Fromage a trois
A one-act play
Characters
Larry – Wears black t-shirt, jeans; not quite as smart or as good a writer as his girlfriend makes him believe; not a very skilled liar either.
Julie – Wears baggy black sweatshirt, leather skirt, tights and Doc Martens; not quite as naive as Harry believes her to be; prone to mild jealousy and insecurity.
Scene
A sparsely decorated “loft” apartment – futon on floor, floor lamps, stacks of books. Harry sits on the bed as Julie gets ready for bed. Harry reads from manuscript. Julie brushes hair.
* * *
Harry: “He embraced her like clenched teeth.”
Julie: Like clenched teeth? Whaddya mean?
H: Well, you know, tightly.
J: Clenched teeth doesn’t sound like tightly, it sounds more like tense or straining.
Okay, uh, let’s see, how ‘bout, ahem, he hugged her like wool stockings?
Yuck, makes me itchy. Anyway, embraced isn’t right here either. Too formal… I mean, it’s like the candidate embraced the proposed reforms…not sexy enough.
Well, maybe—
—Oh, I’m sorry Dear, just go on.
—I’m sorry, a sexual what?
A Sexual Luddite.
Oh, come on, what’s that supposed to mean?
You know, it refers to the English movement during the early days of the Industrial Revolution against what was perceived as the displacement of workers by technology.
Yeah, yeah, I know Luddite, but whatever does that have to do with sex?
Well, not just in matters sexual, but—
—But you’re the one who said sexual Luddite.
It’s a metaphor, Honeycakes.
For WHAT?
Jeez, you don’t have to yell. Hey, have some respect for my artistic vision. My work doesn’t take kindly to this kind of scrutiny. You can’t dissect it like a frog. It has to live organically, at a distance where it can be felt for its overall effect. This story isn’t about logic, it’s about feeling.
Aw, for crying out loud, if you can’t explain sexual Luddite, than it’s just plain gibberish.
Why are you attacking me?
I’m not, can’t you see, I think you’re a wonderful writer.
You don’t have to say that, you know.
I know I don’t, but you are, really.
Really?
Come on, Puddin, read me some more.
Okay.
Well?
I’ve lost my place.
Sexual Luddite…
Oh yes, ah-hum, “He wanted to teach her a purer, freer, truer love, but she worried that he would make her feel silly, like that time after her modern dance class when she and Dee Dee—
—Hey, whoa Buster, is this about me, about us?
No Dear, of course not, it’s just a story.
Yeah, but is this about that time after Dance? That time when Dorothy and I—
—No, I told you, it’s a writing exercise.
Cause if you ever tell another soul, I, I’ll… Hey, you haven’t told anyone, have you?
Look, I told you, it’s a work of fiction, pure and simple. So what if some of the details are coincidentally—
—Which details?
Well, I must confess that it may bear some resemblance —
—WHICH DETAILS?
The hot glue gun—
—Oh my God—
—And how Claudio forgot his purse and came back upstairs.
Oh… my… God! How could you? I swore you to secrecy.
And I never told a soul.
Except your whole goddamn writing seminar, right?
They don’t know who it’s about. They don’t even know you. To them it’s just a story.
I can’t even believe it. This is just fantastic. Next thing I know, you’ll be telling the whole world.
I have been asked to read Friday night.
What?
I wanted it to be a surprise.
A surprise? That’s a hell of a surprise. You’re gonna blab my most embarrassing moment ever at Open Mic?
The story needs some comic relief.
At my expense? It was humiliating. Are you gonna tell them I was in my underwear?
Well, actually in the story Julia is naked with the shirt stuck over her head when Mario walks in.
Naked! I was not! Besides… Julia? Mario? You’ve hardly changed the names at all. Everyone will see right through it.
Stop worrying. No one will know but you. You know Claudio and Dorothy are out of town. And no one else will have a clue. How could they?
Well, maybe not, but I’ll know.
Oh Julie, don’t you see, it doesn’t matter what happened.
It sure as hell matters to me.
But it won’t really, in the long run. In a few years I bet you’ll be the one laughing and telling the story after a few beers.
You don’t think Claudio told anyone, do you?
Well, you know, I wouldn’t doubt it. Maybe he and I will have a little laugh about it some day.
Uh-uh. No fuckin way. And if you ever so much as mention it to another living soul, I… I swear I’ll –
—You see, you’re such a little tyrant when you get mad. Your repressed attitude, your need to be in charge – that’s just what I’m talking about in the story.
What?
The story… the story of you and Dot and Mario. I’m satirizing the oppressive conventions of self-consciousness so we can realize the purity of… of not caring… you know, like the Luddites.
I thought you said this story wasn’t about me.
Well, no, not really. A story is just a story. But all fiction is autobiographical, it has to be, dontja think?
Yeah, well in this case it’s pretty clear who’s the author and who’s the libel victim. You make Julia out to be an idiot. Sexual Luddite was one of the smarter things she said… And by the way, since when do you call Dorothy “Dot?”
Huh?
Dot, you just called her Dot.
I did not.
You said the story of me and Dot and Mario.
I don’t think so.
You did so. I know what I heard.
Well, maybe I did. Dot’s the name of the character from the story.
No, Dee Dee’s the name from the story. You just said “Dot.” I never call Dorothy “Dot.”
Maybe I knew a Dot once.
Maybe? Whaddy mean? Did ya or not?
Well of course I did. That’s what I meant to say. There was a Dot who played field hockey at my high school. I think my brother went out with her once or twice.
And I think you’re lying.
I am not.
You are too. You’re making this up. I can hear it in your voice.
I am not lying. Dotty Huber. Tall. Freckles. Looked great in a plaid skirt.
Oh yeah? Better than me?
No, not better than you. Jeez, you know I love your knees.
Yeah, but I see how you look at those athletic types with their legs up to here and their tight little asses.
Julie, first you say I made up Dot Huber, and now you’re getting jealous of her, and I never even went out with her for Christsakes, Jason did.
Well, it’s not what you did but how you felt that matters, isn’t that what you always tell me? Anyway, maybe I am feeling a little insecure about my body lately, especially since you exposed it to your whole class.
Julie, it’s not you in the story, it’s Julia.
Is she pretty?
Who?
Julia.
Yeah, I guess so.
Prettier than me?
Oh, come on, she’s a character in a story. She doesn’t even exist.
Yeah, but she’s modeled after me. Did you make her pretty? Prettier than me?
I can’t compare her to you.
Why not?
Well, because… for one thing, she’s just a few minimal lines of description.
Then I’m prettier?
You’re more real.
But who’s prettier?
You’re way prettier, Honey.
Really, in what way?
Well, Julia doesn’t have much of a figure.
Poor girl. She’s kinda dumpy?
Well, no, uh… actually… here it is… “She pulled the black leotard over her slim, almost boyish hips and furtively studied her own long, slender legs in the mirror with a certain feigned nonchalance.”
Ah-ha! I knew it. She’s gorgeous.
No she’s not. She’s a stuck-up dancer type, not at all womanly like you.
Admit it, you love that athletic type. You wish I looked like Julia, don’t you.
Come on Julie, it’s just a story. I never thought you’d react this way. I guess Dot was right.
Dot Huber?
Huh?
You just said Dot again. You said, “I guess Dot was right.” What did you mean by that? Were you talking to Dorothy?
You know Dorothy’s in Bayfield with Claudio.
But you said, “Dot was right.” Right about what? And when did you start calling her Dot? I thought you hardly knew Dorothy. You’ve got some explaining to do… Big time.
This is crazy. You’re acting like Ken Starr.
And you’re lying like Bill Clinton.
Come on Julie, be reasonable.
Tell me the truth, and tell me now.
But there’s really nothing to tell.
When did you talk to Dorothy about this story? I thought you only wrote it yesterday.
Well, Dot dropped by to borrow some CDs on her way out of town Thursday.
Why didn’t you tell me?
She just stopped in for a few minutes.
So she stayed for a while?
A little while, I guess. We sat on the couch and chatted.
Chatted? You and Dorothy? About what?
Well you know, just the usual B.S. Then I guess I read her a few pages from the story.
Oh. Which part did you read?
The part where Harry sees Dee Dee for the first time.
Harry Meets Dee Dee? I didn’t know that, Larry. Why didn’t I know that?
I guess I might have skipped reading you that part. It’s not very well written.
Let me see that.
Julie—
Let’s see… “She floated into the room like Botecelli’s Venus—
—Jules, Honey, give that back to me, you’re reading it all out of context–
“—and he knew then and there that he had to make love to this woman.”
Come on, Julie, give it back.
This is about you and Dorothy, isn’t it?
It’s just a story. I swear it. Nothing’s going on between me and Dot.
Fuck you. You’re lying. I’m going home… Shit, where’s my skirt?
Jules, sweetie, come back to bed. You’re blowing this whole thing about Dot and me way outta proportion.
So now there is a thing about you and “Dot”?
Okay, so I slept with her one time. Besides, she told me you slept with her too, so I guess that makes us even.
Oh, you’re such a prick. Dorothy and I were together two summers ago, in Europe, long before I met you. When did you fuck her? Last week on the couch?
It was about a month ago. Just that one time, and this really is the truth. When you were at that gallery downstate. It was a stupid thing to do. I told her so that night, before we did it, but she was so upset with Claudio, she practically insisted. It was a stupid moment of weakness for both of us. I swear it will never happen again.
Well, it’s still shitty, especially the way you tried to hide it.
Yeah, it was a shitty thing to do. I’m guilty as charged. Don’t think it’s been easy living with the guilt, trying to protect Dorothy, because it hasn’t. That’s why I had to write this story, to exorcise the demons. Now, how can I make this up to you? Do you want me to throw the story away?
You’d do that for me?
Anything, baby. You say the word.
Well, tell me how it ends. Does Harry end up with Julia or Dee Dee?
Actually, neither.
Huh?
Harry gets hit by a taxi and loses his legs.
That’s awful.
Yeah, it’s darkly comic.
But it’s a little drastic, don’t you think? I’d never wish that on anyone.
It’s a metaphor, you see.
Well, how about if I suggest a few changes?
Okay, but I’d rather not change the ending.
Oh no, I mean how about changing the way you describe Julia – a little fuller butt, not so tall, and while you’re at it, could you change Dee Dee from Botecelli’s Venus to, say, maybe one of Picasso’s Demoiselles d’Avignon?
Whatever you say, Sweetcheeks. Now come back under the covers.
I don’t know if I feel like it now.
Come on, my goddess, let’s kiss and make up.
You’re such a Sexual Luddite!
Julia, peel off that black leotard and come to Harry!
Oh, embrace me like clenched teeth!
END
