Etiquette and Vitriol (5 page)

BEA:
What've you been doing?

AMANDA:
Waiting. Waiting and waiting, as women have always done since Miss Havisham's wedding dress got covered in cobwebs.

BEA:
Have you seen anyone?

AMANDA:
You mean professionally? Is that what you mean?

BEA:
I mean socially. A friend. Friends are very important. When my late husband keeled, I woulda dropped dead if it wasn't for my friend Thelma, a lovely human being, who picked me up with a ladle.

AMANDA:
Well, I haven't. I mean I planned to. I was supposed to see—I was on my way to visit my friend, Binky, this morning. But I never made it.

BEA:
What happened?

(As Amanda tells her story, Bea's light dims again. Amanda's lighting should reflect both her emotional state and the facts of the story.)

AMANDA:
Well, I left my apartment. It was about noon and it was a nice day, so I thought I'd walk to her house. She lives on 75th and Columbus, which, I realize, is a very long walk,
but I thought the exercise would do me good—I hadn't eaten anything yet, so I stopped at the diner on my corner, for some breakfast, and I picked up a newspaper so I'd have something to do.

I was reading my paper when the waiter came over and asked if I was . . .
alone
. Well! It was obvious that I was
alone
! I was sitting there, in a booth, by myself—did he think I thought I had an imaginary friend with me?! I was
alone
! Did he have to rub it in? Was he trying to be funny? Did he think he was, in some way, better than me? It was in his tone. He said, “Are you alone?” But what he meant to say was, “You're alone.
Aren't you!?”
—And I can't imagine that he's not alone every single day of his miserable,
pathetic
life! He has terrible skin. And it's not attractive. Not the way bad skin, or at least the remnants of bad skin, is attractive on some people. On some men!! It's never attractive on women—have you noticed that? Just one more example of the injustices we are forced to suffer! If we have bad skin, we're grotesque! Let a man have bad skin and he can be Richard Burton for God's sake! I HATE BEING A WOMAN!!

I've strayed.

The point is this waiter has terrible skin, and greasy hair and his breath stinks of something dead and his face is entirely too close to mine, and he insults me with his breath and his tone of voice and asks if I'm alone. I feel my face go flush and I want to rip his head off! I'd
like
to pull his hair out, only I'd never be able to get a decent grip—it looks as if it hasn't been washed in a decade! I want to pick up my butter knife and stab in his sunken, caved-in chest! But! I simply respond,
(Grandly)
“No, I'm married, thank you.”

(Pause)
I realize, now, of course, that my answer was illogical. I realize that it was inappropriate. But, at the time, it was all I could think to say.

Well, he leans back and, really, in the most supercilious manner, he leers at me and intones, “I meant, are you
eating
alone.” “I KNEW WHAT YOU MEANT!” I KNEW WHAT HE MEANT! I don't know why I said what I said, I just said it! He made me sick. I hope he dies. I shouted, “I KNEW WHAT YOU MEANT!” And I am not a person who shouts, generally. I don't like shouting. It hurts to shout and it hurts to be shouted at. My mother shouted quite a bit and I always thought the veins in her neck looked like the roots of a tree. But I shouted. Everyone looked at me . . . because I was standing. I didn't mean to be standing. I didn't remember standing, but I was. I was standing. I must've leapt up when I shouted. So I was standing and everyone was staring at me. The place was very crowded, much more crowded than I ever recall seeing it before. And suddenly, it occurred to me, that these
people, my neighbors
, gawking at me in endless silence, were the very same people who had watched Ford and myself have sex that first night when we met. I was so humiliated! I thought I would die! Or be sick! I was certain I was going to be sick right there at my table, standing up, being stared at! And then everyone in the neighborhood would mutter under their breath, every time they saw me, “Oh there goes that woman. We've seen her have sex, and we've seen her vomit.”

I WOULD LIKE, AT SOME POINT IN MY LIFE, TO CLING, WITH WHATEVER ENERGY I HAVE, TO MY DIGNITY! What have we got but our dignity? Women are worthless in this world! Every aspect of our culture conspires to keep us subjugated under the oppressive thumb of the beauty myth. If you're attractive, congratulations! Because you own it all! You run the world! But God forbid you should have bad skin, or gain a pound or lose a leg or be, in any way, a deviant from what the powerbrokers and the plutocrats and politicians and the magazines and the television and the government and the OIL COMPANIES, WHICH OWN ALL THE OTHER STUFF TO BEGIN WITH—God forbid you should deviate
from what the president of Shell Oil decides is attractive and YOU ARE A DISPOSABLE HUMAN BEING! YOU ARE A DEAD BIRD ON THE HIGHWAY!—Not that I'm unattractive, mind you! I am very attractive. I know I am! But I wasn't feeling very attractive this morning while I was being stared at by the same nasty, judgmental,
narrow
swine who got their rocks off watching me HAVE SEX! I just stood there in that diner, for what seemed like hours, and then, with all the composure and dignity I could muster, which was considerable, I said, “I've changed my mind!” And I left.

(A long pause)
I was all the way on 43rd Street before I realized that I'd left my purse.

(Pause; her frenzy returns at once)
There's another example of how we are kept under the thumb of a patriarchal culture!! PURSES! Do men have purses? No! They have pockets! Why don't we have pockets?! I'll tell you why, because they would make our hips bulge! It might make our buttocks look lumpy! And we couldn't have that!! No! So we have purses! And you can either get a dainty, little purse that you have to hold in your hand, in which case you live your whole life with only one hand available, giving the world a head start on beating you with, literally, one hand tied behind your back!! Or you can get one of those big old shoulder bags which hurt like hell and leave deep red welts on your skin and I'm certain it throws your spine out of alignment, so you end up in a panic about getting osteoporosis. And you spend all your time worrying and your money on calcium supplements, WHICH DO NO GOOD ANYWAY, BECAUSE YOU JUST KNOW YOU'LL END UP WITH A HUMP AND ALL YOUR DRESSES ARE GOING TO LOOK LONGER IN THE FRONT!! OF COURSE YOU CAN ALWAYS GET A KNAPSACK—BUT THEN, PEOPLE JUST THINK YOU'RE A LESBIAN!! I'D LIKE TO GET MY HANDS ON THE FILTHY, MISOGYNIST MOTHERFUCKER—I'D
LIKE TO MURDER WHOMEVER THE PRICK WAS THAT INVENTED THE HANDBAG!!

(She composes herself a bit)
I've strayed.

As I was saying, I was at Times Square when I realized that I'd forgotten my handbag. I start to feel a little dizzy. And nauseous. I hadn't had anything to eat. I haven't eaten in days—I don't like to keep any food in the house because it attracts roaches and I just end up eating it when I shouldn't. I hadn't been hungry all week. But all of a sudden I was
very
hungry, famished, starved! I wasn't sure if I could make it back to the diner on my corner without fainting. I had to eat something! I had sixteen cents in my pocket. So . . . I loitered at a hot dog stand. Now, I try not to eat hot dogs because of the nitrites, but at this point they weren't hot dogs, they were IVs! They were plasma! They were bread and water! AND THEY COST A DOLLAR TWENTY-FIVE!

I tried looking sweet and pathetic, like the poster for
Les Miserables
: I let a tear come to my eye and looked to heaven . . .
(She does so)
But the man selling the hot dogs ignored me completely!

So I tried flirting with him. Subtly. I wet my lips and held my arms in a way that I thought accentuated my bust.
(She does so)
He smiled, at me,
lewdly
, and I saw that what few teeth he had in his head were the khaki color of dead leaves! I was dizzy and sick and swooning, but I wasn't ready to sell myself to this fetid extortionist for a dollar twenty-five's worth of pig snouts and feet!

I was sure there were other vendors, kinder souls who'd take pity on me . . . and so I headed south! Back to my corner, back to the diner, back to the hateful waiter and my purse. At first I kept my eyes on the pavement, searching all the while for a nickel, a dime—a subway token I could barter . . . . Then I noticed . . . my hand was out, in front of me . . . my palm was up. I wasn't begging, per se. But if someone
wanted
to give me their spare change, who
am I not to help them purge their guilt?! FORD DID THIS TO ME! HE REDUCED ME TO THIS! I HATE HIM!

But I did my best: groveling, begging, looking wan—but the competition was fierce! I was surrounded, on all sides, by people so disfigured by their misfortune I was certain I'd stumbled onto the set of a Fellini film! A woman on my right had no shoes. I felt badly for her, until I realized that a man on my left had no feet! He was chasing me on a skateboard, spitting and shouting at me in a language I didn't recognize—but I gather I'd been working his turf—so I ran. I ran ahead, the traffic swimming in front of me! I no longer wanted to eat! I didn't want to see Binky! I wanted my purse! And my key! And my bed! And a bath! I ran forward! Every block I survived was a victory! And then I made it!

It was across the street. Home! I was standing on the corner, surrounded by what seemed to be hundreds of children all wild and loud and out of control, and under the care of ONE adult with a badge from the Chelsea Day School. The sun was so hot! I was sure I standing under an enormous magnifying glass! And soot from the cars and buses was making me sicker and sicker! And we were all together, standing on the corner, waiting for the light to change. AND IT WOULDN'T! It would not! We stood for hours! We waited weeks and the fucking light WOULD NOT CHANGE! And then . . . it turned green—I KNOW IT TURNED GREEN! I KNOW IT! So I staggered, or stumbled or walked into the street and a car, FROM NOWHERE, came zooming at me! It was headed directly at me!! It was going to kill me!! I WAS GOING TO DIE!

It swerved! It swerved to the side! Onto the curb and all at once the children were screaming! SCREAMING! But I didn't look back! I RAN! I couldn't turn around! I RAN! Past the diner!! I don't know what happened! I DON'T WANT TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENED! I RAN! STRAIGHT TO MY BUILDING AND HOME!

(Bea's light returns.)

BEA
(Simply)
: What do you think happened?

AMANDA:
I don't know.

BEA:
You think someone was hit?

AMANDA:
I said, I don't know! I didn't look.

BEA:
Was it on the news?

AMANDA
(With great bitterness)
: That light was green! I didn't do anything wrong! I wasn't driving the goddamn car! I didn't do anything!

BEA:
Maybe nothing happened.

AMANDA:
I do not want to talk about this! This is not why I called you! My husband is gone and I haven't eaten in a week and I don't have a purse and THIS IS NOT WHY I CALLED YOU! YOU ARE NOT HELPING ME!

(A long pause. General lighting has returned, but it is a good deal dimmer.)

BEA:
What are you wearing?

AMANDA:
What? Why do you ask?

BEA:
Answer the question.

AMANDA:
A T-shirt.

BEA:
Change your clothes.

AMANDA:
My life is in a shambles and—

BEA:
Change your clothes!

AMANDA:
I fail to see how that—

BEA:
You have a shorty nightgown?

AMANDA:
Yes.

BEA:
Put it on.

AMANDA:
No.

BEA:
Do what I'm telling you.

AMANDA:
I don't want to.

BEA:
Put. It. On.

AMANDA:
What are you talking about?

BEA:
Everything looks one hundred percent better from inside a shorty nightgown.

AMANDA
(Ironic)
: That is very, very wise.

BEA:
Listen to me. He'll be back.

AMANDA:
Who cares? Who cares? I don't care anymore . . .

BEA:
You fancy yourself some modern woman. But you know, things don't change. Some things are forever. The food chain is as it always was. Men rule the world.
But
penises rule men! And who rules the penises? We do, darling. People panic. People do things. But he'll be back. And when he comes back, not one word out of you! You hear me? Don't ask him where he's been. Act like nothing happened.

AMANDA:
You're insane.

BEA:
I will not tolerate rudeness! . . . Let me tell you, when I married my late husband, I was pregnant—not with his kid, but I was pregnant. I was very good-looking when I was younger. But the father wasn't Jewish, so I decided—or actually, my mother decided, it wouldn't go. So I married what'shisname, my dead husband. I'll never forget waking up, in Atlantic City, the day after. I'm wide awake, staring at this fat lump of hairy nothing that I married, and, let me tell you, if I coulda run, I woulda. But I was going to have a child. So, instead, I just pulled the hair on his back as hard as I could. You see my point?