for
Teens and Twenties
by
Jim Chevallier
Copyright
©
2003
by Jim
Chevallier
published
by Chez
Jim
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in any form. Portions of this book have been previously published on the Chez Jim Web site, in “The Monologue Bin” and/or in Stage Press Weekly and are copyright 1994, 1997, 1998, 2000, 2001, and 2002 Jim Chevallier.
These monologues are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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These monologues may be used for workshop, audition, and classwork purposes without royalty consideration. Individual monologues may also be performed royalty-free in presentations where the majority of the work is by other authors. However, if more than ten monologues by Jim Chevallier are performed before an audience where admission is charged, or if the performance is primarily promoted as being from this collection or by this author, royalty payment is required. Prior permission is required for any form of recording or broadcast, including but not limited to radio, television, video, motion picture and Internet.
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Published by Chez Jim Books at Smashwords
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Sister Santa
Tracy And The Formerly Young Hopeful
Kissless Nick
S-word
Fake ID
Queen of Steel
Getting Ahead
Sole Mate
Mom Babe
Living Room
Before the News
Jansson's Temptation
The Weird Kid
Report Card
Anesthesia
Jasmine
TEENS: Male
Pie
Lion
Poem
We Can
Someone’s at the Door
Foot Fire
Besides the Points
Stoned
Gimme That
High Dive
Movie Hell
Groaning Up
Devotion
Mix-up
The Art of Normal
First
Suffering
TWENTIES: Female
Stupenda
Cheryl Makes Her Tape
Spectator Spurt
Be Yourself
Lily
Man Up
Stick
Salsa Picante
Starlite
Always There
TWENTIES: Male
Hi There
The Help
The Promo Guy
Super Squirrel
Straight Up
Home Schooling
TEENS: Female
Sister Santa
Ho, ho, ho!
I am too Santa Claus, kid. Yeah, I'm a girl. Like duh-uh. – Because I need the money, OK? It's either you little germ-donors or cooking Christmas burgers at the local take-out.
Hey, but enough about me. What greedy little totally unreasonable demand do you want to make of the Great White Beard? – No, I didn't grow the beard. I'm a girl, OK? We don't as a general thing grow beards. Hey, look, would you rather have me or some red-eyed wino who's working off his last bottle of rotgut? Like liquor breath, do you? Well, then, work with me here, OK? I got midterms next week, plus a female problem you do not want to know about. So trust me, I am not in the mood.
What'll it be then? A molded plastic semi-automatic so you can imitate your favorite mad gunman? Some bloodthirsty boy-doll that crawls around on its belly, armed to the teeth? A little remote control tank you can send shooting through pedestrians' feet and scare the Pampers off frail old ladies? Come on, sweetie, you just tell Sister Santa here what violence and mayhem disguised as a toy will put your little testosterone-tainted heart all a flutter. Rat-a-tat-tat! Boom, boom, boom!
No, I do NOT have a problem with men! Where do you get this stuff? What kind of shows do your parents let you watch, anyway? And no, there is nothing weird about a female Santa! You better get used to it kid, when you grow up, there's going to be girls EVERYWHERE. Yeah, that's right, we're even in the army!
Ah no, now I've gone and made you cry. Hey, can we get a nurturer over here? Anyone into being maternal?
Geez....
Tracy And The Formerly Young Hopeful
Hi. Come in. Have a seat. Would you like anything? Mineral water, fruit juice? Sorry. No beer. I'm underage.
Well, now – Excuse me? My boss? I'm sorry. I should have made that clear. I am the boss. That's right. Big League Talent. That's me. I own the place.
Well, yes, I am a little young. Not that young. – Uh, no, I don't mind. I'm sixteen. And a few months. Yourself?
Thirty five? Excuse me. I don't mean to be rude, but are you sure? To tell the truth, you look a little older. And then you know so many people are afraid to admit they're over forty. But let me be perfectly clear: this business is about talent. Age has nothing to do with it. Really. Let me tell you, when I was acting – Oh, not anymore. I retired. At thirteen. I started when I was three. Oh yeah. I've done tons of films. A little Broadway. But what can I say? It gets boring after a while.
Wait, wait, don't get me wrong. I'm not saying being an actor is boring. I mean, I'm sure you had fun playing... Uh what does it say here? “Crushed guy” in Jurassic Park? Gee I saw that movie. Which crushed guy were you? Oh they cut it out. Gee, isn't that terrible? First “Schpluch!", then "Snip!". – Just joking.
So, anyway, I figured who makes more money, actors or agents? School wasn't a problem. I was already doing home schooling, you know, what with being in all those movies.
Uh, excuse me, are you all right? You look a little pale. – Anyway, like I said a lot of people think this business has been completely taken over by young people, But let me tell you, that's a complete myth.
Damn! Look at the time, I'm already late for my next appointment. Hey, look, thanks for coming in. I'm sure you'll find someone to represent you. But the truth is, I've already got someone in your age range. Really. It's true. He's almost thirty.
Oh yeah, there's room for everybody out there. It's wide open.
Kissless Nick
OK, so here's my problem. My name is Nick, I'm a girl and I am 14. And I like guys who don't even know I exist.
People often say, "Nick, you scare me," and I say, “Thank you!”, 'cause people that are different make the world interesting. But guys don't always get it. They don't.
I did sort of go out with this boy that I really liked, but we broke up the first month because all his friends were teasing and annoying. Plus, the day after our first date, I got my period. It was really weird. So I got these major butterflies in my stomach when I saw him. I must have acted really queer.
The whole time I wanted to kiss him. French kiss. Even though I've never kissed anyone. Peck or French. But I figured once you start, it doesn't matter which you do. Anyway, my friend says it's really easy to French. All you do is have your mouth open when you kiss and if the other person's mouth is open too, just slide in the tongue.
On top of which he had braces. So I'm like, should I kiss him anyway, even though he has braces?
So now it's too late. I should have just gone for it, I guess. But now he's going out with some hoochie. You see them together, and they're like Frenching, all the time. So I feel like a complete moron. Which I am.
I haven't even been out on a date since that except once on a sympathy date with one of my friends' brothers. But he was really a big loser, so I didn't have any fun. And no way was I letting him kiss me. Peck or French.
Well that's my problem. But the way I figure, it's got to happen, doesn't it? I can't be single and kissless for my whole life.
Can I?
S-word
What did you call me?
No, no, wait. Don’t walk away. You’ve got quite the mouth there. It was sure working fine a minute ago. Why stop now? Don’t be shy.
Let me help you: S… L… U… Coming back to you now, is it?
So, I’ve been out with more than one guy. Wow. Imagine that. You know what? You bet I have. Boys like me, if you want to know. And if they’re halfway decent to me, I like them too.
This, lest you miss the point, would not include you.
You’d love to get with lots of girls, wouldn’t you? You’d love to have a little list of your own. You’d be quite the rooster then, wouldn’t you? You’d be quite the cockle-doodle-doo.
As it is, you can shorten that by about four syllables. You can do that, right? I’ll bet you know all about short things.
But let me be a little popular, let me profit from what are, by the way, quite considerable opportunities, – quite sizeable, you might say – and you, Mr. Moral Oral, call me a – What was that word? Want to say it again?
What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?
Look, since it’s a safe bet you’re not going anywhere tonight, why don’t you stop by the science lab and see if you can borrow a microscope? That way when you go home tonight, you won’t have to spend hours looking for your little playmate before you put him in a chokehold.
Me, I’ll be busy. Would you believe? I’ve got a date.
Fake ID
The worst thing is, $50 is cheap. Not for me, no. If my brother-in-law hadn’t felt sorry for me, I wouldn’t even have come up with that. But I did. Not a penny more, but at least I got the fifty bucks. Which is pretty much bottom of the line. Nowhere near what the pros charge.
The worst part after that is going downtown. There’s this street everybody knows about where these guys hang around, and you walk by them, real close, without looking at them, and they whisper “Need ID? Need ID?”, and then you pick one, or you look for the guy your friends told you about, and you give him your picture. And the money. That’s right. You have to pay them up front. And yeah, sometimes they rip you off. That’s why you have to know who to go to. Then you wait, have coffee or something, and then they come back, and you have it. You have your fake ID.
OK, that’s scary enough, getting the money and then hoping this guy with gold chains and lots of tattoos but no teeth doesn’t rip you off. But then, you figure, you’re home free. You can hang out with the big girls now. You can party one hundred percent.
Only, I went out with my friends that night to the Sludge, and it was going to be my big night. I have been dying to go to that place. So I hand my ID to the bouncer – this guy was huge, I had to bend my head back to talk to him – and he takes my ID, and he looks at it, and he LAUGHS. And he hands it to this other guy leaning against the wall. And HE laughs. Then the first guy, the bouncer, hands it back to me and he says, “Oh honey, get your money back. You so got ripped off. You got ripped off big time.” Then he laughs again, and starts letting the other people through. And I’m just standing there, with everybody looking at me as they’re walking in.
Oh my God, I was so embarrassed. I was mortified. Now I’ll never get into the Sludge. Not for another two years anyway. And on top of that, I’m out fifty bucks.
Life can’t get any worse than this. Can it?
Queen of Steel
You know who I want to be like? Stalina, Queen of Steel.
Swish! Whap! Gnah!
That’s how she fights. She thrusts, she pounces, she clangs; she clicks, she feints, she flies. She lunges forward, she shifts to the right; she closes in, she springs back.
And she always wins! That’s what’s so cool! You always know, no matter how bad a scrape she’s in, no matter how far she’s outnumbered, even if she’s sick or wounded or just so down she’s about to give up, you just know she’s gonna win.
And not just because she’s the heroine. Not just because, OK, it’s her show. But because she’s like that! Because she’s got the stuff. You know, the grits, the goods, the guts. She always wins because she KNOWS she’s supposed to win. That’s what you can always tell. It doesn’t matter how much she looks like she wants to give up, how even all her friends have let her down, how everything, absolutely everything is going wrong… Deep down inside, no matter what the situation, no matter what the odds, she KNOWS she’s supposed to win.
And that, that’s how I want to feel. Just, like, all the time. Like I’m supposed to win!
Getting Ahead
Who needs school? I met this guy, he’s a photographer. He says I can be a model. He’s gonna have me over to his studio to do some test shots, and then he’s gonna take them down to New York, and then he says I should have no trouble getting discovered. Right away. Because they’re always looking for people with interesting looks and he says I’ve got a really interesting look.
And then they send you to Paris. After they discover you. So you can work on your book. Only you have to be careful, he says, because some of those French guys, they’re real sleazebags. But he says I should be OK. Because I’ve got a good head on my shoulders. That’s what he says. A good head.
And after you’re in Paris, you do the cover of Vogue. Because that’s what makes you famous. They don’t pay too well, which sucks, but you have to do it. Sometimes you have to sacrifice, you know? To get ahead. And after that when you come back to New York, you’re a big deal. Though some girls, I guess they don’t come back. They marry counts and playboys and people like that. But me, I’d come back. ‘Cause I’m not like that, you know? It’s like he says. I’ve got a good head.
Anyway, that’s when you open a restaurant, and get your own TV show, and become a spokesmodel. All that. All the real model stuff.
But that’s later. You have to take it one step at a time. Because it’s not like it happens all at once.
I mean, you have to be realistic.
Sole Mate
He is so HOT. I don't care if they do say he's a... you know. They just say that 'cause he's so pretty. Like, just because guys like you, you have to like them. I don't think so.
You know who he likes? Really? Promise you won't tell anyone? 'Cause people can get weird about this stuff. Super strange. – OK. You're not going to believe this.
He... likes... ME. Really! Totally! I'm his dream girl. OK, so he's never met me. No problem. What it is, is, he's got this ideal woman. I know. I read it in Teen Confidential. He wants a girl who's got a really good heart, and a head on her shoulders, and can stand on her own two feet. I can do that, right? And another thing. She can't like him just because he's a star. She has to like him for him-SELF. Well, I do. I totally do. It's like he was in... you know... the big one. When he's poor, you know, and the other one, you know the fat one, she's got all this money? Well, you see that doesn't matter, the fact that he's poor. I mean, I don't care. Because I love him for his soul. For who he really is. Not like her. I mean, she just loves him because he's in the movie, so she has to.
So it doesn't matter that he hasn't met me, because he already knows who I am. In his mind. It's just like, I have to meet him, you know? That's the problem. It's not like I'm not doing my part. I keep writing him all these letters. But he's not getting them. I know, because he hasn't called. I sent my picture, and my e-mail, and my cell phone number. But nothing so far. Zilch. It's really unfair, you know? That they're not giving him my letters. Because I'm a nobody, you know, to them, and he's like a prince. He's poor, but at the same time, he's a prince. And they don't want him to be with a nobody. Even if she's the right one. So that's why. That's why they're not giving him my letters.
And it's just not fair. It's just, like, really, really unfair.
Mom Babe
Please don’t wear that dress. It makes you look like… well, a mom.
Guys don’t want to date their moms. Not even guys your age. Especially not guys your age. They want to date babes. Even chicks your age. They want you to be babes.
Now, I know you’re my mom and all, and I probably shouldn’t be saying this, but you totally have it in you to be the ultimate babe. This I believe. This I swear.
But not in that dress. That dress is the anti-babe. That dress is babe-icide. It’s like a great big sign saying, “Keep your eyes on the hairdo, pal! Nothing to see down here. Down here is off-limits. Visits not encouraged. Intruders keep out.”
From a strict marketing point of view, is this the message you wish to convey? I think not.
Do not hide the honey from the bear. Do not hide the apple from the worm. Do not hide the blossom from the bee.
Put on something sultry, something clinging, something that shows what you’ve got. Then dab a little color on those cheeks and go forth in all your glory, go forth in all your babe glory and conquer as is your due. Oh you babe you, oh sweet beloved mom-babe of mine.
Living Room
I know it's not easy for them. Cleaning houses, painting apartments, mowing lawns. Doing whatever to make ends meet.
It's not their fault that I don't have my own room. Just the same, that's the worst part - them in the one bed and my sister sleeping in the bottom bunk and me on top. Like I was still a little girl.
Addie, at school, said, "You sleep in a bunk? Like at summer camp?" I was sorry I told her. I only mentioned it because we're such good friends and she asked if I had a double bed. I almost made something up, but she can always tell when I do that. Still, when she saw it made me unhappy, she said she wouldn't tell anyone. She promised. And I believe her. Because she really is my very best friend.
Addie lives in a house - a whole entire house! - and she has her own room. And a computer too. With DVD. So she can watch movies in her room.
One day when I was over there, she said, "Maybe I can go to your house sometime. You always come over here." But her mother said, quick as a wink, "Oh honey, it's fine for your friend to come here. We don't mind."
I'll bet she thinks we live in someplace really terrible, with gangs and drugs and nobody speaking English. Whatever.
My mom would like it better if she came to our place. She doesn't see anything wrong with how we live. Plus, she worries when I don't come right home. Even if she knows where I am.
I love my mom so much. I wish I could make her happy. I wish I could buy her things and make it so she didn't have to work. And maybe give her her own room too. Cause I'm sure she'd like some time away from my dad.
Not that she'd ever say that to me. But you can tell. They don't really get along.
It's like everything's about money. Not about what I feel or what Mom feels or even Dad. (With my little sister, it's different. Everybody cares what she feels. Cause she's the baby.) So we all sleep in one room and I do my homework in the living room, on the dinner table with the TV going, and I can't be a person. Because we can't afford it.
We just can't afford for me to be me.
Before the News
I was so sleepy. Our school was closed that day, so I didn’t have to wake up. And he didn’t want to wake me up, not all the way. Just enough to kiss him goodbye, like I did everyday. He smelled all clean, like shaving lotion and toothpaste. And he kissed me on the cheek and I felt my own skull as he stroked my hair. “Love you, pigeon.” He always said that. And I tried to make cooing sounds like I did when I was awake, but instead it came out like a little grunt. Still, I kissed his cheek when he put it against my lips, and I took his hand – his big, strong hand – between mine.
Then he got up, and he walked out, and I fell asleep. I must have fallen asleep for a long time. I dreamed of people in color, like cartoons, in a world that was all beige and white and pale yellow and light blue. And sometimes in this world I could fly. He was there, and he threw me in the air like he did when I was small, only this time I kept going up, up and up, waving to him and then to the neighbors and then to the whole town. And then they all disappeared and I was flying, flying by a tower, the tower where he worked, right outside the windows way up at the top. And then I stopped, and I began to fall. I began to fall back down, faster and faster. And someone was calling me, far below.
I woke, and it was my mother, calling to me from downstairs, calling for me to hurry, to hurry up and come down, and see the news on the TV.
Jansson's Temptation
How do I look? Pretty lousy, huh? Take a good look. Because I’m just gonna get worse. I don’t expect to be looking better for a good long time.
Be sure to write that in your report. Be sure to tell them that. OK, and if you get a chance, ask them. Ask them why they did it. Because it’s the law? Then ask them why the laws are so stupid.
She didn’t want me. She still doesn’t. Why’d she go to so much trouble to get me back? After all those years? Why did they let her take me away from Eva?
Do you know, Eva’s house was cold in the winter, and you couldn’t walk anywhere, and sometimes the pipes froze. And she couldn’t cook either. Not even Swedish meatballs. All she could make was this one dish. It was from Sweden too. Jansson's Temptation. All it was was sliced potatoes with lots and lots of cream, and herring. I don’t even like herring. But when it was cold, she’d make that, and after it came out of the oven, we’d sit in the kitchen, spooning it out of the casserole, just the two of us together. The two of us and our Jansson's Temptation.
That’s what I remember most about Eva. That and how she cried when they took me away.
And now we live in this dirty apartment where the pipes bang, and we can hear the neighbors fight, and if I want anything to eat, I have to go buy it and then make it myself. Though she does give me the food stamps. When she’s there. Half the time she isn’t.
But it doesn’t matter, because I’m not there much either now. In fact, I’m there less and less. But I’ll bet you can tell by looking at me, I’m finding lots of things to do. Lots.
So you tell them that when you see them, tell them how it all worked out, and then you ask them again, why? Why was this the right thing to do? Because there’s only one thing I ever wanted, and Eva gave me lots of it, lots of that, and that damned Jansson's Temptation.
.
The Weird Kid
I guess people think we’re a lot alike. The popular kids. King and queen of the hallway. Hey, a lot of people even think we should go out. You included, right?
Wasn’t that what you were trying to do? Impress me? By ragging that kid in front of everybody? What the hell, he’s the weird kid, right? Nobody likes him. Gonna give somebody a hard time, that’s the one, yessiree. And you really got to him. Oh yeah. He was upset. ‘Cause you’re good. You really know how to hit your mark.
Now here’s the thing. You don’t remember me, do you? Before the last year or so. It’s like I just moved here. It’s like I came out of nowhere.
Except I didn’t. I was always here. Only I was invisible. Not just to you. To everybody. Bad hair, glasses, no social skills. Did not play well with others. Smart – did you know I have a really high I.Q.? –, but not someone you’d notice unless you stepped on them. And then you’d get annoyed they were in your way.
This was not fun. I was not enjoying this. So I changed.
Amazing what a haircut can do, huh? And contacts. The right clothes. Oh, and puberty. I can’t take credit for puberty. But I sure take credit for all the rest. Because I didn’t start out popular. I worked at it. I worked at it hard.
Pretty good job, huh? Don’t try to tell me you’re not impressed. Girls talk, you know. Word gets back.
Only, I wouldn’t get your hopes up. Not after what you did to that kid. He may never be popular. Hell, who knows if he wants to be? But one thing you can count on. No matter how far outside he stays, no matter deep I get into every inner circle, no matter how many people ignore him and can’t get enough of me, I’ll always be able to see things a little his way. I’ll always understand how he feels.
And tell me, just now, how do you think he feels about you?
Report Card
OK, here’s the problem. You know my dad? Well, he’s not really my dad. My mom married him when I was six. But he says he is. “You’re my daughter,” he says, “Just like you were mine. You know that, don’t you?“ And I guess I do. I guess he is my dad. Not just because he says he is. But because he wants to be.
But, OK, here’s the thing. He wants me to do well in school. He says it’s really important. Otherwise, he says, I’ll end up like him. Working all the time and never making any money. That’s the only thing he ever gets mad about is my grades. Because he says, that’s my future, and if my grades go down, it’s like my future goes right down with them.
Only, I don’t know why, I just can’t care about school. Even with all my friends here, I just want to be somewhere else. And when I go home, I can’t go anywhere until I finish my homework. Which I almost never do. So I don’t get to watch TV, or go out, or anything.
Which just makes me hate school even more.
So, OK, we got our report cards and I know you did really well, like you always do.
But here’s the thing. Mine sucks. My dad’s gonna be so angry when he sees it. Or maybe not. Maybe he’ll just be sad.
That’s even worse. When he’s just really quiet.
So anyway, remember how you copied my signature that time, just for fun?
Here’s the check my dad signed for my locker rental. I copied it before I gave it in. That was smart, huh?
Can you just copy his signature a few times, you know, to get it right? And then, could you sign it here, on my report card?
Please? ‘Cause I just can’t let him see it. I can’t.
Anesthesia
When Daddy died, I had to be strong. For my brother. He was only nine, and I was almost twelve. So I could handle it a lot better. Sure, it was a shock. He just suddenly got sick. It turned out he’d had cancer for a while, but they didn’t find it until just before he died.
Sure, I cried some. It’s not like I didn’t feel anything. But mostly I was worried about Albie. He didn’t understand at all, and sometimes he’d cry, for hours, but sometimes he’d just get angry, like it wasn’t fair and me and Mom were supposed to stop it. And I’d try to explain, but he didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to hear about cancer, and how it sometimes just happened. He would explode and start to scream, like if he screamed hard enough it would bring Dad back.
And I couldn’t do anything, except watch. Because he wouldn’t even let me touch him. But then, other times, he wouldn’t say anything at all. He’d just come up to me while I was studying or watching TV, and he’d crawl up against me, and hug me, not saying a word.
Mom needed help too. Because there were all the bills, and now she had to work extra hours. So I’d fix Albie dinner, and I’d clean the house, and do all those things she didn’t have time to do anymore.
With all that, you know, I didn’t have much time to think about Dad, or to be sad or anything. ‘Cause I was always so busy, and always so worried about Albie, and about Mom too. I didn’t have time to be worried about my own feelings. I just didn’t have time.
I guess that’s a good thing, huh?