Sit Like A Lady

 A Monologue

by Mary Alice Mark

copyright Mary Alice Mark

No answer.  I'm not surprised. Raymond said you could talk, but probably wouldn't. Do you remember me? We met a couple of weeks ago, at "Willets." You were with Raymond. He was drinking. We, you and I, were not. . . . You didn't talk much that night either.

You know, other than cursing and screaming: when you stood in that corner and tried to take my walls down with your head, I don't remember hearing your voice at all.

. . . Oh, come now, no need to be ashamed, the walls are still standing there, holding up the ceiling.

So. . . . Say something. . ?

. . . There she stands, studying her toes. Or. . !? . . . Is something wrong with the carpet? You're smiling! Come on over here and take a look out this window. . . .

Listen! There's a baby crying. Probably on the floor above us, eager to be fed. Cars. Radios! People walking, calling to each other.

Did you hear the whistle . . ? And that deep, throaty laugh! Lovers! Mark my words, they know each other. . !

. . . Newark Nocturne, Harlem has nothing on us . . !

. . . Ah, and there, someone turned off a television. Listening is also noticing the absence of sound. Do you notice it missing?

Look, there, across the way! The man in his undershirt had light flickering across his face. Now the light is still. He yawns. He gets up and moves out of view. . . . Television. . . . He does that every night. By six he's in there. He has a few beers. See, he's standing there again, now. He belches, yawns and heads off, I guess to bed. What a way to spend life!

Do you have any idea what I'm talking about? I mean, we're so cautious about how we spend money! But, time is life! And life is a gift like no other.

What's that? Oh my, yes, he has the right to stare at a little box night after night and have a few beers with light flickering across his face. But, it's like seeing a miracle that's bored with itself.

. . . That doesn't seem possible. And yet, all things are possible. You know that, don't you? Of course.

How old are you? Hum? What, still no voice? Small as you are, I must seem enormous. Just a little slip of a thing, I'd say two, are you two?

She smiles, frowns, stares quizzically and glares, but won't use words. Well, then tell me this, do you and Raymond go out drinking often? What's that? Do I hear a giggle? You baby sit for him, don't you? Young jackass needs someone to look after him.

What's this, another facial expression!? This one would be righteous indignation. I've known Raymond all his life. Most of that time he's been a jackass. Of course, I do love him. And I'm glad he has you to look after him.

Ah, there you stand again, still as stone.

I come to this window to pray, you know. That is what I have been doing. I look out over this main street of the city of my birth and watch the lights and listen to it's rhythms. I think about the wonderful gift of life, which is mine and consider who I am. I've never lived farther than I can walk from here. I do, sometimes walk around to the places that have been important to my life and contemplate the gift that is in part the discovery of what it, the gift, is for. Do you know what I mean?

One day, after light and Adam and all that, God- -You knew I was talking about God, didn't you?- . . . -Well, once upon a time and somewhere over the rainbow, God said, "Let there be Chet!" And so many things happened! Lots of people lived and loved- -that's actually what the begetting's supposed to be about, you know- . . . -and my parents were born and they met each other and, well, . . . Here I am, being Chet!

Sometimes, I guess usually, when we get a gift, we want to give something back. In this case all I can give is love for Him and all He created, and I thank Him for stars, sighs, scents, sounds, tastes, this wonderful room with its view of this simple, miraculous, industrial city,- -tucked right up into the armpit of New York- -and for sending His Son with the most wonderful news- -Do you know what that is . . ? We're all forgiven-! -and Chet! That's right, I thank Him for making me and giving me all of this! And a somewhat small and very confused angel to share in it this evening.

That's where you come in. . . . What is it? Aren't you used to being called an angel . . ? No? How is that? You are, you know. We all are.

Angels.

But, I'm afraid we're going to have to talk about the walls.

Oh, dear, the soundless one stands with such a mangled countenance. There's no need to be ashamed! I'm not talking about my walls, those walls. I'm talking about the walls you're putting up inside. The kind of walls that could keep a child your age silent while a total stranger in the form of an ancient and enormous black man pours out his heart to our overwhelming and always loving Father.

Those walls. . . . And you look as though you might snatch the words before they're out of my mouth. I'm working so hard! There are two very important things I want you to remember. Let me try this-. . .

-Let's see, banana peel, newspaper, ick, something sticky on a napkin. Cigarette butts,- -I don't smoke, they must be a friend's,- -some kind of mixed salad with dressing, more napkins, cans. Hmm, what's this? Oh, left over cabbage. Problem with cabbage is it's all head. If I were a vegetable, I would rather be an artichoke. That's right, Chet the artichoke, all heart!

Another thing about vegetables is that you almost never hear a yam saying it would rather be a squash, or a cucumber saying it wants to be a tomato. Have you noticed that? Are you laughing!? Quietly thinking to yourself that you've never heard vegetables talk at all!?

Pay closer attention.

Part of looking is noticing what isn't there.

Look, the left over cabbage is very tiny, maybe it's a Brussels sprout? There's more paper, some tooth picks, coffee grounds, but there are no people!

Did I hear you laugh? Do you know what these things in their present state, when they go onto this basket, are called? I heard you say that word. Garbage. It's the only word you have said clearly all night. But there's nothing like you in here.

People don't belong in here and it's a very wrong thing to treat them as though they do. No human being has the right to treat another human being that way! Me, you; you me; or either of us, ourselves. Do you understand . . ? I hope so.

I would really like to hear you speak. But if I hear you use that word to describe yourself, I'm going to invite you to take another look in here. Study it any time you want, it's content to stay next to the refrigerator.

Usually after my evening prayers I have something to eat. Are you hungry?

Your eyes lit up, I bet that means, "yes."

. . . I understand that people have done bad things to you. It hurts and its frightening and you get some very odd ideas about life. I know. People have done bad things to me, at times. And, truth be known, when it comes to bad things, I have done most of them myself. At least once.

But the most important thing I want you to remember is that, somehow, somewhere, beneath their pain and their fear and their anger, people do love each other.

She sighs. Still, I know what I'm saying is true. Do you want to know how I know? She stares in demanding silence. Well, when I bring up the subject of, "walls-," -that's right, this time I mean my poor old walls; you, who threw a simple, if quite complete and unnecessary temper tantrum and tried to knock them down, stand there, like now, in abject shame. Why?

"Why?" Because you care what I think of you! Isn't caring the beginning of love?

The quizzical look. You love me! Is that what you want to hear? Ah, there, the start of a smile! "What about you, Chet?" She doesn't ask.

I care that you're hungry. So, you see, you love me and I love you! People do love each other. That's the important thing I want you to remember! Let's get something to eat.

She stands stock still, her eyes burning question marks. What is it? Hmm? What is it!? Oh, yes, the other thing I want you to remember. . . . Sit like a lady.

End Scene 1

Scene 2

Time: A Sunday, a few days after scene 1. Scene: A park bench. A tree behind the bench, big enough for climbing. Beyond the bench and the tree, a church. (The scene is implied, not physical.) Though we hear and occasional "Amen," and "Oh yes," from the church.

At Rise: We hear an old hymn, perhaps, "The Old Rugged Cross." Chet stands, humming and moving to the hymn.

CHET:  You heard, of course. I'm sorry for all of the ugly words. You would hear them sometime, I know, they're out there, but you've heard too many with me.

Um hmm, Um hmm, Amen. . . .

He's afraid, and it isn't me he's afraid of, you know what it's like on the street. I have to keep reminding myself of that. You survived and I shouldn't short change you, but you're so young. I'm never quite sure what you understand.

He's right to insist that I tell you the truth. I do try to tell you, but I'm not sure what it means to him. Or to you. To me it's just one of the ugly words people use when they're angry. Mrs. Bowen, upstairs, calls me that when she's angry. No one has ever, well, you know, when I bring her morning paper up, or walk her dog, she never says, "Thank you, faggot."

You're laughing. That's good. Your face looked so serious. It's better now. . . .

. . . I've heard you read from the King James. Your voice rolls out around the words and you sound for all the world like Raymond. You speak to him. In complete sentences. Still, you have no words for Chet. Are you afraid of me? Or are you afraid of Raymond? So afraid that you'd let King James roll across your tongue when usually you're too afraid to speak at all.

Oaf that I am, I've upset you again, I'm sorry.

What made you cry? Fear? He. That boy on the bicycle, is more afraid of me than he is of the street. And you're more afraid of Raymond that you are of me. Children! Children! Life is not a choice of conflicting fears! Each breath is a gift! Each person a miracle! . . .

Why would anyone listen to me? I spend my time talking to a God I see everywhere: traffic, smoke, the smell of rain . . . and one small child dangling from a tree.

Our young friend is right, they do seem to think they have God locked up in there. And, that somehow, they decide who He made and who He loves and how much it all costs. As though it could all be measured and stated in U. S. currency. As though He made the stars and the sky and the Earth and the sea and the planets and the oceans and the zebras and the whales, you and the other monkeys, and me; and then retired to that one tiny building to decide which of them will sit on his left hand come judgment day.

As though they don't say every Sunday, "I believe in the holy catholic Church." Do you know that means, "catholic" means, "universal." The universe is a little bigger than that building! The universe includes everyone.

"Father forgive them, they know not what they do."

"Lifestyle," they said. The pastor wouldn't do it. Some committee or another, all right and proper. It took four people to tell me my, "lifestyle," makes some people, "uncomfortable."

Sometimes, when the weather's bad, when the wind blows my umbrella topsy-turvy, or my feet get covered with snow, I get angry. When the weather's really bad I stay home, open the window and listen to the service at that church on the corner. . . . Roman Catholic, I think. . . . It's a bit different. . . .

. . . Nobody makes me come here. If I went in, no one would ask me to leave. Just, some people would sit, all stiff lipped with their noses in the air- -people we don't like smell funny-

-and no one asked any questions about my lifestyle. I seriously doubt it's as interesting and what they imagine!

And so, we're back to that word. I hate that word. There's only one other that hurts as much. . . .

People seem to think it has something to do with being a man. Both, I guess. If you're this you're not a man, if you that you're not a man. Many men spend much of their lives trying to prove they're men. I did, 'til I was fifty.

Do you have any idea how stupid that is?

What the hell else could I be?

"Father, forgive them, they know not what they do."

So, they sat at a little table and someone said, "Lifestyle, you know." And without asking one question and with no further ado, they decided to tell me that my lifestyle makes some people uncomfortable.

I don't know what I'm doing, why should they?

God never made a man he couldn't love.

If we don't all get there, it won't be heaven.

End Scene 2

Scene 3

"Crossroad" can simply mean the area where two roads meet and overlap, beyond which they continue, each in their own way. It could mean a cross road, though I can't imagine the road becoming angry. I used it to refer to places where I actually stopped to consider The Cross, and ask the man who died on it, the Son of God who claimed me as a brother, to show me the truth and the way.

The first time I remember it happening, was here, in this park. . . . The swings are new. You're perched there, like a little bird. Are you sure you don't actually want to swing . . ?

. . . I come here to pray, you know. I talk, listen, laugh, rave and sometimes sing. All out loud and all by myself. Never gave it a second thought. But now, you perch there like a little bird and I wonder what you're thinking. And what you'll remember.

If you believe you're a bird in a cage, please note that the cage is of your own making. It's hard, I know, but true. It was at this bench, in this park, nearly twenty years ago I vowed that I would spend my life getting kids off these streets.

Small as you are, young as you are, you're going to have to take some responsibility. Everyone who has ever hurt you has done something wrong. They didn't know what they were doing. Everyone who hurts anyone is doing something wrong. They don't know what they're doing.

Do you know what you're doing? Your tears tell me things it would be hard to tell in words. They come when you're happy, angry, surprised, sad, delighted, lonely, frustrated, awed: they tell me you don't want to feel anything at all! And you sit, here or there, or stand still as a statue recording everything that goes on around you in some deep, neutral spot inside that you protect with this wall of eerie silence.

You cannot go through life like some recording device completely devoid of feeling. . . . How can I reach her? Oh God how can I reach her?

God is Love and Love is God. Love is an emotion. I wish with all of my heart that the bad things didn't happen, no one had ever hurt you. I wish you would never be hurt again. But, they did, and you will.

You think nobody loves you. I know it must be hard. Your parents think you're with your grandparents who think you're with Raymond. You and me, we're the only two people on Earth who know where you actually are. Friday, Saturday, Sunday. Fridays, Saturdays, Sundays, and so many Fridays, Saturdays, Sundays. It's been nearly a year and there's never been a phone call, to me, or Raymond.

What must life be like for you at home . . ? . . . I know it must be hard. But you have me, and you have Raymond. If I were busy, like if I decided to go out with Rosie, Raymond would take you. . . . . . If I didn't know better, I'd think you were jealous of Rosie.

I thought I'd shut up a minute and give you a chance to talk. Nothing. So, I'll go on and tell you about my crossroad.

If you came to this park of an evening about fifteen years ago, you might have found Chet sleeping on this bench. That's right. Stars to decorate my roof and newspapers for a blanket.

I was working the same job I have now, tending bar at Topper's, and drinking. My wife had left me. I knew she was wrong. If she had been a better woman, I would have been a better man. That's what I told myself. That's what I told her, over and over and with violent emphasis.

She left in an ambulance via Newark General. Hasn't spoken to me since. . . . Didn't even come back for her clothes.

We're still married . . .

. . . Anyway, it was painful and embarrassing that she left and I drank and ran around and took nights off and drank and ran around. I didn't need a room. No rent, more money for outings. I was out all the time. When I spent the night here I'd wash up in the men's room at Topper's.

Got up one morning, already dressed of course, put my newspaper back in the garbage where I'd found it and went to look for my bottle. Topper's was unknowingly keeping me supplied. I kept it stashed in one of these trees. Couldn't find it.

Across the street I noticed a woman and a young man looking into the window of one of the stores. Actually, I noticed the woman slowly blending herself into the parade of people on the sidewalk and quietly slipping away while the boy stared at something in the window.

He noticed that she was gone and backed up to look both ways down the street. He backed up to look again and panicked and kept backing up right out into traffic.

The driver didn't have a chance to hit the brakes. I'd started running the moment I saw the woman slip away. I was one of the first to get there. The boy, I suppose he was about eight, was laying there in front of the car, peaceful. As perfect as though he were sleeping. No cuts, scratches or bruises, but I knew, somehow, he was gone. The driver was hysterical.

There were so many people around. Trying to help the driver. Trying to find the mother. The ambulance driver announced that the boy was dead long before the police could get through and start clearing the area.

I came back to this bench, trembling, crying and praying. "I've wasted more life than he had a chance to live! Why would You take him and leave a stinking, ugly drunk like me? Help me! Show me how to help!" He did. He does. . . .

When I come here, now, I allow myself to remember that morning and it's commitment. I thank Him for the love he has given me to share. I pray for all of the parents who don't know where their children are. And for the lost and hurting child in each of us who tries to hide behind walls of lies, alcohol, violence, drugs or silence.

End Scene 3

Scene 4

They don't know what they're doing.

Matt, the grandfather, owned his own business. He's spent his Sunday afternoons at their place for the past several years. Traditional Sunday dinner. After church. No one noticed that their daughter, who was supposed to be with him, wasn't.

They don't know what they're doing.

They own their own, fully furnished, home in the suburbs. She has a room of her own, with a door that closes. A child that age who doesn't speak needs to spend more time alone.

They have a telephone- -private line,- a television, a car and a four-slice toaster. . . . What do I have? Even this furniture isn't mine. It belongs to the landlord. . . . The books are!

And we've read many of them. No, I still haven't heard her speak, but when she reads King James, she sounds just like Raymond. And when she reads things we've looked at together: Shakespeare, Yeats, Hughs, commings, Shelly; she sounds like me! When she figures passages out for herself, she sounds very odd, like, "God crated heave on and ear the."

Raymond asked her to translate that. She said, "Someone was so lonely he made all of this to keep himself company."

She needs a room with a door that closes and a four-slice toaster . . !

They don't know what they're doing!

They own their own, fully furnished, home in the suburbs. They have a telephone- -private line,- a television, a car and a four-slice toaster. All I have is- . . . -"God is love and love is God"- . . . -All I have is you! You're mine and I'm yours and you're hers and she's yours. So, somehow we all belong to each other. She knows that now, I'm certain.

But, couldn't I hear her speak? Christ said that anything we ask you in His name would be given. I am asking for one sentence, four words. Just once, but clearly spoken, "Chet, I love you."

(HE prays.)

The water’s running. She's awake. . . . Um hmm. You know, it occurs to me that through you I can live to the year two thousand and beyond! That is, of course, if you remember me.

Try to remember me the way you see me now.

People can be so mean.

They don't know what they're doing.

(HE prays.)

Maybe I should buy a four-slice toaster?