The Glass Boot
by A D Dawson

ACT ONE

In the DARKNESS, we hear tango music played by a piano. It peters out in a discord of wrong notes. We hear a man scream out in anguish.

LIGHTS. The main set. A throne-like high back leather chair is to the front and left. An ordinary armchair sits to the front and right. A naked mannequin stands to the back and center. It has a bald head.

GORDON, a psychiatrist, who is middle-aged, dressed in open necked shirt and jeans, sits on the leather chair. He is writing in a notebook.

RECEPTIONIST: (Off and mechanically.) Mr. Bloggs has arrived for his appointment, Gordon -- are you ready to see him?

GORDON: Yes, yes, send him in will you?

Enter, JOE BLOGGS, a middle-aged man wearing a garish 1960's women's trouser suit and scarf. He wears an ill-fitting wig and his make-up is heavily and unskillfully applied. He carries a handbag.

GORDON: (Without looking up.) Would you like to take a seat, Joe?

JOE sits down and crosses his legs in a feminine fashion.

JOE: (Sitting.) Thank you.
(Pause.)

GORDON: (Looking up from book.) Bloody hell! There's nothing hypothetically average about you, man.

JOE: I beg your pardon, Doctor.

GORDON: (Regaining composure.) How are you, Joe? You look a little...a little bit different from the last time we met -- have you lost some weight?

JOE: I don't think so, Doctor.

GORDON: Good, good -- why don't you call me Go --

JOE: God?

GORDON: (Drops pencil to the floor.) Very good, Joe, but Gordon will be fine.

JOE: You've dropped this.

JOE picks up the pencil and gives it to GORDON, who fiddles with it between his fingers.

GORDON: Thank you -- and how is your dear mother?

JOE: She still smells of piss, God, but apart from that she's okay.

GORDON: I see.

JOE: How's your mam?

GORDON: Unfortunately she's dead -- she died a few years ago.

JOE: Sorry to hear about that -- do you miss her?

GORDON: Yes, of course I do.

JOE: Couldn't you have saved her?

GORDON: Saved her?

JOE: Or is it only children that you save?

GORDON: (Shuffling uneasily upon his seat.) I think...

JOE: Why do you keep playing with that pencil?

GORDON: I wouldn't know.

JOE: Have you got a penis fixation?
(Pause.)

GORDON: I think we've got ourselves a little side-tracked here -- should we start all over again?

JOE: (Shrugs.) I'm easy.

GORDON: Fine fellow.

JOE: Fellow?

GORDON: I'm sorry I didn't mean to offend you. I just meant...

JOE: You didn't.

GORDON: Good -- I'm glad. How is your job search going?

JOE: It's not.
(Pause.)

GORDON: Sorry, it's not what?

JOE: It's not going anywhere.

GORDON: Really?

JOE: Really.

GORDON: Do you still go down to the job center?

JOE: Every bloody Tuesday without fail. It was my 10th anniversary last week -- they even threw me a party.

GORDON: (Laughs out loud.) Very amusing.

JOE: I thought that you might have done the same.

GORDON: The same? I don't understand.

JOE: I've been coming here for 10 years too -- every bloody Wednesday without fail.

GORDON: Has it really been that long?

JOE: Yes.

GORDON: My word.

JOE: Shows one thing though, doesn't it?

GORDON: What might that be?

JOE: That you're pretty shite at your job. (Laughs out loud.)

GORDON: Do you miss working in the mines? You used to be a miner did you not?

JOE: I was good at my job.

GORDON: Do you miss all of the camaraderie with your mates?

JOE: Do you mean the piss-taking?

GORDON: Weren't you very popular?

JOE: No.

GORDON: Why was that then - why weren't you popular?
(Pause.)

JOE: Because of the lies.

GORDON: The lies? Did you tell lies?

JOE: One of the blokes, Dagsy, said that he saw me prancing about in front of the window wearing one of my mother's dresses.

GORDON: I see.

JOE: It wasn't true.

GORDON: Did that upset you?

JOE: (Angrily.) Of course it upset me, you muppet -- it wasn't my mother's dress.

GORDON: Whose dress was it?

JOE: (Calmly.) It was mine.

GORDON: I see.

JOE: (Angrily.) No you don't see.

GORDON: Why are you so angry?

JOE: (Calmly.) Because you make me bloody angry.

GORDON: How do I make you angry?

JOE: (Angrily.) Because you're a middle-class wanker who hasn't got a clue what you're on about.

GORDON: Would you like a glass of water?
(Pause.)

JOE: (Calmly.) No thank you.
(Pause.)

GORDON: Sure?

JOE: Why is it that you're allowed to keep your job when you're so bloody useless at it, and I wasn't allowed to keep my job when I was so bloody good at it?

GORDON: Do you think you would be happy if you had your job back?

JOE: No.

GORDON: I thought that you might have been -- happy that is.

JOE: I never said that I'd be happy if I got my old job back -- did I?

GORDON: Not in so many words.

JOE: I would feel more settled though.

GORDON: Settled?

JOE: I would know what was expected of me -- that's being settled.

GORDON: Interesting.
(Pause.)

JOE: Excuse me.

GORDON: Sure.

JOE stands up and walks over to the mannequin. He takes off his wig and places it on the mannequin's head before returning to his seat.

JOE: (Scratching scalp.) That's a lot better.

GORDON: Making your head itch?

JOE: Making my head itch?

GORDON: The wig -- was it making your head itch?

JOE: Wig? What wig?

GORDON: Denial -- you're in denial.

JOE: Denial?

GORDON: Nothing to worry about, we see a lot of it in our job.

JOE: We?

GORDON: By we, I mean us.

JOE: You don't mean me, do you?

GORDON: Don't be ridiculous, I mean my colleagues in the profession.

JOE: Colleagues.

GORDON: Precisely.
(Pause.)

JOE: Why is it that you have colleagues and I only used to have mates?

GORDON: I don't bloody know -- I didn't say you had mates anyway.

JOE: You did.

GORDON: Whatever.

JOE: You did.
(Pause.)

GORDON: It's only a word -- it just means.. means... er... fellow.

JOE: You called me a fine fellow earlier - does that make me your colleague?

GORDON: I... I... (Begins to hyperventilate.)

JOE: Take deep breaths.

GORDON takes deep breaths and eventually takes control of his breathing.

GORDON: Sor... sorry about that.

JOE: It's okay.

GORDON: I must... must...

GORDON stands and walks over to the mannequin. He takes the wig from its head and places it on his own head before returning to his seat.

GORDON: Now where were we?

JOE: You were just hyperventilating.

GORDON: So, Joe, do you miss your father?

JOE: No, not at all.

GORDON: Not at all?

JOE: No -- do you miss yours?

GORDON: Not at all -- I visit him quite often.

JOE: I see mine every day.

GORDON: He's still alive?

JOE. He sent me on my way with my snap this morning -- he still thinks I work at the pit.

GORDON: Haven't you told him otherwise.

JOE: No.

GORDON: Why not?

JOE: He's deaf.

GORDON: Sorry to hear that.

JOE: Pardon.

GORDON: (Louder.) I'm sorry to... (Realizes the joke.) Good one Joe -- very amusing.

JOE: I hate it when people say that to me.

GORDON: Say what?

JOE: When they pretend they're deaf -- like wot I've just done.

GORDON: It's only a joke.

JOE: But it's not funny. It makes me angry.

GORDON: So why did you say it?

JOE: You tell me -- you're the shrink.

GORDON: I sense a lot of anger in you, Joe. Do you think we ought to call it a day and start again next Wednesday?

JOE: Do you think that's best?

GORDON: Surely.

JOE: But aren't you supposed to help people that are angry? Aren't you supposed to make them better?

GORDON: Nobody's waving a magic wand.

JOE: Sooty is and nobody's listening to him either.

GORDON: Sooty?

JOE: The glove puppet -- everyone knows Sooty.

GORDON: (Laughs.) Sooty and Sweep -- I get you.

JOE: Very perceptive of you, Gordon.

GORDON: Thank you.

JOE stands and walks over to the mannequin. He removes his tunic and places it onto the mannequin. He is wearing a dirty white vest under his top. He walks back to the front but doesn't sit down.

JOE: How many push-ups can you do?

GORDON: I beg your pardon.

JOE: Push-ups -- how many can you do?

GORDON: I wouldn't know -- I've never done any.

JOE drops into the prone position and pumps out ten push-ups. He jumps to his feet.

JOE: Not bad for a fifty-two-year-old.

GORDON: Not bad at all.

JOE: I could give you ten years and no mistake.

GORDON: You're right, Joe.

JOE: (Sits down.) Your turn then.

GORDON: I would rather not.

JOE: You know why you'd rather not? Because you can't do any. You're weak.

GORDON: I am not. I just don't want to do any. That's all.

JOE: Weakling.

GORDON: Not

JOE: Are.

GORDON: (Begins to cry.) Am not.

JOE: Are too.

GORDON stands and walks over to the mannequin. He removes the tunic and puts it on. He returns to his seat and composes himself.

GORDON: Were you bullied at school, Joe?

JOE: Of course -- wasn't everybody?

GORDON: Did you like school?

JOE: No, I hated it.

GORDON: Were you glad when you left?

JOE: No, I didn't want to leave.

GORDON: But you've just said that you hated it.

JOE: That doesn't mean to say that I wanted to leave. I knew what I had to do when I was in class -- the bell saw to that.

GORDON: Very interesting. Do you like coming here to see me?

JOE: No.

GORDON: Then why do you come here every Wednesday without fail when it's pretty obvious that I'm not helping you at all? You've been coming here for ten long years, man. That's a whole decade.

JOE: (Shrugging.) Suits me.

GORDON: What do you think you would do if I said that I didn't want to see you anymore?

JOE: I'd kill you.

GORDON: (Puts hand to ear.) I'm sorry...

JOE: I said I'd kill you.

GORDON: I thought that's what you said... You're joking, right?

JOE shakes his head.
(Pause.)

GORDON: That's a bit extreme if you don't mind me saying.

JOE: It would have to be done. Excuse me. (Stands and makes to walk towards the mannequin.)

GORDON: Hold on, hold on -- why don't you just give me the trousers instead of walking over there?

JOE: (Undoing trousers.) Good idea.

JOE undoes trousers and passes them to GORDON. He is wearing a pair of tatty underpants. GORDON stands and puts on the trousers. JOE sits down into GORDON'S seat.

GORDON: You seem to have sat in the wrong seat.
(Pause.)

JOE: Pardon.

GORDON: You've sat in the wrong chair. That's my seat.

JOE: (Examining chair.) Can't see your name on it, God... er Gordon.

GORDON: It's just that I usually sit there, that's all. I don't want to make a fuss about it.

JOE: Do you want me to move?

GORDON: (Sitting.) No not at all -- you stay there.

JOE: Thank you. It's quite comfortable.

GORDON: (Shuffling about.) This seat needs upholstering -- it's quite uncomfortable.

JOE: Where were we? (Pause.) I know -- I said that I was going to kill you.

GORDON: No you didn't. You said that you would kill me if I said that I didn't want to kill you anymore.

JOE laughs hysterically.

GORDON: (Unnerved.) What are you laughing at?

JOE: (Struggling to regain composure.) You've just said that you didn't want to kill me anymore.

GORDON: Just a slip of the tongue, I assure you.

JOE: So you wanted to kill me?

GORDON: No, of course I've never wanted to kill you.

JOE: Sure?

GORDON: This is absurd, what are you talking about.

JOE: It sounded like a Freudian slip to me.

GORDON: It wasn't. I have never wanted to kill you, so how could I not want to kill you anymore?

JOE: Time out. This is getting everyone a bit confused.

GORDON: You're right.

GORDON: I'm glad we've got that sorted out then.

JOE: So am I.

GORDON: Good.

JOE: I don't think that I really wanted you kill you anyroad.

GORDON: (Clapping hands in glee.) Splendid.

JOE: It would be too difficult finding something else free to do of a Wednesday afternoon.

GORDON: You'd probably end up in prison too -- or Rampton at least.

JOE: Really?

GORDON: Without a doubt.

JOE: That wouldn't be good would it?

GORDON: No. Everyday is the same in there. Tuesdays, Wednesdays, all the same. You'd be locked in a cell for hours on end and only allowed out three times a day for a brief period.
(Pause.)

JOE: Hold on a mo' -- are you allowed out of your cell at the same times every day or do you have to make that choice yourself?

GORDON: There's no choice in there, believe me.

JOE: How do you know?

GORDON: I've got a client who's serving time.

JOE: Really? What did he do?

GORDON: I can't discuss that with you, Joe -- it's confidential.

JOE: Is he settled?

GORDON: NO! Definitely not.

JOE: I think I'd be.

GORDON: No you wouldn't -- you'd have to share a cell with a rampant homosexual who would sooner bugger you than look at you...

JOE: (Excitedly.) Really?

GORDON: ...Or a 19 stone homophobic skinhead who would beat you to a pulp if he thought you held his gaze for too long.

JOE: That's not nice. I wouldn't like to share a cell with him.

GORDON: (Looking at watch.) Time's up I'm afraid, Joe.

JOE: You're afraid -- of who?

GORDON: You misunderstood -- I said time's up.

JOE: Time for me to go you mean.

GORDON: Unfortunately.

JOE: (Standing.) You know something, Gordon?

GORDON: What's that?

JOE: I feel like a different person from when I came in.

GORDON: For the better I hope.

JOE: Definitely for the better. I feel sort of...sort of liberated in a strange way.

GORDON: (Standing and shaking hands.) I'm glad to hear it.

JOE: It's as if you've taken on my burden.

GORDON: I'm glad you feel like that -- sounds like we're getting somewhere at last.

JOE: Next Tuesday then.

GORDON: Er...Wednesday.

JOE: Sorry, you're right, Wednesday it is then.

JOE exits. GORDON sits back down and stares maniacally at us for a moment.

DARKNESS.

LIGHTS, The main set. GORDON remains sitting on the ordinary armchair.

Enter the JANITOR unknown to GORDON, mid-fifties, wearing a brown coat. He goes to move the mannequin. An arm falls off the mannequin disturbing GORDON.

GORDON: What the hell is going on?

JANITOR: Sorry, Doc, I didn't see you there.

GORDON: (Enraged.) What do you think you are doing?

JANITOR: Doing?

GORDON: Yes. What are you doing?

JANITOR: I'm doing my job.

GORDON: So what is your job -- to come in here and disturb me?

JANITOR: No.

GORDON: Well go away then. I was nice and settled until you blundered in.

JANITOR: I'm only doing as I was told.

GORDON: (Puzzled.) As you were told?

JANITOR: I was told to clear this office out.

GORDON: (Standing.) But this is my office and I never gave such an order.

JANITOR: Why are you wearing women's clothing?

GORDON: (Outraged.) I do beg your pardon -- it is not your place to comment on my attire.

JANITOR: What?

GORDON: Get out this minute before I have you thrown out.

JANITOR: That's some serious anger you've got there, mate.

GORDON: I'm not your fucking mate now piss off.

JANITOR: Have you ever considered an anger management course?

GORDON: My God, everyone and their aunt thinks they can do my job nowadays. I don't ask you if I can clear out any offices, do I? I just let you get on with it -- it's your job not mine. I know my place and you should know yours.

JANITOR: (Lifting mannequin.) Fair enough.

GORDON: And where do you think you're going with that?

JANITOR: It's going in the skip.

GORDON: You can't just throw it into the skip -- it's mine.

JANITOR: Do you want it then?

GORDON: Of course I want it -- it's mine.

JANITOR: I'll leave it outside in the car park then.

GORDON: No you won't -- you'll leave it right here where it belongs.
(Pause.)

JANITOR: Do you want the nameplate too?

GORDON: Nameplate.

JANITOR: Off the door -- nice and shiny it is, I clean it every day.

GORDON: And you'll carry on cleaning it every day.

RECEPTIONIST: (Off and mechanically.) Will that be all Gordon?

DARKNESS. We hear GORDON cry out in anguish.