know? She was something I could claim. My Someone.

There were a few bumps, of course. It wasn’t always such a perfect relationship. There was the time I raided my mother’s closet for the closest possible match to Judy’s Carnegie frock and sent my parents invitations – via notes under their dinner tables that they’d find while dish-washing – to come to a special performance in my room. My mother spanked me for stealing her clothing and make-up. My father just retreated to the living room with a beer. And, years later, in college, I’d been listening to the Carnegie concert with the door open. I was hanging up the Carnegie poster and the enormous Star is Born canvas a friend got me for graduation. Judy was singing about Swanee. President Coolidge was a fucking friend of mine, okay? I was crazy about the broad, Alan! Surely, surely, someone else there had to like Judy. Maybe not as much as me, but... It was my first day in the dorm and I was determined to meet a like-minded fellow. Or anyone, really. Instead, I got a black eye and a two-day headache from a brute named Mike Puglisi. But even with the ice on my face and an R.A. asking for info, Judy was playing and somehow getting me through.

So, I’m sorry if it bothers you, Alan, that I want to listen to my records for a moment. You, when you’re... down or pissed or whatever... YOU drink. I turn to music. It might not be the most grandiose of addictions, but I do believe it’s far healthier than yours. And to you it may all be.... what was the word you used when you were insulting me in my own home? Juvenile? That it’s a fantasy? I know she’s gone, Alan. I don’t need you or anyone else to tell me that. But when she sang... ohhhh, when she SANG there was nothing that could get in her way. For those three or four or whatever minutes she was unstoppable, Alan. Even the pills couldn’t get her. So forgive me for wanting to listen to Judy sing the fucking song in hopes that you won’t drag me down into your pit of abasement.

(Beat. He starts to laugh.)

It’s a little funny, isn’t it? That I’d fall in love with someone as toxic as Frances Ethel Gumm at the age of five and then I’d find myself here. 26 and useless and in the most pathetic relationship one could imagine. They wrote songs about men like you. And... she sang them. And... they destroyed her.

Go on, Alan. Fix yourself another cocktail. Take another vicodin and walk out of the room and (raising his voice to call as ALAN leaves,) PRETEND YOU CAN’T HEAR ME AND GO. I’LL BE HERE. SWANEE AND JUDY AND THE FUCKING WIZARD AND ALL! (Beat. He hums something. “After You’ve Gone.” The hum turns into a lyric and the lyric turns into a laugh and the laugh turns into a smile and the smile turns into a blackout.)

Returning

[from OPHELIACS ANONYMOUS]

MIKE

Fuck it. You know something? Okay. (He needs to move when he talks.) Before I left for Iraq, I met this girl. April. I wasn’t living here then. I was out on the island. I’d had a couple of beers, me and some friends were at Jones’ Beach, we played volleyball opposite a couple of girls in bikinis. They were sending me away. And I remember, Chris? He was teary-eyed all night, positive I wasn’t coming back. But I knew. You just know these things. And when the game ended, we offered them some beers and then we talked and then it got dark and then it got cold and then we went home and April came, too. For the whole weekend. We didn’t even have sex until two days after we met. We just talked. Like something out of a fucking Nicholas Sparks novel, you know? And, I guess, uh... she wasn’t planning on falling for a guy at the beach. I guess she just wanted a tan. A day out with the girls. But sometimes something happens – it’s like Andy said... static electricity? It wakes you up! Something in you comes to life. Even if you’ve already dated or been in love or whatever it’s totally new every single fucking time. And I refuse to believe it’s mental. Because it’s all there, inside you, ticking away like a time bomb. Did I say the right thing? There’s butterflies in my stomach because I think I’m about to spew word vomit. My voice cracks because I’m lying. My eyes grow wide because they’re afraid to close. They’re afraid like they’ll miss something. Just a moment of her... amazing... time. So for 48 hours we talked. And talked. And then eventually we touched. And then eventually we kissed. And then before we knew it the alarm clock told me I had to leave. We hadn’t even finished what we’d started. So, I gave her my numbers, the way she could write, you know, keep in touch. Okay? She writes. Everyday. Sometimes twice a day. And they’re fucking beautiful because not only does she have this red hair down to her waist that cascades like a motherfucking waterfall she is SMART and has this way with words. And the letters start to get inside you. When you’re out there, you carry them on you all the time. Inside your coat. Because sometimes it gets so fucking scary and they’re the only thing that protect you. I’d look at her picture, too. I asked her for one. She sent me one – her and someone else... they’d been cut out of the picture, though. I didn’t care at first, though. I assumed it was an ex. Something in the past. Maybe she liked the way her hair looked here. (He’s taken it out now.) But when you spend everyday in that heat and every night scared to death a bomb’s gonna go off two feet from your head, you start to get a little paranoid. And that picture started to bother me. Who was it? (Beat.) This was... I don’t know. November, I think. We lost three guys in a carbomb that week, I remember. It was fucking tense. And all of a sudden the letters stopped. At first, I thought, you know. It’s getting hectic over here. Maybe the mail is slowing down. But evvvvveryone around me was getting them. And, uh, just like that. I knew. Just like I knew I’d make it out. (Changing his tune a little, maybe sitting back down,) So, a couple weeks go by. Months, maybe. It’s best not to look at the time out there. And eventually I get back to the states and her phone is off. The number doesn’t work anymore. Dead end. So, uh, I guess I got a little crazy and that’s what got me here.

I had the envelope. I had tons of them! With her return address written in that perfect handwriting... So, I... I just got in the fucking car and drove. Sat there for a few days. But nobody came and nobody went and then all of a sudden a car came pulling into the driveway. And they got out, took out their luggage. She didn’t carry a thing because he was the perfect gentleman. I was parked across the street and I, uh, just got out. You know. I just stood there for a while and she just stood there looking back and nobody said a word. She knew what I knew and that was that. I fucked up. He came back out to get the rest of the luggage and saw me standing there and the look on her eyes. I fucked up so much. I shouldn’t have hit him, but I did. I went fullswing and beat the shit out of him, landed him in the hospital. (Laughing,) And the prick didn’t even press charges. (Beat.) The Perfect Man. (Beat.) April visited me in the hospital once. Told me they'd just come back from their honeymoon. Walked in in a pretty blue dress with a brochure for this group in her hand. Apparently she had gone here after I left to get over me. She thought I’d never come home alive. Said that you all told her to move on.

Like Riding a Bicycle

[from OPHELIACS ANONYMOUS]

Does anyone else here hate it when she says your name? (Laughing. This is what she always does. It’s a pretty decent defense mechanism. It’s worked for a few years. Until recently, of course...) Well. Uh. Rita? I guess my week was about the same as Andy’s, I guess. Only my special evening was a bit less hot and a bit more... Well. (Beat.) You know, how they say it’s like riding a bicycle? Well. (Beat.) If you grew up in New York like I did and never learned to ride a fuckin’ bike, you’re up Shit’s Creek without a paddle, you know what I’m sayin’? Mark showed up at my door, totally unexpected. He’s been talking about it for a while, yeah, but I wasn’t prepared AT ALL. He drove here in a fever from Vancouver. (Beat.) You talk to a guy on the internet with a screenname like ClassyClown32, he’s bound to talk a lot of shit. Right? No. Nope. This was no shit-talking. At 3am – and I was OUT because I took two xanax with a glass of wine, right? – someone’s at my buzzer. I was so fucking pissed. And then when he said it was Mark, I just... What was I going to do? I had to let him up. And before I know it... boompoo... two years, six months, thirteen days, three hours and twenty minutes of forced chastity comes to its end. (Beat.) So anyway, he’s in Times Square right now. No shit. “Checking out the sights.” I said I had rehearsal. Couldn’t get out of it. Director’s a tyrant. That sort of thing. (Beat.) I didn't want to come. I'm sore as hell down there and I've got hives from all the fucking anxiety. But Mike pretty much forced me to. Said that I had to get down here and TALK about this. So. Yeah. Hi.

Shelley's Letter to Howard

(from OPHELIACS ANONYMOUS)

SHELLEY:

It’s a letter in case I ever got the nerve to leave Howard. (Beat. Everyone is silent.) Okay... So... uhm.... (She reads. But eventually she doesn’t need the pages and it’s almost as if Howard’s there.)

Dear Howard,

Here we are. Inside and outside each other at the same time, tossing and turning, sweating bullets, the fitted sheet popping off the bed. But your eyes are vague and your touch feels distant. I can feel the bumps along your spine and I can see you looking through me, never at me. Where have you gone? What changed? Where are you, now, my love? Are you with me or are you gone again? Is it back with her? On the stairs where you fought? In the office you first kissed? In the bed where you slept? WHERE ARE YOU NOW, MY LOVE?

The ceiling becomes my friend on nights like these. I lay there, staring at it, silently asking my questions. Does it know where you’ve gone to? (Aside.) His body is sweaty and I can feel the heat. The constant ins and outs of the sex begin to feel like ticking away the days, or writing "I will not..., I will not..., I will not...," on a blackboard for all the world to see. (Back to him,) And I can sense your boredom. I can taste your absence. Jesus... I can see the space between my love and your lust.

We wait, the ceiling and I, until your breathing slows. You've turned onto your side. Should I turn, too, so that our bodies touch when we drift off in our little boats of sleep? Or am I over-analyzing the fact that you enjoy sleeping on your side? I dare not move because of your stillness. Have you fallen asleep? Or just left me again? Because, if that's the case, I need to get up, walk, move, pace, find some room to breathe because I am being stifled in this bed. I am DYING in this room. I CANNOT BREATHE HERE IN THIS SPACE BETWEEN LOVING AND LEAVING.

The blanket's to the side, thank God, as we're warm from our dull intercourse. The mattress is firm enough that I can slowly get my way to its foot, placing one leg on the ground at a time. Its solidity, and the coolness of the wood, feels great on the soles of my feet. I rise and freeze. Have I waken you? I can hear you snoring, though it's more like a breath or a very quiet groan. I take my steps to the window carefully and open it up. OH, the air is FRESH. OH, its chill feels so wonderful on my naked neck and chest. I've forgotten about you as I breathe in and out as hard as I can, sucking in all the oxygen possible, trying to find my way back to earth, my way out of this panic. And suddenly you stir. I turn and watch you move, finding comfort in the empty space in our bed, letting your body open and relax, no acknowledgment of my exit. Annnnnd, in that moment, I'm suddenly ready. Suddenly ready to leave because... I realize you've been gone all along.

No, no... It isn't me you touched. It isn't my sweat you smell, or lips you taste. I'm just a fraction of a greater whole. Something to fill your empty void. I just pass the time. Alas, the ceiling has never had the heart to tell me so. And so, I've got to go.

(Beat.)

I left him there. Somehow I mustered up the strength to walk out on him while he slept. Maybe it was burst of air at the window. (Chuckling,) Maybe it was the way he hogged the bed once I left it. Oooorrrrr maybe it was just time. I don't know... All I know is I was getting dressed. I tiptoed out the door and put my shoes on outside, giving my feet a second to feel the cold cement. And then I called Jane.

There Are Memories Here

SUSAN: There were Christmas presents still waiting to be unwrapped and the strewn strips of green and red paper laying around the carpet because we did not have the motivation to clean. Enjoying the company was far more appealing. There is something about Christmas morning and the few to follow it that is pure. It is virgin snow untainted by yellow piss or muddy tires. The white we wear on wedding days to symbolize our purity, the 18, 19, 20 years we waited with legs shut tight. (Bullshit. You're lying, Susan. But there is no regret.) But he enters like the yellow piss and the muddy tire-tracks. In the black that pulls you away from those twinkle-lights. And you'd think the contrast between day and night - black and white - in the color of his shirt and denim would turn your head to focus your eyes on his own. But no. And it is only his breath that remains in the room when you realize that you didn't hold tight enough. You didn't unwrap the Christmas presents fast enough. Because the moment is gone. The vulture has swooped down and taken, talons bringing him too high to reach and releasing him like the icicles hanging from the outside window-sills that eventually fall and shatter. Or the picture you burn of the dead because you'd rather see their face crinkle, fade than have to live with seeing it day after day after day after night because night time is the hardest when you actually have to think about it. There aren't distractions in night. Just the nakedness of the open sky and the silence so quiet you can hear the dead walking even though they've forgotten how. But I'm still standing here, watching the doctor some ten, fifteen, twenty feet away talking to a nurse. Shaking his clipboard as he speaks. There is this prior knowledge. Call me clairevoyant. There is this prior knowledge I have that he will be headed here soon, running his fingers through his hair and shuffling his feet like a child and asking me to take a seat. It will be easier to discuss it if we sit. Do you want coffee? I want answers. Coffee answers no questions. And no, I do not want to sit. The wall is support enough. I've sat enough in 18, 19, 20, I don't remember, years. And he will come, fingers running through hair and feet shuffling like a little boy, with the slightest shake from side to side with his textbook head until the words come pouring out following that sigh. Funny how a sigh, a groan, a low, emitted noise from the bowels of our being, can be the exposition to a play, novel, film. That sigh is the one we dread but we all have prior knowledge in these moments: against the wall and standing under icicles waiting to fall and shatter upon impact with your skull, body, being.

(She finally moves, sorting through her purse, pulling out a book, placing the pocketbook between her feet, guarding it with them, and opens to where she has left off, beginning to read. After a minute,) The lust in these romance novels off the mass market paperback shelves in the library is a guilty pleasure. So many other women have read it. The pages are like rose petals a week after you give them to your other half. Until he runs his fingers through his hair and shuffles his feet with the slightest shake of his head from side to side, I will read the rose petals. Call it avoidance or denial. I call it Christmastime. I'm meant to enjoy, not grieve. (She begins to read. The lights slowly go down save one soul spot above SUSAN. After a moment, a projection appears on the wall she is standing on: a poorly-filmed home video. A family unwrapping Christmas presents. There is no sound, just the images we see. A long while then the silent image of static. The projection ends after a brief moment. SUSAN waits, then finally and frantically...)

I left my glass of wine on the kitchen table. Fuck. I just remembered. Fuck. Certainly someone has poured it down the drain by now. I was enjoying the flavor. I will have to make another attempt at finishing a glass when I get home tonight. Or tomorrow. Or is it already tomorrow? I lack the eyes to see the clock on the far wall. I should rest them. Just for a minute. Not sleep, just close them, rest them. Yes. (Closing her eyes.) Much better. Soothing. And I must stop talking so that I hear the shuffle of his feet and the fingers going through his hair getting closer. (The single light that has been on SUSAN changes. She listens. She is attentive. A beat. A change. She is alone again. The light changes back.)

It's being here again that scares me the most. In this same building. This same, sterile hospital. After you lose someone, you're tempted to take the umbilical chord and strangle the child you give birth to. But you take one look at his eyes and his nose and the baby fat filling his cheeks, all red as crimson after coming out of you. It's amazing how another human being can come out of you. (Smirking.) Painful, too. After all the work, how could you strangle it? But you consider it. Because you think it deserves some sort of chance to avoid the life of home-videos that lead up until the day of their death. (The lights change as she steps closer to the audience, coming forward and stopping downstage center.) Since my first day here, that day when my brother... when Carl expired... I have discovered the secret of life: when we are born, it is only so that we may die. I have yet to discover the reason.(The lights change again as does her posture. She is in an elevator.) I decided to take an elevator up two floors while the baby was napping in the nursery on day two in the hospital. I got out of it and took a walk. (She exits the "elevator" and turns, her back to the audience, and heads upstage, suddenly being stopped dead in her tracks. The wall.) There are memories here. (Indicating.) And here. (Indicating again.) And here. I stood here. Right here. And waited. Clutching my pocketbook, waiting, waiting, waiting. Watching the doctor run his fingers through his hair and shuffle his feet with the slightest shake in his head. Preparing himself like an actor before a performance. (Walking over a little and stopping to indicate.) And here, I drank stale coffee. (Walking again before indicating.) Here, my mother cried. (Walking again and indicating.) And here, I watched them pull the sheet up. And over. And he... (Stopping. Thinking.) They should have fed him by now. I should go back to the nursery. (Beginning to head back to the "elevator" but taking one last look at the white wall, her back to the audience.) You should be able to say it before you can move on and experience happiness. You need to be able to admit to it ever happening. Garage sales will not work. You can't dispose of the evidence that someone ever actually exisisted. (She turns, getting in the elevator. As she speaks, a projection on the back wall appears and the lights begin to fade. The projection is of a baby taking its first steps.) You can't walk around waiting for the day of your death to come. Carl died three days after Christmas in 1982. I had doubts about life, expecting it to be nothing but a road to death. Sadness. Grief. You can't go through it like that. I can't go through it like that. I gave birth about 29 hours ago. 6 and a half pounds. 1:33 in the morning. My child will know life and love life. He will not expect death. There might have been Christmas presents still waiting to be unwrapped and the strewn strips of green and red paper laying around the carpet because we did not have the motivation to clean. Enjoying the company was far more appealing. But it's time to unwrap them and stop shaking them to see what's inside. (The lights fade and we are left with the projection on the back wall. Eventually, it stops and the stage is in darkness.)

An excerpt from 'When I'm 64'

Deep down he knew she wouldn’t accept it. Us, I mean. She was… trained, I guess, to misunderstand. Or hate. Whatever. (Beat.) Mary made it clear to her that it was wrong from the beginning. (Beat.) I dare say I would’ve done the same if it was my daughter. It’s only human. (Beat.) Y’know, he had the room ready for the day of the fair, in case she got tired, needed a nap, wanted to spend the night. He wanted it to be a surprise. But when she saw us holding hands, everything changed. She was angry and pitched a fit. He was so hurt you could see it in his eyes. It took so much for him to be able to take her out, to open himself up to the idea of raising her, see? He was preparing himself. He wanted to ask Mary if he could take her on the weekends. To develop… something, a connection. And in doing it, he was asking Susie to forgive his happiness. (Beat.) John said that once. “I want her to forgive my happiness.” I never really understood what he meant. Isn’t that funny? (Beat. He shakes off the thought of it.) But he was terrified, I think. Truly. You don’t have any children yet, honey. You don’t understand how scary it is. The responsibility. And you won’t understand it until it’s there, so small. It’s a fleeting moment, really. But… (Beat. A change.) When your mom died and it was just you and me, I thought I’d died, I was so scared. What was I going to do with a 12 year old? A 12 year old girl, no less. But it wasn’t so bad. John missed out on that part, the not-so-bad, with Susie. Not that it was all bad with them. No. She was a good kid. Still is. Just a little… confused. You were brought into this world by an extraordinary young woman who couldn’t see a difference between me and the man next door if she tried. People were people to her. Even I lack that gift, but— (Beat.) …If you squint a little, you might be able to see Susan from the perspective your mother would’ve seen her from. She was so little then, Nancy. Just a little girl. Her feelings could’ve fit in the palm of my hand. Who is that man and why is he coming with me and my Daddy and why is Daddy holding that man’s hand? And why is Daddy gone all the time? (Beat.) I think if my father left me for a warmer bed… (He laughs.) …I’d be just as pissed as she is! I don’t excuse what John did. And I don’t excuse myself either. But there’s a point where you have to live your life the way you want to. Little Susie just got all caught up in it with nowhere to turn. Like Chicken Little when the sky came down and it all went boom.

The Stain

This morning, as I drank some drastically sweet tea from Celestial Surprise (or whatever the fuck it's called), I noticed a very distinct coffee ring stain on my kitchen counter. You see, I drink my tea standing... while it's still so hot it burns... It opens my throat, prepares me for the day, you see. Anyway. This coffee stain is here every morning, and while I drink my hot tea standing, I usually wash it away. But today? Today I began to trace it with my fingertip and reflect upon its origin. Where did it come from? Why is it here? I rarely ever touch the stuff. Coffee, I mean. But my flat mate? Well. She lives for it. She must've put her mug down there an hour or two ago. Did it overflow? Was there a leak in the mug? And, so perplexed by this light-brown ring, I began to muse.

What goes into the making of a stain - this accident? It stays with us on this counter-top until someone (yours truly, most likely) picks up the sponge and wipes it away. And then - just like that - POOF - it's... gone. So, in my reflection of the stain, I pause. This is bold. This is daring. Especially for me. (My obsessive-compulsive behavior is clawing at me from the insides, screaming to be released.) But I just keep staring at the stain. Does it have something to tell me? And just as I realize I'm being completely and utterly ridiculous, standing there like some kind of Biblical hysterical hipster trying to discover the meaning of a coffee stain, there's a buzz at the door. It's the first happening to pull my focus from the stain for fifteen minutes or so. (A good happening, one might think.)

But it isn't for me. It's never for me. Someone got locked out, has their hands full, is visiting a friend with a broken buzzer, wants to sell me something; probably their religion. I just push the button and return to the stain.

It's still there. I reach for the sponge. My insides are screaming, CLEAN IT!

But instead I grab my teacup. My sweetened contentment in a mug from the dollar store down the block. The doctor said resist. Resist the temptation to clean the mess and enjoy it. Savor it. Let it be your only friend. Count down from ten. Nine. Eight. Seven... Six... (beat)

Oh, fuck it! I scrub the spot clean and leave a bitter post-it.

HANNAH AT THE WINDOW

HANNAH:

I’ve lived in Lenox Hill for twenty-seven years. I’ve been a widow for thirteen of those twenty-seven years. And, because my Buddy had moved us out here for business from Ohio (he was in advertising or real estate or something – it’s hard to remember -) and we didn’t have any children, I was a bit shocked by all this... excitement. My Buddy would say it was all “too much for Hannah”. And, I suppose it was.

I began counting ambulances after my Buddy’s first heart attack. That was in, oh, 1995, I think. I’d run to the window, watch it go by, wonder who it was, what was wrong, were they a good person? And this morning – would you believe? – this morning I heard my [with great care] forty-third thousand, seven hundred and ninety sixth siren. [Whistles.] S’alot. You figure roughly twenty-percent of that is just a broken limb, maybe – what? – ten percent is a gunshot? Thirty for strokes, I’d say. And the rest? That forty? Heart attacks. [Beat.] These are just speculations, of course.

I enjoyed my ride in the ambulance with my Buddy during each of his heart attacks. I know this must confuse you, because it confuses everyone. But the truth is that it was comforting. No matter what happened, there were four walls and people who knew what they were doing to take care of my Buddy. So, when I see an ambulance go by, I take notice. Some one is getting taken care of.

[We hear a siren. She reacts. Goes to the window. Looks.]

Who are you?

What do you need?

Bless you.

[It is long gone. She’s forgotten what she’s doing. She goes back to the chair. Looks around for a moment. And then,]

Forty-third thousand, seven hundred and ninety seventh siren. [Whistles.] S’alot.

It’s funny that I can remember that. I can remember a few things – my Friend brings groceries on Tuesdays and Fridays and my Pal checks in on Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays and I was married to my Buddy and I live in Lenox Hill but don’t ask me the address, I couldn’t tell you, it’s been years since I’ve had to know, and I have heard forty-three thousand, seven hundred and ninety seven ambulances go by my apartment window since my Buddy had his very first heart attack.

They say that you have to be consistent. Your days need to be full, busy, consistent. That’s what they say. So I count.

[A siren. She runs to it. BLACKOUT.]

it isn't you, it's me.

i bet if i gave you a staircase, you'd opt for the debonair and make your grand entrance instead of choosing the fun times we had sliding down the banister because that's the kind of person you are now – classy and uptight. (the worst part is that i still think i love you even with all of your newfound flaws. the pseudo-intellectual in you does not make the music that you think it does. but whatever it is, that sound, it gets me. it hits a spot. (yeah, jay. you still turn me on.)

but pretty soon your airs start to feel a little flat (or maybe a little sharp knowing the dissonant way you tend to look at things, stravinsky). and MAYBE there's a little bit of beauty in the way you fake the notes you just can't seem to hit... but even that’s starting to lose its Technicolor. and forgive me for laughing at the oh-so-artistic way you dance but - the beatnik in you just can't seem to find the beat. but i'll give you some credit while i toast you with my fiji water for your valiant effort.

it isn’t you, it’s me. Because We’re All Fucking Hypocrites, jay. Right?

The Michelin Man

There’s nothing I hate more than jogging in a crowded room, so the visits happen late when it’s just the clock and me and the racing wants to go on forever. See, I have to set a goal, so set a goal is what I do: an unhealthy and slightly unrealistic ten in one month. Need to look my best. Need to be in tip-top shape, see, all because of a boy. Three years down the drain wanting waiting wishing for him to look and I finally get the nerve, the balls, and I’m sweating bullets worse than when I run when no one’s looking and all I get is the slap sting of “The Michelin Man is not my type”.

Oh. That was all I could muster up.

There’s nothing I hate more than jogging in a crowded room, so I walk real slow out the studio where he’s telling all the tale no doubt and wait for the door to close behind till I let my hand touch the place where it stings the most – my face or my heart I’m not quite sure – before I inhale deep and long real hard (the kind that stabs – you know – with the Norman Bates screech) to somewhere I don’t even think I have ever been so that I can run. And run I do. Down the stairs from 2 to 1 and down the hall past the guard wishing they’d get rid of these obnoxious revolving doors that always make me late or stop or give me the extra five seconds it takes to wish I hadn’t woken up but then I’m outside and gone.

Okay. So. …I lied. There’s nothing I hate more than needing in a crowded world. And this is a very crowded world. And at the rate things are going in this very, very crowded world, I’ll be selling tires at a discount rate til the day I die.

Norman and the Sticky Buns

When I woke this morning. there was a curious smell in the air and my head was heavy with ache. Instead of my usual route straight to the bathroom where I bathe and then a hop skip jump back toward my closet for a sweater vest and khakis (it’s Thursday – I always wear a sweater vest and khakis on Thursdays), I made a bee-line for the kitchen. I found a plate of sticky buns sitting on the table. I have never found a plate of sticky buns on my kitchen table in all my years of existence. [Slowly] Until now. Where, oh where, had this plate of sticky buns come from? I searched my brain and came up with a few options; had I wanted a midnight snack? Had I been sleepwalking? Had Marvin the Cat prepared them while I dozed? Was there a little chubby man made of Pillsbury dough hiding in my pantry? None of said options had very much merit, I must add. I do not typically eat in the evening, as I have a mild case of Acid Reflux. (Oh, its nothing. Just a little indigestion that keeps me up at night.) But I most certainly do not sleepwalk. Of that, I am sure. And I highly doubt that Marvin would be capable of making said plate of sticky buns without any opposable thumbs! Besides! If there were a little chubby man made of Pillsbury dough in my kitchen making a plate of sticky buns while I slept, I think I'd know about it. Or, Marvin would have eaten him. They're one in the same, really. And as I stood there with the breeze blowing through my hair (didn't I close that window before bed?) and the scent of said plate of sticky buns rising to my nostrils, I suddenly heard it! Distant, but a roar. A most definite roar. Water! Yes! Yes... I hadn’t noticed it before in my confusion over the smell of the plate of sticky buns. Oh yes, the shower was most certainly on! But who --- who? –- was in it?

It is as this point in my story when I grabbed a spatula. In my panic, I assumed the item in hand was a knife. Or... something a bit more deadly. Like a rolling pin. [Slowly] Martha Style. And in my fantasy I grew distracted. Suddenly the pipes were whistling and the floors were creaking. He’d turned my shower off. Or she. That matter was yet to be devised. I searched the drawer for something better, frantically.

Finally armed with something sharp, I made my way. I could hear something. There was noise......... Was he singing?! The bastard was singing!

It is here in the story where I must digress to a shameful admittance. I paused. I actually paused and tried to figure out what song it was. Familiar, I thought at first. I know it somehow. You know how we think these things to ourselves when a song sounds familiar. We hum the first few beats, but by the end of the line we’ve suddenly remembered the second half of the lyric. And here am I, armed with a knife, hunting the baker of a plate of sticky buns that sits on my kitchen table trying to figure out if it’s Wagner or Verdi! Suddenly, the door burst open and the baker stepped out. My knife was poised, ready to attack, when the evening before suddenly came into focus, albeit a bit hazy at first. His shoulders were strikingly familiar, I thought. And the ears, yes... Oh. Oh, my.

[Beat.

Beat.

Beat.]

Norman, he said. Robert. That was his name. Are you playing a game?

Well, needless to say, I chuckled and batted an eyelash or two. Yes, Robert, yes. Just a little role-play.

from BLACK [Billy Learns About Captain Kirk]

Look, I’m sorry. Okay? I am. Really. Because there is this part of me that wants to stick around and put up with your moping and hope you get over it real soon. You used to be a lot of fun. That night – we met at O’Reilly’s and you actually wanted to dance and I was a little drunk so I figured, why not, right? And you looked so stupid – don’t get me wrong – just... your bangs were stuck to your forehead because you were sweating and your face was all red and you just kept smiling. And you just left your hair there like that... stuck. It was driving me crazy that it wasn’t driving you crazy. You didn’t give a shit. And I found that so... sexy. Back then? You weren’t baked all the time. And when we were hanging out, you’d play the guitar. You’d actually play it. But now? Now, you’re just... here. And I thought, you know, I’ll just… I’ll give him time, right? It’s a phase. (Beat.) No, Billy, no… it’s not a phase. It’s been a really, REALLY long year with all of this and I don’t want to wait anymore for you or it or whatever to get better. I CAN’T wait, Billy, because you are holding me back. The second I walk through that door, it’s like this lazy, sad, sack of shit feeling just washes over me. Y'know... I didn't tell you this, but... huh. Fuck it, right? A couple of weeks ago Oscar hopped up on the stove at my place. I mean – it wasn’t on. But it’s a glass top stove. You know... Anyway, it was still hot, right? And Oscar hopped up there – because he likes playing with the salt and pepper shakers, batting them around or whatever — and I guess his tail or paw, I don’t know what… it touched the burner. The one I’d just been using. Well, he cried and jumped twenty feet up, you know? Ran out of the kitchen a million miles an hour and then he wouldn’t come out from under my bed for a couple of hours. (Beat.) I don’t know why I didn’t tell you this sooner. (Beat.) He doesn’t go up there anymore. I mean -- he used to go up there five, six times a day and now he doesn’t go up at all. And I guess that reminds me of us. (Beat.) I get scared to come here. Because I get scared I’ll disappear in all of this. And, frankly, the burn unit is a scary fucking place, okay?

Fred (in moments)

I.

(FRED is reading the paper, his back against the side of a dumpste, DSL. He is surrounded by garbage bags and tote bags full of cans, plastic, belongings, etc. He stretches his right leg out and we can see a toe emerging from the shoe. He wiggles it for a moment, inspects it, then,)

FRED

Damnit. (He ruffles through his bags and, after a moment,) A-ha! (finds a roll of duct tape. He peels it and tapes his shoe, all while humming a familiar song. Suddenly he is startled to attention,) Spare some change, ma’am? (Beat.) Have a nice day! (Beat.) Bitch. (Beat. He looks upward and begins to talk.) Hey, Petey. Bang if you hear me. (Two bangs.) Good man, good man. These bitches… they walk past in their fancy heels and they can’t even spare some change. A nickel, y’know? (Another two bangs.) It’s gonna be chilly tonight. I saw it on the tee-vee in the deli. It’s not the cold that bothers me. Or at least it didn’t used to. It was the loneliness for a while. All that wandering around and all those endless subway rides with nobody to talk to but yourself. And if you get caught doin’ that, they all start to think you’re crazy. And nobody – Petey, listen to this, -- nobody gives their money to a crazy person. So don’t start talkin’ to yourself in a subway car. Once you start, there’s no goin’ back, my friend. (Beat. With doom,) No goin’ back. (Beat. A chuckle.) But, nah, I’m not ready for the Fall. It’s a shitty time of year, Petey, y’know? All that death. (Beat.) I’ve been trying to remember the day I left. Jeanie was asleep on the couch. She’d fallen asleep with the tee-vee on and eventually Oprah turned into a vacuum sale and the vacuum sale turned into a test screen and – Petey – the damn thing was so high and so loud and I just had to get out of that house. It was STIFLING, Petey. IT WAS ALL SO GODDAMN LOUD. (Beat.) Sarah was asleep upstairs. And Teddy, too, in his race car bed. (aside) He loved that thing. He wanted bright red but I was an ass and got him a blue one. Blue was for boys, I said. But… the thing is… I don’t remember touching the doorknob or grabbing my coat – did I grab my coat? I don’t remember. (Beat.) It’s gonna be chilly tonight. I saw it on the tee-vee in the deli, Petey. Y’hear? (Two bangs.) Chilly already…

II.

(It is dusk. An idea!)

FRED

Hey, Petey! Pete! (Two bangs.) I was remembering something about the shelter on Barrow. And I was thinking, maybe we could stop by there later, they’ve got the best potatoes and some potatoes would be nice tonight. I saw the tee-vee in the deli and it said it’s gonna be pretty chilly tonight so some potatoes would be nice. (Beat.) My wife made pretty good mashed potatoes. They weren’t lumpy. (Beat.) She was a good wife. Oh, yeah. You’d have liked her, Petey. I’m sure. (Beat. One bang. Beat.) I don’t remember why I left her. (Beat.) In all honesty, I really don’t remember much between leaving and waking up in a shelter one morning seven months later. Or eight months. I don’t remember. (Beat.) I could never remember the important stuff, like birthdays or anniversaries. (Beat.) Maybe that’s why I left. I dunno. There’s this: after I put my hand on the knob, I turned it. Some of the pieces start to come together. I had my coat because I gave it to this new kid in the park and then I got this one ‘round Christmas in 2005. So I had my coat. But did I kiss her goodbye? The kids? I don’t remember! Just that test screen, Petey, it was so loud, so so so loud and it hurt, y’know? It hurt to listen to so I had to get out of there. (Beat.) I think I was a bad father. Or husband. I don’t know. (Beat.) The tee-vee in the deli was right, Petey. It’s startin’ to get a little chilly. “When it gets dark,” that’s what he said, “when it gets dark”. Huh. (Beat.) Looks like it’s startin’ to already. (Fve rapid bangs.) It’s not that bad, man. I used to be afraid of the dark, too, Petey. But then one day my mother said that I should think of it like a blanket. It could be warm and safe instead of scary and… That works real good. But the cold and the loneliness... when I was your age, I was wrong. I learned it all wrong. It’s not the cold and it’s not the loneliness. It’s the forgetfulness. (Beat.) You got nobody to tell and you forget. It’s all just… But they never do, y’know… no, they never do…

III.

(The moon is shining through a cloudy sky. It’s around 8:30pm.)

FRED

There was a moment where I thought this was death. Waiting to be forgotten. My sitting here waiting for Sarah to get old and forget or Teddy to drop dead from liver cancer because you know that kid ain’t going to survive a son of a bitch like me walking out on him. He was fragile. He was SENSITIVE, Petey. You know? You kinda remind me of him, kid. That’s why I like you. You’re sensitive. I can tell you’re going places. (Beat.) Sorry, kid. You know what I meant.

(Blackout.)

from BLUE

I planned on going to Sarah Lawrence. I was going to study art history. I wanted nothing more than to be surrounded by this. (Beat.) I loved you. And a part of me wanted to marry you. But I never cut out pictures of wedding dresses. I never picked a wedding song. I was never that kind of girl. I never cared. I never smiled with glee. There were never butterflies. There were just doubts. Endless doubts. So I just kept on coming here. The day before our wedding, I skipped my bachelorette party and I came here. I got on this Greyhound out of town. Christ, I remember. I remember it so well. It was a 15 dollar ticket. Roundtrip. (Beat. Chuckling,) I considered buying a one-way for 8. You know? Just not coming back. Not going to the wedding. Just finding a way to be myself, belly and all, here. I could live a life here. Raise a child here. In the Met, for Christ’s sake, Richard. That’s what I wanted. I thought so long. So hard. The realization was unlike any other. It was so painful, do you see? My heart was breaking and my life was ending because I knew, Richard, I KNEW that I had to buy a roundtrip. Because I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t possibly live here ALONE. Raise a child ALONE. I was 18. I was so young. And so I came here for a little bit. I escaped for a little while. And I showed up at the party about, oh, a half an hour after it had ended. Meghan still hasn’t forgiven me. Apparently the party was a sensation. I’m not sorry I missed it. I spent the time much more valuably. I stopped by The Joan of Arc. I stopped by the Van Gogh exhibit. I sat with Pollock. There was this infinity, do you see? Because... here....? There are colors. Everywhere. And if you ran through the museum and never stopped to really look your world would be a magnificent one full of twists and turns and colors of every kind and textures of ever feeling and glamour and strangeness and wildness and SEX – yes, Richie, there is SEX in those paintings. Do you believe that? There is sex and hate and love and happiness and agony and life and there are cities and WORLDS and galaxies. (Beat.) There is calmness there. For me. You could’ve understood it if you wanted to.