The Boys in the Band Page #2

something else, you know.

Nobody's holding a gun

to your head to be a charwoman.

And that is, how you say,

your neurosis.

Gee, and I thought

it's why I was born.

Besides, just because

I wear expensive clothes

does not necessarily mean

they're paid for.

Oh, that is, how you say,

your neurosis.

I'm a spoiled brat. So, what

do I know about maturity?

The only thing "mature" means

to me is Victor Mature.

I can understand people having

an affinity for the stage,

but movies are such garbage,

who can take them seriously?

Well, I'm sorry if

your sense of art is offended.

Odd as it may seem,

there was no Shubert Theatre

in Hot Coffee, Mississippi.

However, thanks to

the silver screen,

your neurosis has got...style.

It takes a certain flair

to squander one's unemployment

check at Pavilion.

What's so snappy about being

head over heels in debt?

The only thing smart about it

is the ingenious ways

I dodge the bill collectors.

Come to think of it,

you're the type

that gives faggots

a bad name.

And you, Donald...

you are a credit

to the homosexual.

A reliable, hardworking,

floor-scrubbing,

bill-paying fag, who don't

owe nothin' to nobody.

I am a model fairy.

You think it's just nifty...

how I've always flitted

from Beverly Hills

to Rome to Acapulco

to Amsterdam...

picking up a lot of

one night stands.

And a lot of custom-made duds

along the trail.

Well, I'm here to tell you

that the only place

in all those miles--

The only place I've ever been

happy was on the goddamn plane.

Run, charge,

run.

Borrow, make.

Spend...run.

Waste, waste, waste.

And why?

And why?

Fini. Applause.

There's nothing

quite as good

as feeling sorry

for yourself, is there?

Nothing.

I adore cheap sentiment.

Backstage, New Moon.

Alan. My God!

I don't believe it.

How are you?

Uh, listen, Michael,

w-what are you doing tonight?

Oh, I'm all tied up tonight.

Uh, no, tonight's

no good for me.

Oh, I'm all tied up too,

but I...

I thought I might just

drop by for a drink?

Oh, you mean now?

Oh, um...

well, Alan,

old buddy, um...

well, you see,

it's a friend's birthday,

and I'm having some people in.

I'm sorry I can't ask you

to join us,

but I'm afraid it just

wouldn't work out, kiddo.

Is it place cards?

No, it's not. It's just--

Oh, well, I'd hate to see you

for just for ten minutes.

Oh, Mickey, please.

Alan? What's wrong?

Mickey, I've gotta see you

about something right away.

W-well, um-- Now, look, um--

Come on over.

Oh, no. That's

perfectly okay.

Um...just come on over,

and we'll have a quick drink.

It's the same old address?

Okay.

Well, am I stunning?

You're absolutely

stunning.

You look like sh*t,

but I'm absolutely stunned.

Your grapes are,

how you say, sour?

Listen, you won't believe

what just happened.

Hey, where's my drink?

Oh, I didn't make it.

I've been

on the phone.

It was my old roommate

from Georgetown just called.

Oh, Alan, um,

what's-his-name?

McCarthy. He's up here

from Washington.

On business or something.

And he's on

his way over here.

Well, I hope he knows

the lyrics to "Happy Birthday."

Listen, a**hole,

what am I gonna do?

He's straight.

Square City.

I mean, he's really terribly proper.

Awfully good family.

Oh, that's so important.

I mean, his family looks down on people in the theater.

So, what do you think

he'll feel about

this freak show I've got

booked in for dinner?

Oh, Christ,

is that good.

He really lost his spring

on the telephone.

He started crying. And

that's not his style at all.

He's so goddamn pulled together,

he wouldn't show any emotion

if he was in a plane crash.

What am I gonna do?

Are you suddenly ashamed

of your friends?

Donald, you are the only person

I know whom I'm truly ashamed.

Now, look, some people have

different standards,

and we have to

acknowledge them.

You know what you are,

Michael?

You're a real person.

Thank you, and f*** you.

Want some cracked crab?

No thanks.

How could you ever

have been friends

with a bore

like that?

Well, believe it or not,

there was a time in my life

when I didn't go around

announcing that I was a f*ggot.

Well, that must have been before

speech replaced sign language.

Now, don't give me

any static on that score.

I did not come out until after

I graduated from college.

It seems to me,

the first time we tricked,

we met in a gay bar

on Third Avenue,

during your, uh,

junior year.

C*nt.

Oh, I thought

you'd never say it.

Are you sure you don't want

some cracked crab?

Not yet. If you don't mind.

Might know you'd be

working the streets.

You want my body, you're

gonna have to pay for it.

The last time

I saw a leg like that,

it had a message

attached to it.

Get in.

Hi, big boy.

You like Chinese laundress?

Heh, heh.

Hello, Emory.

No tickee,

no nooky.

Well, that's all we need,

for it to rain.

You want some more

club soda?

What?

There's nothing but

club soda in that glass.

I've been watching you

for several Saturdays now.

You've actually stopped

drinking, haven't you?

And smoking too.

How long's it been?

Five weeks.

That's amazing.

I've found God.

Or is God dead?

Yes. Thank God.

I could always tell when

you were getting high.

One way.

I'd get hostile.

What made you stop?

The analyst?

Well...certainly had

a lot to do with it.

But mainly, I just didn't

think I could survive

another hangover,

that's all.

Didn't think I could

get through one more

morning-after

ick attack.

"Morning-after" what?

Icks.

Anxiety. Guilt.

Hm.

From that split second

when your eyes pop open,

and you say,

"My God, what did I do

last night?"

And then suddenly,

zap.

Total recall.

Tell me

about it.

And then that struggle

to survive until lunchtime,

when you have

a double bloody mary.

That is, if you've

waited till lunch.

And then you're half pissed

and useless

for the rest of

the afternoon.

So you hang on

till cocktail time.

And by then, you're ready

for what the evening holds,

which hopefully

is another party,

where the whole goddamn cycle

starts all over again.

Yeah, well, I've been on that

merry-go-round long enough.

And I either had to get off

or die of centrifugal force.

Joe College has

finally arrived.

And suddenly,

I've gotten such icks.

Oh, um-- Now, Donald,

when he gets up here--

Michael, don't insult me

by giving me any lecture

on acceptable social behavior.

I promise to sit with

my legs spread apart

and keep my voice

in a deep register.

Donald, you are

a real card-carrying c*nt.

All right, this is a raid.

Everyone's under arrest.

Hi, darling. Connie Casserole.

Oh, Mary, don't ask.

Hello, Emory. Put

that in the kitchen. Okay.

Hello, Larry. How are you?

Are we the first?

No, you're not.

Who is this exotic

woman over here?

Hi, Emory.

My dear, I thought

you'd perished.

Where have you

been hiding

your classically chiseled

features?

I don't live

in the city anymore.

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