Girl Stories & Game Plays: an anthology of stories and plays

By Betsy Robinson

24 Subversive Stories & 3 Funny One-act Plays, including Darleen Dances

 

Girls lost in ice cream and fantasies and a love of comfortable shoes; mean girls; scared girls; naked girls; bald girls.

 

This anthology offers a different (maybe sneaky) kind of journey that builds like a

• Language: English
• Publisher: Betsy Robinson
• Release date: Aug 10, 2022
• ISBN: 9781088047071

Betsy Robinson

Betsy Robinson writes funny fiction about flawed people. Her novel The Last Will & Testament of Zelda McFigg is winner of Black Lawrence Press's 2013 Big Moose Prize and was published in September 2014. This was followed by the February 2015 publication of her edit of The Trouble with the Truth by Edna Robinson, Betsy's late mother, by Simon & Schuster/Infinite Words. She published revised ebook and paperback editions of her Mid-List Press award-winning first novel, a tragicomedy about falling down the rabbit hole of the U.S. of A. in the 1970s, Plan Z by Leslie Kove, when it went out of print. Her articles have been published in Publishers Weekly, Lithub, Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, Oh Reader, The Sunlight Press, Prairie Fire, Salvation South, Next Avenue, Lit Mag Roundup and many other publications. Betsy is an editor (former managing editor of Spirituality & Health), fiction writer, journalist, and playwright. www.BetsyRobinson-writer.com

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Copyright

Girl Stories & Game Plays: An Anthology of Stories and Plays

© 2005, 2020 Betsy Robinson

Second edition, revised.

All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner, including performance videos or theater productions of the plays, without written permission of the author: [e-mail]

Published by www.BetsyRobinson-writer.com

Cover photo and design by Betsy Robinson

Author's Note

This is a revised edition of a collection that was published in 2005, however most of the short stories and trilogy of one-act plays span more than thirty years in creation prior to that date. Hence, some of the references: Girl Friday jobs in a time when gender discrimination was not even a topic, rent prices that are unheard of in our current era, and television shows such as The Mary Tyler Moore Show and Johnny Carson's nightly entertainment. Rather than try to update references for 2020, I have left these anachronisms and hope you will accept them in their time.

The section of short-shorts, Short but Not At All Sweet, as well as the section Getting Unstuck are new with this edition.

The last play in this anthology, Darleen Dances, has had a long and still vital life. I wrote and performed it when I was a working actress in my thirties, and subsequently the opening monologue was published in an actors' monologue book that remains in print and interests many young actresses. If you are one of them, know that I wish you great success performing the monologue for auditions, and whatever age you are is appropriate for the material. However, as I aged, I began to understand more about what I had written and I realized that making Darleen much older than she was when I first wrote the piece made her dilemma deeper and more critical. Therefore in this published version, you may be surprised by her age. Do not let that dissuade you from performing the monologue.

Because the stories were created over so many decades, in putting together a collection, I realized with the brilliance of hindsight that many of the characters were repeated in different stages of their lives. So I have made that apparent and hope you enjoy their evolution.

GIRL STORIES

ME AND MY GOOD HUMOR

Darwinkle cleared his throat and announced that he loved me, had always loved me, and was ravenous for my body. I replied, Oh, and offered him a cup of tea. He said he would, thank you, with two sugars and slice of lemon on the side. We took it on the porch, as it was sunny and almost time for the Good Humor man.

It's lovely, isn't it? I said, sipping quietly.

Yes, quite, he answered, putting his hand on my breast. I've always thought so.

We spoke of politics, pollution and the population explosion. He said that the highest point in the State of Washington is Mt. Rainier and that he would like to nibble my earlobe. I said certainly, but first would he give me a dollar thirty-five cents for the Good Humor man. He did. I bought a strawberry peach delight. We ate. His tongue was cold.

ICE CREAM

Corinne and Elsa stopped on the corner of 87th and Broadway. The flashing sign said Don't Walk, so Corinne suggested they run.

Oh my god! gasped Corinne screeching to a halt in the middle of Broadway.

For goodness sake, what is it? yelled Elsa nearly toppling over her friend.

Oh my god, whimpered Corinne, pointing weakly.

Elsa followed Corinne's gesture across the street, over a Bus Stop No Standing sign, across the sidewalk and in the door of a brand new, sparkling clean Baskin-Robbins ice cream store. Oh my god, gasped the girls in unison as a taxi honked and a truck driver yelled something unspeakable. And finally, holding onto each other for emotional support, the two girls made it to the other side of the street. In reverent silence they gazed through the glass window at chocolate fudge brownie, butter pecan, peppermint almond, and fudge swirl.

Shall we go inside? whispered Corinne, and Elsa nodded.

What will you have? asked the boy behind the counter.

We'd just like to look for a minute, if that's all right, said Corinne, inhaling deeply. The boy nodded and the girls swallowed hard.

After several minutes of awed contemplation, Elsa glanced at the little gold watch on the chain around her neck. 4:45. If they ate fast, they could each have two cones and still make it home in time for dinner. Corinne pulled a change purse out of her jeans and counted the silver. Enough for one mammoth cup and the subway, (never mind that her mother had specifically told her to take a cab).

What are you going to have? asked Corinne, her eyes sparkling.

I don't know, whispered Elsa. How about you?

I have to think about it. I don't want to rush into anything. Corinne scrutinized the butter pecan. The last time I was at a Baskin-Robbins I had jamoca almond fudge, and the time before that, mint chocolate chip. What did you have?

Vanilla.

Just plain old vanilla?

I like vanilla.

Bo-ring.

I almost always have vanilla, said Elsa smoothing her white linen blouse, but I like to decide anyway.

You girls ready yet? asked the boy, swishing a quick sponge over the countertop and scratching the end of his nose with a very clean forefinger. We close soon.

Well, I'm not sure yet, but you go ahead, Elsa, answered Corinne.

I don't know yet either. Just another minute.

All right, but we close in ten. The counter boy turned away and did whatever counter boys do when they're not swishing counters or dishing out ice cream.

Why didn't you order? hissed Corinne. You said you always get vanilla.

"I said almost always, and besides, I like to look. Hey, there's a new one, isn't it—strawberry peach delight."

Sounds like a lipstick.

Elsa toyed with the ring on her pinky finger and alternately studied pumpkin pie and pistachio, wondering why Corinne always had to be so pushy.

At three minutes to five a small, freckled boy walked into the shop, bought a double-decker chocolate cone, and left, balancing it precariously in one hand while catching the drips with the other and frantically lapping the top with his tongue. Corinne jingled her change purse. I just can't decide. It's between jamoca almond fudge and strawberry cheesecake.

I've got to start closing, warned the counter boy.

Elsa thrust a hand into her pocket. I'll have a vanilla cone. . . . On second thought, make that two.

We don't have any more vanilla, snapped the counter boy.

What? gasped Elsa, her eyes popping in disbelief.

No more vanilla, said the boy swiping his cloth over the sparkling countertop.

No more vanilla? moaned Elsa.

That's what I said.

But how—how can that be?

We ran out. It's a very popular flavor. Then he turned to Corinne.

Wait! screamed Elsa, completely forgetting her demeanor and jumping at the glass separating her from the ice cream. I'll have two large, make that very large, butterscotch sundaes.

No more sundaes, snapped the boy.

Cones! yelled Elsa. Please!

Coming right up. And what about you? He glared at Corinne.

Oh, groaned Corinne. I just can't make up my mind.

The counter boy scooped a large hunk of butterscotch out of the vat. One more minute.

Wait! screamed Elsa, and the boy dropped his scooper. I'm sorry, but I changed my mind. Could you make that one butterscotch and one cherry vanilla? Please?

The boy grunted something unrepeatable and picked up his scooper. And you! he demanded, pointing it at Corinne. You have fifteen seconds.

Oh, I just don't know, whimpered Corinne. Oh, forget it.

What? Elsa stared, incredulous, at her friend.

I won't have any. I'm on a diet anyway.

But, Corinne, it's Baskin-Robbins!

I know, I know, but—Oh, just forget the whole thing.

The boy handed Elsa her cones. She paid. He asked the two girls to leave immediately, and they did—out onto the sidewalk where Corinne suddenly changed her mind, and, in her hurry to get back into the store, pushed her friend into the path of an oncoming baby carriage filled with two wailing infants, whereupon Elsa promptly dropped her cones—butterscotch in the gutter and cherry vanilla on one of the babies, who, from the shock, spat up all over his brother.

SNEAKERS

All I wanted was a pair of sneakers. George told me if I wore sneakers to the office they'd probably fire me, but I told him, If my feet hurt I can't think, and if I can't think I can't do my job properly, so I'll probably get fired anyway. I wanted a pair of sneakers. Nothing fancy. Maybe corduroy in a navy blue or black—something subdued—with arch supports. Feet are important and should be treated with respect.

I'd like a pair of sneakers, I said to the shoe salesman. Something in a corduroy. Navy blue or black.

Well, which is it? Navy blue or black?!

I'm not sure yet. May I see both?

We don't have any black.

Then I'll look at the blue.

Don't have any corduroy.

George always says if you don't take your needs seriously, how the hell do you expect anyone else to for goodness sake?

Well, what kind of sneakers do you have? I queried politely.

In navy? Canvas.

Size 7?

I'll check.

The salesman had a bit of cigarette paper stuck in his mustache. I wondered how it got there and if I should tell him about it. I wondered if that might just make him angrier. But then again, he might catch his reflection in a store window on his way home from work and be very upset that he'd spent the whole day with a piece of paper in his mustache, and nobody had had the decency to tell him about it.

Here! he said throwing a shoe box down in front of me. You can try 'em on yourself, can't you?

You have paper stuck in your mustache, I answered.

What?

I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—

What?

You have paper in your mustache. Cigarette paper. Just a little piece. And I reached over to pull it out, and that's when he hit me.

George hit the ceiling. Why must you meddle? Why can't you leave well enough alone? Why do you always have to go around pulling things out of peoples' mustaches?!

I asked him if he wanted a divorce. He said no and kissed my swollen lip.

I decided not to press charges, as the shoe salesman was clearly out of his mind. I knew this when he jumped over the counter screaming something about the CIA, the FBI, and the chief of police. And it was only a glancing blow to the lower lip—nothing a couple of hours with an ice pack wouldn't shrink—and, Lord knows, I have access to make-up.

I work for a cosmetics company. One of the largest in the country. I have a wonderful window looking out over the Plaza Hotel and building tops all the way up Fifth Avenue. I face into the corridor, because otherwise visitors would walk into my back, but I can turn around and look out whenever I feel like it.

I sit at a large desk with a large computer and a large collection of loose-leaf notebooks filled with statistics on how many people bought which brands of lip gloss, eye shadow, nail polish, and cover-up goop, where they shopped, how much they spent, and who sold it to them. Market Profiles, they're called. I am a market profiler, although they call me a secretary for payroll purposes. Name any large city in the country, and I can tell you how many people there bought lip gloss last year.

I personally do not wear lip gloss, but I did the day I applied for this job six years ago. Lip gloss, stockings, and high-heeled shoes that looked terrific but pinched.

George and I got married right after college. He was an aspiring actor, so we moved to New York City. The morning I applied for my job, he was up at 7 a.m. to make breakfast and see that my day began smoothly. He fixed poached eggs on lightly buttered whole-wheat toast just the way I like it, and fresh-squeezed orange juice.

Sweetheart, he said handing me a napkin. You know I love you, don't you?

I nodded and wiped the orange juice ring off my lip.

And I think you're a very wonderful person. I always have. . . . So does your mother.

Something was up.

"But the thing is, we love you, honey. God, we'd love you no matter how you looked."

Something unpleasant.

Other people, people who don't know you yet, they have no way of knowing what a wonderful person you are. See?

Nope.

He took the napkin out of my hand and kissed it—my hand, that is. See, the only thing these other people will see is a sort of pale looking girl with sneakers and frizzy hair.

Oh, I sighed, is that all?

Excuse me?

Don't worry. I haven't combed it yet. It'll look fine when I'm done. I'm going to put it in a bun.

George took a bite of poached egg. What about the rest?

What rest?

The sneakers.

I'm wearing them.

Darling, let me ask you something . . .

I wore the white high-heeled sandals I'd bought for our graduation, and George touched up my face with a few things from his makeup kit. I bought a pair of stockings at Duane Reade on the way and put them on in the ladies room before my interview. George was right. He usually is.

The head of personnel noted that I was a capable, lively young woman with diverse talents (one of which is an ability to read upside down while appearing to be engaged in conversation). At the bottom of my application he mentioned that I was a bit on the eccentric side, but he found that charming.

Eccentric?

For six years I've worn stockings and high-heeled shoes. I have arrived in said shoes at nine o'clock sharp. I've taken lunch from noon to one, and left at five. Occasionally I've stayed late, but most of the time there isn't enough work for the regular seven hours. Since management prefers that I appear occupied, during said hours I have discreetly read the complete works of Pearl S. Buck and Franz Kafka. I have memorized Portia's Quality of Mercy speech from The Merchant of Venice and every tile and cornice of the 34th-floor roof of the Plaza Hotel while circumspectly knitting half a dozen bulky sweaters in red, green, blue and green-blue mix for myself, George, my mother, George and George—which is no small feat considering that I must hold the knitting needles under the desk and keep the wool hidden in my bottom drawer while pretending to ponder the merits of Merry Berry Blush.

Last Thursday I developed a corn on the little toe of my right foot. Actually, it has been growing there for some time, but last Thursday it began to throb.

You'll be breaking the dress code, said George.

I didn't know they had one, I answered. How do you know they have one? You don't work there.

All offices have dress codes. Men wear ties, long-sleeved shirts, and suit jackets, and women wear real shoes. That's how offices are.

Sneakers are real shoes, I argued. I generally give in to George, but I draw the line at physical pain. "I'm getting sneakers, and that's that. If they don't like it, they can fire me. . . . And you can go to work." I slammed the bathroom door hard and took a half-hour shower and massaged my corn.

Friday I wore my high-heeled shoes and carried bedroom slippers. As soon as I got to my desk, I changed. Nobody said anything. And I figured if I could get by in a pair of furry, neon-green bedroom slippers, unobtrusive navy blue or black corduroy sneakers would be a piece of cake.

How could you have done such a thing? exploded George. "Of course they noticed. How could anybody not notice? They— He picked up one of my slippers between his thumb and forefinger. They do everything but crawl for god's sake. Monday you go to the doctor and get the damn corn removed."

No, I countered. Tomorrow I go to the shoe store and get sneakers.

George ate dinner at the coffee shop around the corner, and I stayed home and watched the old Dick Van Dyke Show and wondered why we couldn't be like Rob and Laura. Rob never yelled at Laura and ate dinner in the coffee shop around the corner. But then again, Laura never got throbbing, ugly corns on the little toe of her right foot. And she didn't go to work. And she wore flats. And if she ever did get a corn, she'd just cry Oh, R-o-ob, and Rob would kiss it and call their neighbor, Jerry-the-dentist, and get a recommendation for a good, yet wacky, podiatrist and hold her hand all the way to his office, and afterwards do something silly and charming such as fall down while attempting to carry her (in her new sneakers) over the threshold. Then they'd laugh and kiss and go to the bedroom.

George had an audition for a sitcom in the morning, so I slept on the couch—a somewhat battered one that George had picked up on the street three years ago intending to de-lump it.

I woke Saturday with a throbbing toe and lumps in my back. George was still asleep, so I scrambled the eggs extra loud and vacuumed the throw rug just outside our bedroom.

What time is it? he growled.

If you want eggs, they're ready now. Otherwise you can fix your own.

By the time I got out of the shower, George was sitting at the dining room table eating eggs and being adorable. I made bacon, if you want any. He winked and showed his dimples. You still angry at me?

Where's the bacon? I muttered, trying hard to hold my grudge.

You know I just want what's best for you, don't you, sweetheart? I love you!

I found two pieces shriveling in the pan. There are only two left. You sure you don't want them?

I just think life would be a lot easier for you if you could conform a little—join the system.

I ate standing at the stove.

"I love the crazy little things about you. Well, some of them. But sneakers?"

You want coffee? I'm putting on water.

Tea.

The pot whistled. I poured the water. We drank our respective morning beverages. Then George took a shower and I got dressed.

George walked in dressed in socks. Which shirt should I wear—the plaid or the denim?

What's the character?

"A wacky homosexual farmer who's just left his wife and three kids to come to the city to experience the high life—sort of a Real McCoys meets Will and Grace."

Go as you are.

We took another shower, and George wore the plaid.

Did you know that 2 ½ out of every 10 females from 18 to 25 in Des Moines, Iowa, wear Stormy Sunrise nail polish? And 4.2 wear Merry Berry blush?

No, I didn't know that, said George

Well, it's true. . . . Would you like me better if I wore Stormy Sunrise and Merry Berry?

No.

Neither would I. And I like me even less when I'm in pain. And when I wear high-heeled shoes, I'm in pain.

George tightened his suspenders and checked his sideburns.

What would happen if I did get fired?

We'd manage, I guess.

How?

I don't know. You'd find another job.

I thought for a while. What would my new job be?

I don't know. Whatever you'd like. You're a lively, young woman with diverse talents.

I thought some more. George combed his hair and tried on another straw hat. What if I wanted to be a farmer? I asked carefully.

Be serious.

I am. What if that's what I wanted to be? Or an opera singer? Or a sculptor? Or a mother? What if I wanted to be one of those things? Not a whole lot of income in those choices.

George took off the hat and stared at it. Why are you doing this to me? I'm about to go to an audition.

I just think—

Get your damned sneakers for Christ's sake. Get flippers for all I care. Anything you want!

So I went to the shoe store.

I worked for a cosmetics company. One of the largest in the country. I sat at a large desk with a large computer and a large collection of loose-leaf notebooks filled with statistics. Then one day I decided I couldn't wear high-heeled shoes anymore. Well, actually my feet decided. Did you know that 48% of the population has aching feet? And the rest, well, they ache in other places.

The people at the cosmetics company, for instance, have aching backs from all that crouching to avoid the management. George has an aching soul—he didn't get the wacky, homosexual farmer part, and he begins work next Monday as a part-time floorwalker in Fortunoff's Lawn