pp. 6–10 (SAMUEL FRENCH, INC.)
George: Why do you have to look so luminous? It would make it a lot easier if you woke up with puffy eyes and blotchy skin like everyone else.
Doris: I guess God figured chubby thighs were enough.
George: Look, this is not just going to go away. We’ve got to talk about it.
Doris: Okay. (She gets out of bed, the sheet around her, and starts for the bathroom.)
George: Where are you going?
Doris: I’m going to brush my teeth.
George: Dorothy, please sit down. (DORIS starts to speak.) Please sit down and let me say this. (She sits on the end of the bed.) Dorothy, first of all, I want you to know last night was the most beautiful, wonderful, crazy thing that’s ever happened to me and I’ll never forget it—or you.
Doris: Doris.
George: What?
Doris: My name is Doris.
George: Your name is Doris. I’ve been calling you Dorothy all night. Why didn’t you tell me earlier?
Doris: I didn’t expect us to end up like we did. Then I did try to tell you but you weren’t listening.
George: When?
Doris: Right in the middle of everything.
George: It was incredible, wasn’t it?
Doris: It was—nice. Especially the last time.
George: I’m an animal. I don’t know what got into me. What was the matter with the first two times?
Doris: What? Oh—well, the first time was kinda fast and the second—look, I feel funny talking about this.
George: It was a very beautiful thing, Doris. There was nothing disgusting or dirty in what we did.
Doris: Then how come you look so down in the dumps?
George: My wife is going to kill me.
Doris: How is she going to find out?
George: She knows.
Doris: You said she was in New Jersey.
George: It doesn’t matter. She knows.
Doris: How?
George: Was it as incredible for you as it was for me?
Doris: Do all men like to talk about it a lot afterwards?
George: Why? You think I’m some sort of pervert or something?
Doris: No, I just wondered. See, I was a virgin when I got married. At least sort of.
George: Sort of?
Doris: Well, I was pregnant but I don’t count that.
George: Doris, that counts.
Doris: I mean it was by the man I married.
George: Oh, I’m sorry.
Doris: (She is putting on her blouse.) That’s okay. Harry and me would’ve gotten married anyway. It just speeded things up a bit. Turns out I get pregnant if we drink from the same cup. (He looks at her.) What’s the matter?
George: It’s okay. Trojans are very reliable.
Doris: Who are?
George: Never mind. I’m in a lot of trouble. I think I love you. It’s crazy! It’s really crazy! I don’t even know if you’ve read “Catcher in the Rye.”
Doris: I didn’t graduate high school.
George: You see? I don’t even care! Of course, I should’ve known this would happen. There’s something about me I didn’t tell you.
Doris: What? (She puts on her skirt.)
George: When it comes to life I have a brown thumb.
Doris: What do you mean?
George: Nothing I do ever turns out right. Ever. The first time I had sex I was eighteen years old. We were in the back seat of a parked 1938 Dodge sedan. Right in the middle of it we were rear ended.
Doris: Gee, that’s terrible. Did you have insurance?
George: You know the song they were playing on the juke box last night when we met?
Doris: No?
George: “If I Knew You Were Coming I’d’ve Baked A Cake”!
Doris: So?
George: So that’s going to be “our song”! Other people would get “Be My Love” or “Hello Young Lovers.” Me—I get “If I Knew You Were Coming I’d’ve Baked A Cake”!
Doris: You’re very romantic. I like that.
George: I think I’m in love with you. Now you want to know the luck I have? I’m happily married!
Doris: Are you Jewish?
George: No.
Doris: Well, how come you’re so guilty?
George: Don’t you feel guilty?
Doris: Are you kidding? Half my high school became nuns.
George: Catholics have rules about this sort of thing.
Doris: We have rules about everything. That’s what’s so great about being Catholic. You always know where you stand.
George: I tell you, Doris, I feel like slitting my wrists.
Doris: Are you Italian?
George: What’s with you and nationalities?
Doris: You’re so emotional.
George: I happen to be a C.P.A. I can be as logical as the next person.
Doris: You don’t strike me as an accountant type.
George: It’s very simple. My whole life has been a mess. Figures always come out right. I like that. What are you?
Doris: I’m Italian.
George: Why aren’t you more emotional?
Doris: When you grow up in a large Italian family, it’s enough to turn you off emotion for life.
George: I wondered why you weren’t crying or yelling.
Doris: I did before in the bathroom.
George: Crying?
Doris: Yelling.
George: I didn’t hear you.
Doris: I stuffed a towel in my mouth.
George: I’m sorry.
Doris: That’s all right. There’s no sense crying over spilt milk.
George: You’re right.
Doris: Then how come we feel so terrible?
George: Because we’re two decent, honest people and this thing is tearing us apart. I mean I know it wasn’t our fault but I keep seeing the faces of my children and the look of betrayal in their eyes. I keep thinking of our marriage vows, the trust my wife has placed in me, the experiences we’ve shared together. And you know the worst part of it all? While I’m thinking of all these things, I have this fantastic hard on.
Doris: I really wish you hadn’t said that.
George: I’m sorry. I just feel we should be totally honest with each other.
Doris: No, it’s not that. I have to go to confession.
George: We’re both crazy! I mean this sort of thing happens to millions of people every day. We’re just normal, healthy human beings who did a perfectly healthy, normal thing. You don’t use actual names in confession, do you?
The following is the monologue created from the previous scene.
GEORGE (to DORIS), age 20s to 40s.
pp. 6–10 (SAMUEL FRENCH, INC.)
Why do you have to look so—so luminous? I mean it would make everything so much easier if you woke up with puffy eyes and blotchy skin like most women. . .. Look, this thing is not just going to go away. We’ve got to talk about it. First of all, I want you to know last night was the most beautiful, fantastic, wonderful crazy thing that’s ever happened to me and I’ll never forget it—or you. It was incredible wasn’t it? . . . I’m an animal! I don’t know what got into me. It was a very beautiful thing, Doris. There was nothing disgusting or dirty in what we did. And my wife is going to kill me! We’re in a lot of trouble, Doris. I think I love you. It’s crazy! It’s really crazy! I mean I don’t even know if you like Catcher in the Rye. I have this test for people. If they don’t like Catcher in the Rye or Death of a Salesman I won’t even date them! With you I don’t even care! And I’m really a snob about education! Of course, I should’ve known this would happen. You see there’s something I didn’t tell you about me, Doris. When it comes to life, I have a brown thumb. I mean nothing goes right. Ever. Let me think of something that will give you the picture. Okay. I was eighteen when I first had sex. It was in the backseat of a parked 1938 Dodge sedan. Right in the middle of it—we were rear ended. And take last night. You know what they were playing on the juke box when we met? “If I Knew You Were Coming I’d’ve Baked a Cake”! So that’s going to be “our song”! Other people would get “Be My Love” or “Hello, Young Lovers.” Me—I get “If I Knew You Were Coming I’d’ve Baked a Cake”! I think I’ve fallen in love with you, Doris. Now you want to know the luck I have? I’m happily married! I tell you, Doris, I feel like slitting my wrists. We’re both decent, honest people and this thing is tearing us apart. I mean I know it wasn’t our fault but I keep seeing the faces of my children and the look of betrayal in their eyes. I keep thinking of the trust my wife has placed in me. The times we’ve shared together. Our wedding vows. And you know the worst part of it all? Right at this moment, while I’m thinking all these things, I have this fantastic hard-on. I’m sorry. I just feel we should be totally honest with each other. We’re both crazy! I mean this sort of thing happens to millions of people every day. We’re just normal, healthy human beings who did a perfectly healthy, normal thing. . .. You don’t use actual names in confession, do you?
Well, George, you certainly are trying to talk yourself into this affair. All that guilt! Oh, it’s there, all right. But stronger than anything are your intense feelings toward Doris. And you’ve got to do and say anything to justify going to bed with her again. So what is it that you are fighting for from her? What is it that she and only she can give to you right now that will enhance your life? Not acceptance or approval or anything like that. You are fighting for her love. If she loves you, she will be so sensitive to you and will soothe, protect, and assure you. With her love, everything will be fine and good. Then your life will be perfect and perhaps she will help you to finally get rid of that “brown thumb” of yours once and for all!
pp. 11–14 (SAMUEL FRENCH, INC.)
George: Doris, there’s something I want to tell you.
Doris: What?
George: I know I must appear very smooth and glib—sexually. Well, I want you to know that since I’ve been married this is the very first time I’ve done this.
Doris: Don’t worry, I could tell. Do you mind if I have some of your breakfast?
George: Go ahead. I’m not hungry. It’s funny when I was single I was no good at quick, superficial affairs. I had to be able to really like the person before . . . What do you mean—you could tell? In what way could you tell?
Doris: What? Oh—I don’t know—the way you tried to get your pants off over your shoes and then tripped and hit your head on the coffee table. Little things like that.
George: It’s great to be totally honest with another person, isn’t it?
Doris: It sure is.
George: I haven’t been totally honest with you.
Doris: No?
George: No. I told you I was a married man with two children.
Doris: You’re not?
George: No. I’m a married man with three children. I thought it would make me seem less married. Look, I just didn’t think it through. Anyway, it’s been like a lead weight inside me all morning. I mean denying little Debbie like that. I don’t normally behave like this, I was under a certain stress. You understand?
Doris: Sure, we all do dopey things sometimes. How come your wife doesn’t travel with you?
George: Phyliss won’t get on a plane.
Doris: Is she afraid of flying?
George: Crashing.
Doris: (Noticing that GEORGE is staring at her.) Why are you looking at me like that?
George: I love the way you eat.
Doris: You wanta share some coffee with me?
George: No thank you. Doris, do you believe that two perfect strangers can look at each other across a crowded room and suddenly want to possess each other in every conceivable way possible?
Doris: No.
George: Then how did this whole thing start?
Doris: It started when you sent me over that steak in the restaurant.
George: They didn’t serve drinks. They’re known for their steaks.
Doris: Then when I looked over and you toasted me with your fork with a big piece of steak on it, that really made me laugh. I never saw anybody do that before. What made you do it?
George: Impulse. Usually I never do that sort of thing. I have a friend who says that life is saying “yes.” The most I’ve ever been able to manage is “maybe.”
Doris: So then why did you do it?
George: I was lonely and you looked so vulnerable. You had run in your stocking and your lipstick was smeared.
Doris: You thought I looked cheap?
George: I thought you looked beautiful.
Doris: I really should be going. The nuns will be wondering what happened to me.
George: Nuns?
Doris: Yeah. It didn’t seem right to bring up when we met yesterday in the restaurant but I was on my way to retreat.
George: Retreat?
Doris: It’s right near here. I go every year at this time when Harry takes the kids to Bakersfield.
George: What’s in Bakersfield?
Doris: His mother. It’s her birthday.
George: She doesn’t mind that you don’t go?
Doris: No, she hates me.
George: Why?
Doris: I got pregnant.
George: Her son had something to do with that.
Doris: She blocks that out of her mind. You see, he was in his first year of dental college and he had to quit and take a job selling waterless cooking. And so now every year on her birthday I go on retreat.
George: To think about God?
Doris: Well, Him too, sure. See, I have three little kids. I got pregnant the first time when I was eighteen and so I never really had any time to think about what I think. Never mind . . . sometimes I think I’m crazy.
George: Why?
Doris: Well, take my life. I live in a two-bedroom duplex in downtown Oakland, we have a 1948 Kaiser, a blond three-piece dinette set, Motorola TV, and we go bowling at least once a week. I mean what else could anyone ask for? But sometimes things get me down, you know? It’s dumb!
George: I don’t think it’s dumb.
Doris: You don’t? Boy, I can really talk to you. It’s amazing I find myself saying things to you that I didn’t know I thought. I noticed that yesterday right after we met in the restaurant.
George: We had instant rapport! Did you notice that too?
Doris: No, but I know we really hit it off. Harry’s not much of a talker. How about your wife. Do you two talk a lot?
George: Doris, naturally we’re both curious about each other’s husband and wife. But rather than dwelling on it and letting it spoil everything, why don’t we do this. I’ll tell you two stories, one showing the best side of my wife and the other showing the worst. Then you do the same about your husband and then let’s forget that. Okay?
Doris: Okay.
George: I’ll go first. I’ll start with the worst side. Phyliss knows about us.
The following is the monologue created from the previous scene.
GEORGE (to DORIS), age 20s to 40s.
pp. 11–14 (SAMUEL FRENCH, INC.)
Doris, there’s something 1 want to tell you. You probably think I do this sort of thing all the time. I mean I know I must appear smooth and glib—sexually. Well, I want you to know that since I’ve been married, this is the very first time I’ve done this. . .. Do you believe me? It’s funny, even when I was single I was no good at quick, superficial affairs. I had to be able to really like the person before—It’s great to be totally honest with another person, isn’t it? Doris, I haven’t been totally honest with you. Okay—here it comes—the big one. I told you I was a married man with two children. I’m a married man with three children. I thought it would make me seem less married. (Becomes agitated.) I just didn’t think it through. Anyway, it’s been like a lead weight inside me all morning. I mean denying little Debbie like that. I’m sorry. I was under a certain stress or I wouldn’t have done it. Doris, I’ve been thinking. Sometimes if you know why something happened it makes it easier to understand. Do you believe that two total strangers can look across a room and both have this sudden, overwhelming, totally irrational desire to possess one another in every possible way? (Puzzled.) Neither do I—so I guess that can’t be it. Then how did this whole thing start? Impulse. Usually I never do that sort of thing. I have this—this friend who says that life is saying yes. The most I can generally manage is maybe. I guess I was lonely and you looked so—so vulnerable and—well, you had a run in your stocking and your lipstick was smeared. I thought you looked beautiful. We had instant rapport! Did you notice that too? Doris, naturally we’re both curious about each other’s husband and wife. But rather than dwelling on it and letting it spoil everything, why don’t we do this. I’ll tell you two stories, one showing the best side of my wife and the other showing the worst. Then let’s forget that. Okay? I’ll go first. I’ll start with the worst side. Phyliss knows about us.
Of course, George, you are not smooth and glib sexually! You know that. But with Doris you feel better about yourself sexually than you ever have felt. Having sex with her is the most exciting experience in your life. Sex has never been this good. Never with your wife or with anyone. Doris responds and contributes so fully. She appreciates and communicates her feelings to you. Therefore, you are beginning to feel more secure about yourself as a man. Your attraction to flaws tells us so much about who you are. And you are making discoveries about yourself today. And you are sharing them with Doris. You are opening up yourself and exposing your vulnerability to her. You are trusting her. You need her to help you to be a happier person. You need her to love you and be in your life. Despite the fact that this relationship is an extramarital affair, it might be the healthiest one you have ever had. It is not just the sex. This is your life we are talking about. Everything said by you is very important. This is a comedy about very real and troubled feelings, needs, fears, guilt, and love.
pp. 22–25 (SAMUEL FRENCH, INC.)
George: Don’t you ever feel any guilt?
Doris: Sometimes.
George: You never say anything.
Doris: I just handle it in a different way.
George: How?
Doris: Privately.
George: I think in some ways men are more sensitive than women.
Doris: Would you like some more champagne, dear?
George: I mean women are more pragmatic than men.
Doris: What do you mean?
George: They adjust to rottenness quicker. Anyway you have the Church.
Doris: The Church?
George: You’re Catholic. You can get rid of your guilt all at one sitting. I have to live with mine.
Doris: There’s a lot about being Catholic you don’t understand.
George: I tell you, when she started talking about the tooth-fairy—well, it affected me in a very profound manner. On top of that I have indigestion you can’t believe. It hit me hard, you know?
Doris: George, I have three children, too.
George: Sure, sure—I know. I don’t mean that you don’t understand. It’s just that I think that my guilt is more acute than yours.
Doris: Honey, what do you want to do? Have a guilt contest? Will that solve anything?
George: What do you want me to do, Doris?
Doris: I think it might be a terrific idea if you stopped talking about it. It’s only making you feel worse.
George: I couldn’t feel worse. My little girl calls me on the phone . . . that pure little voice saying . . . No, you’re right. Forget it. Forget it. Talk about something else. Tell me the good story about Harry.
Doris: Okay. He went bankrupt.
George: How can anyone go bankrupt selling TV sets?
Doris: Harry has one failing as a salesman. It’s a compulsion to talk his customers out of things they can’t afford. He lacks the killer instinct. Actually it’s one of the things I like best about him. Anyway, he went into real estate. Your turn.
George: What?
Doris: Tell me your story about Helen.
George: I already did.
Doris: You just told me the bad one. Why do you always tell that one first?
George: It’s the one I look forward to telling the most.
Doris: Tell me the good story about her.
George: Chris, our middle one, gashed his knee badly on the lawn sprinkler. Helen drove both of us to the hospital.
Doris: Both of you?
George: I fainted. The nice part was she never told anybody.
Doris: You faint often?
George: Only in emergencies.
Doris: Is it the sight of blood that—
George: Please, Doris! My stomach’s already squeamish. Oh, listen, something just occurred to me. Instead of leaving at my usual time would you mind if I left a little earlier?
Doris: When did you have in mind?
George: Well, there’s a plane in half an hour.
Doris: You want to leave twenty-three hours early?
George: Look, I know how you feel, I really do, and I wouldn’t even suggest it if you weren’t a mother. I mean I wouldn’t even think of it if this crisis hadn’t come up. (He moves his suitcase to the bed and starts packing through the following.) Oh, it’s not just the tooth-fairy but she could have swallowed the tooth. It could be lodged God knows where. Now I know this leaves you up in the air but there’s no reason for you to leave too. The room’s all paid for—have you seen my hairbrush? Anyway, I’m probably doing you a favor. If I did stay I wouldn’t be very good company. (DORIS throws the hairbrush at him. It sails past his head and crashes into the wall. There is a pause.) You feel somewhat rejected, right? I can understand that but I want you to know my leaving has nothing to do with you and me. Doris, I have a sick child at home. This is an emergency.
Doris: Will you stop it. It’s got nothing to do with the goddam tooth-fairy. You’re just feeling guilty and the only way you think you can deal with it is by getting as far away from me as possible.
George: Okay, I feel guilty. Is that so strange? Doris, we’re cheating! Once a year we lie to our families and sneak off to a hotel in California and commit adultery. Not that I want to stop doing it! But yes, I feel guilt. I admit it.
Doris: You admit it! You take out ads. You probably stop strangers on the street. I’m surprised you haven’t had a scarlet “A” embroidered on your jockey shorts. You think that by talking about it you can excuse what you’re doing. So you wander around like an open nerve saying, “I’m cheating but look how guilty I feel so I must really be a nice guy”! And to top it all, you have the incredible arrogance to think you’re the only one in the world with a conscience. Well, that doesn’t make you a nice guy. You know what that makes you? A horse’s ass.
George: You know something? I liked you a lot better before you joined the Book of the Month Club. Doris, it’s not the end of the world. I’m not leaving permanently. I’ll see you next year.
Doris: No, I don’t think you will.
George: I don’t believe this. Just because I have to leave early one year you’re willing to throw away a lifetime of weekends? How can you be so casual?
Doris: I don’t see any point in going on.
George: Oh, no. Don’t do that to me, Doris. Don’t try to manipulate me. I get enough of that at home. That’s not what our relationship is about.
Doris: What is it about?
George: You don’t know?
Doris: Yes. But it seems to be completely different from what you think it’s about. That’s why I think we should stop seeing each other.
George: You’re serious.
Doris: George, what’s the point of meeting in guilt and remorse? What joy is there in that?
George: Doris, I have a commitment there.
Doris: And you have none here?
George: Here? I thought our only commitment was to show up every year.
Doris: Just two friendly sex partners who meet once a year, touch and let go.
George: Okay. Maybe I was kidding myself. I’m human.
Doris: Well, so am I.
George: But you’re different. Stronger. You always seem able to cope.
Doris: During the past year I picked up the phone and started to call you ten times. I couldn’t seem to stop thinking about you. You kept slipping over into my real life and it bothered the hell out of me. More to the point I felt guilty. So I decided to stop seeing you. At first I wasn’t going to show up at all but then I thought I at least owed you an explanation. So I came. When you walked in the door I knew I couldn’t do it. That no matter what the price I’m willing to pay it.
George: Oh God, I feel so guilty!
Doris: I think you’d better leave, George.
George: Doris, I love you. I’m an idiot, I suspect I’m deeply neurotic, and I’m no bargain—but I do love you. Will you let me stay? (She turns to him and smiles. They move into each other’s arms.) What are we going to do?
The following is the monologue created from the previous scene.
GEORGE (to DORIS), age 20s to 40s.
pp. 22–25 (SAMUEL FRENCH, INC.)
Don’t you ever feel any guilt? You’ve never said anything. I don’t know, maybe men are more—sensitive than women. Perhaps women are more pragmatic than men. They adjust to rottenness quicker. I mean they’re more inclined to live for the moment. (Offhandedly.) Anyway, you have the Church. Well, you’re Catholic, aren’t you? You can get rid of all your guilt at one sitting. I have to live with mine. I don’t mean that you don’t understand. It’s just that we’re different people and your guilt is less—acute. Listen, something just occurred to me. Instead of my leaving at the usual time tomorrow night would you mind if I left a little earlier? There’s a plane in half an hour. Look, I know how you feel—I really do—and I wouldn’t even suggest leaving twenty-three hours early if I didn’t think you’d understand the situation. Now I know this leaves you a bit—uh—at loose ends but there’s no reason for you to leave too. The room’s all paid up. Anyway, I’m probably doing you a favor. If I did stay I wouldn’t be very good company. I want you to know my leaving has nothing to do with you and me! Doris, this is an emergency! I have a sick child at home. Okay, I feel guilty. Is that so strange? Doris, don’t you understand? We’re cheating! Once a year we lie to our families and sneak off to a hotel in California and commit adultery! Not that I want to stop doing it! But yes, I feel guilt. I admit it. Doris, it’s not the end of the world. I’m not leaving you permanently. We’ll see each other again next year. Just because I have to leave early one year you’re willing to throw away a lifetime of weekends? How can you be so—so—casual? Don’t try to manipulate me. I get enough of that at home. That’s not what our relationship is about. Doris, I have a commitment there. I thought our only commitment was to show up every year. Okay—so maybe I was kidding myself. I’m human. But you’re different. Stronger. You always seem able to—cope. Oh God, I feel so guilty! I love you, Doris. I’m an idiot. I suspect I’m deeply neurotic, and I’m no bargain—but I do love you. Will you let me stay? Doris, what are we going to do?
Poor George. Your guilt is really running at full-steam. You’ve got such a conflict. Never before have you been in the midst of such confusion. And it feels great! You don’t want to leave. You want Doris to convince you to stay. Remember, do not fight to get away from the person to whom you are talking. Go to the opposites. You want her to do everything in her power to make you stay. You are, in fact, talking yourself into staying. But you’ve got to acknowledge that what you are doing is wrong. It makes you a nicer, more ethical person to be aware of the wrong that you do. Then you can enjoy doing the wrong. It then feels better. You are fighting to feel wonderful about yourself and to not be unloved by anyone in the world. But Doris is the most important person in your life even though you only spend one weekend a year with her and the rest with your wife and children.
pp. 23–26 (SAMUEL FRENCH, INC.)
Doris: You want to leave twenty-three hours early?
George: Look, I know how you feel, I really do, and I wouldn’t even suggest it if you weren’t a mother. I mean I wouldn’t even think of it if this crisis hadn’t come up. (He moves his suitcase to the bed and starts packing through the following.) Oh, it’s not just the tooth-fairy but she could have swallowed the tooth. It could be lodged God knows where. Now I know this leaves you up in the air but there’s no reason for you to leave too. The room’s all paid for—have you seen my hairbrush? Anyway, I’m probably doing you a favor. If I did stay I wouldn’t be very good company. (DORIS throws the hairbrush at him. It sails past his head and crashes into the wall. There is a pause.) You feel somewhat rejected, right? I can understand that but I want you to know my leaving has nothing to do with you and me. Doris, I have a sick child at home. This is an emergency.
Doris: Will you stop it. It’s got nothing to do with the goddam tooth-fairy. You’re just feeling guilty and the only way you think you can deal with it is by getting as far away from me as possible.
George: Okay, I feel guilty. Is that so strange? Doris, we’re cheating! Once a year we lie to our families and sneak off to a hotel in California and commit adultery. Not that I want to stop doing it! But yes, I feel guilt. I admit it.
Doris: You admit it! You take out ads. You probably stop strangers on the street. I’m surprised you haven’t had a scarlet “A” embroidered on your jockey shorts? You think that by talking about it you can excuse what you’re doing. So you wander around like an open nerve saying, “I’m cheating but look how guilty I feel so I must really be a nice guy”! And to top it all, you have the incredible arrogance to think you’re the only one in the world with a conscience. Well, that doesn’t make you a nice guy. You know what that makes you? A horse’s ass.
George: You know something? I liked you a lot better before you joined the Book of the Month Club. Doris, it’s not the end of the world. I’m not leaving permanently. I’ll see you next year.
Doris: No, I don’t think you will.
George: I don’t believe this. Just because I have to leave early one year you’re willing to throw away a lifetime of weekends? How can you be so casual?
Doris: I don’t see any point in going on.
George: Oh, no. Don’t do that to me, Doris. Don’t try to manipulate me. I get enough of that at home. That’s not what our relationship is about.
Doris: What is it about?
George: You don’t know?
Doris: Yes. But it seems to be completely different from what you think it’s about. That’s why I think we should stop seeing each other.
George: You’re serious.
Doris: George, what’s the point of meeting in guilt and remorse? What joy is there in that?
George: Doris, I have a commitment there.
Doris: And you have none here?
George: Here? I thought our only commitment was to show up every year.
Doris: Just two friendly sex partners who meet once a year, touch and let go.
George: Okay. Maybe I was kidding myself. I’m human.
Doris: Well, so am I.
George: But you’re different. Stronger. You always seem able to cope.
Doris: During the past year I picked up the phone and started to call you ten times. I couldn’t seem to stop thinking about you. You kept slipping over into my real life and it bothered the hell out of me. More to the point I felt guilty. So I decided to stop seeing you. At first I wasn’t going to show up at all but then I thought I at least owed you an explanation. So I came. When you walked in the door I knew I couldn’t do it. That no matter what the price I’m willing to pay it.
George: Oh God, I feel so guilty!
Doris: I think you’d better leave, George.
George: Doris, I love you. I’m an idiot, I suspect I’m deeply neurotic, and I’m no bargain—but I do love you. Will you let me stay? (She turns to him and smiles. They move into each other’s arms.) What are we going to do?
Doris: Touch and hold on very tight . . . until tomorrow.
The following is the monologue created from the previous scene.
DORIS (to GEORGE), age 20s to 40s.
pp. 23–26 (SAMUEL FRENCH, INC.)
You want to leave twenty-three hours early? The only way you can deal with it is by getting as far away from me as possible? You probably take out ads and stop strangers on the street. It’s a wonder you haven’t hired a skywriter! I’m amazed you haven’t had your shorts monogrammed with a scarlet A as a conversation starter! You think that by talking about it, by wringing your hands and beating your breast it will somehow excuse what you are doing? So you wander around like—like an open nerve saying, “I’m cheating but look how guilty I feel so I must really be a nice guy!” You know what it makes you? A horse’s ass. There’s not going to be a next year, George. I don’t see any point in going on. The way I think about us seems to be completely different from how you think about us. That’s why I think we should stop seeing each other. What’s the point of going on if we’re going to come to each other burdened down with guilt and remorse? What joy is there in that? You’re supposed to have a commitment here! But with you it’s nice and tidy, huh? Just two friendly sexual partners who meet once a year, touch, and let go. George, during the past year I picked up the phone and started to call you five times. I couldn’t seem to stop thinking about you. You kept slopping over into my real life and it scared hell out of me. More to the point I felt guilty. So I decided to stop seeing you. At first I wasn’t going to show up at all but then I thought I at least owed you an explanation. So I came. When you walked in the door I knew I couldn’t do it. That despite the price it was all worth it. I think you’d better leave, George . . . or. . . we touch . . . and hold on very tight. . . until tomorrow.
You’ve made a commitment to this relationship and were under the impression that George was committed too. Now you are discovering that perhaps you were wrong. And it hurts so much. You are fighting for him to be the adult you thought he was so that he can handle the kind of relationship you both entered into. It truly takes a mature mind to be comfortable and secure with your arrangement. Don’t give up on him. You love him so much. Fight like hell to make him know and understand what you know so that he can be open to give and receive love. Reach out emotionally and let him see how you feel about what he just told you. That he wants to leave early, very early. If he loved you enough, he would not allow his guilt to take over. Fight for that love even when you say to him, “I think you’d better leave, George.” Allow yourself to get carried away with anger. Remember what anger is. Play off what caused the anger. The pain and rejection. Anger is loud pain. Don’t rush through the piece. With high intensity and emotion, actors tend to rush. You want a sense of urgency but not at a galloping pace.