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.