350 word Discussion

MARGARET: Y'know--your brother Gooper still cherishes the illusion he took a giant step up on the social

ladder when he married Miss Mae Flynn of the Memphis Flynns. . .and as for Mae having been a cotton

carnival queen, as they remind us so often, lest we forget, well, that's one honour that I don't envy her

for!--Sit on a brass throne on a tacky float an' ride down Main Street, smilin', bowin', and blowin' kisses

to all the trash on the street…Why, year before last, when Susan McPheeters was singled out fo' that

honour, y'know what happened to her? Y'know what happened to poor little Susie McPheeters?

BRICK [absently]: No. What happened to little Susie McPheeters?

MARGARET: Somebody spit tobacco juice in her face.

BRICK [dreamily]: Somebody spit tobacco juice in her face?

MARGARET: That's right, some old drunk leaned out of a window in the Hotel Gayoso and yelled, 'Hey,

Queen, hey, hey there, Queenie!' Poor Susie looked up and flashed him a radiant smile and he shot out a

squirt of tobacco juice right in poor Susie's face.

BRICK: Well, what d'you know about that.

MARGARET [gaily]: What do I know about it? I was there, I saw it!

BRICK [absently]: Must have been kind of funny.

MARGARET: Susie didn't think so. Had hysterics. Screamed like a banshee. They had to stop th' parade

an' remove her from her throne an' go on with-- [She catches sight of him in the mirror, gasps slightly,

wheels about to face him. Count ten.] Why are you looking at me like that?

BRICK [whistling softly, now]: Like what, Maggie?

MARGARET [intensely, fearfully]: The way y' were lookin' at me just now, befo' I caught your eye in the

mirror and you started t' whistle! I don't know how t' describe it but it froze my blood!--I've caught you

lookin' at me like that so often lately. What are you thinkin' of when you look at me like that?

BRICK: I wasn't conscious of lookin' at you, Maggie.

MARGARET: Well, I was conscious of it! What were you thinkin'?

BRICK: I don't remember thinking of anything, Maggie.

MARGARET: Don't you think I know that--? Don't you--?--Think I know that--?

BRICK [coolly]: Know what, Maggie?

MARGARET [struggling for expression]: That I've gone through this--hideous!-- transformation, become--

hard! Frantic! [Then she adds, almost tenderly:] --cruel!! That's what you've been observing in me lately.

How could y' help but observe it? That's all right. I'm not--thin-skinned any more, can't afford t' be thin-

skinned any more. [She is now recovering her power.] --But Brick? Brick?

BRICK: Did you say something?

MARGARET: I was goin' t' say something--that I get--lonely.--Very!

BRICK: Ev'rybody gets that... MARGARET: Living with someone you love can be lonelier--than living

entirely alone!- -if the one that y' love doesn't love you.... [There is a pause. Brick hobbles downstage

and asks, without looking at her:]

BRICK: Would you like to live alone, Maggie? [Another pause: then--after she has caught a quick, hurt

breath:]

MARGARET: No!--God!--I wouldn't! [Another gasping breath. She forcibly controls what must have been

an impulse to cry out. We see her deliberately, very forcibly going all the way back to the world in which

you can talk about ordinary matters.] Did you have a nice shower?

BRICK: Uh-huh.

MARGARET: Was the water cool?

BRICK: No.

MARGARET: But it made y' feel fresh, huh?

BRICK: Fresher....

MARGARET: I know something would make y' feel much fresher!

BRICK: What?

MARGARET: An alcohol rub. Or cologne, a rub with cologne!

BRICK: That's good after a workout but I haven't been workin' out, Maggie.

MARGARET: You've kept in good shape, though.

BRICK [indifferently]: You think so, Maggie?

MARGARET: I always thought drinkin' men lost their looks, but I was plainly mistaken.

BRICK [wryly]: Why, thanks, Maggie.

MARGARET: You're the only drinkin' man I know that it never seems t' put fat on.

BRICK: I'm gettin' softer, Maggie.

MARGARET: Well, sooner or later it's bound to soften you up. It was just beginning to soften up Skipper

when-- [She stops short.] I'm sorry. I never could keep my fingers off a sore--I wish you would lose your

looks. If you did it would make the martyrdom of Saint Maggie a little more bearable. But no such

goddam luck. I actually believe you've gotten better looking since you've gone on the bottle. Yeah, a

person who didn't know you would think you'd never had a tense nerve in your body or a strained

muscle. [There are sounds of croquet on the lawn below | the click of mallets, light voices, near and

distant.] Of course, you always had that detached quality as if you were playing a game without much

concern over whether you won or lost, and now that you've lost the game, not lost but just quit playing,

you have that rare sort of charm that usually only happens in very old or hopelessly sick people, the

charm of the defeated.--You look so cool, so cool, so enviably cool. [Music is heard.] They're playing

croquet. The moon has appeared and it's white, just beginning to turn a little bit yellow.... You were a

wonderful lover.... Such a wonderful person to go to bed with, and I think mostly because you were

really indifferent to it. Isn't that right? Never had any anxiety about it, did it naturally, easily, slowly, with

absolute confidence and perfect calm, more like opening a door for a lady or seating her at a table than

giving expression to any longing for her. Your indifference made you wonderful at lovemaking- -

strange?--but true.... You know, if I thought you would never, never, never make love to me again--I

would go downstairs to the kitchen and pick out the longest and sharpest knife I could find and stick it

straight into my heart, I swear that I would! But one thing I don't have is the charm of the defeated, my

hat is still in the ring, and I am determined to win! [There is the sound of croquet mallets hitting croquet

balls.] --What is the victory of a cat on a hot tin roof?--I wish I knew.... Just staying on it, I guess, as long

as she can.... [More croquet sounds.] Later tonight I'm going to tell you I love you an' maybe by that time

you'll be drunk enough to believe me. Yes, they're playing croquet.... Big Daddy is dying of cancer....

What were you thinking of when I caught you looking at me like that? Were you thinking of Skipper?

[Brick takes up his crutch, rises.] Oh, excuse me, forgive me, but laws of silence don't work! No, laws of

silence don't work.... [Brick crosses to the bar, takes a quick drink, and rubs his head with a towel.] Laws

of silence don't work.... When something is festering in your memory or your imagination, laws of

silence don't work, it's just like shutting a door and locking it on a house on fire in hope of forgetting

that the house is burning. But not facing a fire doesn't put it out. Silence about a thing just magnifies it.

It grows and festers in silence, becomes malignant.... Get dressed, Brick. [He drops his crutch.]

BRICK: I've dropped my crutch. [He has stopped rubbing his hair dry but still stands hanging on to the

towel rack in a white towel-cloth robe.]

MARGARET: Lean on me.

BRICK: No, just give me my crutch.

MARGARET: Lean on my shoulder.

BRICK: I don't want to lean on your shoulder, I want my crutch! [This is spoken like sudden lightning.]

Are you going to give me my crutch or do I have to get down on my knees on the floor and--

MARGARET: Here, here, take it, take it! [She has thrust the crutch at him.]

BRICK [hobbling out]: Thanks...

MARGARET: We mustn't scream at each other, the walls in this house have ears.... [He hobbles directly

to liquor cabinet to get a new drink.] --but that's the first time I've heard you raise your voice in a long

time, Brick. A crack in the wall?--Of composure?--I think that's a good sign.... A sign of nerves in a player

on the defensive!