I must have been having a nightmare because suddenly you and Daddy were at my bed, shaking me. It was more like a rout! The winter was almost over. if you could call what happened a rescue. I looked like a scarecrow what with the bags under my eyes and bits of crayon wrapper leaking out of my clothes. I kept it hidden under blankets during the day. Īhhhh, the frosting! A satiny mix of white and silver. GREEN: tiny peppermint leaves veined with chocolate. It was a knockout shimmering with pinks and blues, lavenders and maroons, turquoise and golds, oranges and creams. SPECTACULAR! I MEAN, IT LOOKED LIKE SOME COLOSSAL FRUITCAKE, FIVE FEET TALL. I must have cleared out every box of Crayolas in the city!ĪFTER THREE MONTHS THAT RADIATOR WAS. Every week I spent my allowance on crayons. The heat, the smell, the brilliance that sank and rose. Once I’d melted one, I was hooked! I finished off my entire supply in one night, mixing color over color until my head swam! So I pressed down harder, my fingers steaming and blistering. It took incredible will power not to let go, but I held on, whispering, “Mags, if you let go of this crayon, you’ll be run over by a truck on Newberry Street, so help you God!”.
It oozed and bubbled like raspberry jam! I mean, that radiator was really hot! Naturally, I wanted to try it myself, so I grabbed a red one and pressed it down against the hissing lid. It was wintertime, because I noticed I’d left some crayons on top of my radiator and they’d melted down into these beautiful shimmering globs, like spilled jello, trembling and pulsing. Nothing personal, but I don’t think we’re going to have our affair. In the meantime, I’m very depressed.Įxcuse me, Barney. I went down to the kitchen and made myself a cream cheese and jelly sandwich on date-nut bread.Īnd that was the last time in eight months that I tasted food… I estimate, going four times a week, I should be through with Doctor Margolies in another year.Īnd then, when we both think I’m ready, I’m going to get in my car and drive off the Verrazano Bridge.
You can do anything you want as long as you’re honest about it.Īren’t we lucky to be living in such a civilised age? In the old days I would have gone to my grave ignorant of the wonderful and beautiful knowledge that my husband was spending his afternoons humping Charlotte Korman!…
When he tapped me on the shoulder in the middle of the night I thought he wanted me! You know what it is to wake up from a sound sleep with no eyelashes and a dry mouth and hear that your husband is getting it from a woman you’re not allowed to see for lunch?Īnd you know why he told me, Barney? He explained it to me. Two o’clock in the morning, he leans over, taps me on the shoulder and says, “I’ve had an affair with Charlotte Korman.” Who asked him? I had to stop seeing her three times a week so he could see her four times a week. He’s been having an affair with her for eight months! He doesn’t want her to be my friend, doesn’t want her to come to our house he can’t stand Charlotte Korman. Last Of The Red Hot Loversĭo you know Charlotte Korman, big, red-headed, buxom woman, her husband is the Mercedes-Benz dealer in Wantagh? Mel doesn’t like her. We wait for the day when all the grams and drams and dollops of detestation will destroy you. In this way, through osmosis, little droplets of contagion are being rubbed into your leathery flesh every day-in this great country of ours there must be thousands of people who are sending you poisoned post. This toxin will be passed upwards-it is the nature of bureaucracies to pass things vertically-till eventually, through a network of handshakes, the Under-Secretary of Outrageous Falsehoods will shake hands with the Secretary for Pernicious Behavior under the Cloak of Night, who will, on a weekly basis in Cabinet meetings, shake hands with you before you nod off to sleep. I’m fully aware of the fact that letters to you don’t even make it to the White House, that they’re brought to an office building in Maryland where civil-servant types are paid to answer the sane ones.Ĭrazy, hostile letters-like mine-the ones written in crayon on butcher paper, the ones made of letters cut out of magazines-these get sent to the FBI, analyzed, Xeroxed and burned.īut I send them anyway, once a day, and do you know why? Because the loathing I pour into these pages is so ripe, so full-to-bursting, that it is my firm belief that anyone touching them will absorb into their hands some of the toxic energy contained therein.
A monologue from the play by Tony Kushner
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