Leaving Rhode Island: San Francisco

                (BARB and JOHN at their home.)

BARB:  John, I just want you to know that I love you very much.

JOHN:  Okay.

BARB:  And I can’t go back to Rhode Island.

JOHN:  What?  Why not?

BARB:  The gays.

JOHN:  The what?

BARB:  I can’t leave the gays.

JOHN:  Which gays?

BARB:  All of them.  All the gays.

JOHN:  I don’t understand.

BARB:  I knew you wouldn’t, but…When I got exiled, and you had to take the job out here, I thought I was going to hate it.  Not that I had any bad pre-conceived notions about San Francisco.  I just thought that being away from home would be really hard, and it was, but then I found…

JOHN:  The gays?

BARB:  The gays!  John, I love them.  I can’t leave them.

JOHN:  Barb, they have gays in Rhode Island.

BARB:  Oh please, John.  Those are New England gays.  These are California gays.  These gays are pure.  They’re tanned.  They go to the gym two—sometimes three times a day.

JOHN:  Barb, we are not staying here just for the gays.

BARB:  What do you want, John?  Do you want me to go back to Rhode Island so I can have women cutting my hair again?  Do you remember what my hair looked like when I had women cutting it?  I looked like a yearbook photo from 1987.

JOHN:  We can find you a—

BARB:  And our apartment.  Do you remember the furniture in our apartment?  The one that wasn’t designed by a gay man?  I would burn every piece of it now if it was in front of me.  God, John, the things I didn’t know.  The wine I drank, the music I listened to, the terminology I wasn’t aware of—

JOHN:  What terminology?

BARB:  Werq, shade, tatty—

JOHN:  What does tatty mean?

BARB:  It’s like gossiping, or like, being gossip-y, like—Don’t let Sheila find out you’re getting a divorce.  She’s tatty.

JOHN:  Like a tattletale?

BARB:  I don’t know, John.  You don’t ask them how they come up with these , you just figure out the right way to use them, and then do it as much as possible.

JOHN:  It’s not like I’m trying to get you to go back to Arkansas, Barb.

BARB:  I want you to pretend that you’re asking me to leave behind an entire city of daschund puppies, John.  Because that’s exactly what it would be like for me.  It would be like I was leaving them here to die.

JOHN:  They were fine before you got here, Barb.  I’m sure they’ll survive.  Bill and Scott don’t even call you anymore since they started hanging out with that yoga instructor down the street.

BARB:  Don’t be tatty, John.  I won’t stand for it.

JOHN:  Look, I’m glad you like where we live, but I can’t do California much longer.  I can’t walk to work every day worrying that I’m going to see some naked lady running down the street with a sign taped to her back that says ‘They’re killing the honeybees.’  Or be told by my co-workers that I need to do a papaya cleanse.  Or watch two strangers hug each other for absolutely no reason.  I need Rhode Island, Barb.  It’s been five years.  I need somebody to give me the finger because I forgot to yield and yell something about my mother out their window as they drive by me in their Buick Century.  I need it, Barb.  I need to go back.

BARB:  Can we take a few of them with us?

JOHN:  Barb!

BARB:  Just two—or three.  Small ones.  We’ll say we adopted while we were away—the shampoo boy at the salon could pass for twelve as long as he doesn’t show you his six pack.

JOHN:  Why can’t you keep in touch with them by e-mail and then we can come back and visit once a year or—

BARB:  Once a year?!?  ONCE A YEAR?

JOHN:  Barb, calm down.

BARB:  What are you going to call these little yearly excursions?  Furlough days?  When I get to escape my cold, snowy prison and return to the land where people understand the fine art of charcuterie?

JOHN:  It won’t be that bad.

BARB:  They’ll forget about me, John.  You can’t relinquish the spotlight for that long.  Not with these gays.  You’re in one minute, you’re out the next—unless you keep a steady and consistent presence in their lives.

JOHN:  Then maybe they’re not really your friends.

BARB:  OF COURSE THEY’RE NOT MY FRIENDS!  Haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve been saying?  I need THEM.  They don’t need ME.  Does the sun need a flower?  Does the ocean need the fish?  Does Gladys Knight need the Pips?

                (A moment.)

BARB/JOHN:  I mean the Pips help./I sort of like her better with the Pips.

BARB:  This isn’t about friendship.  This is about necessity.  My life is better with the gays in it.

JOHN:  And what about me?  What do I do for you?  Don’t I…add anything?

BARB:  Oh sweetheart, of course you do.  You’re my husband.  I love you.  And you love me.  You give me love.  That’s something the gays could never give to me—and frankly, wouldn’t want to.  I mean, that’s sort of a key point.

JOHN:  Then will you at least consider moving back?

                (A moment.)

BARB:  Yes, John.  I’ll consider it.

JOHN:  Thank you.

                (He kisses her on the cheek.)

BARB:  I just hope Lionel doesn’t forget about you.

JOHN:  What?  Lionel?  Of course he won’t.  We’re like brothers.

BARB:  If you say so, John.

JOHN:  We get massages once a week, Barb.  We do lunch every afternoon.  He’s the only one I let pick out my suits.

BARB:  And I’m sure he’ll be diligent about staying in touch if we leave.

JOHN:  You don’t think—

BARB:  Fickle, John.  Fickle, fickle gays.

                (A beat.)

JOHN:  You know…I really hate the snow.

BARB:  I know, darling.

JOHN:  I mean, I really hate it.

BARB:  Believe me, sweetheart, I understand.

                (She smiles at him.)