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.