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  MURRAY: Stella is different.

  MAX: Stella? Is her sister named Blanche?

  MURRAY: Adelaide. And she’s looking forward to—

  MAX: Wait, wait up. This is a double date??

  MURRAY: Well, duh.

  MAX: No, I mean, you set me up with her sister? (MAX nods happily.) This is one hell of a blind date.

  MURRAY: We’ve been corresponding for weeks.

  MAX: When?

  MURRAY: You were, um, occupied.

  MAX: Oh.

  MURRAY: You shouldn’t look at those Web sites.

  MAX: They’re safer than Cupid-dot-com. Did she send you her photo?

  MURRAY: Her e-mails are fervent. She told me that I have panache.

  MAX: (Suspicious.) Does she use emoticons?

  MURRAY: Never.

  MAX: The odd smiley face, on its side like a haddock? Semicolon winks?

  MURRAY: No.

  MAX: Frilly font?

  MURRAY: Times New Roman.

  MAX: Well, everyone lies on the Internet.

  MURRAY: I don’t.

  MAX: You told her?

  MURRAY: Of course.

  MAX: And?

  MURRAY: It wasn’t an issue.

  MAX: Oh God, she’s a liberal. If she calls us “differently abled” or “separationally impaired,” I will vomit.

  MURRAY: She asked where we’re joined.

  MAX: And you answered.

  MURRAY: Of course. Full disclosure.

  MAX: You actually typed the word “scrotum”?

  MURRAY: I mentioned the hip thing as well.

  MAX: The hip thing is cake, little brother. The kinky ones might dig the hip thing. But nobody, nobody, goes for two brothers, three balls.

  MURRAY: I may have omitted some details.

  MAX: Omitted some details. Co-testicles are not details.

  MURRAY: We’re just having dinner.

  MAX: Where?

  MURRAY: El Conquistador.

  MAX: Mexican?? We’re eating beans?

  MURRAY: Stella picked it. Come on, get your jacket, I’ll hail us a cab.

  (He sidles for the door. MAX folds his arms, standing firm.)

  MAX: I think not.

  MURRAY: You can’t! (MAX just smiles.) We’re meeting them there in ten minutes!

  MAX: Be my guest.

  MURRAY: Max, you can’t do this to me! I’ll hold my breath till we turn blue!

  MAX: (Serene.) Go ahead, threaten.

  (MURRAY takes in a huge gulp of air, puffing his cheeks like a blowfish. MAX ignores him, then starts to redden and gasp.)

  Hey, come on. You know what this does to our blood pressure.

  MURRAY: (Spits the word out, gulps air again.) Date!

  MAX: Come on, it’s not funny.

  MURRAY: DATE!

  MAX: Okay, fine, you can go!

  (MURRAY exhales and grins. MAX takes a deep breath.)

  But NO KARAOKE.

  MURRAY: I promise.

  (They shuffle toward the door. MURRAY stops, peering at MAX.)

  MAX: … What?

  MURRAY: You still got some shaving cream.

  (He reaches out a finger, swoops it off MAX’s nose. Exeunt omni. Blackout.)

  SCENE TWO

  MURRAY and MAX sit in a corner booth at El Conquistador. MURRAY is next to the empty seat, gazing eagerly at the door.

  MAX: Twenty minutes. She’s not going to show.

  MURRAY: Oh ye of little faith.

  MAX: No faith. Not a jot.

  MURRAY: There was traffic.

  MAX: Right. That, and the detail.

  (MURRAY sulks into his drink. STELLA and ADELAIDE enter. They’re Siamese twins, joined at the shoulder. STELLA bubbles over with eagerness. ADELAIDE looks like she’d rather eat gravel.)

  STELLA: There he is!

  ADELAIDE: Stella, he’s on that man’s lap.

  STELLA: No, he’s not, Addie, they’re—

  (MURRAY spots STELLA and rises, hauling MAX forcibly out of his seat.)

  MURRAY: Stella! Stella for star!

  (He lurches forward, again hauling MAX, to kiss STELLA’s hand. She swoons, smitten, taking her seat with a thump that pulls ADELAIDE onto the bench.)

  STELLA: So continental.

  MURRAY: It’s so elegant. So intelligent—

  STELLA: (With him.) OOOO that Shakespeherian rag!

  MURRAY: Do you do the Times crossword?

  STELLA: In ink. Proust or Ovid?

  MURRAY: James Joyce. Your eyes, they’re—they’re luminous.

  STELLA: Yours are lustrous.

  MURRAY: Lambent.

  STELLA: Refulgent.

  MAX: Revolting.

  ADELAIDE: You must be the brother.

  MAX: How did you guess?

  ADELAIDE: (Eyeing him sourly.) You don’t look identical.

  STELLA: (Delighted at having so much in common.) Neither do we!

  MAX: You’re not joined at the scrotum, either.

  ADELAIDE: Don’t be so sure.

  (They both look at her.)

  Kidding. Joke. Ha. Ha. Ha.

  MAX: I’m astral projecting. I’m not really here.

  ADELAIDE: Thank God for small favors.

  STELLA: (“Private,” to MURRAY.) I’m glad you’re the nice one.

  MAX: Oh, this is too much.

  ADELAIDE: You can say that again. That again. Joke. Ha. Ha. Ha.

  (A sexy, hard-bitten WAITRESS approaches their table.)

  WAITRESS: What can I get youse?

  MAX: (Still glaring at ADELAIDE.) A really sharp cleaver.

  WAITRESS: What?

  (MAX turns toward her. It’s lust at first sight. ADELAIDE stares at her, smitten.)

  MAX: Um … a cleavage.

  WAITRESS: A cabbage?

  STELLA: (Sotto voce.) She’s deaf.

  WAITRESS: I can lip-read.

  MAX: Read mine.

  (He puckers up, flicks his tongue.)

  MURRAY: Max! (To WAITRESS, overarticulating each word.) Can we see a menu?

  WAITRESS: I said, I can lip-read.

  (She sashays off. MAX’s eyes swivel with her hips.)

  MAX: Tie me down, boys, that waitress is hot.

  ADELAIDE: I’ll say.

  STELLA: … Adelaide??

  ADELAIDE: What?

  MURRAY: (Agitated.) Max. Are you … Are we …?

  MAX: Twice the testosterone, Murray. You know how it goes.

  STELLA: … You mean you’re a lesbian?

  ADELAIDE: I didn’t say that.

  MAX: (Presexual moaning.) Um … unngh … Ohhhh boy …

  ADELAIDE: I’m a transgendered conjoined individual. A man in two women’s bodies.

  STELLA: Well, you picked a hell of a time to come out of the closet!

  ADELAIDE: (Shrugs.) Hey, at least I’m pre-op.

  MURRAY: (Trying to maintain equilibrium as MAX groans and sways.) Can we order some nachos?

  MAX: Check, please!

  (He waves. The WAITRESS reappears instantly.)

  WAITRESS: What can I do for you?

  ADELAIDE: Anything.

  MAX: Everything.

  STELLA: Leave.

  MURRAY: We’ll have four margaritas.

  WAITRESS: With salt?

  MAX: Yes.

  MURRAY: No.

  STELLA: Frozen.

  ADELAIDE: Rocks.

  WAITRESS: Coming right up.

  (She turns to go.)

  MAX AND ADELAIDE: WAIT!!!

  (She turns back.)

  MAX: Do you like older men?

  ADELAIDE: Other women?

  MURRAY: (To STELLA.) Je t’aime.

  STELLA: (To MURRAY.) Te adoro.

  MAX: (To WAITRESS.) You think you could go for a ménage à cinq?

  WAITRESS: I’m into leather.

  MAX/ADELAIDE/MURRAY/STELLA: Woo-hoo!/Ride ’em, cowgirl!/STELLLLLLLA!!!/Yes I said yes yesyesyes YES!

  (They converge in a giant group hug.)

  THE END (OF ALL DIGNITY
)

  ERNESTO THE MAGNIFICENT

  Edwin Sánchez

  A man in a tuxedo that has obviously seen better days takes center stage. He walks with a very stiff leg.

  ERNESTO: Hello, my name is Ernesto the Magnificent! I said, “My name is Ernesto the Magnificent.” Hold for applause. I’ll wait. I have performed for presidents, crowned heads of state, and film stars from around the world. And yet, somehow tonight, I am here with you. What a thrill. Prepare to be amazed, for I am, drumroll please.

  (There is no drumroll. He sighs.)

  A FIRE-EATER!!!!! Now you are impressed, no? My remarkable feats of derring-do have astounded and confounded young and old alike. Fire is primal, fire is sexy, fire, she is dangerous. The heat. Enveloping you, swallowing you, until you—disappear. Having said that, however, my agent in his infinite wisdom has seen fit to book me in a club where even a match cannot be lit onstage without an overzealous fire marshal wrestling you to the ground so that he can beat you unconscious with a fire extinguisher. Charming, no? But not to worry, for tonight Ernesto the Magnificent becomes Ernesto the Stupendous going where no man has gone before. Behold!

  (He pulls a sword out of his pant leg. After a moment he winces.)

  I’m okay. Yes tonight, for your viewing pleasure, Ernesto will swallow this sword! Feel free to gasp. Go ahead.

  (He hisses.)

  Gasp!

  (After a beat, satisfied.)

  This is a real sword. Not some dummied-up prop where the blade disappears into the handle. Yesssss, even Ernesto is amazed. I have, once again, amazed myself.

  (He takes the sword, leans his head back, and positions the sword over his open mouth. Beat. He lowers the sword.)

  I should point out that Ernesto the Fearless has never actually done this act. But I have been cheating death my entire life, so I am not afraid.

  (He again lifts the sword, tilts his head back, and opens his mouth. Again he lowers the sword.)

  For what is there to fear, but fear itself. A very great man once said that. Yes, he did. A very, very great man.

  (He looks at the sword, runs his finger along the blade.)

  A sharp, great man.

  (He raises the sword, but stops midway, brings it down. He loses his accent.)

  My father was the one who did the fire-eater act, and his father before him and so on and so forth. This is my legacy. No matter if I wanted it or not. Imagine being born and being given a book of matches and being told, that’s it kid, that’s your lot in life. Maybe I didn’t like fire or maybe I wanted to be an arsonist, not as a career you know, but more like a hobby. But no, no choice for Ernesto. I hate that name! First time I did the act I was eight years old. The novelty of having a child fire-eater, what won’t they think of next? It was a beauty pageant. First my grandfather came out, then my father. I was saved for last. Onstage with fifty of the most beautiful girls from the United States. I brought the flame up to my lips, sweat pouring off me, hand shaking, and at the worst possible moment I get a sneezing attack. I didn’t swallow the fire, I spit it out and all of a sudden all these girls with their oversprayed, moussed and gelled hair are going up like Roman candles. It was like Dante’s Inferno, if Dante’s Inferno had an evening-gown competition. Red and blue states running amok, crashing into each other, while I continued, unable to control my sneezing. Until like an asthmatic dragon, only faint sparks remained to punctuate my fiery debacle. My father and grandfather were finally able to get close enough to me and began beating me right onstage. “It’s fire-eating, NOT fire-breathing! You’ve ruined us! Ruined us!” And all I’m thinking is I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.… But tonight Ernesto the Failure gets to carve out a new identity for himself. One where he is not the source of disappointment to a fire-breathing father but rather a rebel, capable of a greatness his father could only dream of, could only hope to attain. Could only aspire to if he were half the fucking man I am! Who stands here with a motherfucking sword while he and every other lame-o man in my family coat their lips with enough flame retardant for an Alaskan oil spill, but hey, somehow I’m the loser, I’m the wannabe, I’m the nothing!!!!

  (Pause. He resumes his accent.)

  Please forgive Ernesto. Sometimes I am reminded of why I envy orphans. So please welcome Ernesto, His Own Man.

  (He lifts the sword, tilts his head back, the sword poised over his mouth. He turns to face the audience while holding his pose.)

  Remember, whatever doesn’t kill us only makes us stronger. Or is that, whatever doesn’t kill us leaves us scarred for life? No matter.

  (He again faces the point of the sword.)

  Okay, Dad, top this.

  (He slowly begins to lower the sword. Blackout.)

  END OF PLAY

  FRIENDSHIP

  Peter Handy

  An old man, FRANK KADJANSKI, sits in a chair in the living room of his house somewhere in Ohio. He is seated in front of the television set and there is a chessboard in front of him (with the white pieces on his side of the board) and an old telephone on a little table at his side. There is a knock at the door. FRANK looks at the door. There is another knock at the door. FRANK reaches for the remote control and turns down the volume on the television.

  FRANK: Hello? (Pause.) Hello? (Pause.) Is there someone there?

  (FRANK struggles to get out of his chair and hobbles to the door. He opens it. In the doorway stands another old man, NICK WODJANISKI. NICK is holding a gift-wrapped blue box in his hands.)

  NICK: Hello. (Pause.)

  (FRANK doesn’t respond.)

  Frank? (Pause.)

  FRANK: Yeah?

  NICK: Frank?

  FRANK: Yeah.

  NICK: How’s it hanging?

  FRANK: It’s all right … I guess.

  (Beat.)

  NICK: Why’d you miss the game?

  FRANK: The game? (Pause.) What game?

  NICK: What game? The play-offs … the ah … you know … the play-offs.

  FRANK: I’ve been busy.

  NICK: Busy? (Pause.) What have you been so busy with? (Pause.)

  FRANK: Business.

  NICK: What kind of business?

  FRANK: What kind of business? (Pause.) Who wants to know?

  NICK: I do.

  FRANK: You do?

  NICK: Yeah.

  FRANK: What business is it of yours?

  NICK: I’m making it my business.

  FRANK: Okay. You’re making it your business. So … who the fuck cares?

  NICK: I do. (Pause.)

  FRANK: Okay … I’ve been seeing a … lady friend. She’s only free on Thursday nights.

  NICK: A lady friend?

  FRANK: Yeah, a lady friend. I haven’t had a minute to spare to call you about it.

  (Pause.)

  NICK: A lady friend?

  FRANK: Yeah.

  NICK: What’s her name?

  FRANK: None of your … beeswax. I don’t kiss and tell.

  NICK: You got a hell of a … an attitude … that’s what you’ve got.

  FRANK: Think what you want.

  NICK: Frank? Are you pissed off or something?

  FRANK: Am I pissed off? What makes you say that?

  NICK: The way you’ve been acting.

  FRANK: Yeah? How’ve I been acting?

  NICK: Kinda moody, if you know what I mean?

  FRANK: Nick, you haven’t seen me in over a month. Why you acting like this is a different situation all of a sudden?

  NICK: Frank. Are we friends or what?

  FRANK: We were friends, Nick. I thought we were friends, but I have to say … you’ve been no friend to me, Nick. No friend at all.

  NICK: What are you talking about? I invited you along to go fishing. I take you in … to my circle of friends.