Etiquette and Vitriol by Nicky Silver (best books to read for students TXT) 📕

Your catty remarks and condescension are a thin veneer for your wanton lust!!

AMY: That’s sick!

PHILIP: It’s obvious!

AMY: I’m not jealous of anyone! What’s wrong with you people? Is it possible that I’m the last human being who cares for someone else?! You’re my brother!

PHILIP: Your perversion is bottomless!

AMY: STOP IT!!

(All lights go out, but for a special on Amy, who addresses the audience.)

What’s wrong with everyone? This morning, I was in bed, with Maxwell, whom you didn’t get to meet, but he’s beautiful. His skin is soft and his hair is long. It’s loose and down to here, and he tightens it around my throat. He was holding me against his stomach and I couldn’t move or catch my breath and I felt free, because I was safe. And I rose up, out of myself, off the bed, and watched him, and me, as we dissolved. I heard him whisper, until his voice divided and became three voices, like the Holy Trinity, making confession and promise after promise. . . . And then I woke up . . . and came home.

(General light returns. Tony, having donned a blazer, has joined them.)

TONY: I’m back!

AMY: Hello, Tony.

TONY: What’s this?

AMY: This is my brother, Philip.

TONY: Oh yes. I’ve heard about you. The musician, right?

PHILIP: Not exactly.

TONY: Been in England?

PHILIP: Yes. I have.

TONY: How’d you find it?

PHILIP: They don’t put ice in their drinks and there’s not enough television.

TONY: I’ve heard that. Never been abroad myself, but I’d like—

PHILIP: Who are you?

TONY: I’m Tony.

PHILIP: I know your name. I mean, who are you? I mean, who are you?

TONY: Pardon me?

AMY: He repeats things.

TONY: I’m a friend of your mother’s. You can call me “Uncle Tony.”

PHILIP: I don’t think so.

AMY: Tony is Mother’s lover.

TONY: AMY!

AMY: Oh who cares? Who cares? He knows. Everyone knows. Mother’s indiscretion is common knowledge.

PHILIP: You seem awfully young.

TONY: I work out. Free weights and StairMaster.

PHILIP: How old are you?

TONY: How old do you think?

PHILIP: I don’t know.

TONY: What would you say?

PHILIP: I have no idea.

TONY: Guess.

PHILIP: I don’t want to.

TONY: Go on, guess.

PHILIP: I don’t care to!

TONY: I won’t be offended. Guess.

PHILIP: No!

TONY: How old do I look?

PHILIP: I DON’T WANT TO GUESS! I DO NOT WANT TO! I ASKED A SIMPLE QUESTION! IF YOU DON’T WANT TO ANSWER ME, FINE! SAY SO! BUT, DEAR GOD! DON’T MAKE ME PLAY GAMES!

TONY: Can’t tell, can ya?

AMY: He’s twenty-four.

TONY: Amy!!

AMY: He obviously doesn’t want to guess.

TONY: I hate is when people won’t guess.

PHILIP: I don’t like to guess!

AMY: No one does.

TONY: I hate that!

AMY: Who cares?

PHILIP: I hate guessing.

TONY: I don’t look it, do I?

AMY: And then some.

TONY: I think I look older in some ways and younger in others. I’m in very good shape—I don’t have any lines at all, not even around my eyes. Work out twice a week, and I run too. It’s invigorating. Do you run? No. I don’t guess you do. I think you look older than me, in some ways, and younger in others. Some sun wouldn’t kill you. How old are you again? No, no. Don’t tell me. Let me guess.

PHILIP: Twenty! Twenty! I’m twenty!

TONY: I would’ve enjoyed guessing.

AMY: Pity.

TONY: Where’s your mother?

PHILIP: She’s dressing.

AMY (Pouring a drink): Tony, have you got a pearl onion?

TONY: Of course not.

PHILIP: We’re all going out tonight. I’m joining you.

AMY: An olive?

TONY: No.

PHILIP: What does someone your age see in someone her age?

AMY (Drinking): Oh well.

TONY: I like older women. They’re more grateful and less demanding.

PHILIP: Do you love my mother?

TONY: Guess.

PHILIP: Don’t make me!

AMY (Examining the bottle): All gone.

TONY: I adore her.

PHILIP: Thank you.

TONY: And she’s mad about me.

AMY: For the moment. (She hiccups)

PHILIP: What could you possibly have in common?

TONY: What’d you mean by that, Amy?

AMY: Oh nothing. I’m pregnant, so I babble.

TONY: You said it so you must’ve meant something.

AMY: Really? Did I? Must I?

PHILIP: What do you do?

TONY: Why did you say that? Are you trying to make me insecure?

AMY: Guess.

PHILIP: What do you do for a living? Do you work? Do you have a job? Do you do anything??

AMY: Oh you know Mother. She talks nonstop. Of course she’s said something.

TONY: About me?

AMY: She doesn’t have to. Mothers and daughters have a special kind of nonverbal communication.

PHILIP: I feel suddenly dizzy. I—light-headed.

TONY: What did she say?!

AMY: It doesn’t matter.

PHILIP: I feel faint!

TONY: It does to me!

AMY: Forget it.

TONY: You’re trying to tell me something. Come out with it!

PHILIP: I feel nauseous. My hands are shaking.

AMY: Really, Tony. You didn’t think you were the first, did you?

TONY: No. . . . She’s married. She has children.

AMY: I mean the first young lover she’s taken to her bed.

TONY: Well, I did.

AMY: Then you are.

PHILIP: I feel sick!

TONY: You’re hiding something!!

AMY: Tony, I’m sorry. But for as long as I can remember, Mother has taken men half her age to bed with her. And I can remember very far back. This bordered on the perverted when I was younger and was against the law in several states.

TONY: I don’t believe you.

AMY: I don’t want to hurt you. I’m only telling you this because I care about you—deeply. You have no idea how deeply. You see, this is a pattern: She finds some vulnerable young thing, and convinces herself—she actually believes she cares for these beautiful, tight-buttocked creatures. But she doesn’t. Not in any lasting way. She builds them up for a couple of months. Taking them places and buying them things. Why, I remember one boy named Sloppy, or Skippy or something. She carried on with him for months! He was twelve. Then, once she grew bored with him, or used him up like the rest, she dismissed him. Skippy was crushed and he drowned himself in our tub, which she had a terrible time explaining to my father. But the point is, for your own good, don’t delude yourself into thinking that your passion is returned, or that you’ll get anything out of this affair. I’m afraid you’re just one more in a long line