Etiquette and Vitriol (32 page)

(A second pool of light comes up. He moves into it.)

Philip and Girls:

When I was thirteen years old—WHICH WAS SEVEN YEARS AGO, FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO'VE NAPPED AND LOST THE THREAD! You know who you are!— When I was thirteen, I had my first sexual experience. I don't mean I had sex. I had my first sexual experience. I KNOW! That's the same thing. I mean, I had an experience of a sexual nature with another person, which is more than a lot of people ever have. I didn't penetrate or anything. I didn't actually ejaculate at the time. Don't get me wrong, I'd been ejaculating for some time. I mean, from time to time over a period of time, I don't mean like one long stream of semen all afternoon. I mean—Oh you see what I mean!! I was thirteen and I was invited to a friend's house. A girl. I'll call this girl Cathy. I remember her last name, but I'm not going to use it. I don't want to. Not that I think she's
here or anything, she's probably dead by now. What a terrible thing to say. I must have a wealth of repressed hostility for this Cathy character. Anyway, I'm still not going to tell you her last name, because one of you might know her and you might tell her about this, that she's being discussed. And then, she might come here and try to shoot me. Who knows what kind of depravity she's lapsed into in the last seven years. I have to protect myself!! I think I'll call her Mona. Oh, I already said her name was Cathy—HELL! She invited me to a party. There were lots of little boys and girls at this party. And Mona had, I assume, a crush on me. Or else, she was insane with a persecution complex and she was punishing herself by leading me to the bathroom, where she turned off the lights and “did things” to me.

And she was not a pretty girl. I realize that's sexist, but fuck it. Mona had these big, buck teeth. Now everything is relative, but these teeth were big and buck compared to just about everything else on the planet today—or then. Big teeth! Like Mr. Ed, whom at thirteen, I found amusing, but not attractive, and certainly not the object of any sexual desire. NO ALAN STRANG AM I! And she had hair the color of Chinese noodles: no color. And she wore this transparent hair pulled back into a transparent ponytail. And you just knew she was five years away from a transparent bun. Am I being cruel? I think I'm being accurate. Were you there? I was! This is how it happened. She turned off the lights. I was unbelievably grateful. Once I could no longer see her, I responded to the
actual, literal, physical
stimulation, instead of the specific person in front of me. She kissed me. . . . I kissed her back. We didn't actually kiss each other. It was like tennis. That's odd. But you know what I mean, don't you? I hope so. And then it happened.

I got this big hard-on. And Cathy—I mean Mona!—felt it against her leg, reached down to touch it and let out a yelp like I had a hermit crab down there that'd just ripped off her fingers! She burst out of the room, ran into the party,
screaming and carrying on and telling everyone about my
“boner”
and I just wanted to die right then and there. So. I shut the door and sealed myself up in the bathroom, in the darkness, wishing that there was a window for escape, or that everyone at the party would just die spontaneously!

So I masturbated. Then I dried myself of with toilet paper. When I turned on the light, I noticed I had this big
wet spot
on my pants and I knew I couldn't go out there until it dried. That's happened to everyone, hasn't it? . . . Well? So, I sat on the toilet. Waiting. Feeling very ashamed and embarrassed. I don't know why. Nature or nurture? Tidy huh?

(He has a sharp twinge in his stomach)
The pain in my stomach has evolved from a piercing to a throbbing, like there's an orchestra, tuning up.

(A third pool of light comes up. He moves, reluctantly, into it.)

Philip and Men:

Last year, I was living in London, in Camden, where the
young people
live. Very
now
. You know. I was supposedly there studying music composition at the Royal Academy, where everyone has “hairdos.” But I'd been there about six months and I'd stopped going to my classes completely— DON'T JUDGE ME!! I have terrible insomnia a lot of the time. I was working at the Mrs. Field's Cookie Store on Leicester Square. I figured, if I wasn't sleeping, I might as well be working. And although I am obviously much too intelligent to be shoveling cookies—WELL I AM!—it's hard for Americans to get work over there. So I was working late nights at the cookie store and sleeping during the day, or going to the movies. And mostly the people I was waiting on were creepy tourists: a lot of Germans, or Americans who just embarrassed me when I opened my mouth. So I didn't. I kept my eyes on my cookies.

And then, one night, at about eleven, I made the goddamn, awful mistake of looking up. And just about everything
changed from then on. I saw, on the other side of the glass cookie counter, a person, a man, a boy. A human being.

(He fights emotion)
He was obviously insane. He was very beautiful. But not in any stupid magazine kind of way, not that anyone else would think so. Not like that. He was tall and he had big hands and sandy brown hair, like everyone over there. And I didn't really notice his body, or what he was wearing. It was his face. It was round—I don't mean it was fat!—It was gentle. There was a gentleness to it. I'd never seen anyone like him. It was the angle of his chin and the fullness of his lips. And his eyes. I can't describe them, except that he was wearing eyeliner—although he wasn't effeminate! He wasn't a faggot! He was just wearing eyeliner! And I knew when I looked into them, that this person, this obviously insane person, this man, boy, lunatic, gentle thing, lost soul was half of me. And I knew it at once.

And we spoke! And I could tell I was right, he was insane and completely lost. When I say we spoke, I don't mean we had any goddamn long personal conversation. I mean we spoke. I asked him what he wanted and he told me and I didn't hear him and I gave it to him and he left. I watched him leave. I watched him disappear into the crowd of normal heads. I watched him disappear. And I went home that night and thought about this nameless, gentle lunatic . . . and . . . I . . . masturbated.

I DID TRY NOT TO THINK OF HIM!!! I TRIED NOT TO!! But it was out of my hands, beyond my control. I don't mean that night, or any night. I mean the days that followed. I tried to think of other things! I tried to do things! But everywhere I went, I looked for HIM! Around every corner and in every crowd! Every night at the store, I waited! I waited and waited and waited! And every time someone approached my heart jumped into my throat! Every customer was a possibility, every passerby a could-be! And they'd walk through the door and be some vulgar
American, or bloated Swede, AND IT WAS NEVER HIM! And the days became weeks and it was never him! And I tried with all my might to think other thoughts BUT I COULD NOT! I tried counting and reciting and thinking music and color and art, BUT I COULD NOT! DO YOU UNDERSTAND!? DO YOU? And when, for a moment, I'd accomplish it, my mind would lapse into some other thought, some more pressing need, I'd relax my efforts for a minute—AND THAT WAS IT!

Then. One night, a cold night, three weeks after the first night, he came in!
(He is quite out of control now)
He walked through the door! I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. I studied him. I stared at him. I memorized him. I had to ALWAYS remember what he looked like, what he was! And he was just the same! He was me! He was a part of me! And I know it sounds nuts—I KNOW IT, ALL RIGHT?— But this is how it was! And while he was there it seemed like hours and after he left it was just a few seconds. But I managed to make friendly little conversation. Just friendly! Nothing more. Couldn't let him know, couldn't let him see, how important he'd become to me! He hadn't been in for weeks. I was nothing to him! Couldn't let him guess! He'd think I was insane, which I knew he was, and I was at this point, completely! I KNOW IT! BUT I WAS BEYOND MYSELF! I WAS OUT OF CONTROL! COULDN'T TELL MY MIND WHAT TO THINK! WHAT TO FEEL! IT HAD A MIND OF ITS OWN AND I WAS ITS VICTIM COMPLETELY! I KNOW IT!

—But I controlled myself, I did. I did. I did. . . . “How are you? How've you been? Where do you work?” . . . And his deep voice stoked mine, not with words, which I'd worry about later, but with sound and breath and music. . . . And he was gone. He worked in one of those Angus Steak Houses that are everywhere in London.

The next day, the next night—mind you I knew this was bad, I knew I was in the throes of something—the next
night I didn't go to work. Didn't care. I was obviously better than selling cookies anyway. I went there! I went to his restaurant. I didn't go in! I couldn't! People kept passing me, looking at me. This was a busy street and people kept bumping into me and the fat morons eating dinner could see me! They could see me looking at them! FUCK THEM!! I was waiting for a friend! And I waited! And I waited! And I still couldn't find him! And I was freezing cold, but I simply could not leave—DO YOU UNDERSTAND? WHERE WAS HE! Was he lying to me? Maybe he could tell I was insane and he lied to me to get away—just said the first thing that came into his head and he didn't work in a restaurant and he could tell I was insane all along!

Then I saw him! He was there! He didn't lie! HE WAS THERE! Same person, boy, child, man, woman, smudged eyes. Same person. He came out the front door. I wanted to run up to him! I wanted to. I couldn't. I followed him. I walked behind, about fifteen feet. I didn't know where I was going. The streets are old and curve in on themselves and I was lost. And it was cold and snowing now, and I was sneezing and shivering and suddenly
very
tired, BUT I KEPT GOING!! We were headed downtown, down to Fleet Street, the financial district. Very deserted. Very quiet. No cars. I thought I would faint, or die. I didn't know what time it was. The street lights are far apart and even though the snow reflected in them, it was very dark. And I was sure I would die, lost in the financial district, alone in the snow. And so I ran ahead!! I ran ahead! I ran forward and called out “HEY!! HEY!!”

(Pause)

And he turned around. . . . He turned around and looked at me. And I knew, he knew who I was.

(Pause)

It was very quiet, and very still. There was nothing. The snow made our breath echo. There were no cars. We were in the snow, by a building they were building.

He asked what I was doing down there. I was out for a walk, enjoying the snow—can't let him know. He said he lived nearby. . . . “Oh.” Hours passed between our words.

“I was wondering, I was curious, I was thinking. I was wondering would you like, would you care to, maybe sometime, some night after work, sometime when you're free, would you like to have a drink, have a drink, join me for a drink?”

“What?”

And I explained that I didn't mean anything, that I wasn't gay, but I wasn't bothered if he was, because, I said, hearing myself not hearing myself, I found him very attractive, which was absurd and really not the point.

(Remorseful, still)
And he explained, that he lived with a man. And a woman. That they had an understanding. And that. He didn't think it was a good idea. And that. Etc. Etc. . . . etc. His words just filled up the space and I said I had to go . . . because I couldn't think of anything else to say. And he turned around . . .
AND I DID NOT PLAN IT!! THERE WAS NO PLAN!!
—He turned around, and I picked up a brick, from the building they were building, and as he stepped away from me, I threw it. I threw it with all my might. I threw it at him. I think it hit his head, although he didn't make a sound, when it hit him. Or when he fell, into the snow, which was quiet and white and very pretty. And I ran in the other direction and continued running, until I came to a tube station . . . where I stayed until morning.

(After a moment, more composed)
I'm sure he was fine. I'm sure he didn't die or anything. And no one ever came around to ask me about it: the police or anything. And I never saw anything about it. On the news or anything. So I'm sure he was fine.

(After a moment, completely composed)
I met Vivian about two weeks later. When I had long forgotten about that night. And the person whose name I never did learn.

(He has a severe twinge in his stomach)
I CAN WILL
THIS PAIN IN MY STOMACH TO LEAVE ME! I CAN DO THIS! AND I CHOOSE TO!!

(He spins around abruptly and rips the burlap curtain down, revealing Claire's bedroom. Claire is seated at her vanity. Amy is seated in the shadows, with a liquor bottle.)

Immediately following Scene 2. The scene is as described. Claire is gaily finishing her makeup. Amy lurks in the shadows. Philip is where he was. As the scene begins, Claire maintains her Act I “style.” Philip is agitated, progressing naturally from the last scene
.

PHILIP:
Mother.

CLAIRE:
Oh, Philip, I didn't see you come in. I can't talk right now. I have to fix myself. By the way, is that what you're wearing? Not that I don't like it. I do. It's cunning. But, don't you think, a little dreary? Black, black, black?

PHILIP:
What difference does it make?

CLAIRE:
It makes
all
the difference. We must always look our best. We are what we wear. Besides, we're going to dinner, not a state funeral.

PHILIP:
I'm not going.