Finalist in the 2019 Little Black Dress, INK
Female
Playwrights Competition.
Performed in Columbus OH March 2019
and in
Sedona AZ, April 25, 2019.
THE
GOLDILOCKS EXIT
A
Monologue
By
Gail Mangham
Dedicated to My Aunt Who Mothered Me
When My Mother Could Not
Copyright July 2018
Cast: One woman, 60’s to 70’s,
dressed in nice but casual clothing, light makeup. She grew up in Texas, but lost
much of her accent. She drinks 3
martinis in the course of the monologue, but her inebriation is quite subtle
exhibiting only in a benign expansiveness and flair for the dramatic. From time
to time she may lose her standard American speech or affect a more posh accent
for effect. There should be no caricature unless intentional on her part. She is experiencing the subtlest
symptoms of dementia. The kind when you can’t recall vocabulary you’ve used your whole life,
names, places visited or when you rush through a story, your mind sprinting
ahead of the words, making sure the synapses are providing the needed
information or when you fall into a silence waiting for the right word,
concept, date, determined to will it into being. The actor may search for such
opportunities, but use them oh so subtly, so that the audience is not quite
sure whether there is a problem or not.
Set: Bar with martini set up.
Three servings of martinis are pre made. One serving is already in glass with
lemon twist, remaining two in shaker. One dish of olives on toothpicks and one
dish of lemon twists. Easy chair (wing back style but not so much that sight
lines are obscured), side table, floor lamp, picture in frame of her youngest
aunt.
Kate Hawkes Reads THE GOLDILOCKS EXIT April 25, 2019
Sedona, AZ Mary D. Fisher Theatre
(In the opening Blackout, the woman speaks
the following line…)
Lights up.
(Lights come up suddenly and she blinks,
unused to stage lights and holds up her martini.)
I’d offer you one, but…I
don’t share my martinis.
Especially when I’m creating.
I’m writing this monologue. I mean
this monologue right now, this
instant. It’s a competition.
Swimming with Giants—that’s the theme.
I’m a wanna be writer. Of course I can write. Emails—I’m
very good with emails! My emails are the BEST, the BEST words, the Best thoughts! (mimics Trump gesture and voice
on the word ‘best’). Draw the line at
tweeting; tweeting is for twits. My postings on Facebook? They shape the world!
And research papers. OK my last paper was my dissertation—a lifetime ago. It’s
actually sitting on a shelf (spoken with mock grandeur/affectation) in a
library of Gothic style and proportion. I’m an author; I’m published!
(self-deprecating laughter.) Last time I looked, no one has ever checked it out.
(
Sips martini and sits in chair.)
To be a writer, a fantasy I suppose--like galloping across a
mountain meadow bareback-- clothing optional-- but long hair required, dancing
a Viennese waltz
with a tall, dark and yes!
handsome guy in (searches mind for the
word) uh those things on the shoulders, tip of my tongue,--YES
epaulettes, no corset please, oh yes and having a big reunion with my family,
all my sons in the kitchen cooking…and singing.
Ah, Fantasies...
But
to see my name on the cover of a book and know that people are reading it. Big
fantasy.
Egad--it
would be like someone watching me have sex.
Well, in any case…intimate.
So
--Swimming with Giants. (Sips drink.) Very average swimmer and
don’t know any giants. I’m in deep shit here. I know, I know-- theme, metaphor,
action. Write what you know about.
That
would be me I guess. I know me pretty well, 70+ years.
Nutshell-- born, grew up, married, had children, grandchildren, lived abroad, trod the boards
of many a stage, and now Act III is upon me. Possibly a short Act III.
It should be short I suppose…actually ideally it should be the perfect length
with a perfect exit. Leave too soon and
the audience is left wanting more--and maybe me as well; stay too long and you
might get the hook. “Aye there’s the rub.” The rub? A metaphor. But for what?
Still
no swimming-- or giants for that matter. Sheesh I’m lost here; almost had it.
My
brain is so fuc…sorry…terribly fuzzy.
Now
is the time when I would normally take a walk, drive across country or drift
off to sleep.
That’s
when the ideas come, really come. Time for Martini # 2. There are three in this
monologue I’ve decided.
(Gets up to make martini.)
Some people have great Act III’s. Acts Three?? (Pause as she grapples with this for a moment.)
They find new love, new careers, solve humanity’s problems, figure out the
meaning of life, die peacefully with their loved ones around them.
“Aye there’s
the rub.” The exit.
(Distracted by choice
of martini garnish.)
Olive or Twist…Twist or Olive. Why not both?
(Pops olive in mouth and drops a twist
in martini.)
Oh
dear lost ‘me’ train of thought.
(Done in
a faux British accent.)
Oh
right! Exit. Finding the Goldilocks moment to move on to ‘the last, great
adventure’-- too soon, too late—just right!
(These last two words are spoken as she
finishes pouring in glass. She sips, approves.)
Seven, ten, thirteen, respectively-- years that is. Years
that my three aunts lived with…Alz-- (stops herself and drops voice to a stage
whisper) Maybe I won’t say it. Some people believe that if you name something
you make it real, manifest it.
(The following interruption in her musings
has a completely different rhythm and tone than the foregoing. It’s quick and
lively as she discovers details of the memory and experiences growing
satisfaction at her accomplishment.)
Oh
my God! Swimming! Giants! I just remembered. OK! Got this! I was sixteen
working at a summer job. No money one day, so I decided to walk home rather
than take the bus. It’s blazing hot, summertime in Houston. A mile into the
walk I suddenly come to a point where I have to either cross a very busy 6 lane
highway or I could, could swim across
Buffalo Bayou running under the road. I take off my shoes, stuff them in my
purse, hold it over my head and wade in.
Buffalo Bayou in Houston TX circa 1960
Can’t see the damn bottom! Mud oozes
through my toes. It feels great; the water’s cool. Soon the bottom disappears
and I’m doing a very graceful, OK, graceless, one arm dog paddle, i.e. SWIMMING
(Maybe sings this and toasts herself).
About halfway across I hear a splash. I look back and there is a, note, GIANT,
alligator gliding toward me. I don’t panic. I am sixteen. I am invincible. I
will live forever. But I feel him behind me; silent. (All very dramatic as she enjoys telling the story.) I get to the
other side, dripping wet, scramble up the bank, look back; no alligator. (Pause)
But
I felt him coming, you know?
(The line above is a break in the tone and
alacrity of story. At some level she knows something is tracking her. Then back
to previous tone and pace below.)
Anyway I cross the service road, apartment in sight, a bus
pulls up to let off passengers. I recognize the driver, smile and wave. True
story…honest to God, well maybe the alligator wasn’t a giant, but definitely
big enough to scare me into some Olympic level swimming-- uh dog paddling.
(Mock toast with Martini # 2, finishing it
off.)
There hit the theme right on the nail head!!
Yeah,
OK… Should’ve used the computer. Not sure this is working. I need another
drink. This will be the last one I promise. Three is my limit.
(Makes Martini # 3 and continues thinking
aloud.)
Let’s
see…Act III, Exits, Rubs.
(Searches mind
for a thread to hang onto, sees photograph.)
A few years before
my youngest aunt died of (Starts to name it; stops
herself.) the disease-that- shall-not-be-named, I was
asking her about my grandfather. He was killed in a gunfight over Louisiana
politics. There was a detail I’d always wondered about; but when I brought it
up, she just gave me a blank look. She had told that story a million times over
the years, yet now she had no memory of it, at all. Not of my grandfather, not
of the shootout. I was stunned. Just like her sisters she finally knew no
one, not even herself. Nothing.
Wilda Harper 19 years old in 1946
Now
there was a giant in my life—(Picks up photo.) my second mother, a
member of the greatest generation and she had a good, very good Act III. (Sips drink.)
But
the timing of the Exit…perhaps…I don’t know…I just don’t know.
(Sits in chair.)
Sheesh!
This, this…piece is going nowhere…and I wanted to be a writer?! (Scoffs at self, sips drink.)
I
do know what I don’t want. I don’t want to live a decade losing myself day by
day. I don’t want my children or grandchildren to see me disappear. I don’t
want to be a burden
on
family and society.
The
indignity…(Voice trails off.)
A friend of mine said to me, “But sweetie you won’t know; so it won’t matter; it’s all good.” But I do
know; I know now-- in this moment; and—I--choose-- the ‘just right’ exit.
(Swallows the last of martini and holds up glass.)
The
End
(Realizes she is still in light)
Oh shit.
I forgot…
Blackout!
(Blackout)
Thank You Tiffany Antone
Thank You Kate Hawkes
