Etiquette and Vitriol (6 page)

(A key turns in the door.)

AMANDA:
Shut up!

BEA:
I will not tolerate—

AMANDA:
Someone's at the door!

(Bea disappears. The door opens, revealing Ford. He and Amanda stand, just looking at each other for a moment.)

Ford. . . . WHERE'VE YOU BEEN?

BEA
(On the speaker phone)
: I told ya not to ask him that!

(Amanda hangs up the phone.)

AMANDA
(After a pause)
: I mean it doesn't really matter where you've been, does it? You've been working on a film. I understand. I know that the creative process is a very delicate flower. And you've been working. Haven't you?

(Ford sits. He is deep in thought and deeply troubled. He has something to say, but it is very difficult for him. He puts his head in his hands for a moment and agonizes.)

FORD:
Well—

AMANDA:
I drove you away! Didn't I? We shouldn't've gotten married. It was a bad idea. I'm sorry. It was my idea and you felt cornered, or something. Is that it? Do you want to talk about it? Is that it? . . . Are you tired? We can talk tomorrow. That's fine. You're probably tired. We can talk tomorrow after a good night's sleep.

(Ford rises, looks at her and starts to head for the bedroom.)

We do love each other though, don't we? I love you and you love me, so we love each other.

(Ford stops. He turns and looks at her.)

You're in love with someone else, aren't you! I can tell.

(Ford moves towards her, reaching out.)

I'm babbling. I realize I'm babbling. I find that I'm babbling. But you see, I've been cooped up here lately—not that I didn't go out, while you were gone. I did. But not much.

(He looks away.)

Is there someone else? Perhaps we rushed into this a bit too quickly. But then, perhaps we didn't. Time'll tell. Would
you like something to eat? Are you hungry? We don't have any food—but we could order something . . . if you have a credit card. I've lost my purse.

(He sits again and struggles to find the words to say what he must. He looks around the room, scratches his head, takes a deep breath and just as he is about to speak, she cuts him off.)

YOU THINK I'M UGLY, DON'T YOU? TELL ME, WHAT PART OF ME DO YOU THINK IS UGLIEST?

(He rises to protest. She cuts him off.)

I know I'm beautiful. You're right. I'm a beautiful woman. I wasn't always. When I was a child, I was painfully fat. Did you know that?

(He shakes his head and sits.)

I never mentioned that. Did you ever wonder why there are no pictures around here, of me? Before I turned twenty? Did you think I was a vampire? Did you think I had a Nosferatu childhood?

(He shrugs.)

When I was twenty, I went on a diet. I fasted for three weeks. I lost forty-five pounds.. I dieted all summer and when I went back to school I told everyone I was my own cousin. Isn't that something?—YOU MAKE ME FEEL SO FAT!

(He puts his head in his hands.)

Everyone believed I was my own cousin. That was the summer my mother died. We had a house on the Cape. We went to the beach one day and she drowned. She went out into
the ocean and swam and swam and I never saw her again. Maybe she swam to France and became a chanteuse. I changed my name to Amanda that summer.

(He looks up, surprised.)

Between my sophomore and junior years at Sarah Lawrence. Betty was a fat girl whose only friends were society's castoffs. Amanda had no more friends than Betty, but people assumed it was by choice. —Is it someone I know? The person you've found?

(He rises again, about to speak. She cuts him off.)

I can be Betty again, if you'd prefer that. My mother used to say you can be whatever you want. She meant, you can be
WHOM
ever you want. Everyone said she drowned. They said it was an accident. My father said, “Things happen.” I think she killed herself. I think she wanted to die. Maybe we should talk tomorrow.

(He starts to exit.)

While you were gone, I did some work!

(He turns to her.)

I've been writing as well. I wrote a new poem. I did. It's very unusual—for me. This poem. I call it—well, I don't have a name for it yet. But it's a narrative poem, and well, it's about this man. And he's very attractive and very . . . loved. And one day, he finds himself married. And he loves his wife and she loves him, but he feels . . . confined, I think is the word I used. Maybe it was trapped. I can't remember. You see he's an artist and he's very, very sensitive.
(She is near tears)
And he wants to get away, but he knows this will
just . . . kill her. The wife. This will destroy her, for reasons that are absolutely not his fault. But that's the way it is. And she simply wants to kill him.

(He moves towards her.)

But instead, she just looks at him.
(She moves towards him)
And she touches his face.
(She does this, sweetly)
And she runs her fingers along his lips.
(She does this)
And she looks in his eyes . . . because she loves him. And she takes him in her hand.
(She places her hand on his crotch)
And she strokes him.

(She massages his genitalia through his trousers. His breathing deepens.)

And she kisses him.

(They kiss. It is very passionate and sexual. Lights fade out.)

The middle of the night. The lights come up on the chic studio apartment of Serge Stubin, a handsome, trim man of thirty. There is a Soloflex, a huge closet and a large bed. Serge is lounging on the bed, listening to music, wearing trendy, bike-short style underpants. After a moment, there is a knock at the door. Serge rises, turns off the CD and goes to the door
.

SERGE:
Who is it?

OTTO
(Offstage)
: It's me.

SERGE
(Disappointed, irritated)
: Me who?

OTTO
(Offstage)
: Me, the one true love of your life.

SERGE
(Returning to the bed)
: Go away, Otto.

OTTO
(Offstage)
: Let me in!

SERGE:
It's the middle of the night.

OTTO
(Offstage)
: Serge! I'm being followed!

SERGE:
Consider it flattery.

OTTO
(Offstage)
: Let me in!

SERGE:
Go home!

OTTO
(Offstage)
: Today's my birthday. I'm thirty-four years old today.

SERGE:
Today is not your birthday.

OTTO
(Offstage)
: Yesterday was my birthday?

SERGE:
Go away. Go.

OTTO
(Offstage)
: Let me in, or I'll kill myself! I mean it. I'll do it right here on the doorstep! How'll that look? How'd you like that? Well? I mean it! I'll do it!
(Pause)
LET ME IN!!

(Serge goes wearily to the door and opens it, revealing Otto, a wildly overweight man carrying a bag of groceries.)

SERGE:
What do you want?

OTTO:
I got fired.

SERGE:
I'm sorry.

OTTO:
I want to see you.

SERGE:
You can't come in. I'm expecting someone.

OTTO:
I won't stay long. I promise.

(Otto forces his way in. He makes himself at home, quickly unpacking groceries, starting with doughnuts. He eats as he talks.)

OTTO:
It's
unbelievably
hot in here! Is the air conditioning broken? I'm sweating already. You look well, but then you always look well. How've you been? I saw a picture of
someone who looked just like you in a magazine. It was
Honcho
. I cut the penis out of the picture.

SERGE:
What are you doing here?!

OTTO:
I got fired—

SERGE:
So you said.

OTTO:
That job was everything to me! I have nothing! I
am
nothing! I'm a fat, middle-aged man with nothing to look forward to but the embrace of death.

SERGE:
You're thirty-three.

OTTO:
Please! With my cholesterol and my blood sugar, I'll never make sixty. This is the twilight of my life. I'm alone and jobless in my declining years.

SERGE:
What happened?

OTTO:
They said I wasn't funny anymore. How funny do you have to be to introduce a bunch of
no-talents
? They said I'd lost my joie de vivre! Of course, I've lost my joie de vivre— I'm fat, I'm lonely, I have a new pimple, I'm thirty-six—

SERGE:
You're thirty-three!

OTTO:
And I'm still getting pimples! Who could be funny under the circumstances?

SERGE:
You're getting crumbs on the bed!

OTTO:
Isn't that cute? Isn't that sweet? It's just like the old days. Remember how you used to scream at me when I ate in the bed? You'd scream with such rage, you turned purple. I was so happy. It can be like that again.

SERGE:
It will be, if you don't—

OTTO:
Do you want one?

SERGE:
No.

OTTO:
They're delicious!—It's hot as a pizza house in here. Are you growing pot or something?

SERGE:
I like it warm.

OTTO:
I'm just going to turn this up.
(He adjusts the thermostat)
Who needs them anyway?!! I survived before that crummy little nightclub and I'll survive without it! I'm not a comic. I'm an actor! I did Chekhov and Inge! It was only college,
true, but I have training! I have technique!—That was the best job I ever had! Steady work, a steady paycheck, four nights a week and I could live off it! And it was so easy! What am I going to do?

SERGE:
You'll get another job.

OTTO:
Oh you don't care!! You never cared! You only care about you! You're self-centered, that's your problem—Are those Calvin Klein? They're cute.—You know what this means, don't you? It's back to the notions counter for me!

SERGE:
You worked at Barneys in European suits.

OTTO:
I just want to die!

SERGE:
Well you can't die here. Not tonight.

OTTO:
Do you think I made it too cold? Can I stay? Can I stay over? Can I sleep here tonight?

SERGE:
Of course not.

OTTO:
Please?

SERGE:
I told you, someone's coming over.

OTTO:
I don't believe you. I think you're lying. Who'd come over at this hour? Only an insane person, present company excluded, of course. I think you're lying. You lie with every breath. You're a liar, that's your problem.

SERGE:
Go home. Get some sleep.

OTTO
(Lying)
: I can't. My house burned down.

SERGE:
What are you talking about?

OTTO:
It did. It burned to the ground. It's a miracle no one was killed. I think someone set it. That's what I think. I think the management company did it for the insurance. That sounds possible, doesn't it?

SERGE:
No.

OTTO:
You're too cynical,
that's
your problem.

(The phone rings. As Serge answers it, Otto removes a package of pretzel rods from his sack. He takes one and stacks donuts on it. He then eats this creation as if it were an ear of corn.)

SERGE
(Into the phone)
: Hello. . . . Oh, yes, I'm fine. . . . No, it's not too late. . . . Oh. . . . Oh. . . . Oh. That is too bad.
(He extends the phone to Otto)
It's for you.

OTTO
(Taking the phone)
: Oh. I left this number on my machine.
(Into the phone)
Hello? . . .Why are you calling me here?. . . Serge is fine. . . . No. No. . . . No, this does NOT mean we're back together. . . . Well,
I
visit people in the middle of the night . . . I'm sorry . . . I'm sorry . . . I'm sorry. . . . I've got to go . . . I've got to go . . . I've got to go.
(He hangs up)
It was my mother.