CHARLES
This is the kind of violence that starts wars.
The solemn and thoughtless rejection by one’s intimate partner
can force a man to take refuge
to find a place of solace
so they start wars
seek out slights to retaliate against
find potential threats that need crushing
you have weapons of mass destruction
No we don’t--yes you do--no we don’t--yes you do--no we don’t
battaboom battaboom battaboom
because wars are comfortable for those who cannot be comforted.
And I know it’s hard to remember a time before the world was always at war
before every low-flying plane was a missile
before every backpack was a bomb
before every brown man was a foreigner
before every out of town license plate was memorized
but for some men it is safer to be at war
all-out war
with bullets whizzing by
and grenades going off next to you
and maybe you lose a limb
and your dreams of being a guitarist
or maybe you lose your best friend
or even your own life
but to be at war
can still feel safer
than to be at peace
in such a violent way.

Pause.

LUCIDA
What you just said is shit.

Men may start wars to run away from pain
from feeling
YES

but it’s because men
men like you insist on inflating themselves like big metal balloons
inflating their steely walls
under great pressure.

And then someone
or something
LIFE
comes along and makes this
teeny pin prick
in one of their walls
hurts their feelings in some small way
and it’s winter
and the wall is facing away from the sun
and because these men are made of heavy steel
steel under great pressure
and the walls are cold and hard from a dearth of summer sunlight
they explode from this tiny breach
collapse under the weight of their great metal shells
and the air wheezes out with a fantastic groan
as this mighty ironscape crumbles in upon itself.

And then they stay in bed for a week
and then get drunk for two weeks
and then surf porn for eight weeks
and then work compulsively for thirty-eight years
but still
they feel these jagged iron slabs pinned inward against their hollow suffocating hearts.

And they come to understand:
"I can’t go around like this any more."

A moment of insight
almost
but not quite,
because then they say:

"UNLESS!"

"Unless others around me also look the same!"

And so they think on this escape clause all night long
while getting hammered at the bar
and flirting with the bartender
named Kitsy
or Sabrina
or Diana
or Roxy
or Dixsy
or Alexis or Alexandria or Anastasia
or Bambi or Briana or Brittany
or Candy or Chrissy or Christy
or Felicia
who used to be a stripper
until she got too old to get the good shifts any more,
even when she went down on the owner,
who was raped repeatedly by her stepfather for seven years
until he was finally put away for shoplifting
who was in total control of her situation
paying her way through Harvard with her stripper money
until her junkie boyfriend beat her senseless, tied her to the bed, and made off with her best friend and all the money….

AND SO!

this collapsed knight in broken armor
flirting with Roxy-Dixsy-Diana
drunk in the bar
gets this idea that the way he can feel whole again
--the other way
--other than HEALING
is to surround himself with other men with crumbled walls
at least until he can plug the gaps
brace himself against the cold with
hard-fired lead
which could take years and years
to fill this breach
this break
this breakdown of his fluid persona
and fill himself back up
with pressurized air
under a girth of steel.

This delusional belief in his own separate greatness.
His own great separateness.

And this is what starts wars
and bar fights
and fraternities--
the need to collapse another man at the end of your bayonet.

This is why generals want to be on the battlefield.
They like to see this happen.
To see other men broken--as they are broken.

Jim can’t bear it any more. He throws the love seat through the upstage wall, crashing an enormous hole into the guest room. After a moment, Sally steps out through the hole. She studies Jim a moment.

SALLY
Still not too good with words, are we, Jim?

Pause.

JIM
It’s been a long time.

SALLY
Seven years six-months and three days why didn’t you call?

JIM
Why didn’t YOU call?

SALLY
Why didn’t YOU call? YOU said you would call.

JIM
I said I would clean out my car yesterday.

Pause.

SALLY
What does that mean?

LUCIDA
Yes, what DOES that mean?

JIM
Well, I didn’t do it.

SALLY
CLEAN OUT YOUR CAR? That’s how important I am—was--to you. About as important as cleaning out your car?

JIM
More important!

SALLY
More important! Oh, good! So we’ve established that I am—WAS--more important than throwing out the crumpled donut wrappers from the floor of your car. I’m glad we established that. That’s a relief. But then again, you might just be saying that to butter me up, because we know YOU LIE! Like when you said you’d call me tomorrow and then you didn’t!

JIM
Why didn’t YOU call ME?

SALLY
Because YOU said YOU’D call ME. And I don’t want to be with anyone who’d just not call when he says he will and leave me wondering. By the phone every night. Crying myself to sleep. Because he can’t be relied on to call me when he says he will.

I’m glad we didn’t get married.
You’re not the kind of person I’d like to be married to.
I thought you were a sensitive and reliable sort of a person
the kind of guy who’d call a girl back
at least some time
maybe not the day he said he would
because something came up
a sick relative who needs a visit
or a birthday party he forgot
and now he has to hurry and iron a shirt and then rush out and buy a present and wrap it in the car and sign the card on the steering wheel and then drive quickly to the party and make like he hadn’t forgotten so as not to hurt his friend’s feelings

(to the audience)

EVERYBODY DOES THAT!