Hillary’s Tea

A play in one act         By John Mucci   "People will get used to anything." Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Crime and Punishment Vers. 11/23/98   Contact: John Mucci 9 DeForest Rd Wilton, CT 06897   Copyright © 1998 Penultimate Productions, LLC     Hillary’s Tea.   [At rise, a small reception room, "in one", at an obscure anteroom of the White House. It is August, 1998; HILLARY CLINTON is discovered, in a business suit, carefully selected and freshly pressed. SHE refers to a few notes in her hand. SHE then tucks them away in a file folder. SHE inspects for dust with her handkerchief, and with one last look about for everything being in its place, folds her arms as though anxiously thinking about something. [a beat] Three solemn KNOCKS at the door. It opens slowly—we cannot see who is behind it, but a deep, quiet voice announces:] MAN’s VOICE She’s here, Mrs. Clinton. HILLARY Thank you. [change in tone] Come in, my dear. [Simply, with no precursors or phalanx of guards, and wearing anything but a blue dress, MONICA LEWINSKY enters.] MONICA Thank you, Mrs. Clinton. HILLARY Hillary—please. MONICA [playing along] …Monica. HILLARY That’s a good start. [pause] We have an awful lot to talk about. But— it really can’t be done here in the hall. Tea is waiting. Shall we—? MONICA You name it.   [They approach the double-door at the back of the set. HILLARY graciously starts to turn the left hand knob, but the door does not open.] MONICA That one always sticks. [MONICA opens the right hand door, and with the barest –cool?—look at each other, THEY pass through it into the room beyond. As THEY do, the ‘in one’ set flies up gently, revealing the main setting: a gorgeous reception room in the White House, with two large multi-paned palladium windows set in the back, looking out onto the lawn with Pennsylvania Avenue far in the distance. The room is set with a tea service, rather stuffy furniture including two love-seats, a splendid rug, venerable paintings of women from the 18th century, and a sideboard, on which are placed refreshments, including an etagère with cakes, and a prominent plate of cookies. Stage left, far upstage, is another double door, leading to a hallway beyond.] HILLARY Have a seat. I’ve served tea nearly since I was born. I don’t feel like playing mother today. Help yourself. MONICA Maybe in a minute. Any soda? [MONICA heads for the sideboard, where she familiarly selects a glass, fills it with ice, and opens a can of Jolt.] HILLARY [sitting in a loveseat] Make yourself at home. Please. [MONICA reaches into a drawer and expertly withdraws a bottle opener, obviously very much at home. She holds out the opener and a green bottle.] MONICA Perrier?   HILLARY [tiniest bit flustered] No thanks: I can’t risk the carbonation. When you speak in public, you get out of the habit of putting bubbles in your system. [a beat] So! Not to put too fine a point on it, how do you feel about the way—things are going? MONICA I don’t think about it. Last few weeks? Things have gotten a little …out of hand. [a beat] Don’t make a joke about that. HILLARY [on guard, but smiling, with an admonishing finger up] I almost did. If there’s anything we’ve done for the English language this year, it’s to make it Im-possible to talk. I can barely slip out a sentence without regretting it. I almost fired the chef last week when I saw he had "spotted dick" on the menu. I mean, how can you serve that under the best of circumstances? MONICA [agreeing, moving closer to HILLARY] When they don’t out and out misquote you, it’s the best you can hope for sometimes. HILLARY [laughing aloud] I know! It’s impossible to talk, impossible to think, plan, …do – I’d say in short, impossible to really be. [a beat] Feeling guilty? MONICA Not really. But my victim mask is starting to snap its straps. You want tea? [a beat] Are we dawdling? HILLARY I’m not dawdling. [a beat] No tea for me, it makes my stomach gurgle. No one takes you seriously when your stomach gurgles. [SHE takes a deep breath, and puts her hand over her heart, as though saying the pledge of allegiance.] With events such as these, everything not only has a time and a place, but also a rhythm that needs to be observed. We are still pounding the drum slowly. MONICA Have you got anything to eat? HILLARY There are cookies under that cover. [MONICA removes a lid decorated with an ugly American Eagle rampant, revealing a whole nest of chocolate fudge cookies. She brings back four or five to the tea table.] MONICA Want one? [bites] HILLARY Sure. I can’t resist. [bites] And now you know they’re not poisoned. MONICA Poisoned? I’d never think it. That’s too–old fashioned. [HILLARY stretches her legs and takes her shoes off; then she tucks her legs under her, as she sits on the loveseat.] HILLARY Oh, if there’s anything around here we are, it’s modern. Go ahead and be comfortable, my dear. MONICA Where else but in the good old U.S.A? HILLARY I have to keep reminding myself of that sometimes. [As they speak, we see on the lawn a lone reporter with a microphone, peeping from afar, into the window. He circles around slowly, looking into the windows. MONICA takes her shoes off as well, and rather inelegantly schlumps her way over to the refreshments again.] HILLARY When I was young, I was astonished at the dummies who managed to make money in this country. And was it all just a question of money buying you happiness or not? — What do you feel about money?     MONICA [chewing a cookie]: Money is money. Getting what you want is another story. You don’t always get money for what you do, and you don’t always have to pay money to get what you want. [SHE represses a Jolt eructation] HILLARY [leaning forward] Uh-huh. But money can make things happen faster, no? [she leans back] That’s its charm. Don’t you agree? MONICA I don’t know. I’ve kind of given up on ever rolling in dough anyway. Despite Lifetime Television. HILLARY Well, let’s not worry about that. I don’t know where I get off talking about money so fast. [The reporter motions to his crew to advance, and soon a cameraman, with a soundman, come into view, and they seek to get a good angle. Soon another cameraman and anchorperson come into view, and they start to compete for the better angle. This is all done in absolutely silent pantomime which should be orchestrated as to be visible, but not entirely distracting to the audience.] MONICA Are you going to offer me money? HILLARY Ha! There’s a charming thought. No. What I’m warming up to here, is that we are in one of the most extraordinary positions two women have ever been in –you need to appreciate that. MONICA Oh, it’s a-something, all right. I feel it.   HILLARY It’s—how do I put it? a Greek drama. A Dickens novel—a Grisham thriller. All the elements are in place. MONICA Don’t I know it. HILLARY [her voice slowing] And now it is time to bring things to a crisis. MONICA What’s that mean? HILLARY [uncomfortably] Well—Everything has been clicking away, day by day, at a good clip; same stupid headlines—which reminds me: why don’t they get a better picture of you? MONICA Oh, I know. HILLARY It’s the same two photos, over and over. I know some great make-over guys… MONICA Well, there was that one shot on Time Magazine… HILLARY Oh. Hugging him, yes. I hated that. I don’t know what I hated more that week, the Givenchy campaign with the Jack Russel terrier, or that dumb look on your face. [The REPORTERS become somewhat agitated. Female reporters start to appear at the windows, taking microphones, taped by the camerapeople, setting up stories. A portable canvas with a painting of the White House on it is unfurled for a reporter to stand in front of.] THEY become more aggressive outside, climbing on each other’s shoulders, pushing bigger lights onto the lawn—moving lawn furniture around on their heads, standing on tables.] MONICA [hurt] Hey. HILLARY —no, let’s not get off the beam. We need to put our heads together and come up with the ending of this drawn out farce. [closes her eyes] Free associate. It could be anything. I’d prefer it were somewhat outrageous— [pause] MONICA [shielding her eyes] You mean it hasn’t been outrageous enough? HILLARY [reflecting] No. Not by half. MONICA [in danger of hemorrhaging headlines] "Rumors of Mistress…" "Dewey-eyed intern…" "The cigar-trick" "Special Prosecutor Says"– "Uncovers the Truth" "Special Report…" "DNA proves…" "DN—" [She begins to choke on the cookie. Although she takes a sip of Jolt, she has trouble breathing. HILLARY carefully comes to her aid, tapping her on the back; the audience wonders whether the cookie was poisoned in any case. Then it gets serious, and HILLARY tries CPR, rather tentatively; then as MONICA falls to the floor, HILLARY needs to dislodge part of the cookie by exploring MONICA’s gullet with her finger. Finally the offending crumb comes sailing out inelegantly, and MONICA is left breathless, then does indeed burp, while HILLARY washes her hand off, in Perrier, at the bar.] HILLARY No, not outrageous enough, not by half. I think that Time Magazine cover hurt the most. Your smile is worth a thousand blurbs. MONICA [still breathless] So… is yours. Those jokes… are all over. HILLARY Which one were you thinking of in particular? MONICA Why is Hillary like Cleopatra? HILLARY I’m sure I’ve heard it, but go ahead. Why is Hillary like Cleopatra.   MONICA Queen of Denial. [HILLARY gives a long pause, then bursts out laughing.] HILLARY Shall we compare jokes about us? How’s about the new game in Washington…? MONICA [flat] Oh, yeah. Swallowing the Leader. That’s an old one. That came out almost a year ago. God, now it’s Jewish jokes, president jokes, cigar jokes, dress jokes, choke jokes… HILLARY What did I hear the other day? Just like "give me a Kleenex" and "go Xerox this" are everyday trade names, yours will be one too. [a beat]   MONICA [really horrified] Yeah, but what’ll it mean? [Somehow, she’s really embarrassed. It’s just too personal] Like some husband says: "Hey, hon, will you …Monica me?" HILLARY [equally appalled] Oh, I can see it now. One of those awful huge stogies in the cigar store—with your picture on the band. [shudders] That same picture. [a beat] If anyone gets wind of the fact that a mouth organ is called a Har-monica, we’re all done for. MONICA Aw, leave me alone. Who spends time thinking all that shit up anyhow? Is it true all those dumb-ass jokes come from writers on the Letterman show? HILLARY How else could they be so bad? [Their smiles are gone, and they look wistfully at the floor. MONICA absently taps a glass with a spoon, and makes a lovely crystal tone. They both think of it as a pitch to sing on. Then they begin to sing, together:] TOGETHER: I used to dream that I would discover The perfect lover Someday. I knew I’d recognize him If ever He came round my way. I always used to fancy then, He’d be one of those god-like kind of men. With a giant brain and a noble head… MONICA I can’t. [a beat. She goes to take another bite from the cookie, and stops, in disgust] You know, Dean & DeLuca sells cookies of you and me and him at the register? HILLARY United. In pastry. MONICA See? I knew someday I’d be rolling in dough. [reflects: loud:] Why the hell aren’t there cookies of Ken Starr and Linda Tripp? HILLARY No one would ever take a bite. Don’t you see? It’s a sign that we should go on. We have appeal. [By this time, out on the lawn, the news people are in a state of quiet near-hysteria. A cherry-picker basket is coming into view, and a reporter seems to be hanging by his heels, swinging into view with his microphone. They all look like gibbons in a zoo, jumping up and down, clambering over themselves in terrible pantomime, practically destroying one another to get some advantage. Morton Deane stands like a bastion of strength at the window until his eyebrows take off on either side of his face and crawl up the window.] MONICA All right, so how do we wind this down? HILLARY You still don’t understand. We need to key it up. If we can’t pull the plug on it, we might as well …overload the circuits. [closes her eyes again] Free-associate. What would be more outrageous yet to happen? MONICA [biting her lip] We publicly execute Linda Tripp on the White House lawn. HILLIARY [considers] Now, now. No personal agendas in this. MONICA What do you mean? How could the slightest touch on this snot-coated spider web be anything but personal? HILLARY [Cleopatra-like] Because we say it isn’t. [she reflects again] How? MONICA How what. HILLARY How would you do it? You know: publicly execute… MONICA [thinks] Oh. Drawn and quartered. On all networks. We could sell close-up privileges to Fox. Guts everywhere. Just like Mel Gibson in Braveheart. I can see her with that terrible hairdo ripped out by the roots. Her teeth: –out with greasy pliers. HILLARY [resigned] It’s tempting, but I think it would be misinterpreted. I mean something that will really make them sit up and take notice. MONICA That would take some doing.   HILLARY [now she’s engaged] Yeah. We’ve disgusted an entire nation to a point where the clergy have run out of vocabulary. Harlot, vestment, and spilled his seed just don’t make it anymore. The press had its chance to be the hero in all this. They blew it. They could have created a modern "Scarlet Letter." All they did was make a second-rate "I Dream of Jeanie." Now they want us—they’re waiting for us to knuckle under. [disgusted] To the press!! MONICA The bastards. Scarlet Letter. That was written by Daniel Day Lewis, right? So you think we’re gonna knuckle under? HILLARY Of course not! The press are a bunch of children. Playground greed and covering their shitty pants. [A reporter falls from a tree, trying to get closer. Two reporters, a man and woman start a fist-fight on the lawn.] MONICA Well, it takes a village… [HILLARY is shocked and hurt] …and someone’s got to be the village idiot. HILLARY [mollified] I see. We have to be sure they don’t think they can set the rules. The ultimate thing is… if this is your last hurrah, you'd better get something out of it that—you know, that you can stick with. Because this is a good stepping stone. It's not many times that you're going to have someone of my stature opening a door for you. MONICA Yeah. ... I just wish I didn't have all this emotional stuff. I wish I could be like him. HILLARY [with difficulty — and with an ounce of misguided tenderness] Oh, I'm so glad you're not. MONICA I guarantee you he has not gone through one ounce of pain having to do with me in the past six, seven months. He just—threw it all away, you know? And now it’s splashed all over. With those jerk-asses coming at us like bullies… HILLARY And worse. MONICA With their sad-faced ‘how-awful’ tone they always put on… God, that jerk on channel 7… HILLARY Such tattletales… MONICA We’ll do them one better. [gasps] Like Woody and Sung-Yi! HILLARY You maybe could have picked a better example, but that’s the ticket. So what’s the most energetic ‘take-that’ we could give them?   MONICA [brightly: getting into it] I’ll send him a whole case of Zegna ties! HILLARY Better than that. MONICA …You send them to him.   HILLARY No: let me start. [SHE pauses dramatically] I divorce him, and you marry him while he’s still in office. MONICA Wow. That’s heavy. Then what would all those bumper stickers mean? "Impeach the President and Her Husband." I’d be flattered. HILLARY Think of the wedding! We could get Chelsea to be maid of honor. She’s a sport. MONICA [giggling] Oh, stop. HILLARY The ceremony could be held in the House of Representatives, with all the Chief Justices performing it. MONICA Under a chuppa. Made from an Egyptian flag. HILLARY Yes! And all the bridesmaids in a sort of piebald blue. At the reception he can give one of those tremulous speeches. And quote JFK: "Ich bin ein Bubba-linner…" MONICA And finish up with a Kenny G number on the sax. HILLARY [taking notes] Not bad. We could throw the whole country into immediate cardiac arrest. MONICA [squealing] Oo, we could make it into a real event, you moving out, me moving in the White House, petting Checkers… HILLARY No, not Checkers…! Buddy! MONICA I forget. And Socks the cat in my arms! HILLARY I can see the Fox Channel digi-graphics now: "We return to… The White House Oust!" [The reporters are in a feverish tumult. They are climbing over one another, each pressing his face on the glass, looking for all the world like crazed animals in a cage.] MONICA Yeah, and a final fade. Me and him, in his Charlie Brown bathrobe, at the portico, waving goodnight with a big smile to the country. Then they go to a dogfood commercial. HILLARY God, that’s wonderful. Think of the adjectives Cokie Roberts would use. MONICA [long pause.] Yeah, but then I’d have to marry him. HILLARY [reflects] Well, then you couldn’t testify against each other. Look at it that way. MONICA No, I don’t think that would be the best thing. I really want a life of my own. HILLARY You’re right. Sorry. I want a life of my own, too. [a beat] MONICA We could all… just disappear! I’m sure the CIA could arrange that. HILLARY Then what? MONICA New names, new homes … HILLARY Not satisfying. We’d all be the same. No, my dear. It’s not what you do, it’s what they see you do. That’s very different. You should have learned that by now. Now that I think of it, that’s the very problem. You got caught with them seeing something—effectively—that wasn’t part of the plan. Now we have to fix that. MONICA Plastic surgery beyond recognition? HILLARY No, then the truth would come out some day, and you'd see your butt plastered all over the Enquirer again. Only they’d uglify it some more, digitally. Listen! We want something neat. Clean like an ax chop. And outrageous. Do you know what outrageous means? MONICA …weird. Odd. HILLARY No. You have been outrageous, but it’s been more or less unintentional. [A television crew sets up an uplink dish and backs in a production truck.] It was all reactionary. He gave you the eye, you responded. MONICA [pissed: standing: putting shoes on] Yeah? They offered you cattle futures, you bought ‘em. HILLARY [stands also, puts shoes on] He does that thing with his mouth, I know it, and you think it’s a smile, but when you get close— MONICA [backing away] Who has time to think of all that? HILLARY [similarly backing away] Well, maybe if you did think a little, none of this would have happened. MONICA Maybe if you treated your man right, he wouldn’t go shopping around. HILLARY Shopping? Christ, it’s been like living in Filene’s Basement. MONICA [shaking her head] You think too much. HILLARY We won’t talk about the impact of neglecting to pause to reflect now and then, on your part. MONICA [stamping her foot] You’ve never so much as… [THEY stare down at their feet]   TOGETHER Iaa! Those are my shoes! [with a shrill yell of disgust, they kick the shoes off as though they were filled with rancid peanut-butter. The shoes go flying in all directions. Something has broken inside them: THEY both let their feelings get the better of them, and they need to retrieve their shoes while making angry, annoyed, visceral sounds. THEY climb onto the love seat to get them, and in a grim comedy, they need to get close to each other to get at their own shoes. It gets silly: it gets serious: at one point, HILLARY is seated, trying to put her shoe on, and MONICA is bending over the arm of the love seat, to get hers; it becomes too much for HILLARY.] HILLARY [in abject frustration] Oh . . .h . . .h. . .! [And SHE cannot resist. SHE pulls MONICA over her knee and starts to spank her like a recalcitrant brat. MONICA howls with shock, in such an indecorous position, clutching the sofa arm.] TOGETHER [squealing] Oh, I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you… [And then suddenly it gets to be just too ridiculous for either of them to take seriously. THEY both break into giggles and truly don’t know what to do next. There is a terrific, awkward pause of a nanosecond when MONICA does not move, when she could, and when HILLARY does not continue—when she could. Slowly they retrieve their own shoes, and inspect them, not eager to put them on again.] HILLARY OK... OK We’ll stop here. I don’t mean to drag either your actions or mine into the subject now. I am convinced that we have to observe a brick wall between us and our feelings…   MONICA Well, you’re good at that. All right, I see it as a skateboard slope. Swooping right away from us. No way to go back. Fast into the future. HILLARY [a beat] Yes. Just like that. A day such as we have—in our hands—happens to next to no one. I don’t mean just once in a lifetime, I mean no one ever has had this chance. Ever! Well, maybe Idi Amin, but this is different. It’s not just an advantage. It’s … a unique perspective. Do you know what I mean… unique? MONICA Yeah. Special. HILLARY Well, yes. Special. Unique. The only. We are the only. Not only can we do anything, but the result of our actions will forever change the world. MONICA [sits again] You make me dizzy. You—you’re a dazzling person HILLARY No. Don’t you see? I’m no more special than you. But we have acted. Some actions people take get them happiness. Some get the electric chair. Some make it big in pork bellies. Whether by design or not, we did what we did. MONICA And here we are. HILLARY No one is in this position but us. MONICA We could go on TV with Barbara Walters… HILLARY [patient] You aren’t thinking broadly enough. [Monica rolls her eyes] Stop going for cheap jokes. I already established we couldn’t say one word without stomping all over other meanings. Let’s surf. On the surface. The words mean what they mean. [a beat] MONICA [resolutely] We could kill him. HILLARY [suspicious] Go on. MONICA [trying] Or, castrate him, and leave the evidence in the Capitol rotunda. HILLARY Nah. You’ve watched too many Brian dePalma movies. Besides, bloodshed isn’t what this story needs. People don’t have a uniform reaction to bloodshed. MONICA But you have to admit, it’s outrageous. HILLARY All right, you got the idea. Now let’s see what else we can do.   MONICA Cat-fight, At Ford’s Theatre. Hair, teeth and eyeballs. HILLARY No. MONICA Miraculous discovery that we’re related? HILLARY [laughing] Ah, the old six degrees of separation, eh? [soberly] no, I think there we’re at least …eight. MONICA One of us go on a hunger strike. HILLARY Maybe. Not bad. Rather Irish. Has a certain desperate perverse elegance about it. All right, hunger strike. MONICA Either they call all this off, or we’ll never eat a McDonald’s burger again. [eagerly] We could get McDonald’s to sponsor it. HILLARY But it could last for months! MONICA Really? [she reflects: gasps] How will you stand it? [a beat] HILLARY [looking hard at her] No. Not that one. MONICA We could go the simple route. I mean really simple. HILLARY You’re the one to suggest it MONICA Just deny everything. Let’s just all say it never happened. It’s all just based on spoken words. We’ll just retract everything. HILLARY I think The Gap will take issue with you. [beat] Why not go the other way, and we’ll get everyone in the Administration—everyone on the Hill—to say they’ve had sex with my husband, in increasingly graphic detail. Madeline Albright… Ann Lewis, Evelyn Lieberman… MONICA Geraldine Ferraro… Betty Currie, Janis Kearney, Sylvia Mathews— HILLARY Jennifer Palmieri, Donna Boltz, Clarence Thomas—[a beat] hey, I’d believe it. MONICA Tipper Gore. Al Gore. George Stephanopoulous. Erskine Bowles. Nancy Hernreich… Harold Ickes, for God’s sake! TOGETHER …Janet Reno…! HILLARY Now that would take some coordination. Whole forests would be put to the blade to publish it. It’s dangerous: the Mid-East would be a smoking hole, this would divert so much attention. But it might work. What incentive can we give them to all perjure themselves? MONICA Peace of mind. Professional courtesy. Business as Usual. HILLARY It has the potential to backfire. It’s just as ridiculous as what’s happening now, but there’s the risk it all could burst. Then we’d be –I don’t know, what’s worse than being a laughing-stock. MONICA An old, poor laughing-stock. A laughing stock no one laughs at. Laughing-schlock. God, I don’t know what’s worse: the news or the jokes. No, it’s more than cheap jokes: it’s something way down: cosmic-funny. It’s too absurd to think possible. [a beat. SHE closes her eyes] Free-associate. How about we all line up on the White House porch, and invite the press… and moon them all. HILLARY [not knowing how to take this] Think of my daughter. MONICA She can be there, too. Let’s see, with a wide black magic-marker, and 4 butts, we could get F, U, C… It could work. [long pause] HILLARY I think we need to re-group. [They walk around like cats ready to sleep, and end up in opposite seats. Outside, the reporters have brought in reinforcements and are doing anything to attract attention—waving, holding up placards (SMILE) (HEY YOU) (LOOKIE HERE), moonwalking, creating human pyramids. All their attention is suddenly directed to stage left, where there is some disturbance; with pointing fingers and motions to move that way, they start to shuffle on. A crash of glass, off left, as though they had breached the building. A low siren, and there appear some security guards, who are quickly beaten down and stepped over.] MONICA You know, once you get mugged, you’re scared of everyone. But somehow, you’re used to it. HILLARY Isn’t that true for everything that’s shocking? Only shocking once. After that— MONICA Yeah, old as cold french-fries. But your hide’s thicker. And hate: hate just sits there, Like a new layer, underneath. [The scene empties, on the lawn, as though everyone had found an entrance to the building, farther down. Sounds of surreptitious feet and the klunking of camerapeople and rolly-carts way, way down the hallway. It’s almost peaceful outside. Rocket flares go up here and there, occasionally.] HILLARY Tell me, what makes you hunger so…? MONICA [dropping the cookie back in the plate] Sweet tooth? HILLARY [arms folded, appraising MONICA as though she were a patient] No, no: you are driven by a hunger. An appetite to have. Do you know why? MONICA [sitting again] You sound like a lawyer. I don’t think this line of questioning will get us anywhere near— HILLARY I’m not interrogating you. In fact, I find that in observing what a ravening appetite you have, I truly see myself clearer. MONICA Maybe we’re opposites. You said it before, nine degrees separated. HILLARY Oh, on that level, we’re centrifugally opposite. But there is a way to slice this thing—to see it right, where I’ll know what to do, and you’ll know what to do. MONICA Don’t give me that "we’re both women" crap. I don’t believe it. Yes, we happen to have four eyes between us, but you, Miss Yale, see pâté, and I see chopped liver. HILLARY Oh, but isn’t that obvious? Get up from that posture—whatever it is, snorkeling in the muck of the everyday sludgepot we call life. I don’t think I need to point out again that we are at the tippety-top apex of this narrow little pyramid. No one is above. [visionary] We got here buoyed by different means, but cut that rationalization. CUT IT! We—are—here. MONICA So why then, if you want me to cut it, are you asking me ‘what drives me? HILLARY Because if you started to talk about it, using words that somehow rang with me, maybe I’d find out what drives me… MONICA [her eyebrows flying up] —Ha!— HILLARY It’s just that you, my witch’s magic mirror, might tell me. MONICA Now there’s a job. [a beat] Hire me as your personal assistant. HILLARY [getting more heated] Now you’re talking. My assistant. For the next 2 years, you’d be mine… [her nostrils flare] I rather like that. MONICA I could wear a minicam, strapped to wherever, and we could post it all day long to the web. Then everyone could see Quicktime® movies of our day. HILLARY You kids. I suppose that would glut the market. But who all has computers? That sounds like a man’s solution. It’s wicked, but it really doesn’t show a woman’s touch. [SOUNDS begin at the back double door; subtle and slowly, slowly ramping up, of PEOPLE who are congregating just behind the door. Shuffling feet softly, then scratching, and faintly murmuring voices join in]   MONICA Fear. HILLARY I beg your pardon? MONICA It’s fear. Being scared drives me on. Gets me right here. Pushes my buttons. I make a brave face out of it, but I’ve always known that in the dark—and it always gets dark – bad things happen. To good people? But it’s not—honorable. You know? Fear may be a great motivator, but it’s not worth much. You did something ‘cause you were scared to not do—what? HILLARY —what was right? MONICA [with wonder] Right—[as though she’d never thought of it before] That’s a little foreign to me, ma’am. HILLARY [bursts out laughing] Oh, the thought of me lecturing you about right and wrong. Oh, that’s too much. I’m sorry. [In an antic mood, SHE runs to a box of chocolates and theatrically eats one.] Chocolate cherries. Shit, I love ‘em. [The mood passes. SHE sits down. A beat.] HILLARY You know, I admire you. There are slices of brilliance in you. MONICA Like a pizza. HILLARY Like a pizza. [The SOUNDS of the press are more feral, emerging from beneath the heavy door in its enormous presence, but not represented in volume. MONICA looks very uncomfortable.] MONICA I neglected to tell something. HILLARY I doubt that. MONICA I’m pregnant. HILLARY [standing—shocked] You wouldn’t just say that. MONICA [standing as well] No. And don’t go through the list of questions. It’s his. I don’t see anyone else. HILLARY How far gone? MONICA Four months. HILLARY [angry] What? –how? How? MONICA It was very elaborate. Do you remember the 4th of July party where they brought in the "South Iranian Ambassador" with the big beard…? And when ‘he’ and the President went out to discuss Afghanistan…? HILLARY Yinkel Scamwinos? [SHE reflects: duh!] Anagram for "Monica S. Le…"! No! I can’t believe it! This makes me really mad. MONICA Why? Why mad now? HILLARY Because we could have used it! [HILLARY takes off her shoe and throws it at MONICA. MONICA barely flinches, and the shoe strikes the etagère, which clatters to the floor]. Think of the use we could have gotten out of all that. Did they videotape the reception? Did they videotape you two going at it? You leave evidence everywhere, like a … —Pregnant? Come on, it can’t be his. [SHE fetches her shoe] MONICA It couldn’t be anyone else’s. HILLARY [sitting again] Yeeeech. [and puts the shoe back on] MONICA Well, you wanted something to put through the glass forehead of all this. There’s the hammer. HILLARY Yes, a ball-peen, no doubt. There’s no way you could quietly …do something about it? MONICA Lady I can’t lick a postage stamp without them accusing me of performing unnatural acts on Abraham Lincoln! [Long pause. The sounds are brutally low, at the door; menacing, vile and fearsome.] HILLARY [quietly: resigned: back to the agenda] What does the "S" stand for? MONICA [pure] Shithead. Stupid. Sorry. Starved. Simple.   HILLARY Oh, stop with the self-pity at its breast-beating, boring best. MONICA I know—I know it, dammit, but the windows to the outside are all painted shut. Painted out. What do I have? My mirror. At home—what home? God, and those corpse-colored dailies. MONICA CASE TODAY—WHAT SHE WEARS—INTERVIEW WITH HER HAIRDRESSER—DEWEY-EYED INTERN—WHILE HE WAS ON THE PHONE—HER SHADE OF LIPSTICK— FRIENDS TELL ALL—SPECIAL PROSECUTOR— SECRET STRIP DANCE—CONFESSION —THE WHITE HOUSE STALKER—TAPES OF SECRET, SHOCKING, DETAILS—MORE INSIDE—MORE INSIDE… [SHE slowly falls to her knees, and , then down to the carpet, as though she were indeed hemorrhaging headlines.] HILLARY No, above all, you mustn’t… MONICA MEDIA MADNESS FOLLOWS INTERN—INTERN AND INSIDE SCOOP, SECRET TAPES—INSIDE SCOOP—SPECIAL PROSECUTOR SIFTS EVIDENCE—USA TODAY—DNA TODAY—THE TAPES THE TAPES, STALKING THE PRESIDENT—INSIDE SEX… HILLARY Oh, stop, you’ll bleed to death. What’s black and white and red all over? MONICA [not answering: as though choking] Sex sex sex sex the sex sex sex sex sex sex the sex sex sex [HILLARY gets to her knees, then holds MONICA. It should appear to be the defining moment of her career; the TWO of them embrace, and while it’s at first difficult and unseemly, in a moment they are in each others arms, sobbing with enormous release of emotion. HILLARY Shh… shh… Come on.. We’ve hit it. This is it. This is what we need. When is the baby coming? MONICA Spring. Maybe earlier. It’s probably going to be… Caesarian. So it might be earlier. HILLARY Caesarian? the unkindest cut of all, eh? A "Napoleonic" would be more like it. All right… [HER mind races with timetables forward, backward—her face registering a thousand quick calculations a minute] That means— MONICA Don’t say what it means. It doesn’t mean anything. A baby is a baby. HILLARY It means everything. I am thinking how best to position it. Maybe we can go out with a little more punch. MONICA Go out? I didn’t think of dying for him.   HILLARY No, no: this isn’t a call for martyrdom. It’s taking advantage. In the sweetest, most delectable way that puts us beyond all reproach and damns us for all time. What will they do with such a living contradiction? With such standing, breathing opposites? MONICA As me? HILLARY No, you little chit. As us. [quietly] Let’s go off together. I know a place in Colorado where we can be away from everyone. And there we’ll be the nuclear power plant of Innocent Outrage. Neither guilty, both guilty. Burning out the circuit of – animal brute stupidity that we’ve put in charge. MONICA You’re serious? HILLARY There is no other way. Otherwise, it will go on and on, cycling down too sad for comment, gone too far to do anything about it. [MONICA is dreamy now, drawing away] MONICA It? You’re confusing me. HILLARY There is no name for it. What has driven, ruined, impelled, destroyed, made our lives these past five years? Not fear. MONICA TV Buzzard-boasting-bastards. HILLARY Don’t be so naïve. It’s some sort of allowance. MONICA What do you mean — milk money? HILLARY No: I mean, creating the space into which we let them move. It’s unnamable, isn’t it? This great land of so-called freedom: we allow too much. We truly have asked them to come on in and trample us. MONICA [drying her eyes] How can you stop it. You can’t. [THEY laugh, cooly] HILLARY Exactly. [SHE moves closer to MONICA. ] The brakes have been tampered with. We’re out of control, barreling down the mountain, and the only way to stop is to brush up against the rocks—slide into the trees. [SHE has pulled MONICA to her, and in not too gentle a manner, bites her on the lip] Let’s go. MONICA What was that? HILLARY [analytically] I hate that you took away my plans. But you’re the instrument by which we say, "look how brightly we burn." Yes, America, the Great Open Cellar Door. The flies do come in with everything else. [And indeed, just outside the door, the barely perceptible voices and shufflings do sound like the murmuring of innumerable bees. The door panels, which might be made of thin rubber, are disturbed by the imprint of hands, fingers, even faces which smear across the surface.] MONICA [fingers at her lip] All right. All right. Then let’s go. How? HILLARY Right through the middle. [THEY simultaneously bring out their compacts and start to touch up their makeup; the First Lady, her eyes, and MONICA, her lips.] MONICA What will you expect of me? HILLARY Civil behavior with devastatingly outrageous outcomes. MONICA [borrowing some eye-liner] You can’t expect us to— Thank you—love each other? I mean— HILLARY Sometimes you do not get the point, my dear. If you’re talking sex—isn’t that a part of everything? I’ll remind you of saying that when I’m playing midwife, pulling our baby out of your body in a couple of months, with snow whirling around outside, and hickory logs burning madly in our stove—consumed by an unforgiving, innocent flame. But love? Love is so beside the point. All your appetites will be satisfied. I guarantee it. [SHE softly starts to sing "What’s Love Got to Do With It?, and MONICA joins in, as THEY finish their makeup.] MONICA Cookies are gone. HILLARY More for the road? MONICA No. It’s time to go, you and me. [THEY take each other’s hand—then each other’s waist, and approach the door at the back. The murmuring grows to a horrible low growl, as though the whole 200 were scrabbling behind. THEY put their hands on either knob of the double doors and open them. Behind—we can see for only an instant—is a solid bank of flashes, microphones, Lowell-lights, and various paraphernalia second only to medieval torture devices. To the orchestral sound of a sentimental popular number, maybe Jerome Kern’s "Bill" or "Marry me Bill"—we hear a great yelp from this mass, as it explodes in light and self-consuming energy. HILLARY and MONICA do not shield their eyes, but walk into this formidable mass, and quickly all lights snap out. We are in SILENCE and darkness, with perhaps the barest suggestion of wind howling in the far distance.] CURTAIN     PRODUCTION NOTE: I envision this as a multimedia piece; as such, only the two women should be on stage as actors; the others are all projections and audio montages. The few characters in the opening can be real or offstage, as needed. The two ladies appear to be or are completely oblivious to the chaos around them, and only at the last second do they acknowledge the presence of anything other than their egocentric furnace-like selves. Should a theatre be ambitious enough to stage it realistically, with many extras chewing the scenery in the background, it would certainly make for a better experience, but in no case should the offstage/backstage action overwhelm the foreground action. To license this play for performance, please contact the author.