“I Don’t Like It” - a play in one act

(A short stage play & poem)

The scene, for which we reserve entrance: as of-recent, the near-distant present, a time and place where things aren’t what they seem. It’s dimly lit, for an archiepiscopal-like proscenium sits galvanized by sequins the tone of marigold, bergamot, and quicksilver. Two chairs sit at the right hand side of nothing overlooking a snowy, grey day. Against the flooring behind a felt poker table, falls a meshed windbreaker cusping its end, as if adroitly placed. The air feels of some forgotten canter, a yesteryear’s jubilee now-derelict and anonymous. There is nothing else of consideration beyond the wall’s regality and fine timbre of texturized surface throughout.

At rise: Walking to the forefront, from left to center-stage upon slipshoes, gradually stands Amelia. Her glasses reflect the ample minuscules of light about her round face, to which, she annunciates herself out-of-breath, a shaky falsetto towards darkness. What she wears hangs loose, baggy: khaki trousers, a pink chiffon blouse embroidered of Basque flowers with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. It is apparent her long, dark brown hair has been showered of-recent, and she wears no makeup, but faint, poxy freckles, thick eyebrows, boneshell earrings and dilated pupils.

Upon reaching the front and gaining composure, a gaiety of Merriweather delight soon emulsifies on her face, to which she speaks to it as if improvising a child’s enthusiasm. Beyond the sound of her ambling voice, there remains nothing yet an echoing abeyance of choral reverberation to her soliloquy.

AMELIA:

“A turncoat – portends and, truncated unless fox-pieces

Behind imminence, your mendacity is alacrity – yet, is

Roguish with a cigarette, palmetto lipstick – this centerish

Of avarice, the gallantry but childish – I wished it

Indolent, Romani as a mystic – your larkspur carousers adrift,

I don’t like this, how you tried to fix a backgammon recess – with nix

Ovonics, o-voices how it burns so ginger – eyes undressing my lies,

A life unsure, pretty sure its julienned mirth – like psammon at the malthouse,

Or a playwright’s typed words, letter-face or – your inkwell azure,

An ermine brooch, the house’s parapets – if-garlanded obscure,

Like-I love, cabled didacticism is a masquerade – fishnets demurred

Saintliness, within-to your sky’s brown palliations – cat-eyed sexaholic

Paints with language, you with languish – it’s sanguine

I like the way the words sound – if I’m not the one to say them,

The disputants of bruised olive oil skin – contrasts mirrored moon glass

A milk intoxicant, a milk parsimonious – heaven is a hell betwixt.”

She looks to the ceiling, and with a long exhalation, as if with regret, annunciates herself with the following.

AMELIA: (after a time) “If it was I, in some time, misfortuned-a miscreant, to treat you so unloved or unkind, would I, if it were at all in the slightest possibility, in-compassionate, please, oh so please, my dearest past life, take these with the utmost sincerity and endearment. I see I have done some wrong, in my time, yes for sure, but it is only because I haven’t been back to it before they got to me first. There is the responsibility, I propose, that I, Amelia With No Last Name, finds providence off the heels of prominence, surely, I can assume it. But I have to tell you the truth, mother, father, brother and sister, and that is, I am not unwell in the plainest sense of the word, nor am I unhealthy in a physical one, but I am dying nonetheless. I am dying, out in the open air, drowning in the crowd of somebodies who look through me as I am invisible, and though I do not set merit on the bewilderment of being a person unremarkable, nevertheless, I am, for all intents and purposes, rotting from the inside out. Take what you will, with whatever I have of my paltry, tawdry belongings, for I am but a centerpiece of treasonous pretentsion and pathetic deliverance, yet I am in love with someone whom I’ve never met, I imagine. So, to all those who might have even cared, not but a gunshot wound nor rapier’s impalement, but a razor to the heart, a heartbreak of being forgotten, to which, I dream of things in an alternate life. I love you, to this unborn sunrise, so long.”

There is a knock heard off-stage, to the left. An imaginary door is opened, and a sound cue of jangling change. Enter the auspicious, flummoxed Ailema, her twin, same mid-length hair in a beehive, wearing an anomalously pin-striped dress a shade lighter than black with cream lines, no shoes, and a knit cardigan. Her demeanor is in stark contrast to Amelia, for which they serve iconoclastic and comedically antipodean, for Ailema fumes in her very bones with every word spoken.

AILEMA: (stopping upon stage left, hands behind her back) “You practicin’ again, sis?”

AMELIA: (pauses upon noticing her) “…something like that, I guess.”

AILEMA: (laughs) “You GUESS?!”

Amelia, who gestures to herself of reservation at her sister’s remise, slowly nears the poker table and sits atop it.

AILEMA: (after some time) “Boy, ya sure do sour quite quickly, sis!”

AMELIA: “I can’t help it, Ailema, if I’m sensitive.”

Ailema, now waltzing further to center stage with her sister to left and above her, points to the window.

AILEMA: “Anyways, says some Mickey-sure is a nice guy, ain’t he? But today, he’s gone on and offed right off the pot. I tell you, he’s freakin’ cancerous when he quits…but I guess, hey-HEY!” (snaps her fingers) “I’m bawkin’ talkin’ at you, and you’re looking like you couldn’t give none-two shits less, sis! What gives?”

Noticing her sister’s approbation, Amelia simply smiles.

AMELIA: (with some discomfort) “I am listening. Promise.”

AILEMA: “Well…if you say so, that is-SO, like I was sayin’, Mickey goes on right out, and says, swears it’s the last time and-”

AMELIA: “Uh, Ailema?”

AILEMA: “B-but, yeah…oh, what is it? I’m in the middle of a story!”

AMELIA: “You told him, right, that you didn’t like it, is that the one?”

AILEMA: (stuttering) “W-why, y-yes, as a matter of fact, you’re right on the nose with that.”

AMELIA: “Honey, you…” (aimlessly picks up windbreaker, looking at it for a time) “Honey, you said that once before.”

AILEMA: “Oh-honey me what?! How could’ve I told it to you if I’m the first one seein’ you since seven-past this night?!”

AMELIA: (patiently) “Remember, what the doctor said about your memory, short-term? How you go and say or do things then forget them sometimes at the drop of a hat…? You, you remember saying that, sis?”

AILEMA: (walking to overlook window, turns to face center, arms crossed, leaning back) “…say, did I go and say-”

AMELIA: “Uh-huh-”

AILEMA: “What I thought I hadn’t already said-”

AMELIA: “Yes, Ailema, yes, just as a matter of fact-”

AILEMA: “…did I really go ahead and do all that, AGAIN?”

Amelia, sighing, lets the windbreaker fall to the ground with a lifeless disposition, as if skimming the top of a still pond.

AMELIA: “You didn’t like this, or I didn’t like that, or some form or variation of it.”

AILEMA: “And, and, you’re practicing that thing-that THING you do, right, sis? How about it now, can you…say a few lines for me?”

AMELIA: “No, I’m quite sensitive about it, especially as-is you forgetting things so often.” (claps) “Now, you, I think, are here yet again in the same cold, late night, not to offer elucidation about this love or that-which, for the past fortnight has been all about Mickey-but, to…let me guess, you’re here for one of either two reasons, one of which is MY shoes, those very same pair of nice comfortable slippers I let you borrow once upon a time ago, or, the other reason I suspect, is because you are simply, and utterly, a lonely, miserable, angry person who can’t help but rain in on my little parade.”

Ailema, snickering to herself, dawdles along the adjacent wall, gliding her hand across with finesse, then abruptly sits on the floor without grace, while her sister watches on.

AILEMA: (to self) “…sensitive people don’t talk like that…”

AMELIA: “What?”

AILEMA: “I said, that’s quite a word you got there, sis, tell you that.”

They pause, and the snowfall continues on without imperilment.

AMELIA: “If you’re expecting sympathy from me, dearest youngblood, well then you can just forget it. In-fact, I can go ahead and tell you whatever it is my spurious heart desires, for upon a few hours, maybe even less, you’ll just forget all of this, or-at-least-the most important parts, never happened!”

AILEMA: (beginning to play with hair) “I just like to hear how you talk, is all. Considering I’m the only other person in this joint who can stand lookin’ at you-”

AMELIA: (hopping off poker table to stand) “WHAT do you mean by that?”

AILEMA: “Johnny, Joker, James, Jordan, Jan, Jasper, Jason, Jean, Jam, Jack, Jimmy, heck, I ain’t remember him, the one tall one, big long shoulders, arms that could pick a finch right out a treetop, what was his name?”

AMELIA: “HER name, thank you very much, a-SHE. SHE is a baseball player, Ailema, who just so happens to be taller than most-”

AILEMA: “A fackin’ giant, Ginny-G was saying that giraffe doubled her size without the cleats!” (laughs)

Amelia storms to her sister and angrily sits alongside her, parallel, talking as if to the air in front of them.

AMELIA: “You say that, dearest ole’ sister, but did you, could you ever remember how when the clock struck at half past six, six then not even seven, when I was expecting her to pick me up at the door, you came out to greet her-”

AILEMA: (still laughing) “He-SHE-THEY took a look at us, first me, and said, nuh-uh, no way, I don’t like it!”

AMELIA: “Oh, that’s-”

AILEMA: “What was, the name-”

AMELIA: “Jamie, JAMIE! You, you-”

AILEMA: “Wild-fookin’-time’s, eh? Like, hey, did, did…” (pauses, looks to sister) “I’m awfully sorry. Before I forget.”

Amelia, who falters of resignation, shrugs with billows of repose, looking downward between her crossed-legs.

AMELIA: “I was disconsolate, crestfallen, arrested of a peculiar, heart-broken paroxysm-”

AILEMA: “WHAT?”

AMELIA: “I’m saying I was sad, is all.”

AILEMA: “…oh…that’s you most days, sis.” (leans back, crudely opens legs, rests on palms) “Amelia, if you were given a million smackaroo’s, heck, I don’t know, a boatload, you’d still be lookin’ to be a bummer.”

AMELIA: “So-I’m moody, and you’re forgetful.”

AILEMA: “Memoryless and madness. Put that in one of your awful-mono-longs.”

AMELIA: (sighs) “I took back my shoes, because I’m mad-”

AILEMA: “Sensitive like a sea urchin!”

AMELIA: “Oooh…you’re…mindless! You don’t mind what you do one bit, do you?!”

AILEMA: “I said I apologized. Sor-ree. Double, naw, triply so. Quadruple it. Times quintuplets. Six-octoplets. Seven-over-”

AMELIA: “Ailema, this is not a time I have chosen to act.” (lightly pushes her over) “I am just, VERY justified in my vexation! Here I am, a poor, old, lonely soul, looking for some company-”

AILEMA: (chortling on her side) “For the amiable Sasquatch on shortstop to toss you a fast one!”

Amelia, who reluctantly joins in frustrated laughter, stamps her feet upon coming to stand, then walks back over to the poker table, playing with loose chips.

AMELIA: “You are NOT as funny as you think you are, let’s get that straight right now.” (looks to see Ailema still laughing) “My heart is in shambles, sister, but you keep jousting about it like I haven’t any feeling whatsoever!”

AILEMA: (slowly rising, tapering off her chuckling as she moves back to window) “Paper thin skin, sis.” (again leans back against window, crossing arms) “I-I, honest, lord knows honest, when it comes to romantic endeavors, you sis, are truly, an appreciative type. Like, a bull-nosed, frog-faced, freckled-fickle gal with no eyelashes and buckteeth could hit you up for a date, and there’s nothin’ in you to say, ‘no please’.” (taps window with back of hand, briefly) “It’s sorta like how it rains then snows outside. One minute you’re piss-shiverin’, waitin’ to get back inside, then the next thing you know-it, all a-sudden, there’s nothin’ in the world you want more than BUT to be back outside.”

AMELIA: “Hmph! At least whomever I see fit to date ME has standards. By the time you find someone fit, you’re ready and well to forget them all-together.” (turns, flips a loose poker chip onto the floor) “Take for instance, your precious Mickey-boy, blue-eyed Irish runner, legs of a gallant, propeller feet when they hit the dirt, slick-beaming-black hair gorgeous as the onyx made from volcano layer. HE, those wide yet appropriate shoulders that sit dashingly upon his bladed caress, how he laughs with his curled fingers and puts his hands to his thin chest, bald mustache of peppered flake, probably the finest boy you have ever brought home, let me say, dearest sibling.”

Amelia waits, as if thinking of what to say.

AILEMA: “…why, that’s the closest to jealous I ever heard you say about him.”

A silence befalls them.

AILEMA: “Well, what to it, then?”

Amelia grabs another poker chip and flings it across the room, like skipping a stone over a pond.

AMELIA: “I…have nothing bad to say about him.”

AILEMA: “HUH?”

AMELIA: “Not at all. He’s a genuinely nice boy with a tall, slim finger that any girl would be proud to showoff.”

AILEMA: “What was all that yappin’ and thinkin’ for anyway, huh?” (neck falls back to rest on window, looks skyward) “You, sis, got a way with words, being sensitive ain’t do none much to find you quiet.”

AMELIA: “You didn’t let me finish.”

AILEMA: “Be-cause, I’m done with this.”

Ailema, shrugging, begins to walk out, then stops upon the left, near the imaginary door.

AILEMA: “Fore I forget, sis…where did you put the slips?”

AMELIA: “…they’re still mine, you know.”

AILEMA: “And, I’m going to ask for them back.” (turns) “I don’t like this, sis, not one bit!”

AMELIA: “Well, I’m sorry you weren’t invited, but for your information, not that I’d assume you’d be one to CARE about the way I feel, but, but…”

Amelia, lingering, hesitates, then draws backward, falling to sit upon the poker table.

AILEMA: “What, Amelia, what is it?”

AMELIA: “I…no, I can’t say it, I’m sorry I ever said anything mean about you.”

AILEMA: “…c’mon, don’t be so esoteric.” (nears her at center) “Don’t be a melon already. You, sis, got a way with words and I’m just tryin’ to come out and hear some little of em’.”

Amelia takes a deep breath, as if to signal a cry, but doesn’t speak.

AILEMA: “Aw, sis, you, you…think I did it on PURPOSE to hurt you?!”

AMELIA: “Oh why ELSE on EARTH would you be so BRUTISH and act the way YOU DO WITHOUT HESITATION?! Without remembrance of things?! So idyllic in the way this-this BRAVADO of yours just goes off the rails and doesn’t hold back, like you’re always drunk off the power you get when it comes to not caring!”

AILEMA: “Micky-boy was a good one, sis, I’ll take it to you there that the charmer’s got some mojo between his legs of his, yup-yup.” (points to poker chip on ground) “It’s about as good as luck, the way we was and how it all ended up. Say, you know, some people say it’s like a game of cards, deck of chance, one good attempt to-”

AMELIA: “I’m sensitive, but I will not apologize, you brainless-”

AILEMA: “I don’t like it!”

AMELIA: “Insensitive, BAROQUE-”

AILEMA: “But, but-”

AMELIA: “Gossip-spreading, gourmandizing toucan who can’t pinch a penny to save a cent!”

Ailema, mockingly, sticks her tongue out.

AILEMA: “Maybe cause I’m yer damn twin and no one else gives a shit! A fat one! Misses dunce cap, and me, I’m the pick of the litter outta a tub full of kitty litter-” (talking over Amelia’s unintelligible attempts) “CEPT, I’M the ONLY one around here, sis, who can take a hint! So don’t invite me, and watch when nobody’s coming to these piss-ant shenanigans a-yours!”

They stare off.

AMELIA: “I don’t like it.”

AILEMA: “Yeah, t’s’about all we got in common.”

AMELIA: “So-tell me you love him, Ailema.”

AILEMA: “I…he’s a no-good freeloader when he’s on the pot-”

AMELIA: “But you love him, as he likes you more than I?”

AILEMA: (shooing her away) “Oh-that noise was put out years ago between you-”

AMELIA: “I didn’t want to see him.”

AILEMA: “And I says to him, it’s because you’re-”

AMELIA: “You don’t love him-”

AILEMA: “Amelia, like I told you-”

AMELIA: “To keep forgetting.” (softly pulls away a hand through her sister’s hair) “Sometimes, I wonder, if I’m so sensitive because you never remember.”

AILEMA: “I ain’t no stone heart, sis.”

AMELIA: “…no, that I’m sure.”

AILEMA: “…sides, it’s a cold dish nobody came to hear it-how you got with words…”

AMELIA: “…I know, I do, that what happened was-”

AILEMA: “Don’t pity, sis-”

AMELIA: “I…you, it wasn’t pity, Ailema.”

AILEMA: “And what was it?”

AMELIA: “It was just remembering, a memory, for you, out of my mouth, about your condition…”

AILEMA: “Well, let me be sensitive, bout how I was real miffed you stiffin’ me out this-”

AMELIA: “My sadness is a wall, and the way you forget is-”

AILEMA: “I don’t like it.”

CURTAIN

© 2022, A. M. D’Angelo