a n t h o l o g y

Hard Feelings
Doug Lucie

Eleven-thirty at night. The TV set is flickering silently. BAZ is seemingly asleep at the table, a half
empty bottle of scotch beside him. As the lights come up, ‘Alison’ by Elvis Costello is just finishing
on the record deck. Pause. The door opens and JANE comes in. She takes the record off and
switches off the TV. BAZ raises his head.

BAZ: I was watching that. (Pause.) Only joking. (Pause) I must have nodded off. (He looks
at the scotch bottle.) Or put myself to sleep. Drink? (she shakes her head. He takes
a swig.) I don’t think this bodes well for adult life. First sign of trouble and we all
dive head first into a bottle. Still. Something to do, isn’t it? Somewhere to go. She
goes to the kitchen and pours coffee from the jug. Couldn’t do me one of those
could you (she brings her cup and sits down.) Ah. You couldn’t. I see. (pause) I was
having a dream there. I think. I mean, unless there was a six foot naked Amazon in
the room I can only assume I was dreaming. (pause) Spoke to my mum the other
day. She wanted to know why I haven’t settled down with a nice lass and got myself
a proper job. And, indeed, why haven’t I? All that fancy education, she said. Maybe
education stunted my growth. It’s a theory. (pause) Most of my old friends are
married, y’know. They send me pictures. Those little instant polaroids that make
people look like inflatable dolls. All my old friends seem to have married inflatable
dolls, in fact. If the pictures are anything to by. Handy for kids, eh? Last thing at
night, you just pull out their little belly buttons and the air comes out. Then fold
them up for the night. Very handy. (Pause. He takes a swig.) Whoosh. Say g’night,
kids. (Pause) Actually, what have I got to complain about? Nothing if you think
about it. Good job, nice car. Nice house. (Beat) Nice fucking house. Did you hear
that, eh? I sound like me mother. (Pause) Will you shut up and let me get a word in
edgeways. (Pause) Most of my old mates think I’m gay, I reckon. When I go home
for Christmas I can hear them thinking: yellow trousers? Only poofs wear yellow
trousers. (Pause). I think I’m too nice. I think I’m far too amenable. Whatever that
means. Sounds right. Sort of me. Amenable. Sounds like a government minister.
We are amenable to talks with the unions, but insist we cannot budge an inch from
our original offer. Maybe I should have been a politician. ‘S easy enough. (Pause)
I’m probably too nice to be a politician . (Pause) Too nice, too nice. Where does it
get you? (pause.) You’re nice. Not too nice. Just nice. Which is nice. (Pause) Let me
take you away from all this. Never let it be said I’m not a feminist. (Pause.) I think
I’m the original little man. How’s that for self-awareness? (he takes a swig.) Maybe
I’m just going through the male menopause thirty years too early. (Pause) I do
enjoy these little chats, y’know. A free and frank exchange of views.