The Goldilocks Exit, A Monologue

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

Little Black Dress, INK

Thank You Kate Hawkes

Red Earth Theatre 

SUBTEXT

WARNING!  THIS POST CONTAINS STRONG LANGUAGE...

When the bell rang, she came out of her classroom, walked to where I stood in front of my room and whispered in my ear “Shit! Fuck! Piss!”  That was back in the early ‘70’s, over forty years ago.  I wasn’t shocked, not really; there was no context.  I didn’t feel threatened. Her demeanor was calm, her voice soft, with just a slight edge to it, a sort of precision.   I didn’t ask what prompted this trinity of curse words.  There was so little time for class change and I never followed up.  But, I have always wondered why this outburst—well, no, it wasn’t an outburst.  Just that emotionless, colorless series of nine sounds, in sets of three.  I can even write it in IPA, the International Phonetic Alphabet-- [ ʃɪt  fʌk  pɪs]. With a bit of work I could even render it in different accents--Irish, Deep South, Scottish, Texan...

Anyway as the years rolled by I became quite enamored of this threesome.  I did manage to save it for special moments.  You know, when for instance, you stub your toe and the pain comes suddenly, grabbing your breath and if you don’t explode with something, well, you’ll explode yourself.  So I can point to any number of scars or burns.  The one on my right shin is when I tripped over a huge potted plant in the dark.  That warranted  an  Arrgghh!  Shit! Fuck! Piss!  In my defense I whispered; I didn’t want to wake up the kids.

And the time I got a flat tire in the absolute middle of nowhere --before cell phones.  And I’m the only one in the family who gets flat tires.  That one was a in tone of   inevitability, of matter of factness, OK no such word but something like -- Par for the course!  Why Me!  Fury!    Shit! Fuck! Piss!

Sometimes this trio of invective becomes a mantra.  There was the time I was backing up in the snow on a mountain road and a rear tire was suspended over a hundreds of feet of clear air.  Shit! Fuck! Piss!  Shit! Fuck! Piss!  Shit! Fuck! Piss! The air turned blue with my curses.  Obviously they worked.  I’m still here!

Then there was the time I went hiking with my son in Vermont.  There’s a place called The Wall.  It’s this huge, I mean huge slab of granite about 50’ high and a city block long.  It leans against the mountain and in the triangle formed are boulders strewn and lodged at all different levels, many the size of Volkswagens.  We came to one point where a gap between boulders required a leap across and up.  My son made it easily, but I was 47 at the time, more foolhardy than nimble.  He jumped across with ease while I stood rooted to the rock, peering down into the black abyss, gauging the distance, the height, the position of my son’s hand as he held it out and down to me as an assist.  It was the first leap off the diving board at the opening of the summer season each year.  That fear that wraps you tight, breath held, heart pounding until the tension begs to be released and you finally leap, screaming.  But this time I was in no kid’s body, but a middle aged, overweight woman who didn’t want to disappoint her son or herself. 

So, my game plan was Crouch, whisper Shit--this part is for the gathering of will, commitment-- then Up on a loud Fuck-- this is the 'Oh My God I’m really doing this' moment and then the Leap with a final  scream of  Piiiiiiissssss to propel me up to my son’s waiting hand.  It worked.  My curses bounced around the boulders while I hung onto my sanity or insanity perhaps, until my heartbeat slowed.  I was really appreciating the effectiveness of this string of imprecations.

And no sailor has it on me.  Years ago I was sailing in the Persian or some prefer Arabian Gulf—ah, politics.   I'd found a book on sailing and read it avidly or so I thought.  We bought a Laser from a guy leaving the KSA, the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.  Half Moon Bay curved around a section of the Gulf providing relatively calm waters.  It was a clear day.  Well it was always boringly clear unless there was a shamal, sandstorm.  My husband was off with the Boy Scout Troop and I had the beach more or less to myself.  

So off I went visualizing my moves from illustrations in the book.  All was working well until I decided it was time to turn around.  I did something wrong and dumped, a lovely word for the boat going over on its side, sail lying flat on the surface of the water; and the centerboard which normally sticks down in the water to provide stability suddenly became a convenient object to hang onto for dear life. I pressed down with all my weight on it to get the boat to right itself.  But every time the sail cleared a few inches, down it would go again.  I pushed until I was so tired I finally gave up, just clinging to it like a barnacle.   Shit! Fuck! Piss!—exhaustion.  After being rescued by friends who righted the boat, I went home and scanned through the sailing book.  Well Duh!  Every time I pressed on the centerboard, the wind being broadside to the sail, guaranteed the boat would never right itself.  I failed to read the part where you must turn the hull around so that the bow is into the wind, THEN press the centerboard.  Sigh of self deprecation—Shit! Fuck! Piss!

What I Should Have Done

Last Saturday I was just leaving the local farmer's market when I saw a friend I'd not seen in almost a year.  We did the perfunctory greetings; then she said she'd just returned from Germany where she had visited her grandchildren and discovered her breast cancer had returned.  She remarked that the return of the disease and the twelve sessions of radiation sucked--a word I used to find so awful but now found too apt.  Silently I thought Shit! Fuck! Piss!  Anger, Despair, Compassion.  

On November 9, 2016 at 3:00 AM all the potential biding in these three words found their reason for being—Shit! (Disbelief), Fuck (Negation) Piss (Horror).  We had jumped off the bridge, landed January 20, 2017  in a boat shot full of holes,  and finally sank into the black waters of a democracy on the ropes, the cement blocks of a reckless even disordered, ego-driven mind chained to our bodies. (I know-- so many mixed metaphors here one may well ask whose mind is disordered.)

And now, 

before we run out of air

we must find a way to infuse these words with

A Whisper of Hope.  

A Call to the Barricades.  

A Shout of Exultation.

Shit!     Fuck!     Piss!

Three words, three syllables, nine sounds, 
and a world of meaning to attach to them.

I still wonder why my colleague whispered them to me.

Post  Script

In my very first play over 55 years ago I played a grandmother and the only curse word she had at her disposal was the word ‘cabbages’.  So for my readers who are offended by SFP,  substitute

CABBAGES!   CABBAGES!  CABBAGES!