A moment later. HAROLD is still laughing. MICHAEL, still at the bar, lowers his glass, turns to DONALD, indicates for him to cut PHONOGRAPH which he does.
MICHAEL: What’s so fucking funny?
HAROLD: [Unintimidated.] Life. Life is a god-damn laff-riot. You remember life.
MICHAEL: You’re stoned.
LARRY: Happy Birthday, Harold.
MICHAEL: [To HAROLD.] You’re stoned and you’re late! You were supposed to arrive at this location at approximately eight-thirty dash nine o’clock!
HAROLD: What I am, Michael, is a thirty-two year old, ugly, pock-marked Jew Fairy—and if it takes me a while to pull myself together and if I smoke a little grass before I can get up the nerve to show my face to the world, it’s nobody’s god-damn business but my own. [Instant switch to chatty tone.] And how are you this evening? [HANK lifts ALAN to the sofa and both sit. COWBOY sits on fourth step of stairs. MICHAEL turns away from HAROLD, pours himself another drink. DONALD watches.]
EMORY: Happy Birthday, Hallie. [Now wearing a bloody sweater.]
HAROLD: What happened to you?
EMORY: [Groans.] Don’t ask!
HAROLD: Your lips are turning blue—you look like you been rimming a snowman. [LARRY rises and returns ice bucket to bar and sits Down Right chair.]
EMORY: [Indicating ALAN.] That piss-elegant kooze hit me! [BERNARD helps EMORY up from the floor to sit him in Down Left chair. HAROLD looks toward the sofa. ALAN has slumped forward with hands over his ears.]
MICHAEL: Careful, Emory, that kind of talk just makes him s’nervous.
HAROLD: [crosses to Left end sofa to ALAN.] Who is she? Who was she? Who does she hope to be?
EMORY: Who knows, who cares!
HANK: His name is Alan McCarthy.
MICHAEL: Do forgive me for not formally introducing you.
HAROLD: [Sarcastically to MICHAEL.] Not the famous college chum.
MICHAEL: [Takes an ice cube from ire bucket, throws it up and catches it.] Do a figure eight on that. [Puts ice in his glass.]
HAROLD: Well, well, well. I finally get to meet dear ole Alan after all these years. And in black-tie too. Is this my surprise from you, Michael?
LARRY: I think Alan is the one who got the surprise.
DONALD: And, if you’ll notice, he’s absolutely speechless. [Crosses to above sofa.]
EMORY: I hope she’s in shock! She’s a beast!
COWBOY: [Indicating ALAN.] Is it his birthday too?
EMORY: [Indicates COWBOY to HAROLD. Rises and brings COWBOY to Down Left Center.] That’s your surprise.
LARRY: Speaking of beasts. [BERNARD sits in Down Right chair.]
EMORY: From me to you, darlin’. How do you like it?
HAROLD: [Crosses to COWBOY.] Oh, I suppose he has an interesting face and body—but it turns me right off because he can’t talk intelligently about art.
EMORY: Yeah, ain’t it a shame? [COWBOY goes to ottoman and sits.]
HAROLD: I could never love anyone like that. [Going to EMORY.]
EMORY: Never. Who could?
HAROLD: I could and you could, that’s who could! Oh, Mary, she’s gorgeous!
EMORY: She may be dumb, but she’s all yours!
HAROLD: In affairs of the heart there are no rules! Where’d you ever find him? [Crossing to COWBOY.]
EMORY: Rae knew where.
MICHAEL: [To DONALD.] Rae is Rae Clark. That’s R.A.E. She’s Emory’s dike friend who sings at a place in the Village. She wears pin-striped suits and bills herself, “Miss Rae dark—Songs Tailored To Your Taste.” [COWBOY pirks up crab tray and investigates.]
EMORY: Rae’s a fabulous chanteuse. I adore the way she does “Down In The Depths On The Ninetieth Floor.”
MICHAEL: The faggot national anthem. [Exits to the kitchen with soda glass.]
HAROLD: [To EMORY.] All I can say is thank God for Miss Rae Clark. [Goes to EMORY.] I think my present is a super surprise! I’m so thrilled to get it I’d kiss you but I don’t want to get blood all over me.
EMORY: Ohhh, look at my sweater! [BERNARD rises and goes to EMORY.]
HAROLD: Wait’ll you see your face.
BERNARD: Come on, Emory, let’s clean you up. Happy Birthday, Harold. [Follows EMORY upstairs.]
HAROLD: [Smiles.] Thanks, love. [Goes to Left table.]
[MICHAEL enters from kitchen.]
EMORY: My sweater is ruined!
MICHAEL: Take one of mine in the bedroom.
DONALD: The one on the floor is vicuna. [COWBOY rises and exits to kitchen with cracked crab.]
BERNARD: [To EMORY.] You’ll feel better after I bathe your face. [BERNARD and EMORY exit to bath.]
HAROLD: Just another birthday party with the folks.
MICHAEL: [He has a wine bottle and a green crystal white wine glass. Going to HAROLD.] Here’s a cold bottle of Puilly-Fuisse I bought especially for you, kiddo. [Pours a glass.]
HAROLD: Pussycat, all is forgiven. You can stay. [Takes glass.] No. You can stay, but not all is forgiven. Cheers. [Sits Down Left chair.]
MICHAEL: I didn’t want it this way, Hallie. [Puts wine bottle on Left table.]
[DONALD crosses to Left of stairs.]
HAROLD: [Indicating ALAN.] Who asked Mr. Right to celebrate my birthday?
DONALD: There are no accidents.
HAROLD: [Referring to DONALD.] And who asked him?
MICHAEL: Guilty again.
HAROLD: Always got to have your crutch, haven’t you.
DONALD: I’m not leaving.
HAROLD: Nobody ever thinks completely of somebody else. They always please themselves, they always cheat, if only a little bit.
LARRY: [Referring to ALAN.] Why is he sitting there with his hands over his ears?
DONALD: I think he has an ick. [DONALD looks at MICHAEL—MICHAEL returns it, steely and goes above sofa.]
HANK: [To ALAN.] Can I get you a drink?
LARRY: How can he hear you, dummy, with his hands over his ears?
HAROLD: He can hear every word. In fact, he wouldn’t miss a word if it killed him. [ALAN removes his hands from his ears.] What’d I tell you?
ALAN: [Rises.] I ... I ... feel sick. I think ... I’m going to ... throw up.
HANK: This way. [Rises and takes ALAN to lauding of stairs.]
HAROLD: Say that again and I won’t have to take my appetite depressant. [BERNARD and EMORY come out of the bath.]
BERNARD: There. Feel better?
EMORY: Oh, Mary, what would I do without you? [EMORY looks at himself in the mirror.] I am not ready for my close-up, Mr. De Mille. Nor will I be for the next two weeks. [BERNARD picks up MICHAEL’s sweater.]
ALAN: I’m going to throw up! Let me go! Let me go! [He tears loose of HANK, bolts up the remainder of the stairs to bath. HANK follows.]
[EMORY lets out a scream as ALAN rushes toward him.]
EMORY: Oh, my God, he’s after me again! [EMORY jumps over bed.]
HANK: He’s sick.
BERNARD: Yeah, sick in the head. Here, Emory, put this on. [Going to EMORY with vicuna sweater.]
EMORY: [Sits on bench.] Oh, Mary, take me home. My nerves can’t stand any more of this tonight. [EMORY takes the sweater from BERNARD, starts to put it on.]
[Downstairs, at same time, HAROLD flamboyantly takes out a cigarette, takes a match from a striker and crosses to Center of sofa.]
HAROLD: TURNING ON! [With that, he strikers the match and lights up. Through a strained throat.] Anybody care to join me? [He waves the cigarette in a slow pass.]
[COWBOY enters from kitchen.]
MICHAEL: Many thanks, no.
DONALD: No, thank you.
HAROLD: [To COWBOY.] How about you, Tex?
COWBOY: Yeah. [Sits ottoman with pot cigarette.]
MICHAEL: I find the sound of the ritual alone, utterly humiliating. [He turns away.]
[EMORY and BERNARD come downstairs.]
LARRY: I hate the smell poppers leave on your fingers.
HAROLD: Why don’t you get up and wash your hands? [EMORY is on bottom step and BERNARD is on landing.]
EMORY: Michael, I left the casserole in the oven. You can take it out any time.
MICHAEL: You’re not going. [Picks up gin.]
EMORY: I couldn’t eat now anyway.
HAROLD: Well, I’m absolutely ravenous, I’m going to eat until I have a fat attack.
MICHAEL: [To EMORY.] I said, you’re not going. [Crosses to Right end of sofa with gin.]
HAROLD: [To MICHAEL.] Having a cocktail this evening, are we? In my honor?
EMORY: It’s your favorite dinner, Hallie. I made it myself.
BERNARD: Who fixed the casserole?
EMORY: Well; I made the sauce!
BERNARD: Well, I made the salad!
LARRY: Girls, please.
MICHAEL: Please what! [Returns gin to bar.]
HAROLD: Beware the hostile fag. When he’s sober he’s dangerous, when he drinks, he’s lethal.
MICHAEL: [Referring to HAROLD.] Attention must not be paid. [Paces to above sofa.]
HAROLD: I’m starved, Em, I’m ready for some of your Alice B. Toklas’s opium baked Lasagna.
EMORY: Are you really? Oh, that makes me so pleased maybe I’ll just serve it before I leave. [EMORY exits kitchen.]
MICHAEL: You’re not leaving. [Crosses to desk.]
BERNARD: I’ll help. [Starts for kitchen.]
LARRY: [Rises and exits kitchen.] I better help too. We don’t need a nosebleed in the Lasagna.
BERNARD : When the sauce is on it you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference anyway. [Exits kitchen.]
MICHAEL: [Proclamation.] Nobody’s going anywhere! [Goes to high stool and puts in front of front door.]
HAROLD: You are going to have schmertz tomorrow you wouldn’t believe.
MICHAEL: [Crosses to bar for drink.] May I kiss the hem of your schemata, Doctor Freud?
COWBOY: What are you two talking about? I don’t understand. [HANK enters from bath and comes to landing.]
DONALD: [Crossing above sofa.] He’s working through his Oedipus Complex, sugar. With a machete.
COWBOY: Huh?
HANK: Michael, is there any air spray? [On landing.]
HAROLD: Hair spray! You’re supposed to be holding his head, not doing his hair.
HANK: Air spray, not hair spray. [DONALD goes to bar, pours drink out of martini pitcher.]
MICHAEL: [Crosses below coffee table to steps with his drink.] There’s a can of floral spray right on top of the john.
HANK: Thanks. [Hank goes back upstairs leaving his suit coat on bedroom bench as he exits into the bath. ]
HAROLD: [To Michael.] Aren’t you going to say, “If it was a snake, it would have bitten you.”
MICHAEL: [Indicating Cowboy.] That is something only your friend would say.
HAROLD: [To MICHAEL.] I am turning-on and you are just turning. [MICHAEL and HAROLD look at each other for a beat—MICHAEL decides to break to Left of stairs. To DONALD.] I keep my grass in the medicine cabinet. In a Band-Aid box. Somebody told me it’s the safest place. If the cops arrive you can always lock yourself in the bathroom and flush it down the john. [Harold has removed his eye glasses.]
DONALD: [Takes HAROLD’s glasses and puts them on Upstage end of bar.] Very cagey.
HAROLD: It makes more sense than where I was keeping it—in an oregano jar in the spice rack. I kept forgetting and accidentally turning my hateful mother on with the salad. [A beat.] But I think she liked it. No matter what meal she comes over for—even if it’s breakfast—she says, “Let’s have a salad!” [HAROLD looks to MICHAEL, and MICHAEL goes to Down Left chair and sits as COWBOY rises and crosses to MICHAEL.]
COWBOY: [To MICHAEL.] Why do you say, I would say, “If it was a snake it would have bitten you”? I think that’s what I would have said.
MICHAEL: Of course you would have, baby. That’s the kind of remark your pint-size brain thinks of. You are definitely the type who still moves his lips when he reads and who sits in a steam room and says things like, “Hot enough for you?”
COWBOY: I never use the steam room when I go to the gym. It’s bad after a work-out. It flattens you down.
MICHAEL: Just after you’ve broken your back to blow yourself up like a poisoned dog.
COWBOY: Yeah. [Crosses to ottoman and sits.]
[DONALD goes to Down Right chair and sits.]
MICHAEL: You’re right, Harold. Not only can he not talk intelligently about art, he can’t even follow from one sentence to the next.
HAROLD: But he’s beautiful. He has unnatural, natural beauty. Not that that means anything.
MICHAEL: It doesn’t mean everything.
HAROLD: Keep telling yourself that as your hair drops out in handfuls. [Rises and crosses to MICHAEL.] Not that it’s not natural for one’s hair to recede as one reaches seniority. Not that those wonderful lines that have begun creasing our countenances don’t make all the difference in the world because they add so much character.
MICHAEL: Faggots are worse than women about their age. They think their lives are over at thirty. Physical beauty is not that god-damned important!
HAROLD: Of course not. How could it be?—it’s only in the eye of the beholder.
MICHAEL: And it’s only skin deep—don’t forget that one.
HAROLD: Oh, no, I haven’t forgotten that one at all. It’s only skin deep and it’s transitory too. It’s terribly transitory. [Crosses to COWBOY.] I mean, how long does it last?—thirty or forty or fifty years at the most—depending on how well you take care of yourself. And not counting, of course, that you might die before it runs out anyway. Yes, it’s too bad about this poor boy’s face. It’s tragic, He’s absolutely cursed! [COWBOY looks to HAROLD.] How can his beauty ever compare with my soul? And although I have never seen my soul, I understand from my mother’s rabbi that it’s a knock-out. [Crosses to left table.] I, however, cannot seem to locate it for a gander. And if I could, I’d sell it in a flash for some skin-deep, transitory, meaningless beauty! [picks up wine bottle and glass.]
MICHAEL: [Makes sign of the cross with his drink in hand.] Forgive him, Father, for he know not what he do. [He rises and crosses to pillar at Center.]
[upstairs, ALAN walks weakly into bedroom and lies down on bed.]
HAROLD: Michael, you kill me. You don’t know what side of the fence you’re on. [Larry enters from kitchen via stair passage with silverware to Left table.] If somebody says something pro-religion, you’re against them. [LARRY gives two clicks of silverware which makes HAROLD move out of way to stairs as LARRY puts silver on table.] If somebody denies God, you’re against them. One might say that you have some problem in that area. You can’t live with it and you can’t live without it. [EMORY enters from kitchen via Up Center carrying the hot casserole with pot holders, crossing to MICHAEL, who has arm up leaning on pillar blocking EMORY’s passage.]
EMORY: Hot stuff! Comin’ through! [LARRY crosses to sofa and sits.]
MICHAEL : [To EMORY.] One could murder you with very little effort. [Lets arm down so EMORY can pass and put casserole on Left table.]
HAROLD: [To MICHAEL.] You hang onto that great insurance policy called The Church.
MICHAEL: [Crossing above sofa.] That’s right. I believe in God and if it turns out that there really isn’t one, okay. Nothing lost. But if it turns out that there is—I’m covered. [BERNARD enters carrying a salad bowl from kitchen Up Center and puts on Left table.]
EMORY: [To Michael.] Harriet Hypocrite, that’s who you are.
MICHAEL: [Going to bar.] Right. I’m one of those truly rotten Catholics who gets drunk, sins all night and goes to Mass the next morning. [EMORY and BERNARD move Left table out from wall.]
EMORY: Gilda Guilt. It depends on what you think sin is.
MICHAEL: Would you just shut-up your god-damn minty mouth and get back in the god-damn kitchen!
EMORY: Say anything you want—just don’t hit me! [He exits into kitchen with pot holders via Up Centers.]
MICHAEL: Actually, I suppose Emory has a point—I only go to confession before I get on a plane.
BERNARD : Do you think God’s power only exists at thirty thousand feet? [Lights candles. ]
[HANK enters from bath, retrieves his coat.]
MICHAEL: It must. On the ground I am God. In the air, I’m just one more scared son-of-a-bitch.
BERNARD: I’m scared on the ground. [HANK hits bedroom LIGHT SWITCH and comes down steps to sofa.]
COWBOY: Me too. That is, when I’m not high on pot or up on acid. [BERNARD pours wine.]
LARRY: [To HANK.] Well, is it bigger than a breadstick?
HANK: [Ignores last remark, to MICHAEL.] He’s lying down for a minute. [Lowers sleeves and puts on coat.]
HAROLD: How does the bathroom smell?
HANK: Better.
MICHAEL: Before it smelled like somebody puked. Now it smells like somebody puked in a gardenia patch. [EMORY enters from kitchen via Up Center with rolls going to Left table.]
LARRY: And how does the big hero feel?
HANK: Lay off, will you.
EMORY: Dinner is served!
HAROLD: [He comes to the buffet table, puts down wine and glass and picks up plate, fork and napkin.] Emory, it looks absolutely fabulous.
EMORY: I’d make somebody a good wife. [DONALD rises and notes MICHAEL pouring another gin as he puts ice in his own drink. EMORY serves pasta, BERNARD serves the salad. HANK, with coat on, goes to Left table, followed by LARRY.] I could cook and do an apartment and entertain ... [He grabs a long-stem rose from an arrangement on the table, clenches it between his teeth, snaps his fingers and strikes a pose.] Kiss me quick, I’m Carmen! [HAROLD just looks at him blankly and goes to Down Right chair and sits. EMORY takes the flower out of his month.] One really needs castanets for that sort of thing. [DONALD crosses to COWBOY indicating for him to get in food line at Left table.]
MICHAEL: And a getaway car. [HANK comes up to EMORY.]
EMORY: What would you like, big boy?
LARRY: Alan McCarthy, and don’t hold the mayo.
EMORY: I can’t keep up with you two—[Indicating HANK, then LARRY.] I thought you were mad at him—now he’s bitchin’ you. What gives? [HANK takes his food and wine to sofa and sits.]
LARRY: Never mind.
COWBOY: [He comes over to the table.] What is it?
LARRY: Lasagna.
COWBOY: [To DONALD.] It looks like spaghetti and meatballs sorta flattened out.
DONALD: It’s been in the steam room.
COWBOY: It has? [LARRY crosses to ottoman and sits with his food.]
MICHAEL: [Contemptuously.] It looks like spaghetti and meatballs sorta flattened out. Ah, yes, Harold—truly enviable. [Cowboy goes to stairs and sits on third step with his food.]
HAROLD: As opposed to you who knows so much about haute cuisine. Raconteur, gourmet, troll.
COWBOY: It’s good.
HAROLD: [Quick.] You like it, eat it.
MICHAEL : Stuff your mouth so that you can’t say anything. [DONALD takes a plate. ]
HAROLD: Turning. [MICHAEL crosses via above sofa to DONALD at stairs.]
BERNARD: [To Donald.] Wine?
DONALD: No thanks. [Crosses to MICHAEL at stairs with his drink and food.]
[BERNARD hands EMORY a plate, which EMORY puts food on.]
MICHAEL: Aw, go on, kiddo, force yourself. Have a little vin ordinaire to wash down all that depressed pasta. [DONALD passes by and sits on high stool at door as MICHAEL goes to Left table.]
HAROLD: Somelier, connoisseur, pig. [EMORY hands BERNARD a plate he has served with food.]
BERNARD: [To EMORY.] Aren’t you going to have any?
EMORY: No. My lip hurts too much to eat. [BERNARD sits Down Left chair with his plate.]
MICHAEL: [Crosses to table, picks up knife.] I hear if you puts a knife under de bed it cuts de pain.
HAROLD: [To MICHAEL.] I hear if you put a knife under your chin it cuts your throat.
EMORY: Anybody going to take a plate up to Alan?
MICHAEL: The punching bag has now dissolved into Flo Nightingale.
LARRY: Hank?
HANK I don’t think he’d have any appetite. [MICHAEL raps the knife on a wine bottle.]
MICHAEL: Ladies and gentlemen. . . . Correction: Ladies and ladies, I would like to announce that you have just eaten Sebastian Veneble. [Puts knife on table.]
COWBOY: Just eaten what?
MICHAEL: [Goes to COWBOY.] Not what, stupid, who. A character in a play. A fairy who was eaten alive. I mean the chop-chop variety.
COWBOY: Jesus. [Puts plate down on steps.]
[MICHAEL crosses to sofa.]
HANK: Did Edward Albee write that play?
MICHAEL: No. Tennessee Williams.
HANK: Oh, yeah.
MICHAEL: Albee wrote “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?”
LARRY: Dummy.
HANK: I know that. I just thought maybe he wrote that other one too.
LARRY: Well, you made a mistake.
HANK: So I made a mistake.
LARRY: That’s right, you made a mistake.
HANK: What’s the difference? You can’t add. [BERNARD laughs.]
COWBOY: Edward who?
MICHAEL: [To EMORY.] How much did you pay for him?
EMORY: He was a steal.
MICHAEL: He’s a ham sandwich—fifty cents any time of the day or night. [Crosses to bar via below coffee table.]
[DONALD rises, crosses to Left table with plate.]
HAROLD: King of the Pig People. [MICHAEL gives him a look.]
EMORY: [To DONALD.] Would you like some more?
DONALD: No, thank you, Emory. It was very good.
EMORY: Did you like it?
COWBOY: I’m not a steal. I cost twenty dollars. [DONALD returns to stool. BERNARD returns his plate to EMORY.]
EMORY: More?
BERNARD: [Nods negatively.] It was delicious—even if I did make it myself.
EMORY: Isn’t anybody having seconds? [EMORY bends over to whisper “cake” to BERNARD. BERNARD goes to COWBOY and beckons him to follow him out to the kitchen. COWBOY exits with his plate to kitchen.]
HAROLD: I’m having seconds and thirds and maybe even fifths. [He rises and crosses to EMORY.] I’m absolutely desperate to keep the weight up.
MICHAEL: [Parodying HAROLD.] You’re absolutely paranoid about absolutely everything.
HAROLD: Oh, yeah, well, why don’t you not tell me about it? [Returns to his chair.]
MICHAEL: [Crosses above sofa.] You starve yourself all day; living on coffee and cottage cheese so that you can gorge yourself at one meal. Then you feel guilty and moan and groan about how fat you are and how ugly you are when the truth is you’re no fatter or thinner than you ever are.
EMORY: Polly Paranoia. [EMORY moves to the coffee table to take HANK’s empty plate.]
HANK: Just great, Emory. Thanks.
EMORY: Connie Casserole, no-trouble-at-all-oh-Mary, D.A. [Takes HANK’s plate to Left table, and LARRY follows EMORY with his plate.]
MICHAEL: [Crossing to HAROLD.] ...And this pathological lateness. It’s downright crazy.
HAROLD: Turning. [EMORY exits into kitchen via stairs with dirty plates.]
MICHAEL: Standing before a bathroom mirror for hours and hours before you can walk out on the street. And looking no different after Christ knows how many applications of Christ knows how many ointments and salves and creams and masks. [LARRY nods to HANK to help put table back to wall, which HANK is slow to respond to.]
HAROLD: I’ve got bad skin, what can I tell you?
MICHAEL: Who wouldn’t after they deliberately take a pair of tweezers and deliberately mutilate their pores—no wonder you’ve got holes in your face after the hack-job you’ve done on yourself year in and year out! [HANK rises with wine glass and goes to Left table.]
HAROLD: [Coolly but definitely.] You hateful sow. [LARRY and HANK move table to wall. LARRY sits down Left chair, HANK sits on steps.]
MICHAEL: Yes, you’ve got scars on your face—but they’re not that bad and if you’d leave yourself alone you wouldn’t have any more than you’ve already awarded yourself.
HAROLD: You’d really like me to compliment you now for being so honest, wouldn’t you? For being my best friend who will tell me what even my best friends won’t tell me. Slut!
MICHAEL: And the pills! [Announcement to GROUP.] Harold has been gathering, saving and storing up barbiturates for the last year like a god-damn squirrel. Hundreds of nembutals, hundreds of seconals. All in preparation for and anticipation of the long winter of his death. [Crossing via above coffee table to bar to pour another gin.] But I tell you right now, Harold. When the time comes, you’ll never have the guts. It’s not always like it happens in plays, not all faggots bump themselves off at the end of the story.
HAROLD: [Rises, taking plate to Left table.] What you say may be true. Time will undoubtedly tell. But, in the meantime, you’ve left out one detail—the cosmetics and astringents are paid for, the bathroom is paid for, the tweezers are paid for, and the pills are paid for! [Throws napkin on floor.]
[EMORY darts to the LIGHT SWITCH, plunges the room into DARKNESS, except for the light from the tapers on the buffet table, and begins to sing, “Happy Birthday.” Immediately, the COWBOY enters carrying a cake ablaze with candles and goes to HAROLD. BERNARD follows COWBOY with his sport coat on. EVERYONE has now joined in: “Happy Birthday, dear Harold, Happy Birthday to you.” This is followed by a round of applause as HAROLD sits on sofa.]
EMORY: Blowout your candles, Mary, and make a wish!
MICHAEL: Blowout your candles, Laura. [The COWBOY has brought cake over in front of HAROLD. He blows out the candles. More applause.]
EMORY: Awwww, she’s thirty-two years young! [The LIGHTS are restored.]
HAROLD: Oh, my God! [The COWBOY takes the cake to the Left table.]
HANK: [Hands his sweater gift to HAROLD and goes above Center of sofa.] Now, you have to open your gifts. [LARRY has come over to the stairs during the singing and now is gathering all the gifts and takes them to HAROLD.]
HAROLD: Oh, do I have to open them here?
LARRY: Open this one first.
EMORY: Of course you’ve got to open them here. Where does she think she’s gonna open them? [He is crossing above sofa when he sees the card on tile floor by tile pillar and retrieves it.]
HAROLD: Where’s the card?
EMORY: Here. [Hands card to HAROLD as he sits on ottoman.]
HAROLD: Oh. From Larry. [ALL groan “aahhh” as HAROLD finishes tearing off the tissue paper. While HAROLD is tearing paper MICHAEL gets cigarettes from coffer table and lights up one at the bar, Which DONALD takes note of.] It’s heaven! I just love it, Larry.
COWBOY: What is it? [Crossing to steps.]
HAROLD: It’s the deed to Boardwalk. [HAROLD holds up a graphic design: a large-scale “Deed to Boardwalk,” like those used in a Monopoly game. LARRY puts ripped-off tissue from gift under sofa.]
EMORY: Oh, gay pop art!
DONALD: [To LARRY.] It’s sensational. Did you do it? [At Right end of sofa.]
LARRY: Yes.
HAROLD: Oh, it’s super, Larry. It goes up the minute I get home. [HAROLD LARRY a kiss on the check as he hands “Boardwalk” to EMORY.]
COWBOY: [To HAROLD.] I don’t get it—you cruise Atlantic City or something?
MICHAEL: Will somebody get him out of here! [Sits in Down Right chair.]
[HAROLD has opened another gift, takes the card from inside. The gift is a sweater EMORY leans “Boardwalk” at Left End sofa.]
HAROLD: Oh, what a nifty sweater! Thank you, Hank.
HANK: [At above Center sofa.] You can take it back and pick out another one if you want to.
HAROLD: I think this one is just nifty. [HAROLD gives sweater to LARRY with a look “ugly” as LARRY gives him the pad box and LARRY puts sweater box on floor next to “Boardwalk.”]
BERNARD: Who wants cake? [At Right end of sofa.]
EMORY: Everybody? [Rises and goes to cake on buffet table.]
[COWBOY sits on ottoman.]
DONALD: None for me.
MICHAEL: I’d just like to sleep on mine, thank you.
HAROLD: [He has opened another gift, suddenly laughs aloud.] Oh, Bernard! How divine! Look, everybody! Bejewelled knee-pads! [He holds up a pair of basketball knee-pads with sequin initials.]
BERNARD: Monogrammed!
EMORY: [Crossing to HAROLD.] Bernard, you’re a camp! Let me see. [HAROLD hands pads to EMORY. HAROLD gives LARRY pad box and LARRY gives him MICHAEL’s gift.]
MICHAEL: Y’all heard of Gloria De Haven and Billy De Wolfe, well, dis here is Rosemary De Camp!
BERNARD: Who?
EMORY: I never miss a Rosemary De Camp picture.
HANK: I’ve never heard of her.
COWBOY: Me neither.
HANK: Not all of us spent their childhood in a movie house, Michael. Some of us played baseball.
DONALD: And mowed the lawn.
EMORY: Well, I know who Rosemary De Camp is.
MICHAEL: You would. It’s a cinch you wouldn’t recognize a baseball or a lawnmower.
HAROLD: [He has opened his last gift. He is silent.] Thank you, Michael.
MICHAEL: What? [Turns to see the gift.] Oh. [Rises, goes to bar and puts out cigarette.] You’re welcome. [Gets his drink.]
LARRY: What is it, Harold?
HAROLD: It’s a photograph of him in a silver frame. And there’s an inscription engraved and the date.
BERNARD: What’s it say?
HAROLD: Just... something personal. [Gives LARRY the gift.]
MICHAEL: [Turns round from the bar.] Well, Bernard, what do you say we have a little music to liven things up! [LARRY hands HANK the sweater box and HANK pulls out the desk chair and puts it on the seat and lingers Up Center. LARRY also hands DONALD “Boardwalk” which he puts on desk chair and then goes to Down Left chair and sits.]
BERNARD: Okay. [Goes to Phonograph.]
EMORY: Yeah, I feel like dancing.
MICHAEL: [Crosses above sofa.] How about something good and ethnic, Emory?—one of your specialties like a military toe-tap with sparklers.
EMORY: [Puts pads in box on coffee table and picks up his drink.] I don’t do that at birthdays—only on the Fourth of July. [BERNARD puts on RECORD and crosses to bar. EMORY goes to BERNARD, picking up HAROLD’s napkin from floor and puts in waste can and then joins BERNARD and starts to dance slowly. HAROLD lights a pot cigarette. ALAN, in second floor bedroom, rises from bed and comes downstairs to landing. LARRY has taken the remaining gifts to the desk chair. Gives HANK a look before turning to MICHAEL.]
LARRY: Come on, Michael.
MICHAEL: I can only lead.
LARRY: I can follow. [LARRY and MICHAEL start to dance above sofa. HANK exits into kitchen. EMORY gets pot cigarette from HAROLD while still dancing and shares it with BERNARD.]
HAROLD: [Rises and goes to COWBOY.] Come on, Tex, you’re on. [COWBOY gets to his feet, but he is a washout as a dancing partner. He just stands still. HAROLD even tries to let him lead, but no good and so gives up.] Later. [HAROLD takes out another cigarette and a match as he crosses Left and catches sight of someone over by the stairs landing, walks over to ALAN and strikes a match.] Wanna dance? [Lights his cigarette.]
EMORY: [Sees ALAN, pronounces the following name: “E-von. ”] Uh- oh, Ivan the terrible is back.
MICHAEL: [Turns to ALAN.] Oh, hello, Alan, Feel better? This is where you came in, isn’t it? [ALAN starts to cross down steps breaking away and giving LARRY his drink to hold.] Excuse me, Larry.... [ALAN has reached the third step as MICHAEL intercepts, blocking ALAN with his foot.] As they say in the Deep South, don’t rush off in the heat of the day.
HAROLD: Revolution complete.
MICHAEL: ... You missed the cake—and you missed the opening of the gifts—but you’re still in luck. You’re just in time for a party game.... Hey, everybody! Game time! [MICHAEL indicates to BERNARD to turn phonograph off, which he does. LARRY takes MICHAEL’s drink to bar and sits on high stool at door.]
HAROLD: Why don’t you just let him go, Michael? [He crosses to Down Right chair and sits indicating to COWBOY to come over to him. COWBOY goes to HAROLD and sits on a cushion by HAROLD’s chair on the floor, where he removes his hat, card and kerchief.]
MICHAEL: [Crossing to Left of ALAN.] He can go if he wants to—but not before we play a game. [ALAN starts to move, MICHAEL catches him gently by the sleeve and tugs ALAN to sit. ALAN sits on third step.]
EMORY: What’s it going to be—movie star gin? [Sits on sofa.]
MICHAEL: That’s too faggy for Alan to play—he wouldn’t be any good at it.
BERNARD: [Crosses to pillar and leans.] What about Likes and Dislikes? [HANK enters from kitchen and crosses Up Right near LARRY.]
MICHAEL: [Crosses to Left end sofa.] It’s too much trouble to find enough pencils, and besides, Emory always puts down the same thing. He dislikes artificial fruit and flowers and coffee grinders made into lamps—and he likes Mabel Mercer, poodles, and “All about Eve”—the screenplay of which he will then recite verbatim.
EMORY: I put down other things sometimes.
MICHAEL: Like a tan out of season?
EMORY: I just always put down little “Chi-C:hi” because I adore her so much.
MICHAEL: If one is of the masculine gender, a poodle is the insignia of one’s deviation. [Goes to desk for pad and pencil.]
BERNARD: [Crosses in to EMORY.] You know why old ladies like poodles—because they go down on them.
EMORY: They do not. [Gives BERNARD a swat as BERNARD returns to pillar.]
LARRY: We could play B For Botticelli.
MICHAEL: [Crosses to Right end sofa.] We could play Spin The Botticelli, but we’re not going to.
HAROLD: What would you like to play, Michael—The Truth Game?
MICHAEL: [He chuckles to himself.] Cute, Hallie.
HAROLD: Or do you want to play Murder? You all remember that one, don’t you?
MICHAEL: [To HAROLD.] Very, very cute.
DONALD: [Rises and crosses to stairs, leaning on landing.] As I recall, they’re quite similar. The rules are the same in both—you kill somebody.
MICHAEL: [Crosses to steps.] In affairs of the heart, there are no rules. Isn’t that right, Harold?
HAROLD: That’s what I always say.
MICHAEL: Well, that’s the name of the game. The Affairs Of The Heart.
COWBOY: I’ve never heard of that one.
MICHAEL: [To COWBOY.] Of course you’ve never heard of it—I just made It up, baby doll. [To ALL.] Affairs Of The Heart is a combination of both the Truth Game and Murder—with a new twist.
HAROLD: I can hardly wait to find out what that is.
ALAN: Mickey, I’m leaving. [He starts to move, ending up Down Center.]
MICHAEL: [Firmly, flatly.] Stay where you are.
HAROLD: Michael, let him go.
MICHAEL: [Crosses to ALAN.] He really doesn’t want to. If he did, he’d have left a long time ago—or he wouldn’t have come here in the first place.
ALAN: [Holding his forehead.] ... Mickey, I don’t feel well.
MICHAEL: [Low tone but distinctly articulate.] My name is Michael. I am called Michael. You must never call anyone called Michael, Mickey. Those of us who are named Michael are very nervous about it. If you don’t believe it—try it.
ALAN: I’m sorry. I can’t think. [Starts to go.]
MICHAEL: [Stops ALAN by stepping in his way.] You can think. What you can’t do—is leave. It’s like watching an accident on the highway—you can’t look at it and you can’t look away.
ALAN: I... feel... weak...
MICHAEL: You are weak. Much weaker than I think you realize. [ALAN crosses to Down Left chair and sits.] Now! Who’s going to play with Alan and me? Everyone?
HAROLD: I have no intention of playing.
DONALD: Nor do I.
MICHAEL: Well, not everyone is a participant in life. There are always those who stand on the sidelines and watch.
LARRY: What’s the game?
MICHAEL: [Goes to desk and brings phone to Left end sofa.] Simply this: We all have to call on the telephone the one person we truly believed we have loved.
HANK: [Crosses in to above sofa.] I’m not playing.
LARRY: Oh, yes you are.
HANK: [Turns to LARRY.] You’d like for me to play, wouldn’t you?
LARRY: You bet I would. I’d like to know who you’d call after all the fancy speeches I’ve heard lately. Who would you call? Would you call me?
MICHAEL: [To BERNARD.] Sounds like there’s, how you say, trouble in paradise.
HAROLD: If there isn’t, I think you’ll be able to stir up some.
HANK: [Crosses to LARRY.] And who would you call? Don’t think I think for one minute it would be me. Or that one call would do it. You’d have to make several, wouldn’t you? About three long distance and God-only-knows how many locals. [Crosses below coffee table to Left table.]
COWBOY: I’m glad I don’t have to pay the bill.
MICHAEL: Quiet!
HAROLD: [To COWBOY.] Oh, don’t worry, Michael won’t pay it either.
MICHAEL: Now, here’s how it works.
LARRY: I thought you said there were no rules.
MICHAEL: [crosses to LARRY.] That’s right. In Affairs Of The Heart, there are no rules. This is the god-damn point system! [Crosses to Center. DONALD goes to steps and sits fourth step, HANK takes DONALD’s place at landing.] If you make the call, you get one point. If the person you are calling answers, you get two more points—if somebody else answers, you get only one. If there’s no answer at all, you’re screwed.
DONALD: You’re screwed if you make the call.
HAROLD: You’re a fool—if you screw yourself.
MICHAEL: ... When you get the person whom you are calling on the line—if you tell them who you are, you get two points, And then—if you tell them that you love them—you get a bonus of five more points!
HAROLD: Hateful.
MICHAEL: Therefore you can get as many as ten points and as few as one.
HAROLD: You can get as few as none—if you know how to work it.
MICHAEL: The one with the highest score wins.
ALAN: Hank. Let’s get out of here.
EMORY: Well, now. Did you hear that!
MICHAEL: Just the two of you together. The pals ... the guys ... the buddie-buddies... the he-men.
EMORY: I think Larry might have something to say about that.
BERNARD: Emory.
MICHAEL: [Re: last remark.] The duenna speaks. So who’s playing?
Excluding Cowboy, who, as a gift, is neuter. And, of course, la voyeurs. Emory? [A beat.] Bernard?
BERNARD: I don’t think I want to play.
MICHAEL: Why, Bernard! Where’s your fun-loving spirit?
BERNARD: I don’t think this game is fun. [Goes to ottoman and sits.]
HAROLD: It’s absolutely hateful.
ALAN: [Rises.] Hank, leave with me.
HANK: You don’t understand, Alan. I can’t. You can...but I can’t.
ALAN: Why, Hank? Why can’t you?
LARRY: [To HANK.] If he doesn’t understand, why don’t you explain it to him?
MICHAEL: I’ll explain it.
HAROLD: I had a feeling you might.
MICHAEL: [Puts phone on sofa.] Although I doubt that it’ll make any difference. That type refuses to understand that which they do not wish to accept. They reject certain facts. And Alan is decidedly from The Ostrich School of Reality. [A beat.] Alan ... Larry and Hank are lovers. Not just roommates, bed-mates. Lovers.
ALAN: Michael! [Turns away.]
MICHAEL: No man’s still got a roommate when he’s over thirty years old. If they’re not lovers, they’re sisters. [ALAN sits Down Left chair.]
LARRY: Hank is the one who’s over thirty.
MICHAEL: [Crosses to Center.] Well, you’re pushing it!
ALAN:... Hank?
HANK: [Turns to ALAN.] Yes, Alan. Larry is my lover.
ALAN: But you’re married. [MICHAEL, LARRY, EMORY, and the COWBOY are sent into instant gales of laughter.]
HAROLD: I think you said the wrong thing.
MICHAEL: Don’t you love that quaint little idea?—if a man is married, then he is automatically heterosexual. [A beat.] Alan—Hank swings both ways—with a decided preference. [A beat.] Now. Who makes the first call? Emory?
EMORY: You go, Bernard.
BERNARD: I don’t want to.
EMORY: I don’t want to either. I don’t want to at all.
DONALD: [To himself.] There are no accidents.
MICHAEL: Then, may I say, on your way home I hope you will yourself over an embankment.
EMORY: [To BERNARD.] Go on. Call up Peter Dahlbeck. That’s who you’d like to call, isn’t it?
MICHAEL: [Crosses to EMORY above sofa.] Who is Peter Dahlbeck?
EMORY: The boy in Detroit whose family Bernard’s mother has been a laundress for since he was a pickaninny.
BERNARD: I worked for them too—after school and every summer.
EMORY: It’s always been a large order of Hero Worship.
BERNARD: I think I’ve loved him all my life. But he never knew I was alive. Besides, he’s straight.
COWBOY: So nothing ever happened between you?
EMORY: Oh, they finally made it—in the pool house one night after a drunken swimming party.
LARRY: With the right wine and the right music there’re damn few that aren’t curious.
MICHAEL: [To DONALD.] Sounds like there’s a lot of Lady Chatterley in Mr. Dahlbeck, wouldn’t you say, Donald?
DONALD: I’ve never been an O’Hara fan myself.
BERNARD: ... And afterwards, we went swimming in the nude in the dark with only the moon reflecting on the water.
DONALD: Nor Thomas Merton.
BERNARD: It was beautiful.
MICHAEL: How romantic. And then the next morning you took him his coffee and alka-seltzer on a tray.
BERNARD: It was in the afternoon. I remember I was worried sick all morning about having to face him. But he pretended like nothing at all had happened.
MICHAEL: [Looks at DONALD.] Christ, he must have been so drunk he didn’t remember a thing.
BERNARD: Yeah. I was sure relieved.
MICHAEL: Odd how that works. [Put phone on coffee table.] And now, for ten points, get that liar on the phone. [A beat. BERNARD picks up the phone, dials.]
LARRY: You know the number?
BERNARD: Sure. He’s back in Grosse Pointe, living at home. He just got separated from his third wife. [ALL watch BERNARD as he puts the receiver to his ear, waits. A beat. He hangs up quickly.]
EMORY: D.A. or B.Y.?
COWBOY: What?
EMORY: D.A. or B.Y. That’s operator lingo. It means—“Doesn’t Answer” or
“Busy.”
MICHAEL: He didn’t even give it time to find out. [Coaxing.] Go ahead, Bernard. Pick up the phone and dial. You’ll think of something.—You know you want to call him. You know that, don’t you? Well,—go ahead. [BERNARD starts dialing.] Your curiosity has got the best of you now. So... go on, call him. [BERNARD lets it ring this time.]
HAROLD: Hateful.
BERNARD: ... Hello?
MICHAEL: One point. [He efficiently takes note on the pad.]
[HANK crosses to the Onstage landing area.]
BERNARD: Who’s speaking? Oh... Mrs. Dahlbeck.
MICHAEL: [Taking note.] One point.
BERNARD:... It’s Bernard.—Francine’s boy.
EMORY: Son, not boy.
BERNARD :... How are you?—Good. Good. Oh, just fine, thank you.—Mrs. Dahlbeck, is... Peter—at home?—Oh. Oh, I see.
MICHAEL: [Crosses up to desk and back to BERNARD.] Shhhhiiii ...
BERNARD:... Oh, no. No, it’s nothing important. I just wanted to... to tell him... that... to tell him I...
MICHAEL: [Prompting flatly.] I love him. That I’ve always loved him.
BERNARD:... that I was sorry to hear about him and his wife.
MICHAEL: No points! [Crosses above sofa.]
BERNARD:... My mother wrote me.—Yes. It is. It really is.—Well. Would you just tell him I called and said... that I was—just—very, very sorry to hear and I... hope—they can get everything straightened out.—Yes. Yes. Well, good night.—Goodbye. [He hangs up slowly. MICHAEL draws a definite line across his pad, makes a definite period.]
MICHAEL: Two points total. Terrible. Next!
EMORY: Are you all right, Bernard?
BERNARD: [Almost to himself.] Why did I call? Why did I do that?
LARRY: [To BERNARD.] Where was he?
BERNARD: Out on a date. [Hangs up phone and goes to Left table.]
MICHAEL: Come on, Emory. Punch in. [Turns Phone toward EMORY.]
[DONALD rises, goes to high stool and sits. EMORY picks up the phone, dials information. LARRY rises and crosses Right side of sofa. A beat.]
EMORY: Could I have the number, please—in the Bronx—for a Delbert Botts.
LARRY: A Delbert Botts! How many can there be! [Sits sofa.]
BERNARD: Oh, I wish I hadn’t called now.
EMORY: . . . No, the residence number, please. [Grabs pencil from MICHAEL’s hand. He writes on the white, plastic phonecase. Into phone.] . . . Thank you. [And he indignantly slams down the receiver.] I do wish information would stop calling me, “Ma’am”!
MICHAEL: By all means, scribble all over the telephone. [He snatches the pencil from EMORY’s hands.]
EMORY: It comes off with a little spit. [Picks up his drink from coffee table.]
MICHAEL: [To ALAN.] Like a lot of things.
LARRY: Who the hell is Delbert Botts?
EMORY: The one person I have always loved. [To MICHAEL.] That’s who you said to call, isn’t it?
MICHAEL: That’s right, Emory board.
LARRY: How could you love anybody with a name like that?
MICHAEL: Yes, Emory, you couldn’t love anybody with a name like that. It wouldn’t look good on a place card. Isn’t that right, Alan? [ALAN is silent.]
EMORY: I admit his name is not so good—but he is absolutely beautiful—At least, he was when I was in high school. Of course, I haven’t seen him since and he was about seven years older than I even then.
MICHAEL: [Goes to bar, pours gin.] Christ, you better call him quick before he dies.
EMORY: I’ve loved him ever since the first day I laid eyes on him which was when I was in the fifth grade and he was a senior.—Then, he went away to college and by the time he got out I was in high school, and he had become a dentist.
MICHAEL: [With incredulous disgust.] A dentist! [Crosses above sofa with drink, leaving pad and pencil on bar.]
EMORY: Yes. Delbert Botts, D.D.S. And he opened his office in a bank building. [Gives empty glass to LARRY, who hands it to DONALD, who refills it from martini pitcher.]
HAROLD: And you went and had every tooth in your head pulled out, right?
EMORY: No. I just had my teeth cleaned, that’s all. [Gets his drink handed back.]
[DONALD decides to make a scotch for ALAN.]
BERNARD: [To himself.] Oh, I shouldn’t have called.
MICHAEL: [To BERNARD.] Will you shut-up, Bernard! And take your boring, sleep-making icks somewhere else. Go! [BERNARD takes the red wine bottle and glass and moves to the desk via above stair passage. MICHAEL crosses to Center.]
EMORY: I remember I looked right into his eyes the whole time and I kept wanting to bite his fingers.
HAROLD: Well, it’s absolutely mind boggling. [DONALD takes ALAN a scotch.]
MICHAEL: Phyllis Phallic.
HAROLD: It absolutely boggles the mind. [ALAN takes the drink.]
MICHAEL: [Re: DONALD’s action.] Sara Samaritan. [DONALD, with his own drink, sits on landing.]
EMORY: . . . I told him I was having my teeth cleaned for the Junior-Senior Prom for which I was in charge of decorations. I told him it was a celestial theme and I was cutting stars out of tin foil and making clouds out of chicken wire and angel’s hair. [A beat.] He couldn’t have been less impressed.
COWBOY: I got angel’s hair down my shirt once at Christmastime. Gosh, did it itch!
EMORY: . . . I told him I was going to burn incense in pots so that white fog would hover over the dance floor and it would look like heaven—just like I’d seen it in a Rita Hayworth movie.—I can’t remember the title.
MICHAEL: The picture was called “Down To Earth.” Any kid knows that.
COWBOY: ... And it made little tiny cuts in the creases of my fingers. Man, did they sting! It would be terrible if you got that stuff in your... I’ll be quiet. [MICHAEL goes to bar, leaves glass and picks up pad and pencil.]
EMORY: He was engaged to this stupid-ass girl named Loraine whose mother was truly Supercunt.
MICHAEL: Don’t digress. [Crosses above sofa.]
EMORY: Well, anyway, I was a wreck. I mean a total mess. I couldn’t eat, sleep, stand up, sit down, nothing. I could hardly cut out silver stars or finish the clouds for the Prom. So I called him on the telephone and asked if I could see him alone.
HAROLD: Clearly not the coolest of moves.
EMORY: He said okay and told me to come by his house.—I was so nervous this time—my hands were shaking and my voice was unsteady. I couldn’t look at him—I just stared straight in space and blurted out why I’d come.—I told him . . . I wanted him to be my friend. I said that I never knew anyone who I could talk to and tell everything to and trust. I asked him if he would be my friend.
COWBOY: You poor bastard.
MICHAEL: SHHHHHH!
BERNARD: What’d he say? [Crossing to pillar Center with wine glass.]
EMORY: He said he would be glad to be my friend. And anytime I ever wanted to see him or call him—to just call him and he’d see me. And he shook my trembling wet hand and I left on a cloud.
MICHAEL: One of the ones you made yourself.
EMORY: And the next day I went out and bought him a gold-plated cigarette lighter and had his initials monogrammed on it and wrote a card that said, “From your friend, Emory.”
HAROLD: Seventeen years old and already big with the gifts.
COWBOY: Yeah. And cards too.
EMORY: . . . And then the night of the Prom I found out.
BERNARD: Found out what?
EMORY: I heard two girls I knew giggling together. They were standing behind some god-damn corrugated cardboard Greek columns I had borrowed from a department store and had draped with yards and yards of god-damn cheesecloth. Oh, Mary, it takes a fairy to make something pretty.
MICHAEL: Don’t digress.
EMORY: This girl who was telling the story said she had heard it from her mother—and her mother had heard it from Loraine’s mother. You see, Loraine and her mother were not beside the point. Obviously, Del had told Loraine about my calling and about the gift. [A beat.] Pretty soon everybody at the dance had heard about it and they were all laughing and making jokes. Everybody knew I had a crush on Doctor Delbert Botts and that I had asked him to be my friend. [A beat.] What they didn’t know was that I loved him. And that I would go on loving him years after they had all forgotten my funny secret. [Pause.] HAROLD: Well, I for one, need an insulin injection.
MICHAEL: Call him.
BERNARD: [Takes glass to desk and goes to EMORY.] Don’t, Emory.
MICHAEL: Since when are you telling him what to do!
EMORY: [To BERNARD.] What do I care—I’m pissed! I’ll do anything. Three times.
BERNARD: Don’t. Please! [Squats Left of EMORY.]
MICHAEL: I said call him.
BERNARD: Don’t! You’ll be sorry. Take my word for it.
EMORY: What have I got to lose?
BERNARD: Your dignity. That’s what you’ve got to lose.
MICHAEL: [Crosses to Left table and deposits pad and pencil.] Well, that’s a knee-slapper! I love your telling him about dignity when you allow him to degrade you constantly by Uncle Tom-ing you to death.
BERNARD: [Rises and crosses to Center.] He can do it, Michael. I can do it. But you can’t do it.
MICHAEL: Isn’t that discrimination?
BERNARD: I don’t like it from him and I don’t like it from me—but I do it to myself and I let him do it. I let him do it because it’s the only thing that, to him, makes him my equal. We both got the short end of the stick—but I got a hell of a lot more than he did and he knows it. So, I let him Uncle Tom me just so he can tell himself he’s not a complete loser.
MICHAEL: How very considerate.
BERNARD: It’s his defense. You have your defense, Michael. But it’s indescribable. [EMORY quietly licks his finger and begins to rub the number off the telepbone case.]
MICHAEL: [To BERNARD.] Y’all want to hear a little polite parlor jest from the liberal Deep South?—Do you know why Nigras have such big lips? Because they’re always going, “p-p-p-p-a-a-a-hl” [The labial noise is exasperating with lazy disgust. BERNARD sits on second step.]
DONALD: Christ, Michael!
MICHAEL: I can do without your god-damn spit all over my telephone, you nellie coward. [Grabs Phone from EMORY but EMORY manages to keep it from the tug of war.]
EMORY: I may be nellie, but I’m no coward. [MICHAEL lets go of phone and goes up Right corner to compose himself. Starts to dial.] Bernard, forgive me. I’m sorry. I won’t ever say those things to you again. [BERNARD rises and goes to desk and wine.] B.Y
MICHAEL: [Crosses above sofa.] It’s busy?
EMORY: [Nods.] Loraine is probably talking to her mother. Oh, yes, Delbert married Loraine.
MICHAEL: I’m sorry, you’ll have to forfeit your turn. We can’t wait. [He takes the Phone from EMORY’s lap and puts it in LARRY’s lap. LARRY takes phone and starts to dial.]
HAROLD: [To LARRY.] Well, you’re not wasting any time.
HANK: Who are you calling?
LARRY: Charlie. [EMORY jerks the phone out of LARRY’s hands.]
EMORY: I refuse to forfeit my turn! It’s my turn and I’m taking it! [Rises, backs Up into MICHAEL’s arms with phone.]
MICHAEL: That’s the spirit, Emory! Hit that iceberg—don’t miss it! Hit it! God-damnit! I want a smash of a finale! [MICHAEL pushes EMORY to floor between ottoman and coffee table.]
EMORY: Oh, God, I’m drunk.
MICHAEL: A falling-down-drunk-nellie-queen.
HAROLD: Well, that’s the pot calling the kettle beige!
MICHAEL: [Snapping, to HAROLD.] I am not drunk! You cannot tell that I am drunk!—Donald! I’m not drunk! Am I!
DONALD: I’m drunk.
EMORY: So am I. I am a major drunk.
MICHAEL: [To EMORY.] Shut up and dial! [Goes to Left table for pad and pencil.]
EMORY: [Dialing.] I am a major drunk of this or any other season.
DONALD: [To MICHAEL.] Don’t you mean, shut up and deal?
EMORY: . . . It’s ringing. It is no longer B.Y.—Hello?
MICHAEL: [Taking note.] One point.
EMORY: . . . Who’s speaking? Who? ... Doctor Delbert Botts?
MICHAEL: Two points.
EMORY: Oh, Del, is this really you?—Oh, nobody. You don’t know me. You wouldn’t remember me. I’m . . . just a friend. A falling-down drunken friend. Hello? Hello? Hello? [He lowers the receiver.] He hung up. [EMORY hangs up the telephone.]
MICHAEL: Three points total. You’re winning.
EMORY: He said I must have the wrong party. [BERNARD exits kitchen Up Center.]
HAROLD: [Rises.] He’s right. We have the wrong party. We should be somewhere else.
EMORY: [Rises, taking drink from coffee table, going to HAROLD.] It’s your party, Harold. Aren’t you having a good time?
HAROLD: Simply fabulous. And what about you? Are you having a good time, Emory? Are you having as good a time as you thought you would? [Puts EMORY in Down Right chair.]
[LARRY takes the phone.]
MICHAEL: If you’re bored, Harold, we could sing Happy Birthday again—to the tune of Havah Nagelah.
HAROLD: Not for all the tea in Mexico. [Crosses Up Center to desk where he lights up a cigarette.]
[LARRY starts to dial.]
HANK: My turn now. [Crossing to LARRY.]
LARRY: It’s my turn to call Charlie.
HANK: No. Let me.
LARRY: Are you going to call Charlie?
MICHAEL: [Crosses to Left of steps.] The score is three to two. Emory’s favor.
ALAN: Don’t, Hank. Don’t you see—Bernard was right.
HANK: [Firmly to ALAN.] I want to. [He holds out his hand for the phone.] Larry?
LARRY: [Gives him the phone.] Be my eager guest.
COWBOY: [To LARRY.] Is he going to call Charlie for you? [HANK starts to dial as he sits on sofa. HAROLD comes to bar.]
LARRY: Charlie is all the people I cheat on Hank with.
DONALD: With whom I cheat on Hank.
MICHAEL: The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker.
LARRY: Right! I love ‘em all. And what Hank refuses to understand—is that I’ve, got to have ’em all. I am not the marrying kind, and I never will be.
HAROLD: Gypsy feet. [Crosses to Right end sofa.]
LARRY: [Step in to HANK.] Who are you calling?
MICHAEL: Jealous?
LARRY: Curious as hell!
MICHAEL: And a little jealous too.
LARRY: Who are you calling?
MICHAEL: Did it ever occur to you that Hank might be doing the same thing behind your back that you do behind his?
LARRY: I wish to Christ he would. It’d make life a hell of a lot easier. Who are you calling? [Sits ottoman.]
HAROLD: Whoever it is, they’re not sitting on top of the telephone. [Sits sofa Right end.]
HANK: Hello?
COWBOY: They must have been in the tub.
MICHAEL: [Snaps at COWBOY.] Eighty-six! [Crossing above sofa. BERNARD enters, uncorking another bottle of wine and sits on desk. Taking note.] One point.
HANK: . . . I’d like to leave a message.
MICHAEL: Not in. One point.
HANK: Would you say that Hank called.—Yes, it is. Oh, good evening, how are you?
LARRY: Who the hell is that? [Grabs for phone but HANK keeps phone and transfers it to other ear.]
HANK: ... Yes, that’s right—the message is for my roommate, Larry. Just say that I called and ...
LARRY: It’s our answering service! [Rising and going Up Center to pillar.]
HANK: ... and said ... I love you.
MICHAEL : [Crosses to Right end sofa.] Five points! You said it! You get five god-damn points for saying it!
ALAN: [Rises and crosses in.] Hank!... Are you crazy?
HANK: [Into phone.]... No. You didn’t hear me incorrectly. That’s what I said. The message is for Larry and it’s from me, Hank, and it is just as I said—I... love... you. Thanks. [He hangs up and rises.]
MICHAEL: Seven points total! Hank, you’re ahead, baby. You’re way, way ahead of everybody!
ALAN: Why, Hank? Why did you do that?
HANK: Because I do love him. And I don’t care who knows it.
ALAN: Don’t say that.
HANK: Why not? It’s the truth.
ALAN: I can’t believe you.
HANK: [Crossing to ALAN.] I left my wife and family for Larry.
ALAN: I’m really not interested in hearing about it. [turns hack to chair]
MICHAEL: Sure you are. Go ahead, Hankola, tell him all about it.
ALAN: No! I don’t want to hear it. It’s disgusting! [Sits in same chair]
HANK: Some men do it for another woman.
ALAN: Well, I could understand that. That’s normal.
HANK: It just doesn’t always work out that way. No matter how you might want it to. And God knows, Alan, nobody ever wanted it more than I did. I really and truly felt that I was in love with my wife when I married her. It wasn’t altogether my trying to prove something to myself. I did love her and she loved me. But ... there was always that something there.
DONALD: You mean your attraction to your own sex.
HANK: Yes.
ALAN: Always?
HANK: I don’t know. I suppose so. [Goes to Left table.)
EMORY: I’ve known what I was since I was four years old.
MICHAEL: Everybody’s always known it about you, Emory.
DONALD: [Rises and sits stool at door.] I’ve always known it about myself too.
HANK: [Crosses to Left of steps.] I don’t know when it was that I started admitting it to myself. For so long I either labeled it something else or denied it completely.
MICHAEL: Christ-was-I-drunk-last-night.
HANK: And then there came a time when I just couldn’t lie to myself any more... thought about it but I never did anything about it.—1 think the first time was during my wife’s last pregnancy. We lived near Hartford—in the country. She and the kids still live there.—Well, anyway, there was a teachers’ meeting here in New York. She didn’t feel up to the trip and I came alone. And that day on the train I began to think about it and think about it and think about it. I thought of nothing else the whole trip. And within fifteen minutes after I had arrived I had picked up a guy in the men’s room of Grand Central Station.
ALAN: [Quietly.] Jesus.
HANK: I’d never done anything like that in my life and I was scared to death. But he turned out to be a nice fellow. I’ve never seen him again and it’s funny I can’t even remember his name any more. [A beat.] Anyway. After that, it got easier.
HAROLD: Practice makes perfect.
HANK: And then ... sometime later... not very long after, Larry was in Hartford and we met at a party my wife and I had gone in town for.
EMORY: And your real troubles began.
HANK: That was two years ago.
LARRY: Why am I always the god-damn villain in the piece! If I’m not thought of as a happy home wrecker, I’m an impossible son-of-a-bitch to live with!
HAROLD: Guilt turns to hostility. Isn’t that right, Michael?
MICHAEL: Go stick your tweezers in your cheek.
LARRY: I’m fed up to the teeth with everybody feeling so god-damn sorry for poor shat-upon Hank.
EMORY: Aw, Larry, everybody knows you’re Frida Fickle.
LARRY: [Rises.] I’ve never made any promises and I never intend to. It’s my right to lead my sex life without answering to anybody—Hank included!—And if those terms are not acceptable, then we must not live together.—Numerous relations is a part of the way I am! [Crosses to bar.]
[MICHAEL rises and takes Center Stage.]
EMORY: You don’t have to be gay to be a wanton.
LARRY: By the way I am, I don’t mean being gay—I mean my sexual appetite. And I don’t think of myself as a wanton. Emory, you are the most promiscuous person I know. [Crosses Up Center.]
EMORY: I am not promiscuous at all!
MICHAEL: [Crosses to bar to pour another gin.] Not by choice, by design. Why would anybody want to go to bed with a flaming little sissy like you?
BERNARD: Michael! [Crosses in to Pillar with wine bottle and glass.]
MICHAEL: [To EMORY.] Who’d make a pass at you?—I’ll tell you who—nobody. Except maybe some fugitive from the Braille Institute.
BERNARD: [To EMORY.] Why do you let him talk to you that way?
HAROLD: Physical beauty is not everything.
MICHAEL : Thank you, Quasimodo. [Crossing above sofa with drink and pad.]
LARRY: [Crosses to Center.] What do you think it’s like living with the goddamn gestapo! I can’t breathe without getting the third degree!
MICHAEL: Larry, it’s your turn to call. [Sits on sofa back.]
LARRY: [Steps to Right.] I can’t take all that let’s-be-faithful-and-never-look-at-another-person-routine. It just doesn’t work.—If you want to promise that, fine. Then do it and stick to it. But if you have to promise it—as far as I’m concerned—nothing finishes a relationship faster. [Crosses to steps to HANK.]
HAROLD: Give me librium or give me meth.
BERNARD: [Intoxicated now.] Yeah, freedom, baby! Freedom!
LARRY: [Crosses Center.] You gotta have it! It can’t work any other way. And the ones who swear their undying fidelity are lying. Most of them, anyway—ninety percent of them. They cheat on each other constantly and lie through their teeth. I’m sorry, I can’t be like that and it drives Hank up the wall.
HANK: There is that ten percent.
LARRY: The only way it stands a chance is with some sort of an understanding.
HANK: I’ve tried to go along with that.
LARRY: Aw, come on!
HANK: I agreed to an agreement.
LARRY: Your agreement.
MICHAEL: What agreement? [Stands up.]
LARRY: A menage.
HAROLD: The lover’s agreement.
LARRY: Look, I know a lot of people think it’s the answer. They don’t consider it cheating. But it’s not my style.
HANK: Well, I certainly didn’t want it.
LARRY: Then who suggested it?
HANK: It was a compromise.
LARRY: Exactly.
HANK: And you agreed.
LARRY: I didn’t agree to anything. You agreed to your own proposal and informed me that I agreed. [HANK goes to sofa and sits.]
COWBOY: I don’t understand. What’s a me ... menaa ...
MICHAEL: A menage a trois, baby. Two’s company—three’s a menage.
HANK: Well, it works for some.
LARRY: Well, I’m not one for group therapy. I’m sorry, I can’t relate to anyone or anything that way. I’m old-fashioned—I like ’em all, but I like ’em one at a time!
MICHAEL: [To LARRY.] Did you like Donald as a single side attraction? [Pause. DONALD rises, crosses to Right end sofa.]
LARRY: Yes. I did.
DONALD: So did I, Larry.
LARRY: [To DONALD re: MICHAEL.] Did you tell him?
DONALD: No.
MICHAEL: [Crosses to LARRY.] It was perfectly obvious from the moment you walked in the door. What was this big song and dance about having seen each other but never having met?
DONALD: It was true. We saw each other in the baths and went to bed together but we never spoke a word and never knew each other’s names.
EMORY: You had better luck than I do. If I don’t get arrested, my trick announces upon departure that he’s been exposed to hepatitis!
MICHAEL: In spring a young man’s fancy turns to a fancy young man. [Goes to Left table and puts drink, pad and pencil down.]
LARRY: [Crosses to HANK.] Don’t look at me like that. You’ve been playing footsie with the Blue Book all night.
DONALD: I think he only wanted to show you what’s good for the gander is good for the gander.
HANK: That’s right. [DONALD returns to his stool.]
LARRY: [To HANK.] I suppose you’d like the three of us to have a go at it.
HANK: At least it’d be together.
LARRY: That point eludes me. [Crosses Left of steps.]
HANK: What kind of an understanding do you want!
LARRY: Respect—for each other’s freedom. With no need to lie or pretend. [Crosses to HANK and kneels.] In my own way, Hank, I love you, but you’ve got to understand that even though I do want to go on living with you, sometimes there may be others. I don’t want to flaunt it in your face. If it happens I know I’ll never mention it. But if you ask me, I’ll tell you. I don’t want to hurt you but I won’t lie to you if you want to know anything about me.
BERNARD: He gets points.
MICHAEL: What?
BERNARD: He said it—he said, “I love you,” to Hank—he gets the bonus.
MICHAEL: He didn’t call him.
DONALD: He called him. He just didn’t use the telephone.
MICHAEL: Then he doesn’t get any points.
BERNARD: He gets five points!
MICHAEL: He didn’t use the telephone—he doesn’t get a god-damn thing! [LARRY goes to the phone, picks up the receiver, looks at the number of the second line, dials. A beat. The PHONE rings.]
LARRY: It’s for you, Hank. Why don’t you take it upstairs? [The phone continues to ring. HANK gets up, goes up the stairs to the bedroom. Pause. He presses the second line button, picks up the receiver. EVERYONE downstairs is silent.]
HANK: Hello?
BERNARD: One point.
LARRY: Hello, Hank.
BERNARD: Two points.
LARRY: . . . This is Larry.
BERNARD: Two more points!
LARRY: . . . For what it’s worth, I love you.
BERNARD: Five points bonus!
HANK: I’ll . . . I’ll try.
LARRY: I will too. [He hang up. HANK hangs up.]
BERNARD: That’s ten points total! [Rises and comes down steps to Up Center.]
EMORY: Larry’s the winner! [Rises and stretches.]
[DONALD rises and pulls high stool to right of desk and gets up Right Center. COWBOY rises and puts cushion under bar and sits Right end of sofa. EMORY continues via below coffee table to stairs.]
HAROLD: [Rises.] Well, that wasn’t as much fun as I thought it would be. [ALAN rises and crosses to Left table.]
MICHAEL : THE GAME ISN’T OVER YET! [Meets EMORY and pushes him Up Center.]—Your turn, Alan. [Goes to ALAN.] PICK UP THE PHONE, BUSTER! [Grabs ALAN arm and swings him to below ottoman.]
EMORY: [Crosses to MICHAEL.] Michael, don’t!
MICHAEL: STAY OUT OF THIS! [Pushes EMORY Left.]
EMORY: You don’t have to, Alan. You don’t have to.
ALAN: Emory . . . I’m sorry for what I did before. [A beat.]
EMORY: . . . Oh, forget it.
MICHAEL: Forgive us our trespasses. Christ, now you’re both joined at the goddamn hip! [Forcing EMORY to sit in Down Left chair by crossing in on MEMORY.] You can decorate his home, Emory—and he can get you out of jail the next time he’s arrested on a morals charge. [MICHAEL turns to ALAN as ALAN turns Upstage. A beat.] Who are you going to call, Alan? [No response.] Can’t remember anyone? Well, maybe you need a minute to think. Is that it? [No response. ALAN sits ottoman.]
HAROLD: [Crosses to Left table.] I believe this will be the final round.
COWBOY: Michael, aren’t you going to call anyone?
HAROLD: How could he?—He’s never loved anyone.
MICHAEL: [Sings the classic vaudeville walk-off to HAROLD.]
“No matter how you figger,
It’s tough to be a nigger,
But it’s tougher
To be a Jeeeew-ooouu-oo!” [Turns to HAROLD and flicks HAROLD’s scarf.]
DONALD: My God, Michael, you’re a charming host.
HAROLD: Michael doesn’t have charm, Donald. Michael has counter-charm. [LARRY crosses to the stairs.]
MICHAEL: Going somewhere?
LARRY: [He stops, turns to MICHAEL.] Yes. Excuse me.
MICHAEL: You’re going to miss the end of the game.
LARRY: [Pauses on stairs.] You can tell me how it comes out.
MICHAEL: I never reveal an ending. And no one will be re-seated during the climactic revelation.
LARRY: With any luck I won’t be back until it’s all over. [He turns, continues up the stairs. LARRY exits Left from second floor escape.]
MICHAEL: [Crosses to ALAN.] What do you suppose is going on up there? Hmmm, Alan? What do you imagine Larry and Hank are doing? Hmmmmm? Shooting marbles?
EMORY: Whatever they’re doing, they’re not hurting anyone.
HAROLD: And they’re minding their own business.
MICHAEL: [Crosses to HAROLD.] And you mind yours, Harold. I’m warning you! [A beat.]
HAROLD: [Coolly.] Are you now? Are you warning me? Me? I’m Harold. I’m the one person you don’t warn Michael. Because you and I are a match.—And we tread very softly with each other because we both play each other’s game too well. Oh, I know this game you’re playing. I know it very well. And I play it very well.—You play it very well too. But you know what? I’m the only one that’s better at it than you are. I can beat you at it. So don’t push me. I’m warning you. [A beat. MICHAEL starts to laugh.]
MICHAEL: You’re funny, Hallie. A lafl-riot. Isn’t he funny, Alan? Or, as you might say, isn’t he amusing? He’s an amusing faggot, isn’t he? Or, as you might say, freak.—That’s what you called Emory, wasn’t it? A freak? A pansy? My, what an antiquated vocabulary you have. I’m surprised you didn’t say sodomite or pedarist. [A beat.] You’d better let me bring you up to date.—Now it’s not so new but it might be new to you—[A beat.] Have you heard the term, “closet queen”? Do you know what that means? Do you know what it means to be “in the closet”? [BERNARD goes to front of landing and collapses to floor.]
EMORY: Don’t, Michael. It won’t help anything to explain what it means.
MICHAEL: [Crosses to EMORY.] He already knows. He knows very, very well what a closet queen is. Don’t you, Alan?
ALAN: Michael, if you are insinuating that I am homosexual, I can only say that you are mistaken.
MICHAEL: Am I? [A beat.] What about Justin Stuart?
ALAN: . . . What about . . . Justin Stuart?
MICHAEL: [Crosses to Phone above sofa.] You were in love with him, that’s what about him. And that is who you are going to call. [Slams Phone from sofa Center to Left end.]
ALAN: Justin and I were very good friends. That is all. Unfortunately, we had a parting of the ways and that was the end of the friendship. We have not spoken for years. I most certainly will not call him now. [Rises and crosses to Left end of sofa.]
MICHAEL: [Crosses Right end sofa.] According to Justin, the friendship was quite passionate.
ALAN: What do you mean?
MICHAEL: I mean that you slept with him in college. Several times.
ALAN: That’s not true!
MICHAEL: Several times. Once that’s youth. Twice, a phase maybe. Several times, you like it!
ALAN: That’s NOT TRUE!
MICHAEL: Yes, it is true. Because Justin Stuart is homosexual. He comes to New York on occasion. He calls me. I’ve taken him to parties. Larry’s “had” him once. I have slept with Justin. And he has told me all about you.
ALAN: Then he told you a lie.
MICHAEL: You were obsessed with Justin. That’s all you talked about morning, noon, and night. You started doing it about Hank upstairs tonight.—What an attractive fellow he is and all that transparent crap.
ALAN: He is an attractive fellow. What’s wrong with saying so?
MICHAEL: Would you like to join him and Larry right now?
ALAN: I said he was attractive. That’s all.
MICHAEL: How many times do you have to say it? How many times did you have to say it about Justin?—what a good tennis player he was—what a good dancer he was—what a good body he had—what good taste he had—how bright he was—how amusing he was—how the girls were all mad for him—what close friends you were. [Crosses Right end coffee table.]
ALAN: We were very close . . . very good friends. That’s all! [Crosses to MICHAEL.]
MICHAEL: It was obvious—and when you did it around Fran it was downright embarrassing. Even she must have had her doubts about you.
ALAN: Justin . . . lied. If he told you that, he lied. It is a lie. A vicious lie. He’d say anything about me now to get even. He could never get over the fact that I dropped him. But I had to. I had to because he told me about himself... he told me that he wanted me to be his lover. And I told him that he made me sick... I told him I pitied him. [Sits sofa.]
MICHAEL: You ended the friendship, Alan, because you couldn’t face the truth about yourself. [Crosses to Left end sofa.] You could go along, sleeping with Justin as long as he lied to himself and you lied to yourself and you both dated girls and labeled yourselves men and called yourselves just fond friends. But Justin finally had to be honest about the truth, and you couldn’t take it. [MICHAEL goes to the desk, and gets address book.] You couldn’t take it and so you destroyed the friendship and your friend along with it. [Crosses to ALAN.]
ALAN: No!
MICHAEL: Justin could never understand what he’d done wrong to make you drop him. He blamed himself.
ALAN: No!
MICHAEL: He did until he eventually found out who he was and what he was.
ALAN: No!
MICHAEL: But to this day, he still remembers the treatment—the scars he got from you. [He puts address book in front of ALAN on coffee table.]
ALAN: NO!
MICHAEL: Pick up this phone and call Justin. Call him and apologize and tell him what you should have told him twelve years ago. [He picks up the phone, shoves it at ALAN.]
ALAN: No! HE LIED! Not a word is true!
MICHAEL: Call him! [ALAN won’t take it.] All right then, I’ll dial!
HAROLD: You’re so helpful. [MICHAEL starts to dial.]
ALAN: Give it to me. [Clicking off dialing. MICHAEL hands ALAN the receiver. ALAN takes it, releases cradle button, starts to dial. EVERYONE is watching in silent attention. ALAN finishes dialing, lifts the receiver to his ear.] ... Hello?
MICHAEL: One point.
ALAN: ... It’s ... it’s Alan.
MICHAEL: Two points.
ALAN: ... Yes, yes, it’s me.
MICHAEL: Is it Justin?
ALAN: ... You sound surprised.
MICHAEL: I should hope to think so—after twelve years! Two more points.
ALAN: No, I’m in New York. Yes. I won’t explain now ... I... I just called to tell you ...
MICHAEL: THAT I LOVE YOU, GOD-DAMNIT! I love you!
ALAN: I love you.
MICHAEL : FIVE BONUS POINTS. TEN POINTS TOTAL! JACKPOT!
ALAN: I love you and I beg you to forgive me.
MICHAEL: Give me that! [He snatches the phone from ALAN.] Justin! Did you hear what that son-of-a-bitch said! [A beat. MICHAEL is speechless for a moment.] Fran. [A beat. MICHAEL sits on sofa.] Fran, of course, I expected it to be you! How are you? ... Me too ... Yes, he told me everything...Oh, don’t thank me, please! I’ll put him back on. My love to the kids. [MICHAEL lowers his hand with the receiver and ALAN takes the receiver as MICHAEL stares front.]
ALAN:... Darling? I’ll take the first plane I can get.—Yes. I’m sorry too. Yes...I love you very much. [He hangs up, stands up, crosses to the door, stops. He turns around, surveys the GROUP.] Thank you, Michael. [He opens the door and exits.]
[Silence. MICHAEL brings hands to face and sinks face into seat of sofa.]
COWBOY: Who won?
DONALD: It was a tie.
HAROLD: [HAROLD crosses to MICHAEL. Calmly, coldly, clinically.] Now it is my turn. And ready or not, Michael, here goes. [A beat]. You are a sad and pathetic man. You’re a homosexual and you don’t want to be. But there is nothing you can do to change it.—Not all your prayers to your God, not all the analysis you can buy in all the years you’ve got left to live. You may very well one day be able to know a heterosexual life if you want it desperately enough—if you pursue it with the fervor with which you annihilate—but you will always be homosexual as well. Always, Michael. Always. Until the day you die. [He turns, goes toward EMORY.] Oh, friends, thanks for the nifty party and the super gift. [He looks toward the COWBOY.] It’s just what I needed. [EMORY smiles. HAROLD spots BERNARD sitting on the floor, head bowed.] ... Bernard, thank you. [No response. To EMORY:] Will you get him home?
EMORY: Don’t worry about her. I’ll take care of everything. [HAROLD turns, passes DONALD who is sitting on steps and goes to Up Center.]
HAROLD: Donald, good to see you.
DONALD: Good night, Harold. See you again sometime.
HAROLD: Yeah. How about a year from Shevuoth? [Goes to desk chair and gathers gifts and goes to COWBOY.] Come on, Tex. Let’s go to my place. [The COWBOY gets up.] Are you good in bed?
COWBOY: Well... I’m not like the average hustler you’d meet. I try to show a little affection—it keeps me from feeling like such a whore. [HAROLD gives COWBOY the gifts. COWBOY takes gifts, goes to door and opens it.]
HAROLD: [Picks up his eye glasses from bar.] Oh, Michael ... thanks for the laughs. Call you tomorrow. [No response. HAROLD and the COWBOY exit.]
EMORY: Come on, Bernard. Time to go home. [EMORY, frail as he is, manages to pull BERNARD’s arm around his neck, gets him on his feet. ]
BERNARD: [Practically inaudible mumble.] Why did I call? Why?
EMORY: Oh, Mary, you’re a heavy mother. [Takes BERNARD to Left end of sofa.] Thank you, Michael. Good night, Donald.
DONALD: Goodbye, Emory.
BERNARD: Why ... [As EMORY crosses to door with Bernard.]
EMORY: It’s all right, Bernard. Everything’s all right. I’m going to make you some coffee and everything’s going to be all right. [EMORY virtually carries BERNARD out. DONALD closes the door. MICHAEL slides to floor and begins a low moan that increases in volume—almost like a siren—to a bloodcurdling shriek. He slams his open hands on floor.]
MICHAEL: [In desperate panic.] Donald! Donald! DONALD! Donald! [DONALD puts down his drink, rushes to MICHAEL. MICHAEL is now white with fear and tears are bursting from his eyes. He begins to gasp his words.] Oh, no! No! What have I done! Oh, my God, what have I done! [MICHAEL starts to writhe. DONALD grabs him, cradles him in his arms.]
DONALD: Michael! Michael!
MICHAEL: [Tears pouring forth.] Oh, no! No! It’s beginning! The anxiety! OH, No! No! I feel it! I know it’s going to happen. Donald!! Donald! Don’t leave. Please! Please! Oh, my God, what have I done! Oh Jesus, I can’t handle it. I won’t make it!
DONALD: [Physically subduing him.] Michael! Michael! Stop it! Stop it! I’ll give you aValium—I’ve got some in my pocket!
MICHAEL: [Hysterical.] No! No! Pills and alcohol—I’ll die!
DONALD: I’m not going to give you the whole bottle! Come on, let go of me!
MICHAEL: [Clutching him.] No!
DONALD: Let go of me long enough for me to get my hand in my pocket!
MICHAEL: Don’t leave! [As he loosens his grip he crumbles to the floor.]
[MICHAEL quiets a bit, as DONALD gets a pill from his pocket.]
DONALD: Here. [Putting pill in MICHAEL’s hand as he pulls MICHAEL’s head and arms up from floor.]
MICHAEL: [Sobbing.] I don’t have any water to swallow it with!
DONALD: Well, if you’ll wait one god-damn minute, I’ll get you some! [He goes to the bar, gets a glass of water. MICHAEL collapses, his head on the sofa seat. DONALD returns with glass.] Your water, Your Majesty. [A beat. DONALD puts glass in MICHAEL’s hand as he pulls MICHAEL’s head up.] Michael, stop that god-damn crying and take this pill! [MICHAEL puts the pill into his month amid choking sobs, takes the water, it it down, returns the glass to DONALD which DONALD returns to bar.]
MICHAEL: [Sitting on sofa.] I’m like Ole Man River—tired of livin’ and scared o’ dyin’. [DONALD helps MICHAEL to sit sofa and also sits down. MICHAEL collapses into his arms, sobbing.]
DONALD: Shhhhh. Shhhhh. Michael. Shhhhh. Michael. Michael. [DONALD rocks him back and forth. He quiets.]
MICHAEL: ... If we ... if we could just... learn not to hate ourselves so much. That’s it, you know. If we could just not hate ourselves just quite so very very much.
DONALD: Yes, I know. I know. [A beat.] Inconceivable as it may be, you used to be worse than you are now. Maybe with a lot more work you can help yourself some more—if you try. [MICHAEL straightens up, dries his eyes in his handkerchief.]
MICHAEL: Who was it that used to always say, “You show me a happy homosexual, and I’ll show you a gay corpse.”
DONALD: I don’t know. Who was it who always used to say that?
MICHAEL: [Pulls away so DONALD’s arm is free from him.] And how dare you come on with that holier-than-thou attitude with me!—“A lot more work,” “if I try,” indeed! You’ve got a long row to hoe before you’re perfect, you know.
DONALD: I never said I didn’t.
MICHAEL: And while we’re on the subject—I think your analyst is a quack. [MICHAEL blows his nose.]
DONALD: Earlier you said he was a prick.
MICHAEL: That’s right. He’s a prick quack. Or a quack prick, whichever you prefer. [DONALD gets up from the sofa, goes to bar and pours a brandy.]
DONALD: [Heaving a sigh.] Harold was right. You’ll never change.
MICHAEL: Come back, Donald. Come back, Shane. [Catching himself at a movie imitation.]
DONALD: I’ll come back when you have another anxiety attack.
MICHAEL: I need you. Just like Mickey Mouse needs Minnie Mouse—just like Donald Duck needs...Minnie Duck—Mickey needs Donnie.
DONALD: My name is Donald. I am called Donald. You must never call anyone called Donald, Donnie.
MICHAEL: [Grabs his head, moans and rises, going Left of steps.] Ohhhhh... icks! Icks! Terrible icks! Tomorrow is going to be “Bad Day at Black Rock.” A day of nerves, nerves, and more nerves! [MICHAEL surveys the room.] Do you suppose there’s any possibility of just burning this room? [Goes to candles and puts them out.]
[A beat. ]
DONALD: Why do you think he stayed, Michael? Why do you think he took all of that from you?
MICHAEL: There are no accidents. He was begging to get killed. He begged for somebody to let him have it and he got what he wanted.
DONALD: He could have been telling the truth—Justin could have lied. [Crossing to sofa.]
MICHAEL: Who knows? What time is it?
DONALD: It seems like it’s day after tomorrow. [Sits sofa.] [MICHAEL goes toward kitchen glancing Of Left to clock. He comes back to pillar and gets his raincoat. ]
MICHAEL: It’s early. [Leans wearily on pillar.]
DONALD: What does life hold? Where’re you going?
MICHAEL: The bedroom is occupado and I don’t want to go to sleep anyway until I try to walk-off some of this booze. If I went to sleep like this, when I wake up they’d have to put me in a padded cell—not that that’s where I don’t belong. [A beat.] And there’s a midnight mass at St. Malachy’s that all the show people go to. I think I’ll walk over there and catch it.
DONALD: [Raises his glass.] Well, pray for me.
MICHAEL: [Indicates bedroom.] Maybe they’ll be gone by the time I get back.
DONALD: [Rises and goes to bar.] Well, I will be—just as soon as I knock off this bottle of brandy. [Pours brandy to his snifter.]
MICHAEL: Will I see you next Saturday?
DONALD: [Turns to MICHAEL.] Unless you have other plans. [MICHAEL shakes his head “no.”] Michael, did he ever tell you why he was crying on the phone—what it was he had to tell you?
MICHAEL: No. It must have been that he’d left Fran.—Or maybe it was something else and he changed his mind.
DONALD: Maybe so. [A beat.] I wonder why he left her.
MICHAEL: [Wearily.] ... As my father said to me when he died in my arms, “I don’t understand any of it. I never did.” [A beat. DONALD goes to his stack of books, selects one, sits Down Right chair.] Turn out the lights when you leave, will you? [DONALD nods. MICHAEL goes to the door, opens it and exits closing door behind him as:]
Lights fade out
The End