Sexual Perversity in Chicago and the Duck Variations. David Mamet
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But the shot is, while we're fucking, she wants me, every thirty seconds or so, to go BOOM at the top of my lungs.
DANNY: At her?
BERNIE: No, just in general. So we're humping and bumping and greasing the old Flak Suit and every once in a while I go BOOM, and she starts in on me. “Turn me over,” she says, so I do. She's on her stomach. I'm on top. . . .
DANNY: They got a flap in the back of the Flak Suit?
BERNIE: Yes. So she's on her stomach, et cetera. In the middle of everything she slithers over to the side of the bed, picks up the house phone and says “Give me Room 511.”
DANNY: Right.
BERNIE: “Who are you calling?” I say. “A friend,” she says. So okay. They answer the phone. “Patrice,” she says, “It's me, I'm up here with a friend, and I could use a little help. Could you help me out?”
DANNY: Ah ha!
BERNIE: So wait. So I don't know what the shot is. So all of a sudden I hear coming out of the phone: “Rat Tat Tat Tat Tat. Ka POW! AK AK AK AK AK AK AK Ka Pow!" So fine. I'm pumping away, the chick on the other end is making airplane noises, every once in a while I go BOOM, and the broad on the bed starts going crazy. She's moaning and groaning and about to go the whole long route. Humping and bumping, and she's screaming “Red dog One to Red dog Squadron” . . . all of a sudden she screams “Wait.” She wriggles out, leans under the bed, and she pulls out this five-gallon jerrycan.
DANNY: Right.
BERNIE: Opens it up . . . it's full of gasoline. So she splashes the mother all over the walls, whips a fuckin’ Zippo out of the Flak suit, and WHOOSH, the whole room is in flames. So the whole fuckin’ joint is going up in smoke, the telephone is going “Rat Tat Tat,” the broad jumps back on the bed and yells “Now, give it to me now for the love of Christ.” (Pause.) So I look at the broad . . . and I figure . . . fuck this nonsense. I grab my clothes, I peel a sawbuck off my wad, as I make the door I fling it at her. “For cab fare,” I yell. She doesn't hear nothing. One, two, six, I'm in the hall. Struggling into my shorts and hustling for the elevator. Whole fucking hall is full of smoke, above the flames I just make out my broad, she's singing “Off we go into the Wild Blue Yonder,” and the elevator arrives, and the whole fucking hall is full of firemen. (Pause.) Those fucking firemen make out like bandits. (Pause.)
DANNY: Nobody does it normally anymore.
BERNIE: It's these young broads. They don't know what the fuck they want.
DANNY: You think she was a pro?
BERNIE: A pro, Dan . . .
DANNY: Yes.
BERNIE: . . . is how you think about yourself. You see my point?
DANNY: Yeah.
BERNIE: Well, all right, then. I'll tell you one thing . . . she knew all the pro moves.
JOAN and DEB at the apartment that they share. JOAN is getting ready to go out.
JOAN: Men.
DEBORAH: Yup.
JOAN: They're all after only one thing.
DEBORAH: Yes. I know. (Pause.)
JOAN: But it's never the same thing.
JOAN is at a singles bar seated alone. BERNARD spots her and moves to her table.
BERNIE: Evening. Good evening.
JOAN: Good evening.
BERNIE: How would you like some company. (Pause.) What if I was to sit down here? What would that do for you, huh?
JOAN: No, I don't think so, no.
Pause.
Is there something I can do for you?
BERNIE: Nope. Not a thing in the world, no. I'm just standing here, looking for some place to sit down, huh? (Pause. Sits down at her table.)
Well, is it a free country, or what?
JOAN: Don't torture me, just let me hear it, okay?
BERNIE (Pause): So here I am. I'm just in town for a one-day layover and I happen to find myself in this bar. So, so far so good. What am I going to do? I could lounge alone and lonely and stare into my drink, or I could take the bull by the horns and make an effort to enjoy myself . . .
JOAN: Are you making this up?
BERNIE: So hold on. So I see you seated at this table and I say to myself, “Doug McKenzie, there is a young woman,” I say to myself, “What is she doing here?”, and I think she is here for the same reasons as I. To enjoy herself, and perhaps, to meet provocative people. (Pause.) I'm a meteorologist for TWA. It's an incredibly interesting, but lonely job. . . . Stuck in the cockpit of some jumbo jet hours at a time . . . nothing to look at but charts . . . What are you drinking?
JOAN: Scotch on the rocks.
BERNIE: You're a scotch drinker, huh?
JOAN: Yes.
BERNIE: Well, what the hell, you're drinking scotch. But I say “Why pigeonhole ourselves?” A person makes an effort to enjoy himself, why pin a label on it, huh? This is life. You learn a lot about life working for the airlines. Because you're constantly in touch, you know with what?, with the idea of Death. (Pause.) Not that I'm a fan of morbidness, and so on. I mean what are you doing here? You're by yourself, I can see that. So what do you come here for? To what? To meet interesting new people or not. (Pause.) What else is there?
JOAN: Can I tell you something?
BERNIE: You bet.
JOAN: Forgive me if I'm being too personal . . . but I do not find you sexually attractive. (Pause.)
BERNIE: What is that, some new kind of line? Huh? I mean, not that I mind what you think, if that's what you think . . . but. . . that's a fucking rotten thing to say.
JOAN: I'll live.
BERNIE: All kidding aside . . . lookit, I'm a fucking professional, huh? My life is a bunch of having to make split-second decisions. Life or death fucking decisions. So that's what it is, so okay. I work hard, I play hard. Comes I got a day off I wanna relax a bit . . . I wander—quite by accident—into this bar. I have a drink or two . . . perhaps a drop too much. Perhaps I get too loose (it's been known to happen).* So what do I see? A nice young woman sitting by herself . . .
JOAN: We've done this one.
BERNIE: So just who the fuck do you think you are, God's gift to Women? I mean where do you fucking get off with this shit. You don't want to get come on to, go enroll in a convent. You think I don't have better things to do? I don't have better ways to spend my off hours than to listen to some nowhere cunt try out cute bits on me? I mean why don't you just clean your fucking act up, Missy. You're living in a city in 1976. (Pause.) Am I getting through to you?
JOAN: I think I'd like to be left alone.
BERNIE: Ah, you're breaking my heart. My fucking heart is pumping pisswater for you. You're torturing me with your pain and aloofness. You know that?
JOAN: I'm terribly sorry.
BERNIE: Sorry don't mean shit. You're a grown woman, behave like it for chrissakes. Huh? I mean, what the fuck do you think society is, just a bunch of rules strung together for your personal pleasure?
JOAN: Sometimes I think I'm not a very nice person.
BERNIE: You flatter yourself, (JOAN rises.) So where are you going now?
JOAN: My little boy is sick, and I really should be getting home.
BERNIE: Cockteaser.
JOAN: I beg