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A monologue from the play by Lanford Wilson
I’m a wreck. I’m an idiot. I’m crazy to even be out here. I left the damn city early, which was the popular thing to do as everybody else decided to—you’ve never seen traffic like that.
It looked like Dean and Deluca was giving something away. I loathe Long Island. I loathe the L.I.E.
It is ﬂat, boring, badly planned, hot and under repair. With all the goddamned local traffic weaving on and off.
I understand what’s-his-name drove off the damn thing again last week and hit another tree. Out of sheer boredom probably.
If they don’t take his license away there won’t be a tree left standing on the island. It took me thirty-eight minutes in a driving cloudburst to get from the light to the Monument.
And in that mood I had to charm some local, cocky, smirking seventeen-year-old total delinquent into parting with one of the four hundred empty cardboard boxes he was gloating over.
Can you imagine me charming and coquettish? Well I was. Had anyone I work with seen me they would have thrown up.
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