Brotherly Love was first performed as part of the Rutgers Playwriting Festival, 2007. The production was directed by Ean Miles Kessler, with special help from Louis Wells. The cast was as follows:
| GORDON | David Delaney | |
| WALLY | Andrew Isaac Rosenberg |
The same cast performed the play at Manhattan Repertory Theatre’s Summerfest, opening June 16, 2010. Produced by Byron Bronson, lights and sound by Devon Malik Beckford.
For Dave Delaney and Andrew Rosenberg:
For all their hard work and friendship.
At Rise: A small den/living room in a house in Lynchburg, Virginia. A pull-out bed/couch with doily on the back, a dresser; other furniture as seen fit. The house belongs to GORDON and WALLY’S parents, and has a very homey feel.
Throughout the piece, GORDON unpacks from his overnight bag, pulls out the bed and makes it, and generally makes the room more comfortable for himself and the arrival of his guest.
Production Note: The entire piece should fly.
Lights up quick; WALLY, with beer in hand, and GORDON, with suitcase, unpacking.
WALLY: This is ridiculous—how did you—?
GORDON: I don’t know what you want me to say.
WALLY: I want you to say that you’re full a’ shit, that you’re lying to me.
GORDON: I’m full a’ shit, and I’m lying to you. (Moment.) It was a joke, Wally.
WALLY: That’s not funny.
GORDON: I’m just—
GORDON: I don’t know what you wanna hear.
WALLY: Have you seen someone about this?
GORDON: There’s no one to see—
WALLY: I mean a doctor or something.
GORDON: There’s nothing wrong—
WALLY: According to you.
GORDON: Yes. According to me.
(Beat.)
WALLY: I didn’t—it wasn’t me, right? I mean—
GORDON: Oh Jesus …
WALLY: At the pool—
GORDON: No, Wally—
WALLY: We were kids, I was stupid; I would flash anyone—
GORDON: That’s—
WALLY: I thought it was funny—!
GORDON: Wally, it’s not—
WALLY: I was just eleven—! Naked was funny back then—!
(Beat.)
WALLY: No, I know, but yanno, I mean I didn’t, I mean, I didn’t make you a homo, right?
GORDON: Wally. You can’t turn someone gay.
WALLY: No, I know, but—
GORDON: Wally!
WALLY: I’m just sayin’—
GORDON: Fine. Fine, you made me gay.
WALLY: What?
GORDON: No seriously. Your eleven-year-old dick made me a fag.
WALLY: That’s not funny—
GORDON: Runnin’ around the pool, butt-naked, two inches of flop—you goddamn homo-maker, you.
WALLY: That’s—
GORDON: The fuckin’ fag-wizard over here—
WALLY: Wait, two inches—?
GORDON: Wally: Lord of the Queers!
WALLY: I am not—I do not—I do not make people gay! (Slight moment.) I have a girlfriend!
WALLY: I know you don’t make someone gay, I just—I mean if I had done something by accident—I just—I would never try to make you—yanno—like that.
GORDON: Thanks, Wally.
WALLY: What?
GORDON: Nothing.
(Slight beat.)
WALLY: You gonna tell Dad?
GORDON: Reason I’m here.
WALLY: You can’t do that—
GORDON: Why not?
WALLY: Walk right in there all-of-a-sudden-gay?
GORDON: I repeat: Why not?
WALLY: They’re gonna be back from T.G.I. Friday’s in twenty—(checks watch)—six minutes—! You can’t be gay—!
GORDON: They’re gonna have to—
WALLY: You’ve been at NYU for three semesters—!
GORDON: They’re gonna have to hear it, Wally—
WALLY: Three semesters, Gordon! Mom and Dad go out for cheeseburgers and baby back ribs, their firstborn comes back a homo—!
GORDON: I’m not—
WALLY: Have you met Dad?
GORDON: Wally—
WALLY: He was in Vietnam—
GORDON: I don’t give a fuck what war—
WALLY: He voted for Reagan—
GORDON: Or century—
WALLY: Twice! He voted for Reagan twice!
GORDON: Or—
WALLY: He’s got Billy Graham, Live in Concert T-shirts—!
GORDON: Or lifestyle he comes from—
WALLY: Eight of them—!
GORDON: I’m bringing my boyfriend home.
WALLY: Boyfriend, what is boyfriend? The hell can you call him boyfriend?
GORDON: You’re very smart, Wally, I’m sure if you think about it, you can figure it out.
WALLY: Cut the smart shit, all right? Boyfriend! I mean my God, what about you and, and—yanno what’s-her-tits—?
WALLY: Stacey Feeskin—!
GORDON: Oh my God—that was high school—
WALLY: So?
GORDON: So, it didn’t mean anything—
WALLY: Didn’t mean anything—?
GORDON: We watched Pretty in Pink together; that was all.
WALLY: Vicky Bassman?
GORDON: Class lesbian.
WALLY: Sarah Shellder—?
GORDON: (Pointing to self.) Gay, not blind—
WALLY: Debbie Fawson—?
GORDON: Not even with your dick, Wally—
WALLY: Oh come on!
GORDON: Oh come on, what—?
WALLY: What about Maureen Dellnick—?
GORDON: Yeah, but who didn’t—?
WALLY: Ha!—you’re straight—!
WALLY: Complicated my balls: you had sex with a girl—
GORDON: Yeah—but I was thinking about the football team while I was doing it—
WALLY: Don’t—
GORDON: Soon as I jumped in I wanted to jump out—
WALLY: No, don’t say that—
GORDON: What?
WALLY: About the—the—football team—
GORDON: Wally—
WALLY: Just—it makes me uncomfortable.
GORDON: I wasn’t—
WALLY: It makes me uncomfortable—
GORDON: Fine.
WALLY: Just—
GORDON: I said fine.
WALLY: Thank you.
(Slight beat.)
GORDON: Yanno, if I had a dollar every time I had to listen to you, “she’s so hot,” “her tits this,” “her ass that,” I’d be a fucking millionaire.
WALLY: Yeah, well it’s different.
(Beat.)
You don’t—I mean, this guy, you, you don’t … yanno … you …
GORDON: What? Sex?—Do we have sex?
WALLY: No, God—!
GORDON: What? Ask.
WALLY: No, I don’t—I—
GORDON: It’s fine, ask.
WALLY: I don’t want to ask!
GORDON: Fine.
WALLY: I don’t care what you do.
GORDON: Whatever.
WALLY: Fucking disgusting …
(Long beat. Finally:)
Gordon, that is where poop is made.
GORDON: Well, I’m very glad you figured that out.
WALLY: You really want to put your (makes a motion) in somebody’s—(makes another motion)?
(Slight beat.)
WALLY: Yes. Yes it is.
GORDON: You are absurd.
WALLY: No. No, no, no. No you are absurd. You want to fuck butts. That is absurd.
GORDON: You telling me you never tried to do that with Rachael?
WALLY: Don’t you fuckin’—
GORDON: You never tried?
WALLY: Don’t you fuckin’ talk about my girlfriend like that.
GORDON: Have you, Wally?
(Beat.)
WALLY: That’s different.
GORDON: For whom?
WALLY: For—for everyone involved!
GORDON: How’s it different?
WALLY: (Counting off the reasons on his fingers.) It’s not a man!
GORDON: It’s still a butt.
WALLY: But it’s not a man’s butt. It’s a girl butt—a lady butt! There’s a difference.
GORDON: Yanno what, Wally?—you’re right. What I do? That’s disgusting; what you do—that just takes a bottle of Jäger and a cheerleader—
WALLY: No! No, mine is—mine is about love! And commitment. And yours—yours is—
GORDON: Is what, Wally?
WALLY: Queerin’ don’t make the world work, Gordon!
(Slight beat.)
GORDON: I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you over the incessant pounding of your bigotry—what did you just say?
WALLY: It’s the birds and the bees, Gordon; not the birds and the birds—
GORDON: What—?
WALLY: With the—the stingers, and—the—the wings—
GORDON: What are you—?
WALLY: Feathers …
GORDON: That doesn’t even make sense, Wally—
WALLY: Cross-pollination—
GORDON: What are you talking about?
(Slight beat.)
WALLY: Vagina is better than penis! Vagina is better than penis!
WALLY: Vagina is, yanno, good, and yes, and everything good—And penis is just, yanno, you just look at it and you wonder how things ever got that bad—yanno? I mean what happened, Gordon?—what happened?
(Beat.)
GORDON: Sometimes you talk and I just, I don’t understand—
WALLY: No, you—
GORDON: Anything, anything at all; you just—
WALLY: This isn’t about understanding or not understanding! This is about birds and bees and you and—your—your ugh! Ugh!
GORDON: … My boyfriend?
WALLY: No, God, no—! Stop saying that!
(Beat.)
You uh (Makes a masculine gesture.)—or—? (Makes a feminine gesture.)
GORDON: What?
WALLY: Your—you and the guy, you—? (Another masculine gesture.) Or—? (Another feminine gesture.)
GORDON: What are you doing—?
WALLY: Do you, yanno—(Makes a masculine gesture of “thrusting” or “pumping.”) Or—? Yanno?
(WALLY makes a feminine gesture of being “taken by surprise.”)
I don’t know what that means, Wallace—
WALLY: Are you—I mean, do you—?
(WALLY makes a “baseball pitcher” motion.)
Or—
(WALLY makes a “baseball catcher” motion.)
GORDON: I—what—?
(WALLY continues to make motions, thrusting and pumping, getting more and more into it as the guessing goes along, trying to act out what he can’t bring himself to ask.)
Are you skiing? Did you hurt your ass—? The fuck are you doing—? I don’t—
WALLY: Oh come on, you know what I’m saying—!
GORDON: No, Wally, I don’t—
WALLY: Oh come on—!
You’re gonna argue with me about what I understand? Really, Wally—?
WALLY: Don’t be a fucking asshole about this—
GORDON: “Fucking asshole”; interesting choice of words—
GORDON: I’m not being an asshole, I just don’t speak retard—
WALLY: For the love of God, are you the fucker or the fuckee—?
GORDON: Depends on the day, Wally—
WALLY: Oh my God!
GORDON: For fuck’s sake, he’s my boyfriend—!
WALLY: Oh my God! Don’t touch me ever again!—Don’t touch me—!
GORDON: You fucking hillbilly—
WALLY: Yeah, well, you’re a fucking faggot, faggot!
GORDON: Good one, Wally; really. Like I’ve never heard that before.
WALLY: No! No, this is just your gayness—
GORDON: My “gayness”—?
WALLY: Your icky, fucking gayness!—your gayness!—How did you—how are you even like this? I mean, Jesus Christ—there aren’t any gay people in our family!
GORDON: Well, first time for everything …
WALLY: No—! No not “first time for everything”! Fuck “first time for everything.” Go back to being straight!
GORDON: Wally, I was never straight.
GORDON: No. I wasn’t.
WALLY: Yes—you—were!
GORDON: No, Wally, I wasn’t. Believe me. I was there.
WALLY: No—no!
(WALLY goes to the couch and gets several porn magazines and DVDs from underneath it.)
You see those titties—?
GORDON: Why do you have porn in the living room—?
WALLY: We don’t have time for questions, Gordon, we only have time for titties! You see the shirt puppies—?
GORDON: Shirt puppies—?
WALLY: Nice big—
GORDON: Who says shirt puppies—?
WALLY: Mahatmas—
GORDON: Don’t—don’t do that; don’t say that—don’t call them—
WALLY: Mahat—
GORDON: For God’s sake, the man was a legend—!
WALLY: Moo-moos—
WALLY: Meat balloons—
GORDON: Meat balloons? Meat balloons, Wally?
WALLY: Whatever; look at that pussy! Look!
GORDON: I—
WALLY: Look at that!
GORDON: I—
WALLY: You see that—?
GORDON: I—yes—
WALLY: You see the little—honey pot—
GORDON: Honey pot—? What are you, Winnie the Pooh—?
WALLY: Ham wallet—furburger—
GORDON: That doesn’t even sound appealing—!
WALLY: Beef curtains; love canal—little panty hamster—
GORDON: Jesus, Wally—
WALLY: Seafood pit—the child-slide—
GORDON: Oh my God—
WALLY: The cock-vacuum—skin chimney—bearded love clam—!
WALLY: Mud flaps—
GORDON: Oh my God—!
WALLY: Slammin’ salmon canyon—vajingle-jangle—
GORDON: Wally, I don’t even know what that means—“vajingle-jangle”; what is it, a Christmas carol—?
WALLY: Look at it, it just makes you wanna—(Makes a growling sound; bares his teeth; sticks out tongue; licks the air vigorously.)
GORDON: Were you raised by retarded wolves—?
WALLY: What? No—
GORDON: When did feminism cease completely in Virginia—?
WALLY: These are all well-known terms—
GORDON: Well-known terms? Well-known by whom? Lucifer—?
WALLY: They’re in the dictionary, okay—?
GORDON: What kind of dictionary do you read—?
WALLY: The American kind—!
GORDON: Wait—Wally; hold on—
WALLY: You don’t wanna (repeats the motion he did several lines back)—?
GORDON: Let me see that?
GORDON: Wally—
WALLY: Yes! This is good; this is awesome!
GORDON: Wally—
WALLY: Awesome, I’m winning—!
GORDON: Wally, all this porn is anal.
WALLY: Yeah, naw—yeah—
GORDON: Wally, “Butt Pilots 36”—?
WALLY: Naw, that—wait—
GORDON: There were thirty-five other “Butt Pilots”—?
WALLY: Gimme those—
GORDON: “Ass-Clowns: The Saga Begins”—?
WALLY: Those are mine—!
GORDON: It’s a saga—?
WALLY: Stoppit—!
GORDON: “Dookie Pirates: Plunder Down Under”—
WALLY: Gimme that—!
GORDON: Starring—Dame Judi Drench—Does Mom know you watch this stuff—?
(GORDON throws the porn back to WALLY.)
GORDON: I don’t like women, Wally! Nothing you’re gonna do is gonna make me want to sleep with these women. This pornography is abhorrent.
(WALLY points to the picture.)
WALLY: Vagina.
GORDON: Wally. That wasn’t even a full sentence—
WALLY: But—(Points.)
GORDON: I know; it’s a vagina—I’ve heard really good things; I’m just not interested—
WALLY: Panty hamster—
GORDON: I—stop calling it that—
WALLY: I—
GORDON: I know—it’s all right; it’s gonna be all right, man—
(GORDON gives WALLY a pat on the back, or some other such show of reassurance; then resumes his activity of cleaning up or unpacking. Beat.)
WALLY: You don’t—I mean—
GORDON: What?
WALLY: You don’t touch kids, right? (Beat.) I’m just asking—that’s all, I just—
WALLY: I just, I mean most a’ those guys—
GORDON: What?
WALLY: You know exactly what. Those fuckin’ people are—
GORDON: “Those fucking people”? Excuse me; “those fucking people,” Wally?
WALLY: Yes, those people—!
GORDON: Just shut the fuck up, Wally—just shut the fuck up.
(Beat. Then very small:)
WALLY: … You taught me how to pee standing up.
GORDON: What, I’m gonna touch you twelve years ago? I’m your brother for Christ’s sake—!
WALLY: We took baths together—
GORDON: Like I’m gonna get in my big gay time machine—?
WALLY: Baths, Gordon—
GORDON: I know, Wally; I remember—
WALLY: My penis saw your penis!
GORDON: We’re not talking anymore; you’re a fucking idiot—
WALLY: If our penises were people, they’d be on a first-name basis—!
WALLY: My penis cannot take a bath with a faggot penis—!
GORDON: I’m not having this conversation right now, Wallace—!
(GORDON goes back to unpacking.)
Oh, and uh, by the way—Uncle Simon? (He lets his wrist go limp in an “effeminate” hand gesture.)
WALLY: Are you serious?
GORDON: Wally. Aunt Betsy and Uncle Simon haven’t had sex since 1973.
WALLY: He’s not gay: he’s subtle—doesn’t mean he’s gay, means he has morals. Maybe he just doesn’t—
GORDON: What? Like vaginas?
WALLY: Want to be condemned to hell, you sick bastard. And don’t talk about Aunt Betsy’s vagina. She’s a beautiful woman.
GORDON: Yeah. For a dyke.
WALLY: Are you serious?
GORDON: Wally, she’s built like a Mack truck and she has the face of Brian Dennehy—
WALLY: She’s a lesbian—?
GORDON: Is Tom Cruise gay?
WALLY: Don’t say that.
WALLY: He made Risky Business.
GORDON: Wally—
WALLY: He fucked a girl in that.
GORDON: That doesn’t mean—
WALLY: And Top Gun?
GORDON: Are you kidding me?
WALLY: What?—I love that movie.
GORDON: Wally.
WALLY: I can’t love a gay movie.
GORDON: Well you might want to rearrange your top ten, then.
(Beat.)
WALLY: I have a girlfriend—
GORDON: I know—
WALLY: We have lots of sex—
GORDON: I don’t—
WALLY: And I played football in high school—
GORDON: I don’t care what your favorite movie is, Wally.
(Beat.)
GORDON: Oh my God—
WALLY: Am I gay?
GORDON: No, Wally—
WALLY: Oh my God: “volleyball scene”—oh my God …!
GORDON: You’re not gay, Wally; but if you’d like, I know some people, maybe we can work something out—
(WALLY sticks his fingers in his ears. Production Note: He keeps his fingers in his ears until it is noted that he takes them out.)
WALLY: I can’t hear you, I can’t hear you—I’m not listening—I can’t hear you—!
GORDON: Get you a nice little man-friend—
WALLY: I have sex with my girlfriend; I have so much sex with my girlfriend—!
GORDON: Some Latin lover—
WALLY: So much heterosexual sex! So much heterosexual sex! Pussy! Vagina! No cock! No cock!
GORDON: Pablo y Wally—los amores—!
WALLY: No cock!
GORDON: You’re a fucking idiot—
WALLY: Yeah, well I’m not a faggot!
(Slight beat; WALLY mutters “fucking homo” under his breath.)
What?
WALLY: Nothing—
GORDON: What did you just say—?
WALLY: Nothing—
(Slight beat. WALLY mutters it again; GORDON smacks him upside the head. WALLY takes one finger out of his ear and whacks GORDON on the arm. GORDON whacks WALLY on the arm; WALLY whacks GORDON; GORDON whacks WALLY; WALLY slaps GORDON on the shoulder. GORDON slaps WALLY on the shoulder. They slap each other, back and forth, over and over, getting faster and faster and more livid, until:)
I’ll fucking kill you—!
(An all-out slap-fight ensues. WALLY takes his fingers out of his ears and hits with both hands for this portion. They get wilder and wilder until they both stop simultaneously, exhausted. WALLY puts his fingers back in his ears. Beat.)
Ow.
(They both sit, recovering from their fight; WALLY stares at GORDON without blinking; GORDON stares off at nothing in a completely different direction. Long awkward beat. Finally:)
GORDON: Oh my God, what do you want from me—?!
WALLY: If I didn’t make you a fag—
WALLY: And Mom and Dad didn’t make you a fag—
GORDON: What did I just say about using that word—?
WALLY: What the fuck am I gonna tell people—?
GORDON: I don’t care; tell them I’m gay—
(WALLY takes his fingers out of his ears.)
WALLY: No!—no, not gay—I don’t have a gay brother. I have a—a sexually unpredictable brother.
GORDON: Sexually unpredictable? The fuck does that mean, Wally? What? I unpredictably fuck men?
WALLY: No, Gordon, what it means is that we don’t have gay where we come from. We have Confederate flags and shotguns on walls. So hide your fuckin’ rainbows and shut the fuck up! Jesus Christ, you wanna get fuckin’ killed!
(Beat.)
GORDON: I’m bringing him home with me.
WALLY: No, you’re not.
GORDON: Yes. I am.
WALLY: We’re from Lynchburg, Virginia, Gordon! Lynch-Burg! That’s a burg of lynches! Think about it—!
GORDON: I—
GORDON: I don’t see your point.
WALLY: You’re not gay in Virginia: you’re a beating waiting to happen—
GORDON: Yeah, Wally; I know—
WALLY: Gordon—
GORDON: I’m not going to be fucking cowed, Wally! You, Dad, Mom—the fuck you think I am?
WALLY: It’s just; you’re my brother, okay?—you’re—and I just—you’re gonna—
GORDON: What—?
WALLY: You’re gonna get hurt, all right? What if you get hurt? I mean, I just; you’re my brother and I love you and what if you get hurt?
(Beat.)
GORDON: I will not be cowed, Wally.
WALLY: I’m not asking you to—
GORDON: Then what are you asking? Huh? Play ball? I’ve been playing ball since the fourth fucking grade.
(Tense beat.)
WALLY: You bring him home?—you don’t call him that—your boyfriend. You don’t; you don’t say that word. All right?
WALLY: Yeah, you too!
(WALLY storms out; storms right back in.)
GORDON: What do you want?
WALLY: I just—when, when I said I loved you, that was, yanno, in a non-un-not-homo-sex kinda way.
GORDON: No, I know—
WALLY: I’m just makin’ sure—
GORDON: You are an idiot—
WALLY: Yeah fuck you too—
(Beat.)
GORDON: You remember Randall Merkins?
(No answer.)
Come to school, he’d wear his ma’s perfume—(Slight beat.) Said he wanted to be a nurse—We were in gym class once; he said—in front of the whole class, he said when he grew up he wanted to be a nurse—Me, Danny Reeder, Mark Vannson—we got him back behind a Dumpster—
WALLY: Gordon—
GORDON: Did you see him afterwards—?
WALLY: No—
(Long beat.)
I didn’t know what I was supposed to do—
WALLY: Gordon—
GORDON: It was sixth grade; bunch a’ little boys—I didn’t know what the fuck was I supposed to do—I don’t—
WALLY: Gordon—
GORDON: I don’t know what I’m supposed to do—
WALLY: Kid shouldn’t a’ acted that way—
GORDON: We put him in the hospital, Wally—
WALLY: He shouldn’t a’—
GORDON: We put him in the hospital, Wally. You understand that?
WALLY: He just pretended to be straight, nothin’ woulda happened. Flaunt that shit around—?
(Slight beat.)
GORDON: You wanna see straight—
WALLY: I’m just sayin’—
GORDON: No, you wanna see straight? Huh? (He pushes WALLY.) You wanna—?
WALLY: Don’t fuckin’—
(He shoves WALLY.)
WALLY: Don’t fuckin’ push me—
GORDON: You wanna see straight—
(He shoves WALLY again.)
WALLY: Don’t fuckin’—
GORDON: You wanna—
(Another shove.)
WALLY: Get the fuck off me—!
GORDON: Huh!
(Another shove.)
WALLY: Fuckin’ faggot—
(GORDON grabs WALLY by the collar.)
GORDON: What did you say?
WALLY: Get the fuck off me—
GORDON: What’d you fuckin’ say?
(Tense moment.)
WALLY: Y’ fuckin’ faggot.
(Tense moment; GORDON slams WALLY up against the wall. Tense moment. He lets go of WALLY. Long tense moment.)
They have guns. No, I’m serious—Gordon, it’s Virginia. We went to “George Wallace High.” The—“segregation today, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever”—George Wallace, high school. And you! Dad wanted to name you Strom. Strom, Gordon! This is not the place to air out that kinda bullshit.
GORDON: Bullshit—?
WALLY: You know what I mean—
GORDON: You’re not my fuckin’ father, Wallace—
WALLY: Gordon—
GORDON: I’m a grown man. No one’s gonna fuckin’ shoot me—
WALLY: Naw, but they might drag you behind a Dumpster.
(Long beat. Eventually GORDON goes back to unpacking.)
Stoppit—Gordon; would you just—? Gordon—Jesus Christ!—(He tries to take the suitcase away from GORDON.) Gordon, would you just—stop! Just stop! Stop!
(WALLY grabs the suitcase from his brother and throws it against the wall. Long beat of silence; WALLY looks at the suitcase.)
Is that mine?
GORDON: What?
WALLY: Is that—?
WALLY: That’s my suitcase—(He picks up the suitcase. GORDON goes over and gets the other end—tug-of-war.)
GORDON: That doesn’t belong to you, Wally—
WALLY: Give it back—
GORDON: Grandpa gave that to me two years ago—!
WALLY: Give it back, you ass-face—!
GORDON: Fuck you—
WALLY: You fuckin’—dick-titty!
GORDON: Get the fuck outta here—
WALLY: Fuckin—
GORDON: Cock-wad—!
WALLY: Fuck-ass—!
GORDON: Cock—!
WALLY: Fuck—!
GORDON: Shit—!
WALLY: Goddamn—ass-cock—fuck-shit—!
(GORDON yanks the suitcase from his brother. Slight beat as they both catch their breath.)
(Beat.)
Ma’s gonna cry.
GORDON: I know.
(Beat.)
WALLY: You wanna be gay in New York, fine, okay, but—but here—
GORDON: Wally—
WALLY: Just not here—
GORDON: Do you love Rachael?
WALLY: Don’t be stupid.
GORDON: Do you love Rachael?
WALLY: Don’t fucking—
GORDON: Answer the question.
WALLY: Yes! Okay? Yes, I do; she’s my girlfriend.
GORDON: Same thing.
WALLY: No—it’s not.
GORDON: I—
WALLY: It’s a man.
WALLY: It’s a man. That goes against everything we were ever brought up with. Everything.
GORDON: He’s a good person.
WALLY: We can do that for you—your family can do that—
GORDON: It’s not the same—
WALLY: We’ll get you help—
GORDON: No.
WALLY: We’ll find someone—
GORDON: No; I am—I am paralyzed—
WALLY: Gordon—
GORDON: I am fucking paralyzed, Wally, and sometimes I sit in my apartment and it gets hard to breathe, okay—?
WALLY: Gordon—
GORDON: It gets hard to breathe, because if the rest of my life—if the rest of my life is like this—like—like—like—like, Randall Merkins and Danny Reeder and Mark Vannson then I don’t know what the fuck to do—I’ve never had a boyfriend in my life, Wally. In my life. What you have with Rachael—I don’t even—I don’t even have a concept of what that feels like—Now I’m bringin’ my boyfriend home; you can either be my brother on this, or you can be an asshole. Which is it?
(Long moment.)
GORDON: Yeah.
WALLY: He’s not Jewish, right?
GORDON: No—what—?
WALLY: Just, we can only take it in little increments, all right? I got nothing against Jews, it’s just, yanno, you come home with the Fiddler on the Roof, Dad’ll probably kill himself.
GORDON: No, he’s not Jewish.
WALLY: Thank God. (Small beat.) He’s not Muslim, is he?
GORDON: What—?
WALLY: I just don’t want some Mohammad Al-Jawid blowing himself, or anything else up, okay—?
GORDON: How are you my fucking brother—?
WALLY: Beheading the fucking sofa—
GORDON: Just be quiet. Just shut up.
WALLY: What time’s his plane come in?
GORDON: Huh—?
WALLY: I’ll drive you to the airport—he’s not riding up front, though; neither are you, fuck-head—
GORDON: Oh, no; no, my boyfriend—
GORDON: My boyfriend didn’t fly; he drove.
WALLY: From New York?
GORDON: Only way he could afford it.
WALLY: Christ, that’s—
GORDON: Yeah—
WALLY: Really nice. Of him. Really.
GORDON: I know.
WALLY: Jesus; where in New York?
GORDON: Yeah, uh actually it’s kinda funny—
WALLY: Yeah—?
GORDON: Yeah, you’re gonna laugh, you’re gonna—yeah—
WALLY: Yeah—?
GORDON: He’s got an apartment over in—um—Harlem—
WALLY: … Harlem?
(Lights cut to blackout.)
END OF PLAY