Wheeler and Jules have sex in Wheeler’s bed.
JULES: Oh no you don’t understand.
WHEELER: Mm Jesus.
JULES: Oh fuck . . .
WHEELER: Oh God don’t . . . don’t move.
JULES: Okay. (Pause) Why?
WHEELER: I’m about to come.
JULES: So? That’s okay.
WHEELER: No, I don’t want to.
JULES: Okay. (Pause) Why?
WHEELER: Well . . . cause I’m waiting for you.
JULES: No, don’t wait for me. Don’t wait for me.
WHEELER: Why? I want to wait for you.
JULES: No, don’t. It’s okay. Come on, go ahead, you can come.
WHEELER: You’re sure?
JULES: Yeah, it’s fine.
WHEELER: Don’t you want to?
JULES: Yeah, but no, it’s fine, just do your stuff.
WHEELER: “Do my stuff,” c’mon, it’s not like that.
JULES: You know what I mean, you’re good to go. All clear.
WHEELER: Okay.
JULES: Mm, oh God. Oh God, fuck, no no no, you don’t understand.
WHEELER: Jesus.
JULES: Yeah, baby, come on, come in me.
WHEELER: What don’t I understand?
JULES: What?
WHEELER: That’s the second time you’ve said I don’t understand.
JULES: Don’t worry about it.
WHEELER: But what does that mean?
JULES: It doesn’t mean anything.
WHEELER: It doesn’t?
JULES: Christ, it just feels good, it’s just a way of saying it feels good, like, “You don’t understand how good this feels.”
WHEELER: You seem really turned on.
JULES: That’s the idea, right?
WHEELER: Then why don’t you want to come?
JULES: Will you just finish, please?
(More activity.)
WHEELER: Oh Jesus my hip . . . !
(He finishes. She soothes him, rubs his back.)
JULES: Yeah, yeah . . . it’s okay . . . it’s okay . . .
WHEELER: Oh my God . . .
JULES: Shh, there you go . . . it’s okay . . .
WHEELER: Jesus . . .
JULES: Shh.
(She rolls away, puts a pillow under her, lies on her stomach, masturbates.)
WHEELER: Hey.
JULES: Mm.
WHEELER: Hey there . . .
JULES: Shh, please . . .
WHEELER: Hey, Jules . . .
JULES: Please don’t speak.
(He puts his hand on her back.)
No no, don’t.
(He strokes her hair.)
Please don’t touch me.
(He watches as she grinds on the bed.)
Goddamn it . . .
(She readjusts, continues masturbating.)
WHEELER: Is there anything I can do—?
JULES: Goddamn it, please, just be quiet.
(She masturbates, frustrated. Wheeler picks up a magazine, begins reading. Jules turns her head, sees him.)
Are you reading the Atlantic Monthly?
WHEELER: Yes. Should I leave?
JULES: Goddamn it, Wheeler!
WHEELER: What?
JULES: I was so close!
WHEELER: I’m sorry, it’s weird, I don’t know what to do!
JULES: Nothing! Can you do that? Nothing?!
WHEELER: Well then what do you even need me for?
JULES: I don’t need you for this part! I’m glad you’re here, I want you here. But I can only do this part by myself.
WHEELER: Seems like you could do this part by yourself at home, later.
JULES: Jesus, you’re an asshole.
WHEELER: What, I do this part by myself all the time!
JULES: We’re having sex. Together.
WHEELER: We were but then you started your solo career.
JULES: Stop. Please. Think about what you’re saying. Because it sounds unloving. Just take a moment and make sure you’re saying what you want to say. I don’t think you want to say these things. Maybe you’re embarrassed or maybe you’re just uncomfortable with a woman’s sexuality.
WHEELER: Okay, I’m taking a moment. And I know what I want to say.
JULES: Good. What?
WHEELER: The Lockhorns.
JULES: What?
WHEELER: Margaret said “cartoon” when she should’ve said “comic strip.” And she was talking about The Lockhorns, it was a comic strip by Bill Hoest, just a one-panel gag—
(Jules slaps his face, gets out of bed, puts on underwear.)
Does that mean we’re done having sex?
JULES: Quit while you’re ahead.
WHEELER: I’m ahead?
JULES: I’m vulnerable here. Y’know?
WHEELER: Yeah, okay.
JULES: I have some trouble with my orgasm. It’s actually not a big deal, I enjoy sex anyway. A loving partner will take time with me and we can find a good place together. This is our first time in bed. It might’ve been different with more time, a few weeks.
WHEELER: Jules, I’m sorry.
JULES: Forget it.
WHEELER: No, you’re right, I probably got embarrassed and acted like an ass, and I’m really sorry.
JULES: Okay. It’s okay, no big deal. I’ll . . . I’ll get over it.
(Jules moves to the living room, carrying the rest of her clothes.)
WHEELER: Now wait, goddamn it . . .
(Wheeler trails her, pulling the bedsheet around him.)
Stop, just . . . come on, Jules . . . please stop.
(She stops.)
C’mon, I was an idiot and you slapped me and I apologized. Can we just talk for a minute?
JULES: I don’t know, I’m embarrassed now and I just want to leave.
WHEELER: Well, don’t, let me make you some eggs or something. I don’t have any eggs. I might’ve seen that in a movie. Let’s talk and be nice to each other. Nothing is irrevocable.
(Pause.)
JULES: I’m still drunk.
WHEELER: You kidding, I’m blind. That kraut beer had some kind of wormwood in it. I can’t believe my dick even worked. I’m so proud of it, I’m going to write it a thank you note.
JULES: Stop making jokes.
WHEELER: Please don’t leave.
JULES: Do you have anything to eat?
(She opens the refrigerator.)
You have a lot of white paper bags.
WHEELER: I’ve been eating a lot of takeout.
(She closes the fridge, opens a cabinet.)
JULES: Canned beans, canned hearts of palm, canned oysters.
WHEELER: If you ever want to know how pathetic you are, have somebody list the contents of your pantry.
JULES: Here we go, score. Girl Scout cookies.
WHEELER: Thank Christ. I knew when I bought them, “Good karma, this will come back to me.”
(She opens the box, eats cookies.)
JULES: Atlantic Monthly. You jerk.
(He caresses her. She walks around, takes in the apartment.)
I don’t really know where we are.
WHEELER: Linda Vista.
JULES: Did we walk by a pool? Am I imagining that?
WHEELER: Yeah, there’s a pool.
JULES: This place is okay.
WHEELER: It’s got a 1980s East Berlin vibe . . . but it’s never looked better than right now.
JULES: Why?
WHEELER: Because you’re walking around it in your underwear. Why are you single? It doesn’t make sense to me.
JULES: I got hurt.
WHEELER: Bad?
JULES: Pretty bad. It’s taken me a long time to get back.
WHEELER: Are you back?
JULES: No. I’m getting there.
WHEELER: How will you know when you get there? I feel like I won’t know I got back until I start back down.
JULES: You have to learn to love the place you are. (Beat) You think Paul and Margaret will be surprised we had sex?
WHEELER: Yes.
JULES: Why?
WHEELER: They probably assume you have more sense.
JULES: Let’s not tell them.
WHEELER: Okay.
JULES: I’m totally telling them. What did they tell you about me?
WHEELER: Only good things. All of them true. What did they tell you about me?
JULES: That you were broken and joyless, without prospects and past your prime.
WHEELER (Laughs heartily): They know me even better than I thought they did.
JULES: Margaret said you were very smart and had a good sense of humor. And that you were tall and handsome.
WHEELER: That’s not all she said.
JULES: She told me about your divorce. She didn’t go into detail. She said it was messy. She mentioned you’re an amazing photographer.
WHEELER: Former photographer.
JULES: This is one of yours?
(She pulls a framed photograph from a still-not-emptied moving box. She holds it, studies it.)
It’s stunning.
WHEELER: It’s all right.
JULES: It’s a lot better than all right. Is this your boy?
WHEELER: That’s a little girl actually. My wife Kelly and I went to Greece on our honeymoon. And while we were there, Kelly got dysentery and had to be hospitalized for a couple of days. I went to find the coffee shop and got lost in the hospital and I wound up in a children’s ward. I was standing at the end of a long aisle between rows of hospital beds with sick children. And at the other end of the aisle I saw this little girl, a patient. She saw me, and broke into a huge smile, and went into a dead run, right for me. (Chokes up) And I bent down and she threw her arms open and I opened my arms and scooped her up and held her. There’s no explanation for it, we didn’t talk. Nurse came and took her from me and I took that picture. Sorry, I didn’t mean to get emotional. I guess I really am still drunk. (Pause) That’s too easy. I’ve been sad for a while . . . and I feel good with you.
JULES: I want to see you again.
WHEELER: Good. I want to see you too.
JULES: Yes?
WHEELER: Yes. Yes. I like you, Jules . . .
(They kiss. They heat up, move back to the bedroom. The doorbell chimes.)
Fucking hippies.
(Wheeler approaches the door.)
JULES: Hold on, wait for me to . . .
(Jules returns to the bedroom. Wheeler opens the door.
Minnie stands outside, holding a laundry basket heaped with her stuff.)
MINNIE: Remember me?
WHEELER: Yeah, of course, Minnie, what’s going on?
MINNIE: Can I come in?
WHEELER: Yeah, come in.
(She steps into the apartment. Wheeler checks outside, closes the door, secures the sheet around him.)
MINNIE: My boyfriend and I got in a fight and he hit me and took off and I don’t have anywhere to go.
WHEELER: Let’s call the cops.
MINNIE: No, don’t, it’ll just make things worse.
WHEELER: He hit you, we have to call the police. We should get you to a hospital and make out a report—
MINNIE: Please don’t do that. Don’t call the cops, they won’t find him anyway, he took off, he’s going up to Vancouver.
WHEELER: Where did he hit you?
MINNIE: In the stomach. I might be pregnant. He hit me in the stomach.
(Minnie, stoic to this point, sobs.)
WHEELER: It’s okay. It’s okay.
MINNIE: I don’t have anywhere to go. We were staying with his brother, in his brother’s place, and he hates me. I would stay with my friend Gina but she doesn’t have room and my friend Dre lives with these junkies and it’s a bad scene—
WHEELER: What about your parents, can you—?
MINNIE: They threw me out.
WHEELER: It’s okay, you can stay here tonight.
MINNIE: Are you sure?
WHEELER: It’s fine, I’ve got the extra bedroom.
MINNIE: I was really scared. If you hadn’t been here, I thought I’d have to go sleep in the park or something.
WHEELER: No one’s sleeping in the park. We’ll get it all figured out.
(Jules, now fully clothed, enters from the bedroom.)
This is my friend Minnie. She’s going to stay here for a while.