3 GUYS IN DRAG SELLING THEIR STUFF
by Edward Crosby Wells
CHARACTERS: DIVA, LILLIAN and TINK. Three elderly women of means. As the title implies, men in drag should play these characters.
SETTING: The action of the play takes place in DIVA’s front yard somewhere in Suburbia, USA. It is summer. The time is the present. Pleasant weather.
Handcuffs, vibrators, chains and whips mixed in with Tupperware, silver trays, crystal figurines, objets d’art and an endless assortment of odds and ends are piled into a child’s red wagon. There are mannequins and dress forms covered with wigs, beads, feathers and fabrics. A card table holds yet more items for sale as well as a bowl of punch and a tray of glasses. There are pillars of marble and plaster supporting statues, busts and Chinese vases. There is more “stuff” scattered around DIVA’s front yard. There is a sign that reads “YARD SALE” and another that reads “FREE PUNCH.”
DIVA and LILLIAN are busy sorting through their sale items, marking prices, polishing and admiring. TINK is in a wheelchair with her back to the audience.
DIVA: (Looks up quickly as if someone had just yelled something out to her. Directly to audience – to someone in particular.) What!? What are you? Crazy? Can’t you read, you silly shit? Punch! Punch! There’s no such thing as a free lunch! Unless, you want Jesus along with your soup. Anyway, that’s somewhere else. Another part of town. Certainly not in this neighborhood. No, I am not knocking Jesus. Don’t get yourself all puffed up. I was referring to those good Christian missions somewhere down by the railroad tracks. Sir . . . sir, please. Please. Put your finger away. I don’t like to be pointed at. . . . Oh . . . well, it looks like a finger. Dear me. . . . Really? With that? I can’t imagine it being of much use to anyone. . . . A name? What’s that? Pokey? How quaint. . . . It is? You do? With that little. . . ? You want me to what? Sir, the prizes in Cracker Jacks are bigger than that. Sir, please put it away while it’s still amusing. . . . Goodbye. Have a nice day. (She waves and we can see her eyes following this unseen man as he retreats down the street.)
LILLIAN: Oh, my! I hardly know what to say.
DIVA: Then stop drooling, Lillian! When one doesn’t know what to say it is best to say nothing. It has always been a deterrent to hoof in mouth disease. (She shakes her leg frantically.)
LILLIAN: (Observing DIVA shaking her leg.) Looks more like mad cow disease, Diva.
DIVA: Phone.
LILLIAN: Foam in mouth disease?
DIVA: (Still shaking her leg.) Telephone! (Reaches up under her skirt to retrieve her cell phone from under her garter.) I have it on vibrate. (Answering her cell phone.) Diva Hollingsworth here and who might you be? Oh, hello, Carlotta. (To LILLIAN.) Carlotta Bean. (LILLIAN sneers. DIVA speaks into phone.) Back from Greece so soon? . . . Well, we must get together so you can tell me all about it. The splendor. The wine. The food. The . . . what? You did what? A tourist guide at the Acropolis? He what? Behind a pillar? Oh, no, dear. I wouldn’t call that discreet at all. Some might, but most wouldn’t – certainly not I. Fairly brazen, if the truth be known. . . . What do you mean he doesn’t speak English? When did you learn to speak Greek? . . . Oh. Well, a word or two does not a sentence make, now does it, Carlotta? He is? (To LILLIAN.) She brought home some stud she picked up off the streets in Athens. She put him up in the Paisley Room and he’s teaching her a little Greek in exchange for rent. (Into phone.) I was sharing the good news with Lillian. Right next to me. We’re having a yard sale. (To LILLIAN.) Carlotta says hello. (LILLIAN sneers.) Hello right back at you. I had a little Greek once –a sailor from Crete. A Cretan Greek . . . and a royal pain in the ass, as I recall. Yes. Well, I’m sure this one is the personification of perfection, dear heart. . . . You don’t say. Do tell. He’s not? He is? In the kitchen? Doing what in the what? Well, you run right along. Yes, yes hurry. Don’t let me detain you. One mustn’t keep a naked Greek alone for too long with a pound of feta and a dozen grape leaves. . . . I love you, too. Ciao. (Turns off the phone and puts it back under her garter.) She is such a slut!
LILLIAN: I never could stand the bitch.
DIVA: Me either. (Calling out to some passing cars.) Free punch! Free punch over here! (To Lillian.) Is it time to turn Tink?
LILLIAN: (Takes a look at TINK.) She’s napping. Maybe we ought to let her be. You know how she likes her beauty rest. Although, at her age, beauty isn’t really a major concern, is it?
DIVA: How would I know? And, since I cannot project myself that far into the future, it will – for the time being – remain one of life’s many unsolved mysteries.
LILLIAN: I meant, that when you reach her age, just continuing to breathe must pretty much occupy one’s mind. All those little synapses pulsating in out, in out, in out. . . .
DIVA: Would you spare us the gory details!
LILLIAN: We’ll turn Tink when the sun moves along a bit.
DIVA: Good idea. (Looking at building across the street.) That’s where I’ve decided to put her, Lillian.
LILLIAN: Who? Where?
DIVA: Mother. There. (Points.) She’s become too much of a burden. Last night she urinated on Uncle Sam.
LILLIAN: I beg your pardon?
DIVA: She wrapped her legs around him and took a whiz.
LILLIAN: On purpose?
DIVA: Does it matter?
LILLIAN: One would like to think so. How did he take it?
DIVA: Well, he wasn’t happy, if that is what you mean. I dropped him off at the groomers first thing this morning. They’ll fluff him up good as new.
LILLIAN: Poor Uncle Sam.
DIVA: Well, she’s going in that home over there. I’ve already begun making arrangements. I will not have my mother urinating on whomever or whatever strikes her fancy. (Waving downstage to an unseen customer.) Oh, hello there. See anything you like? . . . Well, of course you can browse. Browse all you want. After all, life’s just one big yard sale, isn’t it? . . . Well, it can be. . . . I guess it’s all in how one looks at it, if you look at it that way. . . . No. I suppose one doesn’t have to look at it that way. No one is going to force you to. Unless, you live in China. . . . Of course you don’t. . . . Of course this isn’t China. I was simply making a figure of speech. (To LILLIAN.) Honestly! Dense and literal. Where, pray tell, do people like her come from?
LILLIAN: Just a few blocks over, Diva.
DIVA:She’s not quite together, if you ask me. Missing some essential parts, no doubt. (To customer.) Just call me if you want anything, dear. . . . Diva. Diva will do just fine. (To LILLIAN.) I hope she doesn’t die in that condition.
LILLIAN: What condition is that?
DIVA: A total eclipse.
LILLIAN: I don’t understand.
DIVA: Of course you don’t. And that’s because you’ve been doing too much left brain thinking for your own good.
LILLIAN: How can you tell?
DIVA: How can I tell what?
LILLIAN: Left from right.
DIVA: Simple. All I have to do is remember which hand I use for administering my douche.
LILLIAN: No . . . I meant. . . .
DIVA: Oh, I know perfectly well what you meant. . . but, you’re becoming quite tedious. (To customer.) What did you say, dear? . . . No. I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to Lillian here. I was telling her that it was she who was becoming quite tedious. Too much red meat. Whether you are or are not remains to be determined. (To LILLIAN, referring to customer.) The hearing of a bull elephant. The visage of one, too. (To customer.) What’s that, dear? . . . No. Certainly not! My bathroom is off limits. . . . Weak kidneys or not, I’m afraid you’ll have to devise some other plan for your bladder. (To LILLIAN.) The nerve of that woman. Who does she think she is?
LILLIAN: Oh, that’s Mrs. Something-or-other. You know the one who headed that concerned citizens’ group for a better something or other . . . or maybe they were the ones who boycotted grapes. I just can’t seem to remember. (To customer.) If you see something you like – anything you can’t live without – don’t be afraid to haggle. I’m sure we can come to some agreement. . . . Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. We buried our husbands, too. . . . Well, I did. Diva keeps hers in a jar. An old pickle jar, I think. That’s why we’re having this yard sale. So we can move him out of the pickle jar.
DIVA: And into a proper resting place.
LILLIAN: An egg. We’re raising money to put Horace’s ashes into a great big egg.
DIVA: By Faberge. Severely expensive. It would be in very bad taste were I to say exactly how much.
LILLIAN: Gauche.
DIVA: Oui. Tres gauche. Suffice to say that it is a great deal more than the annual budget of some third world countries. However, due to my wealth and position, only an unremarkable sum in addition to what I’ve already accumulated is needed. I shouldn’t want to dip into my retirement funds, now should I? Of course not. You understand.
LILLIAN: (To customer.) What? No! Why would we joke about a thing like that? He died in his sleep. . . . No, mine did. Diva’s husband was doing something else altogether.
DIVA: (To customer.) In the garden . . . doing sit-ups in the cucumber patch. Just keeled over. . . . No. I haven’t done any pickling since. . . . You do? That’s nice. Bread and butter or dill?
LILLIAN: (Ibid.) They do? Try a half-teaspoon of cloves next time. Oh, yes. That’ll brighten them right up. . . . Well, you’re very welcome. . . . You, too.
BOTH: (Watching customer leave.) Have a nice day.
DIVA: (Pouring a glass of punch for herself and for LILLIAN.) Cheapskate! Who did she think she was?
LILLIAN: Is that rhetorical? Or do you actually want me to go ahead and take a guess.
DIVA: Don’t guess, Lillian. The odds are not in your favor.
LILLIAN: Neither are the planets.
DIVA: What?
LILLIAN: The planets. According to my horoscope this morning, the planets are not in my favor.
DIVA: What a shame.
LILLIAN: It sure is, Diva. Something terrible will happen if I venture forth into love or business today.
DIVA: Then don’t venture forth, dear. Besides, the last time you ventured forth into love Johnny Mathis was on the Victrola and you were on your knees. Anyway, that’s a lot of superstitious nonsense and I wouldn’t worry about it were I you. You really ought to watch that left brain thinking, Lillian.
LILLIAN: (Sips punch. After a pause.) So, who do you think she was?
DIVA: Who what was?
LILLIAN: She was.
DIVA: Who she?
LILLIAN: The woman who wanted to use your bathroom. The cheapskate. Who do you think she was?
DIVA: Someone who is directly responsible for the ruination of the American economy.
LILLIAN: Really?
DIVA: Most certainly! One cannot go through life browsing without stopping to buy a thing or two. Do you know what makes our system work?
LILLIAN: I can’t say that I do, Diva.
DIVA: Buying! Buying makes our system work. If people don’t buy – people can’t sell. And if people can’t sell, guess what?
LILLIAN: What?
DIVA: Hello Tokyo! Some concerned citizen she is! She probably drove her husband to his grave.
LILLIAN: Oh, no. He shot himself in the foot, as I recall.
DIVA: You don’t die from shooting yourself in the foot, Lillian.
LILLIAN: You do if you’re being attacked by a bear in heat.
DIVA: (After an incredulous pause.) Do you make this stuff up as we go along?
LILLIAN (After a pause to earnestly think.) No. Not all the time. Only some of the time. I seem to recall there being some truth to this one though. Yes. It was a hot day in the Catskills and. . . .
DIVA: Lillian! Stop it! I no longer have a reliable sense for reality. I don’t know if I am coming or if I am going. The woman in the mirror has abducted what was left of an extremely attractive youth. I am losing what little faith I once felt I had in God – and, I am sure He doesn’t pay me the attention I feel He ought to be paying one so dearly in need of Him as I. And, furthermore, eighty milligrams of Prozac, daily, has ceased to do its magic! So, please. . . . Don’t complicate my life anymore than need be.
LILLIAN: (After a pause to assimilate.) That hardly has anything to do with me, Diva.
DIVA: It has everything to do with you, Lillian.
LILLIAN: Yeah? Well, I beg to differ.
DIVA: Don’t you get it, Lillian? You’re beginning to make sense to me and everybody we know knows you don’t make one bit of sense to anybody about anything at anytime! So, where does that leave me? Huh?
LILLIAN: I don’t know. I thought you were my best friend.
DIVA: I am your best friend.
LILLIAN: Then, what’s the problem?
DIVA: Why am I your best friend?
LILLIAN: Rhetorical?
DIVA: Absolutely. I am your best friend because . . . because. . . .
LILLIAN: I’m the only one who puts up with your shit?
DIVA: Well, yes. But, not only that. Because. . . .
LILLIAN: Because I know that under that reptilian exterior is a fragile little girl?
DIVA: I shall take comfort and interpret that as your unique little way of expressing affection.
LILLIAN: Whatever floats your boat, sister.
DIVA: That was totally uncalled for! You know how I hate popular vernacular! I’m suffering anxiety and you’re dishing out nautical cliché.
LILLIAN: I was just getting in practice for our next meeting with Carlotta Bean. Sorry. Take deep breaths. That’ll make you feel right as rain. In through your nose . . . out through your mouth.
DIVA: (Deep breathing.) Ah. . . .
LILLIAN: Better?
DIVA: Much. (Hugs LILLIAN.) Thank you. You’re such a treasure.
BOTH: (Calling to passing cars.) Free punch! Free punch! Get your free punch here!
Slowly, the wheelchair turns and we see that TINK is in some sort of distress.
TINK: (Struggles desperately to speak.) Ja . . . ja . . . ja. . . .
LILLIAN: Oh, hello, Tink. Did you have a nice nappy-wappy?
TINK: Ja . . . ja . . . ja. . . .
LILLIAN: Japanese? Are you trying to say Japanese?
DIVA: Why on earth would she be trying to say Japanese?
LILLIAN: Well, how do I know, Diva? Everywhere you look you see something Japanese. Maybe she wants her hibachi – I don’t know.
TINK: Ja . . . ja . . . ja . . . oow . . . ja . . . oow. . . .
DIVA: Zsa Zsa! No, Raul! Oh, Raul. Do you remember Raul, Lillian?
LILLIAN: Who?
DIVA: Raul. Tink’s gardener. The one with the giant bushwhacker.
LILLIAN: Ooh . . . ah . . . oh, yes. He was something, wasn’t he? Whatever happened to him . . . and his bushwhacker?
DIVA: They cremated him and it with him.
LILLIAN: He died?
DIVA: Requisite for cremation, Lillian. Of course he died!
LILLIAN: That’s too bad. How sad. I think I’m going to cry.
DIVA: Lillian, what is wrong with you? Did you leave home without your head today?
LILLIAN: No. I don’t think so.
TINK: Ja . . . ja . . . ja. . . .
DIVA: Now, don’t get yourself excited, Tink. Raul’s no longer with us. In fact, he hasn’t been with us since Reagan left office. (To LILLIAN.) Now, that was a man after my own heart.
LILLIAN: Reagan?
DIVA: Sure. Why not? He could put his shoes under my bed any day. Besides, what did Nancy have that I don’t?
LILLIAN: A red dress?
DIVA: I’ve got a red dress.
LILLIAN: Size two?
DIVA: I hate you!
LILLIAN: (Ignoring the last.) Besides, I never understood a word he said. In fact, I don’t really think old Ronnie actually ever said anything . . . just a string of words designed to put you to sleep. Heaven knows he put himself to sleep often enough. Poor thing, couldn’t remember himself from one minute to the next.
DIVA: You never liked any of my men, did you?
LILLIAN: Well, let me see. How many of your men did I have?
DIVA: Don’t get smart!
LILLIAN: Diva, I hardly think Ronald Reagan qualifies as one of your men. More like an imaginary playmate, I should think. (Diva “humphs.”)
TINK: Sa . . . sa . . . sa. . . .
LILLIAN: Salt! She wants salt!
DIVA: I don’t think so, Lillian. Has she had her insulin today?
LILLIAN: Of course. While I was waiting to pick her up, Margie was giving her the injection.
DIVA: Who’s Margie?
LILLIAN: The new nurse the agency sent over. She’s a bit of a bull, but I guess if she’s with the agency she knows what she’s doing. She says she’s really a lady wrestler.
DIVA: What are you talking about? Who’s really a lady wrestler?
LILLIAN: Margie the bull . . . the nurse. She said that she was between gigs – or, something like that. Her husband’s also a lady wrestler. He’s between gigs, too. So, he stays home and cooks.
DIVA: How very perverse.
TINK: Ja . . . ja . . . ja . . . oow . . . sa. Ja . . . oow . . . sa.
LILLIAN: Joust! She wants to see a joust. Now, if you wanted to see a joust, Diva, where would you go?
DIVA: (Exasperated.) For God’s sake, Lillian!
TINK: (Obviously in a panic.) Jaoowsa! Jaoowsa!
DIVA: JUICE! She needs juice. Quick! Get her some punch! (LILLIAN goes for the punch.) Quick, quick, quick! Before she goes into shock! Hurry! Her eyes are beginning to roll back! (Takes glass of punch from LILLIAN.) Here you go, Tink. Drink up. (TINK drinks.) That a girl. Drink it all down.
TINK: Mo . . . mo . . . mo. . . .
DIVA: (Hands empty glass to LILLIAN.) Here, Lillian. Get her some more.
LILLIAN: I don’t know that this punch is very good for her, Diva.
DIVA: Of course it is. Its got fruit in it, doesn’t it?
LILLIAN: Sort of.
DIVA: Sort of?
LILLIAN: Yeah, sort of. Imitation powdered fruit. That’s “sort of,” isn’t it?
TINK: More! More!
DIVA: (To LILLIAN.) Quick, quick, quick! (Takes full glass from LILLIAN.) Here you go. Here’s some more.
TINK: (Drinks to the dregs. Directly to the audience.) Would you look at all this junk. What a dump! I think we’re having a yard sale – in Appalachia. Shit! I hope they’re not selling me. I could demand a pretty penny, you know. I knew somebody who knew somebody who was sold into white slavery once. She was sold as a virgin to a sheik over in one of those Arab countries. I hope he got his money’s worth. If she was a virgin I’m ready to be beatified by the Pope. How old am I? How long have I been out here? Are we still on Earth? It’s bloody hot out here, I’ll tell you that. You can’t stick an old lady in a wheelchair made of metal and plastic, cover her up with an old, smelly, blanket, shove her out in the sun, and then expect her to be happy about it. No! I am not one bit happy. Hello. Hello? Is there intelligent life out there? Is my mouth moving? (She smiles, raises her arms heavenward, closes her eyes and drops her head. Her arms stay raised in the air.)
DIVA: Tink? Tink? . . . That’s a good girl. Sleep tight.
LILLIAN: She’s asleep?
DIVA: And as tight as it gets. Just like a baby.
LILLIAN: Her arms. How can she sleep with her arms up like that?
DIVA: At her age people develop all kinds of curious, if not bizarre, eccentricities.
LILLIAN: Well, I find it rather disconcerting. Shouldn’t we put them in her lap?
DIVA: Disconcerted or not, you’re such a traditionalist, Lillian. I’ve always suspected that of you. You have these preconceived ideas of how things ought to be and if the world doesn’t conform to your silly little notions of acceptable propriety then look out, Henny Penny, here come the sky!
LILLIAN: That’s not true.
DIVA: It most certainly is.
LILLIAN: (Pouring a glass of punch for herself and for DIVA.) No. It isn’t true at all. If I’m such a traditionalist, why did I let you talk me into spending last Christmas in an Arab restaurant with you and your mother?
DIVA: Why? Did she pee on something?
LILLIAN: No. I don’t think so. What I meant was, an Arab restaurant is not a traditional dining place for Christmas dinner.
DIVA: That was an experiment. And, you suffered through it rather nicely, I thought . . . getting snarkered and drooling all over those little Arab busboys.
LILLIAN: They weren’t little and you started it by telling them how rich you were. It was like throwing raw meat at starving sharks. Who did you think you were – Liz Taylor in Suddenly Last Summer? Besides, they were Italian busboys.
DIVA: Were not.
LILLIAN: Were.
DIVA: Not! What would Italian busboys be doing working in an Arab restaurant? (Swigs drink.) And on Christmas?
LILLIAN: I don’t see how it being Christmas has anything to do with anything.
DIVA: Lillian, Italians are very religious! Especially on Christmas. They’re either praying to the Virgin Mary or they’re eating. But they’re not going to be bussing tables in an Arab restaurant! You can be sure of that!
LILLIAN: Well, they looked Italian to me. They were cute and they were dark.
DIVA: So are Labrador Retrievers, but I don’t throw myself at them like some kind of wanton carnivore in heat every time I pass a pet shop.
LILLIAN: If I knew they were Arabs, I would have kept my hands to myself.
DIVA: Then excuse me. What I meant to say was, “like some kind of discrete, wanton carnivore in heat.”
LILLIAN: Have fun at my expense. You always do. (Pours DIVA and herself another drink. Takes a swig. After a pause.) Diva, I’m really having a difficult time adjusting to Tink’s arms up in the air like that. I really think we should do something about it.
DIVA: All right, if it will make you happy.
LILLIAN: It will.
DIVA: (DIVA takes hold of TINK’s arms and tries to pull them down without success.) Oh, my! I don’t think she wants to cooperate. Lillian, you better take one wing and I’ll take the other.
LILLIAN: (Taking one of TINK’s arms.) Okay, Tink. We don’t want blood to clog up your armpits, do we? (THEY huff, puff and struggle until THEY finally manage to get TINK’s arms down into her lap.)
DIVA: She’s a tough old twat, I’ll tell you that.
LILLIAN: (Calling to passing cars.) Free punch! Big yard sale!
DIVA: (Ibid.) Free punch! Big yard sale!
BOTH: Free punch! Free punch!
DIVA: (Spying a customer.) Hello, there. . . . No. We’re fresh out of Lord Nelson Dolphin tables. Sorry. No Spode, either. Now, let me think. . . . (To LILLIAN) Have we any Baroque walnut marquetry three-drawer commodes left?
LILLIAN: Nope. Not a one.
DIVA: (To customer.) Sorry, fresh out. Did you try K-Mart? . . . Then I don’t know what to tell you. Could you use a set of handcuffs? A whip? How about this lovely black leather facial mask? Well, there’s certainly no reason for you to take an attitude. You can huff, huff, huff till the cows come home, but it won’t change a thing! . . . Don’t you stomp your feet at me! Not on my lawn! This is all specially grown blue Bermuda. You can go out in the street and stomp your way to China for all I care! . . . And good day to you, too.
LILLIAN: (Watching her huff off.) Have a nice day.
DIVA: Tight ass phonies! You can spot them a mile away. That bitch is such a tight ass only dogs can hear her fart. (Drinks punch.) This is good. What’s in this, Lillian?
LILLIAN: (Drinks punch.) Raspberry Kool Aid, gin, vodka, grain alcohol – one-fifty proof – and a little bit of dry vermouth. (BOTH refill their drinks.) She’s in the social register.
DIVA: What who?
LILLIAN: Miss Lord Nelson Dolphin tables . . . the tight ass phony. She’s in the social register.
DIVA: Oh, her. She knows the printer.
LILLIAN: What?
DIVA: She knows the printer. What other way could the likes of her get into the social register?
LILLIAN: I don’t know. How did you get in the social register, Diva?
DIVA: (After a pause.) Lillian, I resent the implication of that question. How do any of us get in the social register?
LILLIAN: My great grandfather, the banker, married my great grandmother, the daughter of my great-great grandfather, the railroad tycoon.
DIVA: Well, that’s just great, isn’t it? I married Horace Hollingsworth the dentist. (Sips punch.) This is really good. I want you to write down the exact proportions.
LILLIAN: It’s easy enough to remember. Prepare one package of raspberry Kool Aid and mix with a fifth of gin, vodka, grain alcohol and about a mouthful of dry vermouth to taste. (Pours them each another glass of punch.) Well . . . being in the social register doesn’t really mean anything anyway, does it?
DIVA: Lillian, you’re positively jaded. It means everything. . . . What exactly do you mean by “a mouthful of dry vermouth?”
LILLIAN: (After a pause.) About a quarter of a cup. . . . Diva, do you mean “know” in the neighborly sense, or in the Biblical sense?
DIVA: What on earth are you talking about?
LILLIAN: You said she got herself in the social register because she knew the printer.
DIVA: That’s what I said and that’s what I meant.
LILLIAN: Well? In the Biblical or in the neighborly sense?
DIVA: Nothing Biblical about it, dear. On her knees for days! I mean, sexual favors. The open-door, good neighbor policy, if you know what I mean. She married Zilinski the printer.
LILLIAN: Oh . . . then she really does know the printer.
DIVA: That’s what I said, didn’t I. She knew the printer very, very well, if you catch my drift.
LILLIAN: (Sees someone across the street.) Oh, no!
DIVA: (Thinking LILLIAN’s “oh, no!” was in response to what she had said about the printer’s wife.) She certainly did! I didn’t go to her wedding shower, although I did send her a lovely bouquet of calla lilies with a little note: “May all your showers be golden.” Not as much as a word of thanks! The bitch! So, I turned down her wedding invitation. Honestly! Holding the reception in the Egyptian Room of the Holiday Inn was an outrage of tastelessness quite beyond my capacity to endure. An experiment in garishness, at best.
LILLIAN: (In a panic.) No, no, no! Muffy Hughes – across the street. Quick! Get in front of me. (LILLIAN tries to hide behind DIVA.)
DIVA: What is wrong with you?
LILLIAN: I don’t want her to see me. Get in front of me! (Holding DIVA in front of her.)
DIVA: (Struggling to get away from LILLIAN.) I’m not getting in front of anybody, Lillian! Are you out of your mind? Me and Mighty Joe Young couldn’t block you from her seeing you.
LILLIAN: Too late. She’s got the eyes of a rodent.
DIVA: And whiskers to match.
LILLIAN: (Calling over to Muffy.) ”Toodles” to you, too, Muffy. Diva and I are just clearing out some old odds and ends. . . . What? . . . No. Not bed pans. Odds and ends. Out with the old — in with the new. . . . New. . . . New. No. No, I’m over here in Diva’s yard. That’s why I wasn’t home. . . . Yes, of course the doorbell works, but I can’t hear it from here. . . . Tink? She’s over here with us. . . . Well, I don’t know. I imagine her doorbell works, too. . . . Sleeping. . . . Like a log. . . . Log. Log. . . . No, dear. I would never call you a hog . . . not to your face, anyway. Here. In Diva’s yard. We’ve got the little darling for the day. . . . Darling. Darling. . . . For the day. Yes. (To Diva.) She’s coming over.
DIVA: (To LILLIAN) Is that a new walker?
LILLIAN: I don’t think so. (To Muffy.) Watch both ways. (To DIVA.) It’s just the way the sun’s reflecting off of it. (Calling out to Muffy.) Watch that car! No, no! The other one. . . . That a girl. You’re half way home. . . . Home. Home. . . . No, no! I didn’t mean for you to go home. . . . (To DIVA) What is she doing?
DIVA: She turned around to go back.
LILLIAN: (Calling out to Muffy.) Muffy! Muffy! I meant like in home free. . . . Free. Free. (To DIVA.) She’s coming back. (To Muffy.) Watch that car! The other way, Muffy. Wait!
DIVA: (Rushes downstage with LILLIAN.) Stop!
LILLIAN: (The following dialogue should overlap that of DIVA's below.) Run! Stay! Your right! Your left! Now! Go! Stay! STOP!
DIVA: Don't run! Go! Your left! Your right! No! Stay! Go! STOP! (End of overlapping dialogue.)
A very long SILENCE.
LILLIAN: Oh, dear.
DIVA: Too bad.
LILLIAN: Oh, my.
DIVA: What a shame.
LILLIAN: Oh, Pooh Bear poop.
DIVA: What a mess.
LILLIAN: Is she . . . dead?
DIVA: I don’t think so. . . . No. She’s moving. . . . Well, she’ll need a new walker now.
LILLIAN: I shouldn’t be at all surprised. She’s had that one a long time. What’s happening with that young man on the motorcycle?
DIVA: He’s . . . he’s . . . ah! He’s getting up.
LILLIAN: Good for him. Ooh, isn’t he cute! (Pointing.) Who’s that?
DIVA: Where?
LILLIAN: In the pickup.
DIVA: What pickup?
LILLIAN: The one backing up from out of Doctor Hall’s tri-colored hybrid rose bushes.
DIVA: Oh, dear. The old pouf is not going to like that. You know how he covets those roses. What’s he doing now?
LILLIAN: Well . . . it looks like he’s pulling up next to the hunk from the motorcycle.
DIVA: He ought to look where he’s going. He nearly ran over poor old Muffy.
LILLIAN: If he had, it would hardly be his fault, Diva. She ought to stop rolling around like that.
DIVA: How excruciating! She must be in a lot of pain.
LILLIAN: You never can tell with her. She always was big on playacting. . . . Oh, Look at that! He seems to have gotten the motorcycle stud on the back of his truck. . . . And, now he’s pushing Muffy up. . . . (Using her hands to mime pushing Muffy up into the pickup.)
DIVA: Oh, God! Now, that must smart. I didn’t know the human body could bounce like that.
LILLIAN: Wait . . . he’s trying again. . . . Oops! She should have stayed with Weight Watchers like I told her to at the time. . . . Now what is he doing?
DIVA: I don’t know. It looks like . . . it looks like. . . .
LILLIAN: What? What?
DIVA: It looks like. . . . Oh, my God! It is!
LILLIAN: It is? What? What is it?
DIVA: It’s . . . it’s a chain.
LILLIAN: A chain?
DIVA: A chain. He tossed a chain over the roll bar and it looks like he’s going to. . . .
LILLIAN: WHAT! Going to what!? What, Diva, What!?
DIVA: Yes! He is!
LILLIAN: Oh, bless us and save us! What is he doing?
DIVA: I hope she’s wearing her Depends.
LILLIAN: Diva, what is he doing with her legs? Diva? Diva? I knew it! I just knew it! What’s he doing with that chainsaw?
DIVA: Nothing. He’s just moving it out of the way.
LILLIAN: This is going to be some kind of kinky, perverted, Jeffery Dahlmer thing, isn’t it? Quick! Pull up your skirt!
DIVA: What?!
LILLIAN: (LILLIAN dives for the cell phone. She has her head up under DIVA’s skirt.) Quick! I need it! Give it to me!
DIVA: (Fighting her off.) What are you doing?
LILLIAN: I’m calling 911!
DIVA: There’s no need to call 911.
LILLIAN: (Coming out from under DIVA’s skirt.) No need? Then why has he got her legs spread apart like that? Oh, no.
DIVA: What?
LILLIAN: She’s not wearing her Depends.
DIVA: What a mess. . . . Well, he just tied Muffy’s ankles with the other end of the chain . . . and now he’s starting to pull . . . pull. . . . Mercy! He must be strong!
LILLIAN: There she goes! . . . She’s in!
DIVA: Good. It would’ve been a shame to leave her rolling around like that. She could have rolled right out into the traffic.
LILLIAN: There they go . . . the leather-clad motorcycle man and poor old Muffy . . . hanging on a chain from the roll bar . . . like an old sow on her way to market. What a sight! And dragging half of the old pouf’s rose bushes behind them. Too much excitement.
DIVA: (Pours them each another punch.) So . . . why didn’t you want Muffy to see you?
LILLIAN: Because every single time she comes around something terrible happens. She is the most accident-prone person I have ever had the misfortune to know.
DIVA: (Raises her glass in a toast.) To Muffy.
LILLIAN: To Muffy. (They clink glasses and drink.)
DIVA: (Filling glasses again.) Better check on Tink.
LILLIAN: Pity she missed all the excitement.
DIVA: Just as well. We’d only have to explain everything in great detail as it was happening and we all know how tiresome that can be.
LILLIAN: I see your point. (Rolls TINK into a patch of sunlight.) Here you go. Follow the sun. Oh, we are getting a bit of color, aren’t we?
DIVA: Pull her blanket up a bit. (LILLIAN adjusts TINK’s lap blanket.) Much better. Move her over there.
LILLIAN: Where?
DIVA: (Pointing) There, there. In that patch of sunlight.
LILLIAN: She’s already in a patch of sunlight.
DIVA: But it is not a good one.
LILLIAN: Diva, one patch of sunlight is as good as another.
DIVA: Don’t let’s argue. That one over there looks warmer.
LILLIAN (Resigned. Mumbling.) I suppose you’re right. You always are . . . even when you’re wrong, you’re right. Bitch, bitch, bitch. . . .
DIVA: What are you on about?
LILLIAN: Nothing . . . nothing. (Rolling TINK into another patch of sunlight.) There you go, Tink. I hope you can tell the difference. I can’t. She just has to have her way. Always did . . . always will. Thinks with her twat she does.
DIVA: What? What did you say?
LILLIAN: Nothing.
DIVA: Nobody can say nothing. It is not possible. In fact, nobody cannot say nothing. So, tell me what you said because I heard somebody say something.
LILLIAN: What did you hear? What did it sound like?
DIVA: It didn’t sound like you . . . that’s for certain. No, not at all like the Lillian we’ve come to know and love. Maybe it wasn’t what I heard it was.
LILLIAN: Maybe, what you heard it wasn’t didn’t come from me.
DIVA: (Pours herself some punch.) Yes. But, maybe, what I heard was and it did. (Swigs punch.)
LILLIAN: (Pours herself some punch.) That’s possible. In an uncertain world, that’s really quite possible. (Swigs punch.)
DIVA: You’re becoming quite tedious, Lillian!
TINK: (Wakes.) Ha . . . ha . . . ha. . . .
DIVA: Now, you went and woke Tink. I hope you’re happy.
LILLIAN: It wasn’t me, Diva. It was you. It’s always you! You boss me around. Do this! Do that! Get this! Get that! You’re this! You’re that!
DIVA: I do not!
LILLIAN: You do too!
TINK: (Desperate.) Ha . . . ha . . . ha. . . .
LILLIAN: Ha, ha, ha yourself, Tink! I’m not laughing.
TINK: Hos . . . hos . . . hos. . . .
LILLIAN: A horse? (Looking around.) I don’t see a horse. Do you see a horse, Diva?
DIVA: (Piqued.) No, Lillian. I don’t see a horse. . . . Leave it to you to change the subject.
LILLIAN: And what subject was that?
DIVA: The subject was me!
LILLIAN: It always is.
TINK: Hos . . . hos . . . pit . . . pit . . . pit. . . .
LILLIAN: That’s right. Pitty-pat. Horse goes pitty-pat.
DIVA: Horses don’t go pitty-pat! They go clip-clop. Pittypat was somebody’s aunt in Gone With The Wind.
TINK: Hos . . . pit . . . tul. Hos-pit-tul. . . .
LILLIAN: I know. You’re right, Tink. I quite agree. Sometimes, Diva is just not hospitable at all.
TINK: Hos-pit-tul! Hos-pit-tul!
LILLIAN: Oh . . . hospital. I understand. No, no. We’re not in the hospital. We’re in Diva’s front yard. (To DIVA.) Poor thing. She’s having hallucinations. She thinks she’s in the hospital. Maybe another glass of punch will straighten her right out.
DIVA: (Handing LILLIAN a glass of punch.) I don’t know. You think this stuff is good for a diabetic?
LILLIAN: What could it hurt? (Feeds punch to TINK.)
TINK: Na . . . na . . . no!
LILLIAN: Know? Know what?
TINK: No, no, no!
LILLIAN: I know. I know all right. Diva thinks she knows everything there is to know. But you and I know differently, don’t we?
TINK: Hos! Hos! Hos!
LILLIAN: Hostile? There’s no question about it. She can be quite hostile when she wants to be. (DIVA "humphs!")
TINK: Hospital! Hospital!
LILLIAN: No, no, no. We’re in Diva’s front yard. Not the hospital. We’re having a yard sale. We’re raising money for a fabulous egg to put poor dead Dr. Horace in.
TINK: (Gasping for air. Tries to strangle LILLIAN.) No, no, no! You goddamned idiot! You haven’t got the brains you were born with! Hospital! Hospital! You sorry-ass sack of shit! (Knocking on LILLIAN’s head.) Knock, knock!
LILLIAN: Who’s there?
TINK: Out to lunch!
LILLIAN: I don’t get it.
TINK: (Directly to audience.) Are my lips moving? (Her arms shoot straight up into the air. Her eyes shut and her head slumps over.)
LILLIAN: That’s gratitude for you! Diva, she did it again! I’ve a good mind to leave her arms up there this time. No. She’ll only end up chasing the customers away. (She tries to get TINK’s arms down, but has no success.)
DIVA: (Sees customer #1.) Oh, hello there. See anything you like? . . . Oh, yes. You missed all the excitement. . . . No, no. That’s not for sale. I think that’s part of Muffy’s walker. If you just sort of prop it up, somebody will be by to pick it up later.
LILLIAN: (Crosses to customer #1.) Oh, yes. I’m sure she’ll be just fine. Muff’s famous for bouncing back like India rubber. . . . Accident? . . . No. That’s our friend, Tink. She’s taking a nap. . . . I think it’s to get rid of the bags under her upper arms. Though I think it’s a moot pursuit at this point in her career.
DIVA: (Greets customer #2) Hello. If there is anything I can help you with just let me know. . . . Her? She’s doing her impersonation of . . . Superwoman. (To LILLIAN.) Will you help me get her arms down. She’s becoming quite the cause celeb.
LILLIAN: Whatever happened to your nonconformist, anti-traditional intolerance for preconceptions?
DIVA: Lillian! Now!
LILLIAN: (To customer #1.) Excuse me. I think I hear someone calling.
LILLIAN rushes over to TINK and helps DIVA with getting TINK’s arms down. There is a great deal of struggling involved and each end up, at numerous times, in TINK’s lap. TINK slips out of the chair and onto the lawn and there is a great deal of schtick involved in getting her back into her chair. Finally, their mission is a success. DIVA and LILLIAN brush themselves off, straighten out their clothes, pat their hair into place and go back to waiting on their customers. The alcohol which DIVA and LILLIAN have consumed has, unmistakably, affected both their speech and their manner.
DIVA: (To customer #2.) Sorry for the inconvenience. . . . Now, wha wha-wha we?
LILLIAN: (Enter customer #3.) Hello, there. . . . Yes. That was a piece given me by my late sister-in-law, Blanche Grey-White. . . . Dubious, yes. But she made up for it by being colorful enough for all of us. . . . She was too much the scandal for the hometown crowd. So, she moved to New York City and opened a coffee house in Greenwich Village. It was all the rage. She started the trend, you know. . . . Oh, yes, she did. Café Cornhole, or something like that. Some say she had an affair with Jack Kerouac. Some say she didn’t. Others say it was she who inspired him to write. But, I’m inclined to say that if he was going to write he’d have written anyway and that it was just a ruse on her part to help her sell her coffee. What do you say?
DIVA: (To customer #2.) That? That’s a wery ware piece of . . . of. . . . (Calls to LILLIAN) Lillian, wha, wha, whass this?
LILLIAN: Let me see. (DIVA holds up object.) That’s the lid to a Tupperware bowl. I don’t know what happened to the bowl. I think Uncle Sam ate it.
DIVA: (To customer #2) Twupperware.
LILLIAN: (To customer #3.) That is a very strange Pomeranian . . . Uncle Sam. It belongs to the mother of that lady over there. But then, all Pomeranians leave something to be desired, don’t you think? (To DIVA) It makes a good coaster for something that isn’t very hot.
DIVA: (To customer #2.) It’s a . . . twivet. . . . Twivet! You west stuff on it! . . . A fwisbee? A diaphwagm for a buffalo?
LILLIAN: (To customer #3.) No. I’m sorry. I don’t know anything about them. Cats have always been a bit too predatory for my taste. A bit too marauding.
DIVA: (To customer #1.) It’s punch. . . . Wazberry. . . . Fwee. (Calling out to all in the general vicinity.) Fwee punch! Fwee punch, evweybody!
LILLIAN: (Enter customer #4.) Hi. . . . Oh, yeah. It is good punch. Family recipe. . . . The wagon? No, the wagon’s not for sale. . . . Because. . . . Well, because. . . .
DIVA: (Chiming in.) . . . . Because then we’d have to carry all this stuff back to the house by hand and that is totally unaccepacable! . . . . Well, it won’t be the first time his little heart gets broken. (Swats at child near table.) Sonny, that’s sterling! Sterling does not like to be touched by sticky fwingers!
LILLIAN: (To customer #1.) Please don’t touch Tink . . . . No, I don’t think she’d like it if she awoke to find I’ve sold her favorite blanket. She brought that back with her from Taos where she was visiting Mabel Dodge Luhan. It has memories . . . moths, too. I’ve a nice handmade afghan over here. (To customer #3.) Excuse me? . . . No. I don’t believe I have. Are they something like Airedales? . . . This is a kind of blanket, madam. An afghan handmade by yours truly.
DIVA: (To customer #4.) Madam, would you mind keeping your child away from the merchandise. The fat little bugger doesn’t seem to respond to my weqwests. (She starts shaking her leg. Removes her cell phone from her garter and answers it.) I know who I am. Do you? Who? Oh, you. How’s your Gweek? I’m sworry to hear that.
TINK: (Directly to audience, unheard by DIVA and LILLIAN.) There they are, my friends Diva and Lillian.
LILLIAN: Diva, is there something wrong with your mouth?
DIVA: (To LILLIAN.) Her Gweek took a hike.
TINK: (To audience.) Because of them I no longer have any fear of death.
DIVA: (Into phone.) Well, I’ll tell you, Carrotta, easy come easy go. (To child of customer #4.) I never hit a kwid before, but if you don’t kweep your hands off the merchandise I’m gonna wip your fwiggin’ heart out and swove it up your ugwy mother’s ass!
TINK: (To audience.) Because of them death will be a picnic in the park.
LILLIAN: (To DIVA.) There definitely is something wrong with your mouth.
DIVA: (Into phone.) Not your ugwy mother’s ass, Carrotta. I was twalking to somebody else. Besides, I didn’t know you had a mother.
TINK: (To audience.) And, as far as going to hell, who cares? I’ve been there. And, it looks a lot like a yard sale.
LILLIAN: (To DIVA.) Your mouth, Diva!
DIVA: (To LILLIAN.) What’s wong wid my mouth? (Into phone.) I wasn’t twalking to you, Carrotta! Well, I don’t like your attitwude, either. Call me back when your swobber! (Puts phone back under her garter. To customer.) What are you wooking at?
TINK: (To audience.) Like I said, I’m not afraid of death. We all have to go sooner or later. But, in the care of these two morons, I’m liable to go sooner than later! Do you want to know what death is like? Well, I’ll tell you anyway. It’s a lot like waking up . . . looking around . . . and there it is . . . there you are . . . and there you have it. . . . Hello. Hello. Is my mouth moving? (Goes back to sleep.)
LILLIAN: Diva, there’s something wrong with your mouth.
DIVA: Wong wid my mouth?
LILLIAN: You’ve get a tick.
DIVA: A dick?
LILLIAN: A tick.
DIVA: I do?
LILLIAN: (Pours DIVA some punch.) This ought to work it right out. (Hands punch to DIVA.)
DIVA: (Swigs punch. After a pause.) Well? What do you think?
LILLIAN: I think that did it.
DIVA: My tongue went numb.
LILLIAN: That will pass in no time.
DIVA: But, I think it’s stuck to the woof of my mouth.
LILLIAN: Say: Rubber baby buggy bumpers.
DIVA: What are you? Crazy? I’m not going to say wubber waby wuggy wumpers! (Pulling tongue down from roof of mouth.) Wait. The numbness went. What was that again?
LILLIAN: Rubber baby buggy bumpers.
DIVA: Wubber . . . rrr-uuub-er . . . ba-by . . . buggy bumpers. Rugger buby boggy bompers.
LILLIAN: Rubber baby buggy bumpers.
DIVA: Rubber baby buggy bumpers.
LILLIAN: That’s it! You’ve got it!
DIVA: I’ve got it!
LILLIAN: (In a panic.) Oh, bless us and save us!
DIVA: I don’t got it?
LILLIAN: No. Look. Look who’s coming back!
DIVA: (Looking.) Oh, no!
LILLIAN: If he exposes himself now with that little kosher pickle of his, we’ll lose all our business. (To customer #2) Have some more punch. it’s fwee . . . Free. (To all.) Free punch! Free punch, everybody! Free punch!
DIVA: (To customer #4.) Madam, I’d put a leash on the little juvenile delinquent were I you. (Swatting at the child.) Touch that sterling once more and I’ll break every bone in your sickly, sticky little body! (To customer #4.) If you can’t control the little bugger, may I suggest you put him back in the car. Roll the window down an inch or so and he’ll be fine for hours.
LILLIAN: (To customer #4.) Please . . . she didn’t mean it that way. (To customer #3.) She didn’t mean it that way.
DIVA: (To LILLIAN) I most certainly did. (To customer #4.) I’m afraid we’ve taken everything off the market. Nope. Nothing’s for sale. . . . No, not a thing. Horace can just make himself to home in that pickle jar! (To the flasher.) Speaking of pickles! Sir? Sir? Please put that away before something dreadful happens to it. . . . Well, that is not an adage that would apply in your case. One could easily chew all of what little there is to bite off.
LILLIAN: Diva! I’m astonished! Don’t talk to him. They thrive on that kind of talk. Leave him alone and maybe he’ll go home.
DIVA: Wagging his tail behind him? (To the flasher.) Sir, please take your hands off that little boy. He may be sticky, but he’s all his mother’s got. (To customer #4.) The Salvation what? My dear misinformed lady, poor people give people like us a reason for being people like us. These are not items one donates to poor people. Why, the silver polish alone would bankrupt them. . . . Well, I am sure that somewhere they must, but I can assure you that nobody in this neighborhood starves.
LILLIAN: (To Diva) Honey Aldridge did.
DIVA: Honey Aldridge was different. She had anorexia. Poor people don’t get anorexia.
LILLIAN: I didn’t know that.
DIVA: Well, now you do. (To customer #4.) I am well aware of social issues, madam, and I won’t be patronized. I know perfectly well to which side of the wine goblet goes the water glass.
LILLIAN: You didn’t two weeks ago when you had that luncheon-orgy for that touring gay mime troupe . . . with Tourette's syndrome.
DIVA: Oh, shut up, Lillian! (To customer #4.) Good day to you, too!
LILLIAN: (Calling after customer #4.) Oh, madam! Wait! There’s a strange man who crawled into the back seat of your car with your little boy! Oh, madam! . . . You-hoo! (Watching them drive off.) Have a nice day. (To customer #1.) Oh, I see you’ve discovered poor Aunt Irene’s erotic alarm clock. When the alarm rings a little soldier pops out of the top with an erection. . . . That’s right. It doesn’t stop ringing until you yank on his little peepee. That clock got her up every morning since the day General McArthur came home until the day she died. That was the day Ronald and Nancy Reagan – bless their black little hearts – packed up and went back to the ranch. The thought of their leaving the White House proved to be too much for her. George Bush just wasn’t Republican enough for dear old Aunt Irene. It rang and rang and its little erection just stood there waiting to be yanked on that last morning of her pitiful, meaningless life.
DIVA: (To customer #2.) Tupperware. . . . T-P-P-R-W-R-E. Tupperware. It’s a kind of plastic. . . . From parties. They give parties. . . . I don’t know. Look in the phone book. . . . You have a nice day, too. (She waves “goodbye.”)
LILLIAN: (To customer #1.) But, it’s a perfectly good clock. . . . Well, how about the one next to it? That was a present to me on my birthday last. It’s never been used. No. Not for the sum total of one second. It was given to me by someone I thoroughly detest. They couldn’t give me the time of day, so to speak.
DIVA: (To customer #3.) Cats? We don’t sell cats! What does this look like to you? A pet shop? What are you bothering us for? Are you some kind of lunatic? Go home! Scoot! Scoot! Go home! (To customer #1.) Are you going to buy that stupid, ugly clock or what!? Then, put it back where you found it and go home! That’s right! Scat! Get! Make tracks! Get my drift!? (Chases remaining customers.) Go! Go, go,
1:50 AM
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