Woman 1

Lights up to reveal an empty stage except for a bench. Perhaps the scene is decorated with a few pieces of trash (we’re outdoors.) Enter a woman; she’s about 30, casually dressed, urban. Something is on her mind, she’s not happy but she’s not on the verge of tears. Eventually she looks out and addresses the audience.

Woman: You know what? I just figured something out. Just a moment ago…back there. I’m fucked. Or, fucked up. No wait. (pause.) No. I’m not fucked–I just fucked up. Somewhere along the line…..Oh. I’m sorry. (laughs.) Did I say ‘fucked’? I’m so sorry. You know, my mother hates that word. It’s the one word she really can’t stand, although I imagine there are a few others she wouldn’t like to hear or hear me say either. How about ‘screwed’?  Is that OK? I screwed up. And it all just occurred to me right back there when I passed that car. It’s the only one parked on the block–the little black one? Maybe you saw it? There’s something about it that just, I don’t know, struck me. It’s like it reminded me of something or someone…and I had this strange kind of deja vu or flashback or kismet or…no, that’s not what ‘kismet’ means, does it?

Anyway. It hit me. And I know this is going to sound strange, but I don’t know what I’m doing with my life anymore. I should’ve been doing something by now, but it’s as if I’ve been in a fog or a daze. I used to think that I wasn’t going to be one of those people who just wander through life, going from day-to-day just working towards paying the next bill, the next mortgage payment, making the next doctor appointment…I don’t want to sound too esoterical, but what’s it all for, you know? (pause.) You probably think I’m nuts.(pause.) And maybe you should.

She X’s to the bench and sits. She has a bag with her, and out of it she pulls a personal calendar/organizer which she opens up and after scrutinizing the ‘current’ week, starts flipping backwards through the pages, stopping and examining different things.

If only I could figure out when it happened, where I got off track.

She stops and examines a particularly busy day, and tries to read the difficult scribblings. It’s as if all the activities of the day couldn’t possibly fit into the one little square.

Oh, my god!. Did I go to that appointment? I don’t remember…Fuck, I’ll have to call…

Looks up.

Um, sorry….‘Shoot’! I’ll have to call (gesturing back to the book)…’cuz otherwise it’s just rude.

She goes back to searching through the book, getting more and more frazzled, reacting to the things she finds in it, or perhaps the lack of things. Perhaps she even rips a few pages out, or crosses out some entries. Eventually she tosses the book on the ground in disgust.

Do you mind if I smoke? It seems you can hardly smoke anywhere these days, and maybe that’s a good thing but I think it sucks. It kind of infringes people’s rights, that’s what I say, it cramps personal choice.

She rummages through her bag and pulls out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. She doesn’t light a cigarette though. 

I know, I should quit. I’ve smoked long enough, had the experience, I should move on. I’ve tried before, but every time I do I seem to turn into this raging bitch that no one can stand–not even me. And I get really anxious and agitated, like I need to do something all the time. I was doing anything to keep busy. I cleaned to house from basement to attic, threw out a bunch of old clothes, washed the windows–3 times in one week, mind you!

Gets up and heads back to where she entered, looking back at the parked car.

I know whose car that is…or was. It was Jimmy’s. Jimmy Kearns had a car like that…maybe he still does. (She laughs. Remembering him.) Oh, man. I haven’t thought about Jimmy in a long time. He was so funny, so much fun….What an asshole. Maybe he’s why I’m so f– (pause.) So…not where I’m supposed to be.

Jimmy and I lived together for a while. He was the first guy I lived with. My parents didn’t like that–they’re a bit old fashioned about things like that. You know, people living together in a studio apartment. Thank God for futon furniture, huh? (Grandly.) By day it’s a living room, by night…Hell, I was young and I was hip and happening. I was moving up in the world or at least I was going to.

She finally takes a cigarette out of the pack, but still doesn’t light it.

I met Jimmy at a party of a mutual friend. We were always going to parties, you know? It seemed like every week there was reason for a get together: a birthday, a farewell, a home-coming, “someone got her income tax return and did pretty well let’s get together and drink” party….And Jimmy was an old college friend of my girlfriend’s. They had gone to school at Stanford, and somehow both moved here. For a long time, I thought they had a thing going on the side that no one knew about. Not that either of them had a significant other, but they seemed to have their own language and kind of flirted with each other a bit. I thought they’d make a great couple. I also thought he had a cute ass.

Then one day, she pulls me aside and says she’s got to talk to me about him. So we sneak out to the back porch–she had a great back porch. It was one of those old 1930’s buildings with the grey painted wooden back stairs and porches. It wasn’t roomy and didn’t offer any special view, but it had character to it. Like it belonged in a black and white movie. Anyway, we go out there and I say something like “So, you’re finally gonna tell me what’s going on with you two?” and she looks at me like I just said her mother was ugly or something and says “Me? What are you nuts?! He’s got the hots for you.” She says he’s too shy to say anything, and that he’d be really pissed if he knew she was saying anything. (pause.) 

Maybe that was the point? The moment. I could’ve left, I could’ve said so many things, but I said, “OK.” ‘OK’ as in ‘Good. That’s cool with me, now what do I do?’ If I hadn’t said that, who knows how the the next five years would’ve went. She suggests that I ask him out, casual like–don’t freak him out. (pause.) You know, the funny thing is he didn’t turn out to be so easily frightened.

So, I head back in to the party and find a smooth way to join his circle of folks in the kitchen–that’s where most parties end up having the largest groups, the kitchen. He sort of smiled at me as I came up. We were talking about movies–who’s seen what, what’s out there, what’s supposed to be good. I don’t know why some people can’t have their own opinions–it’s like no one goes to a movie unless it gets a good review. Me? I figure if they can advertise a movie in a way that tells me what it’s about and show me some good stuff, I’ll decide on my own whether it’s something I want to see. A review is just one person’s opinion.  I add this to the mix of the conversation, and Jimmy likes. Jimmy knows now what he’s dealing with. ‘Presenting oneself truthfully to others, plain and simple.’–That’s my way of flirting. I guess I’m just not good at the games.

OK. You get the idea. I hung around him the rest of the evening and then told him I was going to try to catch a movie the following afternoon–one poorly reviewed by the papers, poo-pooed by kitchen ‘peanut gallery’, but one I thought looked interesting and good. This is a test, you see. Will Jimmy pass? With flying colors. He not only says he’d like to join me for the movie, he ends up hating it just as much as I did. The reviewers were right. It sucked.