Cast of Characters

Place:

Now-ish

Time:

Here-ish

THREE WOMEN

Two women, Woman A and Woman B, are sitting on a bench in the park. They are both struggling to remember throughout, so the pace is fairly slow. A third woman, Woman C, sits off to the side. Her face reflects the thoughts and feelings spoken by the other two women. Bird sounds throughout.

Long pause. 

WOMAN A:

This reminds me of that play.

WOMAN B:

What does?

A (thinking):

Isn’t there a play with a bench, and two people? One talks too much? 

B:

Maybe?

A:

By that writer who wrote about all those WASPs. Alcoholic WASPs. 

B:

Right…I want to say Allman? Is that his name?

A:

Gosh I can’t remember. I read that play in high school. Ages ago.

B:

Is it like his other plays? WASPs drinking? 

A:

I have no idea. That’s all I remember—bench, two people, one talks too much. (Beat.) I read it because Rob Finkelstein loved it. I think he performed a piece of it at Amy’s house one night.

B:

Rob Finkelstein? Who is that?

A:

A boy I grew up with. A theatre kid like me. 

B (thinking):

Rob Finkelstein… I think I remember him.

A:

I can’t remember anything anymore, except every single person I knew when I was a kid. Does that ever happen to you?

B:

All the time. 

                          (Beat.) 

So Rob just started performing for a group of teenagers? At someone’s house?

A:

Yes, but you know, we were all like that. I remember thinking it was so cool. 

                           (They both chuckle) 

You know he did go on to act a bit, professionally. He moved to LA and did bit parts, and—

                           (Remembering) 

oh god, he even did a movie with that actor from—that show about the 60s, but it was from the 90s. You know? “The—The—”

B:

Oh yes, I loved that show. “The—The Best Years of My Life.” No, that’s not it. 

A:

“The Wonderful Times.”

B:

Hmm…maybe?

A:

But you know who I mean. The little kid in that show, the lead. Rob shot a film with him, only of course he wasn’t a kid anymore. This must have been the late 90s, at this point, so the kid is what, 20s? And after they wrapped, he was standing in an airport with him, you know, waiting for their flight back to Chicago, I think, and a stranger came up to him—to Rob—and said, “I know you!” And he said, “No you don’t, you don’t.” And the actor was right next to him. And she said “Yes I do! You’re…you’re…you’re the guy from that show about the 60s!” Except she said his real name. She knew his real name.

B:

She said this to Rob?! Not the actor?

A:

She said it to Rob! And Rob said the TV actor was just livid about it. The woman completely ignored him.

B:

Oh, I see. Awkward. 

                            (Beat.)

A:

Eventually he changed his name. To Davis.

B:

The actor?! From that show?!

A:

No, of course not. Rob Finkelstein.

B:

Ahhh.

A:

Didn’t want to sound too Jewish.

B:

Ah, well. That’s smart then.

                           (Beat.) 

The pigeons aren’t very friendly here. I thought they’d want some bread or something.

A:

They don’t come over for bread unless you’re throwing them bread. They’re prey and we’re natural predators, you know. You have to coax them with bread. 

B:

But I don’t have any bread.

A:

Neither do I. 

                             (Beat.)

B:

Have you ever seen a penguin?

A:

No. Have you?

B (excited):

No…but I once saw a documentary about penguins. Ooh, it was so upsetting! 

                              (Dramatically:) 

Somewhere, in some far-off hole of the world, a group of penguins moves towards new lands…

A (excited):

Oh I saw this! It was great!

B:

And then suddenly one of the penguins turns away from the group and goes in a new direction. The group continues on. We see huge expanses of snow. Huge snow-capped mountains beyond the horizon. 

A:

And this penguin leaves its entire…pack? School? Murder?

B:

Murder?!

A:

Yes, you know—like a murder of geese.

B:

A murder of geese?!

A:

That’s what it’s called. Cross my heart.

B:

I don’t like that. Just say—community.

A:

Okay, this penguin walks away, for seemingly no reason, from his entire community, and heads to the mountains. Alone. Towards his death. He just walks away.

B:

He just walks away. 

                              (Beat.) 

Why?

A:

No one knows. He just—goes mad.

B:

And then he’s alone. In the snow, in the mountains. How frightening. I still think about it. 

A:

Such a sad story. 

                                (Beat.)

B:

I’m glad we have each other. 

A:

Me too. We’re never really alone, are we?

B:

Right. 

                                (Beat.) 

Still—I always wonder—what if I’d—

A: 

Not this again…!

B (getting emotional):

But—a child—wouldn’t that have been—wouldn’t that have been so wonderful?

A (irritated):

I don’t know, maybe. 

B:

A beautiful child that I could have poured all my love into…I know myself, I know my capacity for love, and I know the child would have been the greatest love of my life. I know I had that in me and I never got to—

A:

But what’s the point in wondering now? You made your choice.

B:

What choice?

A:

You could have been a mother. You could have adopted. Ultimately, you chose not to, didn’t you?

                                (Long beat.)

B:

And you? Are you happy to have worked so much? Did you make the right choice, Irinka?

A (thinks, then):

I accomplished a great deal…didn’t I? Or—not as much as I dreamed of accomplishing, maybe, but still—more than most. I worked all the time. 

B:

Yes, you did. You worked so much more than most people ever get to. 

A:

Exactly. You know I once looked up the numbers. You know, what do actors actually make? And I read that most actors in the stage union are making…well you know I’m not so good remembering numbers anymore. 

                               (She giggles, ashamed.) 

Something like…something like $10,000 a year. Oh–and SAG actors are working an average of I think—I think five days a year. So, I mean! By those numbers I was a huge success! 

B:

Oh, by that measure, you were a star! I mean those numbers are dismal. 

A: 

Oh yes. Dismal. 

                                (They think about this for a moment.) 

And I worked for so long. I mean most women quit in their, what, 40s? Well—let’s be honest, most actors quit in their first year. But of those who stay, how many work well into their 70s?

B:

Very true.

                                  (Remembering suddenly:) 

God you were so good in that—what was that—the Russian one. You played this actress, and she’s very glam and all that, but her—her—her lover doesn’t want her, he leaves her for…I want to say a bird. A penguin? Oh you were incredible in that!

A:

No, dear. No. 

B:

No?

A:

I understudied that one. You never saw me do it. 

B (knows this was a terrible faux pas):

Oh. Oh I’m so sorry. How silly of me.

A:

Yes, well. 

                                  (Beat.) 

Anyway, I did all those Russian plays. So many pretend strolls in the woods and picnics on the lawn, holding a white parasol. 

                                 (She mimes this.) 

But that was ages ago anyway. I was a spring chicken then. I kept working long after that. I played the Aunt in that—oh god—that one about the monkey?

B:

The monkey?

A:

Yes, yes, the monkey one. By the um, the Irish. The Irish one. He wrote about drunks also. 

B (trying to follow):

He wrote about monkeys and drunks also?

A:

He also wrote about drunks, like Al—Allman, or whatever his name is. But his drunks were Irish, not WASPs. And—and I was on Broadway again, but not as an understudy, just, oh, maybe 10 years ago? I played a servant in that old sex play. The French one. It’s got a French title. Everybody has sex.

B (not remembering):

Yes, yes, I remember. You had a wonderful career. 

                                 (Beat.) 

But I always thought—maybe if you’d done a little more TV, a little less classical theatre…you could have made a bit more money.

A (sarcastic):

Oh, sure, play a dead body on “Six Feet Under” instead of Nora at the Old Globe! Why wouldn’t I want to do that? Jesus, Olga. Wonderful roles, I played. God I loved it. Loved the work. The best language. The best stories. The best women! I played them all. And the beautiful little families we formed, the way you fly to Denver or Cincinnati and meet these beautiful people and fall in love. Sometimes literally! Sex in hotel rooms. Late nights in the bar, drinking cheap beer, making out by the bathroom where the others can’t see you. And then on to the next before anyone gets boring. 

B:

So it was worth it?

A:

Abso-fucking-lutely.

                                 (Beat.)

B:

Well, I had a great time too, in many ways. 

A:

Did you?

B:

Yes! I had so many joys. Even without a child. I took all that love and I made use of it. I had monthly donations set up with the Humane Society, and the Wild Bird Fund. And I was so helpful. To everyone. If you were coming to town and needed a place to stay, I could always find a furnished short-term rental in your price range. Everyone knew to come to me for that kind of thing. And I was always fostering animals—litters of kittens, beautiful babies that survived because of me, and skinny dogs with hacking coughs that I saved, and that went on to forever homes with yards and children. 

A:

Oh, the animals were wonderful. Those kittens—remember the little black ones? One of them had the prettiest violet eyes, and I named her after—after the movie star with—with black hair and violet eyes. What was her name? With that commercial. 

                                 (Elizabeth Taylor voice): 

“These have always brought me luck.” 

                                 (She mimes handing diamond earrings to someone.)

B:

Oh yes! 

                                 (Same voice:) 

“These have always brought me luck.” I remember. Ohhhhh, I loved those babies! Those sweet sweet babies. Oh god they were so dear. I’d hold them up and kiss their faces, and they’d blink so slowly at me, and nuzzle my neck and fall asleep in my collar. Oh, they made me so happy. And that’s really doing something. I saved so many innocent animals, nursed them to health, stayed up all night with them when they were sick and hungry and scared. I helped the world, made it a little bit better. How many people can say that?

A:

That’s wonderful, Olga. That’s beautiful.

B (confused):

I really made…I really…I really made…

                                 (Beat.) 

What are we—what are we talking about? Oh no. 

                                 (She giggles, embarrassed.) 

I’m sorry.

A (also forgetting):

I…I can’t remember either. 

                                 (She giggles, embarrassed.)

B:

Goodness, my brain, these days. It gets so funny sometimes.

A:

It’s that disease, you know—what is it? I have that very serious one—

B:

That the actor has, that cute one—he’s little, you know—

A:

Yes and he raised all that money. For research. 

B:

Yes! That’s right. Oh he’s adorable.

A:

Oh he is. 

B:

You look at him and you think, oh this isn’t so bad. I mean if you can still be that cute, how bad can it be? But it’s actually very serious. This disease. I can’t even walk to the bathroom anymore. Or pull up my underpants when I’m done. I have to wear a diaper and then wait for the nurse to change me. It’s humiliating. But he makes it look so adorable. And he does so much still, he’s always fundraising, always coming out with a new book. How does he do that, when I can’t even go to the bathroom?

A:

Well he’s got that lovely wife, you know. And I don’t think she works. She’s like a little 50s wife. Everything’s easier with a 50s wife.

B:

I wish I had a 50s wife.

A:

And I think maybe he doesn’t have the—the memory thing. The thing that goes with it but not all the time. What is it called? The—the confusion thing.

B:

But that’s the worst part, isn’t it? Even wearing a diaper isn’t nearly as bad. Sometimes I look at something that I know I’ve seen before—my house, my bedroom—and it doesn’t look right. I don’t tell anyone because I know they’ll say I’m crazy. But nothing looks the way it’s supposed to. It gives me such a sense of terror, I can’t tell you. 

                                  (Beat.) 

When I was a little girl, my mother hated me, you know. Really hated me. And I felt this sense of horror all the time. And then I grew up and I got really good at fending it off. And now it seems like I can’t anymore, and it’s caught up with me, finally. 

                                  (Beat.) 

I’m sorry. My head gets so funny sometimes. 

A:

I know. It’s awful. I know. 

                                    (She takes B’s hand.) 

At least we have each other.

B (getting more distressed):

But…if I’d had a child, they would come visit now. And there would be someone, truly be someone here with me. Someone who cared and argued with doctors and made sure I was comfortable. Irina maybe—maybe it wasn’t worth it, maybe it was the wrong thing to do, not to have a family, not to—

A:

Olga. Stop. 

B:

But what does any of it mean? What is it all for? Without a child. I look back on my life and there’s no meaning.

A:

Is there ever? Meaning? 

                                     (Beat.) 

It was wonderful. I loved it. I loved every second.

B:

But what has it led to? Loneliness, Irinka, I’m so lonely now—

A:

Olga. You think it’s so linear.

B:

What do you mean?

A:

Why is the end of a life more important than the middle? If it’s lonely now, does that make all the rest of it a mistake? If the end is bad but the rest was good, maybe that’s pretty great. As lives go. 

B:

But I live now. And now hurts. 

                                      (Beat.) 

A:

I know. 

                                       (Beat.) 

But we had a good run. For a long time. 

B:

How long?

A (thinks, then):

I can’t remember. 

                                     (Long pause.) 

WOMAN B and WOMAN C (speaking together):

Zoo Story.

A:

What?

B:

The play, on the bench. Two people, lots of talking? It’s called Zoo Story. 

A (impressed):

Oh…that’s right. 

                                        (Beat.) 

Good job, Olga.

                                        (They look out. Pause. Lights down on A and B. Beat. Lights down on C, smiling.)