The Baltimore Waltz and Other Plays
Page 20
WOMAN (Suddenly interested, making notes): Catcher’s mitt. Open Window. Show Clipboard. Notes: Leather catcher’s mitt—
BOY: Mind Your Own Business!
GIRL: That’s not what Dad meant when he said practice. Catching pop-up flies—
BOY: Shut up!—
GIRL: That’s why you wear glasses, Calvin. Nobody else in this family does, little brother. ’Cause you violate yourself.
BOY: Mom wears glasses!
(Startled, the two teenagers suddenly look at their mother with a horrified new idea; The Woman, oblivious, stares into her computer screen, typing with a vengeance. The siblings stop and erupt in laughter.)
GIRL: Shut up, pervo!—
BOY: Musta learned it from you, P.L.—
GIRL: Quit calling me that, and I might just learn you something interesting—
BOY: Yeah?
(They both look at their mother, deep into her typing.)
GIRL: Yeah. So you won’t haveta hang in the bushes outside the house. You do, don’tcha?
(The Boy is suddenly quiet, beet red.)
GIRL: Yeah. I thought that was you. Watching me undressing. In the bushes. Straight-A student. Yeah. I just might let you learn—
(Light change. Blue light: The Girl dances closer to The Boy. Another Voice, a dark, rich, European baritone, whispers:)
THE VOICE: “Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.”1
(There is the sound of an automobile horn. Loud.)
THE VOICE: “Lo. Lee. Ta.”
(The horn imitates The Voice. Three times. Lights change back abruptly.)
GIRL: That’s my ride! Mom! I’ve got to go.
WOMAN: You are not leaving this house. Young lady.
GIRL: You said I could!
WOMAN: When! When did I say that?
(Voice-Over lights up a cigarette, bored, waiting. She puffs.)
GIRL: Last night. I asked you. And you said you didn’t care what I did. So I told Lisa yes.
WOMAN: Is that Lisa outside? I don’t like you riding with her. Go out and tell her I said no.
GIRL: You said you need peace and quiet. I’m going to give you some. It’s an overnight. A slumber party. I’ll be back tomorrow.
WOMAN: You march upstairs. Right. this. minute. You are not leaving this house—
(Once more, the car horn trumpets: Lo-lee-ta.)
GIRL: I’ll see you!
(The Girl rushes to the door, exits and slams it behind her. There is a pause. The Boy watches The Woman. She returns to her computer.)
WOMAN: Oh, Jesus. I could use a cigarette.
BOY: You quit smoking.
WOMAN: I know. I miss it at times like this. Jesus Christ. Page…twenty-six.
BOY: Fourteen to go.
WOMAN: What’s on your agenda for tonight?
BOY: I’m staying here with you, Mom.
WOMAN: You’re not worried, are you, Cal?
BOY: Nope. Not me.
WOMAN: Because I can take care of myself. Nothing’s going to happen.
BOY: I know.
WOMAN: Because if you want to go out, you should just go ahead—
BOY: I don’t wantto. I’m just going to sit here, quietly, and read, all right?
WOMAN: All right.
(The Woman stares at the computer screen. The Boy stares at her. She looks up and sees him staring.)
V.O.
“What are you looking at?”
THE VOICE: What are you—
V.O.
“looking—”
THE VOICE: —looking at?
(The Boy looks down at his book, quickly. The Woman goes back to the screen. The Boy stares at her again. The Woman tentatively starts to type. Stops. Starts again. Stops.)
V.O.
“What are you looking at?”
THE VOICE: What are you—
V.O.
“looking—”
THE VOICE: —looking at?
BOY: Writer’s block, Mom?
WOMAN: I’m running out of words.
BOY: How about…
THE VOICE (Whispered): —Throbbing—
BOY: —Throbbing?
WOMAN: Don’t make fun of me, son. My writing puts food in your mouth.
BOY: I wasn’t making fun! I was just trying to help!
WOMAN: I know. I’m sorry. Maybe after you go to college, you’ll be able to be a real writer. I’d like that.
BOY: I’m not going to college.
WOMAN: We’ll see.
BOY: To Allegheny Community? With all the geeks?
WOMAN: That’s where I went, remember. But I meant maybe somewhere away from home. It would be good for you to get away.
BOY: Leslie Ann’s the one who wants to go away.
WOMAN: I worry sometimes that she’ll get as far as the backseat of a car.
BOY: I don’t think so. I bet she’s scared to death…
(Pause. The Voice breathes heavily twice.)
WOMAN: Why?
BOY: No reason.
(Pause.)
WOMAN: Okay.
(The Voice stops breathing.)
WOMAN: Page twenty-six…I need some words that pack a punch…
BOY: So how about throbbing?
WOMAN: I’ve got throbbing all over the page. There are only so many ways to say throbbing…
V.O.
—“Pulsating—”
THE VOICE: —“Beating—”
V.O.
—“Heaving—”
THE VOICE: —“Battering—”
V.O.
—“Pulsing—”
WOMAN: Wait a moment!—that’s it, Charlene—when in doubt, cut to…cut to…
(Light change to blue. The Boy stands, like a somnambulist, with his catcher mitt, looking up, staring.)
V.O.
“CUT TO: EXTERIOR. In the bushes outside the house. Nighttime. We see a YOUNG BOY, not yet old enough to shave. He is peering up through the bushes at:
CUT TO: BOY’S POINT OF VIEW. We see an attractive older WOMAN, full-hipped, through her bedroom window, looking at herself in the mirror. THE WOMAN removes her glasses, and gazes at her image.”
(The Woman removes her glasses at the computer. The Boy stares at her.)
V.O.
“CUT TO: THE YOUNG BOY. Standing now. He watches as she strokes her face. We see him raise his hand, which holds a baseball mitt. He strokes the leather with his free hand, softly feeling the texture.”
(The Boy follows the instructions of Voice-Over.)
V.O.
“CLOSE-UP: On the mitt. THE BOY fists it several times, then raises the glove to his face, breathing in the leather.
CUT TO: THE WOMAN, who begins to feel her own body.
CUT TO: YOUNG BOY, who begins to run the glove across his chest.
CUT TO: THE WOMAN, who closes her eyes and runs her fingers over her rounded hips, and down into her waistline.
CUT TO: CLOSE-UP on leather mitt, rubbing up and down THE BOY’s blue-jeaned thighs—
CUT TO:—”
(Suddenly, an overlapping voice, deeper, darker, cuts in: The Boy stands frozen; The Woman halts at the computer. It is the voice of Krafft-Ebing, nineteenth-century sexologist.)
THE VOICE (À la Krafft-Ebing): “The pale complexion, the glassy gaze indicate the lunatic victim to this vice. Loss of memory, apathy and…impulsiveness of action are characteristic of chronic dementia resulting from—”
V.O.
(Simultaneously with The Voice)
—“masturbation in young men.”
THE VOICE (Simultaneously with Voice-Over): —“masturbation in young men.”2
(Lights change back. The Boy sits on the sofa, fondling his catcher’s mitt.)
WOMAN: What was that?! Shoot. Lost it. “Cut to—Cut to…cut to…” Fudge. Fiddlesticks.
BOY: Something wrong, Mom?
WOMAN: I
don’t know. I’m distracted, I guess. Other voices are coming in over the airwaves.
V.O.
(Smoking)
“Cigarette. Lo-lee-ta. Cigarette.”
WOMAN: Concentrate, Charlene. “Cut to—”
V.O.
“Do the dishes. Dishes. Dishes.”
WOMAN: Oh, God. Time for a break. Power down. First—save; exit; close; quit. Ah.
(Pause)
Calvin?
BOY: Yeah, Mom?
WOMAN: Where does your sister go on weekends?
BOY: Ya know. Out.
WOMAN: Out where? Where does she go with Lisa?
(Blue Light strikes the area outside of the sliding doors. The Girl does a slow, expert teasing dance for an imaginary male clientele; The Boy parallels her movements.)
BOY: Well…see, first they hitch into town with some suburban father-type in his Volvo station wagon. They then hop the crosstown bus, the M2, to the corner of Pike and 7th. They get off by the bus station, and walk two blocks east. They check to make sure they’re not being followed. Then they duck into this joint, it’s all red brick on the front, with the windows blacked out, except for the Budweiser sign. The door is solid metal. They nod to the bouncer, who always pats Leslie Ann on the fanny. They trot behind the curtains in back of the bar, quick, see, so the clientele won’t see them in their street clothes. And backstage, Al, who’s the owner, yells at ’em for being late.
And they slip into this toilet of a dressing room, where they strip off their jeans and sweats in such a hurry, they’re inside out, thrown in the corner. And they help each other into the scanty sequins and the two inch heels. And they slink out together in the blue light as the warm-up act, and wrap their legs around the poles. And Al keeps an eye out on the guys, who haven’t got a buzz on yet, so they’re pretty docile, ’cause the girls are jailbait. And Leslie Ann and her best friend Lisa shake it up for only one set. And before you know it, the twenty minutes are up, just a few halfhearted grabs, and they’re doing full splits to scoop up the dollar bills that will pay for the midnight double feature at the Mall and the burgers afterwards at Big Bob’s.
(Blue Light out on The Girl. The Woman, who has been mesmerized, breaks out of the reverie.)
WOMAN: Calvin!
BOY: Jesus, mom. Take a joke, will ya? She probably hangs out at Lisa’s being dumb.
(Pause.)
WOMAN: Don’t you have a nice girl you can take to the movies tonight?
BOY: I don’t know any nice girls.
WOMAN: Well, how about calling up some of your friends and doing something with them?
BOY: All the boys at school are creeps.
WOMAN: I know. But it’s Friday night!
BOY: So.
WOMAN: Calvin, sweetie, it’s not right for you to spend every weekend in the house.
BOY: Am I bothering you?
WOMAN: That’s not the point. You’re never going to meet someone slumped on the sofa.
BOY: I’m not slumping.
WOMAN: You are. Sit up straight; you’re wearing the springs down that way—When I was your age—
BOY (Agonized): What. Do You Want From me?
WOMAN: I just want you to have some Fun.
BOY: I’m going.
WOMAN: Where?
BOY: What does it matter? I’m going Out. I can’t even sit in the privacy of my own home—
WOMAN: Now wait, sweetie, I don’t want you to take it like that—
BOY: Jesus. I’m gone.
(The Boy stalks to the door, opens it and slams out.)
WOMAN (Guiltily): Have a nice time! Don’t stay out. Too late…
(The Woman pauses, then turns the computer back on.)
WOMAN: Boot up. Drive A.
(The Woman waits. Pauses. The Woman stealthily turns, opens up a desk drawer, takes out a pack of cigarettes. Waits. Carefully selects one. Fishes out matches from the drawer.)
WOMAN AND VOICE-OVER: Our little secret, Charlene.
(The Woman lights up. Starts to type.)
V.O.
“CUT TO: CLOSE-UP:
She tentatively licked the tip, a gentle flick of the tongue, before perching it on her lips. Her head instinctively reared back, before its acid taste. She gently sucked, letting it linger in her mouth—she gently sucked—”
(The Woman pauses, reads what she wrote, inhales and exhales. The voice of Krafft-Ebing begins. Charlene, struck, listens.)
THE VOICE: “The married female—”
V.O.
“She…sucked…the tip…she…”
THE VOICE: “If the married female conceives every second year, during the nine months that follow conception she experiences no great sexual excitement.”3
WOMAN: Where is that coming from?
(The Woman begins to type.)
THE VOICE: “While women are suckling there is usually such a call on the vital force made by the organs secreting milk that sexual desire is almost annihilated…The best mothers, wives and managers of households are not very much troubled with sexual feeling of any kind. Love of home, children and domestic duties, are the only passions they feel.”4
WOMAN: Jesus. I can’t use that crap. Erase. “Cut to—”
V.O.
“CUT TO: EXTERIOR. THE BOY, in the bushes, watches THE WOMAN smoke. His tongue gently flicks his own lips in response.”
(We see The Man at the picture window, easing himself against the sliding glass window, watching The Woman.)
V.O.
“CUT TO: INTERIOR. THE WOMAN, in front of the mirror, oblivious to being watched. She arches her throat and releases a jet of smoke.”
(The Man at the window disappears.)
V.O.
“CUT TO: EXTERIOR. Now we see THE BOY begin to manipulate himself with the gloved hand, through the denim, his excitement growing. He closes his eyes, and begins to sway.
CUT TO: INTERIOR. THE WOMAN hears a noise, and turns to the window. She gazes below and sees THE BOY who—
CUT TO: THE BOY begins to grow urgent in his need, and begins to strike his limbs, softly at first, and then he begins pounding the cupped glove—”
(There is a pounding at the door; The Woman is puzzled.)
V.O.
“Pounding, pounding the cupped glove—”
(The pounding at the door grows louder.)
WOMAN (With some fear): Who is that?
MAN (Offstage): Special Delivery! I got a package for you, Charlene—
WOMAN: CLYDE?!! Goddamn you—I’m calling the police—
(The Woman races to her trimline on the desk; she dials 911 but we hear nothing but clicks.)
WOMAN: Shit! What did you do to the phone?
MAN (Offstage): You don’t need the phone, baby. I’m here to reach out and touch someone—
WOMAN: Goddamn! You’re drunk again, aren’t you?! Get away from here, Clyde! I told that stupid-ass judge a restraining order wouldn’t work—
MAN (Pounding; offstage): Open the fuckin’ door. Now. I wanta talk to you.
WOMAN: I’m working.
MAN: I asked! Nicely!
(We hear the door being violently kicked. The Woman, with a grim calm, reaches into the desk drawer and pulls something out. We hear a click—possibly amplified. She sits back down at her computer, and waits. Starts to type.)
V.O.
(Urgently)
“CUT TO: EXTERIOR. THE BOY thrusts himself against the front door. His hands hold onto the frame of the door.
CUT TO: INTERIOR. THE WOMAN, on the other side of the door, presses against it, moving her body gently against the wood—”
MAN (Offstage): I’m Coming! I’m Coming In—
(With another savage kick, the door flies open.)
MAN: Shit!!
(The Man flies in, disheveled, drunk. The Man grins, sings:)
MAN: “I hear You KNOCKIN’ But You Can’t Come In!”
WOMAN: Get out of here, Clyde. Your last chance.
(The Woman pretends to ty
pe.)
MAN: I’m here to audition. To Give You. New Material. The E-Rot-icly UnEmployed. To get your undivided attention. Write this up, Baby.
Oh my god! Is that a doorknob in my pocket or am I just happy to see you?
Baby? Stop looking at that goddamn screen. Look. At. Me.
(Before The Woman can stop him, The Man pulls the computer plug from the outlet.)
MAN: Ta-DA!!
And Now! The Burlesque Theatre of Allegheny! Presentin’! SEX—ON—WELFARE!
(The Man begins to strip and grind, taking off his T-shirt, and unzipping his dungarees, while singing the trumpet “stripper theme. “)
MAN: “BWAH-BWAH-BWAH!!! BWAH-BWAH-BWAH-BWAHHH!!! BWAH-BWAH-BWAH!! BWAH-BWAH-BWAH-BWAH—bwah—BWAHH!!—bum-bum BWAHH!!— bum-bum BWAHH— bum-bum BWAHH— bum-bum…”
(At this point, he has turned his back on The Woman, and has lowered his pants and underwear, mooning her. The Woman stands, calmly, with a gun in her hand.)
WOMAN: I want. you. to stand. Very Still. Don’t move, Clyde. Don’t. Move.
(The Man, seeing the gun, stops, still bent over, exposed.)
WOMAN: I don’t want to kill you. By accident. I’m just going to shoot you just enough to send you to the hospital.
(The Man, panicked, begins to rush for the door.)
MAN: Jesus Christ—Char-LENE!!
(Blue Lights On. There is the sound of an amplified gun shot. Very slowly, in stylized motion, The Man grabs his behind, and writhes, a slow, sexual grind in agony. A male porn star voice dictates:)
THE VOICE: He was Hot. He was throbbing. He was Hot He was Throbbing. He was Hot He was throbbing He was hot and throbbing He was hot He was throbbing He was hot and throbbing He was hot He was throbbing He was hot and throbbing He was hot He was throbbing—
(When the regular lights come up, The Man is lying on his stomach on the sofa. The Woman, holding towels, stands over him. The Man is crying.)
MAN: Jesus H. Jesus H. Christ. I can’t believe it. My own wife. I can’t believe—
WOMAN: Hold still. Calm down and quit wiggling like that. I can’t see anything with you moving around—
MAN: Am I gonna haveta be in a wheelchair? For Life?
WOMAN: I said. hold, still. I don’t want any blood on the carpeting.
(The Woman regards the wound. The Woman regards The Man’s butt.)
WOMAN: Yup. I gotcha, all right. How does it feel?
MAN: How does it feel? How does it feel?! Like someone rammed a poker in my flesh! That’s how it feels!
WOMAN: Don’t move.