scene seven

“the letter”

A spot lights a bed in a rooming house. On the edge of it the Girl is seated forlornly in pajamas. Bertha, her roommate, enters.

bertha: Still up? —Why didn’t you meet me at Mike’s?

girl: I didn’t feel able to.

bertha: You missed it! Romance came into my life with a bang, but the man was married. [She sits on the bed to remove her shoes.] Married to a woman named Edna who massages her chest with Vick’s Vapo-Rub every night. You look sort of down in the mouth. What’s the matter? [She removes her stockings.] Still holding the torch for Mr. Warren B. Thatcher?

girl: I’m desperate, Bertha.

bertha: Forget it. Just let it all go. Drop it like you would a piece of loose thread. Say to yourself tonight as you go to sleep, “Tomorrow I won’t think about him.”

girl: Why should I lie to myself when I know that I will? Besides—there won’t be any tomorrow.

bertha: You know what you ought to do? Go to church, read a book, learn how to play contract bridge.

girl: You don’t understand.

bertha: Don’t you think I ever had a crush?

girl: This man isn’t a crush.

bertha: What would you call it, then?

girl: Love.

bertha: Because he’s your boss and he wears a white linen suit and a pale blue tie every day, you think you’re in love.

girl: Oh, Bertha. [She stands.] Bertha, am I invisible?

bertha: What an idea!

girl: Nobody seems to notice me, nobody seems to be conscious of my existence!

bertha: Men, you mean? Don’t be discouraged. For every surprise there happen to be at least fifteen disappointments. And nowadays men are concentrating on war at the cost of sex. What of it. Your day will come! How would you like a bromide?

girl: No, thanks.

bertha: I had another girlfriend kept brooding over some man that worked at her office. He never looked at her even. Drop it, I said, “like you would a piece of loose thread.” She wouldn’t take my advice. “Willard,” she said, “Willard, Willard”! —That was his name. —You know what she finally did?

girl: Killed herself?

bertha: No. Went into dementia praecox, I couldn’t stop her. Insulin shock couldn’t save her.

girl: I’ve done something awful.

bertha: What?

girl: Oh, I can’t tell you! I wrote him a letter!

bertha: Come on! What awful thing? Mr. Warren B. Thatcher?

girl: Yes!

bertha: Did you mail it?

girl: I left it on his desk. He’d already gone for the afternoon.

bertha: What did you write Mr. Thatcher?

girl: I wrote him I loved him.

bertha: Oh. —You come right out with it, huh?

[The Girl covers her face. Pause.]

Honey, get into yuh things.

girl: Get on my things?

bertha: Yeah, get dressed!

girl: What for?

bertha: You’re going down to that office and pick up that letter before Mr. Thatcher sees it.

girl: The building’s closed.

bertha: Wake up the night watchman, baby, an’ get that letter! You take it from me it would be an awful mistake for him to read it! I made a confession like that to a boss once myself, and, boy, oh, boy, was I unemployed the next morning! Get into yuh things, sweetheart. —Be quick about it!

girl: But, Bertha—

bertha: Yeah?

girl: What I said in the letter was true!

bertha: Never mind that. That’s strictly incidental.

girl: I do love him!

bertha: Get into yuh things—yuh hear me?

girl: Yes, I will, I will— But that doesn’t solve any problems! I’m desperate, Bertha.

bertha: Well, all I can say is, it’s better to be desperate with a job than desperate without one. —Here’s your— [She throws the Girl’s underwear at her.]

blackout

[Mr. E laughs offstage.]