All in the Timing Read online

  BETTY: Well. Onwards and upwards. (She goes back to her book.)

  BILL: Waiter—?

  (Bell.)

  You have to hit these things at the right moment or it’s no good.

  BETTY: That’s happened to me.

  BILL: It’s all in the timing. My name’s Bill, by the way.

  BETTY: I’m Betty.

  BILL: Hi.

  BETTY: Hi.

  BILL: Do you come in here a lot?

  BETTY: Actually I’m just in town for two days from Pakistan.

  BILL: Oh. Pakistan.

  (Bell.)

  My name’s Bill, by the way.

  BETTY: I’m Betty.

  BILL: Hi.

  BETTY: Hi.

  BILL: Do you come in here a lot?

  BETTY: Every once in a while. Do you?

  BILL: Not so much anymore. Not as much as I used to. Before my nervous breakdown.

  (Bell.)

  Do you come in here a lot?

  BETTY: Why are you asking?

  BILL: Just interested.

  BETTY: Are you really interested, or do you just want to pick me up?

  BILL: No, I’m really interested.

  BETTY: Why would you be interested in whether I come in here a lot?

  BILL: I’m just … getting acquainted.

  BETTY: Maybe you’re only interested for the sake of making small talk long enough to ask me back to your place to listen to some music, or because you’ve just rented this great tape for your VCR, or because you’ve got some terrific unknown Django Reinhardt record, only all you really want to do is fuck—which you won’t do very well—after which you’ll go into the bathroom and pee very loudly, then pad into the kitchen and get yourself a beer from the refrigerator without asking me whether I’d like anything, and then you’ll proceed to lie back down beside me and confess that you’ve got a girlfriend named Stephanie who’s away at medical school in Belgium for a year, and that you’ve been involved with her—off and on—in what you’ll call a very “intricate” relationship, for the past seven YEARS. None of which interests me, mister!

  BILL: Okay.

  (Bell.)

  Do you come in here a lot?

  BETTY: Every other day, I think.

  BILL: I come in here quite a lot and I don’t remember seeing you.

  BETTY: I guess we must be on different schedules.

  BILL: Missed connections.

  BETTY: Yes. Different time zones.

  BILL: Amazing how you can live right next door to somebody in this town and never even know it.

  BETTY: I know.

  BILL: City life.

  BETTY: It’s crazy.

  BILL: We probably pass each other in the street every day. Right in front of this place, probably.

  BETTY: Yep.

  BILL (looks around): Well the waiters here sure seem to be in some different time zone. I can’t seem to locate one anywhere.… Waiter! (He looks back.) So what do you— (He sees that she’s gone back to her book.)

  BETTY: I beg pardon?

  BILL: Nothing. Sorry.

  (Bell.)

  BETTY: I guess we must be on different schedules.

  BILL: Missed connections.

  BETTY: Yes. Different time zones.

  BILL: Amazing how you can live right next door to somebody in this town and never even know it.

  BETTY: I know.

  BILL: City life.

  BETTY: It’s crazy.

  BILL: You weren’t waiting for somebody when I came in, were you?

  BETTY: Actually I was.

  BILL: Oh. Boyfriend?

  BETTY: Sort of.

  BILL: What’s a sort-of boyfriend?

  BETTY: My husband.

  BILL: Ah-ha.

  (Bell.)

  You weren’t waiting for somebody when I came in, were you?

  BETTY: Actually I was.

  BILL: Oh. Boyfriend?

  BETTY: Sort of.

  BILL: What’s a sort-of boyfriend?

  BETTY: We were meeting here to break up.

  BILL: Mm-hm …

  (Bell.)

  What’s a sort-of boyfriend?

  BETTY: My lover. Here she comes right now!

  (Bell.)

  BILL: You weren’t waiting for somebody when I came in, were you?

  BETTY: No, just reading.

  BILL: Sort of a sad occupation for a Friday night, isn’t it? Reading here, all by yourself?

  BETTY: Do you think so?

  BILL: Well sure. I mean, what’s a good-looking woman like you doing out alone on a Friday night?

  BETTY: Trying to keep away from lines like that.

  BILL: No, listen—

  (Bell.)

  You weren’t waiting for somebody when I came in, were you?

  BETTY: No, just reading.

  BILL: Sort of a sad occupation for a Friday night, isn’t it? Reading here all by yourself?

  BETTY: I guess it is, in a way.

  BILL: What’s a good-looking woman like you doing out alone on a Friday night anyway? No offense, but …

  BETTY: I’m out alone on a Friday night for the first time in a very long time.

  BILL: Oh.

  BETTY: You see, I just recently ended a relationship.

  BILL: Oh.

  BETTY: Of rather long standing.

  BILL: I’m sorry. (Small pause.) Well listen, since reading by yourself is such a sad occupation for a Friday night, would you like to go elsewhere?

  BETTY: No …

  BILL: Do something else?

  BETTY: No thanks.

  BILL: I was headed out to the movies in a while anyway.

  BETTY: I don’t think so.

  BILL: Big chance to let Faulkner catch his breath. All those long sentences get him pretty tired.

  BETTY: Thanks anyway.

  BILL: Okay.

  BETTY: I appreciate the invitation.

  BILL: Sure thing.

  (Bell.)

  You weren’t waiting for somebody when I came in, were you?

  BETTY: No, just reading.

  BILL: Sort of a sad occupation for a Friday night, isn’t it? Reading here all by yourself?

  BETTY: I guess I was trying to think of it as existentially romantic. You know—cappuccino, great literature, rainy night …

  BILL: That only works in Paris. We could hop the late plane to Paris. Get on a Concorde. Find a café …

  BETTY: I’m a little short on plane fare tonight.

  BILL: Darn it, so am I.

  BETTY: To tell you the truth, I was headed to the movies after I finished this section. Would you like to come along? Since you can’t locate a waiter?

  BILL: That’s a very nice offer, but …

  BETTY: Uh-huh. Girlfriend?

  BILL: Two, actually. One of them’s pregnant, and Stephanie—

  (Bell.)

  BETTY: Girlfriend?

  BILL: No, I don’t have a girlfriend. Not if you mean the castrating bitch I dumped last night.

  (Bell.)

  BETTY: Girlfriend?

  BILL: Sort of. Sort of.

  BETTY: What’s a sort-of girlfriend?

  BILL: My mother.

  (Bell.)

  I just ended a relationship, actually.

  BETTY: Oh.

  BILL: Of rather long standing.

  BETTY: I’m sorry to hear it.

  BILL: This is my first night out alone in a long time. I feel a little bit at sea, to tell you the truth.

  BETTY: So you didn’t stop to talk because you’re a Moonie, or you have some weird political affiliation—?

  BILL: Nope. Straight-down-the-ticket Republican.

  (Bell.)

  Straight-down-the-ticket Democrat.

  (Bell.)

  Can I tell you something about politics?

  (Bell.)

  I like to think of myself as a citizen of the universe.

  (Bell.)

  I’m unaffiliated.

  BETTY: That’s a relief. So am I.

&n
bsp; BILL: I vote my beliefs.

  BETTY: Labels are not important.

  BILL: Labels are not important, exactly. Take me, for example. I mean, what does it matter if I had a two-point at—

  (Bell.)

  three-point at—

  (Bell.)

  four-point at college? Or if I did come from Pittsburgh—

  (Bell.)

  Cleveland—

  (Bell.)

  Westchester County?

  BETTY: Sure.

  BILL: I believe that a man is what he is.

  (Bell.)

  A person is what he is.

  (Bell.)

  A person is … what they are.

  BETTY: I think so too.

  BILL: So what if I admire Trotsky?

  (Bell.)

  So what if I once had a total-body liposuction?

  (Bell.)

  So what if I don’t have a penis?

  (Bell.)

  So what if I spent a year in the Peace Corps? I was acting on my convictions.

  BETTY: Sure.

  BILL: You just can’t hang a sign on a person.

  BETTY: Absolutely. I’ll bet you’re a Scorpio.

  (Many bells ring.)

  Listen, I was headed to the movies after I finished this section. Would you like to come along?

  BILL: That sounds like fun. What’s playing?

  BETTY: A couple of the really early Woody Allen movies.

  BILL: Oh.

  BETTY: You don’t like Woody Allen?

  BILL: Sure. I like Woody Allen.

  BETTY: But you’re not crazy about Woody Allen.

  BILL: Those early ones kind of get on my nerves.

  BETTY: Uh-huh.

  (Bell.)

  BILL: Y’know I was headed to the—

  BETTY (simultaneously): I was thinking about—

  BILL: I’m sorry.

  BETTY: No, go ahead.

  BILL: I was going to say that I was headed to the movies in a little while, and …

  BETTY: So was I.

  BILL: The Woody Allen festival?

  BETTY: Just up the street.

  BILL: Do you like the early ones?

  BETTY: I think anybody who doesn’t ought to be run off the planet.

  BILL: How many times have you seen Bananas?

  BETTY: Eight times.

  BILL: Twelve. So are you still interested? (Long pause.)

  BETTY: Do you like Entenmann’s crumb cake … ?

  BILL: Last night I went out at two in the morning to get one. Did you have an Etch-a-Sketch as a child?

  BETTY: Yes! And do you like Brussels sprouts? (Pause.)

  BILL: No, I think they’re disgusting.

  BETTY: They are disgusting!

  BILL: Do you still believe in marriage in spite of current sentiments against it?

  BETTY: Yes.

  BILL: And children?

  BETTY: Three of them.

  BILL: Two girls and a boy.

  BETTY: Harvard, Vassar, and Brown.

  BILL: And will you love me?

  BETTY: Yes.

  BILL: And cherish me forever?

  BETTY: Yes.

  BILL: Do you still want to go to the movies?

  BETTY: Sure thing.

  BILL AND BETTY (together): Waiter!

  BLACKOUT

  WORDS,

  WORDS,

  WORDS

  This play is for Fred Sanders, friend extraordinaire

  Words, Words, Words was first presented at the Manhattan Punch Line Theatre (Steve Kaplan, artistic director) in New York City in January 1987. It was directed by Fred Sanders; the set design was by Jane Clark; costume design was by Michael S. Schler; lighting design was by Mark Di Quinzio. The cast was as follows:

  MILTON Warren Keith

  SWIFT Christopher Fields

  KAFKA Helen Greenberg

  Lights come up on three monkeys pecking away at three typewriters. Behind them, a tire swing is hanging. The monkeys are named MILTON, SWIFT, and KAFKA. KAFKA is a girl-monkey. (They shouldn’t be in monkey suits, by the way. Instead, they wear the sort of little-kid clothes that chimps wear in circuses: white shirts and bow ties for the boys, a flouncy little dress for KAFKA.) They type for a few moments, each at his own speed. Then MILTON runs excitedly around the floor on his knuckles, swings onto the tire swing, leaps back onto his stool, and goes on typing. KAFKA eats a banana thoughtfully. SWIFT pounds his chest and shows his teeth, then goes back to typing.

  SWIFT: I don’t know. I just don’t know.…

  KAFKA: Quiet, please. I’m trying to concentrate here. (She types a moment with her toes.)

  MILTON: Okay, so what’ve you got?

  SWIFT: Me?

  MILTON: Yeah, have you hit anything? Let’s hear it.

  SWIFT (reads what he’s typed): “Ping drobba fft fft fft inglewarp carcinoma.” That’s as far as I got.

  KAFKA: I like the “fft fft fft.”

  MILTON: Yeah. Kind of onomatopoeic.

  SWIFT: I don’t know. Feels to me like it needs some punching up.

  MILTON: You can always throw in a few jokes later on. You gotta get the throughline first.

  SWIFT: But do you think it’s Hamlet?

  MILTON: Don’t ask me. I’m just a chimp.

  KAFKA: They could’ve given us a clue or something.

  SWIFT: Yeah. Or a story conference.

  MILTON: But that’d defeat the whole purpose of the experiment.

  SWIFT: I know, I know, I know. Three monkeys typing into infinity will sooner or later produce Hamlet.

  MILTON: Right.

  SWIFT: Completely by chance.

  MILTON: And Dr. David Rosenbaum up in that booth is going to prove it.

  SWIFT: But what is Hamlet?

  MILTON: I don’t know.

  SWIFT (to KAFKA): What is Hamlet?

  KAFKA: I don’t know. (Silence.)

  SWIFT (dawning realization): You know—this is really stupid!

  MILTON: Have you got something better to do in this cage? The sooner we produce the goddamn thing, the sooner we get out.

  KAFKA: Sort of publish or perish, with a twist.

  SWIFT: But what do we owe this Rosenbaum? A guy who stands outside those bars and tells people, “That one’s Milton, that one’s Swift, and that one’s Kafka”—? Just to get a laugh?

  KAFKA: What’s a Kafka anyway? Why am I a Kafka?

  SWIFT: Search me.

  KAFKA: What’s a Kafka?

  SWIFT: All his four-eyed friends sure think it’s a stitch.

  KAFKA: And how are we supposed to write Hamlet if we don’t even know what it is?

  MILTON: Okay, okay, so the chances are a little slim.

  SWIFT: Yeah—and this from a guy who’s supposed to be smart? This from a guy at Columbia University?

  MILTON: The way I figure it, there is a Providence that oversees our pages, rough-draft them how we may.

  KAFKA: But how about you, Milton? What’ve you got?

  MILTON: Let’s see … (Reads.)

  “Of Man’s first disobedience, and the fruit

  Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste

  Brought death into the—”

  KAFKA: Hey, that’s good! It’s got rhythm! It really sings!

  MILTON: Yeah?

  SWIFT: But is it Shakespeare?

  KAFKA: Who cares? He’s got a real voice there!

  SWIFT: Does Dr. Rosenbaum care about voice? Does he care about anybody’s individual creativity?

  MILTON: Let’s look at this from Rosenbaum’s point of view for a minute—

  SWIFT: No! He brings us in here to produce copy, then all he wants is a clean draft of somebody else’s stuff. (Dumps out a bowl of peanuts.) We’re getting peanuts here, to be somebody’s hack!

  MILTON: Writing is a mug’s game anyway, Swifty.

  SWIFT: Well it hath made me mad.

  MILTON: Why not just buckle down and get the project over with? Set up a schedule for yourself. Type in the morning for a coup
le of hours when you’re fresh, then take a break. Let the old juices flow. Do a couple more hours in the afternoon, and retire for a shot of papaya and some masturbation. What’s the big deal?

  SWIFT: If this Rosenbaum was worth anything, we’d be working on word processors, not these antiques. He’s lucky he could find three who type this good, and then he treats us like those misfits at the Bronx Zoo. I mean, a tire swing? What does he take us for?

  MILTON: I like the tire swing. I think it was a very nice touch.

  SWIFT: I can’t work under these conditions! No wonder I’m producing garbage!

  KAFKA: How does the rest of yours go, Milton?

  MILTON: What, this?

  KAFKA: Yeah, read us some more.

  MILTON: Blah, blah, blah …

  “whose mortal taste

  Brought death into the blammagam.

  Bedsocks knockwurst tinkerbelle.”

  (Small pause.)

  What do you think?

  KAFKA: “Blammagam” is good.

  SWIFT: Well. I don’t know.…

  MILTON: What’s the matter? Is it the tone? I knew this was kind of a stretch for me.

  SWIFT: I’m just not sure it has the same expressive intensity and pungent lyricism as the first part.

  MILTON: Well sure, it needs rewriting. What doesn’t? This is a rough draft! (A red light goes on and a buzzer sounds.) Light’s on.

  (SWIFT claps his hands over his eyes, MILTON puts his hands over his ears, and KAFKA puts her hands over her mouth so that they form “See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.”)

  SWIFT: This bit.

  KAFKA (through her hands): Are they watching?

  MILTON (hands over ears): What?

  KAFKA: Are they watching?

  SWIFT: I don’t know, I can’t see. I have got my paws over my eyes.

  MILTON: What?

  KAFKA: What is the point of this?

  SWIFT: Why do they videotape our bowel movements?

  MILTON: What?!

  SWIFT: Light’s off. (They take their hands away.)

  MILTON: But how are you doing, Franz? What’ve you got?

  KAFKA: Well … (Reads what she’s typed.) “K.K.K.K.K.K.K.K.K.K.K.K.K.K.K.”

  SWIFT: What is that—postmodernism?

  KAFKA: Twenty lines of that.

  SWIFT: At least it’ll fuck up his data.