SOCK DRAWER

Dorothy, an older, established writer, is friends with Nate, a talented young playwright who does not believe in himself. As the play opens, Nate is dealing with not only his lack of self confidence but also with nausea caused by chemotherapy. They both love engaging in urbane wit with frequent F-bomb explosions.  Distance develops between the two, however, when Dorothy, acting on her typical loving/pushy impulses, sneaks one of Nate's plays to a Los Angeles show-runner. The second act begins months later with Nate having beat his cancer, broken his friendship with Dorothy, and now in a relationship with Candy, a pure of heart "outsider" artist from Appalachia. Ironically, its the arrival of Nate's judgmental mother, Bridget, that mends the hurt feelings.

DOROTHY, divorced, in her 70s, lives in Manhattan. She is quick-witted, urbane, cruel, nurturing, pushy, opinionated, playful and, most of all, loving. She first met Nate when she hired him to type for her while she dictates her books. Now, despite their age difference, the two are best friends. She loves to quip that she's Nate's mother.

NATE, single, in his 20s, works as an adjunct in the Hunter College English department. A Dartmouth graduate, he has gone against his family's wishes and strives to be a playwright, thus struggles financially. He is smart, urbane, and a good match for Dorothy. In act one, he is losing his hair due to chemotherapy. In act two, he has recovered and has a full head of healthy hair.

CANDY, single, in her 20s, works as a waitress in the Times Square Olive Garden.  She has left her home of Booger Hole, West Virginia, and moved to New York because of her “calling" as an "outsider" artist. She is loving and pure of heart. She is soft spoken but when called to "testify" she does so with strength.

BRIDGET, 50s, married, living in Westchester County, she is Nate's opinionated mother. She shows the same kind of confidence and sophistication that Dorothy has, but in the end, her stubborn, judgmental attitude and disappointment in Nate never changes.

A small studio apartment in Queens, New York. There is a sofa bed, a kitchen area, a door leading to the bathroom and a door leading to the hall. The play begins in October; the second act begins 10 months later.

 DOROTHY

I know the code to get into the building, but I need a spare key to this apartment. (Extending her hand) This would all be far easier if you would simply gift me with a spare key. 

 NATE

Don’t, Dorothy. Not today.

 DOROTHY

You said that last time after I found you after one of your treatments, lying unconscious on the floor. I had to track down your dreadful super and to let me in. I’m sure he’s a Republican.

 NATE

Please…not right now. And I wasn’t lying unconscious on the floor. I was meditating.

 DOROTHY

You were unconscious.

 NATE

I was meditating. (Beat) I had fallen asleep.

 DOROTHY

On the floor.

 NATE 

Finally fallen asleep. And you decide to pay a visit. At that particular time. Thank you.

 DOROTHY

Yes, very fay of me. N’est-ce pas?

 NATE 

I’m too sick for a visitor.

 DOROTHY

Of course you are. That’s why I’ve come.

NATE starts making like he’s going to throw up again. DOROTHY digs into her purse, retrieves a lollipop, unwraps it and sticks it in his mouth. He immediately feels better.

DOROTHY

There. 

NATE happily takes his lollipop and climbs into bed. DOROTHY feels his forehead. In next speech, she goes into kitchen area to put away food she has brought.

 DOROTHY

Poor darling. (Beat) I’ve brought some chicken soup from that divine Greek deli on the corner. (Hauling out groceries plus a bottle of champagne) And a nice crusty loaf of French bread. A roasted chicken. Some feta and crackers. … I feel like a school girl escaping Nazi Germany…. 

NATE

(Seeing the champagne) What’s that for? I doubt you’ve finished “Murder at Dartmouth” without me typing it for you on your ancient machine.

DOROTHY

You’re not only my typist, you’re my muse…And my new typist will never fill your shoes. Why my editor ever sent her…. When I’m dictating, I can barely get out a sentence when she’s asking “Did you say period or exclamation point?” While I’m trying to create. She doesn’t know when to be quiet. She doesn’t have the artist’s breast, like you do. 

NATE

Stop making me feel so guilty for being…/… sick already.

DOROTHY

You on the other hand are ideal. The moment you appeared at my door holding that little bottle of correction fluid, I knew instantly you had a sense of wicked humor and that we would be great friends. Soul mates…( Beat. Holding up bottle of champagne) It’s not exactly Cristal, but I’ll mix it with some strawberries and make it all fabulous…because…this is a special day…

  NATE moans. DOROTHY puts   champagne away.

 DOROTHY

Not feeling up to my grand news? (Tender) Was it very bad this time?

 NATE

The worst yet. They upped my dose.

 DOROTHY

But darling Nate, that’s wonderful. They’re going to knock the crap out of that shit. You’ll get well sooner this way.

 NATE

That’s one way of looking at it. So what’s your grand news?

DOROTHY

Let’s wait…

NATE

What is it?

DOROTHY

… until you feel well enough to pop that cork yourself.

NATE

It would be nice to hear some good news for a change.

 DOROTHY

Tell me, Nate. I’m your mother, talk to me.

 NATE

You are NOT my mother. 

 DOROTHY

I’m more of a mother to you than she ever has been. 

 NATE

I’m sure if she lived here, she’d be here taking care of me.

 DOROTHY

Yes. A pity trains don’t run to Westchester. (Silence) You needed a mother who was an artist, someone who encouraged you to be and do. To force you to submit your work to…to… theaters…

NATE

I’m still doing rewrites…

DOROTHY

TV even!

NATE

Television!?

DOROTHY

It’s become much more respectable. Vibrant even. A truly loving mother will give their talented children a little push when they need one.

 NATE

Look, Dorothy. Can we not talk about my mother?

 DOROTHY

Your entire conservative locked-in family…

 NATE

Nor my father….nor my sister, nor my brother, nor any aunt nor uncle nor cousin who have left their muddy footprints on the landscape of my so-called life.

 DOROTHY

Now THAT was fabulous. (Picking up pad of paper on the bed) You must write that down this instant.

 NATE

Not now…

 DOROTHY

Before it flies right out of your little head. You’re a playwright. You should always be taking notes.

DOROTHY picks up the pad of paper on the bed and hands it to NATE.

 NATE

(Pleased with himself and feeling a little better) It was pretty good, wasn’t it.

 DOROTHY

Masterful. Go on, write it down!

 NATE

What were those golden words…

 DOROTHY

Something about muddy footprints….and your entire dysfunctional family.

 NATE

… muddy footprints on…

DOROTHY

… the landscape…

NATE

…of my life…

 DOROTHY

Your “so-called life.”

 NATE

…my so-called life. Uh oh…that was a TV show…

 DOROTHY

Yes, but the Sopranos still sing at the opera.

 NATE

Your point?

 DOROTHY

My point is that you are free to use the English language.

 NATE

Gracias.

 DOROTHY

De rien.

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