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  (GORDON goes back to unpacking.)

  Oh, and uh, by the way—Uncle Simon? (He lets his wrist go limp in an “effeminate” hand gesture.)

  WALLY: Are you serious?

  GORDON: Wally. Aunt Betsy and Uncle Simon haven’t had sex since 1973.

  WALLY: He’s not gay: he’s subtle—doesn’t mean he’s gay, means he has morals. Maybe he just doesn’t—

  GORDON: What? Like vaginas?

  WALLY: Want to be condemned to hell, you sick bastard. And don’t talk about Aunt Betsy’s vagina. She’s a beautiful woman.

  GORDON: Yeah. For a dyke.

  WALLY: Are you serious?

  GORDON: Wally, she’s built like a Mack truck and she has the face of Brian Dennehy—

  WALLY: She’s a lesbian—?

  GORDON: Is Tom Cruise gay?

  WALLY: Don’t say that.

  GORDON: Oh God …

  WALLY: He made Risky Business.

  GORDON: Wally—

  WALLY: He fucked a girl in that.

  GORDON: That doesn’t mean—

  WALLY: And Top Gun?

  GORDON: Are you kidding me?

  WALLY: What?—I love that movie.

  GORDON: Wally.

  WALLY: I can’t love a gay movie.

  GORDON: Well you might want to rearrange your top ten, then.

  (Beat.)

  WALLY: I have a girlfriend—

  GORDON: I know—

  WALLY: We have lots of sex—

  GORDON: I don’t—

  WALLY: And I played football in high school—

  GORDON: I don’t care what your favorite movie is, Wally.

  (Beat.)

  WALLY: Am I gay?

  GORDON: Oh my God—

  WALLY: Am I gay?

  GORDON: No, Wally—

  WALLY: Oh my God: “volleyball scene”—oh my God …!

  GORDON: You’re not gay, Wally; but if you’d like, I know some people, maybe we can work something out—

  (WALLY sticks his fingers in his ears. Production Note: He keeps his fingers in his ears until it is noted that he takes them out.)

  WALLY: I can’t hear you, I can’t hear you—I’m not listening—I can’t hear you—!

  GORDON: Get you a nice little man-friend—

  WALLY: I have sex with my girlfriend; I have so much sex with my girlfriend—!

  GORDON: Some Latin lover—

  WALLY: So much heterosexual sex! So much heterosexual sex! Pussy! Vagina! No cock! No cock!

  GORDON: Pablo y Wally—los amores—!

  WALLY: No cock!

  GORDON: You’re a fucking idiot—

  WALLY: Yeah, well I’m not a faggot!

  GORDON: Stop using that word—! Jesus!

  (Slight beat; WALLY mutters “fucking homo” under his breath.)

  What?

  WALLY: Nothing—

  GORDON: What did you just say—?

  WALLY: Nothing—

  (Slight beat. WALLY mutters it again; GORDON smacks him upside the head. WALLY takes one finger out of his ear and whacks GORDON on the arm. GORDON whacks WALLY on the arm; WALLY whacks GORDON; GORDON whacks WALLY; WALLY slaps GORDON on the shoulder. GORDON slaps WALLY on the shoulder. They slap each other, back and forth, over and over, getting faster and faster and more livid, until:)

  I’ll fucking kill you—!

  (An all-out slap-fight ensues. WALLY takes his fingers out of his ears and hits with both hands for this portion. They get wilder and wilder until they both stop simultaneously, exhausted. WALLY puts his fingers back in his ears. Beat.)

  Ow.

  (They both sit, recovering from their fight; WALLY stares at GORDON without blinking; GORDON stares off at nothing in a completely different direction. Long awkward beat. Finally:)

  GORDON: Oh my God, what do you want from me—?!

  WALLY: If I didn’t make you a fag—

  GORDON: Jesus Christ!

  WALLY: And Mom and Dad didn’t make you a fag—

  GORDON: What did I just say about using that word—?

  WALLY: What the fuck am I gonna tell people—?

  GORDON: I don’t care; tell them I’m gay—

  (WALLY takes his fingers out of his ears.)

  WALLY: No!—no, not gay—I don’t have a gay brother. I have a—a sexually unpredictable brother.

  GORDON: Sexually unpredictable? The fuck does that mean, Wally? What? I unpredictably fuck men?

  WALLY: No, Gordon, what it means is that we don’t have gay where we come from. We have Confederate flags and shotguns on walls. So hide your fuckin’ rainbows and shut the fuck up! Jesus Christ, you wanna get fuckin’ killed!

  (Beat.)

  GORDON: I’m bringing him home with me.

  WALLY: No, you’re not.

  GORDON: Yes. I am.

  WALLY: We’re from Lynchburg, Virginia, Gordon! Lynch-Burg! That’s a burg of lynches! Think about it—!

  GORDON: I—

  WALLY: Have you met my friends?—

  GORDON: I don’t see your point.

  WALLY: You’re not gay in Virginia: you’re a beating waiting to happen—

  GORDON: Yeah, Wally; I know—

  WALLY: Gordon—

  GORDON: I’m not going to be fucking cowed, Wally! You, Dad, Mom—the fuck you think I am?

  WALLY: It’s just; you’re my brother, okay?—you’re—and I just—you’re gonna—

  GORDON: What—?

  WALLY: You’re gonna get hurt, all right? What if you get hurt? I mean, I just; you’re my brother and I love you and what if you get hurt?

  (Beat.)

  GORDON: I will not be cowed, Wally.

  WALLY: I’m not asking you to—

  GORDON: Then what are you asking? Huh? Play ball? I’ve been playing ball since the fourth fucking grade.

  (Tense beat.)

  WALLY: You bring him home?—you don’t call him that—your boyfriend. You don’t; you don’t say that word. All right?

  GORDON: Hey, Wally, go fuck yourself—

  WALLY: Yeah, you too!

  (WALLY storms out; storms right back in.)

  GORDON: What do you want?

  WALLY: I just—when, when I said I loved you, that was, yanno, in a non-un-not-homo-sex kinda way.

  GORDON: No, I know—

  WALLY: I’m just makin’ sure—

  GORDON: You are an idiot—

  WALLY: Yeah fuck you too—

  (Beat.)

  GORDON: You remember Randall Merkins?

  (No answer.)

  Come to school, he’d wear his ma’s perfume—(Slight beat.) Said he wanted to be a nurse—We were in gym class once; he said—in front of the whole class, he said when he grew up he wanted to be a nurse—Me, Danny Reeder, Mark Vannson—we got him back behind a Dumpster—

  WALLY: Gordon—

  GORDON: Did you see him afterwards—?

  WALLY: No—

  GORDON: You see what we did to him—?

  (Long beat.)

  I didn’t know what I was supposed to do—

  WALLY: Gordon—

  GORDON: It was sixth grade; bunch a’ little boys—I didn’t know what the fuck was I supposed to do—I don’t—

  WALLY: Gordon—

  GORDON: I don’t know what I’m supposed to do—

  WALLY: Kid shouldn’t a’ acted that way—

  GORDON: We put him in the hospital, Wally—

  WALLY: He shouldn’t a’—

  GORDON: We put him in the hospital, Wally. You understand that?

  WALLY: He just pretended to be straight, nothin’ woulda happened. Flaunt that shit around—?

  (Slight beat.)

  GORDON: You wanna see straight—

  WALLY: I’m just sayin’—

  GORDON: No, you wanna see straight? Huh? (He pushes WALLY.) You wanna—?

  WALLY: Don’t fuckin’—

  GORDON: You wanna see a macho man, motherfucker—here—

  (He shoves WALLY.)

  WALLY: Don
’t fuckin’ push me—

  GORDON: You wanna see straight—

  (He shoves WALLY again.)

  WALLY: Don’t fuckin’—

  GORDON: You wanna—

  (Another shove.)

  WALLY: Get the fuck off me—!

  GORDON: Huh!

  (Another shove.)

  WALLY: Fuckin’ faggot—

  (GORDON grabs WALLY by the collar.)

  GORDON: What did you say?

  WALLY: Get the fuck off me—

  GORDON: What’d you fuckin’ say?

  (Tense moment.)

  WALLY: Y’ fuckin’ faggot.

  (Tense moment; GORDON slams WALLY up against the wall. Tense moment. He lets go of WALLY. Long tense moment.)

  They have guns. No, I’m serious—Gordon, it’s Virginia. We went to “George Wallace High.” The—“segregation today, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever”—George Wallace, high school. And you! Dad wanted to name you Strom. Strom, Gordon! This is not the place to air out that kinda bullshit.

  GORDON: Bullshit—?

  WALLY: You know what I mean—

  GORDON: You’re not my fuckin’ father, Wallace—

  WALLY: Gordon—

  GORDON: I’m a grown man. No one’s gonna fuckin’ shoot me—

  WALLY: Naw, but they might drag you behind a Dumpster.

  (Long beat. Eventually GORDON goes back to unpacking.)

  Stoppit—Gordon; would you just—? Gordon—Jesus Christ!—(He tries to take the suitcase away from GORDON.) Gordon, would you just—stop! Just stop! Stop!

  (WALLY grabs the suitcase from his brother and throws it against the wall. Long beat of silence; WALLY looks at the suitcase.)

  Is that mine?

  GORDON: What?

  WALLY: Is that—?

  GORDON: No—

  WALLY: That’s my suitcase—(He picks up the suitcase. GORDON goes over and gets the other end—tug-of-war.)

  GORDON: That doesn’t belong to you, Wally—

  WALLY: Give it back—

  GORDON: Grandpa gave that to me two years ago—!

  WALLY: Give it back, you ass-face—!

  GORDON: Fuck you—

  WALLY: You fuckin’—dick-titty!

  GORDON: Get the fuck outta here—

  WALLY: Fuckin—

  GORDON: Cock-wad—!

  WALLY: Fuck-ass—!

  GORDON: Cock—!

  WALLY: Fuck—!

  GORDON: Shit—!

  WALLY: Goddamn—ass-cock—fuck-shit—!

  (GORDON yanks the suitcase from his brother. Slight beat as they both catch their breath.)

  Y’fuckin’—kumquat.

  (Beat.)

  Ma’s gonna cry.

  GORDON: I know.

  (Beat.)

  WALLY: You wanna be gay in New York, fine, okay, but—but here—

  GORDON: Wally—

  WALLY: Just not here—

  GORDON: Do you love Rachael?

  WALLY: Don’t be stupid.

  GORDON: Do you love Rachael?

  WALLY: Don’t fucking—

  GORDON: Answer the question.

  WALLY: Yes! Okay? Yes, I do; she’s my girlfriend.

  GORDON: Same thing.

  WALLY: No—it’s not.

  GORDON: I—

  WALLY: It’s a man.

  GORDON: I’m not—

  WALLY: It’s a man. That goes against everything we were ever brought up with. Everything.

  GORDON: He’s a good person.

  WALLY: We can do that for you—your family can do that—

  GORDON: It’s not the same—

  WALLY: We’ll get you help—

  GORDON: No.

  WALLY: We’ll find someone—

  GORDON: No; I am—I am paralyzed—

  WALLY: Gordon—

  GORDON: I am fucking paralyzed, Wally, and sometimes I sit in my apartment and it gets hard to breathe, okay—?

  WALLY: Gordon—

  GORDON: It gets hard to breathe, because if the rest of my life—if the rest of my life is like this—like—like—like—like, Randall Merkins and Danny Reeder and Mark Vannson then I don’t know what the fuck to do—I’ve never had a boyfriend in my life, Wally. In my life. What you have with Rachael—I don’t even—I don’t even have a concept of what that feels like—Now I’m bringin’ my boyfriend home; you can either be my brother on this, or you can be an asshole. Which is it?

  (Long moment.)

  WALLY: This guy from New York?

  GORDON: Yeah.

  WALLY: He’s not Jewish, right?

  GORDON: No—what—?

  WALLY: Just, we can only take it in little increments, all right? I got nothing against Jews, it’s just, yanno, you come home with the Fiddler on the Roof, Dad’ll probably kill himself.

  GORDON: No, he’s not Jewish.

  WALLY: Thank God. (Small beat.) He’s not Muslim, is he?

  GORDON: What—?

  WALLY: I just don’t want some Mohammad Al-Jawid blowing himself, or anything else up, okay—?

  GORDON: How are you my fucking brother—?

  WALLY: Beheading the fucking sofa—

  GORDON: Just be quiet. Just shut up.

  WALLY: What time’s his plane come in?

  GORDON: Huh—?

  WALLY: I’ll drive you to the airport—he’s not riding up front, though; neither are you, fuck-head—

  GORDON: Oh, no; no, my boyfriend—

  WALLY: Don’t do that, don’t—

  GORDON: My boyfriend didn’t fly; he drove.

  WALLY: From New York?

  GORDON: Only way he could afford it.

  WALLY: Christ, that’s—

  GORDON: Yeah—

  WALLY: Really nice. Of him. Really.

  GORDON: I know.

  WALLY: Jesus; where in New York?

  GORDON: Yeah, uh actually it’s kinda funny—

  WALLY: Yeah—?

  GORDON: Yeah, you’re gonna laugh, you’re gonna—yeah—

  WALLY: Yeah—?

  GORDON: He’s got an apartment over in—um—Harlem—

  WALLY: … Harlem?

  (Lights cut to blackout.)

  END OF PLAY

  CHRISTMAS PRESENT

  Amy Herzog

  Christmas Present was first produced at Ensemble Studio Theatre as part of the 2008 Marathon of One-Act Plays. RJ Tolan directed the following cast:

  BENJI Jake Hoffman

  JESS Julie Fitzpatrick

  BENJI enters a hallway or living room area from the bedroom. He wears pants and an undershirt and socks. His belt is unbuckled. He carries a sweater and his shoes. He pulls on his shoes and his sweater. He buckles his belt. He is heading for his coat when JESS enters, unseen, in a bathrobe.

  JESS: Hi. Sorry, hi.

  BENJI: Good morning. I didn’t want to wake you, I just couldn’t sleep—

  JESS: Don’t worry, I don’t want to talk or anything, I just—

  BENJI: (Overlapping.) No, no I—

  JESS: What?

  BENJI: Sorry, I interrupted you.

  JESS: I don’t mean to hold you up, I just wanted to exchange … contact info, or whatever. Not for—I mean, I get it, I’m not delusional. Just, you know. In case.

  BENJI: In case …?

  JESS: I’m not trying to date you. I know this isn’t how dating begins. I’m not actually a total lunatic whatever you may—