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4.

(In this excerpt of Some Other Place, Sue tells her boyfriend Joey how she escaped the violence in their house by retreating into fantasy.)

I’m sorry to tell you, Joey, but I happen to meet a guy out there. A salesman. Named Gideon. He’s real successful. Sells bibles to every motel in America. He sees me at a diner. Sits down. Tells me how trapped he feels. Even though he’s out there. And free. And on his own. You see, Gid doesn’t believe in god. And the more he fills every drawer in every room in every motel he can find, the more he grits his teeth, doesn’t say what’s on his mind, and ignores what’s going on in — in here.

(She taps her chest.)

Till he thinks he might just disappear. I put down my fork. Take his hand. “Gid. Honey. I understand.” And he puts his hands on my face. Like this. Like no one ever did. And the words, they — they pour out my mouth.

(She stops, momentarily overcome.)

We make love in the parking lot. In the front seat of his Rabbit. On a stack of bibles. Right hand spazzing. Foot pumping stick. Window fogging. Seat steaming. Till it’s raining in the car. Till the water rises and washes us down the street away to — to some other place. And it was ALL. SO. REAL.

(She comes out of her reverie and stares at Joey.)

Every night the same. Right side. Curled up. On the bed I bought. Staring out the window. Listening to car after car. Hoping you wouldn’t come home. I’ve been away, Joey. I’ve been away and cheated every way possible. Even — Even here.

(She taps her head.)

Don’t be surprised I’m leaving now.

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5.

(In this excerpt of Some Other Place, Sue tells her boyfriend Nate, who she just killed, of the escape plan she'd made.)

Where can I go, Joey? Most of my friends are your friends. I don’t know the last time I met someone on my own. Mom’s? God, no. She always sides with you. Last time she came I swore I wouldn’t talk about you. Or me. Or anything. I was so nervous. Kept going from the table. To the counter. To the fridge. To the table. Coffee. Milk. Mug. My lips. Each time I turn away, they’re saying things. — The last thing I want them to do! — About how you come back, after I kick you out, change the locks and leave for work. You watch me go, break a window, go through the night stand, and swipe my condoms. And when I ask you about it you say — you say you DON’T WANT ME USING THEM.

(She snickers.)

Can you believe!? A hundred dollar window. For a three dollar pack. Like I can’t get them after my shift at the grocery store. At a discount. Like I’d run out. After giving you the boot. Bring back a stranger. Cause I need to — Cause I need to FUCK. When I’m tired, past tired, of being touched, talked at and – and –

(She slams the table, then continues calmly.)

— want to be alone. (Pause.) I, ugh, must have dropped the sugar. 'cause I’m bending down when mom says, “You should have kids by now.” That’s it. “You should have kids by now.” And I sit across from her. Mug in hand. By a broken window. And realize I have exactly what I want. I’m totally. Completely. Alone.

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6.

(In this excerpt from Couldn't Say, Liz talks to her husband about the start of her downward spiral.)

You know, I never got used to the impression you make as a teacher. My kids would come up to me. Years later. Say I was the most important thing in their life that year. And my god, all I did was show up! Can you imagine someone tapping you on the shoulder? While you’re standing in line with — with groceries? Reminding you of where you were and what it meant to be you?

When I stopped teaching I thought, “I’ll just take a break. There’s so much to do around the house.” Then, you know, I brought the recycling to the curb. Saw Norm lumber by. I hadn’t seen him in months. I waved. Said hello. I’d been meaning to call him ... I — I looked up and Norm was already down the street. He hadn’t heard me at all. I was standing there, mumbling to the curb, thinking we were having this conversation. I was so ashamed! I never used to mumble. I used to say things. People used to listen. Didn’t they? I ran to the house. Locked the door. I can’t take out the recycling again. Norm might walk by. I’ll just take a break. There’s so much to do around the house. And then I realized, I’d said the same thing the day I stopped teaching, and — and so many other things. And my world was getting so very small. I sat on the floor, a dish towel over my head. Screamed. Laughed. Banged the cabinets. But the panic didn’t – didn’t go away.

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1.

(In this excerpt of Dreams Of the Washer King, Wade, who just moved nearby, has just shown up with flowers and advice for how Claire, a single mother in her 40s, can put her life back together.)

It is a nice gesture, I suppose, but it’s kinda presumptuous, coming over to fix me so you can, what, ask me to dinner? What do you know about me, anyway? (Pause.) You want to know something? Sometimes I approach the bottom of Mayview – you seen the hill I’m talking about? – and I’m happy my brakes are fickle and might give out on their own so I don’t have to. I mentioned that to Edith last week, right here on the phone, that I got this fantasy, every morning it’s on my mind, even if I’m singing to the radio the car starts getting momentum, you know, going faster and faster till it occurs to me all over again I could just coast through that intersection with my eyes closed. (Pause.) My son Ryan was in the living room. Listening to me blather. And I knew that, and said it anyway. (Pause.) Now here I am telling you.

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2.

(In this excerpt of Dreams Of the Washer King, Claire and Wade, single parents in their 40s, have just returned from a first date. Upon entering Claire's kitchen they embraced in a rush of passion, but Wade has withdrawn, insisting an off-handed comment she got wrong about his daily life means she doesn't know anything about him.)

But . . . But that’s just a detail . . . There are more important things . . . (She growls in exasperation.) Fine! You know what!? I don’t give a flying fuck! I don’t care what you like! I don’t care where you come from! I don’t care what your favorite color is or if you shoot squirrels in your spare time. I don’t care how we spend the day together. It’s not like I’m asking you to understand what it feels like to sit behind glass all day at the bank seeing yourself on six different cameras, knowing they film your hands and your face and every little expression, and you gotta curl your toes under to remember to smile and add a sing-song to your voice so it’s duly noted by management. I’m just asking you to understand that I need someone. It’s not horrible to admit that. It’s not a weakness to say you’re weak and the night’s long and you want someone next to you so you feel alive. I just . . . I don’t feel alive on my own. You know? I never have. I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the walls in my room just . . . receding in the dark. (Pause.) Stay. We can go away next weekend or not, I don’t care, but I’ve been alone now for a really long time. (Pause.) Wade? I’m telling you what’s in my heart. What more can you ask of someone? Stay. Just stay.

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3.

(In this excerpt of Some Other Place, Sue tells her boyfriend Nate, who she just killed, of the escape plan she'd made.)

Lynn and I got to talk a few minutes before you interrupted. See? That’s her address. I’m driving over. Crashing for the night. Then just try to find us! We’re heading out to her place on the shore. To catch up and talk and relax. It’s been years since she called. Not since college.

Strange thing about friends. You always expect they’ll be there. That they’ll understand. You know I — I ran into her a few years ago. At checkout. Embarrassed. Both of us. I mean, it wasn’t my goal to work at a grocery store. But she’s chirping away. Like always. Talk talk talk talk talk. Eyes on her wallet. Pen. Receipt. Poster — of a can of lima beans. Everywhere but here.

(Points to her eye.)

The only thing that was different. That I couldn’t — cover up. The
manager. Twenty minutes later. Tells me to break down the boxes in back. Nothing else. No glance. Except to the poster. Of lima beans. So I’m back there. In the dim. Fluorescent. White mung. Hum of the refrigerators. Ripping boxes. Tossing them in a dumpster. Rip and toss. Growing accustomed to the dark. Routine. Smell of spilled milk. Forgetting everything out there. Till I turn, peer back through the door, and — and see EVERYTHING. Lynn going to car. To man. To house. Kids. Bigger car. Bigger man. Till she’s old and stooped and surrounded by kids and rooms and — and bigness, and forgot she ever stood next to me and avoided my BIG. BLACK. EYE. The manager, oh, she forgets what I look like. Why she made me work in back. Away from the customers. Why she suddenly feels more optimistic about everything. And the customers, they already rushed out and forgot the questions they never asked. “How could she —?” “Why doesn’t she —?” “What’s
wrong with her?” What’s wrong —!? What’s wrong with her!?

(Pause. She gains control of herself.)

Let me tell you something, Miss Sorority Girl Manager Cart-pushing Soccer Mom. Everything’s folded. Flattened. Put back. Under control. I took care of everything. Didn’t I? Didn’t I, Joey?

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